“For some it was probably true.” Kharl took a swallow of the lager, enjoying it mainly just because it did not taste like ashes. “But what about lords like Azeolis?”
“He was one of the first to pledge allegiance and to offer reparations.”
“And Lord Ghrant will accept both, I take it.”
“For now, blaming the dead makes for a convenient apology and explanation.”
Kharl understood. Ghrant couldn’t afford to lay low all the dissatisfied lords in Austra, and they certainly didn’t want to end up like Fergyn or Hensolas. Kharl took a bite of the lamb cutlet in a white cheese sauce. He had to admit that the food was welcome. He also ate several of the fried lace potatoes, dipping them in the sauce as well.
Hagen ate several mouthfuls before he spoke. “What do you plan to do next?”
Kharl sipped some of the ale before replying. “I’d thought it might be best for me to return to Cantyl. Quietly. Seems to me that I’ve done enough for now.”
“That might be for the best.” A faint smile quirked the lips of the lord-chancellor.“After Lord Ghrant’s audiences with Lord Deroh and a few of the lords who tacitly supported Kenslan, Malcor, Hensolas, and Fergyn.”
“After the last audience … you want me there? Lord Ghrant does?” Kharl found that hard to believe.
“Want?” Hagen laughed. “I doubt Lord Grant wants you there, but he needs you there. He needs all of Austra to see that you stand behind him, and that you are indeed a presence. Then he will doubtless grant you some other boon and suggest that you rest and enjoy your lands.”
Kharl wasn’t looking forward to another audience, but he could see the reasons for Hagen’s request-or command. “When will these audiences be?”
“An eightday or so from now. It will take Lord Azeolis some time to reach Valmurl, and somewhat longer for my scouts to report. In the meantime, enjoy your food.” Hagen smiled.
Kharl returned the smile. He could use the time to recover more fully-and the lamb was excellent.
XXX
On sixday and sevenday, Kharl did little but rest, eat, sleep-and reflect. Trying to read hurt his eyes too much. After two days, the torrential rain had subsided into gray mist and fog that matched Kharl’s melancholy. He told himself that he shouldn’t feel that way. He’d helped put down a rebellion that would have left Austra in far worse shape. He’d stopped-for the time, anyway-the Emperor of Hamor from taking the first steps to subdue Austra, and he’d preserved his own lands and future, lands he would never have dreamed of having a year before. He’d bested some of the most powerful white wizards seen outside of Hamor in years. Weren’t those worthy accomplishments?
Yet, with each accomplishment, he felt more distant from those around him. The guards stepped back and stiffened. Some people who once smiled bowed thoughtfully. Others stepped into side corridors, as if they had errands elsewhere.
He eased himself out of the chair in his sitting room and turned to facethe window, looking out into the gray afternoon. He could still see the face of the white sorceress, and hear her single word of protest, as if what he had done was not supposed to have happened.
Was Lyras right? Certainly, the older mage had believed he was telling the truth. That Kharl had sensed. But … how could that be? How could a former cooper, who had not even studied magery, have gained that much power?
Kharl laughed softly. He had not gained that much power. He had mastered one or two abilities well enough to turn chaos-power against its users. At the risk of blinding himself, he could release some chaos by loosening order bonds, and he could shield himself and a small group. That was power, but it was limited power.
Lyras disliked using power. According to legend, the mage who had brought down Fairven had survived and vanished. Creslin had seldom used his powers in later years. Kharl himself worried about what might happen if he faced more white wizards. At some point, did a black mage become strong enough that the greatest bar to his use of power was his understanding of what that power could do?
At the same time, Kharl had seen enough to know that most people respected only power. Was that why power so easily came to be abused, reflected the mage, and why the great mages of the past had vanished, or become recluses? He paused. Did the very name of Recluce signify something like that? Was that why it had a council, rather than a ruler, because it had been created by Creslin, supposedly the greatest air mage of all time? Because shared power was less easily abused?
Kharl turned away from the window, closing his eyes to relieve them, his thoughts still swirling within his skull.
XXXI
Not until eightday did the weather clear fully, and by then Kharl was able to see more distinctly, and the frequency of the sight-daggers knifing into his skull had diminished, although each jab felt as painful as any of those he had endured earlier. He had not seen Hagen, and he knew few withinthe Great House, and those he did not know were both polite, friendly-and distant. That was to be expected, he had come to understand.
Late on eightday afternoon, Kharl strolled through the formal gardens on the south side of the main building, gardens enclosed by a four-cubit-high redstone wall. Despite the wall, the winds and rains had taken their toll on the flowers and the more delicate shrubs. Stems and leaves littered the white gravel pathway. Not a single one of the maroon bellflower stems remained erect, all flattened before the buds had opened.
He stopped before a bed of early pink roses. Beneath the plants was a carpet of petals, still damp from the rain. A single bloom remained largely intact, if with a disheveled appearance, and it drooped on a lower branch, slightly sheltered. Kharl could smell but the faintest scent.
He studied the bedraggled pink rose, still waterlogged. It might have opened into a perfect blossom, once, but the wind and rain of the previous days had put a stop to that. Even so, the rosebushes held the faintest of black auras, the same order that had infused the red pear orchard. He stood on the path, sensing that particular rosebush. He shifted his weight, and the white gravel under his boots crunched.
He had been able to sense the order and chaos within people for some time, an ability that had begun almost the moment he had taken Jenevra’s black staff and fled from Egen’s Watch. The feeling for other aspects of living order-he had become aware of that only recently, and most dramatically, when he had drained the pear orchard of its life order to stop the white wizard supporting Hensolas.
At a cough coming from his left, Kharl straightened and turned.
Hagen stood there.
“Lord-chancellor.”
“Ser mage.” Hagen inclined his head, somberly. “How do you feel?”
“Better, each day.″
“That’s good. Lord Ghrant has set the first audience for fiveday. For Lord Deroh.”
Kharl remembered Hagen mentioning Deroh, but he didn’t recall anything about the lord.
“His estates are midway between Dykaru and Valmurl. He didn′t raise men or arms for the rebels, but he did send golds to Hensolas. He has pleaded that he had to do that in order to keep from having his lands ravaged.”
“It sounds like his lands were in no immediate danger,” Kharl observed.
“I doubt they were. I’d wager a few of the audiences will be like that. You will be there, of course.”
“This time, I’ll whisper what I think to you.”
A sardonic grin crossed Hagen’s face. “I had already suggested that to Lord Ghrant. He agreed most readily.”
“Is there anything else I should know?”