The White Order

CII

“Good day.” Cerryl waved to the merchant on the wagon seat as he eased the chestnut around the big wagon drawn by a four-horse team.

“Good day to you, young ser.” The gray-bearded and trim man in green who held the reins in his right hand nodded pleasantly. “You think it be raining afore long?”

The guard beside the merchant smiled.

Cerryl glanced at the clouds overhead, dark gray, and tried to gain a sense of the weather. He could feel the churning chaos and the black order bands within the gray, so low were the heavy clouds. “Not right now, but not too long.”

“Darkness. . hoped we could make it farther.”

Cerryl glanced back at the covered wagon. “What have you there?”

“Mostly carpets, but some hangings-good pieces out of Sarronnyn. Hard to come by these days. Lot easier before the prefect and those traders in Spidlar decided they knew better than all of Candar.” The trader spat to the side, behind Cerryl. “Fairhaven your home? You headed back?”

Cerryl slowed his mount slightly out of politeness, pacing the wagon. “Yes.” Fairhaven was his home, more than any place, despite Jeslek, and the overmage’s struggles with Sterol. Fairhaven was where Myral was, and Lyasa, Faltar, and Heralt, and, especially, Leyladin, all the family he really had, now that his aunt Nail and uncle Syodor were dead-for reasons he still didn’t understand. Except you want Leyladin to be more than just a relative. . “Fairhaven’s home.”

“Musta been an eight-day back, maybe not quite, saw a bunch of lancers and mages headed back. One of the lancers said they’d beaten a big Gallosian force. You think that was true?”

“It was true.” Cerryl smiled. “I was there. I had to do something else before I returned.”

“Might teach that prefect not to be so self-mighty.” The gray-bearded merchant offered an ironic smile. “Then. . some folk never learn. Well. . won’t be keeping you, young mage. Have a safe trip.”

“Thank you.” Cerryl gently urged the chestnut on, on toward Fairhaven.

The merchant’s parting words echoed in his ears. “Some folk never learn. . never learn. .”

But who is to say what learning is? Cerryl had learned that all too often, when people talked about learning, they wanted you to see things their way. Except maybe Myral, or Dylert. . and, he hoped, Leyladin.