The White Order

LXVIII

CERRYL RAPPED ON the brass-bound white oak door.

“You may come in, Cerryl,” called Myral.

As normal for cold mornings, the older mage was sipping hot spiced cider from an earthenware mug. The shutters were closed, but wispy glimmers of bright sunlight flickered through hairline openings in the frame, glimmers that seemed to move with the breeze that brushed the tower. Myral had a white woolen lap robe across his knees, although Cerryl felt the days were getting warmer.

Myral followed Cerryl’s eyes to the lap robe. “The days might seem warmer, but I’m colder. I’m tempted to ask Sterol to send me to Ruzor, except. .” He shook his head and forced a smile. “It’s warm there all year.”

“Some would say it is hot there.” What had Myral almost said?

“These bones could use some heat. At times I would not mind the heat of the Stone Hills.” Myral took another sip of cider.

Cerryl glanced at the small hearth, where a handful of coals still glowed.

“The coals provide more lasting heat than a fire.” Myral cleared his throat. “Your progress?”

“Another thirty cubits yesterday, ser, more or less.” Cerryl stopped, then added, “I had a problem the other day.”

“With the lancers or you? Be precise, Cerryl.” Myral frowned. “What kind of problem?”

“With me. I was trying to be more exact. I was trying to direct the chaos-fire, and the harder I tried, the less force I had.” Cerryl swallowed. “Ah. . then I tried to think more about light. . the way you said, and I got three flashes of light at the same time-red and yellow and blue. They barely scorched the slime. But whatever it was I did, I couldn’t do it again.”

“Mmmm.” Myral sipped his cider, glanced at the door behind Cerryl, then coughed. “What happened to your chaos-fire?”

“I lowered my shields and didn’t think much, and there was plenty. But the colored shafts bothered me. Chaos-fire arcs and falls eventually, but these didn’t, and. .” Cerryl stopped. Had he heard footsteps on the stairs? Leyladin?

Despite what Lyasa had said, he still wondered about the healer. Why couldn’t blacks and whites be lovers-without danger? And was Leyladin really a black? Was she Myral’s lover?

The faintest scraping penetrated the room, and Cerryl could sense someone standing outside on the landing.

“Ah. .” Myral glanced toward the heavy white oak door. “That is something you will have to work out yourself, young Cerryl. Each mage must, you know. Chaos handling is not like mathematicks, where each number always has the same value.”

The younger mage suppressed a frown. Force was force. . Somehow Myral’s words seemed wrong, but Cerryl could not say why.

“Think about the light. You might reread Colors of White-even more carefully.”

Cerryl nodded, suppressing his immediate need to protest that he had already done so, many more times than anyone suspected.

“You may go,” Myral said, with another glance at the door.

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl stood.

“Tomorrow.”

After a nod of acknowledgment, the younger man turned and walked to the door, opening it and stepping outside onto the landing, a landing occupied by another.

“Good day, Leyladin.” Cerryl offered a smile, broader than he’d intended as his eyes took in the oval face, the blond hair that was faintly red and tumbled not quite to her shoulders, the green eyes that sparkled even in the dimness of the landing, and the lips that were full, but not too full.

“Good day, Cerryl.” She returned his smile with one that was friendly but not inviting. “Be careful in the depths.”

“Thank you.” Now what? He wondered, but got no further, as she opened Myral’s door and stepped inside, closing it, and leaving him standing on the landing.

With a shrug he really didn’t feel, Cerryl started down the stone steps to the foyer, passing the guards at the lowest level and then hurrying down the steps to the foyer. He had managed a few more words, a very few, but he still felt tongue-tied around her. She was traly beautiful.

He crossed the foyer, pausing when he turned toward the rear of the hall as a redheaded figure approached. He bowed. “Greetings, honored Anya.”

“I’m not that much your elder, Cerryl.” A warm and white-toothed smile flashed across Anya’s face, a smile Cerryl distrusted even as he admired its effectiveness. “If you keep working, you’ll be up before the Council within the next few years. . and then we’ll be working together for a long time.”

The scent of sandalwood, mixed with roses or another heavy floral essence, enfolded him, almost cloying.

“I am yet in the sewers,” he pointed out, “but you are kind.”

“You are cautious, an admirable attribute.” Her smile turned even more perfunctory. “Do your best in the sewers.”

As Anya gave a parting nod and walked across the high-ceilinged foyer toward the steps to the tower, Cerryl turned toward the courtyard and the lancers’ barracks beyond, where he would again meet Jyantyl and the other lancers assigned to his charge, although he was certain Jyantyl was reporting on him as well as supervising the disciplinary detail.

The sun seemed slightly warmer on his face as he entered the courtyard. Was winter really coming to an end? Had he been in the Halls of the Mages nearly a year? By spring, it would be a year.

So much had happened. . and so little. So many hidden tests-and pitfalls. After nearly a year, he still had no idea whether the poisoned cider had been a test or an attempt to kill him, though he suspected more and more it had been a crude attempt at murder by Kesrik or Bealtur. But that was something he couldn’t prove and dared not mention. . because. . if it had been a test. . He shook his head. His logic was weak, but his feelings were strong. Mentioning the cider would do no good, especially since Myral was the only one who drank cider all the time, and he doubted strongly that Myral would stoop to poison. And Kesrik didn’t seem smart enough to think or try something like that on his own.

So had someone been trying to get rid of two people? More feelings you can’t prove?

Like mathematicks, and chaos-fire. . he just didn’t know enough.

The warmth of the sun was countered by the chill of the spray from the fountain, and he continued through the rear hall into the next courtyard and toward the barracks.

“We be ready, ser.” Jyantyl straightened as Cerryl neared.

“Good.” Cerryl turned toward the avenue, Jyantyl walking beside him, the other four lancers two abreast behind them.

The secondary sewage collector tunnel Cerryl had been assigned was more than two kays from the mages’ square, two kays very slightly uphill along the main avenue.

Cerryl’s thoughts seemed a jumbled mess as he marched along the avenue. Why did chaos-fire arc and fall? Light followed a straight path. But chaos-fire burned, and light didn’t. Cerryl’s lips tightened, and then he licked them. The colored light beams had burned-just not so much as chaotic white light. And sunlight didn’t burn, unless it was concentrated with a glass or one stayed in it all day at midsummer. So it wasn’t the color of the light, but the chaos of the light.

How could one separate color from chaos? Cerryl frowned as he kept walking quickly northward on the avenue.

“He’s in a hurry this morning,” muttered Ullan.

“Most mages are,” answered Dientyr.

“Quiet,” snapped Jyantyl.

The five continued along the avenue, passing the market square, the jeweler’s row, and the artisans’ square, until they were within easy sight of the northern gates, before turning left.

Once beside the warehouse wall, Cerryl unlocked, lifted, and relocked the bronze grate in place, then started down the brick steps to the walkway. Even after the eight-days he’d spent chaos-scouring the secondary, the slime had not reappeared where he’d begun.

Behind him, Dientyr lit the sewer lamp, and he and Ullan followed Cerryl into the depths.

Cerryl stood for a time at the edge of the bricks he had already chaos-scoured, staring into the slime-filled darkness that stretched toward the main sewer tunnel west of the avenue, his thoughts still swirling. Find his own way? How? Could he somehow let chaos flow without restricting it, but use order to separate and guide it?

Somehow. . that was the way. How. . that was another question.

Finally, he took a deep breath and just let the chaos flow, barely shielded, observing as much as controlling.

Whhhsttt! Red-tinged white flared everywhere, then faded, followed by minute white ashes swirling up in the dim light of the lamp held by Dientyr, standing perhaps four paces behind Cerryl.

After gathering himself together and taking a full breath, Cerryl stepped forward another several paces to the edge of what he had just scoured. After a moment, Dientyr followed with the lamp, and the muted thump of Ullan’s lance told Cerryl that the lancer had restationed himself.

Standing in the noisome depths, Cerryl tried to form the idea of a glass hanging before him in the air, the kind that would split the light the way a wedge of clear glass did, into colored streams. Slowly, he let the chaos summoned from somewhere-exactly from where he still wasn’t certain-he let it flow through the chaos lens.

The three streams of light played across the slime of the walkway. Steam rose, and the slime blackened but did not burn.

Cerryl took a deep breath. Splitting the fight shouldn’t necessarily weaken it-should it?

He tried again. Again he got colored light lances that steamed and blackened the slime but did not clean.

He had the feeling that he was missing something, but he didn’t know what, and that meant another long day beneath the streets of Fairhaven-perhaps many more, too many more, long eight-days.