The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(140)

Cerryl preferred the more direct speech Jeslek had used when Cerryl had been a more junior student mage.

“Best you prepare,” Jeslek suggested pointedly.

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl bowed and turned. Even before he was a dozen steps away, Jeslek had summoned Anya.

“Anya ... I'd like you and Fydel to ride south-just a kay or so- to the end of that ridge, and study the area. Have Fydel scree it for Gallosians. I'll need to trace the chaos lines there. I'd like you to leave immediately.,.”

Cerryl frowned as he walked back toward where he and the other students had camped and where the chestnut was tethered.

“What was that about?” asked Lyasa. “Should I ask?”

Cerryl glanced around. Kochar was nowhere in sight. “Jeslek has insisted that I go to be an assistant to Sverlik in Fenard. I have to do something for him and Sverlik. As a test.”

“After this?” Lyasa also glanced around, then back to Cerryl, her olive-brown eyes filled with concern.

“After this. One does not argue with an overmage.” He glanced along the road to where Jeslek had dismissed Anya. “I would like another favor. Jeslek says you're headed back to Fairhaven before long. Would you tell Myral? Just Myral?”

“I can do that.” Lyasa paused. “I'd rather tell Leyladin, and let her tell him. I don't see him often, and people would notice. I can trust her.”

“If you think so.” He smiled as he strapped his pack on the gelding. “All right. Thank you.”

Klybel rode past, leading a line of lancers-doubtless Cerryl's escort. The captain did not look at Cerryl.

“You be careful,” cautioned Lyasa.

“As careful as I can be.”

“Cerryl!” called Jeslek.

The student mage untethered the chestnut and began to lead his mount toward the group around Jeslek.

“Good luck,” whispered Lyasa.

“Thank you.”

All of the lancers were mounted, save one-an armsman with a single silver bar on his left tunic collar who inclined his head.

“This is Undercaptain Ludren, young Cerryl,” said Klybel. “Your escort will be a half-score. That should be large enough to deter brigands and small enough not to alarm the people of Gallos.” The lancer captain leaned forward and extended a folded parchment square. “This is a map of the main roads of Gallos. We trust it is accurate.”

Cerryl took the map with a nod. “Thank you.”

“If you are attacked, you have leave to defend yourself, but I would encourage you not to use your powers against any except those who do attack you.” Jeslek's voice was mild, reasonable, and Cerryl could sense that the chaos around the overmage had begun to subside.

“I will use what powers I have,” Cerryl answered as he mounted the chestnut, “only if attacked.”

“Good.”

Ludren remounted, then looked at Cerryl.

“Whenever you are ready, Undercaptain.”

Ludren nodded and turned his mount westward on the Great White Highway.

Cerryl's lips tightened as he could sense a screen of chaos rising behind them, one that doubtless blurred his departure. Sterol has set you as a check to Jeslek, and Jeslek wants you removed in a manner not to be traced to him.

Still, there was nothing he dared do. Not yet. His lips tightened. Perhaps not ever, but definitely not yet. He flicked the reins and let the chestnut pull alongside the Undercaptain and his mount.





White Order





XCVII




Through the day and a half since Cerryl and his escort had left the main body of the Fairhaven forces, the twelve had ridden alone westward on the Great White Highway, not encountering anyone, in and out of intermittent cool rain and chilly breezes. Puddles collected next to the granite road wall, and their mounts occasionally splashed through flat sheets of water running off the nearly level granite paving stones.

“Empty, it is,” Ludren said once more, as he did every few kays.

“Not a soul in sight,” answered Cerryl. The only living thing outside his group was a single black vulcrow that flew ahead of them and waited, then watched as they passed, and flew farther ahead-either looking for scraps or for someone or some animal to keel over and die.

Ahead, Cerryl could see a side road-one that crossed the Great Highway, or that the Highway crossed. As they neared the crossroads, he could make out a single kaystone with two arrows. One pointed south with the name Tellura-one of the names that had led to his mapmaking. The north-pointing arrow bore the name Fenard.

“Toward Fenard.” Cerryl turned the chestnut off the Great White Highway and onto the clay-packed trail that bore hoofprints-not terribly recent prints.

“Here's where it may get rough, ser,” said Ludren.

“Do you think that the Gallosians would wait on the side road this far from Fenard?” Cerryl doubted it very much. They might run into a company of armsmen closer to the capital. Might? He held back a laugh, since Ludren would have taken it wrong.

Ludren frowned, then nodded slowly. “You might be right, ser.”

“I don't know. I'm new to this,” Cerryl said as the chestnut carried him along the narrower packed clay road. “I would think that the arms-men who survived would probably ride to Fenard to tell the prefect.”