L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“We’ve managed.”

“Children would likely kill Leyladin, so strong are both of you.” Anya offered another shrug. “So you must find a meaning to your life in other fashion.”

“What about you?” Cerryl countered.

“I could have children. A White can have children by a White. I could have had Jeslek’s child, or yours.”

Cerryl wanted nothing to do with that line of talk. “I suppose we’ll have to find other means of making a mark.”

“Like all the other mages who have tried, Cerryl, your mark will survive for a time, then vanish-just like this sea swallows all traces of those that travel on it.”

“I will have tried.”

“Just like Jeslek. Or Myral. Or Kinowin. Or Jenred the Traitor. And for what? Best you think long about that, young Cerryl.” Anya turned to watch the whitecaps-as if to say that she wished to talk no more.

After a moment, Cerryl nodded to himself and walked forward and across the gently rolling deck to the other side of the bow from Fydel. Once more, he needed to think.

THE MOST HONORABLE Sterol-he is now in the High Wizard’s chambers.” The guard-Gostar-glanced from Cerryl to Fydel, never looking at Anya, though she carried the amulet in the leather pouch.

The three walked up the steps.

Another guard, a young one Cerryl did not know, stood on the topmost landing. He turned and rapped on the door. “Three mages to see you, ser.” Upon hearing something, without turning, the guard opened the door for them to enter.

The High Wizard’s room remained what it had always been-a large personal chamber that contained a desk and matching chair, several white wooden bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes, a table in the center of which was a circular screeing glass, and four chairs around the table. At the far end of the chamber was an alcove, which contained a double-width bed and a washstand. Against the stone wall at Sterol’s left hand was another small table holding but a large bronze handbell and a pair of white gloves.

Cerryl wanted to shake his head at the differences between the quarters and receiving spaces of the High Wizard and those of the other rulers of lands in Candar. Instead, he studied Sterol-still broad-shouldered, if the shoulders were slightly more stooped, a head taller than Cerryl. Sterol’s hair remained iron gray, if thinner, and his neatly trimmed beard matched his thick and short-cut iron hair. His face was ruddy, almost as if sunburned.

Brown eyes that appeared red-flecked studied Cerryl for a time, then Anya, and finally Fydel. “You bring me the amulet, I presume?”

“Who else should have it in these times,” asked Anya, “save the one who held it well?” She stepped forward and extended the leather pouch.

“Thank you.” Sterol took the pouch, removed the sign of his office, and slipped it over his head. The golden amulet hung around his neck, as though it had never left. He gestured to the table but did not sit but stood over the glass with his back to the open window.

The High Wizard’s eyes fixed on Cerryl. “If you would be so kind as to call up the image of your smith’s vessel?” Sterol’s voice was smooth, so smooth that Cerryl wanted to wince.

“He is not my smith, honored Sterol, but rather Jeslek’s.” Cerryl offered a polite smile. “I will certainly try to locate the vessel.”

The large glass on the conference table silvered over, then cleared to reveal a vessel, sails furled, moored to a black stone pier. Clouds gave the image a dark cast.

“Land’s End-on Recluce,” the High Wizard said flatly. His voice lowered as he asked, “How did you incompetents ever let this happen?”

The three White mages looked at the table with the mirror, then back to the High Wizard. Cerryl wasn’t about to speak, not this time, and he waited, forcing his lips to remain shut.

Finally, Fydel spoke. “He built a ship that can run into the teeth of the wind. The White Storm went aground trying to catch him.”

Cerryl nodded in agreement, stepping back from the others ever so slightly.

“Why didn’t they at least fire his ship?”

The other two looked at Cerryl, and he had to answer. “They weren’t carrying canvas. He’d stripped the topside, and this engine thing somehow pushed or pulled them away. They skirted the sandbars all along the coast until they got to the gulf, where the winds changed. Then they lifted sail, and with the engine and sails no one could catch up.”

“Wait an instant. You said they didn’t have sails.”

“The sails were furled,” explained Anya. Her voice was cold, cutting. “This engine device of his is as hot as chaos and bound in black iron.”

“How does it work?”

“We don’t know, exactly,” Cerryl said, “save that it requires black iron and burns coal.”

“Wonderful. Just marvelous. We now have a renegade Black wizard who can build an engine that nullifies our whole blockade of Recluce, and his ship is sitting at Land’s End.” Sterol sighed. “Well…you three and Jeslek did it. You’ll have to live with it.”

Anya raised her eyebrows.

“Really, Anya. Are you that dense? Have we ever had any success against Recluce proper?” The High Wizard smiled coldly. “You three incompetents can leave. You had better hope that the Blacks on Recluce hold the price of asylum on their fair isle as no more Black engines.”

“Or…?” asked Anya.

“I told you. Now, all of you, please go away.” Sterol fingered the gold amulet. “So I can determine how to address this problem that you allowed the late Jeslek to create.”

“We?” sputtered Fydel.

“I certainly had nothing to do with it, and I have ensured that the Guild well knows that. Good day.”

Cerryl turned with the others, stepping out onto the landing. Whom could he talk to? Leyladin was still in Lydiar.

“Now what?” asked Fydel as Sterol’s door closed behind them.

“I’m getting cleaned up,” Anya said. “I’m certainly not waiting for Sterol to find some disagreeable chore for me.”

“Just like him,” mumbled Fydel.

Slowly, Cerryl walked down the stairs behind them, letting them get farther and farther ahead. Once he was on the White Tower’s lowest level, he turned to the right and made his way back to Kinowin’s door.

He knocked.

“Come in, Cerryl.” The overmage’s voice was strong.

Cerryl opened the door and stepped into the room-so different from that of Sterol or from what Myral’s had been. Myral’s quarters had been filled with books and Sterol’s bare of all but essentials. Kinowin’s walls were filled with the purple-oriented colored hangings, and his books remained limited to a single four-shelf case on the wall beside the sole window. Even the table that held his screeing glass was covered with the green-trimmed purple cloth.

A gaunt, almost emaciated white-haired figure sat in the chair behind the table. Cerryl forced himself to smile. “That’s a new hanging, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Shenan sent it to me from Ruzor. She misses her brother, but she was wise not to return.” A painful smile crossed the once-powerful figure’s face. “You don’t have to force the smile. I know seeing me like this must be a shock.”

“It is,” Cerryl said quietly. “Leyladin said you were nearly as old as Myral, but I didn’t really see it.”

“I’m not quite that old, but my years are limited.” The overmage paused. “I used more chaos than Myral when younger.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I get tired more easily, but I don’t have a cough like Myral did, and my bones are still solid, and they say my tongue has gotten sharper.” Kinowin smiled crookedly. “Did you see Leyladin?”