The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(134)

Following their custom of dishonor, they invited the Marshal to Southwind, where she might receive gold and tribute and grain. The Marshal traveled from her black tower to the great banquet, and flower petals rained upon her, and then arrows from behind the screens of flowers.

The Marshal had not been without forethought, and had left upon the Roof of the World her daughter the Marshalle and the mighty arms master of the guard. And the Marshalle gathered together all the guards of Westwind and vowed that those responsible for the devastation would pay.

As the Marshalle prepared her retribution, there came a traveling minstrel to Westwind, a minstrel known of old as of trust and worth- save the minstrel, for all that his face was of old and his voice as well, was not as he had been, but enslaved to the tyrant of Sarronnyn.

As he sang, the minstrel lit a candle, a marvelous candle wrought as a model of Westwind-and then the candle exploded with the ancient fires of the West, and claimed the Marshalle and the arms master, and the senior guards of Westwind.

Yet this treachery did not repay the tyrant, for the remaining guards they packed the treasures of Westwind, and they took their blades and cut a trail of blood to the sea.

There they seized a ship and forced it to Recluce, where they laid all the coins of centuries at the feet of Creslin and swore their blades to his service ...

Colors of White

(Manual of the Guild at Fairhaven)

Preface





White Order





XCIV




The rain, a cold drizzle earlier in the day, had become a hot, afternoon, chaos-heated mist that cloaked all the mages-and their mounts. The white lancers walked their mounts and those of the mages through the hot mist and along the road to the east of where the three mages and students struggled with the chaos deep below the high plains of Gallos. The horses skittered sideways intermittently, demanding attention and reassurance as the ground rumbled, as irregular screaming bursts of steam perforated the rising hills less than two kays to the north.

“Keep the chaos below the upper rocks!” snapped Jeslek-the first time Cerryl had heard any sense of urgency in the overmage's voice. “Keep it down!”

The wavering wall of order darkness that spread to the north of the road flexed under the rising and expanding globule of reddened-white chaos.

“More ... all of you,” grunted Anya. “You don't... give more .. . Fydel, and I'll let you fry first.”

The darkness thickened.

Cerryl glanced down the road, where Jeslek stood alone, a point of white amid the chaos that shimmered like light reflected from a still sea at twilight, except more brightly. As he watched, the light around Jeslek brightened even more.

The ground rumbled with a thundering from below, shuddering so much that Cerryl could feel it through his boots.

One of the mounts held by lancers somewhere behind them screamed.

“Hold, you ball-less beast! Hold!”

Cerryl took a quick step forward, trying to keep his balance and his concentration on the interworking of order and chaos.

“Demon damn him ...” muttered Anya, half under her breath. “Demon damn him ...”

“Quiet...” grunted Fydel.

Sweat, the leftover moisture from the rain, and the hot mist combined in streams of water that poured down the mages' faces, even down the creamy chiseled features of the redheaded Anya, plastering her hair down across her forehead.

The smell of brimstone raised with the steam that escaped the shifting and rising ground drifted from the north and the west across the mages and toward the lancers.

Cerryl swallowed, trying not to gag at the odor.

Behind him, Kochar retched.

“You ... haven't time to retch.... Keep holding the ... barrier,” demanded Anya.

Kochar retched again, but then an additional sense of order joined that of the others.

The sounds of other disgruntled horses, not quite screams, punctuated the rumbling from the depths and the rippling of the ground that had been the low hills of the high grasslands.

Gum... rrrrr....

Cerryl blotted his brow with the back of his forearm sleeve and continued to concentrate on channeling chaos back into the depths under the rising hills and away from the road. For him, channeling was easier, and seemed more productive than straining to hold order barriers against the heat and reddish white power loosed by Jeslek.

“Getting it...” Anya's voice was hoarse.

“If... he doesn't loose ... more chaos ...” replied Fydel.

“Still... holding ...”

The brown-haired and thin-faced student mage turned another wave of chaos back, back toward the upwelling that had already become a small mountain two kays and more north of the Great White Highway.

“No more chaos ... now,” called Jeslek. “Just... hold for a bit... not too long.”

“Easy... for him... to say,” whispered Lyasa, the words barely reaching Cerryl.

He nodded briefly, silently.

Slowly, the pressure of the chaos faded ... subsided.

“Keep holding!” ordered Jeslek.

Cerryl blotted away more sweat, but not enough to keep the salty stuff out of the corners of his eyes, which burned anyway.

A light gust of hot wind carried another gout of brimstone, and he swallowed back the bile that threatened to climb into his throat-or higher.

“Better ...” said Fydel. “Better.” Anya straightened. “All right. You can rest.” Jeslek turned and began to walk, ever so slowly, back toward the other mages. He stopped and bent slightly, breathing hard, as if trying to catch his breath.