The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(56)
... so that even a line of chaos fire will reassemble itself into a globe of such fundamental fire when hurled through its own power over even the shortest of distances ...
Cerryl forced himself to keep reading. Maybe he just didn't know enough. Maybe.
How long he read-that he had no idea, except that his head felt as though it were twirling on his shoulders and filled with burning sawdust when he replaced the book in the cabinet and relocked it. The key went back into its recess, and he retraced his silent steps back to his room.
He closed the door and looked through the darkness at his pallet, frowning. He felt as though someone were observing him, yet nothing moved, nothing offered the slightest of sounds, except the wind.
Finally, with a shiver, he slipped under the blanket, realizing that his feet were like blocks of ice. He shivered again, and might have once more, except his eyes were too heavy.
White Order
XXXIX
From his makeshift copy post at the end of the worktable, Cerryl looked away from the propped-up copy of Herbes and Their Selfsame Remedies and stifled a yawn. The nighttime reading was taking its toll, particularly late in the day, and yet he dared not yawn around Tellis. Not too much, anyway.
“Sleepy again, I see,” observed the master scrivener from the copy desk where he labored over Colors of White. “You mayhap spending time with the Historic?”
“I have been reading,” answered Cerryl. “There is much I don't understand.” His nose wrinkled at the faint smell of some substance that had worked its way into the worn surface of the worktable-or was it the discarded oak galls festering in the bottom of the waste bin?
“Then you should ask,” ventured Tellis, his eyes back on Colors of White, his fingers steady as he replicated the letters on the virgin vellum. “What do you find hard to understand?”
Cerryl dipped his own quill and copied for a moment before replying. “There is so much.” He paused, ensuring the quill was well clear of the vellum before he spoke. “There are mentions of iron birds that brought the white way to Candar, but little is said of the time before Cyador.”
“I thought you had questions about matters difficult to understand.” Tellis continued to copy, his eyes on the book, the quill nearly a blur under fingers swift and sure.
“Those as well, master Tellis.” Cerryl nodded, then copied another few words, his thoughts jumbled as he tried to recall something he could claim was confusing.
“Such as?” prompted Tellis.
“Well, there are so many things, but I do not understand about Westwind. How could anyone live on the Roof of the World? No one lives there today, but the histories say it was even colder then, yet Westwind prospered until it got warmer.” Cerryl wanted to smile to himself at coming up with the question. Instead, he dipped the quill and resumed copying.
“Oh, Cerryl.” Tellis actually sighed. “You read, and you understand the words, and yet you do not see what is before you. When the winters were colder, then only the angels could bear the Roof of the World for much of the year, and they did not have to spend so much gold and effort to defend themselves. Few could reach their citadel. After the great change, when the years got warmer, then the western lands thought about what had once been theirs, and they sought to reclaim those domains, for the warmer weather made the summers in the lowlands harder on the flocks and herds and the green grasses of the highlands more attractive. The Roof of the World was easier to reach for more of the year, and the guards were stretched thinner. Do you not see?”
“When you put it that way, master Tellis, it is clear enough, but that is not the way the Historic reads.” Cerryl frowned as he noted the fractional widening of his letters. He wiped the quill's nib clean and took out the penknife to sharpen the point.
“The Historic is written for men who think, not for those who wish every word explained.”
Although Tellis's voice was mild, Cerryl winced. He supposed he deserved the reprimand. He tried the reshaped nib on his palimpsest then nodded at the letter width.
“You are younger than your years in your thoughts and far older in your heart,” Tellis added. “I can do little for your heart, but for Dylert's sake I will press you to think. Another puzzling question-a better one?”
Cerryl did not answer immediately, stifling a yawn once more.
“No matter how tired you are, Cerryl, you must always keep your thoughts and wits about you.” After a moment, the scrivener added, “In Fairhaven, especially.”
Cerryl looked down, trying to dredge up another question, a better one. After what seemed far too long, he spoke. “Nowhere does it say why the black mages can control the winds. The white mages can create fire, and I know fire creates drafts, but...” He let the question hang.
“That is a better question,” said Tellis.
Cerryl had hoped so. He covered his mouth with the back of his free hand. Was it the bitter odor seeping around the writing board he had laid over the battered surface? Or just his own tiredness?
“The great winds are spawned, we are told, in the cold places of the world, above the Roof of the World and in the far north. Leastwise, that is where the great winds seem to come from. The black mages, as their ancestors the black angels, are creatures of the cold and, hence, are closer to the chill and the wind, while the white mages come from the warmth of the sun and hold to mastery of flame and prosperity.” Tellis nodded at his explanation.