“What of those who can accept neither your rules nor those of the Blacks?” Leyladin frowned.
“Each man and woman wants rules that are suited for them. Can we have a thousand sets of rules in a town of a thousand? Even fifty sets of rules in a village? It’s better to have a few absolute rules than many that attempt to deal with all that may befall people.”
“A few simple rules?” Her eyebrows arched.
“The Patrol rules are a good start. We need to bring the idea of patrollers elsewhere. More patrollers and fewer lancers, especially in Fairhaven.”
“You don’t intend to keep that many lancers in Fairhaven?” asked Leyladin, eyes twinkling as though she already knew the answer.
“Why?” Cerryl inclined his head. “If we need more than fifty score to defend the city, we will already have lost any war. If we cannot hold together Candar east of the Westhorns, then we cannot hold Fairhaven. Life must get better for the people beyond Fairhaven. They must be our responsibility-”
“Why are they the Guild’s? Some will surely ask that.”
“Because their own rulers will not do what is best. We will.”
“The Guild would not. You will,” said Leyladin. “Just as you will deal with Anya-now that you have undermined much of her support.”
“Not much…but enough.” You hope…Cerryl turned to the window, where, from outside the White Tower, came the faint wail of the late-winter wind.
“Let us hope.” Leyladin took his hand.
Both looked into the clear and cold afternoon.
CLXXXII
THERE YOU HAVE the fleet,” said Cerryl, nodding toward the glass in the center of the table. A dozen ships bearing the red thunderbolt banner straggled back into the Great North Bay. Cerryl raised a finger, and the image vanished from the mirror. “Now what do you suggest?”
“You send out another fleet, this time one that will follow orders. That is, if you wish to continue as High Wizard,” Anya said lazily from where she half-reclined in the chair across the table from Leyladin and Cerryl. Anya’s eyes focused not on Cerryl, but past him and on the high gray clouds visible through the Tower window beyond the table. On one side of the table rested a deep basin of cold water.
“Sterol was right,” Cerryl added, his voice conversational as he looked at the box on the small side table, a box containing a gold-painted iron amulet.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to let that nobody on Recluce humiliate us?” Anya’s voice took a harder tone. “After what he did to Fydel…and to Jeslek? You’ll let it pass? And stand up and tell the Guild that?”
“There is a Balance, and we can accept it or fight it. Everyone who has fought it has lost. The trick is to make it work for you.”
“You sound like you’re weaseling out, Cerryl. We can’t have that.” Anya sat up straight in the chair but did not rise to her feet.
“Why don’t you listen, for a moment? It won’t hurt.” You really don’t think she will, do you? She’s convinced that you won’t ever act against her. Cerryl stood and walked to the window, glancing toward the cold gray clouds, then back at the redhead.
“I’m listening.” The words were cold, yet white flames lurked behind her eyes.
“This smith-wizard builds machines. Those machines must contain chaos-fired steam or water. That means they embody great, great order. If he builds many of his machines, he increases the amount of chaos in the world. That would increase our power more greatly than his, because his order would be locked in those machines.”
“So you would encourage him to build those machines? To attack and destroy our ships? That would certainly increase chaos. How much good it would do us is another question.” Anya rose like a pillar of white flame.
“He won’t do that.” Cerryl gestured at the now-blank mirror. “He could have destroyed the entire fleet with his little Black ship. He didn’t. He’s certainly no weak-willed Black idiot either. Weak-willed idiots don’t fight head-on. He destroyed Jeslek and Fydel one-on-one-Fydel with a staff, not even that iron clad chaos of his.”
Cerryl turned slowly, almost indolently, and stepped over to the small side table. His back to the redhead, he slipped off the amulet he wore in a quick motion and set it on the table. He opened the wooden box and removed the painted amulet, concealing a wince as the metal burned his hands, not badly, but enough to sting. He had to get back to using less chaos…somehow. “Besides, you saw his ship. Even if we could board it, what could anyone do? Our White Lancers couldn’t even touch half of it with all that black iron.”
Anya eased out of her chair and stepped toward Cerryl’s back. “It’s too bad you’ll follow Sterol, Cerryl dear. You’ll see once the fleet mages return.”
Leyladin stiffened but did not move.
“I don’t think so.” Cerryl lifted the amulet and turned. “But here, you wear it. You always wanted to.” With a quick gesture he dropped the gold-painted iron links around her neck.
Anya lifted her hands, then screamed as a circle of flame burned away the gold paint and the white cloth beneath it. Her hands reached for the hot iron, but Cerryl grasped her wrists and nodded toward the door.
“I’m not quite as dense as I look, dear Anya. And while I’m not as powerful as you believe you are, or Sterol did, I do occasionally think.” His voice rose. “Gostar! Hertyl!”
The three guards who hurried through the Tower door and across the white stone floor bore chains of heavy and cold iron in their gloved hands.
“You need me!” the redhead screamed as the additional heavy iron chains slipped around her.
“Indeed we do. You will make a perfect example for future would-be schemers. You will look ravishing once your image is captured for display. Most fetching.” Cerryl smiled and inclined his head to the guards. “Good day, Anya.”
The redhead straightened, ignoring the pain of the cold iron. “You don’t understand, Cerryl. I can see. See like Myral. No matter what you do, it doesn’t matter. I know. I saw you in this room with the amulet. Why do you think your aunt and uncle died? Why did those brigands attack you in the sewer? Despite everything I did, all my actions brought you here.” Her face twisted in pain and rage. “Don’t you see? Everything you do is for nothing. Fairhaven will fall. It will melt under a sun you cannot even think about. Everything you want to do will end as ashes. It’s all worthless! You’re worthless.”
“Good day, Anya,” Cerryl repeated, watching as the leather-gloved guards wrapped the cold iron chains around the redhead.
As the door closed, he plunged his hands into the basin of cold water, taking a deep breath as the water soothed his hands.
Leyladin stepped up beside him. “With all that iron on her, she’ll die before the Guild meets.”
“I know,” Cerryl said soberly. “That is proof she could not maintain the balance necessary for a mage. It will also relieve everyone of having to make a decision…and leave the blood on my hands.”
“Sometimes…you can be cruel.”
“Sometimes a High Wizard has to be cruel. No one listens otherwise. Anya didn’t listen at the end, either.” He shivered. Will you listen? Or will you become like all the others?
“Was she right?”
Cerryl offered a harsh laugh. “Of course she was…in a way. Everything ends. Fairhaven will fall. So will Recluce. Cyador and Westwind fell. But she was wrong about what it all means. The end is always the same. That’s why what we do does matter. Good or bad, we die. If we bring some light and prosperity into the world, isn’t that better than there being less light?” He dried his hands on his trousers, ignoring the red blotches on his fingers.