The White Order

LXXI

AS HE STEPPED through the squared archway into the foyer of the front Hall of the Mages, Cerryl wiped the dampness from his forehead, part sweat from the rapid walk down the avenue until he had parted from Jyantyl and the lancers at the edge of the square and part dampness from the spring drizzle that cloaked Fairhaven, so fine that his head almost didn’t ache. His eyes blinked to readjust to the dimness inside the building. After a moment, he started toward the back of the hall and the courtyard. The evening bells had not rung, and that meant he had time to get washed up before eating and not be one of the late arrivals.

A motion caught Cerryl’s eyes, and he stopped just inside the foyer. Eliasar marched quickly from the tower steps through the foyer. The arms mage wore a huge white-bronze broadsword in a shoulder harness, and a shortsword from a belt. A lazy smile flickered across Eliasar’s face as his fingers touched the hilt of the shorter blade.

Cerryl frowned but followed Eliasar toward the courtyard. When Cerryl had reached the fountain, though, the arms mage was out of sight. With a shrug, Cerryl circled the fountain, avoiding the wet stones near the basin, and entered the rear hall, then turned toward the washrooms.

For once, even after cleaning up, Cerryl got to the meal hall before most of the other students or the handful of mages who ate there. Esaak sat alone in one corner, perusing a book of some sort, and another apprentice-Kochar-sat at one of the larger circular tables. Kochar’s eyes went to the table’s surface as Cerryl glanced toward the younger redhead.

“Young Cerryl!” called Esaak.

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl turned and started toward the older mage.

“You can eat. You young men are always starving. I was once. Remember, I want the best you can do on those cross-section and flow problems tomorrow.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Good.” Esaak waved. “Go eat.”

Cerryl headed back toward the serving table, getting there just as Bealtur came through the archway. Cerryl filled his platter with lemon creamed mutton chunks over hard bread, grabbed two pearapples to balance the heavy meat and thick sauce, and added the mug of ale. He made his way to one of the empty circular polished white oak tables.

Bealtur stood back, fingering his dark and wispy goatee, until Cerryl left the serving table.

Cerryl ate slowly, silently, his mind flitting between the cross-section problems he had not finished working out and his efforts, unsuccessful so far, to split the golden lance light into the colored beams and still have them retain enough power to fire-scour the slimed bricks.

Bealtur joined Kochar, and the two began to talk, but in voices low enough that the sounds did not carry to Cerryl nor interrupt his thoughts about chaos-fire and light.

Did trying to order light, so to speak, mean that the power of chaos was weakened in the light? Or was it the way in which he was trying to order it? Cerryl shook his head abruptly. How many times had he argued those points in his head? And how many times had he not found an answer there, or in Colors of White? How many answers had he sought and not found-beginning with the death of his aunt and uncle? Deaths he was more convinced than ever had been caused by chaos-fire.

“Cerryl?” Faltar stood by the table.

Cerryl glanced up with a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Sit down. I didn’t see you. I was thinking about the problems I have to do before tomorrow for Esaak.”

Faltar slid onto the stool across from Cerryl, his blond hair drifting across his forehead. “You’re always thinking about something.”

“I suppose so. There was a time when. . never mind.” Cerryl laughed self-consciously, then grinned. “Has anything interesting been happening around here?”

“Broka says I haven’t learned the bones of the body well enough. Derka doesn’t think my hand is good enough for a mage. He keeps telling me that no one could read what I write. You’re lucky you were a scrivener, that way.” Faltar took a bite of pearapple and chewed it, then looked at the yellowed white sauce on his platter. “Mutton. . again.”

“I hadn’t thought being a scrivener’s apprentice was good for much.” Cerryl took a swallow of ale, a draught that helped cut the greasiness of the lemon sauce. “This is greasier than usual.”

“You should listen to Derka about writing,” said Faltar sourly. “The mutton is always greasy.”

Cerryl paused. “I saw Eliasar wearing a lot of weapons, just before I got here. He looked happy.” He gave a low laugh. “He likes weapons. I had to wonder where he was going.”

“Haven’t you seen?” Faltar took a quick sip of the amber ale. “They’re readying a whole force of white lancers. They’re all going to Certis-Jellico, from what I’ve heard.”

“From whom?” asked Cerryl quietly. “No one seems to tell anyone anything. Especially us.”

A quick blush passed across Faltar’s face, a flushing that Cerryl ignored. “I’ve just listened,” Faltar finally said. “You aren’t around here enough to overhear things.”

“That’s probably true. I’m down there struggling along in the tunnels.” Cerryl offered a smile. “Did you hear why Eliasar and those lancers are going to Jellico? I thought we had an agreement with Certis.”

“I think it has something to do with the problems in Gallos.” The blond student shrugged. “You know about the new prefect there?”

His mouth full of lamb and lemon-sauced bread, Cerryl nodded.

“He’s claiming that the agreement about the Great White Road was made when his sire was ailing, and that it doesn’t bind him to collect the road tariffs for us.”

“That’s almost half the road’s length,” mumbled Cerryl.

“It’s worse than that, Derka says. The prefect’s claiming that we have no right to tax any of the other roads we built, and that includes the main road from Jellico through Passera to Fenard.” Faltar lowered his voice. “They’re going to have a meeting about it-all the full mages.” Faltar lowered his voice. “That was what Lyasa told me.”

Yet Eliasar was already on his way to Certis. To ensure that the viscount stayed loyal to Fairhaven? Was the White Order’s hold on eastern Candar that fragile?

“That doesn’t sound good,” murmured Cerryl. “I wouldn’t know, but if there is going to be a meeting. .”

“That’s what. . Well. . no. . I don’t think so, either.” Faltar glanced nervously around the meal hall.

“Isn’t there a mage in Fenard? We saw him here once, I think. Can’t he do anything?”

“I don’t know.” Faltar finally looked back at his platter. “About the mage, I mean. There’s a mage in all the places where there’s a ruler. Except Spidlar and Sligo, and they have a Traders’ Council or something.”

“If they want us to know, they’ll tell us.” Cerryl laughed. “Otherwise, what can we do? I’ve still got sewer duty. You’ve still got to improve your hand, and I’ve still got to do cross-section problems for Esaak. Tonight,” Cerryl added as he stood.

“Tonight?”

Cerryl nodded and turned toward his cell, hoping he wouldn’t be working too long into the night.