The White Order

LXX

BEHIND CERRYL, BACK up the tunnel toward the steps to the street and the bronze sewer grate, Ullan’s lance tapped nervously, then stopped, as if Dientyr had jammed an elbow-or something-into the other lancer.

Cerryl could sense that the day was getting late. He was sweating, and his tunic probably reeked from sweat and fear and sewage, so much so that he smelled nothing.

He had tried everything he could think of, but still the only way he could seem to manifest a decent amount of chaos-fire was to let it flow through him-half-instinctively. Yet Myral had been quite clear that such was far from the best way.

Cerryl wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, looking almost blankly into the darkness. His eyes were tired, and the darkness seemed to flash at him in waves.

For a moment, he closed his eyes, trying to think. What was he overlooking? He had to be missing something. Maybe there wasn’t enough chaos close enough to him to channel. Did one have to gather chaos? How?

There had to be a way. Myral’s words still rang in his ears. “. . use chaos without being of chaos. . gathering chaos from the world around us. .”

What drew in chaos? Sunlight?

Cerryl nodded, imagining himself as a huge flower, drawing in chaos as a blossom drew in sunlight, turning that sunlight into flame, and directing it toward the slime on the bricks. .

Whhhssstttt. . A line of golden white flame-a line of flame flashed from the air before Cerryl down the tunnel. . not touching the green-coated bricks until-who knew how far away?

Cerryl stood motionless, unable to believe what he had seen. Had he really seen it?

Again, after another deep breath, he tried to replicate the sense of gathering chaos as the flowers gathered sunlight, and to let it flow around him-not through him-but around him and slightly down.

Whhsttt!

The golden white flame lance seared a line across the bricks.

A wide grin spread across Cerryl’s face, and he felt like jumping up and down in joy. Instead. . he tried to replicate the feeling, the actions, again.

Whhhsstt!

For the third time, the flame lance flared down the tunnel, at a flatter angle that seared away even more of the scum and slime.

The young mage, unable to keep the grin off his face, kept looking into the darkness as he took another long breath. He was winded, and tired, but he had something, something he wasn’t sure he’d seen elsewhere. But would Jeslek or Sterol have showed all they had?

He shook his head.

Behind him, Ullan’s lance tapped nervously, once, twice.

“Not now,” hissed Dientyr.

Cerryl turned, wiping the grin off his face. “Ullan. . I know it’s uncomfortable down here, and I know you don’t like it, but when you keep tapping that lance, it distracts me, and that means whatever I’m doing will take longer.” He paused. “I’d appreciate it if you’d make a bigger effort not to tap it on the bricks.”

“Yes, ser.” Ullan’s voice squeaked on the “ser,” and the thin dark mustache bobbed, and sweat streamed down his forehead.

“Good.” Cerryl turned back to the tunnel, wanting to see how much more progress he could make while refining his new technique.

“Lucky. . Ullan. . real lucky,” whispered Dientyr.

Cerryl forced himself to concentrate, to ignore the rising sense of elation that had begun to fill him.