“He has built a home and a smithy and a barn. I doubt that he wishes to return to Recluce. Perhaps, with what he has forged, he cannot.” Cerryl hoped he was as correct as his words sounded.
“That is most likely the case.”
“Well, he carries a great deal of order, and if he has nowhere else to turn, and if the Guild attacks where he lives, he might feel compelled to act against us.”
“That is also true—but he is an order smith. He cannot even make edged weapons. I doubt he will be more than a nuisance. I worry far more about the two who have become officers. They have already done much damage.” Jeslek frowned briefly. “Have you made any more discoveries about the misdirected road tariffs?”
“I’ve found a few more people in the viscount’s court that seem to have prospered more than there is any way to find through a glass. It’s hard from here, and not knowing much about them,” Cerryl admitted, shifting his weight on the hard chair.
“We will be gathering levies in Jellico, and you can continue your efforts there as well, since you will have little else to do until we actually begin the campaign against Spidlar.” The High Wizard’s sun-gold eyes glittered, and for a moment Cerryl thought he could smell chaos and brimstone in the Tower.
“When do we leave, ser?”
“You and Fydel will leave in an eight-day. I need to attend to some matters in Hydolar—such as the missing road tariffs and the thousand golds for damages. Nonetheless, I intend to have everyone in Jellico before the turn of spring—except for the last group of White Lancers Eliasar is training.”
“You are going?”
“Of course. The rulers of other lands do not seem to fear a High Wizard who remains in Fairhaven. This time, it will be different. Much different. As the traders of Hydolar will discover first—to their peril.” The sun-gold eyes glittered.
“Yes, ser.”
“You may go and begin to prepare, Cerryl.”
The younger mage nodded.
“Cerryl…best you recall that all that has saved you is your devotion to Fairhaven. That devotion should remain most firm.”
“It will, High Wizard. It will.”
“I thought as much. Good day, Cerryl.”
LXXVII
CERRYL AND LEYLADIN stood in the entry foyer of her house. Outside, a cold drizzle fell through the darkness, the mist rising from the stone walks and roads thick enough to blot out the lamps from the adjoining houses.
“I enjoyed dinner, and being here…again.” Cerryl dropped his hand from the door and took her hands. Her fingers were cool in his.
“Father talked too much…” A wry smile flashed across her lips and vanished.
“It was all right. He doesn’t have too many people to talk to, I wouldn’t imagine. Not besides you.”
Leyladin frowned.
“What’s the matter?”
“Sometimes…” She offered a small sigh, taking her hands back, but not moving away. “Sometimes, I’m not good at being patient, either. I wish I were.”
“You could come. Jeslek wouldn’t mind having a healer.”
“No. If I come, then you can’t do what you must. You won’t look out for yourself, and then we’ll have no chance at all.” Her words were firm. “I don’t like it. But I know.”
Cerryl wanted to shake his head. “Know what?”
“You’re leaving tomorrow. How do you feel about that?” Leyladin asked.
“Worried. You didn’t answer my question.”
“Worried about what?” Her deep green eyes glinted.
“Leaving you, of course.”
“Ha! You said that because I expected it.”
Cerryl forced an enigmatic smile.
“Don’t do that.” She frowned. “I can’t tell if you’re teasing or if you’re still giving me that order-cursed smile because you don’t want to disagree with me.”
Cerryl grinned. “You’re beautiful when your eyes flash like that.”
“They will flash. I know Anya’s going with Jeslek, after they deal with Hydolar, but you’ll end up in Spidlar together—or close enough. She’s still pure poison, especially for you. She may smile, but she hates you, partly because you don’t manipulate easily and partly because of me. She can’t stand the thought that a White mage could love—and touch—a Black.”
“I can see that…Is that why you can’t come?”
“Partly. Kinowin also asked that I not go.”
Cerryl concealed a swallow. At times, it seemed as though he were still the mill boy or the apprentice and everyone else knew what was happening and he could only catch glimpses. Even when he asked and searched, he got no answers or answers that weren’t answers at all. “Did he say why?”
“He said it would be a war, a war that Candar had not seen the like of and would not again until Fairhaven fell, and that would be many more generations. Many more.”
From anyone but Kinowin…“He said that?”
“He told me that my going wouldn’t be good for me or for you. He was most firm.” Her eyes glinted with anger, anger Cerryl could feel before it faded. “Most firm.”
Leyladin smiled sadly and put her arms around Cerryl. “He also said you had much to do and to learn…if Myral’s visions were to come to pass.”
“What about us?”
“If they don’t…” Her eyes misted in the dim light.
Cerryl hugged her to him, even more tightly, so tightly he almost felt that black and white, or black and gray, twisted around each other in the dimness. Their lips met, and there was no hesitation, not for either.
Colors of Candar
LXXVIII
STANDING IN THE stable courtyard at the far rear of the Halls of the Mages, Cerryl looked at the mount and at the white and red livery. He’d never been that comfortable on a horse, probably because he’d never been in the saddle until he’d become a student mage. His last effort on horseback had resulted in a long, long walk.
Finally, he mounted and eased his mount over beside Fydel’s, dreading the ride ahead. At least the gelding seemed more tractable than the beast he’d stolen in Hydolar.
Although the dawn wind blew out of the northeast, damp and cold, but not strong, his jacket kept him warm. So far…He looked around. A half-score of lancers sat mounted by the gate from the courtyard.
Fydel glanced at Cerryl, then toward the small group of lancers. “Best we be going now.”
“Where are all the lancers?” Cerryl asked.
“Most of them are at the South Barracks. We’ll meet them there.”
“Fifty score?”
“Half that. The others will come with the High Wizard when he deems it necessary.” Fydel urged his mount forward.
Cerryl flicked the gelding’s reins to catch up to the older mage. He hadn’t missed the tinge of bitterness in the square-bearded mage’s voice. “After he takes them to Hydolar?”
“After he takes them to Hydolar and brings down another Tower to prove his mightiness—and takes the coins necessary to wage this war. It has been too long since the powers of chaos were unleashed.” Fydel shrugged as he turned his mount onto the Avenue. “In generations, only Gallos has felt them—when we were last there.” He snorted. “For all that, for the destruction of near on twenty-score lancers, the prefect yet ignores Fairhaven when he thinks he can do so, and less than two years have passed. The viscount bows in perfect obeisance and does as he pleases. We have twice removed the Dukes of Hydolar, and yet the merchants believe not our power.” Another snort followed.
Are all rulers moved only by considering which forces are the greatest? Cerryl felt as bleak as the gray morning.
The gelding’s hoofs clopped dully on the white stone of the Avenue, a stone that seemed lifeless in the gray before dawn.
LXXIX
BEYOND THE WIDE stone bridge that spanned the River Jellicor, trails of white and gray smoke rose over the walls of Jellico, walls set less than half a kay north of the bridge. The gray sky, the walls that seemed like s
meared charcoal in the fading light, and the smoke all imparted an air of gloom to the walled city. The smooth stone ramparts rose more than forty cubits above the causeway that ran to the gates.
Cerryl glanced down at the river from the big gelding as the column crossed the bridge. Even the water was gray. On the far shore, the western shore, they turned almost northeast for a few hundred cubits before the road turned again and ran straight west toward the granite walls. The gates—red oak and ironbound—were open, but the well-oiled iron grooves testified to their ability to be closed quickly. A half-score of armsmen clad in gray and brown leathers and with armless green overtunics waited by the gates. One of them was a woman, looking as hardened as the men.
Cerryl’s eyes widened as a White Guard appeared behind the squad, surveying the arrivals, then bowing slightly to Fydel as the senior mage reined up. Fydel inclined his head, and Cerryl followed his example, wondering why he’d not seen White Guards on his earlier trip. Or had he just not noticed?
“The mages Fydel and Cerryl, preceding the High Wizard Jeslek on his visit to the viscount,” rumbled Fydel.
The guard apparently in charge looked from the pair of mages to the long column of lancers that reached back nearly to the bridge. Then he looked back to Fydel. “Ah…you are most welcome, noble mages. You know your way to the palace barracks?”
“We have been there before,” replied Fydel with a smile.
As they started through the gates, Cerryl looked up. As on his last visit, archers in green with bows watched the column of riders from the ramparts on the walls above. One looked away quickly as Cerryl’s eyes surveyed him.
Even narrower and meaner were the houses and shops of Jellico than Cerryl remembered, barely wide enough for three or four mounts abreast, if the riders and horses on each side scraped the fired brick walls. Under the late-afternoon gray sky, the three-story structures appeared to loom higher than they were, pressing in on Cerryl. A wagon stood before a shop on the right and Fydel and Cerryl had to pass it single file. A handful of men and women stood on the far side of the wagon, and their eyes went to the white jackets of the mages and then to the uniforms of the lancers who followed.
“…more of those Whites.”
“…leave well enough alone.”
“…tariffs and taxes…all they want.”
“…hush! They can hear you, and find you…”
Cerryl wanted to laugh, if bitterly, at the last remarks, suspecting that all too many of the taxes the locals paid were collected in the name of the Guild but went to the prefect and his establishment. Suspecting it and proving it are two very different mounts.
Jellico had an odor, more muted than on his last visit, but still holding the smells from the open sewers running beside the buildings on the right of the street and burned grease, tanning acids, and mold, plus others Cerryl could not identify—and did not wish to try. He shifted his weight in the saddle, glad he did not have to remain on horseback that much longer.
The odors shifted to a mixture more pleasant when the column wound its way around the north side of the Market Square, where the scent of roast fowl mixed with scented oils and incense, almost drowning out the less aromatic odors of the streets. It was late enough, Cerryl saw, that many of the peddlers had already left, and most of those remaining in the square were packing bags and a few carts.
The small hill on the west end of Jellico held the sprawling buildings of the viscount’s palace and the associated buildings, barracks and stables, all surrounded by another set of granite walls smoother and more polished than those of the city.
Fydel nodded to the guards standing by the archway holding the open lower gates, ignoring the squad of crossbowmen on the false rampart above. Once inside the long tunnel-like archway, Cerryl could feel as well as hear the echoes of hoofs.
Within the courtyard, the heavyset Shyren waited, clearly having used his glass to determine their arrival. The gray light made the pasty complexion of the Guild’s representative to Certis even whiter, and his hair, sandy blonde mixed with white, appeared nearly all white.
“Greetings, Shyren!” called Fydel.
“Greetings,” answered the gray-and-sandy-haired wizard. “I’m glad you made it through the gates before nightfall.”
“So are we.” Fydel bent his head forward, as if stretching his neck.
“You and Cerryl—you’ll be in the guest barracks. You know where those are?”
Fydel nodded.
So did Cerryl, but the fact that Shyren knew his name made him wonder what other information had been conveyed to Shyren—and by whom and why.
“I’ll show you which rooms are yours in a moment.” Shyren looked at Teras as the lancer captain reined up behind the two mages. “Take your mounts through the archway there and through the next one to the rear courtyard. There will be an undercaptain there to show you the quartering arrangements.”
“Yes, ser.” Captain Teras raised his arm. “Through the arch, by twos. After me!”
Shyren looked up at Fydel. “How was the trip?”
“Damp and cold.”
“Not so cold as Spidlar these days—or Sligo, either.” Shyren flashed a crooked smile that Cerryl distrusted almost as much as he did Anya’s. “Winter ice has been hard on Spidlar—that and the brigands that attack traders headed suchways.”
The two mages waited until the line of lancers had disappeared, then rode slowly across the still-damp stones of the courtyard and through the archway into a second courtyard, a square a good hundred cubits on a side, surrounded by window-studded stone walls rising a good five stories.
Fydel reined up before the guest stable, and he and Cerryl dismounted. Cerryl surveyed the courtyard, noting again how every building seemed to join every other one and how all looked about the same from outside—flat stone walls with small windows.
Shyren gave a perfunctory smile. “You’ve been here before. You both get captain’s rooms. The ostlers will take care of your mounts once you unload them.”
After he wearily unstrapped his bedroll and pack, Cerryl followed Fydel and Shyren across the courtyard and through a weathered bailey door. Then came the two flights of steps he remembered and another narrow stone corridor to a rounded corner of the building.
“You have the first two rooms. The first three are generally for mages. They’re a shade larger and fresher.” Shyren smiled again. “You’re expected for dinner with the viscount. Fydel, you’ll sit with me until Jeslek arrives, because you brought in the lancers.”
“And then I return to my proper place with the captains?” The sarcasm in the square-bearded mage’s voice was heavy and bitter.
“Of course. We all have but moments of glory.” Shyren’s response was light, but Cerryl could sense a deep bitterness behind the words. The Guild representative turned to Cerryl. “You are considered a senior captain, but the juniormost of those.”
Cerryl nodded.
“They could not do less, knowing you have been, as they put it, blooded in battle.” Shyren cleared his throat. “Dinner’s at the second bell. I will see you then.” With a nod, the heavy mage turned and waddled back around the corner.
Fydel looked at Cerryl; Cerryl offered an ironic smile.
Then Fydel laughed. “You see more than most, young Cerryl. You do indeed.” He turned toward the first door.
Cerryl walked to the second, lifted the latch, and stepped inside. There he lowered his bedroll and pack onto the stone floor inside the door and surveyed the place—smaller than his quarters in Fairhaven, with a single window, shuttered. The furniture consisted of a narrow pallet bed, a battered wardrobe, a washstand and pitcher, and a lamp on a brass bracket. Two heavy blankets were folded at the foot of the bed, and an oval braided rug lay on the floor by the bed. A chamber pot stood in the corner, while a heavy wooden bar leaned against the wall behind the door.
Apparently even captains needed to bar their rooms in Certis.
Cerryl closed the door and began to unpack
. He had the feeling he would be in Jellico for more than just a few days—and he would be busy with his screeing glass all too often, unfortunately.
LXXX
AT THE SECOND bell, Cerryl slipped out of his room to find Fydel waiting. Without a word, the two walked down the corridor and descended to the courtyard, crossing the lamp-illumined stones to the far side. There the pair of guards nodded.
At the top of the steps leading up from the courtyard, the two mages passed the first of the guards in green and gold. Above the pink marble wainscoting, the walls were finished in green silk fabric. Gilt-framed pictures spaced at five-cubit intervals held portraits of mounted viscounts in green uniforms.
At the end of the corridor was an archway into a dining hall, a good fifty cubits long and half that in width. As they entered the hall, Cerryl found his mouth watering at the scent of cooking meat.
Near the head of the table stood Shyren, speaking quietly with Viscount Rystryr, a big and broad-shouldered man who wore a gaudy green and gold tunic. His ruddy cheeks seemed flushed, perhaps from riding in the chill, and he sported a bushy beard under thick blonde hair. A fire roared in the marble fireplace at the foot of the table. There were gathered a half-score of Certan officers, who barely graced Fydel and Cerryl with a glance, occupied as they were in conversation with the White Lancer captain, Teras.
Shyren caught sight of Fydel and nudged the viscount.
A smile replaced Rystryr’s serious demeanor, and his hearty voice boomed out, “Welcome to Jellico, Mage Fydel! We welcome you and your lancers, and Captain Teras.”
“We thank you,” replied Fydel. “The hospitality of Certis is legend, and welcome.”
“Since all are here, let us eat.” Rystryr gestured toward the table.
Cerryl glanced along the table, looking for his name, and found it on a bronze-framed slate bearing a statuette of a captain—far nearer the head of the table than he had anticipated. His name was chalked in Old Tongue script, “Carrl,” the same spelling as on his last visit years before.
Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce) Page 39
