“About anything. He won’t tell you unless you ask.”
“He already told me that Lord Ilteron has some white wizards,” Kharl ventured. “He didn’t say how he knew or where they came from.”
“He never does,” Hagen replied. “With matters as they are, it’s more important than ever that you go and see him. All I ask is that you tell me anything you learn about what may be happening here in Austra.”
“Are you sure…”
Hagen looked hard at Kharl. “You might turn out to be a mage. You might not. If you are, we’ll all be better off for it. If you’re not, Lyras will tell you that as well, and you’ll be a better carpenter for it. Either way, I’m better off, and so are you.”
“Yes, ser.” Kharl wasn’t certain that magery, especially any magery he might learn, would be that helpful to others. So far, his actions hadn’t exactly benefited those close to him, but he wasn’t about to say that.
“Tell Tarkyn I’m having you visit Lyras. He’ll understand. I’ll be here mornings. If something can’t wait, Furwyl knows where to find me.”
“Yes, ser.”
Hagen took a last look at the dry-docked Seastag, then walked back toward the stern, squinting as his eyes peered at the lower hull.
Kharl headed back to the shed that held the lathe and Tarkyn. He’d little more than entered it and closed the door before Tarkyn stopped the lathe.
“What did you and the captain talk about? Saw you with him,” Tarkyn observed.
“I told him about Lyras, and what he told me. Captain said he wanted me to go see Lyras in the afternoon, more than once, if necessary.”
Tarkyn fingered his chin. “That’d figure, the captain being thought so close to Lord Estloch and now Lord Ghrant. He can’t visit Lyras, and no one’d think twice about your going.” He chuckled. “Even if it’s as much for your good as his.”
Kharl shrugged helplessly. “What…the captain said. Those were his words…”
“I’m sure they are.” Tarkyn looked at the lathe. “Best you get back to the lathe so that this old man doesn’t have to do too much by himself.” The gruff words were belied by the twinkle in the eyes of the white-haired carpenter.
Kharl chuckled and took over at the lathe.
Still, he felt guilty about leaving the carpentry shed at the dry dock not much after noon, but Tarkyn had almost shooed him out the door. “Captain has a reason for everything. Go!”
Kharl went. He decided against taking the staff, but he did persuade Ghart to let him take a cudgel from the weapons locker. He covered the first few kays, through the streets and out the north road from Valmurl, easily enough. Then the stones of the north road gave way to damp and sometimes slippery clay, and he wished he had a staff for balance as his steps slowed.
All in all, it was well into midafternoon by the time Kharl found Lyras, who was outside a modest cottage of red sandstone, stone smoothed and polished into an even finish, with a dark slate roof, glass windows, and green-painted shutters and front door. The dwelling was long and narrow, no more than fifteen cubits wide, but it ran back a good forty, Kharl judged.
The mage was on the south side, pruning dormant berry bushes with a pair of long-handled shears. “Wasn’t certain I’d see you, Master Kharl.” Lyras took a last snip with the shears.
“Kharl…I’m no master.”
“Word is that you’re a master cooper, and you might be a master of more than that someday. Let’s go inside. I can have Zera heat up a kettle of something to warm us.” Lyras walked to the low front stoop, two steps above the front walk. There he set down the shears, then opened the door, holding it for Kharl to enter.
“Thank you.” Kharl wasn’t that cold, not after a walk that had left him all too warm, but he appreciated the hospitality.
A roundish brown-haired woman appeared at the back of the front room that extended the width of the cottage.
“My consort, Zera,” Lyras said, before turning to her. “This is Kharl. He’s the one I told you about. If you wouldn’t mind warming up the tonic…dear?”
“I’ve already put it on.” Zera looked to Kharl. “I’ve some shortbread. Would you like some?”
“That would be most welcome…if it’s not…I wouldn’t want…”
Zera laughed heartily. “No…you won’t be eating us out of hearth and home. We’ve plenty.” With a smile, she slipped through the doorway leading out of the front room.
Lyras gestured to the pair of chairs set several cubits back from the iron stove located in the northwest corner of the room. “We can talk here.”
Kharl sat, and, after a long silence, looked at the older mage. “I’m here.”
“And you want immediate enlightenment.”
“No. I’d settle for a useful hint or two. Or an exercise that would teach me something.”
“You can already detect chaos at a distance, and you can tell when people do not tell the truth. That is more than many who claim to be mages. Why do you wish to know more?”
Kharl thought for a moment before replying. “I don’t know. I only feel that I should.”
“So you can become wealthy and powerful, perhaps?” A slightly ironic tone colored Lyras’s words.
“It would be good not to be coinless,” Kharl countered, “but I have enough coins.”
Lyras nodded. “So you came to see me without being able to explain why, and you want my advice and help, but you can’t tell me where you’d like this advice?”
Kharl nodded, and was saved from having to make an immediate response by the arrival of Zera, carrying two black mugs. She handed one first to Kharl, then one to Lyras, and slipped out of the front room, only to return with a small platter that she set on the low table between the town chairs. Without speaking, she left as quickly and as silently as she had entered.
“It’s a sweetened redberry cider,” Lyras explained. “Takes the chill off the bones.” He took a sip. “Ahhh…” Then he reached for one of the oblong shortbreads.
Kharl followed the older man’s example and found the hot drink neither too hot nor too sweet. He also had a shortbread. “It’s good. So is the shortbread.” After a moment, and another bite of shortbread, he looked at Lyras. “Why are you here? Outside of Valmurl?”
“Why not? It’s a pleasant place, and far more comfortable than a few rooms in the Great House. I’m not that good a black mage. You’re already stronger than I am, and you’ve had no training at all. There’s no use for a weak mage in Recluce, and none of the lords in Austra or Nordla really want any powerful black mages in their lands. The Emperor of Hamor just uses mages up.” He gestured toward the window to his left, the one overlooking the berry bushes he had been pruning. “I know enough to help them produce and make jams and jellies, and no one pays much attention. Sometimes, I’d go to see Lord Estloch, but I never knew whether I’d done more good or harm. He let me stay because a weak black mage is much less trouble than a weak white wizard, who can still be obviously dangerous.”
Kharl wondered about the words-obviously dangerous. “I saw a white wizard once. He gathered young people, mostly girls, and when he was done, they died. Not a mark on them.”
“Did he look younger afterward?”
“I don’t know.”
“He probably was younger. His body had more concentrated good chaos, the strength of youth. What happened to him?”
“He died.” Kharl had said too much. “But…you must be from Recluce…you know so much…”
“Ah, yes. I must confess that I was born in Reflin. My father was a baker, and a poor bakery it was. I didn’t learn a thing. Zera does all the baking, and a good thing it is.” The mage took another sip of the redberry cider, then looked at Kharl. “My talking isn’t going to help you much. Of course, not knowing what you want doesn’t help much either.”
“I know what I want,” Kharl said. “I want to put things to right. I’d liked to have done that in Brysta. I just didn’t know how.”
“What was wrong in Brysta?”
“My consort was hung for a killing she had nothing to do with. I was flogged for trying to defend her and for stopping the lord’s son from taking his pleasure by force with a neighbor girl. Another man was hung because he told the truth about the lord’s son…”