Modesitt, L.E. - Recluce 10 - The Magic of Recluce

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The Magic of Recluce
by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.
Recluse Book One
Copyright 1991
Exile-or a quest that might take his life . . .
"So where do I go?"
"You're sure?" asked Uncle Sardit, his mouth full.
"What choice is there? I either get plunked down on a boat to somewhere as an exile, knowing
nothing, or I try to learn as much as I can before doing something that at least gives me some
chance of making a decision."
"I think that's the right choice for you," said Aunt Elisabet, "but it's not quite that
simple."
After finishing my bread and cheese in the strained atmosphere of the house, I went back to my
quarters over the shop and began to pack. Uncle Sardit said he would keep the chair and the few
other pieces until I returned.
He didn't mention the fact that few dangergelders returned. Neither did I.
For Bob Muir, Clay Hunt, and Walter Rosenberry.
Too belated an appreciation, but real for all the delay.
I
GROWING UP, I always wondered why everything in Wander-naught seemed so dull. Not that I minded
the perfectly baked bread routinely produced by my father or by Aunt Elisabet, and I certainly
enjoyed the intricately carved toys and other gifts that Uncle Sardit miraculously presented on my
birthday or on the High Holidays.
Perfection, especially for a youngster learning about it from cheerfully sober adults, has a
price. Mine was boredom, scarcely novel for a young man in the middle of his second decade. But
boredom leads to trouble, even when things are designed to be as perfect as possible. Of course,
the perfection and striving for perfection that marked the island, though some would term Recluce
a smallish continent, had a reason. A good reason, but one hardly acceptable to a restless young
man.
"Perfection, Lerris," my father repeated time after time, "is the price we pay for the good
life. Perfection keeps destruction away and provides a safe harbor for the good."
"But why? And how?" Those were always my questions.
Finally, shortly after I finished the minimum formal schooling, in my case at fifteen, my
mother entered the discussion.
"Lerris, there are two fundamental forces in life, and in nature. Creation and destruction.
Creation is order. We attempt to maintain it-"
"You sound just like Magister Kerwin . . . 'Order is all that keeps chaos at bay . . . because
evil and chaos are so closely linked, one should avoid all but the most necessary acts of
destruction . . .' I know perfection is important. I know it. I know it! And I know it! But why
does it have to be so flaming boring?"
She shrugged. "Order is not boring. You are bored with order." She looked at my father. "Since
you are bored with us, and since you are not quite ready for the possibility of undertaking the
dangergeld, how would you like to spend a year or so learning about woodworking with your Uncle
Sardit?"
"Donara?" asked my father, obviously questioning my mother's volunteering of his sister's
husband.
"Sardit and I have talked it over, Gunnar. He's willing to take on the challenge."
"Challenge?" I blurted. "What challenge? I can learn anything . . ."
"For about the first three weeks," my father commented.
"It's not as though you will ever be a master woodworker, Lerris," added mother. "But the
general skills and discipline will come in useful when you undertake your dangergeld."
"Me? Why would I ever go tramping off through the wild lands?"
"You will."
"Most assuredly."
But the only thing that was assured then was that I would have the chance to learn how to craft
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some of the screens, tables, chairs, and cabinets that Uncle Sardit produced. Every once in a
while, I knew, someone traveled from Candar or even from one of the trading cities of Austra to
purchase one of his screens or inlaid tables.
Until I had a better idea of what I really wanted to do in life, woodworking was better than
helping my father keep all the stonework spotless or mixing clays or tending the kiln fire for
mother. Although the same traders who visited Sardit also visited my mother's shop, I did not have
the touch for pottery. Besides, pots and vases bored me. So did the intricacies of glazes and
finishes.
So, within days I had left the neat and rambling timbered and stone house where I had grown up,
where I had looked out through the blue-tinted casement window in my bedroom on the herb garden
for the last time. Then, I had walked nearly empty-handed the half-day to my uncle's where I was
installed in the apprentice's quarters over the carpentry. Uncle Sardit's other apprentice,
Koldar, had almost completed his term and was building his own house, with the help of an
apprentice stonemason, a woman named Corso. She was bigger than either of us, but she smiled a
lot, and she and Koldar made a good pair. He was living in the unfinished house alone, but
probably not for long. That meant that until another apprentice came along I had the privacy and
the responsibility of the shop in evenings.
Still, it had been a small shock to realize that I would not be living in the guest room at
Uncle Sardit's, but in the much smaller and sparsely-furnished apprentice's space. The only
furniture was the bed, an old woven rug, and a single hanging lamp. The plain red-oak walls
scarcely showed even hairline cracks where the boards joined. The polished floors, also red oak,
displayed the same care and crafting.
"That's what you're here for, Lerris. When you learn how, you can make your own tables,
benches, chairs, in the evenings. Have to fell your own wood and make arrangements with Halprin at
the sawmill for the rough stock to replace what's been seasoned unless you want to try to cut and
rough-cure the logs yourself. Don't recommend that."
Sardit as a craft-master was a bit different than as an uncle.
I was going to learn about carpentry, and tools, and how to make screens and cabinets and
tables, right? Not exactly. To begin with, it was just like the pottery shop, but worse. I'd heard
about clays and consistencies and glazes and firing temperatures for years. I hadn't realized that
woodworking was similar-not until Uncle Sardit reminded me forcefully.
"How are you going to use tools properly, boy, if you don't know anything about the woods
you're working with?"
With that, he sat me down with his old apprentice notes on woods. Each day, either after work
or before we opened the shop in the morning, I had to show him my own hand-copied notes on at
least two kinds of trees, the recommended uses, curing times, and general observations on the best
uses of the wood. Not only that, but each card went into a file box, the one thing he had let me
make, with some advice from him, and I was expected to update the cards if I learned something of
value in a day's work on a wood.
"What did you write down on the black oak? Here, let me see." He scratched his head. "You spent
all day helping me smooth that piece, and the wood told you nothing?"
Once in a while, I saw Koldar grinning sympathetically from whatever project he was handling.
But we didn't talk much because Uncle Sardit kept me busy, and because Koldar mostly worked alone,
just checking with Uncle Sardit from time to time.
After a while, Uncle Sardit even nodded once or twice when reviewing my cards. But the frowns
and questions were always more frequent. And as soon as I thought I understood something well
enough to avoid his questions, he would task me with learning some other obscure discipline of
woodworking. If it weren't the trees, it was their bark. If it weren't their bark, it was the
recommended cutting times and sawmill techniques. If it weren't one type of wood, it was what
types you could match in inlays, what differences in grain widths meant. Some of it made sense,
but a lot seemed designed to make woodworking as complicated as possible.
"Complicated? Of course it's complicated. Perfection is always complicated. Do you want your
work to last? Or do you want it to fall apart at the first touch of chaos?"
"But we don't even have any white magicians in Recluce."
"We don't? Are you sure about that?"
There wasn't much I could say to that. Practicing magicians, at least the white ones who used
chaos, were strongly discouraged by the masters. And what the masters discouraged generally stayed
discouraged, although there seemed to be only a few masters for all the towns in Recluce.
I guess my old teacher, Magister Kerwin, actually was a master, although we didn't usually
think of magisters as masters. They were both part of the same order. Magisters were those who
actually taught.
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So ... I kept studying woods, trees, and tools, and after nearly a year began to make a few
simple items.
"Breadboards?"
"Someone has to make them. And they should be made right. You can do it well enough to keep
chaos at bay, and you can select from any of my designs or try one of your own. If you do your
own, let's go over it together before you begin cutting."
I did one of my own-simple, but with an octagonal shape.
"Simple, but nice, Lerris. You may actually have a future as a wood crafter."
From breadboards, I went to other simple items-outdoor benches for a cafe, a set of plain
bookcases for the school. Nothing with carving, although I had begun to do carving for my own
furniture, and Uncle Sardit had even admitted that the wooden armchair I had built for my quarters
would not have been out of place in most homes.
"Most homes. Not quite clean enough, and a few rough spots with the spoke-joining angles, but,
on the whole, a credible effort."
That was about the most I ever got in praise from Uncle Sardit.
But I was still bored, even as I continued to learn.
II
"LERRIS!" THE TONE in Uncle Sardit's voice told me enough. Whatever I had done-I did not wish
to know.
I finished washing the sawdust from my face. As usual, I got water all over the stone, but the
sun had already warmed the slate facing, and the water would dry soon enough, even if my aunt
would be down with a frayed towel to polish the stone within moments of my return to the shop.
"Lerris!"
Aunt Elisabet always kept the washstones polished, the kettles sparkling, and the graystone
floors spotless. Why it should have surprised me I do not know, since my father and, indeed, every
other holder in my home town of Wandernaught, exhibited the same fastidiousness. My father and his
sister were both the householders, while Mother and Uncle Sardit were the artisans. That was
common enough, or so I thought.
"Lerris! Young . . . man, . . . get . . . yourself . . .back . . . here . . . now! "
I definitely did not want to return to the carpentry, but there was no escape. "Coming, Uncle
Sardit."
He stood at the doorway, a frown on his face. The frown was common, but the yelling had not
been. My guts twisted. What could I have done? .
"Come here."
He thrust a wide-fingered hand at the inlaid tabletop on the workbench.
"Look at that. Closely." His voice was so low it rumbled. I looked, but obviously did not see
what he wanted me to see.
"Do you see that?"
I shook my head. "See what?"
"Look at the clamps."
Bending over, I followed his finger. The clamps were as I had placed them earlier, the smooth
side, as he had taught me, matching the grain of the dark lorken wood.
"With the grain of the wood . . ."
"Lerris . . . can't you see? This end is biting into the wood. And here . . . the pressure has
moved the border out of position . . ."
Perhaps the tiniest fraction of a span, if at all, but all I had to do to correct that would be
to sand the other end a bit more, and no one, except Uncle Sardit, and perhaps the furniture buyer
for the Emperor of Hamor, would have ever noticed the discrepancy.
"First, you don't force wood, Lerris. You know that. You just aren't paying attention any more.
Woodworking means working with the wood, not forcing it, not working against it."
I stood there. What could I say?
Uncle Sardit sighed.
"Let's go into the house, Lerris. We have some talking to do."
I liked the sound of that even less, but I followed his example and unstrapped my leather apron
and racked my tools.
We walked out the door and across the smooth pavement of the courtyard and into the room Aunt
Elisabet called the parlor. I never knew why she called it the parlor. I'd asked once, but she had
just smiled and said it had been a name she had picked up along the way.
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A tray sat on the table. On it were two icy glasses, some slabs of fresh-baked bread, cheese,
and several sliced apples. The bread was still steaming, and the aroma filled the small room.
Uncle Sardit eased himself into the chair nearest the kitchen. I took the other one. Something
about the tray being ready bothered me. It bothered me a whole lot.
The soft sound of steps caused me to look up from the tabletop. Uncle Sardit put down his glass-
iced fruit punch- and nodded at Aunt Elisabet. She, like father, was fair-skinned, sandy-haired,
slender, and tall. Uncle Sardit was smaller and wiry, with salt-and-pepper hair and a short-
cropped beard. Both of them looked guilty.
"You're right, Lerris. We do feel guilty, perhaps because you're Gunnar's son." That was Aunt
Elisabet.
"But that doesn't change anything," added Uncle Sardit. "You still have to face the same
decisions whether you're our nephew or not."
I took a gulp of the fruit punch to avoid answering, though I knew Aunt Elisabet would know
that. She always knew. So did my father.
"Have something to eat. I'll do some of the talking. Elisabet will fill in anything I miss." He
took a wedge of cheese and a slab of bread and chewed several bits slowly, swallowed, and finished
up with another gulp of fruit punch.
"Magister Kerwin should have taught you, as he taught me, that a master or journeyman who
instructs an apprentice is also responsible for determining the apprentice's fitness for
practicing the craft."
I took some bread and cheese. Obviously, the master was responsible for the apprentice.
"What he did not tell you, or me, is that the craft-master must also determine whether the
apprentice will ever be ready for practicing a craft, or whether the apprentice should be
considered for dangergeld or exile."
"Exile . . ."
"You see, Lerris, there is no place in Recluce for unfocused dissatisfaction," added Aunt
Elisabet. "Boredom, inability to concentrate, unwillingness to apply yourself to the fullest of
your ability-these can all allow chaos a foothold in Recluce."
"So the real question facing you, Lerris, is whether you want to take the dangergeld training,
or whether you would rather just leave Recluce. Forever."
"Just because I'm bored? Just because I put a little too much pressure on a wood clamp? For
that I have to choose between exile and dangergeld?"
"No. Because your boredom reflects a deeper lack of commitment. Sloppy work on the part of
someone who is doing his best is not a danger. Nor is sloppy work when the honest intent is
perfection, provided, of course, that no one has to rely on the sloppy work for anything that
could threaten their life if it failed." Aunt Elisabet looked somehow taller, and there was a fire
behind her eyes.
I looked away.
"Are you saying that you have honestly been happy trying to achieve perfection in woodwork?"
asked Uncle Sardit.
"No." I couldn't very well lie. Aunt Elisabet would catch it.
"Do you think that it would become easier if you continued to work with me?"
"No."
I took another slice of bread and a second wedge of cheese. I didn't remember eating the first,
but I must have. I sipped the fruit punch only enough to moisten my mouth, since I was cold enough
inside already.
"Now what?" I asked before taking another bite.
"If you decide to take the dangergeld training, the masters will work with you for as long as
necessary, in their judgment, to prepare you for your dangergeld. After training, you cannot
return until you have completed the charge laid upon you.
"If you choose exile, you will leave. You cannot return except with the permission of the
masters. While not unheard-of, such permission is rarely given."
"Just because I'm bored? Just because I'm young and haven't settled down? Just because my
woodwork isn't perfect?"
"No. It has nothing to do with youth." Aunt Elisabet sighed. "Last year, the masters exiled
five crafters twice your age, and close to a dozen people in their third and fourth decade
undertook the dangergeld."
"You're serious, aren't you?"
"Yes."
I could tell she was. Uncle Sardit, for all his statements about doing the talking, hadn't said
a word in explanation. I was getting a very strange feeling about Aunt Elisabet, that she was a
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great deal more than a holder.
"So where do I go?"
"You're sure?" asked Uncle Sardit, his mouth full.
"What choice is there? I either get plunked down on a boat to somewhere as an exile, knowing
nothing, or I try to learn as much as I can before doing something that at least gives me some
chance of making a decision."
"I think that's the right choice for you," said Aunt Elisabet, "but it's not quite that
simple."
After finishing my bread and cheese in the strained atmosphere of the house, I went back to my
quarters over the shop and began to pack. Uncle Sardit said he would keep the chair and the few
other pieces until I returned.
He didn't mention the fact that few dangergelders returned. Neither did I.
III
LIKE A LOT of things in Recluce, my transition from apprentice to student dangergelder just
happened. Or that's the way it seemed.
For the next few days after my rather ponderous and serious conversation with Aunt Elisabet and
Uncle Sardit, I continued to help out around the carpentry shop. Uncle Sardit now asked me to
rough-shape cornices, or rough-cut panels, rather than telling me to. And Koldar just shook his
head, as if I were truly crazy.
He shook it so convincingly that I began to wonder myself.
Then I'd hear Uncle Sardit muttering about the inexact fit of two mitered corners, or the
failure of two grains to match perfectly. Or I'd watch him redo a small decoration that no one
would see on the underside of a table because of a minute imperfection.
Those brought back the real reason why I couldn't stay as his apprentice-the boring requirement
for absolute perfection. I had better things to do with my life than worry about whether the grain
patterns on two sides of a table or panel matched perfectly. Or whether a corner miter was a
precise forty-five degrees.
Perhaps it suited Koldar, and perhaps it kept the incursions of chaos at bay, but it was
boring.
Woodworking might have been better than pottery, but when you came right down to it, both were
pretty dull.
So I didn't mind at all when, several days later, Aunt Elisabet announced that I had better get
my things together.
"For what?"
"Your training as a dangergelder, of course. Do you think that the masters just hand you a
staff, a map, and some provisions, and hustle you aboard a ship to nowhere?"
That thought had crossed my mind, but I quickly dismissed it in the face of my aunt's
insistence.
"What about saying good-bye to my family?"
"Of course, of course. We're not exactly barbarians, Lerris. They've been expecting you for
some time, but you're not an apprentice any longer. So what you do is strictly up to you. The
masters at Nylan are expecting you, and several others, the day after tomorrow."
"That's a good distance . . ." I hinted, hoping that Aunt Elisabet would indicate that the
masters would provide a carriage, or a wagon. While I had a few silver pence, I certainly had no
desire to spend them on riding the High Road. Nylan was a full day's walk, and then some.
"That it is, Lerris. But did you expect the masters to come to you?"
I hadn't thought about that one way or another.
Aunt Elisabet cocked her head, smiling, as if to indicate that the sunny morning was passing
quickly. It was, and, if I had to be in Nylan by the following evening . . .
Another thought crossed my mind. "When on the day after tomorrow?"
"No later than noon, although I suppose no one would mind if you were a trifle later than
that." Her smile was kindly, as it usually was, and the sun behind her still-sandy hair gave her
the look of ... well, I wasn't sure, but Aunt Elisabet seemed to be more than I had thought. Why,
I couldn't say, just as I couldn't explain why woodworking seemed so incredibly boring.
I swallowed. "I'd better get going. That's an early rising tomorrow, and time to make on the
road."
She nodded. "I have some flake rolls for your parents, if you're going that way. And you'll
find a set of boots, with the right trousers and cloak, laid out on your bed."
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I swallowed again. I hadn't thought about the boots, although my heavy apprentice clothes would
have been adequate for most hard travel.
"Thank you . . ." I looked down. "Need to say good-bye to Uncle Sardit."
"He's in the shop."
After going back to my room, I found my clothes had been wrapped in one bundle, and that
someone had laid out not only boots and clothes, but a walking staff of the heaviest, smoothest,
and blackest lorken. The staff was almost unadorned, not at all flashy, but it was obviously Uncle
Sardit's work, probably months in preparation as he had cut, seasoned, and shaped the wood, and
soaked it in ironbath. The ends were bound in black steel, with the bands recessed so precisely
they were scarcely visible against the darkness of the wood.
I held it and it seemed to fit my hand. It was exactly my own height.
Finally I shrugged, and looked around for the old canvas bag in which I had brought my old
clothes. Not that there were many left after nearly two years of growing and discovering muscles
in the process of woodworking. Don't let anyone tell you that precision woodwork isn't as hard as
heavy carpentry. It isn't. It's harder, and since you can't make mistakes, not for someone like
Uncle Sardit, it requires more thinking.
The last thing laid out was a pack. Not flashy, not even tooled leather, but made out of the
tightest-woven and heaviest cloth I'd ever seen. Dull brown, but dipped in something that had to
be waterproof. I wondered if Aunt Elisabet and Uncle Sardit felt guilty for deciding that I didn't
fit in. Certainly the staff and the pack alone were magnificent gifts, and the clothes, although a
dark brown, were of equal quality and durability.
That wasn't all. Inside the pack was a small purse. Attached was a note.
"Here are your apprentice wages. Try not to spend them until you leave Recluce." I counted
twenty copper pennies, twenty silver pence, and ten gold pence. Again, a near-incredible amount.
But I wasn't about to turn it down, not when I couldn't tell what might lie ahead.
I picked up the staff again, running my fingers over the grain, examining it once more, trying
to see how the ends were mated so closely to the wood that the caps were scarcely obvious.
At least they, or my parents, whoever had supplied me, wanted to send me off as well-prepared
as they could. I remembered from Magister Kerwin's dry lectures that dangergelders were only
allowed whatever coins they could carry comfortably, two sets of clothes, boots, a staff, a pack,
and a few days' provisions.
If you decided to return, of course, after your year or more away, and the masters approved,
you could bring back an entire ship, provided it wasn't stolen or unfairly acquired. But then, the
masters weren't too likely to let you return if you'd turned to thievery.
I shook my head, put down the staff, and examined the pack, realizing my time was short. Inside
were another set of clothes and a pair of light shoes, almost court slippers.
Stripping to the waist, I headed down to the wash trough to clean up before putting on the new
clothes. Uncle Sardit was humming as he buffed the desk he was finishing, but did not look up.
Koldar was down at the sawmill, trying to find enough matched red oak to repair the fire-damaged
tables at Polank's Inn.
I'd overheard my aunt and uncle discussing the fire, acting as if it had been totally expected,
ever since young Nir Polank had taken over from his ailing father.
"Some have to learn the hard way."
"Some don't . . ." my aunt had answered, but she hadn't said anything more once I had entered
the house for dinner.
On the washstones was a fresh towel, which, after the chill of the water, I gratefully used. At
least I hadn't needed to take a shower. Standing under even partly-warmed water in the outside
stone stall wasn't exactly warm. Cleaning that stall was even less enjoyable, but Aunt Elisabet,
like my father, insisted on absolute cleanliness. We didn't eat unless we were washed up, and more
than once as a child I'd gone without dinner for refusing to wash.
They both took a shower every day, even in winter. So did my mother and Uncle Sardit, although
my uncle occasionally skipped the shower on the days that Aunt Elisabet was out visiting friends.
I folded the towel, and put it back on the rack.
"Getting ready to go?"
Uncle Sardit stood in the shop door, finishing cloth in his left hand.
"Yes, sir." I swallowed. "Appreciate everything . . . sorry I just don't seem to have the
concentration to be a master woodworker . . ."
"Lerris . . . you stayed longer than most . . . and you could be a journeyman for some. But it
wouldn't be right . . . would it?"
Since he was standing three steps above me, I looked up. He didn't seem happy about my leaving.
"No . . . probably get more bored with each day. And I don't know why."
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"Because you're like your dad . . . or your aunt. In the blood . . ."
"But . . . they seem so happy here . . ."
"Now . . ."
I couldn't seem to find anything to say.
"Be on your way, boy. Just remember, you can always come back, once you discover who you are."
He turned back into the shop and returned to buffing the already shining wood of the desk, without
humming.
All of a sudden, there seemed to be so many things unsaid, so many things that had been hidden.
But no one was saying anything.
It seemed so unfair. As if I couldn't possibly understand anything until I'd gone off and
risked my life in the Dark Marches of Candar or the Empire of Hamor. Then everything would be fine
. . . just fine.
And my parents-they never came by to see me. Only if I ; went to see them, or on High Holidays,
or if they came to visit my aunt and uncle.
Up in the apprentice quarters, no longer mine really, I pulled on the clothes, ignoring their
comfort and fit, and the boots. Then I picked up the cloak and folded it into the pack, and
strapped the old clothes to the outside. Those I could leave at home, if it were truly home.
Besides the new clothes and the pack, the staff was the only thing that felt right.
As I looked around the quarters, I wondered about my armchair . . . and my tools. What about my
tools? Uncle Sardit had said something about taking care of them, but hadn't said how.
I found Uncle Sardit in the shop. He was looking at a chest, one I hadn't seen before.
"I thought I'd store your tools in this, Lerris, until . . . whatever . . ."
"That would be fine, Uncle Sardit . . . and could you find some place for the armchair?"
"I was going to keep it here, but I could take it back to your parents."
For some reason, I'd never considered the chair as belonging where I'd grown up.
"Whatever you think best." One way or another, I wouldn't be needing it for a while.
"We'll take good care of it ... just take care of yourself so you can come back for it."
We stood there for a moment, with everything and nothing to say.
Finally, I coughed. "I'm not a woodworker, Uncle, but I learned a lot."
"Hope so, boy. Hope it helps you."
I left him standing there, turning to rack my tools in the chest he had made for them.
Aunt Elisabet was waiting at the kitchen doorway with a wrapped package. Two of them.
"The bigger one has the flake rolls. The other one has some travel food for you."
I took off the pack and put the travel food inside, but just strapped the rolls to the top.
They weren't heavy, and while it was cloudy, the clouds were the high hazy kind that kept the
temperature down but almost never led to rain. That early in the summer the farmers would have
liked more moisture, but I was just as glad I wouldn't have to trudge to Nylan through a downpour.
I had a feeling I'd be traveling in enough wet weather.
"And here are some for you."
On a plate she had produced from nowhere were two enormous rolls, one filled with chicken and
the other with berries that dripped from one end.
"If you want to get home by dinner, you'll need to start now."
"Dinner?"
"I'm sure your father will have something special."
I did not answer, nor ask how she would know that my father would have a special dinner,
because, first, she would know, and, second, I was wolfing down the chicken-filled flake roll. In
all the hurry to get ready for Nylan, I hadn't realized how hungry I was. When you chose
dangergeld, you obeyed the rules of the masters, including their schedule.
After washing down the last of the first roll with a tumbler of ice-cold water, I took the
second.
"You have enough time not to eat them whole, Lerris."
I slowed down and finished the dessert roll in four distinct bites. Then I took another deep
swallow from the tumbler.
"Do you have your staff? Your uncle wanted you to have the best . . ."
I lifted the staff. "Seems to belong to me already."
My aunt only smiled. "You should find it helpful, especially if you listen to the masters and
follow your feelings . . . your true feelings."
"Well . . . time for me to go . . ."
"Take care, Lerris."
She didn't give me any special advice, and since I wasn't exactly in the mood for it, that was
probably for the best.
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As I walked down the lane with its precisely placed and leveled gray paving-stones, I felt both
my aunt and uncle were watching every step, but when I turned around to look I could see nothing,
no one in the windows or at the doors. I didn't look around the rest of Mattra, not at the inn
where Koldar was laying out the timbers from the sawmill, not at the market square where I had
sold my breadboards-one had actually fetched four copper pennies.
And the road-the perfect stone-paved highway-was still as hard on my booted feet as it had been
on my sandaled feet when I had first walked to Mattra.
I made it home, if Wandernaught could still be called home, well before dinner. But Aunt
Elisabet had been right. I could smell the roast duck even before my feet touched the stone lane
that was nearly identical to the lane that led from the street to Uncle Sardit's. Mattra and
Wandernaught were not all that different. Some of the crafts were different, and Wandernaught had
two inns and the Institute where my father occasionally discussed his philosophies with other
holders or- very occasionally-masters from elsewhere in Recluce. But nothing very interesting ever
happened in Wandernaught. At least, not that I remembered.
My parents were seated on the wide and open porch on the east side of the house, always cool in
the summer afternoons. The stones of the steps were as gently rounded as I recalled, without
either the crisp edges of new-cut granite nor the depressions of ancient buildings like the
temple.
"Thought you'd be here about now, Lerris." My father's voice carried, although it had no great
or booming tone.
"It's good to see you." My mother smiled, and this time she meant it.
"Good to be here, if only for a night." I was surprised to find I meant what I was saying.
"Let me take the pack and the staff-Sardit's work, it looks like-and have a seat. You still
like the redberry?"
I nodded as I slipped out of the pack straps. My father laid the pack carefully next to the low
table.
"Oh, I forgot. The top package is for you-Aunt Elisabet's flake rolls, I think."
They both laughed.
"Good thing we don't live closer, not the way she bakes . . ."
My mother just shook her head, still smiling.
For some reason, they both looked older. My father's hair was no thinner, and it still looked
sandy-blond, but I could see the lines running from the corners of his eyes. His face was still
smooth, with a slight cut on his chin from shaving. Unlike most of the men in Recluce, he had
neither beard nor mustache. I could sympathize. Although I could have worn a beard, I followed his
example, not blindly, but because whenever I worked hard I sweated buckets, and I found even a
short and scraggly beard more of a bother than shaving-cuts and all.
He was wearing a short-sleeved open-necked shirt, and the muscles in his arms looked as strong
as ever. The woodpile behind the house was probably three times the size it needed to be. Dad
always claimed that handling an axe was not only necessary, but good exercise.
My mother's angular face seemed even more angular, and her hair was too short. But she had
always worn it too short, and I doubted that she would ever change that. Short was convenient and
took less time. She also wore a short-sleeved faded blue blouse and winter-blue trousers, both
more feminine, but essentially mirroring what my father wore-not because she cared, but because
she didn't. Clothes were a convenience. That's why Dad did all the tailoring-except for holiday
clothes-for Mother and me.
He was funny about that. He refused to let anyone see him work. He'd take measurements, fit
partially-sewn garments, and adjust until they fit perfectly, but not with anyone around When I
was little, I thought he must have had someone com< in. But as time went by, I realized that he
understood clothes understood too much not to have done the work. Besides it's pretty difficult
not to believe, when your father disappears into his workrooms with cut leathers and fabrics and
returns with the products-especially when there's only one door and when you're an exceedingly
curious boy trying to find a nonexistent secret passage. There wasn't one, of course.
While I was remembering, my mother had poured a large tumbler full of redberry, and Dad, after
setting the pack down and recovering the flake rolls, had disappeared. To the kitchen, presumably.
"It's too bad you have to be in Nylan tomorrow," offered my mother, as I eased into one of the
strap chairs across from her. My feet hurt, as I knew they would with the new boots, but I'd
wanted feet and boots worked together as soon as possible.
"I didn't realize it would happen so quickly."
"Sometimes it does. Other times it takes weeks," added my father. As usual, I had not heard him
return. He was always so silent when he moved, like a shadow.
"How many . . . will there be?"
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"It depends. There could be as few as four dangergeld candidates. Never more than a dozen. And
you'll lose two before the masters are through."
"Lose?" I didn't like the sound of that. He shrugged. "Some people decide they'd rather accept
exile than listen to the masters. Others decide they'd like to go home."
"Can they?"
"If they can convince the masters ... it happens every so often."
Not very often, I could tell from his tone. "If they can't?"
"They can continue with their training or go into exile."
I got the feeling that you didn't just go wandering out of Recluce on any old quest without the
approval of the masters.
Before I asked another question, I took several healthy swigs from the tumbler, then ate some
of the plain flake rolls Dad had cut into bite-sized pieces. Mother had one or two, which was more
than she usually had before dinner.
"What are the masters?" I finally asked, not that I hadn't asked the question several dozen
times before of several dozen people. Usually the answer amounted to: "The masters are the
masters, entrusted with the guardianship of the Isle of Recluce and the Domain of Order."
This time, though, my father looked at my mother. She looked back at him. Then they both looked
at me.
"The answer isn't likely to mean what it should . . ."
"In other words, you aren't going to tell me?"
"No. I will tell you, as far as I am able. But I'm not sure that you will either like or
appreciate the answer." He pulled at his chin, as he did when he was trying to find the best words
to express something unpleasant.
"Try anyway."
He ignored my comment, and, for a moment, his eyes almost misted over, as if he were looking a
world away.
I took the opportunity to drain the rest of the redberry.
My mother refilled my tumbler, and Dad still hadn't said a word.
Finally, he cleared his throat. ". . . Uuuhhmmm ... you recall . . . Magister Kerwin . . . when
he told you that the masters stood between Recluce and chaos because they were the defenders of
order?"
I found my fingers tapping on the edge of my refilled tumbler.
"Bear with me . . . this is difficult . . ."
How difficult could it be? Everybody had a role in life, including the masters. Either they
controlled Recluce or they didn't.
"Perhaps I should go back to the beginning. It might be simpler . . ."
I managed to keep from grinding my teeth, only because I somehow could tell that he was not
trying to put me off. But I still couldn't see why an explanation of who controlled what had to be
so difficult.
"... fundamental conflict between order and chaos, or simplistically speaking, between good and
evil. Though that's not exactly correct, because chaos and order do not by themselves have a moral
component. More important, while certain components of order may be used for evil, and certain
components of chaos for good, almost never can anyone devoted to chaos remain committed to good.
Someone committed to good finds anything other than the most minor uses of chaos repulsive. That
distinction is important, because someone committed to order itself, rather than good, can be
corrupted, while seeming orderly in all he or she does . . .
Curiosity was fighting boredom in my case, and rapidly losing.
"No ... I can see you're bored already, Lerris . . . that explanation is too long. Try and
remember the beginning, though."
My mother was slowly shaking her head. Finally, she interrupted. "Think of it this way, Lerris.
It takes skill to be a potter. A potter may use his skill for producing containers. Those
containers may be used for good or evil purposes. Most are used for purposes without much real
good or evil. And most people find a truly beautiful and orderly vase hard to use for evil things.
In the same way, it is much easier to use a chaotic or disorderly creation for evil."
That made sense, so far. "What does that have to do with the masters?"
"That's the hard part," said my father slowly. "And we may have to continue the discussion over
dinner, because the duck is almost ready.
"The masters are responsible for ensuring that things in Recluce are what they seem to be, for
rooting out self-deception, and for maintaining our physical defenses against the Outer Kingdoms."
"Physical defenses? Magister Kerwin said that Recluce had no armies and no fleets, only the
Brotherhood of the Masters."
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"As you will learn, Lerris, words can conceal as much as they reveal." He stood. "Wash up, and
we'll try and answer the rest of this question over dinner. A good dinner shouldn't be kept
waiting."
Since I didn't know when I'd get that good a duck feast again, I went down to the washstones to
rinse the dust from my face and the grime from my hands, and tried to figure out a better set of
questions.
The duck smelted as good as I remembered, and I put the questions aside until I had finished my
first helping, which included another flake roll warmed in the oven, sliced and spiced sourpears,
and some tart greens. The duck was tangy, moist, and not at all oily. Dad was one of the few cooks
I knew who could manage the moistness without an oily taste-though I'd tasted few enough foods
from other cooks.
I decided to slow my headlong pursuit of various foods and took a sip of water, cold from the
deep well.
"About the masters . . . was Magister Kerwin misleading us? Do the masters act like the armies
of the Outer Kingdoms? Isn't that a form of chaos?"
My father chuckled. "Yes, and no, to the first. No to the second, and, if true, yes to the
third, although it probably wasn't intentional, which would mitigate the impact."
"But-"
"Kerwin let you think what you wished, which is a form of deception, particularly to an agile
mind such as yours." He held up his left hand and took a brief sip of his wine.
I'd never liked the wine and still preferred cold water.
Mother continued to pick at her meal.
"Some of the masters deal extensively with the Outer Kingdoms, and counter chaos on a daily
basis. We seldom see them, but they're properly called the Brotherhood. They wear scarlet and
black. Then there are the masters, who wear black when undertaking their official duties, and
whatever they please at other times. There are others as well, whom you will come to recognize in
the days ahead.
"While each group has specific duties, all their duties revolve about maximizing reasonable
order in Recluce. You remember the baker-Oldham?"
I nodded wearily.
"Who took him away?"
"The masters."
"What did they do with him?"
"Dumped him somewhere in the Outer Marches, I suppose. Or killed him."
"Do you know what he did?"
I drained the rest of the water from the tumbler before answering. "What difference does it
make? The masters are powerful, especially the hidden ones."
"Hidden ones?" asked my mother.
"The ones no one knows about. How else would they know about people like the baker?"
"I take it you do not believe in magic, then, Lerris?" asked my father.
"How can I believe or disbelieve? The practice of chaos-magic is prohibited, and I've never
seen anything that would be called good magic that could not be explained by either chance or hard
work."
My mother smiled, a rather strange smile, almost lopsided.
"What point were you trying to make? What about the baker? Why was that important? Or was it
just to show that the masters control Recluce?" By now I was as impatient as I had been when I had
left for my apprenticeship.
"I'm not sure, Lerris, except to show that the masters affect everything in Recluce. By the
way, the baker is still living, and doing fairly well in Hamor. That might indicate the masters
are neither cruel nor vindictive, but only protective of us."
"Then why are they so secretive?" I was beginning to regret even getting into the argument. My
parents hadn't changed at all, still talking around things, hinting, but never saying anything
outright.
My father sighed. "I'm not sure I can answer that."
He hadn't been able to answer that question before I had left, either.
"Dear," added my mother, "right now we can't tell you everything, and you want explanations
that require experience you don't have."
"That means you aren't going to explain anything."
"Hold it. You asked about defenses. I can answer that." My father practically glared at me.
I ignored him and speared another slice of duck.
"The Brotherhood does act as our army, and as a navy, too. As part of the dangergeld choice,
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