Wellspring of Chaos is the umpteenth book in the Recluce saga by L.E. Modesitt (who, amusingly, turns out to be a Williams alumn), and even more than the Hodgell book, is not something I would ordinarily give a high priority to in catching up on the book log. If you've read pretty much any of the previous books, you know what you're going to get here, and you either like it enough to be keeping up with the series, or you gave up a long time ago.
I happen to find these weirdly comforting reads, which is why I'm still reading them. It's sort of strange, because they're very repetitive: A somewhat callow main character finds himself caught up in political events involving scheming chaos mages, and must learn about magic in order to survive. Frequently, the process of learning about magic also involves learning a craft of some sort, and there are long and detailed scenes describing how to do some task.
As I said, I wouldn't really bother to comment on this book, other than that generic plot summary, were it not for a recent LiveJournal post by Sherwood Smith pointing to a discussion the distinction between magic and science in genre novels:
Most of the time, we make the distinction based on trappings. If you chalk a circle on the floor, burn herbs, chant arcane mantras, et cetera, then you're doing magic. If you take measurements and draw graphs and solve equations, then you're doing science. Or we distinguish them by their effects: demon-summoning and fireball-throwing are magic, while genetic engineering and lasers are science. But I think we can agree that this is a pretty sloppy way to separate the two.
I never had a good answer to the question until Ted Chiang made a comment, during the WFC panel, that turned on the proverbial light-bulb over my head. He was talking about alchemy, which is a classic case of fuzzy distinction between magic and science; it has elements of both, and sort of slipped from one to the other over the course of centuries. What he pointed out was the idea, once common in alchemy (but lost by the time alchemy turned into chemistry), that the process of alchemical transformation was also a transformation of the alchemist, that the creation of the Philosopher's Stone was also a process of spiritual refinement.
I thought through the real-world magical systems I have any familiarity with, since I'm of the opinion that any division between magic and science ought to hold true in our reality, not just made-up ones. And it seemed to me that every one I could think of includes some kind of element -- call it spiritual, call it moral, call it personal -- some element that influences the act based on the actor. Who is performing the steps matters, not just based on their knowledge (whether they do things correctly), but based on some more intangible quality. People are born with magical talent. People undergo spiritual training to acquire magical talent. People can only work magic if their hearts are pure (or foul). People form contracts with other entities which grant them the power to work magic.
Science, on the other hand, will work for anybody who knows what they're doing and has the right equipment.
If you remove that personal element, making the procedure something anyone can do, then you have science, not magic. Even if it doesn't obey the laws of science as we know them, it's imaginary or invented science, not magic. Some parts of alchemy didn't work in the slightest, but that didn't stop them from being scientific in their approach. And you could write a very passable world where they do work.
Not only does this fit well with my own ideas about magic in fantasy literature, I think it explains a bit about why I find the Recluce books enjoyable.
The magic system in the books is unquestionably magic. Only certain people have the ability to manipulate order and chaos, and the manipulation of either has dramatic effects, both physical and spiritual, on those doing the magic. Chaos mages who use their power indiscriminately age rapidly and go a little crazy, while order mages become better people as a part of the process of learning to master order.
At the same time, though, the protagonists of the books always take a scientific approach to learning whichever variant of magic they have the skill to master. They calmly and coolly study the situation, learn everything they can about what's going on, conduct experiments, and find a method that solves their problems. The ability to use magic requires an inborn talent, but once that talent is there, the magical system is amenable to scientific investigation, and a good chunk of the plot involves the protagonist making such an investigation.
I think this is what I end up enjoying about the books. They're not action-packed thrillers, but they concern themselves with quietly competent people going about their business in a competent and systematic way, and being rewarded as a result. And there's something very comforting about reading that sort of story.
In a way, the Recluce novels work for the same reason that Kirstein's Steerswoman books do. The magic is really magic, not science in disguise, but the characters approach it in a scientific manner, and that makes for weirdly compelling reading.
As for the book itself, well, if you've read any of the previous fourteen or fifteen volumes, you know what you're going to get, and it does a good job of meeting expectations. There's a direct sequel, Ordermaster, that's on the list to be bought soon, and read the next time I'm looking for a comfort book.
- Log in to post comments
I'd note that the magic in Mercedes Lackey's Valdemar series has many of the same characteristics, and some of the books have suggested that there may be some newly developing cooperation between mages and "artisans". (Of course, the real charm of the series is that it offers a world where the gods are paying attention....)
Brandon Sanderson's Elantris likewise, indeed, the Big Problem turns out to have an almost mechanistic nature and solution.
Chad doesn't like Lackey, but of the recent books that I can stand, that's why.