The viscount’s palace stood at the west end of the city on a small hill. The granite walls were even smoother and more polished than those of the city, if not so high, and the gates were open. Only two pair of guards were stationed by the gates, but above them on a false rampart was a full squad of crossbowmen.
Hoofs echoed on the stones as the group rode slowly through the long archway that was almost a runnel, and low enough that Cerryl could have reached up and touched the damp stones overhead.
Inside the courtyard, Eliasar waited, only a pair of guards in green beside him.
“Greetings, honored Eliasar.” Jeslek reined up.
Eliasar’s eyes ran over the group, pausing ever so slightly at Anya and then at Cerryl. “You brought quite an entourage, Jeslek. Three apprentices?”
“One for each full mage,” answered the white-haired wizard.
“Well… we can get everyone settled in the guest barracks-except for you. You’ll have the guest quarters down the hall from me-and from Shyren.” He pointed to the west, at another archway, smaller, from the courtyard that barely held all the mounts of the lancers. “The guest stables are through that arch. Klybel, you’ll have to stable the lancer’s mounts in the stable beyond that. It’s closer to the barracks, anyway.”
“Yes, ser.” Klybel’s tone was formal.
Eliasar walked beside Jeslek’s mount, as if leading the white-haired mage to the stable. His voice was low enough that Cerryl could not hear what either man said.
“Who is the viscount?” Cerryl finally asked Lyasa in a low voice “His name, I mean. I know his rank…”
“I understood what you meant.” Lyasa grinned. “His name is Rystryr. He’s been viscount for ten years or so. His older brother and his consort and son-the brother’s consort-died of the bloody flux.” Lyasa raised her eyebrows.
Cerryl wondered what poison created the effects of the bloody flux… or could some indirect application of chaos?
“That was right after Shyren became the mage to Certis, wasn’t it?” asked Kochar.
Cerryl mentally confirmed his thoughts about how Rystryr became viscount.
“I believe so.” Lyasa’s voice was flat. “I’ll be glad when I can get off this horse and get cleaned up.”
Once Jeslek reined up and dismounted in the second courtyard, a square a good hundred cubits on a side surrounded by window-studded stone walls rising a good five stories, Cerryl struggled out of the saddle, clinging to it for a moment as his legs threatened to buckle.
“Feels good to stand up,” said Kochar.
Cerryl nodded, flexing one leg and then the other. Behind him the lancers continued onward through another archway, leaving just Eliasar, Jeslek, Anya, Fydel, and the three student mages and their mounts in a rough semicircle around a dark opening a good ten cubits wide.
“This is the guest stable…”
Cerryl hoped he wouldn’t get lost in the viscount’s keep or palace. Every building seemed to join every other one, and all looked about the same from outside-flat stone walls with small windows. He took a slightly deeper breath and decided that the keep didn’t smell any better than the city.
Eliasar turned from Jeslek. “Fydel and Anya, you two rate captain’s rooms, and the apprentices each get an undercaptain’s room.”
“Don’t get any overlarge ideas of your worth. Certis has a great number of captains,” added Jeslek with a broad smile. “Get your gear off your mounts. The ostlers will stall them.”
Mechanically, Cerryl unstrapped his bedroll and pack, then followed the others through a weathered bailey door and up two flights of steps, then along another narrow stone corridor and around a corner. Their boots echoed in the empty corridors.
“The first two rooms are yours.” Eliasar nodded to Anya and Fydel.
“Thank you for your kindness,” Anya offered graciously, her voice melodious and modulated. The tone sent shivers down Cerryl’s back, so much did he distrust it.
Fydel merely inclined his head.
Around yet another corner, Eliasar pointed out three more doors. “You all are expected for dinner at the second bell in the small dining hall. Take the stairs at the end to the first level and cross the third courtyard. Ask the guards.”
As Jeslek and Eliasar walked away, Cerryl stepped into the room between Kochar and Lyasa. He lowered his bedroll and pack onto the bare stone floor and studied the barracks room-several cubits larger than his cell 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. A heavy door bar lay propped against the wall behind the door.
Were undercaptains so disliked they needed to bar their rooms? Or just in Certis?
After washing his hands and face and arms and everywhere he could easily reach, Cerryl again applied some of Myral’s ointment. It helped reduce the rawness and soreness, and his legs and thighs seemed to be getting tougher.
He shook his head. He couldn’t believe that in the rush to leave Fairhaven, he’d forgotten the white-bronze razor from Leyladin. He thought he’d put it in his pack, but it was nowhere to be found. The only real gift anyone had given him in years, and he’d forgotten it. And from Leyladin, no less. He wanted to bash his own head, but that would have only added another area of soreness.
Instead, he used a touch of chaos to clean his clothes before dressing, finishing as the bell rang.
Kochar was waiting in the corridor, somewhat stained and disheveled. His eyes widened as he saw Cerryl. “You… your clothes… you weren’t carrying that much in your pack.”
Cerryl smiled. “Something I learned in the sewers. I’m sure you will, too.”
Lyasa joined them, looking even more fresh than Cerryl. Kochar shook his head.
“Let us go,” said a fourth voice that echoed down the corridor- Anya’s. She and Fydel stood at the end of the corridor. “We should not keep the overmage or the viscount waiting.”
Cerryl noted the slightest of emphasis on the word “overmage” but walked quickly toward the steps where the two full mages waited.
“Have you seen anyone else?” Kochar asked in a low voice, glancing forward to Anya and Fydel.
“Seems rather empty,” Cerryl agreed blandly.
Anya turned her head. “Observations by junior mages are best made silently, especially in the keeps of other lords.”
Kochar flushed. Fydel grunted. Cerryl kept his face expressionless. Once Anya returned to her low conversation with Fydel, Lyasa offered a bemused smile.
“Better to be here now than in winter… All this stone gets cold…”
“Better sleeping here than on the road,” answered Fydel, “no matter what the season…”
The guards on the far side of the next courtyard barely nodded as the group of mages passed, but as Anya led them up the steps, Cerryl strained to hear the few words that passed.
“All that white… only means trouble…”
At the top of the steps, the decor changed. Instead of bare stone corridors, the hallway was wainscotted in pink marble, and gilt frames held pictures of men in green uniforms on horseback. The brass lamps were polished and lit, and their glass mantels sparkled. Guards in green and gold were stationed every dozen cubits, and the scent of cooking meat and flowers mixed.
An open archway at the end of the short corridor revealed a dining hall, though one Cerryl would not have called small, as it was a good fifty cubits long and half that in width.
Eliasar and Jeslek stood near the head of the table, talking with a younger man in a gaudy green-and-gold tunic. Rystryr was a big and broad-shouldered man, almost as tall as Kinowin, with ruddy cheeks above a bushy beard and under thick blond hair. With the three at the head of the table, was another mage in white-clearly Shyren, the only mage in the dining hall Cerryl had not met.
In a corner by the unlit marble fireplace at the foot of the table were gathered a number of Certan officers. They fell silent, and the viscount gl
anced up, raising his eyebrows as Anya led in Cerryl and the others. “With such an assembly of mages, we scarcely might need food.” Rystryr’s voice was as big and hearty as he was, and he followed the words with a broad smile. “Welcome to Jellico!”
“We thank you,” answered Jeslek. “You are and have always been most hospitable.”
“With all the guests present, I suggest we eat.” Rystryr made a sweeping gesture toward the table.
Cerryl looked blankly at the long table, wondering where he was to sit and how to determine that.
“Look for your name on the place slate,” whispered Anya before smiling broadly and stepping forward.
Cerryl’s bronze-framed place slate-bearing a statuette of an undercaptain-was more than halfway down the long walnut table and read in a chalked old tongue script, “Carrl.” Jeslek and Eliasar sat on the right and left of the viscount, while Shyren-an older and heavier man-sat to Eliasar’s left. Anya sat beside Jeslek, while Fydel sat below Jeslek. Then came an officer in green and gold, and beside him Klybel.
“You ever used a blade, young ser?” asked the dark-haired undercaptain across the table from Cerryl.
“Only enough to know that I’d make a poor armsman,” Cerryl admitted. “I’m Cerryl.”
“Deltry, undercaptain of the Fourth.”
“Slekyr, undercaptain of the Second.” The older undercaptain who sat beside Cerryl and toward the head of the table had streaks of gray in his trimmed beard.
“Lyasa.”
“Kochar,” gulped the redhead, who sat below two other undercaptains.
After a moment of silence, Deltry took the pitcher and filled the goblets of those around him with the red wine.
“Thank you,” said Lyasa.
“My pleasure, and for that I would beg you clear up a question for me. It’s said that a white mage can still kill an armsman, even one with an iron blade,” offered Deltry as he broke a chunk of rye bread from the loaf in the basket and handed it to Lyasa. “I don’t see how, myself, especially if the armsman had mind enough to carry an iron shield.”
Lyasa smiled, taking the basket.
“You smile, apprentice mage,” noted Slekyr, his eyes meeting those of the dark-haired young woman. “Know you for a fact any mage who has confronted cold iron one on one and survived?”
Cerryl looked down, fearing what was coming.
“Yes. Cerryl there was attacked by two men with iron blades and shields. He killed them both.”
Slekyr turned and studied Cerryl. “Is that true?”
“Yes.” Cerryl looked up and met the other’s eyes.
“Yet you are not a full mage yet?” asked Deltry.
“No.” Cerryl wanted to say “no, ser,” but knew that doing so would undermine the status the three students had been granted. He added, “undercaptain,” belatedly. “Mages have to learn much.”
“So it would seem.” Slekyr laughed. “I’m just as glad that our viscount counts himself a friend of Fairhaven.”
“So are we,” answered Cerryl, reaching for the bread.
“You really killed two men armed with cold iron?” pursued Deltry.
“Three, actually,” added Lyasa. “Cerryl tends to be modest.”
“And they… just stood there? I am not sure I understand.” Deltry’s voice was easy, warm, conversational.
“I… came upon them in my duties in the tunnels,” Cerryl said carefully. “The first two attacked. I had no choice, since they would have killed me.”
“But what did you do? Turn them stone?”
“No. I can’t do that. I turned them into ashes with chaos-fire.” Cerryl felt a twinge in his skull at the exaggeration. He’d merely killed them, while Sterol had turned them into dust and ashes.
Deltry swallowed.
“You had to ask, didn’t you?” commented Slekyr into the silence, his voice slightly ironic.
Deltry offered a smile, both to Slekyr and Cerryl. “My apologies, ser.”
Cerryl returned it with a smile he hoped was almost shy. “I understand. Four years ago I would not have believed it, either.”
“You are not from Fairhaven, then?” asked Slekyr.
“No. I came from Hrisbarg and was apprenticed to a scrivener in Fairhaven.”
“Some have said that all mages come from higher birth…”
“I am afraid mine was not high, nor that of some others,” Cerryl replied, glancing toward the platter of meat making its way down the table and trying not to drool.
“Some mages come from high families,” confirmed Lyasa, “others from where their talents are discovered. The skills are rare enough that the Guild does not waste them.”
“Even women mages, I see.” Slekyr’s eyes lingered on Lyasa for a moment.
“They are fewer, but still number among the Guild.” Lyasa’s head inclined toward the head of the table. “Anya is one of the more powerful mages, and she is most definitely a woman.”
Both Deltry and Slekyr nodded politely.
“We hear that the prefect of Gallos has begun to make life difficult for some in Certis,” suggested Lyasa, taking the half-empty platter and serving herself some of the brown-sauced meat.
“Mostly talk,” suggested Slekyr easily. “We can sell our oilseeds to Hydolar as easily as to Gallos.”
“Just not for as much, perhaps,” suggested Lyasa with a smile.
“There is that, but the viscount is hardly likely to go to war over a few coppers’ difference in a barrel of seed oil.” Slekyr took a deep swallow of wine.
Cerryl took little more than a sip, then concentrated on serving himself and eating the half-tough meat and the not-quite-dry rye bread.
“And wool?” asked Kochar politely.
“Many would sell us wool.” Slekyr reached for the wine pitcher and refilled his goblet.
“Are you from Jellico?” asked Lyasa.
“Me? No. I come from Rytel… and most of the family’s still there.”
“How did you get to be a captain?”
“I’m not… yet… but an armsman. Well… like many a thing, I didn’t quite plan it that way…”
Cerryl ate and listened, listened and ate, occasionally looking toward the head of the table, where Jeslek listened and ate, ate and listened to Shyren and Rystryr.
LXXXVIII
Under the early harvest sun, Cerryl fidgeted in his saddle again, a saddle that seemed as hard as the glazed bricks of the sewer tunnels, and as unyielding. He knew that for all his efforts he still swayed and bounced far too much.
The western side of Certis was hillier, but the oilseed fields were interspersed with meadows where grazed small herds of cattle. Not sheep? Then, the meadows were more lush than those of Montgren. Scattered stone houses reared out of the green hills, located seemingly without pattern.
Cerryl wondered why they had even gone to Jellico. It was more than four days out of the way, since they were headed to Gallos on the Great White Highway, and all they had done was stay for two days and ride off.
Then, he had no idea exactly what Jeslek and Eliasar were conveying to Rystryr. A show of magely force? A trade agreement?
He shrugged. Who knew? No one was telling him-that was certain. His eyes went to the way before them. Ahead on either side of the Great White Highway, looming into the western sky, lay the Easthorns. Even in late summer, the tops of the peaks were crowned in snow, and by harvest time, snowfalls had resumed on the higher slopes.
Despite the heat, as he glanced toward the mountains, swaying in the saddle, Cerryl shivered. He had no doubts that the road through the Easthorns would be cold.
“More snow than usual,” commented Fydel from his mount in front of Cerryl. “It could be a cold winter in Candar. There are times when it would help to have weather mages.”
“Not like the accursed Creslin, thank you,” said Anya.
“Megaera was red-haired, you know.” Fydel laughed. “I wonder if, way back, you might be related.”
Fire flared from Anya�
��s fingertips, lancelike fire. “Would you like to see how I am otherwise like her, dear Fydel?”
Cerryl could sense Fydel’s order shields rise, and perceived that the square-bearded mage’s shields were nowhere strong enough to contain the power that rose around Anya. He swallowed, half-wondering if Faltar had any idea of the power Anya could raise.
“I think that the overmage would be less than pleased if we turned chaos-fire among ourselves.” Fydel’s voice bore an edge.
“The overmage will find much work for your chaos, Anya.” As Jeslek turned the saddle, his voice was mild, but the sun-gold eyes burned. “And your other talents.”
Anya smiled, more brightly than normal, and more falsely, the chaos-fire lance gone as though it had never been. “I am here to do your biding, honored Jeslek.”
“Good. And I hope all of you are using your senses to study the road.” Jeslek turned and resumed his conversation with Klybel.
Lyasa coughed, lightly, and Cerryl looked to his left. The black-haired student lifted her fingers in imitation of Anya and then raised her eyebrows, mouthing the words “Did you see that?” Cerryl nodded.
“What are you talking about?” asked Kochar abruptly. “The snow,” answered Cerryl, grasping for the first words that crossed his mind that made any sense. “Fydel was saying that it might be a cold winter with all the snow up there already. Lyasa wanted to know if I’d seen where he pointed.”
“Oh…”
“I have the feeling the way is going to get colder.”
“Fine by me,” suggested Kochar. “I’ll take cold over heat any day.” Cerryl wasn’t so sure, although his face was sunburned and his legs ached, cramping so fiercely that he knew that when he did dismount, he would barely be able to stand for several moments after he did. “You haven’t felt the mountain cold,” added Lyasa. Cerryl wasn’t certain he wanted to, not as he recalled how cold his winters with Dylert had been. He shifted his weight in the saddle again, his eyes traveling to the Easthorns once more, then to the shadows cast by the chestnut on the white granite of the road, the hard white granite of the road. Only slightly past midday, and that meant a great deal more riding.
The White Order Page 38
