Colors of Chaos

CXLV

CLOAKED IN THE light-blurring shield, the one that would not scream his presence to an alert gate mage, Cerryl stood in the early-afternoon shadow of the guardhouse beside the north gate.

Another of the younger mages he did not know paced along the upper balcony, looking down and out at the empty White highway that stretched north and then eastward to Lydiar. The gate mage rubbed her forehead, then her neck, before pacing back across the worn stone tiles, the same tiles Cerryl had paced in years past. It scarcely seemed that long ago, before Spidlar had become more than a name on a map and a wiry smith had killed the most powerful chaos mage in generations.

Cerryl focused his eyes on the gate mage, who had seated herself on a stool. Below her, the three duty guards stood in the shade of the gates, not a dozen paces from him.

“…slow…”

“…always slow anymore, except for the post coaches…some of the factors’ wagons…”

“Don’t see many wagons out of Certis or Gallos these days.”

“Hydolar, neither…”

Cerryl nodded to himself. As Layel and Leyladin had also noted, the roads were almost empty, except for farmers bringing produce to Fairhaven, and such slow commerce was unusual at any time, particularly in summer.

Then, there was the problem of the Black smith. Each day Cerryl screed the southern tip of Recluce. Each day he wrote a report, and each day more dwellings and structures were appearing in the smith’s town on Recluce. Kinowin had reported such to Sterol, but the High Wizard had done nothing-at least nothing that Kinowin had relayed or that Cerryl had perceived.

Nor had Cerryl found any more traces of Anya’s presence in his room in the Halls.

The quietness that filled the Halls of the Mages bothered Cerryl. Something had happened-or would happen. He just hadn’t been able to see what it was or might be.

His eyes went back to the gate mage. She had stood and begun to pace again-as he had so often.