The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [210]
I swallowed, then began to examine the stone around me, and the wood of the doors outside which I waited.
Uncle Sardit would have frowned. Even Bostric would have frowned. The mitering on the panel edges was rough, with gaps big enough to slip a knife through. The spaces between the frame and the stone were even wider, as if hurriedly installed, or by poor crafters indeed. The golden varnish had been slopped on, in some places actually showing where raised globs had dried, without even a sanding or a second coat.
Although I did not know stonework, the same careless finishing was evident there as well, with blocks joined and held in place by mortar of differing thicknesses, rather than having the mortar as a sealant for solid and well-fitted stones.
Thrap! I knocked again.
Click…click…click…The steps were slow, like water dripping from a leaky shower. Had I even seen a shower since Recluce?
…click…
A thin footman not much taller than my shoulder stood and opened the left door fully, stepping back as he did so. His hair and skin were white, as were his jacket, boots, and trousers. The whites of his eyes were reddish-tinted. Only his pupils were black.
“The master bids you welcome.” Hoarse and mechanical, his voice sounded as though I were the first person to whom he had spoken since he died. Then again, maybe he only looked dead. Although he might be alive, he bore no energy save chaos, and without it he would have ceased to be. That in itself was another paradox—pointing out that even chaos-masters had to use some order.
“I would like to see him.”
Without another word, the white footman turned and started down the wide white marble hallway and toward a set of circular stairs.
Click. Behind us, the doors closed.
I grasped the staff, knowing its comfort was short-lived, and followed the footman to the grand staircase.
Once more I was disappointed in the workmanship, especially to see such a well-proportioned and superior design flawed in execution, with columns more than fractionally off-center and stone joints with thumb-width gaps instead of hair-thin lines. Everywhere lingered the hint of a white haze, a dust not quite dust that did not exactly settle on the unevenly-polished marble floors.
Another lack bothered me, but not until I was halfway up the circular staircase did I observe the lack of wall decorations—no paintings, no wall hangings, not even any carpeting.
The whole castle reeked of being unfinished, clearly finished as it was. The lack of order? I wondered, but kept pace with the silent footman.
At the top of the staircase, he turned left for several steps before stopping at a closed doorway that seemed to lead back toward the front of the castle.
Creakkkk…
Oak doors should not creak, not well-made doors, but those of the white wizard did. I shook my head, then followed the footman inside.
As I entered, I glanced up at the vaulted ceiling, supported by white oak timbers set twice as close together as would be needed for a normal structure. A faint smile tugged at my lips.
Like the rest of the castle, the great room was white—white marble floors, whitened granite walls, and white-oak framing and doors. The inside wall—the one containing the poorly-fitted double doors through which I had been conducted—was of white-oak paneling, and not the best, either. Even without looking closely, I could see the small lines showing that the mitering and joins were often not flush.
My nose tickled, perhaps from the white dust that my boots had raised as I walked into the room. At the north end of the room towered a whitened granite chimney, fronted by a white marble hearth. A small pile of ashes lay on the stones, but there were no andirons, grates, or screens, and the ashes were cold.
The inside wall, the one of white oak, bore no pictures, no decorations save the paneling itself, although a half-dozen wall brackets