L. Modesitt - The White Order

“If you look at a snowflake, each one is an ordered pattern, a repeating lattice.”

Cerryl didn’t know what to say.

Myral blotted his forehead, streaming sweat, with the back of his sleeve. Then he sighed. “Pure chaos has no pattern, only power. Pure order is like death or ice, with a perfect structure and no life. Think about a pattern, any pattern. Build it in your mind-a net, a web, a lattice. .”

Cerryl nodded.

“. . and pattern it around the chaos.” Myral continued to sweat as the chaos-flame danced on his fingertip.

The second time, the student mage created the image of a black net, shrinking around the chaos-fire. He blinked as the point of chaos-fire winked out.

“Again.” This time Myral manifested a brighter line of fire, bright enough that Cerryl could see the rivulets of sweat streaming down the older mage’s face.

Cerryl put his mind back to the dark net-and the light vanished.

“Good. You try it. The smallest amount of chaos-fire you can raise. The very smallest.”

Cerryl obeyed, trying to form a candle tip of white fire just above his upraised index finger.

The faintest point of light appeared.

“Good. Now. . try to use order to move it away from you.”

Cerryl managed the black lattice mist-and the chaos-fire flicked out. So did the lamp Myral held.

“Order may be harder to hold than chaos,” said Myral dryly, “but it is stronger than most white mages realize.” The lamp flickered back to life, sparked by a touch of chaos-fire. “Unless they’ve already run into one of the blacks from Recluce.”

Cerryl wiped his forehead, realizing that even the small efforts asked by Myral were tiring. “If order is so strong, why did Creslin leave Candar? I’ve always wondered. .”

“And were afraid to ask?” Myral laughed gently. “If the accounts are halfway correct, he was the greatest weather mage ever known and possibly the greatest blade of his time. Yet he ran. Is that what you’re asking?”

Cerryl nodded just the slightest bit.

“Because the man had brains, young Cerryl. He’d offended the Guild, with reason. . How many mages are there in the Guild?”

“I don’t know.”

“Good. How many do you know?”

“I’ve seen close to a score, maybe even twice that. I’m not sure.”

“And how many mages supported Creslin?”

“One-Megaera.”

“Actually, there were two other blacks at first, but it doesn’t matter. Would you have stayed in Candar with five-score times your number of mages seeking you, and all the armsmen east of the Westhorns seeking your head for a price?”

“Oh. .”

“He was smart. An isle is about the only place that could have stopped that many white mages-all that water, and, worse for poor Jenred, he picked an isle with an iron core.” Myral shook his head. “This history isn’t improving your handling of chaos-force. A stronger touch of chaos-just a little stronger, mind you.”

Cerryl let more chaos-force glimmer from his fingers, until it exuded enough light to match the lamp. Then. . slowly, he wove his black net around it, turning it into a long glowing taper.

“Now. . push the force away from you, toward the bricks on the side of the tunnel or the walkway.”

Cerryl tried. . and the wormlike chaos-fire flopped onto the bricks almost at his feet.

Whsst .

“It’s harder to propel it away from you. That’s why you need to work on the shield first. You can get burned by your own fire.”

Cerryl glanced at the small patch of ash and clean brick beneath.

“Chaos-fire is hard on boots-and toes.” Myral’s voice took on the dry tone again.

The student mage swallowed.

“Again. You need to keep practicing until you hardly have to think about what you’re doing.”

Cerryl wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then took a deep breath. He had the feeling the day was going to be long-very long.

CERRYL TOOK THE large brass key that Myral had entrusted to him, and placed it in the lock, letting the black order rise and gently restrain the chaos-fire that would have burst forth if without the restraint-or order shield.

Order-just to use chaos. The strangeness of it still struck him, almost with a shiver, a shiver compounded by the distinctly foul odor rising from the tunnel below the grate.

“Bad one down there. .” murmured one of the guards.

“They’re all bad when they need to be cleaned,” answered Jyantyl, the head guard of the detachment.

Once Cerryl had lifted the grate and relocked both the bronze lock and its chaos force, he turned to the senior guard.

“Jyantyl, I don’t know how long this will take.” Is that a true statement!

“Me and Shelkar will stand by here.” A smile followed. “Usually, a season or so. Most give the guards a midday break, and they need it as well.”

Cerryl nodded, thankful for the combined reminder and hint.

The other two guards, Ullan and Dientyr, followed Cerryl down the narrow steps to the secondary sewer tunnel. Cerryl almost slipped on the bottom step.

“Hold it.”

“Yes, ser.” As Ullan stopped, his lance scraped the fired and glazed brick of the wall.

Cerryl looked down at the green slime on the bottom two steps, then at the tunnel. The gray-and-black mass in the drainage way bobbed up and down gently, within a half-span of the walkway. The tunnel walls were coated with slime up to a good three cubits above the water level.

Something was partly blocking the sewer-somewhere.

First things first. He turned. “Ullan. . back up a little. I need to clean these steps.”

The dark-haired lancer guard nodded, the ends of his twig-thin mustache fluttering as he did. He and the sandy-haired Dientyr stepped back up to street level.

Cerryl backed up three steps and looked down. He took a deep breath and concentrated, first on raising the black shield mist and then on pushing forth the chaos-fire.

Whhhssst . . A glob of fire half-floated, half-fell onto the third step from the bottom and oozed across the two steps below it. Points of fire sparked as the chaos lit scraps of wood or something. Cerryl could feel the residual heat wash over his legs, despite his boots and heavy white trousers.

Darkness, what a sloppy firebolt. .

In a moment, the steps held only powdered white ashes that sifted off the glazed bricks.

Cerryl took another breath and mustered another shield and more chaos-fire.

This time his firebolt was larger and cleared the walkway for perhaps three cubits. Cerryl stepped down onto the walkway, trying not to gag at the stench that enfolded him.

He glanced at the side of the tunnel by the steps, then repressed a sigh. Everything needed fire-scouring. Everything.

As he turned to the wall beside the steps, a gurgling and bubbling came from the drainage way, and he glanced back in time to see a gas bubble pop out of the dark green fuzz on top of the wastewater.

For a moment, he felt he couldn’t breathe, and he quickly jumped up two steps and took a gasp of air, glad he hadn’t loosed any chaos-fire when the gas bubble had burst.

He shook his head and raised order and chaos-fire again, clearing the tunnel wall. He stepped down to the tunnel and glanced toward the drainage way.

Then he climbed back up the stairs.

“. . up and down. . up and down. .”

“Shut up, Ullan. . be glad it’s him and not you. Some’d have you down there in front of him, and you’d not last so long as clean air down there.”

Cerryl ignored the byplay and, from halfway up the steps, dropped a firebolt onto the green-and-gray scum-fuzz on top of the wastewater.

Crumpt. . umpt. . ump . .