The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(152)

White Order





CII




“Good day.” Cerryl waved to the merchant on the wagon seat as he eased the chestnut around the big wagon drawn by a four-horse team.

“Good day to you, young ser.” The gray-bearded and trim man in green who held the reins in his right hand nodded pleasantly. “You think it be raining afore long?”

The guard beside the merchant smiled.

Cerryl glanced at the clouds overhead, dark gray, and tried to gain a sense of the weather. He could feel the churning chaos and the black order bands within the gray, so low were the heavy clouds. “Not right now, but not too long.”

“Darkness ... hoped we could make it farther.”

Cerryl glanced back at the covered wagon. “What have you there?”

“Mostly carpets, but some hangings-good pieces out of Sarronnyn. Hard to come by these days. Lot easier before the prefect and those traders in Spidlar decided they knew better than all of Candar.” The trader spat to the side, behind Cerryl. “Fairhaven your home? You headed back?”

Cerryl slowed his mount slightly out of politeness, pacing the wagon. “Yes.” Fairhaven was his home, more than any place, despite Jeslek, and the overmage's struggles with Sterol. Fairhaven was where Myral was, and Lyasa, Faltar, and Heralt, and, especially, Leyladin, all the family he really had, now that his aunt Nail and uncle Syodor were dead-for reasons he still didn't understand. Except you want Leyladin to be more than just a relative... “Fairhaven's home.”

“Musta been an eight-day back, maybe not quite, saw a bunch of lancers and mages headed back. One of the lancers said they'd beaten a big Gallosian force. You think that was true?”

“It was true.” Cerryl smiled. “I was there. I had to do something else before I returned.”

“Might teach that prefect not to be so self-mighty.” The gray-bearded merchant offered an ironic smile. “Then ... some folk never learn. Well... won't be keeping you, young mage. Have a safe trip.”

“Thank you.” Cerryl gently urged the chestnut on, on toward Fairhaven.

The merchant's parting words echoed in his ears. “Some folk never learn... never learn ...”

But who is to say what learning is? Cerryl had learned that all too often, when people talked about learning, they wanted you to see things their way. Except maybe Myral, or Dylert... and, he hoped, Leyladin.





White Order





CIII




Rather than take the avenue, Cerryl rode in the back streets to the stable on the west side of the Halls of the Mages. He'd also camped outside Fairhaven the night before, wanting to be more rested and also wanting Myral to be more rested. If he were to have any chance, he'd have to meet with Myral before he met with Sterol, and especially before he confronted Jeslek, not that he wanted a confrontation, but it might happen whether Cerryl wanted it or not.

The autumn wind was chill, under partly clouded sides, but not cold, and swirled across him in gentle gusts. His eyes flicked past a bronze grate on the side of the paved road, and his lips quirked, thinking of all the time he'd spent in the sewers. As he took a deep breath, he compared Fairhaven to Fenard-and there was no comparison.

Fenard smelled of sewers and smoke and dirt, and Fairhaven smelled of clean granite and trees and grass, and occasional clean odors of cooking and women's scents. In Fenard, buildings were dirty and crowded on top of each other. Fairhaven's stone structures were solid and clean and left enough space for people to breathe. In Fenard, there were open sewers and starving urchins and brigands. While there might be a few beggars and smugglers in Fairhaven, there were certainly far fewer ruffians and hungry folk-far fewer. And there was Leyladin. Fenard had nothing like her. Perhaps no city did.

Cerryl squared his shoulders. Jeslek was not going to take Fairhaven away from him, either through death or exile. Whatever it took, Cerryl intended to survive and prosper. Whatever it takes ... He frowned. Yet that was exactly how Jeslek was-doing whatever was necessary. How could Cerryl survive and not be like the overmage?

He shifted his weight in the saddle. There had to be a way. He was still frowning when he rode into the back courtyard of the Hall of the Mages that held the stable from where he had set out more than a half-season before. He dismounted slowly, bouncing slightly on his legs, legs that were sore but no longer cramping every time he rode.

A stable boy stepped out into the courtyard, frowning momentarily as his eyes took in the disheveled Cerryl. “Ser?”

“I'm the last of the Gallos group. The overmage asked me to do something that took longer.”

“Your mount looks a little thin, ser.” -

“I ran out of grain on the way back. I tried to find good grass.” Cerryl unpacked the cloak, pack, and bedroll.

“He's just a little thin, ser. We'll take care of him.”

“You're sure he's all right?”

“Yes, ser.” The stable boy led the chestnut away.

For some reason, Cerryl felt somehow disappointed, let down. Because he and the horse had been through so much together? Because he'd been dismissed by a stable boy, who cared more for the mount than the man who rode him? He wasn't sure whether to smile or sigh. So he took a deep breath, then began to walk toward the hall that held his cell and the commons.