The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(129)

“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.

He took a deep breath, trying to relax. '

The Great White Highway seemed endless, and they had yet to reach the base of the Easthorns.





White Order





LXXXIX




Cerryl wrapped the heavy white leather jacket around him, and stood in the stirrups to try to warm up his legs. In the early morning, his breath puffed out like a cloud. Although the sky was clear and it was well past dawn, the sun had yet to clear the eastern edge of the gorge through which the Great Highway ran.

The sound of hoofs echoed through the stillness, stillness broken abruptly by the shrill ye-aah! of a vulcrow that flapped off a dead pine limb and into the middle of the artificial canyon that contained the highway.

“Amazing,” murmured Kochar, a smile upon his face, as if the cold bothered him not in the slightest.

Cerryl ignored the redhead's comment and settled back into the saddle, rubbing one thigh, then switching the reins to his left hand and rubbing the other. The chestnut whuffed once.

In places, the gray stone of the cliffs seemed to have been peeled away as if by a mighty knife. Cerryl nodded to himself. Even he could sense the residual chaos of that effort of centuries past.

To the left of and below the wall separating the highway from the lower section of the gorge was a stream of cold and tumbling water, violent enough even in harvest season that light spray occasionally cloaked Cerryl and the chestnut, spray that felt like ice. Small patches of ice had formed during the night on the stones next to the wall, where the late afternoon sun had cast shadows the day before.

“Amazing...” mumbled Kochar once more.

“The cold or the highway?” Lyasa's voice was sharp.

“The highway. It is made of order, yet formed by chaos ...”

Even Cerryl understood that whatever was built lasted longer with greater order. Chaos had great power, but it was the power of destruction. The great whites of the past had cut the granite with chaos, but the masons had joined the stones with skill and order. While the slope of the pavement was gradual, it was continuous, and the ancient stones still held flush.

Cerryl could sense some areas of greater residual chaos, places where he suspected the highway had been repaired-or rocks that had fallen from the cliffs had been removed.

“The Guild maintains it by chaos,” said Lyasa. “Fine, but I'm still cold. I'm from Worrak. It's not this cold in midwinter even in the Lower Easthorns.”

“Gallos will be colder than Certis,” said Fydel, turning in his saddle. “It is past the peak of harvest there-in the north where Fenard is. That's because it's between the Easthorns and the Westhorns.”

“Even young Cerryl knows that,” said Anya. “He created a most accurate map.”