“I’ve no complaints with your work or anything else you have done, young Cerryl.” Dylert fingered his beard, then cleared his throat. “That’d not be the problem.”
Cerryl waited.
“That fellow-the one the white mage got the other day? Something like that. . well, it happened to your da. You know that, do you not?” Dylert’s eyes flicked downhill, toward the spot on the edge of the road where the rocks and clay remained blackened.
“I know that something happened. Uncle Syodor and Aunt Nall-they didn’t say much about it.”
“Syodor. . he was. . he be not the type to speak of it.” Dylert fingered his beard again.
A pattering of heavier rain swept across the porch roof, followed by a light gust of wind that ruffled Cerryl’s hair. Water began to drip from the eaves.
“Speaking or not, though, fact is, be a dangerous time to stay here for a young fellow with a da like yours.”
“Did the white mages kill Uncle Syodor, too?” Cerryl asked softly. “You would only tell me that he and Nall were dead.”
“Too sharp for your own eyes, you be, young fellow.” Dylert frowned. “Like as they died in a fire, that be what Wreasohn said. How that fire got started, I’d not be guessing. Nor you, either.”
Cerryl nodded. But why? What had they done to anger the white mages? If the mages knew Cerryl existed, wouldn’t they have come after him?
“I’ve a wagon of white oak a-heading to Fairhaven the day after next. To Fasse, the cabinet maker there.” The millmaster cleared his throat. “I’ve a scroll here-Siglinda, she helped me with it-and it says that you’re a hardworking young fellow better suited to finer things. It also says you’re a tattered britches relative of mine, of a distant cousin.” Dylert frowned. “Don’t be making me a liar, now.”
“I won’t, ser.” Cerryl could feel the ache in his guts growing, but kept his eyes on Dylert.
“It’s like this, Cerryl. Your da and your uncle, they did things that, well. . they did not. . I mean. . the white mages can be jealous. . of anything much. . much close. . to what. . what they do.” The millmaster wiped his forehead. “You be their son and nephew, and Hrisbarg. . well, small it is. All the folk know all the folk.” He shrugged. “In Fairhaven. . none care. . not that ways, anyway.”
What had Uncle Syodor done? His uncle had stayed away from anything like the white mages had done, and Aunt Nall-she’d had a fit when she’d even seen a fragment of a mirror or glass around Cerryl.
“I thought of Tellis. Been owing me a long time, ever since I sent him the best gold oak timbers for his shop. . and a few other things.” Dylert’s face clouded.
Cerryl wondered what favor was so bad that the genial Dylert had a bad memory about it.
“Now, Tellis, he’s a cousin of Dyella, and he’s a scrivener. You know what a scrivener is?”
Cerryl didn’t have to feign puzzlement. Why was Dylert talking about scriveners?
“Scriveners write things for others,” Dylert said slowly, “and in Fairhaven they make books, like the ones Erhana let you read.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Well, you be liking books, and Tellis owing me, and sure as he could use a young fellow works hard as you. . and Fairhaven being a better place for you. . and. . well. . being a place where someone with. . the kind of talent mayhap you have. . seeing as if you didn’t use it. . it wouldn’t be so unexpected. . and Tellis, he knows how that land lies, if you see the line I’m laying. .” Dylert cleared his throat.
Cerryl did see the line Dylert laid. The millmaster was worried that any passing white wizard might stumble on Cerryl and hold Dylert responsible. He was also suggesting that Cerryl would be safer in Fairhaven, especially if he did not use his talents openly-or perhaps at all. “Yes, ser.”
“You understand, young fellow. . it’s not just you. .”
“I understand, ser. You’ve been fair and good to me.”
“Dinner be ready,” Dylert said. “We’ll talk more after we eat. You be needing some clothes, and a pair of good boots.”
“Thank you.”
“After we eat,” Dylert repeated, opening the door to the kitchen.
XXIII
Under the spells and songs of Creslin, who descended from the black Nylan and the dark songmage Ayrlyn, Megaera persuaded her cousin, the Duke of Montgren, to give both herself and Creslin refuge, for the white brethren had pursued the two and sought to bind them before they brought yet more darkness unto all of Candar.
In his weakness, the duke brought his cousin and her dark liege Creslin under his protection, and Creslin used the refuge at Vergren to build his powers, until darkness infested every stone of that ancient keep, until the very sun was kept at bay.
In the depths of that keep, Creslin took Megaera for consort, and bound her to him with the dark tie that meant, should he die, so, too, would she. Such blasphemy of light and goodness was too great even for the duke, and he fell into a stupor.
Fearing that, without the duke’s protection, the keep would be opened to the forces of light, Creslin and Megaera fled over the northern hills.
As he knew what the evil pair might bring upon Candar, the Viscount of Certis sent forth a host, but Creslin seized the winds of the north and pummeled that force with spears of ice and hammers of frost, and he slew from the depths of a magic fog the fair young wizard that advised the lancers of Certis, and only a handful of those lancers ever returned to Jellico.
When Creslin and Megaera reached the port of Tyrhavven, there they seized a ship of the duke’s, binding the crew with darkness and forcing them to carry the two dark mages across the gulf to the desert isle of Recluce. .
XXIV
AFTER WASHING AT the well and coming back to his room to finish dressing, Cerryl took out the silver-rimmed mirror and studied himself. The pale gray shirt and trousers were not new but almost could have passed for such, and the thicksoled boots Brental had given him seemed barely worn. In his pack, besides his books, were his old work clothes and an older sheepskin jacket, the fleece to the inside and barely matted.
His hair was shorter-Dyella had trimmed it for him the day before-but the shorter length seemed to emphasize the narrow triangular shape of his face. He fingered his chin, feeling the first hints of what might be a beard. Somehow, he doubted that any beard he grew would match the thick splendor of those of his uncle or of Dylert, or even the red bush sported by Brental.
The mirror went back in the pack, wrapped inside his spare smallclothes but on top of the heavier books. Then he slipped the scroll to Tellis on the very top and laced the pack shut.
He looked around the room, bare as ever, the blankets folded on the foot of the pallet, the board where he’d hidden his few valuables securely back in place, the white-bronze sword left there as well, the only possession he had left behind, but it was too big to conceal in anything he owned.
Thrap! Cerryl turned at the knock.
“You coming, Cerryl?” asked Rinfur. “Be a long day even leaving now.”
“I’m coming.” Cerryl lifted the pack off the stool and opened the door. Outside, standing at the back of the finish lumber barn, he paused and looked across the hillside. The oaks loomed across the field like ancient guardians of night, and the predawn gray was beginning to lighten. Cerryl closed the door and swallowed. A single terwhit echoed from the oaks to the west, and the night hum of insects had long since died away.
He turned toward the mill and lifted his pack. After receiving all the clothes from Dylert, Cerryl had been more than hesitant to ask the millmaster for his pay, and had kept putting off asking. Now he wished he hadn’t. What would he do in Fairhaven with only two coppers to his name-the same two coppers he’d brought to the mill? Should he have taken the short blade from the fugitive? His lips tightened. Not with the aura of chaos around it. He knew enough to know the blade alone would bring him trouble, much as he disliked leaving it behind.