When he had recovered, Cerryl stumbled back to the road, clenched his teeth, and kept walking, trying to hold himself together for a bit longer, looking for a place to rest before he resumed what was going to be a long walk, one far too long.
The night was looking far less than restful or promising, and it was getting colder. He shivered again, despite the heavy riding jacket.
LXVI
In the welcome, if slight, warmth of the midmorning sun Cerryl walked along the side of the Great White Highway. He’d been walking since dawn, and his boots were cut and dusty, and his feet ached. His whole body ached, but not so badly as two days before, when he doubted he had walked more than five or six kays, or the day before, when he might have covered more than ten to finally reach the Great White Highway. Along the way, he had found some water and a few fruits that he snitched from crofters’ trees, but he was weaker than he would have liked, and his vision had a tendency to blur, still. The cramps in his lower gut had continued, as had his shivering, but had lessened in the last day. Not enough by far. He wasn’t sure what had happened. Even when he’d eaten bad food as a child, the gut flux hadn’t been as painful as the initial cramps had been this time. Perhaps you’ve gotten too used to good food?
He gave himself a weary headshake and kept walking, looking back to see if he could make out any trace of travelers.
On the highway he hoped he could pick up a ride with some carter or teamster. You hope…
He’d been walking, on and off, with rests that tended to get longer each time, since dawn, but he hadn’t seen a single wagon or team, not one, not even a lancer group. He wasn’t the most experienced traveler, but the lack of other travelers bothered him.
After what felt like another kay but was probably far less than that, he stopped and turned to survey the road. A faint dark spot had appeared on the shimmering pink-white stone of the highway, a spot seemingly too big to be a single rider.
Hoping it was a wagon whose driver he could persuade to carry him back to Fairhaven, Cerryl turned and walked another few hundred cubits, then looked back. The spot had turned into a wagon, accompanied by two riders.
Cerryl took a deep breath and walked some more. Then, he turned and stood, waiting under a sun that was too cool for his chilled body, a body that was sweating beneath the white leather jacket, even as he fought off shivers.
As the wagon neared, it slowed and stopped… well back of Cerryl, The wagon bed was of a light wood, recently oiled, and a canvas was roped over the contents. Cerryl could sense, but not see, the Guild medallion on the far side of the wagon bed. Two guards reined up their mounts beside the driver, both with their blades out.
“Those White garments mean something?” asked the driver, raising his voice.
Cerryl mustered a bit of chaos, ignoring the increasing headache and the stars that seemed to flash in front of his face, then flared it into a fireball that he flung in the direction of Fairhaven. “Just that I’m a footsore mage, trying to get back to Fairhaven.”
“What might you be doing here, ser mage, if a humble trader might ask?” The wagon driver peered at Cerryl.
“I was in rough country, and my mount went down,” Cerryl lied. “So I hiked here to the highway and hoped I could find a ride back to Fairhaven.” He offered a grin. “I could provide some additional protection.”
“Wouldn’t dare do less than offer you a seat. Not much, but better than by shank’s mare.” The teamster shook his head. “Almost worth it to see a mage walking.”
The two mounted guards concealed smiles.
“Might as well hop up here. Name’s Narst.”
“Cerryl.” Cerryl forced himself up onto the hard wagon seat. It felt wonderful.
The teamster flicked the leads, and the wagon rumbled from a creep into a solid pace. “Thought you folks always went in large groups, seeing as you be so well liked.”
“Those who are more senior and better liked do indeed travel in large groups. Some of us are sent out by ourselves.” Cerryl shrugged. “I’ve been a full mage but two-odd years, and we do the smaller tasks, deliver special messages, guard the city gates…”
“And you?” asked Narst.
“Coming back from delivering something. Thought I could go a different way. Didn’t work out that way.”
The teamster smiled. “You young fellows… even mages. No shortcuts in life, none that work well, no ways.”
“I’ve been finding that out lately.” Cerryl took a deep breath.
“There be water in the jug behind the seat. Look as you could use some.”
“Thank you.”
After Cerryl took several swallows, gratefully, he asked, “If I wouldn’t be intruding, might I ask what you are trading in?”
“No surprises there, ser mage. Bolts of brocade from Sarronnyn, gold and silver threaded through the rich green and blue. What doesn’t go to Muneat I can always sell in Lydiar.”
“You started in Fenard?”
“Aye.” Narst shook his head. “Always they want brocade for the coins one would spend on coarse wool. Save for Willum, but he’s out of Spidlar and cold as the stone, done in by brigands. So needs I must travel farther to the east with more than I’d wish.”
“They say there have been more brigands in Spidlar lately.”
Narst frowned, then said flatly, “Some go so far as to say those brigands wear green under their gray.”
Cerryl returned the frown. “I’d not heard that. Has the viscount some quarrel with Spidlar?”
“Who might know that, ser mage, save the viscount himself? Would you be knowing him?”
“No. I saw him once, years ago, when I was an apprentice. I was at the bottom of the table.” Cerryl forced a laugh. “A long table. I could not see him clearly, nor hear his words.”
Narst paused, then spoke slowly, deliberately. “I know not if this be true. Yet some say it be so. They tell me that upon each tariff collected by him upon those who use the White roads in Certis, upon each, he adds another part, claiming this be required by the White Brothers, save they never see it.”
“That I had not heard, but I will see that it is heard by those who should know in Fairhaven.” Cerryl didn’t have to counterfeit that frown. The last thing the Guild needed was blame for taxes it wasn’t getting and that were lining Viscount Rystryr’s pockets or strong rooms.
“That disturbs you?” asked Narst.
“Greatly. It is hard enough to raise the coins to keep the roads open and in good repair. Many already feel that the tariffs are too high. To find that the tariffs are yet higher and that anyone would use the Guild as a way to take more coins from those who trade and those who buy their goods…” Cerryl broke off, afraid he was getting too windy, perhaps because he was too tired. “I’m sorry. Let’s just say it is not good.”
“That it be.” Narst nodded and lapsed into silence.
So did Cerryl, hoping he could last the distance to Fairhaven under a winter sun that offered little besides light.
LXVII
Cerryl roused himself out of a state of stupor and exhaustion as the wagon rumbled up the Avenue and neared the Halls of the Mages. The sky was fading into dark purple.
“If you could stop somewhere near the square there…” Cerryl forced himself erect on the hard wagon seat.
“That I can do, ser mage. That I can.”
After the wagon halted, Cerryl eased off the seat and turned to Narst. “I thank you.” He extended his last silvers and clasped them into the trader’s hand. “I wish it were more, but I cannot tell you how grateful I am.”
“You need not pay me…”
“I would not feel right if I did not,” Cerryl said. “Mages are not wealthy. If I were, it would be more. Success in your trading.” He smiled, though he was seeing stars before his eyes. “More than success.”
He could hear the guards as he turned to the steps of Halls.
“… more amazing yet… a mage who pays.”
“… he be human�
�� and I hope to the light he remains such.”
The faint praise bothered Cerryl nearly as much as curses would have, but he had to watch every step, afraid he would trip and fall on his way through the front foyer and to the fountain court. The chill of the spray from the fountain sent him into another bout of shivering.
The two apprentice mages he passed steered away from him, and Myredin nodded but did not speak. Ceryl was too tired to worry about it and crossed the rear courtyard to his own Hall.
Lyasa came scurrying as Cerryl limped toward the steps to his quarters and to where he could get water and a good bath. He wanted those more than food.
“Demon-darkness… what… ? You’re sick…”
“I’m getting better.” That was true. He felt far better than the day before. Or the day before that. “Two days ago, I wasn’t sure I’d live.”
“What happened?” Lyasa followed Cerryl for a moment, then took his arm as he made his way to his door.
“Not much sleep, bad food, flux, lost mount, lots of walking… long trip back from Hydolar.” He opened his door. His room appeared unchanged. “I need a bath.”
“You need some food and wine.” Lyasa studied him. “You’re going to fall over.”
“Am not.” He sank into the chair in front of the desk. “Need to see Jeslek, too.”
“Now?”
“I have to.”
“You’re stubborn.” Lyasa sighed. “I’ll find something for you while you bathe.”
“Thank you.”
Lyasa offered another sigh before turning.
Cerryl struggled through a bath, shaving, and changing into fresh whites, wondering if the soiled set he had dragged across Candar could ever be gotten clean, especially the jacket. He was pulling on boots that had seen better days when Lyasa returned with a tray.
“Eat slowly,” she commanded, setting the tray on the desk before him. “I couldn’t get any wine. If Leyladin could see you now…”
Cerryl started with small mouthfuls of bread, interspersed with slivers of cheese. Shortly the stars flashing before his eyes subsided, as did the worst of the light-headedness. Abruptly he stopped. “I’m full.”
“You didn’t eat that much. Just what have you eaten lately?”
“Very little.” Cerryl took a healthy sip of the redberry, probably better for him than ale or wine in his present condition. “I have to see Jeslek.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“When the High Wizard told me to report as soon as I returned?”
Lyasa gave an exasperated sigh. “Mages…”
“You’re a mage, too.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. Just go and see Jeslek, and then come back here and get into bed-and eat some more if you can.”
“Yes, Aunt Lyasa.” Cerryl grinned.
Lyasa grimaced.
Cerryl pulled himself to his feet. Lyasa watched as he walked slowly out the door and down the corridor. Going down the steps to the main level wasn’t that bad. Nor was crossing the courtyards and making his way back through the front Hall and foyer. The flights of steps to the top of the White Tower took all the strength he had, or so it seemed.
Hertyl glanced up as Cerryl dragged himself toward Jeslek’s door and the ever-present guard.
“Tell the High Wizard I have returned.” Cerryl slumped onto the bench next to the messenger, who eased to the end away from the mage.
Hertyl rapped on the door. “The mage Cerryl has returned, sire. He awaits your pleasure.”
For the first time Cerryl could recall, Jeslek opened the door. His eyes swept over Cerryl. “Come in.”
Cerryl forced himself to his feet and followed the High Wizard inside.
After he closed the door, Jeslek gestured to the chair across the table from the one he took. “Sit down. You look worn out.”
Cerryl sat and looked at the High Wizard, behind whom, through the glass of the window, Cerryl could see scattered points of light across the city. “Thank you. It was a long trip, and harder than I thought. The duke barred the city to us…”
“Anya reported that.” Jeslek’s face clouded. “That I had not expected. Never has that occurred, not once since the founding of the Order.”
After the silence, Cerryl continued. “As you ordered, I removed the duke. Then I climbed down the roof and left the chamber bolted and empty. I couldn’t close the window behind me…” Cerryl went on to explain his return, not omitting, but not dwelling on in detail, his bout with the flux and his having to walk and ride the last two-thirds of the journey.
“You didn’t tell the merchant anything?” probed Jeslek.
“Only that I was junior mage and that we ran errands, did small tasks, and that I’d lost my mount in rough ground.”
“Best you could have done.” The High Wizard pursed his lips. “Duke Ferobar is dead-and vanished? You are certain?” Jeslek’s eyes centered on Cerryl.
“Yes, ser. So is his personal guard, but no others.”
“Where did this happen?
“At night, in his personal chambers. I had to hide there and wait for a time until he dozed.”
“Did you leave any traces of your presence?”
“Except for a sense of chaos, no, ser.”
Jeslek nodded, and a smile crossed his lips. “Good. I had hoped the silence out of Hydolar had meant your success, but it is good to know that.” He reached for the scroll on the table and extended it to Cerryl. “Read this. Is it accurate?”
Cerryl had to force himself to focus on the black script, and his eyes wanted to skip over words.
…Duke Ferobar mocked his own people by murdering the rightful Duke Uulrac. He mocked Fairhaven by attempting to murder a representative of the High Wizard, and by imprisoning an innocent healer, and then by closing the city gates on emissaries of the Guild…
… Duke Ferobar has been removed to where none will ever see him again, and the east tower of Hydolar has been destroyed. These actions should remind the new Duke of Hydlen of his duties to the people of his land and to the Guild. We trust that the road duties will be paid immediately. We also trust that an additional sum of 1,000 golds will be paid to recompense the Guild for its efforts to set matters as they should have been…
“Yes, ser. I mean, the part about what happened to the duke is. He’s ash, and no one will ever see him again.” Cerryl swallowed.
“I would prefer not to level the city, but I will, if I must.” Jeslek smiled, almost sadly. “Fairhaven can no longer be perceived as weak or tolerant of lapses of obligations by other lands. Weakness leads to either defeat or the need to be more ruthless than strength would have been.”
“Oh…” Cerryl shook his head. “I heard something else. The trader who gave me a ride… he said that people were saying that Rystryr had raised the road tariffs and was keeping the increase but everyone that it was going to Fairhaven.” He shrugged. “He was telling what he thought was the truth.”
“I had heard some such along those lines from others.” The High Wizard nodded. “We will look into that. Now… you are weak and ill. Do not worry about gate-guard duty. We have a few new mages. Take the next eight-day to rest and recover. Come to me when you are well.”
“Yes, ser.” Cerryl managed to get to his feet and out of the High Wizard’s chambers without staggering.
Going down the stairs was also no problem, unlike climbing the last steps back up to his room, which left him panting and his vision filled with stars.
Leyladin was waiting when Cerryl trudged into his room.
“Oh… Cerryl… just lie down.”
Cerryl didn’t argue, just stretched out on his bed.
Leyladin pulled off his boots, shaking her head. He could feel her order senses probing him, ever so gently.
“Feels good to lie down.”
“It’s almost as though someone poisoned you.”
“Maybe they did,” he said hoarsely, explaini
ng about the apples from Duke Ferobar’s fruit bowl.
“The poisoners weren’t very good. You can do that to apples, but the fluxes conflict, especially for a mage. If they’d put that in pastry, you wouldn’t be here.” Her hand was cool on his forehead. “Don’t talk now. You can tell me everything later.”
He lay back on the bed, just glad to be there, glad she was there.
LXVIII
Cerryl took a long and slow sip of the ale, enjoying it as if he’d hadn’t expected to ever taste it again. That’s a bit of self-pity. With a wry smile, his eyes flicked toward the entry of The Golden Ram, where he could see Myredin and Bealtur leaving. He did not wave to the pair. “This tastes good.”
“You should not drink too much,” Leyladin said from where she sat at the circular table beside Cerryl.
“Always the healer,” added Heralt, his dark eyes smiling.
“Someone has to be.”
Cerryl finished the last of his stew, mopping it up with a chunk of bread, glad that both headaches and the poison-induced flux had faded away. He was still weak, he’d discovered, but was getting stronger.
“The words around the tower are that the Duke of Hydlen vanished,” Heralt offered. “Has anyone heard who might be the new duke?”
“No one stepped forward this time,” Lyasa pointed out.
“What do you think?” Cerryl turned to Leyladin. “You’ve spent more time in Hydolar than anyone.”
The blonde healer lifted her shoulders and smiled shyly. “No one talked to me that much.”
“I’ll bet you listened.” Cerryl grinned.
“Out with it, Leyladin,” demanded Lyasa, pushing a lock of jet-black hair off her forehead.
“No one wants to be duke,” the blonde finally said. “The traders control both Hydolar and Renklaar, and they don’t like our taxes. The High Wizard has demanded immediate payment of the tariffs and a thousand golds in damages. Whoever is duke will have to collect those taxes or face disappearing. He’ll also have to rebuild the tower that Anya destroyed, and that will take more coins.”
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