The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(108)

Lyasa eased her lithe form onto the last stool around the circular table, her eyes going to Cerryl. “I heard you're almost through with your first secondary.”

How had she heard? From Leyladin? “Almost. Myral thinks I may have to do another.”

Lyasa nodded. “That can happen.”

Faltar's eyes flicked back and forth between them. “You two are always leaving things out.” He slurped some of the barley soup, then broke off a chunk of bread and shoved it in his mouth.

“You'll learn why. I also heard that it won't be more than a few eight-days before you start in on the sewers.”

“So tell me what you're leaving out.”

“After you start in the sewers,” answered Lyasa.

“You're not fair.”

“You think chaos is fair?” countered the slender black-haired young woman.

“Or order?” added Heralt.

“You're all against me,” complained Faltar, spoiling his words with a wry smile.

Cerryl half-listened, watching as Bealtur returned to eat with Kesrik, but neither student spoke, and both ate quickly and left the hall.

“Cerryl... are you here?”

“Oh ...” He turned to Lyasa. “I'm sorry. I was thinking.”

“About what, I wonder?” Faltar grinned. “Or should I say who?”

“Better not,” countered Cerryl, “or I'll talk about your dreams.”

Faltar flushed.

“Look at him ... look at him.” Heralt smiled broadly.

“What... about... your dreams?” Faltar jabbed, bread still in his hand, toward Lyasa.

“My dreams are mine. And they remain mine.” She raised both eyebrows in high arches.

Cerryl couldn't help grinning.

“All of you ... all against me ...” protested Faltar.

“Poor Faltar ...”

Everyone laughed, even Faltar.

Later, well after dinner, Cerryl sat on the stool at the desk in his cell, looking blankly at the open pages of Naturale Mathematicks. The formulas and numbers in the dark iron-gall ink seemed written more in the evanescent white of chaos than in solid ordered black ink.

The more he learned the less he knew.

Anya was visiting Faltar in the darkness, shielding herself with ordered chaos... and Cerryl couldn't see why. Faltar didn't have wealthy family like Kesrik, and he wasn't powerful like Jeslek or Sterol.

Add to that that the collector tunnels Kesrik was supposed to have cleaned had been cleaned by someone else.

Then . . . Myral had warned Cerryl about radiating too much chaos, and then told him about the sewers assigned to Kesrik. The old mage had also told Leyladin about his progress. Had she asked?

A faint smile crossed Cerryl's face, but he shook his head. She'd been nothing more than friendly. Nothing more than friendly, and somewhat standoffish, he reminded himself.

But what could Cerryl do? How could he protect himself?

Myral had talked about mages burning themselves out, and others like Sterol shielding their chaos powers. Why couldn't he do both? Let others think he had burned out some of his powers ... but conceal what he could do? Could he do it?

He swallowed.

But why shield? He nodded. Shielding was necessary because mages essentially carried chaos within themselves-or around them. Better to call on chaos or channel it from elsewhere ...

“Large words and thoughts...” The words almost dribbled from his lips and he glanced around the dark cell. Conceiving of the idea was easy. Working it out in a way convincing to others was a harder problem.

Another smile crossed his lips. He had an entire new sewer collector tunnel to work on, and no one to observe closely.





White Order





LXXV




The struggle between the white and the black, between the way of rightness and the powers of darkness, will continue so long as the world endures, for even as the Guild has banished one twisted vine of darkness, yet another springs from the wickedness of the world.

When the ancient white mages had imprisoned the dark forest of Naclos and created the great and peaceful land of Cyador, they believed that they had banished darkness forever, but the demon powers reached and drew mighty champions from far beyond the world, and the black mage Nylan sundered the prison created by the righteousness of Cyador and freed the dark forest.

When Westwind sundered the lands of the west, the white mages of long ago rebuilt the lands of the east into a bastion of light and prosperity, and founded the city of light itself, a beacon unto all the world that light, like the sun from which it comes, always conquers the darkness.

Then, after years of struggle, the white brethren of the Guild at last overthrew the tyranny of Westwind. Yet before the last stone had fallen before the last female demon had fallen on those defiled heights, the black wind wizard Creslin created another haven for darkness upon the barren isle of Recluce.

In the fullness of time, when Recluce is sundered and split in twain, then, too, will yet another black fortress arise, for never can darkness be overcome, but only conquered and held at bay so long as the right-thinking continue their efforts . . .

Yet, we should not consider such efforts as futile, for with each effort, the powers of light have increased and grown more able to provide peace, prosperity, and the providence of life to those who follow the path of light.