L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“Why aren’t you taking their offer?” asked Cerryl.

“You assume too much.”

Cerryl laughed softly. “I’m assuming nothing. You won’t take the Spidlarian Council’s offer. I’d just like to know why.”

“Isn’t it obvious? Why hand it to Jeslek? He’s back in Fairhaven, enjoying fires, good food, and a few other pleasures.” A wide grin revealed large white teeth. “Who knows? We might get a better offer before spring.”

“We won’t. What you’re hoping is that Jeslek will have to face some mighty Black. Like this Brede? Or that the smith Dorrin will turn out to be greater than Jeslek thinks.” Or that I’ll make more mistakes . “That won’t happen.”

“It could. The smith has produced some nasty weapons.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“No.” Fydel smiled. “But there’s no reason to make it easy for Jeslek, is there? No real reason to hand him an easy victory after he’s muddled through a year of doing nothing, is there?”

“What about the levies? Why kill them off unnecessarily?”

“You’re too soft, Cerryl. What are a few hundred peasants one way or the other? Especially peasants from Hydlen and Gallos.”

Cerryl shook his head but said nothing.

“Here. Read it. Tell me if I’m wrong.” Fydel reached down and picked up the scroll and handed it to the more slender White mage. After Cerryl took it and began to read, Fydel reseated himself at the table with his right side to the hearth.

The sunlight dimmed, and the room seemed to cool immediately as the first of the gray and white clouds from the north passed before the sun.

Fydel looked up only when Cerryl set the scroll back on the table before the older mage. “Is it not as I said?”

“It is.” Cerryl frowned.

“You seem disturbed.”

“Concerned. Concerned.” Cerryl stepped closer to the hearth, but not to Fydel. “The traders do not sound like men who have fought off another land for a year. They do not write as men who have mages and war leaders from Recluce fighting for them.”

“Perhaps the Black Isle has abandoned them. Recluce has done that before.”

“The smith remains in Diev, and he forges strange things out of black iron. I’ve seen that in the glass.” Cerryl turned. “Have you not told me that your patrols are still attacked, if by small numbers of blue lancers?”

“We’ve lost but a half-score since the turn of the year. Nothing.”

The younger mage shrugged. “Nothing, but the tactics remain as they were, and that would suggest that their Black warleader remains here in Spidlar.”

“What are you saying, Cerryl?”

“Nothing.” Cerryl shook his head. “Perhaps you should take their terms. Or make a counteroffer.”

“And let Jeslek…? No.”

“Then send him the terms. Ask for his advice.”

“Why should I do that?”

“So that you don’t give him another excuse to get angry at you.”

Fydel pursed his lips, then fingered his beard. “Perhaps I should, although it may take some time for their message to reach the High Wizard. The Easthorns are closed, except for the Great White Highway through Gallos, and it will take eight-days for a messenger to reach there.”

“As you see fit.” Cerryl nodded. “Might I be of other service?”

“Only if you can get the walls completely repaired, so that we don’t need so many patrols and sentries.”

“We’re working on that.”

“Good.”

“I will talk to you later.” Cerryl stepped away from the hearth and nodded to Fydel before departing. As he walked down the stairs and out into the chill where the gelding was tied, the wind whistled and the sound of stonework echoed through the window. Behind him, in the high room above, the candles flickered in the late afternoon.

THE BRIGHT FIRST yellow-orange light reflected off the newly dropped snow, through the slits at the side of the shutters and into the sitting room, and then into the study-cascading across the glass and disrupting Cerryl’s concentration.

He blinked twice, then rubbed his forehead, letting the mists in the screeing glass dissipate. He looked straight down but saw only his own reflection-thin brown hair, narrow chin, straight nose, gray eyes with faint circles beneath them-his own image and the image of the dark-beamed ceiling above.

For the fourth day…he could not find Leyladin in his glass. There might be many reasons. She could be in a place where the glass was blocked, like on a ship or traveling a large river or somewhere amid hills filled with order and iron, or she could be shielding herself, as Cerryl could do if he worked at it. There were reasons, but her continued absence bothered him.

He walked to the sitting room window and closed the front shutters-slightly ajar-all the way. Ignoring the lancer guards in the front foyer and the chill that held the room, he returned to the polished wooden table and the blank glass. Was he losing his ability to seek out Blacks? Had he used chaos too much, careful as he had tried to be?

He concentrated once more.

The silver mists swirled, then dissipated to reveal the redheaded smith of Diev, tongs in hand, sliding a chunk of highly ordered iron from the forge onto an anvil. A striker stood in the background, extending a hammer to the smith.

A puzzled look appeared on Dorrin’s face, and Cerryl let the image lapse. Like Leyladin, the Black could sense a glass seeking his image.

But where was Cerryl’s blonde healer? Careful…she’s not yours. She’s not anyone’s .

He took a deep breath. Maybe tomorrow .

WHY DID YOU want me here?” Fydel stepped from the foyer into the sitting room. He stopped short of the archway into the study where Cerryl stood beside the circular table, empty except for the screeing glass.

“I wanted you to see something before Jeslek arrives.”

“He won’t be here for another eight-day.”

“I would say less than five days.” Cerryl gestured for Fydel to study the glass in which he held an image. “Look.”

In the glass appeared the redheaded smith. Dorrin and an older man stood beside a cart. The contents of the cart could not be discerned, but the image rippled with the force of unseen and concentrated order.

“He’s a Black. He’s calling forth order. What else is new?” Fydel’s voice contained equal parts of boredom and scorn.

“He’s calling forth nothing,” corrected Cerryl. “That’s from the black iron in the cart.”

“He’s wasted all that order, sinking it into that much black iron. What can he do with it? You can’t work black iron, not once it’s ordered.” Fydel straightened, as if to dismiss the image and the redheaded smith.

“Look at what’s behind him,” suggested Cerryl. He felt the sweat building on his forehead with the strain of holding the image against the twisting of the massive order displayed through the glass. How can Fydel be so blind?

“It’s an old scow on blocks.”

“It’s being refitted and all that black iron is going into it.”

“Some sort of order device?” Fydel laughed. “To use against us? What good would it do? That’s a ship, and he’s in Diev. We’re attacking down a totally different river. He’s wasting his time.”

“How many lancers did you lose last summer? To those hidden black iron traps? And to that Black armsleader?” Cerryl’s voice was pointed.

Fydel flushed above his wide beard. “He never fought. He just rode away except when he could kill defenseless lancers.”

“The glass says that they’re gathering more of their own lancers, and levies.” Cerryl released the image in the screeing glass and blotted his steaming forehead on the lower sleeve of his heavy white shirt. “How many lancers and armsmen do we have here?”