The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(102)

“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.





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.”