The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(22)

With a last look at the shimmering blade, he slipped the knife into the sheath and replaced both knife and sheath behind the board. Straightening, he sat on the edge of his pallet-little more than a sack filled with straw lying on a plank platform, and covered with a tattered gray blanket.

So much there was that he needed to know, and dared not ask, not with what had happened to his father. Yet... a mill hand for life? He was beginning to understand what had driven his father-even as he understood how unlikely it was for his father, or himself-or any poor child-to have the chance to become a mage.

He shook his head, almost violently. Why does it have to be this way? A mill hand? Why?

Later, after calming himself with deep breaths and the thoughts of a quiet hillside spring, he squared himself on the edge of the pallet and looked down, concentrating, staring at the silver-rimmed screeing glass Until the familiar white mist covered the silver. He continued to push his thoughts at the mists, seeking, asking, searching. “Somewhere ...” A face filled the center of the glass, sweeping back the silver mists, the face of a girl with blond curls, curls bearing a hit of red, and green eyes that seemed to look out of the mirror at Cerryl, eyes that looked within him and found him wanting.

“No...” The word was half-gasped, half-grunted as his head felt almost jerked back by the force of her gaze, an expression that swept aside the distance and the mists of the screeing mirror as if neither existed.

When he looked down at the glass again, it was but a mirror, blank, reflecting but his own sweat-wreathed face back at him.

Who was she? How could a girl so young have such power? Was she the daughter of a white mage? Or had what he'd seen been just an illusion? Cerryl shivered, then slipped the glass back into its hiding place.

Who was she? The question remained unanswered, even in his mind. He stood and walked to the door, his hand on the door latch. Then he shook his head and opened the window door to let the cooler evening air ease into the room, hoping the breeze wouldn't bring too many mosquitoes with it.

Turning back toward the pallet, his eyes were drawn to three books lying there-Olma's Copybook, The Naturale Historic of Candar, and the battered one on the end, Colors of White. If he understood the few pages of Colors of White he had puzzled and labored through, the book had two parts, but the second part had been ripped off. The first part told how the white mages had come to build Fairhaven, and the second part was supposed to be about how chaos and order worked, and that was the part he needed to have and to learn about.

What good was history? Some parts of history might be interesting-like the fall of Lornth and the rise of Sarronnyn or the stories about ancient Cyador-but most of it seemed useless for what Cerryl needed-an understanding of what a white mage was, what skills and talents were needed, and how to train and develop those talents.

Besides, the history book was hard to read, even slowly, with so many words he could not recognize. He took a deep breath, and his eyes turned back to the middle book, the one Erhana had lent him-

Olma's Copybook. It was a little child's book of letters, but Cerryl had forced himself to work his way through the pages, struggling with and learning everything on each page before going to the next.

With a sigh of resignation, he opened the copybook.

At least in the summer, there was some light after he finished at the mill and supper, although even without lighting his stub of a candle, he could see perfectly well. As he'd gotten older his night vision, or sense of things, had continued to sharpen. In pitch darkness, he had trouble reading, but it would be a while before that occurred, and long before that he would be too tired to continue his self-taught lessons in letters.





White Order





XVIII




Cerryl stepped out of the warmth of the kitchen into the comparative cool of the porch, his stomach almost feeling distended from the amount of mutton stew he had eaten. His arms and legs and back all ached. He'd spent most of the past eight-day up in the higher woods with Viental and Brental, learning how to judge when a tree could be felled and whether it should be. That part had come easily. Not so easy had been working with the ax and the two-man saw.

The ax bothered him, in the same way the mill blade did-the darkness of the honed iron feeling both like fire and ice at the same time. The oiled and honest iron of the ax even felt hot to his touch, nearly hot enough to burn his fingers, calloused or not.

Perhaps Erhana would come out on the porch after she helped her mother clean up after dinner. Cerryl hoped so. He walked to the north end of the porch and looked toward the higher hills, where he'd spent most of his time lately. The low buzz of insects and the scattered chirps of crickets rose out of the growing dusk.

“Dylert's got lots of woods up there,” said Rinfur from behind him. “They say the family patent goes back to his great-grandsire.”

“Too many woods,” puffed Viental, standing on the top porch step. “Too long a day. Too much logging. I need to lie down.”

“That's not because of your logging,” laughed Rinfur. “It's your earing. You swallowed enough stew for three of you. And one of you is more than enough.”

“Most funny,” said Viental. “We should make you saw the trees. Your horses do all the hard work.”

Rinfur laughed, a good-natured tone in the sound. “That's 'cause I'm smarter than they are.”