The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(49)

“Black oak bark, iron brimstone ...” Cerryl paused. “You've never given me the amounts exactly.”

Tellis shrugged. “How could I? The strength of the galls, the acorns, and the black oak bark are never the same. You must sense the ink, as I do, if you wish to be a master scrivener. Of everything in life be that true.”

“What?”

“Is the avenue the same each time you go to the square? Or a stream? It appears the same ... but is it?”

“That old argument!” A brassy laugh echoed through the workroom from the doorway where Benthann stood. “He has fine words, young Cerryl, but they are only words.” She stepped into the room and toward Tellis. “I need some silvers for the market.”

Tellis stepped away from the worktable. “Get on with the copying, Cerryl. I'll be but a moment.”

“Yes, ser.”

As the scrivener followed Benthann back toward the kitchen and common roam, Cerryl cleaned the quill's nib, then took the penknife and sharpened it before dipping it into the ink.

Oxen didn't change-or Dylert's hadn't-and Tellis was saying that most people didn't either.

His eyes fixed on a faint ink splot on the plastered wall. He wouldn't be most people. He wouldn't.





White Order





XXXIV




In the gray before dawn, Cerryl stood looking at the bucket of water, ice already forming on the edge. How long would winter go on? He shuddered at the thought of washing in the freezing water. The trees hadn't new-budded, and the old leaves remained gray, and that meant spring was more than a few eight-days away. Yet he hated both the freezing water and the way he smelled without washing.

Too bad he couldn't use the stove to warm his wash water the way Benthann did-or even Tellis. They expected him to be clean with water that froze on his skin. It wasn't fair.

He shook his head. Life wasn't fair. The only question was what anyone could do about it, and he didn't have a stove to heat his wash water. He shivered again as a gust of wind rattled through the courtyard.

He frowned. A stove contained fire. So did chaos. He knew. He'd seen and felt the heat.

He studied the bucket and the frost rime on the edge, looking at it as though it were a screeing glass. He frowned, trying to replicate the sense of white fire he could feel in the books-and had seen thrown by the fugitive.

Then he stopped and picked up the bucket, walking to his room. If he did manage to warm his water, he wouldn't do himself any good by showing the world-or Tellis, skittish as his master was about the white wizards. The son of a white? In some ways, that was hard to believe, and in others ... all too easy.

Once inside, Cerryl concentrated on the water in the bucket. He could get the sense of flame-a pinpoint of white fire appeared over the bucket-but when he tried to lower it to the water, it just vanished. Did water have too much of something? Order?

Cerryl shook his head. Real fire held chaos, but it heated water.

“Stupid,” he murmured to himself. “You can't put a brand in a stream.” Or the burning splinter used to light tinder in a pitcher of water. So how would he heat the water? If he moved the fire under the bucket, he'd just burn the wood. Applying chaos-fire to the bucket would do exactly the same thing, and the burn marks would have Beryal, and especially Tellis, asking questions.

He looked around the small room, his eyes finally lighting on the plain brass candlestick. Taking his own penknife, he cut a short length from the cord he usually carried in his pocket, then soaked the cord in the cold water, leaving it draped over the side of the bucket, half in the water, half out. He removed the candle from the holder and set it on the pallet, then placed the brass holder on the floor stones beside the wooden bucket.

Cerryl swallowed. Would what he planned work?

He enfolded the brass in the white of chaos until he could feel the heat almost blistering off the brass. Then he looped the wet cord around the metal and lifted its holder quickly, then lowered it into the water. With a hiss, a gout of steam erupted from the bucket.

His head ached ... even heating water took effort, just to warm it so that it was lukewarm. He coughed to clear his throat. He'd been so tense that he'd almost forgotten to breathe, and his throat was raw.

He dipped the washrag into the warmish water and began to wash. With even half-warm water, it wasn't bad, and practice would certainly ' help, as it had with his copying.

Practice ... but did he dare?

He swallowed and looked at the bucket and the faint steam of the warm water in the cold room. Slowly, he lifted the now-tarnished candleholder out of the bottom of the bucket and set it back on the table.

He had to think of a better way. The brass wouldn't hold up for long. He massaged his forehead. Neither would his head.

With a sign, he began to dress quickly, knowing that if he didn't get to the common room quickly, Beryal or Tellis would be knocking on his door.

He left his room with the door ajar, hoping the cool breeze would help remove the faint odor of hot metal and the slightest hint of chaos, and walked quickly across the courtyard.

Still... even lukewarm water had felt better than freezing-much better.





White Order





XXXV




. . . and when they had come to the desert isle that was Recluce, Creslin the black slew all those of the duke's garrison as who would not swear unyielding loyalty to him, and the remainder he bound with the chains of dark order.