Colors of Chaos (81 page)

“Spend most of that time with the healer.” Kinowin’s smile was faint, almost self-mocking. “Trust the words of an aging mage there, Cerryl.”

What sort of love had the overmage known and relinquished-or lost? Cerryl nodded. “I will.”

“Then be on your way.”

Cerryl gave a last nod and departed. On his way back to his quarters, to pack what he would need, Cerryl paused at the archway to the Meal Hall, looking in at the double handful of apprentices scattered across the tables. He knew not a single one-that was how out of touch he was with the Halls. Even Kiella had become a full mage and stood gate duty. Idly Cerryl wondered if the redheaded apprentice sitting by herself was Viedra, the one poor Faltar had fallen for before he’d left to fight in Spidlar.

Myredin and Faltar, and even Bealtur, were dead. Of those who had become mages when Cerryl had, only Heralt and Lyasa were left. Heralt was still in Ruzor with Shenan. Of course, Cerryl would be in Spidlar if Heralt ever did get to Fairhaven. You’ll probably spend the next ten years in Spidlar, so long as Sterol is High Wizard-or whoever Anya maneuvers to succeed him.

Cerryl swallowed. How could he have been so stupid? Anya had wanted him to take the amulet in Diev. If he had, then he and Sterol would have been at each other. Even if Cerryl had prevailed, he would have had to rely on Anya for her contacts, especially with the large trading families, and politicking to keep the older members of the Guild, or enough of them, behind him. But he probably wouldn’t have prevailed-Anya would have seen to that.

He frowned. He had to do something. Did he dare to take the chance? Then he shrugged and turned, hoping he could find the redheaded mage.

Anya surprised him. She was in the Library, poring through a thick and ancient tome. “Cerryl.”

“Anya. Have you a moment?”

Anya flashed the broad smile, and the scent of trilia and sandal-wood flowed around him. “For you, Cerryl, I can spare a moment.”

“I am most grateful.”

They walked to the fountain courtyard. There Cerryl walked into the shade in the corner where the falling water would mask their voice.

“What do you want?” For once, Anya was not smiling as she turned to him. Her eyes darted to the far corner, toward the door from the main Hall.

“I’ll be but a moment. I was thinking, and I wanted to thank you.”

“I don’t know as I merit thanks.” Puzzlement and interest appeared in her pale eyes, eyes neither quite green nor blue.

“After Jeslek’s death, you offered me the amulet, in a way. I think I understand why now, and I appreciate the gesture. I’m leaving for Spidlaria in the morning to take Eliasar’s place, but I wanted you to know that I did appreciate your suggestion.”

“Thank you, Cerryl.” A faint smile appeared and vanished. “Is that all?”

“Well,” he added, “you seem to work well with Sterol. But you know where you can reach me, and Leyladin can get me a message if you need something I can provide.”

That brought a faint smile, one not quite real, but one with a hint of self-satisfaction and wistfulness, an expression that faded as she spoke. “I forget at times how young you were when you became a full mage. You continue to grow. I thank you for your offer.” The bright smile appeared. “You had best be readying yourself.”

“I will.”

Together they turned back toward the rear Hall. Once inside, Anya slipped toward the Library and Cerryl toward his quarters. He packed what he thought he might need-including two sets of whites, smallclothes, spare boots, and his ragged-edged copy of Colors of White-and set it on the narrow single bed.

Then he left, walking quickly through the Halls and up the Avenue toward the
Market Square
, before turning left at the side street leading to Layel’s dwelling.

Soaris opened the door, his eyes widening slightly as he beheld the White mage.

“Is Lady Leyladin here, Soaris?”

“I believe so, ser. Would you come in?”

“Thank you.” Cerryl followed the blue-vested and huge man into the sitting room.

“I will tell her you are here. It may be a moment.”

“Thank you,” Cerryl repeated. He did not sit but studied the portrait of Leyladin’s mother, studying the blue eyes that seemed to follow the beholder.

Leyladin appeared nearly immediately-wearing green trousers and a light silk shirt without a vest. Her red-gold hair was ruffled, half-disarrayed. “It’s barely afternoon.” The usually dancing green eyes were somber and fixed on Cerryl’s gray orbs. “What happened?”

“Eliasar was killed. The High Wizard is sending me back to Spidlaria to take his place. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

He nodded.

She was silent, then stepped forward and slipped her arms around him. For a time, they just embraced.

Then the healer eased back, her arms still loosely around him. “This is all a ploy to get you out of
Fairhaven… and to discredit you.” Her voice was low, pitched as if to keep it from others.

“I know. Making me responsible for obtaining and collecting tariffs when there’s no trade. Why me?”

“Neither Sterol nor Anya wish you around.” She snorted. “You might actually come up with the tariff coins. No one else could, and the way we’re losing mages, you’re already one of the few really skilled ones left.”

“Recluce is winning this war, if it is a war.” He paused. “I told Anya you could get me a message if she needed one.”

“You what?” The healer stiffened.

“I worry about Kinowin’s health, and I’m not so sure about Sterol. It’s just a feeling. He’s not quite the same, and I don’t know why. Anya can be counted on to preserve herself.”

Abruptly Leyladin smiled. “You’re more devious than you let on, dear mage. You implied that she could count on you if something happens.”

“I suppose I did. Was that wrong?” Cerryl frowned.

“No. Not since you told me.” Her eyes narrowed. “But when did you tell her this?”

“Just before I came here.”

“Ah… coming from another woman to me?”

“That’s not…” He grinned as he realized she had been teasing. “You!”

“You’d best remember that.”

“I promise.”

“Now… I know you have to leave early in the morning, but you are staying here the rest of today and tonight.”

“Are you sure?” asked Cerryl, grinning in spite of himself.

“Of that I’m quite sure.”

They both smiled… bittersweet smiles.

CXLVII

The White Serpent pitched forward, riding the downside of the swell before spray cascaded over the bow. Cerryl swallowed hard, hanging onto the heavy wooden railing and glancing toward the west, wondering if his stomach would hold for the remaining two days of the voyage from Lydiar to Spidlaria.

The ship was a faster way to get to Spidlaria, but not terribly comfortable, especially in the heavy swells.

“How ye be, mage?” The ship’s second stood at Cerryl’s elbow, standing there without holding onto anything.

“Fine.” Cerryl forced a grin. “Except I don’t seem to be able to walk anywhere without holding on.”

“Must be a storm to the northwest… a mite unseasonable this far north in summer. Hope the Black ones haven’t been calling their storm mages.” The second gestured off the starboard bow quarter, almost into the sun that beat down out of a green-blue sky that held but the faintest hint of high, hazy clouds. “Don’t ye worry. We’ll have ye ashore afore the worst reaches this far south.”

“Good.” Cerryl paused. “Did you see the Black ship-the one that needed no sails?”

The second’s face clouded. “Aye. Demon-driven it was, and the Black one skirted the reefs and left us near becalmed. The mages’ fire-it washed over the ship, scarce touching it. Evil as anything I ever saw upon the deep, that it was.”

“It’s anchored off Recluce,” Cerryl volunteered.

“I’d wish it were anchored twenty-score cubits deep.” The second laughed. “Not that chaos listens to a poor sailor.” With a nod, the man turned back aft.

If the Black ship worked, Cerryl knew, there would be more on the Eastern Ocean, just as there had been more chaos mages once the ancients had unleashed the White power, just as Recluce had become inevitable after the fall of Westwind.

He glanced to his left, in the general direction of Fairhaven. He hoped Leyladin would be all right. Once at sea, with the swirls of order and chaos, he couldn’t use his glass, even in the times when the ocean was calmer.

Kinowin would watch out for her, and Anya wouldn’t seek her harm, scheming as the redhead was, because Anya wouldn’t want to upset Cerryl, not while she still had uses for him.

The reluctant arms mage’s lips quirked. You’d almost rather deal with the Black smith than with Anya-except that you have no choice.

The White Serpent pitched again, and his fingers tightened on the railing.

CXLVIII

In the early-afternoon sun, Cerryl set the two packs down beside the railing where three crewman wrestled the gangway into place. He inclined his head to the dark-bearded master of the White Serpent. “Thank you, Captain.”

“My duty, mage.”

“I appreciate it.” Cerryl offered a smile.

“You be one of the few who do.” A wintry smile crossed the man’s face. “These days.”

“We’ll try to change that.”

“You do, and we’ll all be pleased.”

Cerryl gave a nod and reclaimed his packs.

A stocky mage with sandy blond hair-a man about Cerryl’s age or even slightly older-stood on the wharf. On the stone pavement at the foot of the wharf waited a detachment of White Lancers-mounted in formation. Cerryl thought he recognized Hiser as the subofficer leading them.

The mage stepped forward as Cerryl carried his two packs down the plank to the heavy-planked wharf.

“Mage Cerryl? I’m Kalesin. Are you here… ?”

“The High Wizard sent me to replace Eliasar.”

A momentary expression of dismay crossed the other mage’s face.

Cerryl extended the scroll. “As sealed by Sterol.”

“The High Wizard commands.” Kalesin took the scroll.

“Inspect the seal and open it,” Cerryl said.

“Here?” Kalesin glanced to the White Serpent, then to Cerryl.

Cerryl began to muster both chaos and shields.

Kalesin swallowed and looked at the red seal. He fumbled open the scroll, and fragments of red wax sprayed across the planks of the wharf. His eyes went to the signature first, then to the words. He read the words twice. “You are the arms mage of Spidlar. But there is no mention of a mage adviser.”

“Right now, there is no one to advise,” Cerryl pointed out.

“The Traders’ Council…”

“Yes… I’ll need to see them. One at a time. Then the traders who have remained-and any who have come from Diev or Elparta or Kleth.” Cerryl gestured toward the lancers. “Shall we go?”

“Ah… yes, ser.”

Cerryl could tell the words were bitter in the other mage’s mouth and stopped. Kalesin took two steps, then turned and halted.

“Kalesin.”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps you should remember a few things. I am here with the blessing of the High Wizard and of the Council. I also have the support of Anya, the assistant to the High Wizard. I’m better with chaos and order than you are, and I’ve had more experience as an arms mage.” Cerryl softened his voice. “And I strongly doubt that I will remain here after I’ve returned Spidlar to prosperity. I suspect that is why the High Wizard wished you to remain.”

“Ah… yes, ser.”

Cerryl forced a smile. “I did not wish to come here, and you did not wish me here in this position. But I doubt it will be long, and it would be best that we work together so that I complete what needs to be done.”

“As you wish, ser.”

Cerryl wanted to blast the other but only smiled again. “We have much to do.” He resumed walking toward the waiting lancers.

After a moment, Kalesin scurried to catch up with Cerryl. When the two mages reached the stone seawall from which the wharf projected, Kalesin looked up at the lancer officer. “Captain Hiser, Mage Cerryl has returned as arms mage to continue the work of Eliasar.”

“Welcome back, ser.” Hiser’s smile was warm, almost one of relief.

That worried Cerryl. “It’s good to see you. I’m glad you’re a captain now.”

“A mount for the arms mage.” Hiser gestured, and a young lancer guided a chestnut mare forward.

Cerryl fastened both packs in place before mounting, then swung into the saddle. “I presume Eliasar took over the mansion that Jeslek used.”

“That he did, ser,” answered Hiser quickly.

“Then I’ll follow his example.”

“Forward!” snapped Hiser.

Cerryl studied the harbor square as they passed along the east side-the shops bordering the square open, but only a few passersby visible. A sense of hush, of expectation, hung over the area. Cerryl liked that feeling not at all. “Has it been like this since Eliasar was killed?”

“Yes, ser. Too quiet, if you be asking me,” answered Hiser.

“I don’t want any of the men traveling anywhere in groups of less than four.”

“Yes, ser.” Riser nodded grimly. “I’ll be letting the other captains know.”

“Teras? Senglat?”

“Teras be here. Senglat serves the mage Syandar in Kleth.”

“What about Ferek?”

“He be a subofficer under Senglat now.”

Cerryl kept the nod to himself. Eliasar had been smart. Then, the scarred arms mage had been smart about most things, and his death worried Cerryl. Worried him more than a little with the feel he was getting for Spidlaria.

A half-score of lancers guarded the walled mansion on the low hill that overlooked the harbor. A pair stood by the double doors as Cerryl dismounted and neared.

“Good day, ser,” said the one on the left.

“Good day to you-” Cerryl struggled and recalled the man’s name. “Natrey. Is Zoyst here, too?”

“Yes, ser. He be my replacement.”

“I know I’m in good hands. The High Wizard sent me back to carry on what Eliasar started.” Cerryl offered a smile and a nod, then stepped into the two-story entry hall, still half-amazed at the wealth of the traders outside Fairhaven.