“Neither would I,” said Leyladin with a laugh. “Perhaps…it may be getting late for you.”
“Don’t shoo him out.”
“He has to rise early, Father.”
Cerryl held up a hand. “Your daughter is doubtless correct. I’ve enjoyed the meal and the company…but I do have to be up before the sun.”
Leyladin rose, and Cerryl followed her example, following her back through the house, lamps still burning in unused rooms, throwing shadows on polished and glistening floors.
In the foyer, he eased on his jacket, thinking about the short, but certainly chill, walk back to his cold room, a room that had seemed so luxurious-until he had seen Leyladin’s house.
“What do you think?” asked Leyladin as she stood by the door.
“About what? Your father? He cares a great deal for you.”
“Cerryl. You are as dense as that mule my father mentioned.” A smile followed the words, but one that held concern, and her green eyes, dark in the dim light of the polished bronze lamps, fixed his.
He took a deep breath. “I don’t know what to think. I could say pleasant things, and I would, to anyone but you. Right now…I’m…overwhelmed. I grew up an orphan in a two-room house. It was clean, but my pallet was on the stone floor, and my uncle felt lucky if he could grub a good piece of malachite and sell it for a silver once every few eight-days. I went to work in a mill not much past my tenth year, and I was lucky to have a pearapple to eat once or twice a year. Those noodles tonight-they were wonderful, but they probably used more pearapples than I’ve eaten in my whole life. I’ve never had good wine from bottles.”
“Cerryl…I know that. I’ve known that from the beginning, but I couldn’t keep pretending that I wasn’t different.” She reached out and touched his cheek. “With you…I don’t want to pretend.”
“That means more than you know.” He offered a smile.
“I think I know that.” She bent forward and brushed his cheek with her lips. “Good night. I’ll see you soon.”
As he walked through the night, through the light gusts of cold wind, through the intermittent snowflakes with the slight headache he’d almost forgotten, his thoughts swirled like the snow. What happened next? Could anything happen? Jeslek, Sterol, and Anya had all cautioned him against consorting with a Black. Yet Leyladin was a healer who was mostly Black, and he was a White mage-perhaps at best a White mage fringing toward gray. He repressed a slight shiver at that. No one liked gray mages, neither the White mages of Fairhaven nor the Black Order mages of Recluce.
He and Leyladin could hold hands…but how much more? Was she worried about that? Was that why she kept a certain distance?
He frowned as he kept walking. Her kiss had been warm, but not order-chaos conflict warm.
V
CERRYL STRETCHED, STANDING in the sun of the small guardhouse porch, glad that spring had returned. Even the hills in the distance were showing signs of full greening.
He sat down on the backed stool provided for him, just high enough to be able to see over the granite rampart. He kept his eyes open but concentrated on focusing the chaos energy of the sun into an ever-tighter line of pure chaos-something like a light lance, but no thicker than his index finger.
Whst! The barely audible hiss followed as the narrow line of golden fire cut into the granite at the bottom of the rampart, drilling into the hard stone. White dust oozed out onto the walkway.
Cerryl released the light dagger-or whatever it might be-and sat there quietly, sweating, although the day was not that warm, trying to cool off from his silent effort. The area under the rampart ledge wasn’t that visible, and if anyone did look, he’d only assume that the stonecutters had made an error and perhaps filled in with powdered stone that had leached away over time.
Kinowin had suggested he use his time to improve his skills…but how? And where? He couldn’t very well have said that he’d mostly mastered the light cloak that left him invisible, certainly not in the Tower, where the walls had both eyes and ears. Nor did he wish to make known his light lances, and if he used those on guard duty, everyone in the Halls of the Mages-including Jeslek-would know in days.
Cerryl had wondered what other skills might be useful…that he could work on quietly. Somehow, focusing chaos into a tighter focus might help. At some time he wanted to try the light dagger against cold iron, but he dared not experiment with that where anyone could see or scree him. Chaos against iron would alert any mage nearby.
The sound of wagon wheels on the stones of the highway broke into his reverie, and he sat up straight, looking at the afternoon coach from Lydiar. The four passengers all filed out and stood by the guardhouse while Cerryl studied with his senses the boxes and bags roped to the top. Outside of one black case that held a set of iron knives, the bags were all filled with what seemed to be fabric or leather-things with a “soft” feel.
“Ser?” called the duty officer.
“The black bag has knives, but there’s no rule against personal weapons.”
The swarthy black-bearded trader in purple looked up at the thin mage, standing at the guardhouse upper rampart, back to the duty guard, then shook his head.
“…see why you’d best not be smuggling?” asked the rotund Sligan in his embroidered jacket.
“…demon-damned mages know what you eat for breakfast…”
“It makes your efforts more profitable,” suggested the third man, a blonde man in a gray tunic and trousers with high black boots, an outfit Cerryl didn’t recognize.
“Smugglers don’t take the White highways.”
“If they don’t, they’ll not be carrying much.”
“Let’s go!” called the coach’s driver.
As the coach pulled through the gates, the duty guard gave a broad smile to Cerryl. “That be keeping them thinking, ser.”
“Let us hope so.” Cerryl still wondered about the blonde man in gray and black. The fellow could have been almost any age and showed neither order nor chaos. But something about him bothered Cerryl. Or was it that he just couldn’t determine from where the fellow might hail?
Cerryl sat back down on the stool, fingering his smooth chin.
So many things were unsettled. Leyladin was off in Hydlen, and while he was pleased with his progress in using the light dagger, he felt he needed to come up with something more.
He’d have to think about it, not only about what other chaos skills he could hone or develop, but where so that others, Anya and Jeslek, especially, did not discover, not quickly, in any case.
VI
CERRYL TOOK A deep breath as he left Kinowin’s quarters, not really knowing why, except that he was relieved that Kinowin hadn’t pressed him again on improving his chaos-handling skills.
“It can’t be that bad.” Standing outside the overmage’s door, Faltar grinned at Cerryl. “Wait for me. I won’t be long.”
“All right.” Cerryl sat down on the small wooden bench as the blonde mage stepped into Kinowin’s quarters and shut the door behind him. Faltar was always so cheerful. Was that why he appealed to so many people? He certainly didn’t have as much ability to handle chaos stuff as did either Lyasa or Cerryl, but all had been made full mages at the same time. Then, reflected Cerryl, it had taken Faltar four years. The slender mage leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.
Thud!
Cerryl opened his eyes in time to see a red-haired apprentice mage, thin-faced and female, hurrying away from Kinowin’s door. He sat up for a moment, but Faltar didn’t appear, and he leaned back. Darkness, he was tired.
“Cerryl?”
Cerryl struggled awake. Gate-guard duty didn’t help his sleep, and he hated to think what it might be like in summer when the days were longer. “I’m here. I think.” He sat up on the bench and rubbed his eyes.
“Kinowin’s already left. You were sleeping. I’ve been to the Meal Hall and back. They’re having creamed lamb. Again.” Falter’s lips curled. “I thought you might like to go out for dinner with me.”