The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(142)

Ahead, to the north, a narrow stone bridge arched over the river. Beyond the river, a wagon drawn by a single horse creaked past the browning grass of the roadside meadows toward still-distant Fenard.

The student mage eased out the map and looked at it. “That's the River Gallos, I think.”

“Is that close to Fenard?” asked Ludren.

“Not that close,” Cerryl said. “We'd see more people on the road. Fenard is a big place.”

Cerryl wasn't looking forward to reaching Fenard. He couldn't afford not to succeed because if he survived without carrying out Jeslek's charge to him, Sterol would say that Cerryl should have confronted Jeslek immediately. But Jeslek would have tried to destroy Cerryl, and Cerryl wasn't certain he was strong enough yet to hold off Jeslek's power.

He laughed softly to himself. Who was he deceiving? Jeslek would have turned Cerryl into ashes if he'd refused to undertake the task-and then told everyone that Cerryl had attacked him, or some such. There was a reason Anya and Fydel weren't anywhere around when Cerryl left. Doubtless, Jeslek would claim that Cerryl had run away- or something. As for the lancers, they were the ones no one would miss-probably listed as lost on a scouting mission. Lost to hostile Gallosians, providing another reason for bringing the force of Fairhaven to bear on the prefect.

“Ser? Begging your pardon ... ?”

“What's so funny? Nothing, really, I guess.” Yet it was all absurd. Once he got close to Fenard, he'd have to rely on the invisibility trick to get into the city. He'd tried it at night, when the lancers weren't looking, and he thought he had it mastered, although he worried that the shield might cause the air to waver, like the one time when he had seen Anya use it. Yet... he had no other alternatives.

If he could get inside Fenard, he'd need some kind of cloak to cover his whites ...

Cerryl shook his head. At the moment, he wasn't certain how close he could even get to Fenard before the Gallosian lancers or armsmen or whatever showed up. He looked at the bridge, then at the map. From what he could determine, they were still a day and a half from Fenard.

“Another two days, almost.” He rubbed his chin, conscious that he had a beard, but one all too scraggly-and no razor. No razor from a certain gray-black mage ... that might have been the last thing he ever received from her. He pushed away the thoughts.

“Like as we'll never catch Klybel, then, on the return.” Ludren sounded discouraged.

Cerryl wondered how the overpromoted undercaptain would feel if he knew he was never supposed to catch the rest of the white lancers. “So long as you get back to Fairhaven, it doesn't matter, does it?”

“I suppose not, ser. And what about you, ser?”

“I have a task to carry out. Then we'll see.” See what? How you can manage to get back to Fairhaven and manipulate Jeslek and Sterol into making you a full mage? Why? Because the alternatives were worse, at least over time. Fairhaven controlled or would control all the lands east of the Westhorns, and those to the west hated white mages, as did Recluce.

Cerryl imagined he could live out a life somewhere as a peasant, but it would be a short and miserable life, and he'd seen enough of poverty.

So ... you'll take on the Guild? And probably get killed in the effort?

He laughed softly again.

“Ser?”

“Nothing. I'm not thinking too well, I guess.” Cerryl folded the map and replaced it inside his jacket. “We've a ways to go.”





White Order





XCIX




The green-blue sky was clear, and the midday sun warm, but not too warm. A light wind, with a hint of chill, blew from the west, from the unseen Westhorns, ruffling the roadside grass, including the few tufts that grew out of the old road wall on the west side of the packed clay, a road wall little more than stacked gray and black stones.

Something did not feel right, and Cerryl reined up abruptly. A small cot stood less than a kay to the west, and rows of cut stalks lined the field beyond the strip of meadow that bordered the road. A man gathered and bound the straw, not looking toward the road or the travelers.

A small river meandered from the northwest, and another stone bridge crossed it perhaps three hundred cubits down the road from where Cerryl had stopped. On the far side, low-lying fields, almost like marshes, stretched nearly another a kay before reaching the reddish granite walls of Fenard. A long and low dust cloud rose from the road on the north side of the river, a dust cloud coming from the city.

Cerryl glanced down at the road, its dust damped by the intermittent fall rains, then across the bridge. Dust meant a lot of riders, and a lot of riders meant lancers.

Cerryl glanced to his left, toward a low and rolling hill. Several horsemen appeared on the crest, their purple overtunics visible clearly in the sun. He almost sighed as he heard the fumbling and clanking behind him. As he had suspected, his escort did not contain those lancers most accomplished in arms.

“Ludren! Take your men and ride south-as fast as you can.”

“Ser?”

“Ride south as fast as you can,” Cerryl said. “If you hurry, you might outrun all those lancers.”

“But... we're not to the gates.”

“If you don't mind, neither do I. Otherwise, we'll all look like Eliasar's straw targets.”