L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“I would second that, Subofficers,” Teras added.

“Yes, ser,” Hiser and Ferek answered almost simultaneously.

“I be Dester, ser. This way, if you would.” Dester was a rail-thin figure with a gray goatee who eased his mount alongside and then slightly in front of Cerryl’s gelding.

The other lancer, a true white-bronze lance in his holder, merely nodded as he joined them.

Some sections of the stone walls of Elparta had toppled inward, and the dwellings and other structures within fifty cubits of the walls were largely rubble as well. As Ferek had predicted, the odor was higher once past the walls.

“Is anything left standing?” Cerryl asked.

“Most east of the river walls, especially beyond the merchants’ hill. That’s where we’re taking you, ser. Doors don’t fit lots of places. Some of the fellows like that.” Dester sniffed, almost in disapproval.

Huyl remained silent.

The street had been broad for a city not designed by White mages, but the piles of fallen roof tiles and rubble from walls had narrowed it to little more than space for two mounts. Huyl fell back.

Cerryl found his hands going to his dagger, and he shook his head. Better chaos than a dagger, but he hoped he had to use neither.

A long scream echoed from somewhere to the left of where Cerryl rode, a long and despairing scream. He turned his head to look down the half-blocked lane off the main street, but the cobblestones were deserted, and he saw neither lancers nor a woman. The scream had told him enough, and there was little he could do. Still…his stomach clenched.

Slowly, the three made their way along the main street, for perhaps three-quarters of a kay, before turning eastward. After several hundred cubits, the side avenue began to slope gently uphill, ending another 300 cubits farther east at an open brick-and-stone gateway guarded by four lancers.

“Here be the High Wizard’s headquarters and quarters,” announced Dester. “And we’ll be a-heading back.”

“Thank you.”

With a nod, Cerryl rode through the gates. Another set of lancers were stationed by the carved doors to the mansion. As he dismounted and tied the gelding to a hitching post carved in the likeness of a red deer, Cerryl glanced around. The walls around the large house, larger even than Layel’s, had been roughly patched and the courtyard cleared of fallen brick and roof tiles.

One of the second-story windows was missing shutters, and a thin crack ran across the stone facade of the dwelling on the left side of the arched front doorway where the two lancers stood.

Before Cerryl reached the lancers, the door opened, and Anya stood there. “So…you finally made it.” Anya offered her blinding and false smile. “Jeslek will be pleased to see you. Do come in. You must have had a cold ride.”

“I’ve had warmer.” Cerryl used the boot scraper and brush by the door before stepping into the house, finding himself in a hallway twice the size of the cot where he had spent the last two seasons and with a ceiling nearly four times higher.

Anya closed the carved door of stained dark oak.

“You had more trouble taking the city than anyone thought, then?” Cerryl asked, his tone mild.

“We could have done this last spring.” Anya shrugged, and the smile faded.

“I imagine Jeslek had his reasons.”

“He had the thought that it might be better not to have to rebuild the city.” Anya’s brilliant smile returned. “As I told you a long time ago, Cerryl, appealing to people’s better nature almost always fails. They respect but force. So…it’s better to use what force you must quickly and get on with it.”

“I see that the High Wizard came to that decision as well.”

“He had no choice. Hydlen provided few lancers and no levies to speak of. Nor did Lydiar. The prefect of Gallos grudged every body that came down the river. Even the second-promised levies from Certis were late and few.”

“And the Black who commanded the blue forces…Brede…his name has even reached my armsmen…he was far better than expected?”

“Armsmen talk too much at times, Cerryl. Best you not put too much stock in rumors.”

“I will remember that.” Cerryl nodded. “I take it that the High Wizard-and you-will be occupied this winter.”

“I see you understand, even without being here.”

“We were tasked to protect the supply road and your flank. We did so.”

“You did well, Cerryl.” The smile broadened. “You eliminated almost a quarter of the Spidlarian lancers and never boasted a line about it. Jeslek was impressed.”

“Yes, I was.” Appearing in the doorway behind Anya, the High Wizard smiled at Cerryl. “Would you join me?” Jeslek’s hair was as white as ever, still shimmering as it caught the light from the candles in their sconces on the wall. His sun-gold eyes glittered as before, but an air of age and tiredness surrounded him, and dark circles had grown under his eyes. An unseen haze, as if of chaos dust, surrounded him. “Anya, if you would finish that scroll about the division of duties…as we discussed? Bring it in when you are finished, if you would.”

“I will.”

Cerryl thought he saw a slight softening of Anya’s hard smile but for an instant before she turned.

Jeslek turned, and Cerryl followed him into what had once been a private library. Half the shelves were bare, and books were stacked randomly among the rest of the polished wooden shelves that took up two full walls. A low fire glimmered in the hearth, and the warmth of the room was welcome.

Jeslek filled another goblet with a dark red wine from the decanter on the silver tray that rested on the corner of the massive table-desk-supported by four wooden pillars, each carved into the shape of a mountain cat. “You look like you could use this.”

“It’s been a long year…longer for you, though, I imagine.” Cerryl took the goblet.

Jeslek seated himself, not behind the desk, but at one side of the circular table ringed by four wooden armchairs. “Sit down.”

Cerryl sat and, following Jeslek’s example, took a small sip of the wine. He avoided frowning, sensing that the vintage had already begun to turn…and that it should not have done so yet.

“Yes…a long year…and a longer winter for us both.”

Cerryl raised his eyebrows.

“You and Fydel have a task or two here. Anya and I-and Eliasar-have more than a few elsewhere in Candar.”

“Ensuring we get more support next spring?”

“Of course. Much of this year was a facade. I had to let them wind enough rope around their own necks.” Jeslek took another swallow of wine and laughed once more. “Unless Fairhaven sees more tariffs and levies, there will be new rulers in a few lands. Enough of that.” The High Wizard smiled, then extended a wrinkled and stained scroll. “These were the terms I offered Elparta. Read them.”

The younger mage accepted the battered scroll and unrolled it, his eyes flicking across the words, some smudged, others blurred as if water had fallen on the scroll.

…from the honorable Jeslek, and the commanders Grestalk and Xeinon…

“Who are Grestalk and Xeinon?” asked Cerryl. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“The commanders of the Certans and Gallosians. Go on; they’re not important.” Jeslek took another swallow of wine, a healthy one.

Cerryl tried to hurry through the scroll.

…beseeching that the citizens of Elparta, in the interests of justice and mercy, lay down their arms and pay homage to the greater hegemony of Candar…

…that the river gates be destroyed and the water piers be open to all…that the battlements be cast down…that unmarried women be made available as consorts for…that all followers of the Black heresy, including the officers of the Spidlarian Guard who have committed atrocities and used evil magical tools against the hegemony, be turned over to the honorable Jeslek…that reparations from the granaries of the city be made to the forces of the hegemony…that all able horses are to be turned over to the representatives of the hegemony for proper redistribution…that all members of the so-called Council of Traders be returned to the Candarian Traders’ Guild for proper disciplinary action…