The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(78)

“If you have to make more for something, I'll show you.” Cerryl kept massaging his hand.

“Have you managed to locate those towns?” Faltar looked back down at the map.

“I'm fairly sure about Tellura. I don't know where Quessa is. No one I could ask knows, and I wouldn't ask Kesrik.”

“I cannot imagine why.” Faltar offered a grim smile. “Nor could you trust his reply.”

The younger student mage gave a short nod, then looked at the map. “There is so much left undone on this, and I'm supposed to do some anatomic drawings for Broka, too, and tomorrow I have to meet Esaak, and I know I haven't read enough of that book he left for me.”

“He's a crusty sort,” said Faltar. “Just listen as much as you can. He'll eventually get around to telling you what he wants-after he's told you how worthless all of us are, and how we appreciate little or nothing about mathematicks.”

Cerryl sighed.

“I came to ask if you wanted to take a walk up to the market square.” Faltar offered a smile. “It sounds like you need a walk or something.”

“With this hanging on me?”

“A trip to the market will do you good,” insisted the older student. “Besides, you can scarcely hold that quill. You need some air. You can struggle over your map this evening, with a fresh head, after the peddlers have gone.”

Cerryl flexed his hand. “I'll walk with you. You can do the buying.”

“Don't you have any coppers?”

“A few. Now and then, Sterol sends a small purse,” Cerryl grudged, not wanting to admit that Sterol had been more than moderately generous, at least not where Kesrik or his friends might overhear.

“Ah . ..” Faltar nodded, eyes traveling back to the door. “Well, he should, High Wizard or not. You're his responsibility.”

Was he? Cerryl felt more like an orphan than ever. He got the coin but never saw Sterol. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. It doesn't help. “Just for a short walk, that's all.”

“We have to be back for the evening meal,” Faltar pointed out “Even if I find something more tasty in the square.”

“All right.” Cerryl replaced the ink in the cubby that Derka had granted him, along with the quills and the holder and the inkwell. He could clean the inkwell later. The vellum went onto one of the library's drying racks.

“You'll feel better.”

“I'm sure.” Cerryl washed his hands quickly, glad he wasn't the one who had to clean the basins anymore, and joined Faltar in the corridor.

They nodded to Lyasa as she passed, and the black-haired student nodded back, but her olive brown eyes were focused elsewhere.

The courtyard was empty, and the light wind threw spray from the fountain across the two. The dampness felt good on Cerryl's forehead. He touched his brow, but it didn't feel warm, or any warmer than usual.

The main corridor of the front building was empty, until they reached the foyer, where Cerryl's eyes were drawn to a slender redheaded figure in white, who hurried up the steps from the foyer proper toward the tower entrance. Behind her remained a faint fragrance, one similar to sandalwood but more floral.

“You know Anya?” asked Faltar.

“Not exactly. She stopped me once on the street and then came to Tellis's shop once.”

“She probably sensed you had the power. That's one of the things Sterol uses her for. I'd prefer some of the others.” Faltar grinned. “One especially.”

Cerryl repressed a shiver. “Isn't that dangerous? For her, I mean? A child of two whites?”

“I'm certain Anya's powers are enough to ensure she has no child. Of course, I wouldn't mind trying.”

“You have a one-rut mind.”

“I wouldn't mind having her in that rut.”

“Enough ...” Cerryl shook his head as he stepped through the front archway and down the steps to the avenue.

“I really wouldn't. You should see-”

“Enough!” Cerryl's exclamation was half-gruff, half-laughing.

“What about Lyasa?”

Cerryl rolled his eyes.

“I told you I'd get your thoughts off that darkness-filled map.”

“You have. You have. I promise you that you have.”

Cerryl glanced back at the tower and the Halls of the Mages that adjoined it. Just a set of white stone buildings, with no ornamentation, with more buildings stretching out behind them-kitchens, stables, an armory, barracks for some of the white guards and lancers, and, nearly half kay north, the creche where the children of white mages were raised.

Almost two seasons, and he still couldn't believe that he was in the Halls of the Mages.

On the far side of the avenue, a team of four black horses drew a high-sided maroon wagon away from the square.

“Sarronnese carpet merchants. They don't like Fairhaven much, just our coins.” Faltar laughed.

“How do you know?”

“I've seen their wagons before. Derka told me. I think most of his family were traders.”

“Do you know about yours?”

Faltar shrugged. “No. My father was a mage. I wonder if Derka ... but I don't know. That's something they never say.”