The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(57)

“But it takes fire to forge iron, and the white mages cannot bear its touch,” countered Cerryl.

“Touch cold iron sometime, and feel it suck all heat out of you.” Tellis smiled. “Remember, nothing is as it seems, and though I do my best to instruct you, there is much beyond what even a master scrivener knows, even one raised with the education I was fortunate to receive.”

Cerryl covered his mouth again, wishing he did not have to yawn so much.

“A good thing it is we are near finished for the day.” Tellis glanced at Cerryl and shook his head. “You go. A quick nap will do you good. Beryal or Benthann will knock on your door. No reading-a nap, dinner, and a good night's slumber. Tomorrow I'll be at the tower, for they want a copyist, and you must speed copying the Herbes book. Nivor asked about our progress yesterday.”

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl nodded politely. The herbal book wasn't totally boring, but he did not find it nearly so interesting as even the Historic which he read periodically in order to answer Tellis's questions.

“Off with you.”

Cerryl closed the Herbes book, cleaned the quill, and stoppered the ink then washed his hands. Tellis did not look up from his copying of The Colors of White.

“'Dinner won't be that long,” Beryal announced from the kitchen as Cerryl passed through the common room and stepped out the back door into the courtyard.

“Thank you, Beryal.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve as he stood for a moment in the light and cooling breeze, a breeze that carried the scent of wet wool from the alleyway.

Cerryl took a step, then another, and stopped, looking around from the middle of the courtyard. He glanced toward the rear gate, confident he would see Pattera there. The space was empty. He frowned, certain that someone had been watching him.

After a moment, he turned back toward the main part of the house, but no one stood in the doorway to the common room. He glanced back at the gate, and then at the side door to the room Tellis and Benthann shared. The doors were closed, and the gateway empty.

Slowly, he walked to his room, but the feeling of being watched continued as he opened his door. The room was empty.

Abruptly as it had come, the feeling of being watched vanished. Cerryl shuddered as he closed the door.

With the chill in his bones, all thought of sleep vanished. He checked the shutters-closed tightly. Then, almost furtively, Cerryl eased the screeing glass from behind the wooden panel he had loosened, leaving his books there.

Could he? He looked down at the silver-rimmed glass, seeing the thin-faced reflection of a youth with barely a hint of a beard-if that. Not even a man yet, and why was he even thinking about using the glass? His eyes went to the closed shutters. Yet he had to do something. More and more, he felt that everyone else pushed him, directed him, that everyone else had the answers and that he would have fewer and fewer choices, especially if he waited until he got older.

He glanced back down at the glass, then frowned. Did he dare? Did he not dare? Was it the girl with the red-blond hair? Or the redhead?

He should have given up on the girl in green, yet he kept thinking about her. Why? How could a scrivener's apprentice aspire to any consort?

“Consort?” He barely murmured the word. What an idiotic notion! He couldn't rightly aspire to being a white mage, for all his talent and his secret study. He couldn't even aspire to great wealth, such as that shown by Muneat.

He pushed back those thoughts, swallowed, and looked down at the mirror. As he concentrated, surprisingly the white mists formed and cleared.

The young woman sat at a writing desk, a golden oak desk in a small room. The walls were hung with green silks, and behind her was a high bed covered with blue-green silks and pillows. The oiled gold oak window shutters were closed.

Quill pen in her hand, she looked down at whatever she wrote. Then she set the quill in the holder. Abruptly, she frowned.

She was older, Cerryl could tell. Then, so was he. Her face crinkled into a frown, and she glanced up from the writing desk, her eyes going in one direction, then another.

She stood and walked to the window, then turned, her eyes going to the glass on the wall.

Abruptly, Cerryl released his hold on the glass. She'd known she was being watched, but how?

Even so, he could feel heat radiating from his glass, as though someone had thrown chaos-fire at it just as he had broken off his viewing. He wiped his forehead, suddenly feeling even more tired.

Quickly, as though he feared he were being observed by some other scrier, he slipped the silver-rimmed mirror back into its hiding place. After a moment, he took a deep breath, relieved that the feeling of being watched had not returned. He'd gotten away with using the glass.

This time, a small voice in his head reminded him. This time.

With a brief smile, he pulled off his boots and lay down on the pallet, his eyes closing almost as soon as he stretched out.

Almost immediately, he found himself walking across a high-vaulted room, a hall really, where the ceiling was supported by fluted white stone columns. The room was empty, yet it was not.

“You ... you don't belong here, scrivener's apprentice. He will turn you to ashes if you stay.”

The voice was sultry, but Cerryl couldn't make out the face. He turned, but there was no one beside him.

“I won't be seen, not if I don't wish to be. We whites control the light, you know. If you were worth anything, you could, too. In little ways, anyway.” The unseen laugh was cruel, as he remembered from somewhere.