Natural Ordermage

LXVII

On fourday night, after dinner, as he did almost every night, Blacktop retired to the reading room. It was a space seldom frequented by any other than Hasyn and himself-at least not while he was there. At that moment, Blacktop had the small chamber to himself, and he extracted the World Geography and History from its place on the shelf and opened it to where he had left off reading the night before.

He had only read a few pages when the words seemed to leap off the page at him, as if they were tiny arrows aimed at his eyes.

Recluce is ruled by a Council of Magisters, all of whom are black mages, and generally at least half are women, as a result of the heritage forced on the isle by its founders, Creslin and Megaera…

Well over a century ago, after a series of naval engagements between Recluce and the Hegemony of Fairhaven in which the so-called black engineers unveiled a new class of steam-powered vessel that was extremely effective in decimating the Hegemony fleet, the “black engineers” created an engineering enclave and built the then-new city of Nylan at Southpoint on the southern tip of Recluce. To this day, a black wall divides the majority of Recluce from the enclave, even though virtually all trade now passes through Nylan. Nominally, however, the capital city remains Land’s End at the northernmost point of Recluce, a matter of history and pride by the ruling magisters…

“The ruling magisters…the ruling magisters…” He mouthed the words, and they echoed through his thoughts, battering at him.

Magister…magister…it was just a word, but it was more than a word, and he did not know why.

Still holding the book, he stood and began to pace…moving in circles, as if the walking might help him discover what he was so close to remembering. But…close as it seemed, he could not quite grasp whatever it might be.

Almost in desperation, he stopped pacing and opened the book again, trying to continue reading the book before him. His eyes dropped farther down the page.

Recluce is known for its practice of immediate exile of anyone who might be a chaos-mage or who attempts “improper” use of order-magery. While the black engineers allow a greater range of order-magery in the city of Nylan, exile from Recluce is immediate for any emerging white mages or wizards, and no one with such traits is even allowed to visit the isle…

Had he been exiled? Had they taken his memory as well? Exile…

An image appeared in his mind. He was standing in a chamber not that much larger than the reading room. At one end was a long black table, with four black chairs behind it. Four people in black sat in the chairs, two men and two women. The oldest-a gray-haired man-was speaking in a stern voice.

“…you had no idea how you accomplished such destruction. You are in fact the perfect natural ordermage. Consequently, given our responsibilities, and particularly given the limited area of Nylan, we feel that there is little alternative to some form of exile.”

Blacktop knew he had been in that room, and that the four had been speaking to him. They had exiled him. They had been in black, and they were magisters.

“Are you all right, Blacktop?” Hasyn stood in the archway of the reading room, a concerned expression on his face.

Blacktop? That wasn’t his name. What was it?

Another image/memory appeared.

He sat at a corner table under a brass lamp suspended from the beamed ceiling by a large brass chain. Across from him were an older man and a beautiful woman. Her hair was light brown and curly, barely neck length, and her eyes were brown with gold flecks. He could not take his eyes off her.

The older man poured a clear liquid from the pitcher, half-filling each goblet. “Rahl, you must taste the leshak-it’s a wine from greenberries and white grapes. Drink it in moderation. It’s more powerful than it tastes.”

He lifted the goblet, filled with a wine that had the slightest of green tinges, and took a small sip. The wine was smooth and cool…

Rahl…he was Rahl. He was the one who had been exiled.

Lights-whitish and reddish-flared across his eyes, and he staggered.

“Blacktop…”

Blacktop…No, he was Rahl. He was Rahl.

The entire reading room began to revolve around him, and he barely managed to put the book down on the nearest bench, before sinking onto it and holding his head in his hands.

More flashes of light flew across his eyes, and yet he knew that the lamplight in the room had not changed.

Rahl…he was Rahl, but how had he gotten to Luba? How had it happened?

Fragments of images swirled through his thoughts……listening to a mage-guard saying, “You don’t have to wear the bracelet, not as an outlander, but you do have to have it with you if you leave Swartheld for any other part of Hamor,” and taking the bracelet and putting it on his left wrist…

…dodging as a tall man in worn tans and a long knife darted in at him, then smashing the man’s wrist with his truncheon and then his jaw, before pivoting barely in time to deflect the short staff of a second attacker, jamming the truncheon just below the center of the man’s ribs-and watching the man die…and then seeing a mage-guard appear and throw two quick chaos-bolts to destroy both bodies…

…sitting at a long desk in the Merchanting Association and worrying about Shyret’s dishonest maneuverings…

…standing at a doorway, looking a last time at Deybri before the door closed in his face…

…trying to walk back to the Merchanting Association, feeling sleepier, and sleepier, and then being rolled up in something-the carpet that Shyret had had waiting…

“Nooo!!!!”

“Blacktop! You’ll have the guards on us!” Hasyn remonstrated. “Keep it to yourself.”

Keep it to himself…to himself. Wasn’t that what everyone wanted? Don’t bother us with your problems and questions. Don’t ask about things we don’t want to hear. Don’t complain when what we tell you doesn’t make sense.

Even so, he closed his mouth, and found himself shivering in rage and anger, the tears streaming down his face.

He was in the ironworks in Luba, the ironworks of Hamor.

Slowly, he stood.

Hasyn looked at him, then stepped back. “Are you all right? You’re not going to do anything stupid, now, are you?”

Rahl would have laughed, but he knew it would have become hysterical bitterness, a torrent he could not have stopped once he started. “No. I can’t afford stupidity.”

“You sound different.” Hasyn continued to frown.

At that moment, Rahl realized something else. He couldn’t sense what Hasyn felt. Nor could he sense what surrounded him. He could only see…and hear.

He had lost all his order-skills.

What had Shyret done to him?

He was a low-level clerk and checker in a prison ironworks in a land far from his birth, and he had been stripped of almost everything-his name, his memories, his order-abilities, what few coins he had possessed, and whatever future he might have had.

The utter unfairness of what had happened surged up within him. Every time he had needed help or assistance or wanted an explanation, someone had told him that they couldn’t explain, or that it was his fault, or his problem, or that they were terribly sorry, but they really couldn’t help him-and then all of them had turned their backs and left matters up to him, only to reproach him, or exile him, when they hadn’t liked what he had done.

All of them except Deybri.

His whole body shuddered.

After a moment, he took a long and deep breath. He had to get control of himself. He had to. He looked up to see that Hasyn continued to back away from him. The older man kept glancing over his shoulder as he distanced himself from Rahl.

Rahl shook his head. “I’ll be fine, Hasyn.”

That didn’t seem to reassure the steam mech, who turned and hurried out of sight down the corridor.

Rahl stood alone in the reading room. That seemed somehow apt.

Now…he had no choices, and no allegiances-except to those few who had honestly tried to help him. He could only do what he could, whatever that might be, in whatever fashion he could.

If he could do anything at all.