The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(88)

“An eight-day from now,” Myral said cheerfully as he piled the books into Cerryl's arms. “Best get on with it.”

His arms full, Cerryl nodded toward Leyladin. “It was good to meet you.”

“I was glad to see you.” She smiled an enigmatic and faint smile. “More closely.” The green eyes sparkled.

Suppressing a wince at the gentle reminder, Cerryl nodded to her again and to Myral. “An eight-day from now, ser.”

The door closed behind him with a thunk.

He walked slowly down the stairs, his arms already beginning to ache with the weight of the books and the rolled map, his thoughts spinning. What was Leyladin doing with Myral? It wasn't conclusive, but the pudgy mage had but a single bed, and there had been an open tome on the table.

You hope she's just studying...but what can you do if it's more?

And why had she wanted to leave when he'd come in? Or said that she was glad to meet him-more closely? Had that just been a jab, or had she meant it?

He tried to shift his grip on the books and staggered against the wall in an effort to keep his hold on the map.

A sewer map? What was he going to be doing with Myral? What did books have to do with sewers? Or sewers with becoming a white mage?

Another form of test?





White Order





LIX




In the late afternoon, with gray light falling through the library windows, Cerryl rubbed his forehead, forcing himself to concentrate on the words on the vellum.



... the heavy greases, be they cooking tallow or Tenderer's leavings or... reform in a weak order upon exposure to heat or chaos or heat created by the chaos within chaos-rich wastes ... such scattered blocks of order combine with detritus of a less solid nature to impede the flow of fluids necessary for evacuation ...



He'd thought the histories and the philosophizing of Colors of White had been boring and difficult to follow, but they were transparently clear compared to Myral's The Management of Offal. The book wasn't even that long, less than a hundred pages. He continued reading and turned the page.



... odoriferous as they may appear, night soil and animal droppings retain but a weak order and will dissolve in the presence of water into a liquid which can be purified through the application of simple techniques..."



“Cerryl?”

He looked up. Faltar and Lyasa stood by the library table. “Didn't you hear the bells?”

“The bells?” Even as he asked, he felt stupid. He knew he sounded stupid.

“Those are Myral's books, aren't they?” Lyasa pointed to the volumes by his elbow. “The ones on wastes and offal?”

Cerryl nodded.

“How long have you had them?” she asked.

“Since yesterday.” Cerryl massaged his forehead again, this time with his left hand, then the back of his neck, trying to work out the tension.

“How many years did it take Myral to write them?” Lyasa demanded.

Faltar offered an ironic smile.

“He only wrote one. This one.” Cerryl glanced from Faltar to the dark-haired student.

“It's the same thing.” Lyasa's voice bore a tinge of exasperation. “It took him years to figure it out enough to write it, and you're trying to learn it all in a day.”

“I only have an eight-day.”

“You have an eight-day to read it - not learn it word by word.”

“Cerryl has to know it better than anyone . . . even Myral,” said Faltar.

“Says who?”

“Cerryl,” answered the blond student mage.

“You two.” Lyasa glared at Faltar, then at Cerryl. “Let's go eat.”

Cerryl stood, feeling his muscles twinge. How long had he reading?

“Too long,” answered Faltar.

Lyasa had already left the common by the time Cerryl scooped up the books from the table and started down the corridor toward the meal hall. He stopped by his cell and quickly set the books on the desk.

“Why do you have to learn everything as quickly as you do?” asked Faltar as Cerryl stepped back into the corridor.

“This is the first place where I've ever been supposed to learn, and ... I don't know.” Cerryl looked down at the polished stone floor tiles, glad he didn't have to scrub floors any longer.

“Why did the scrivener take you on? I mean . . .”

“I was a mill boy without any learning?” Cerryl nodded. “I got the millmaster's daughter to teach me my letters and help me. She gave me books, both in the old tongue and in Temple. They're really not that different.”

“You taught yourself to read?” Faltar shook his head.

“There wasn't anyone else.” Cerryl glanced around the meal hall, only half-occupied because the full mages ate there intermittently. Kesrik was at a corner table, apparently being lectured by Fydel about something, because his face was more sullen than usual. Lyasa was at the serving table. “And I didn't do it alone. I did have help.”

“Darkness,” hissed Faltar. “It's the lemon lamb.”

The lemon lamb was fine with Cerryl, but he nodded. “It could be worse.”

“Cheese in the sewer? It would take that. Oh ... sorry ... it'll be my turn next, I suppose.”