The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(20)

“Me?” Cerryl finished daubing grease on the top exposed part of the cart's axle. “To see me?”

Erhana smiled, then added, “Your aunt and uncle, I think.”

Cerryl looked around for the grease rag, then saw it under the side of the upended left cart wheel, where he'd placed it to keep any extra grease from falling on the floor stones. He picked it up and wiped his hand as clean as he could, then straightened, and walked out the door into the sunlight.

Overhead, the summer sky was filled with white puffy clouds scudding westward, clouds that cast fast-moving shadows across the hills of western Lydiar and the forests to the north of the mill.

Cerryl glanced from Erhana to his aunt and uncle and then back to the brown-haired girl. “Thank you.”

Erhana nodded and slipped uphill toward the house where Dyella was carding wool in the shade of the porch.

“How are you?” Cerryl asked after a moment.

Syodor carried a small pack. Nail stood beside him, empty-handed. Both looked downcast, somehow smaller than Cerryl recalled them.

“You've grown.” Nail licked her lips nervously.

“My feet have, anyway.” Cerryl offered a smile.

Neither Syodor nor Nail returned the smile.

“What... what is the matter?” Cerryl felt uncomfortable with the proper use of “is,” at least in speaking to his aunt and uncle, but he remained determined to speak properly. He looked steadily at his uncle.

“Things have been better, lad. Aye, they have been.” Syodor looked at the ground, not speaking for a time. “The duke ... my patent... said no longer could grub the mines.”

“I'm sorry.” Cerryl nodded gravely, feeling that his words offered little comfort. “I really am. I wish I could do something.” Even as he spoke, sensing the discomfort of his aunt and uncle, he found himself wondering why Syodor's words felt so wrong, even though his uncle had often worried about the patent.

“Best you can do, child,” said Nail, “be to take care of yourself.”

“You got a place, Cerryl. Better than we could give you now.” Syodor again looked down at the stones of the causeway. “Dylert be a good man.”

“I know, uncle ... but what about you? Where will you go?” Cerryl swallowed. He'd never expected Syodor or Nail to be anywhere but at the house by the ancient mines.

“Don't you be worrying about us,” admonished Nail. “Not like as we got that much longer to worry, child. 'Sides, we got a place.”

Cerryl looked back at his uncle.

“Got a cousin in Vergren,” said Syodor, his voice flat. “Sheep country there. He's got an extra cot. Small, and it needs some work. Even managed to borrow his mule cart. Take most of our things.”

“Isn't there anything ... any place else?”

“What else we need, lad? The mines are over for me. Have been for a long time. Just didn't want to admit it.”

Syodor's voice was rough, Cerryl realized belatedly. “I'm sorry. Can you tell me where you'll be?”

“Tomorrow we set out,” said Nail. “Like as dawn. Gerhar be Syodor's cousin. His place be on the old north road, past the second hill, to Vergren, that be.”

“Tomorrow?”

“The Duke's man gave us but four eight-days, and it was most of that finding Gerhar.” Syodor forced a wry smile, one that did not touch his remaining good eye. “Lucky we be that Gerhar has but one young daughter and can use the extra hands.”

Cerryl shook his head. “Perhaps I should come ...”

“No.” Syodor's voice was as firm as Cerryl had ever heard it. “Better you remain here with Dylert. Leastwise you have a trade. If anyone asks, best you tell them you be an orphan, but that your folk come from Montgren, Vergren way.” He laughed once. “That be true enough, now.”

Cerryl moistened his lips.

“Brought you some things,” said Nail, after another moment of silence.

Syodor opened the pack. “Pack be yours, too, Cerryl. Sooner or later, like as you be needing it.” He took out something, something that glowed white beneath his hand with the light that was like that of the sun, and yet not. “This, it be your da's,” the miner added gruffly, extending a small knife in a sheath. The knife and sheath were nearly toy-sized, small enough to fit within Cerryl's palm. “This, too,” Syodor added, placing a silver-framed mirror-a screeing glass-beside the knife.

Cerryl glanced down at the items in his hands, then at Nail.

She met his glance. “There be no denying what a man be. Your da, he couldn't ha' been other than he was. Nor you, Cerryl. He was a-fiddling with the light afore he could talk, or so your mother said. Too young, she said.” Nail shrugged. “You be a mite older. I seen you with the glasses and the white fire. Tried to keep you from a-burnin' yourself too young.”

Syodor nodded. “Anyways, we thought... we wanted you to have them, not when you be too young, though. I kept them away from the house,” the miner added. “Knew as you'd feel them somehow.”

“There be a warm winter coat there. You da's ... saved it for you, and a scarf, your ma's best scarf...” Nail sniffed. “Know as you can't use a scarf... but felt you ought to have something that was hers.” She stepped forward and abruptly hugged Cerryl. “Did the best we could for you ... and for your ma.” Tears streaked her face.