Once he had the golden oak floorboards stacked in four short piles, he pushed the cart slowly back out of the barn and along the cool stones of the causeway back toward the mill.
Brental was standing by the oxen by the time Cerryl and the handcart reached the mule cart beside the millrace wall.
“Da. . he’s still jawing with master Hesduff. Got some boots here, and a bucket of water. Sit back down.”
Cerryl sank onto the wall.
Brental took a soaking rag and sponged away dust and blood. His eyes widened. “Darkness. . what you did.” The redhead shook his head. “Cerryl. You have to wash your feet several times a day, no matter what. Till these heal. You understand?” Brental’s brown eyes bored into Cerryl. “And wash ’em right ’fore you go to bed.”
“Yes, Brental.”
“Cerryl?” called Dylert.
“You stay here.” Brental stood and pushed the handcart toward the mill, calling out, “Cerryl got the boards. I was coming this way, so I thought I’d bring ’em for you.”
“Good.”
“Good day, master Hesduff,” said Brental.
“Good day, young Brental. Hard to believe I’m a-looking up to you.”
As the three talked inside the mill door, Cerryl looked at the fresh blood welling across his bruised and blistered feet, then squared his shoulders.
“Good boards for rough cut. . Pick them out, Brental?”
“No, master Hesduff. Young Cerryl did. Has an eye for wood, I’d say.”
“Does indeed. . Would you load those on the cart? Now. . about the timbers, Dylert?”
Brental slipped back out of the mill, pushing the handcart.
Cerryl stood and walked over to the back of the mule cart. “I can load these.” He took the top pair of floorboards.
“We can get it done twice as fast together,” Brental said mildly.
Cerryl didn’t object. His feet still hurt, if not so much as before. Neither spoke while they stacked the boards.
“Brental! Bring that cart back.”
Brental nodded and wheeled the cart back into the mill, returning shortly with eight six-cubit timbers laid across it.
Again, Cerryl helped Brental load the timbers into the mule cart. Brental tied them in place with two lengths of hemp as Hesduff and Dylert strolled out of the mill.
“We’ll be seeing how these work out, and I’ll be back before long.” The crafter nodded to the millmaster.
“And we’ll be here, Hesduff.” Dylert smiled politely.
“Sure you will be. A pleasure, Dylert. Always a pleasure.” Hesduff untied the mule and climbed onto the cart seat, then flicked the reins.
As the cart creaked away and down the road, Brental slipped up beside Dylert and began to speak to his father in a low voice. Cerryl might have been able to hear them if he strained, but he just sat on the wall dumbly, fearing the worst. If only he’d had some coppers before he started at the mill. . if only his feet hadn’t grown so fast. . He wanted to shake his head but didn’t. What good would it have done?
Once the mule cart left, Dylert walked over to Cerryl. He shook his head. “Cerryl?”
“Yes, ser?”
“Have I been cruel to you? Have I beat you? Or failed to feed you? Or clothe you?”
Cerryl looked at the stones of the causeway. “No, ser. Never, ser.”
“Boy. . you ask for little. I know that. But there’s a time for brains and a time for pride. What if Brental hadn’t seen? How long afore you’d never walk again?”
“I’m sorry, ser. I did not think.”
“No, you didn’t. You’ve had a hard life, but I’d not make it harder. Don’t you, either. Take care of your body, boy. Be the only one you have.” Dylert nodded at Brental. “You say those old boots of yours will fit?”
“Be better if he didn’t work in the mill for a day or two. Ought to go barefoot.”
“Place be clean enough to do without for a day or two.” Dylert laughed. “Viental always be taking off.” He looked at Cerryl. “You can help Dyella round the house. No boots. Understand?”
“Yes, ser.” Cerryl looked up. “Thank you, ser.” He swallowed. “Thank you.” He had to look down, afraid Dylert would see how close to tears he was.
“That be all right, Cerryl. Just get those feet well.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Now. . up to the house and tell Dyella you’ll be doing chores for her. Darkness knows, she could use the help with all the wool coming in.” He snorted. “And Erhana could spend more time on her lessons. Always looking for a way out, that child.”
“Yes, ser.” Cerryl nodded.
“Put the boots in your cubby first,” said Brental. “You need to clean the old ones sometime. Might be someone else could use them later.”
Cerryl nodded again, forcing his eyes up to meet Dylert’s. “Thank you, ser.”
“Off with you, boy.”
Cerryl could tell that Dylert didn’t feel as gruff as he sounded, but he answered politely, “Yes, ser.”
IX
The White mages, powerful in the paths of peace and wary of war, girded their robes and invoked the hopes of peace. . but all were doomed.
For Nylan, the dark angel, again lifted his hands, and he unbound the Accursed Forest of Naclos, and the forest rewarded him, and rendered back unto him the fires of Heaven and the rains of death. And Nylan laughed and cast those fires and rain across the west of Candar. And Ayrlyn sang songs that wrenched soul from soul and heart from body.
The Mirror Lancers found their light lances turned upon them, and the very earth rose and smote them, and the righteousness of the white mages was for naught as their glasses exploded before them, and death rained upon all. .
The very ground heaved, and. . the Grass Hills were seared into the Stone Hills, so dry that nothing lives there to this day. .
The few white mages who remained, they slipped away to the east, far across the Westhorns, and even beyond the Easthorns, fearing that the west of Candar was no place for the goodness of white.
Indeed, they were sore justified in their fears, for the demon women of Tower Black, the heart of the evil kingdom of Westwind, grasped the Westhorns as a constricting snake seizes its prey. Their metalled roads pinioned the very peaks, and all trade bowed to their black blades.
The dark forests of Naclos swelled back over their former domain, those lands that the ancient white mages had freed, and the forests once again swallowed the lands in darkness. Therein dwelt the evil druid Nylan and the songmage Ayrlyn, and their offspring made Naclos their own, and the shadows of their power shaded all of Candar from the Westhorns to the Great Western Ocean.
. . and in the fullness of time came the white mages to Fairhaven, to begin again the struggle to reclaim all of Candar from the grip of darkness. .
X
AFTER STEPPING OUT onto the porch, the bean soup that had been dinner filling his stomach comfortably, Cerryl looked out from under the eaves. A line of rain splattered on the stones of the causeway that linked the lumber barns and the mill.
“Won’t be stopping any time soon,” offered Viental, standing by the railing. “Either sit and wait, or run. Me. . I stopped running a long time ago.” The stocky laborer turned, walked to the empty bench against the house wall, and sat down heavily.
“You get wet about the same if you run or you walk.” Rinfur shook his head. “You walk to your room and hang up your clothes, and they got time to dry.”
“While you shiver in your blankets,” answered Viental. “Not for me, thank you.”
Cerryl sat cross-legged on the planks of the porch floor, his eyes on the darker clouds to the southwest, over the mines, over the old house where he had lived as long as he could remember until he’d come to the mill. Was Syodor out in the rain, using it to uncover new gleanings? Or were his aunt and uncle sitting before a warm hearth? He rubbed his forehead, aware of a dull throbbing growing above and behind his eyes.