The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(72)

He almost wanted to laugh. After hiding a copy of half the book for years, and stealing time to read parts of the one that Tellis had been engaged to copy, he had his own copy-and was ordered to read it.

He shook his head, thinking about the books still hidden in Tellis's house-and the broken amulet. He missed the amulet most.

Cerryl closed the cover of Colors of White and started down the steps.

Once downstairs, he glanced into the library, looking for Faltar, but the room was empty except for two mages at the table in the far corner - Fydel and Esaak. The brown-haired and square-bearded Fydel was gesturing, almost drawing something in the air. Apparently impassive, Esaak sat with his back to Cerryl.

Cerryl tiptoed toward the common. That way, if Faltar appeared, he could ask him what, if anything, he should look out for in the book. His steps were silent as he walked down the corridor, wondering if he would discover any new truths in the book he had found difficult and boring when he had read it before.

He hoped so, but his lips pursed as he thought about what he had read before in Colors of White.





White Order





XLVIII




Despite the breeze from the open windows of the study common, sweat beaded in his hair, even cut as short as it was, and oozed onto his forehead and down the back of his neck. Cerryl ignored it and flipped to the next page of Colors of White, forcing himself to read each word and to fit the thoughts together, wondering how any of them related to the histories Tellis had forced on him, the mill work he had done for Dylert, or the reality that was Fairhaven, which included both chaos-fire and the vast golds of those like Muneat... or even why his father had been hunted and he had been spared.

So much made so little sense.

“You read that so quickly.” On the other side of the study table, Faltar shifted his weight, his eyes lifting from his own book, his blond hair almost white with the late afternoon sun through the tall study windows backlighting it.

“Big surprise ... he was a scrivener. That's what they do.” The low rnurmur came from the only other occupied table, the one at which Bealtur sat.

Cerryl kept his eyes on the page of Colors of White that lay open before him, ignoring the low-voiced and snide tone of the goateed student.

“Reading is one thing... scriveners don't understand. That's why they're scriveners.”

The thin-faced Cerryl licked his lips and kept reading.

“... not enough behind the eyes to do more than copy ...” Bealtur stretched and smiled at Cerryl.

Cerryl smiled back.

His back to Bealtur, Faltar frowned.

Cerryl closed the book, gently, and stood, walking from the open common down the narrow white-stone hallway to his cell. There, he opened his door and stepped inside, into a space even smaller than what he had occupied in the back of the mill barn at Dylert's. The bed was softer and the room without drafts, though he had to stand on the end of the bed to open and close the ancient oak shutters.

He also had a stool and a small desktop built into the wall, with a bookshelf above it. Two sets of whites, four sets of smallclothes, two blankets, and his boots-that was all. That was the total of what any of the student mages had, except for the books on their shelves, and those varied according to their mentors. There was no mirror. None of the cells had mirrors. Once he would have considered his cell almost rich- before he had seen Muneat's dwelling or the bedchamber of the woman in green through his glass.

Cerryl placed the worn copy of Colors of White on the shelf, next to The Founding of Fyrad and the White Lands, which had arrived in a package from the High Wizard. Beside them was Great Historie of Candar. On the desk lay a thinner volume-Naturale Mathematicks.

His eyes crossed the mathematicks book. He'd scarcely even looked at that. It had been left for him; he didn't even know who might be his tutor there. His stomach growled. He glanced at the door, knowing he needed to head to the meal hall. Thrap.

“Are you coming to eat?” Faltar's voice was clear through the door.

Cerryl took a deep breath. “Yes. I'm coming.” He stepped into the corridor and closed the door. None of the cells had bolts, just simple latches.

“You felt like smashing Bealtur, didn't you?” asked Faltar, running a hand through his thin blond hair and pushing it off his forehead.

“I wasn't that angry.” Almost, but not quite, came the correcting voice in his thoughts as Cerryl matched steps with Faltar.

“It's Kesrik. He's trying to get you angry. He's using Bealtur.” Faltar glanced back along the hall. “That's what he did to Yullur. Yullur tried to throw fire at him, and ...” The words trailed off.

“Sterol or Jeslek or someone found out, and put him on the road?”

“No ...” Faltar glanced back down the empty hallway again. “Yullur tried it when Sterol was just outside the study. Kesrik knew it and ran at Sterol for protection. Yullur was so angry, he didn't really see the High Wizard when he threw the chaos-fire at Kesrik.” Faltar gave a twisted smile. “The High Wizard didn't have a choice then. He turned Yullur into ash and put Kesrik on sewer duty and the refuse wagons for nearly a season. It didn't matter. When he came back, Kesrik had a big smile on his face for a couple of eight-days, and none of us could do anything about it.”

Cerryl nodded. “What did the honored Jeslek say?”