The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(143)

“The overmage and Klybel said-”

“Ludren-you stay with me, and you're dead. You may be anyway... Please just go.” Cerryl tried to keep the exasperation from his voice as he looked at the oncoming lancers and watched the archers on the hill begin to string their bows.

“Ah ... yes, ser. Good luck, ser.” Ludren wheeled his mount. “The mage says we're done, boys, and it's time to go. Best we hurry.”

“Now he tells us ...”

“Move!” Ludren gave a half-salute, then spurred his mount.

Within moments, Cerryl flung the cloak of light or darkness around himself and the chestnut. Using his feel of where order and chaos fell, he could sense his way slowly toward the scrubby tree at the edge of the unfenced meadow land.

'Wheeee... whuffff...

“Easy... easy.” Cerryl patted the chestnut on the neck, trying to calm the gelding as he walked his mount slowly off the road, across the shoulder, and through the twisted and browning grass.

The ground vibrated with the hoofbeats of the Gallosian lancers approaching. He hoped that the faint wavering that appeared-as it had around Anya-with the light cloak would be masked by the wind and the fluttering gray winter leaves of the tree beside which he and the gelding waited.

There was no point at all in trying to use chaos-fire against the Gallosian horsemen. There were too many, and using flame would alert everyone to the fact that there was a white mage around. Better no one knows you're here.

As the hoofbeats gradually faded out, Cerryl waited in his self-created blindness and darkness, hoping he could sense the approach of twilight, and worrying about Ludren and the other lancers. He'd needed the diversion, but he hadn't liked using them. You didn't hesitate there.

In all likelihood, many would have died in combat somewhere ... Are you sure? Or did you choose what benefited you? He nodded. He'd chosen what helped him, and nothing was going to change that. He just hoped he didn't end up like Jeslek and Sterol.

Although the road seemed silent, Cerryl waited a time longer, conscious of the sweat that oozed down his back. Finally, he released the shield and quickly studied the road and the cot.

The peasant had disappeared, and smoke rose from the earthen-brick chimney of the cot. The sun hung over the hills to the west, those low hills that led to the Westhorns.

The road was empty, except for a cart that creaked southward, already past Cerryl and heading toward Southbrook or Tellura or some other town that Cerryl and the lancers had skirted on their ride toward Fenard. No lancers waited on the hilltop.

Cerryl waited, sipping his water until the sun dropped behind the hills. Only then did he urge his mount toward the river to drink, and then he waited until the sky was nearly full dark before traveling the last kay or so toward Fenard, halting in the gloom several hundred cubits from the gates.

A half-squad of armsmen or lancers stood under the torches by the gates, waiting, their posture signifying boredom. “Someone's out there . ..”

Cerryl eased the light shield around him and the chestnut. Did he dare try to walk through the gates-just shielded? Virtually half-blind? He sat on the gelding ... waiting ...

“Don't see a thing. You get jumpy every time a rat climbs out of the sewer ditches.” One of the guard's voices drifted through the darkness.

“I did see something.”

“Any of you others see anything?” Cerryl held his breath.

“See, Nubver... there's no one out there. Overcaptain Gysto and his lancers even chased out the rats.” Laughter echoed from the walls.

The guards chatted, but no riders or wagons moved along the road. Finally, bit by bit, Cerryl eased the chestnut, now more at ease in the darkness of the light shield, forward along the road, moving more slowly, more deliberately, once the gelding's hoofs clicked on the paving stones of the causeway that began a mere hundred cubits from the guards. He tried not to think about the madness of what he attempted. One of the guards turned. “You hear something? Like someone walking on the causeway?”

“I don't see anything. You and Pulsat want to go check ... go check. Probably a rat.”

Another wave of laughter followed. “Pulsat, come on.”

Cerryl swallowed, not knowing whether his shield would hold if the guards got too close. He concentrated, then arced a fireball at what felt to be a pile of rubbish to the west of the guards. Whhssttt! Light flared up. “See! There was something.”

Four of the guards pulled out blades and eased toward the flickering fire that remained near the base of the walls. “Looks like rubbish ...”

“Maybe a rat set it on fire ...”

A step at a time, Cerryl guided the chestnut by sense and feel toward the gates and past the remaining pair of guards, both of whom were more interested in the fire than the seemingly empty gates. “Nothing here.”

“Who set the fire?”

“... someone drop a torch from the walls?”

“Why?”

“Who knows? Report it to Delbur in the morning.”

With the sweat seeping down his back, Cerryl guided the gelding into the streets of Fenard, turning abruptly at the first corner into a narrower way. Another hundred cubits onward, he released the light shields and just sat on the chestnut, shivering. The street smelled like the sewers of Fairhaven, if not so strongly. The only light was that of the stars and a smoky torch perhaps fifty cubits farther along the street.