Modesitt,L.E. - Recluce 07 - The magic Engineer

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THE MAGIC ENGINEER

by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.

Recluce Book Three

Edited by David G. Hartwell

Cover art by Darrell K. Sweet

A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010

To and for Carol Ann

Part I - SEEKER

I

THE BOY LOOKS at the iron, cherry-red in the tongs.

The wiry man-small and compact, unlike the traditional smith-holds the tongs higher as he

glances toward the boy. "That's hot enough to bind storms and wizards, boy. Strong enough to hold

giants, just like Nylan bound the demons of light for Ryba ..." Sweat pours from his forehead

despite the breezes channeled through the smithy by the Very nature of the building. "Iron . . .

iron runs through the center of Recluce. That's what makes Recluce a refuge of order."

"That story about Nylan isn't true. The demons of light were gone by then," states the child in

a clear, but low voice. His narrow solemn face remains unsmiling. "And there aren't any giants."

"So there aren't," agrees the smith. "If'n there were, though, iron's the stuff to hold 'em."

He returns to his work. "And black iron-that'll hold the worst of the White Wizards. Been true

since the time of Nylan."

"The strongest of the White Wizards? They weren't as strong as the founder."

"No," says the smith. "But that was back then. They're a-breedin' new demons in Fairhaven these

days. You wait and see." He lifts the hammer. "Then the Black Brothers'll need black steel . . .

even if I need an order-master to help me forge it.. ."

Clung . . . clung. The hammer falls upon the metal that the tongs have positioned on the anvil,

and the ringing impacts drown out the last of his words.

The solemn-faced boy, his hair redder than the cooling metal, nods, frowns.

"Dorrin, I'm done. Where are you?" A girl's voice, strong and firm, perhaps even a shout

outside the smithy, barely penetrates between the hammer blows rippling through the heat and faint

mist of worked metal.

"Good day, ser," says the redhead politely, before dashing from the smithy into the sunlight.

. . . clung. . .

The smith shakes his head, but his hands are sure upon the hammer and the metal.

II

THE RED-HEADED YOUTH leafs through the pages of the heavy book, his eyes flicking from line to

line, from page to page, oblivious to the scrutiny from beyond the archway.

"What are you reading?"

"Nothing." His thoughts burn at the evasion. "Just one of the natural philosophies," he adds

quickly.

"It wouldn't be the one on mechanical devices, would it?" asks the tall man.

"Yes, father," Dorrin responds with a sigh, waiting for the lecture. :

Instead, his father responds with a deep breath. "Put it back on the shelf. Let's get on with

your studies."

As he reshelves the heavy book and turns toward the tall, thin man, Dorrin asks, "Why don't we

build some of the machines in the books?" )

"Such as?" The tall man in black steps around his son and proceeds toward the covered porch

beyond the library.

Dorrin turns and follows. "What about the heated water engine?"

"Heated water is steam." The Black wizard shakes his head. "What would happen if chaos energy

were loosed in the cold water?" The wizard sits down on the high stool with the short back.

"It wouldn't work. But-"

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"That's enough, Dorrin. There are reasons why we don't use those machines. Some can be easily

disrupted by chaos. Some actually require the constant attention of a chaos wizard, and you can

understand why that's not practical here on Recluce, I trust?" Dorrin nods quietly, as he sits on

the backless stool across from his father. He has heard the lecture before.

"We work with nature, Dorrin, not against it. That is the basis of order, and the foundation of

Recluce." The wizard pauses. "Now, tell me what the winds are like off Land's End."

Dorrin closes his eyes and concentrates for a time. Finally, he speaks. "They're light, like a

cold mist seeping from the north."

"What about the higher winds, the ones that direct the weather?"

Dorrin closes his eyes again.

"You should have felt them all. You have to be able to feel the air, Dorrin, feel it at all

levels, not just the low easy parts," explains the tall man in black. He looks from the sky above

the Eastern Ocean back to the red-headed youngster.

"What good is feeling something if you can't do anything with it?" The boy's voice is both

solemn and curious.

"Just knowing what the air and the weather are doing is important." Despite his tall, thin

build, the man's voice is resonant and authoritative. "I have told you before. The fanners and the

sailors need to know."

"Yes, ser," acknowledges the redhead. "But I can't help the plants,, and I cannot even call the

slightest of breezes."

"I'm sure that will come, Dorrin. In time, and with more work." The man in black sighs softly,

turning his eyes from the black stone railing to the other covered porch where a shaded table set

for four awaits. "Think about it."

"I have thought about it, father. I would rather be a smith or a woodworker. They make real

things. Even a healer helps people. You can see what happens. I don't want to spend my life

watching things. I want to do things and to create things."

"Sometimes, watching things saves many lives. Remember the big storm last year ..."

"Father . . . ? The legends say that Creslin could direct the storms. Why can't-"

"We've talked about that before, Dorrin. If we direct the storms, it will change the weather

all over the world, and Recluce could become a desert once again. Even more people would die. When

the Founders changed the world, thousands upon thousands died, and they almost died as well. Now,

it would be worse. Much worse. Even if a Black as great as Creslin appeared, and that is not

likely. Not with the Balance."

"But why?"

"I told you why. Because there are more people. Because everything relates to everything else.

And because there is more order in the world today."

Dorrin looks at his father's earnest face, purses his lips, and falls silent.

"I'm going to help your mother with dinner. Do you know where Kyl is?"

"Down on the beach."

"Would you get him, please?"

"Yes, ser." Dorrin inclines his head and stands. As he crosses the close-grown lawn, his steps

are deliberate, carrying him along the knife-edged stone walk with the precision that

characterizes his speech and dress.

After a last look at his son, the wizard turns to wend his way through the library and toward

the kitchen.

III

"UNTIL YOU CAN prove you are the man with the white sword-that's how long before you could count

on being the High Wizard, Jeslek."

"I suppose I would have to raise mountains along the Analerian highlands? Is that what you're

saying, Sterol?"

"It wouldn't hurt," quips the man in white with the amulet around his neck.

"It could be done, you know. Especially with all the increased order created over the past

generations by Recluce." The sun in Jeslek's eyes bathes the room.

"The day you do that, I'll hand you the amulet." Sterol laughs, and the sound is colder than

the wind that swirls across the winter skies above Fairhaven.

"I mean it. It's not a question of pure force, you know. It's a question of releasing order

bounds deep within the earth."

"There is one condition, however."

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"Oh?"

"You must preserve the great road, and stand amidst your mountains as you raise them."

Jeslek chuckles. "Getting more cautious, I see."

"Merely prudent. One would not wish a High Wizard who could not control the chaos he released.

That was the example of Jenred."

"Spare me that lecture."

"Of course. You young ones do not need the ancient tales and parables because they do not apply

in a changing world."

Jeslek frowns, but bows. "By your leave?"

"Of course, dear Jeslek. Do let me know when you plan to raise mountains."

"I certainly will. I would not wish you to miss anything."

IV

"DAMN IT, DORRIN!" The smith takes the short length of metal, already bearing a blackish sheen,

even while it retains a straw brown color, and uses the tongs to set it on the brick hearth beside

the anvil.

The youth flushes, the red from the forge combining with the red of chagrin climbing up from

his neck. "I'm sorry, Hegl."

"Bein' sorry don't count a whole lot. Now, I got a chunk of black-ordered steel that's useless.

Don't fit nothing, and nothing but a wizard's hearth gets hot enough to melt that. Darkness, you

dump so much order in things, Nylan himself couldn't have forged it." Hegl snorts. "Not much call

for black steel, anyway, but you don't order it until it's finished. What were you thinking of?"

"How it would look when you were done."

The smith shakes his head. "Go on. Let me finish. I'll send Kadara for you when it's time."

Dorrin swallows and turns, walking toward the open double doors designed to funnel the cool air

through the smithy. Behind him, the smith extracts another rod of iron from the bin and lifts it

toward the furnace.

The redhead holds his narrow lips so tightly they almost turn white. He has persuaded his

father to let him spend time with Hegl, and if Hegl will not have him .. .

He steps through the open doors and out toward the wash-stones, where he pauses and splashes

his face with the cool water, letting it carry away the heat of the smithy and the embarrassment.

After pumping a drink from the spout, he leans toward the garden fed by the runoff from the

washstones. Neatly edged in fitted gray stone, the different colored leaves of the herbs, and the

few purple-flowered brinn plants, have formed almost mathematically precise rectangles.

Dorrin lets his senses touch the herbs, feeling the beginning of root rot in the Winterspice,

always a problem, according to his mother, because Recluce was far warmer than the climes of

Nordla. With the practice borne of training, his senses enfold the Winterspice, adding the

strength the bluish-green-leaved spice needs to resist the dark fungal growths.

Out of habit, he checks the others, even the rosemary in the drier upper stone garden. With a

shake of his head that displaces not a strand of his tight-curled and wiry red hair, he

straightens.

"I wondered why my spices have grown so true this year." A gray-haired and stocky woman stands

by the washstones.

"Your pardon," offers Dorrin.

"My gain, you mean, if you have even a fraction of the skill of your mother." She smiles. "Why

are you out here?"

"Wandering thoughts," confesses the youth. "I thought about the wrong thing and turned an

unfinished ingot into black steel. Hegl was less than pleased."

"He would not be," affirms the smith's wife. "But he will find some use for it, if only to

demonstrate the strength of his work."

Dorrin shakes his head.

"Kadara will not be back from the Temple until later ... she has afternoon classes."

"I know. I'm going home until Hegl needs me." The red-haired youth turns and walks down the

flagged path toward the stone paved street.

Behind him, the smith's wife shakes her head for an instant before looking at the herb garden.

She smiles as she studies the plants.

Dorrin's steps carry him past two of the stone-walled and split-stone shingled homes of Extina

before he turns and walks up the stone drive slightly wider than the drives of the neighboring

dwellings. A set of prints in the faint dust that has settled on the short wiry grass indicates

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where his mother's light steps have trod as she has inspected her own garden and trees.

V

THE MAN IN black looks up, preoccupied, almost as if he does not see the youth on the covered

terrace as he walks slowly up the stone walk.

Looking out beyond his father, Dorrin can see the Black Holding, where the Council on which his

father serves meets. No one has lived there in the three centuries since the deaths of the

Founders. Slightly to the left of the Black Holding begins the High Road, which stretches to the

southeastern tip of Recluce. Much of the southern part of the isle remains forested and

uninhabited, except for the few crafthalls and the rich Feyn River plains, where most of the

isle's grains are grown.

As his eyes flick back to the black buildings on the highest point of the cliffs, Dorrin

frowns, absently wondering how true the tales are about Creslin and Megaera. How could they have

died at the same exact instant-just as the sun rose? Or is that just another bit of superstition

he is supposed to swallow? At least his models do not rely on belief. He frowns. Or do they?

"Dorrin ..." calls the thin-faced man. "We need to talk. Get your brother. The kitchen is

fine."

"Yes, ser." He turns and walks down the rear steps from the terrace. Kyl is weeding his own

private herb garden, as result of their mother's threat to withhold sweets until both youths'

gardens are presentable and orderly. Dorrin smiles. The order of Dorrin's garden has never been a

problem. On the other hand, Kyl-his dark-haired younger brother-prefers fishing or crabbing or

just staring at the Eastern Ocean to any sort of gardening.

The stocky boy is not weeding. Instead, he sits disconsolately beside a small pile of wilted

weeds. "I hate gardening. Why can't I go off with Brice, like I wanted?"

"I suppose," begins Dorrin, kneeling down beside Kyl and immediately removing small unwanted

sprouts as he talks, "because father is a black wizard of the air and mother is a healer. If they

were fisherfolk, like Brice's parents, then they wouldn't want us to be wizards or healers ..."

"I hate gardening."

Dorrin continues to weed, his hands quick and precise among the plants. As he weeds, his

fingers stroke the herbs, infusing them with order. "I know."

"You don't like learning about the air, do you?"

Dorrin shrugs. "I don't mind learning anything. I like to know about things. I want to make

things-not like Hegl, but machines that do things and help people. I'll never shift the winds or

control the storms."

"Father can only do little things with the winds. He said so himself."

Dorrin shakes his head. "He only does little things, because he fears the effect on the

Balance. What good is it to have a power you can't use? I'd rather do something useful."

"Fishing is useful," Kyl observes. His eyes stray to Dorrin's hands. "You make weeding look so

easy."

Dorrin shakes dirt off his fingers and stands, brushing off his gray trousers before

straightening up. "Father sent me after you. He has some news."

"About what?"

Dorrin shrugs again before he turns back toward the house. "I don't think it's good. He was

walking slowly and thinking about something."

"Like the time when you ruined Hegl's iron?"

Dorrin flushes, but does not turn to let his younger brother see the reaction. "Come on."

"I didn't mean that..."

Dorrin keeps walking.

"... and thanks for the help with the weeding."

"That's all right."

The weather wizard stands by the kitchen table that seats but four. Both youths incline their

heads slightly as they step into the room from the covered porch where they all dine together in

weather better than the raw overcast outside. Their mother is sitting in the chair by the window.

"Sit down," suggests their father.

They sit, one on each side of Rebekah. Sitting on the remaining chair, the tall wizard clears

his throat.

"... not another lecture ..." mumbles Kyl under his breath.

"Yes . . . another lecture," affirms their father. "This is a lecture that you have heard and

forgotten. And it's very important, because a time of change is upon us." The wizard sips from the

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cup he has carried to the table. "Among the White Wizards of Fairhaven there is a chaos wizard

whose like has not been seen for centuries. They call him Jeslek. He has even begun to raise

mountains in the high plains between Gallos and Kyphros."

Rebekah shivers. "Not even the Founders ..."

Oran takes another sip from his cup before speaking. "Something is going to happen, and we have

to be prepared. Chaos could crop up just about anywhere."

"Anywhere? That's silly," comments Kyl.

"You think that Recluce is immune to chaos?" snorts the tall man. "You think that the order

with which we live just happened?"

"No," answers Dorrin heavily, wishing his father would get to the point. "This has something to

do with me, doesn't it?"

His mother looks out the window. Kyl looks at the tile of the floor, then at his brother.

"Dorrin, now is not the time for your games with machines and models." Oran draws out the

words.

"Now, Oran," temporizes the red-haired woman. "He's still young."

"Young he may be, but order doesn't flow right when he's around. Have you talked to Hegl? Poor

man's afraid to work iron when Dorrin's nearby. I can't sense the storms when he gets worried.

Crellor- Never mind! And with the Fairhaven wizards talking about fleets and pressuring the

Nordlans to stop trading with us, things are getting too serious to have order disrupted." The air

wizard frowns, then coughs. "Too serious," he repeats.

"What do you want me to do? Disappear?"

Oran shakes his head, pulls at his chin, then purses his lips. "Nothing is ever that simple.

Never that simple." Dorrin picks up the heavy tumbler and sips the lukewarm redberry.

Kyl winks at his older brother, and Rebekah glares at her younger son. Kyl shrugs when her

glance shifts to Oran.

Finally, Oran looks at Dorrin. "We've talked about this all before, about how you insist on

making your models and thinking about machines. And I asked you to think about it." The tall

wizard pauses. "It's clear that you haven't taken my words seriously enough."

"I have thought about it," Dorrin says slowly. "I would rather be a smith or a woodworker. They

make real things. Even a healer helps people. You can see what happens. I don't want to spend my

life watching things. I want to do things and to create things."

"Sometimes, watching things saves many lives. Remember the big storm last year ..."

"Father . . . ? The legends say that Creslin could direct the storms. Why can't-"

"We've talked about that before, Dorrin. If we direct the storms, it will change the world's

weather, make a desert of Recluce again, and kill thousands everywhere. You're just going to have

to concentrate on what you're supposed to be doing. And I can't make you. I'm sending you to study

with Lortren."

"Is that wise?" asks Rebekah.

"What else can I do? He doesn't listen to me."

"Father?"

"Yes, Dorrin."

The redhead takes a deep breath. "I do listen to you. I can't do what you want me to do, and I

don't want to. You are a great air wizard. I never will be. Can't you just let me be what I am?"

"Dorrin, machines and chaos were what brought down the Angels. Now, admittedly, you couldn't

handle chaos if your life depended on it, which, thankfully, it doesn't. But this obsession with

building machines is unnatural. What good will they bring? Will they make people healthier, the

way healers do? Or will we tear up the earth in search of metals? Will we poison the rivers

refining them? And part of the order of Recluce is supported by the core of cold iron ore that

runs down the hills above the Feyn. Would you throw that away for machines that would run and

wither away?" Dorrin looks down for a moment, then turns to his father. "It doesn't have to be

that way. Hegl doesn't make a mess. Everything there is reused."

"Hegl doesn't need stones' and stones' worth of metals. Machines do." Oran shakes his head.

"Perhaps Lortren can make you two understand."

"What did I do?" protests Kyl.

"Nothing," answers the air wizard.

"But.. .?"

"Oh ... I was referring to Dorrin's friend Kadara. She thinks that strength and skill are the

answer to everything. She refuses to listen to her mother, only to Hegl, because she only respects

physical strength."

"Kadara's going to the Academy, too?" Dorrin looks from his brother toward his father.

Oran nods. "I am not exactly pleased with the idea. Nor is Hegl, but the Brotherhood is even

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less pleased about the thought of either one of you continuing essentially unsupervised,

especially as friends. Lortren should be able to teach you a thing or two."

"What if he can't?" asks Kyl fearfully.

Both parents look at the younger son.

"Well, what if he can't?" demands the dark-haired boy.

"We'll face that later," answers the air wizard. "And Lortren is a woman. She is equally adept

with a shortsword and the manipulation of order."

Kyl's eyes dart from his father to his older brother and back.

Oran takes another sip from his tumbler.

Rebekah stands. "Dinner will be ready in just a moment. Kyl?" She inclines her head toward the

pantry. Kyl scurries for the tableware.

"I need to check something," the air wizard comments, setting the tumbler on the top of the pie

safe before walking toward the study.

Dorrin looks toward his mother, who slices scallions into a skillet. After a moment, he walks

toward the porch to think before dinner.

VI

"THERE ARE NO great weather-wizards on Recluce now. Not like Creslin."

A thin man in white shakes his head. "Was he as great as the records say? Destroying an entire

Hamorian fleet?"

"That was before he really got going," snaps a heavier man in the first row. "Check the older

histories. Especially about the weather."

"Don't play games with the youngster," croaks another voice. "Just tell him."

"You tell him, Fiedner."

"It is so simple, young master wizard," croaks the dried-out wizard called Fiedner. "So simple,

and so complex. Three centuries past, the Council included Blacks. Not many, to be sure, for the

Whites looked down upon the Blacks. And the magic of order is more complex and less directly

powerful than that of chaos. Or so everyone thought until Creslin walked off the Roof of the

World."

"He was real?"

"Aye, that he was. Real enough to change a White witch into an order-master near as great as

he. Real enough to destroy scores of ships sent against him. Real enough to turn Kyphros into the

hot desert it is today, and northern Spidlar into a cold and snowy wilderness. Real enough to turn

Recluce from a desert into a garden island."

The young man shakes his head. "Folk tales! Nonsense!" Fire flares from his fingers-not just

red-tinged white, but a flame like a blade that saws a chunk out of one of the granite columns

bordering the chamber.

Clunk...

"Folk tales, they are. But you're here today because Creslin lived then."

"Explain," demands the slim young man with the sunlike eyes and white hair.

"The Balance is real. Aye, real, and you disregard it at your peril. Jenred the Traitor never

believed in the Balance, and we have paid and paid for that ignorance. In Creslin's time, chaos

dominated, and the Balance was forced to find a focus. The Blacks manipulated the focus into

creating Creslin, and they had him trained outside of Fairhaven."

"Westwind? That much is verifiable."

"It is what is not verifiable that concerns you, Jeslek. Creslin was order-bound, but trained

as a Westwind senior guard. That meant more then. Along the way, even before he attained his

powers, he killed an entire bandit troop singlehandedly, and three or four squads of White Road

Guards. Oh, and he could sing almost as well as the legendary Werlynn."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"It saved his ass when magic wasn't enough. You had better learn the same," cackles the old

voice.

"Bah!" The voice cuts nearly as deeply as the chaos fire of the speaker. "Not even the Blacks

of Kyphros could stop me."

"They are not the Blacks of Recluce."

The words hang for a time in the air.

"Who said that?"

But no voice owns the statement, and in time Jeslek sheathes his fires and steps into the

twilight outside the chamber, walking along the never-dark, white-lit streets of Fairhaven toward

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the old city center.

VII

THE TALL MAN tethers the horse and locks the brake on the two-seated wagon. The two redheads reach

for their belongings. Shortly, four figures traverse the stone lane that leads gently uphill from

the coastal road. The two redheads bear packs on their shoulders. The two men walk as though they

bear heavier and unseen burdens.

The paved and time-smoothed walk of black stone stretches toward half a dozen black stone

buildings roofed with a gray slate nearly as black as the stone walls. Even the wide windows in

the buildings are framed with dark wood. The grass between the walks and walls and buildings is

dark green, thick, wiry, and short.

The four pass a diamond-shaped garden of blue and silver flowers-set within low walls of the

same black stones. The leaves rustle in the cool fall breeze. In the deep green-blue sky, white

puffy clouds scud westward.

"Where are we going?" asks the sole female, too old to be a girl, too young to be a woman.

' To the black building on the right," responds the tallest figure.

"All the buildings are black."

"Kadara," warns the shorter of the two men.

"This whole place is black."

Dorrin glances from Kadara, who has had the nerve to voice his own feelings, to his father.

"Why is it called the Academy?" He has heard the answer, but knows that Kadara has not, and does

not want Hegl or his father to be critical of her.

Oran's lips quirk before he responds. "Originally, it had no name. It started years ago when a

former Westwind Guard tutored some younger Blacks in self-defense. They paid for the tutoring by

teaching logic and the science of order to what was then the remnant of the Westwind Guard

detachment." Oran pauses, gestures at the building. "The side door, there." He steps forward.

"Someone supposedly called the place the Academy of Useless and Violent Knowledge. It became the

Academy."

They walk up two wide stone steps onto a small covered porch. Kadara tightens her lips, and her

eyes rake over both her father and Oran before coming to rest on Dorrin. Hegl shifts his weight as

he stops.

"Perhaps they can teach me about using a blade," she says mildly.

Oran opens the dark oak door and holds it for the others. The three others remain on the wide

stones of the porch without moving. Finally, Dorrin shrugs and steps inside. A white-haired and

muscular woman a shade shorter than Dorrin appears in the doorway on the far side of a foyer that

measures perhaps seven-cubits on a side.

"Greetings." Her voice is more musical than her stem and ageless face.

Dorrin nods. "Greetings."

"Greetings, magistra," offers Oran.

"I'm still Lortren, you pompous ass," returns the black-clad woman. "You know what I think

about titles between adults."

Oran inclines his head slightly. "This is my son Dorrin, and this is Kadara, the daughter of

Hegl, here."

"Let's go into the study." Lortren turns and steps through the doorway.

Hegl looks quizzically at Oran, who follows Lortren. Dorrin and Kadara follow their parents.

"I might like her," mouths Kadara.

"Maybe." As they step into the next room, Dorrin notes the stacks of freestanding shelves

filled with books-thousands, from what he can tell as they walk down a narrow passageway to the

right of the shelves. Perhaps thirty cubits from the door, the shelves end, and the room opens

onto a space filled with three tables. The corner table, set between two windows, contains two

covered pots seeping steam and a tray filled with plain rolls. Six chairs are pulled up to the

table.

Dorrin's stomach growls, not loudly enough, he hopes, for the sound to be heard. It has been a

while since the noon meal.

"Sit down anywhere," offers the magistra.

Dorrin waits until his father and Hegl move toward seats, then glances at Kadara and offers her

the chair he holds. She shakes her head and sits on the other side of her father. Dorrin sits

beside his father, leaving the empty chair between himself and the smith.

Lortren nods toward the pots. "Hot cider or tea. Help yourself."

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As Oran lifts the teapot, Lortren clears her throat softly. "Some people have called this the

Academy of Useless Knowledge and Unnecessary Violence ... or the School for Sophistry and Swords.

For most people who live on Recluce, the description is probably correct. We try to teach the

understanding behind knowledge and the use of weapons for those who learn that understanding. Both

tend to be necessary." Her eyes turn on Dorrin. "Do you know why?"

"No, magistra."

"I won't force an answer from you. That comes later. The simple answer is that once you learn

why things work, you generally upset people, particularly in places like Nordla and Candar. People

who are upset often want to take it out on those who upset them. It helps if you can protect

yourself." The black eyes twinkle for a moment.

"You mention travel to Candar ..." asks Hegl hesitantly.

"Most of those who learn here end up spending time in Candar or Nordla. Some even go to Afrit-

Hamor, usually."

"Why?" asks Oran casually, as if he knows the answer.

"Because instruction is never enough for those who have difficulty accepting things as they

are."

Hegl swallows and nods. Kadara nods, and Dorrin frowns, wondering if the Academy is nothing

more than a way to educate troublemakers for exile. He keeps his words to himself, since saying

anything will change nothing.

"You speak as though your . . . students ... are almost troublemakers," offers Kadara, her

voice brittle.

"All of you are. I was once, also. It usually takes not only training and theory, but a healthy

dose of reality to turn chaotic trouble-making into something useful."

Dorrin sips the hot tea and munches on a roll.

Hegl glances from the white-haired magistra with the unlined face and melodic voice to his

daughter, then toward the air wizard. "I wonder..."

"You wonder if entrusting your daughter to me is a good idea? I would too. It's not a good

idea. The only problem is that the alternatives are worse." The melodic voice turns hard. "What

happens to chaos-mongers?"

"They get exiled," responds Hegl.

"What generally leads to chaos-mongering?"

The smith shrugs.

"Discontent, unhappiness with life," answers the air wizard.

"That's your real choice," affirms the magistra.

"Because I'm not happy with the way you all have arranged my life, I have to learn all this

nonsense and even study in Candar?" Kadara asks.

"No. You will learn enough so that you can live and survive in Candar or Nordla. Then you will

decide whether you can accept what Recluce offers. And you are one of the lucky ones- whose

parents can purchase the training. The others often just get a lecture and a boat ride."

Dorrin shivers. This is something he has not heard before. His eyes and Kadara's cross. Then

they look at their parents, but neither man will meet his offspring's question.

Lortren stands. "That's about it. You two can go, and I'll show these two youngsters to their

rooms."

While the words are polite enough, Dorrin understands that Lortren controls his future and

perhaps even his life.

"How ... where . .. ?" the smith stammers.

Lortren smiles, faintly. "If you want to see where your daughter will live, come along. It's

just a small plain single room."

Hegl steps after his daughter. Dorrin looks at his father and shakes his head. Although he will

never be the wizard his father is, he can sense enough to know that Lortren tells the truth.

"You'd rather I didn't?"

"I'd rather you didn't," Dorrin confirms. "Besides, you know what the rooms look like. Hegl

doesn't."

"Quiet, but sharp, isn't he, Oran?" observes Lortren.

"Too sharp for his own good, I fear."

"Good-bye," Dorrin says, shouldering his pack. Oran remains by the table as the four leave.

Lortren leads them down a corridor through another dark oak door and onto another covered

porch. "Over to that building." She points to a two-storied, slate-roofed structure perhaps two

hundred cubits uphill with narrow windows.

Dorrin counts the windows-ten on each level. If his estimate of the width of the roof line is

correct and there are rooms on both sides, the building will hold forty students. "Is that the

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only place where students live?"

"Not the only one, but most students live there. There's no absolute requirement for it, but

it's a long walk from either Land's End or Extina, and you will be kept rather busy." Lortren

hurries down the steps and along the stone-paved path toward the student housing. She walks almost

at a slow run.

Dorrin stretches his own stride out to catch up. "How long will our instruction take? Here, I

mean."

Lortren laughs, a short laugh that is half musical, half bark. "Probably about half a year, but

that depends on you."

"How often do you start groups-"

"Are there others-"

Both Kadara and Dorrin break off in mid-question, but keep moving to stay abreast of the black-

clad magistra.

"We allow new groups to start about every five or six eight-days. We usually have three or four

groups at different stages."

Dorrin is certainly not the only one questioning the order or meaning of Recluce-not if Lortren

is training nearly eighty young people a year.

The only sound is that of breathing, of booted feet upon stone, of the wind through the trees

in their orderly spacing throughout the grounds, and of the intermittent and distant shhhhsss of

the Eastern Ocean breaking upon the white sands under the cliffs to the east of the Coastal

Highway that fronts the Academy.

Lortren pauses at the top of the uncovered stone stoop before yet another black oak door-this

one to the student quarters. "Kadara, you can wait here or follow us upstairs. Dorrin, your room

is upstairs on the far end."

She opens the door, and Dorrin follows. After a moment, so does Kadara. Hegl trails them up the

stone steps and down the dim hallway to the last doorway on the left. The magistra opens the door.

"No locks. There's a small privacy bolt." She points to the metal fastening and steps aside to let

Dorrin enter.

Dorrin's room is not large, measuring no more than seven cubits long and a little more than

five wide and containing only a wardrobe, a narrow desk with a single drawer, a chair for the

desk, and a single bed not much more than a thin pallet upon a wooden frame. The polished stone

floor is bare,

"Very plain, but adequate."

On the foot of the bed is a folded sheet and a heavy brown blanket.

"At the fourth bell-that's also the announcement for dinner-meet me in the library, and we'll

go over the rest of the rules and your schedules. By then, most of the others should have arrived.

There are three others here so far. Feel free to walk anywhere on the grounds. You may enter any

room with an open doorway, although I would suggest knocking first." She pauses. "Any questions?"

"What would happen if I just left?"

"Nothing."

"And if I go where I'm not supposed to?"

Lortren snorts. "You can go anywhere you demon-well want to. If you interrupt a class or

someone's work, they'll naturally be upset. But that's your problem. You could hurt yourself if

you get careless in the armory, but that's also your problem. There's nothing secret about this

place. I just don't want to explain all the rules ten separate times. That's why we'll get

together before dinner and do it all at once."

The black-clad magistra turns to Kadara, who stands in the doorway. "Now .. . let's get you to

your room."

As the sound of steps fades away, Dorrin stands alone in the small room.

Sniff. . .

The redhead wrinkles his nose at the faint mustiness, then glances at the desk which sits

beneath the window. He has to lean across the wooden writing top in order to slide the window

open. As he straightens up, his head brushes the oil lamp in the bracket affixed to the edge of

the window casement.

Standing behind the desk, he looks through the open window toward the east. While the trees on

the far side of the coastal road block his view, he knows that the Eastern Ocean is there, the

breakers foaming on the kays of soft white sand that stretch toward Land's End.

He looks at the pack, then back out the window.

Finally, he lifts the pack and begins to remove the clothing, first the lighter shirts and the

underclothing, before beginning to place them in the wardrobe.

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VIII

"I SUPPOSE I owe this to you." Kadara does not look at Dorrin as they step onto the uncovered

porch.

"Me?"

Kadara steps onto the stone walk to the library. "If you hadn't been so interested in smithing,

then father wouldn't have gotten to know your father."

"Maybe ..." How can neighbors not come to know each other?

The stiff eastern breeze carries the tang of salt as it whips Kadara's long red hair almost

into Dorrin's face.

"Do you mind if I join you?" The voice is mellow, deep, and youthfully enthusiastic.

Dorrin looks over his shoulder and up at the tall blond figure with broad shoulders. "We're

going to a meeting-"

"I know. I'm new, too. That's why I thought you wouldn't mind. I'm Brede." Brede wears gray

trousers and a blue, long-sleeved farmer's shirt.

"Dorrin." He continues to match strides with Kadara.

"Kadara."

"I'm from Lydkler, in the hills above the Feyn Valley. It's so small no one-almost no one,

anyway-has ever heard of it. Where are you two from? Are you related?" Brede's words tumble out

and are followed by a broad and open smile. A gust of wind sprays fine blond hair around his face,

and a hand twice the size of Dorrin's absently brushes it back.

"We're from Extina," admits Dorrin.

"Brother and sister?"

"Hardly," snaps Kadara.

"Oh ... the red hair . . . I just thought..."

"It's just coincidence-the red hair, I mean."

A long shadow falls across the walk as a high puffy cloud scuds toward the western horizon and

blocks the low sun.

"Oh . . . well. . . isn't Extina close to Land's End? It's not far from here at all. I saw a

road marker just before we got here..."

Kadara's lips remain closed as she marches up under the covered porch and reaches for the dark

steel handle of the black oak door. Sunlight returns to the Academy grounds.

"No," admits Dorrin. "It's only about ten kays north."

Clunk. .. The black oak door thuds shut in Dorrin's face.

"She's a little unhappy, isn't she?" observes Brede.

Dorrin opens the door.

"You're both unhappy," reflects the young giant.

"Neither one of us is exactly thrilled to be here." Dorrin pushes through the doorway. Kadara

opens the next door-the one to the library.

"She isn't. That's for certain," adds Brede, an amused edge to the deep-toned voice. "It won't

change anything, though."

Dorrin grins, warming to the big young man in spite of Brede's forwardness. "Somehow, I don't

think it will." He pauses to note the two silver-bordered cork boards, one on each side of the

foyer. Both contain grids with times at the left, and boxes filled with a few words each. The

grids look similar to the appointment sheets kept by his father. Dorrin crosses the foyer and

continues along the short corridor toward the library.

After stepping into the library, Dorrin scans the tables, counting three female and four male

figures seated around two tables. No one is seated around the window table. With a deep breath, he

edges around the table to the far left and sits next to Kadara. On his immediate left is the wall.

Brede settles in the last seat at the other table, grinning briefly as Dorrin looks across the

perhaps ten cubits that separate them.

On the other side of Kadara sits a solid young woman, wearing a bright orange-red blouse that

does not suit her dark brown hair and pale freckled face. Beside her sits a gangly youth with

shoulder-length black hair wearing a one-piece shapeless brown garment.

"Greetings."

Dorrin's study of the other students is interrupted by Lortren's entrance. The white-haired and

well-muscled woman stands beside the vacant window table. The black eyes slash across the ten

seated youngsters. "I am Lortren. For better or worse, I will be working with you over the next

half-year to help you find out who and what you really are."

A brief smile flashes across her face. "You only think you know who you are. If you really

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Modesitt, L.E. - Recluce 07 - The magic Engineer

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