Colors of Chaos

Colors of Change
CXXXVII

CERRYL…WHAT DO you want?” Anya asked idly from where she stood by the railing of the White Flame beside Cerryl.

“What do you mean?” Cerryl’s eyes flicked from Anya toward the bow.

Just aft from the short forward raised deck, Fydel stood, the wind blowing his dark hair back, a big hand on a rigging cable, confident-appearing in the cool sea air under the bright green-blue sky.

“Jeslek wanted to be the greatest and most powerful White mage ever. What do you want?” Anya asked again.

The thin-faced mage glanced back at the headland beyond which lay Diev, now in the hands of Syandar. Eliasar had agreed that the three should return to Fairhaven with the amulet, but by ship, so that all the lancers could remain to help keep the peace in Spidlar. Cerryl had the feeling that the older arms mage had almost been happy to see them leave and allow him to get on with putting Spidlar firmly under the thumb of the Guild, as he had in Renklaar.

“I’m not sure I know,” Cerryl said. “I wanted to be a White mage ever since I was a child, and I am.” He shrugged and offered a wary smile.

“Cerryl, you have bigger goals than that.”

“Well…” Cerryl paused. “I think Fairhaven needs to be stronger for Candar to prosper, because none of the other rulers think beyond their own borders. If they don’t, sooner or later, Recluce will, in fact, rule Candar without ever sending a single armsman.”

“Do you see Prefect Syrma or Viscount Rystryr allowing that?” Anya laughed, a hard and brittle sound. “They will fight their endless little wars and slaver over a few chests of golds while their merchants sell all that is dear to the traders of Recluce.”

“If matters change not,” Cerryl conceded, “that will happen. I’d like to change matters. I cannot say I know how, or that I could even if I did possess that knowledge. Look at Jeslek.”

“You seem to be saying that Candar cannot prosper if the wars are endless,” Anya answered. “Do you really think anyone can change what people are? Most are greedy fools. The best are smart and greedy.”

“I can’t gainsay that, either,” Cerryl admitted. “That is why I cannot see any land, any force, but that of Fairhaven being able to impose rules that will allow prosperity for all. Nor will Candar prosper without the rules and harmony such as those of the White City.”

“Do you really think that is possible?” A touch of scorn colored her voice.

“Look at Fairhaven-or even Elparta. Neither has folk begging in the streets. They are cleaner, and the average soul is happier.”

“The traders are not.”

“In Fairhaven, the traders prosper.” Cerryl grinned in spite of himself, wondering just how Anya would twist the conversation to her ends.

“They’re as bad as those elsewhere and, given the chance, would build palaces on the backs of the poor and the Guild.”

“The Guild does not give them the chance.”

“The Guild cannot be everywhere.” Anya tossed her head as if to dismiss Cerryl’s observation. “Nor can it dictate everything to its traders, not if it wishes to hold to its powers.”

That observation bothered Cerryl, another feeling that, again, Anya had more to do with the traders than anyone in the Guild knew-or, at least, wanted to pursue. He refrained from shaking his head as he recalled how he had been dissuaded from following the missing trader and the stolen silksheen-although it was clear that trail had led to Jiolt, whose son was consorted to Anya’s sister.

As the White Flame pitched through a trough, Cerryl reached out and steadied himself on the rail.

“Let us say that you,” continued Anya, “or some High Wizard, does unite Candar or the east of Candar. After him, then what? More squabbles and wars? What is the purpose of such a great achievement? To end up withering away like Kinowin or Myral or being killed like Jeslek? Or to turn what you have done over to another like Sterol to dither it away?”

“You think so little of Sterol?” Cerryl smiled.

“Sterol is what Sterol is,” Anya responded. “Just as Jeslek was.”

After a moment, Cerryl spoke. “You asked me, but what do you want, Anya?”

Anya flashed the smile that Cerryl distrusted. “I think we want the same thing. We want something that gives meaning to what we have done-something that will have meaning after we are gone.” She shrugged. “Is that not what anyone wants?”

Cerryl mistrusted the shrug but remained silent.

“Some folk find such in their children, but that is hard for mages, and especially hard for a White mage interested in a Black.”

“We’ve managed.”

“Children would likely kill Leyladin, so strong are both of you.” Anya offered another shrug. “So you must find a meaning to your life in other fashion.”

“What about you?” Cerryl countered.

“I could have children. A White can have children by a White. I could have had Jeslek’s child, or yours.”

Cerryl wanted nothing to do with that line of talk. “I suppose we’ll have to find other means of making a mark.”

“Like all the other mages who have tried, Cerryl, your mark will survive for a time, then vanish-just like this sea swallows all traces of those that travel on it.”

“I will have tried.”

“Just like Jeslek. Or Myral. Or Kinowin. Or Jenred the Traitor. And for what? Best you think long about that, young Cerryl.” Anya turned to watch the whitecaps-as if to say that she wished to talk no more.

After a moment, Cerryl nodded to himself and walked forward and across the gently rolling deck to the other side of the bow from Fydel. Once more, he needed to think.