L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“You-you are impossible.”

Suddenly he swallowed. “You know what I feel…some of the time.”

“I didn’t need much to know that.” The playful smile vanished, and she nodded: “At times, you know what I feel. It happens, sometimes, with mages.”

Cerryl sat down on the edge of the chair. “I just thought I was imagining.”

“No…dearest. Why do you think I’m here?”

“Because I’m impossible?” He forced a smile.

“You know better than that.”

This time his smile wasn’t forced. He leaned over the bed and kissed his blonde healer, this time on the lips. “I’ll leave you to your mystery.”

“Go get something for us to eat-if you know how.”

“I manage.”

“Good.”

Somehow, the gray day felt sunny as he clumped down the stairs in his heavy white boots.

THE WIND OUTSIDE had stopped wailing earlier in the day, as had the last of the snow flurries. The heavy snow of the past two days remained drifted across most of the streets of Elparta, except where the patrols had packed it into a second pavement-or ice.

Inside the mansion, the fire in the library hearth-where two fresh logs rested upon a heap of coals-still had not removed all the chill of disuse from the room. The High Wizard remained wearing a crimson-trimmed white wool cloak. Jeslek surveyed the table in the center of the library, the room that had again become his command post. His eyes went from Anya to Cerryl to Leyladin before finally settling on Fydel. “I received your message, just before we departed Fairhaven. Why did you feel disinclined to accept the terms offered by the Spidlarians?”

Fydel fingered his curly black beard and looked at the High Wizard. “I did not trust them. After I talked with Cerryl, I trusted the terms even less.”

“Oh?” The High Wizard’s gaze fell on the youngest mage. “Cerryl, what did you say that so swayed your comrade, the elder mage?” Irony crept into Jeslek’s voice.

Cerryl offered a smile he wasn’t sure he felt. “I do not recall the exact words, but there were several matters that bothered me. First, the Spidlarians fought for every span of ground, yet suddenly they offer terms that open the land to us? They offered terms that no land has ever accepted when conquered, not willingly.

“The viscount and the prefect are our allies and supporters, yet they avoid keeping their promises. Spidlar is an enemy that offers more than our declared friends? Why should we expect more from an enemy? Also, the smith mage Dorrin continues to forge implements and parts of something with so much black iron that the order nearly twists the glass when I view him. The attacks on our patrols continue, even now.”

“With such logic, and such a high opinion of our declared friends, Cerryl, you would have Fairhaven take on all of Candar, and I doubt we can do such.” Jeslek chuckled, albeit bitterly.

Why not? It might be easier than all this posturing and dissembling . “I never suggested such, High Wizard.”

“Why is it that I mistrust words when my title is employed?”

Fydel covered his mouth with a hand, suggestive of a hidden smile. Anya’s eyes brightened.

“I would not know, ser. You asked my reasons.”

“Then what did your words suggest? Properly suggest?”

“I think that the large traders of Spidlar would offer anything to keep trading, but their armsmen might not be bound by such.”

“Nor Recluce, either,” suggested Jeslek. “Have we heard more from them?”

“No,” answered Fydel.

“Just as well. Cerryl may have been right this time.” Jeslek looked toward Cerryl. “Would you put another log on the fire?”

Cerryl nodded and slipped out of his chair. He took one log from the wood box built into the hearth and eased it into the fire, then followed with a second before returning to his chair.

“For the conquest of Spidlar we will need more mages with firebolts,” Jeslek stated. “I have requested that another dozen mages join us before we begin the attack.”

“Who?” asked Fydel.

“They are largely junior mages-your former assistant Buar, Myredin, Bealtur, Faltar, Kalesin, Ryadd, those are the ones I recall. Eliasar added some others.”

“Why so many?” Fydel frowned.

“I intend to make an example of Spidlar so that we do not have to do the same to Hydlen, Certis, or Gallos.”

Anya’s smile broadened. “Hydlen deserves such.”

“I would rather have Hydlen’s golds than its corpses, dear Anya.” Jeslek coughed once.

“So would I,” murmured Fydel. “Gold is more pleasant to smell and more useful.”

“Corpses do not hold onto their golds,” countered Anya, “unlike traders. And traitors.”

“Enough,” snapped Jeslek. “Corpses don’t earn more golds. Live traders do. Besides, the decision has been made.” He inclined his head, fractionally, in the direction of Anya and then Leyladin.

The redhead rose smoothly from the chair, almost sinuously. “Fydel and Leyladin and I will depart then, since you have nothing else for us to hear or to undertake.”

A puzzled look flitted across Fydel’s countenance, but Anya took his arm with a smile. Leyladin offered a faint smile to Cerryl as she rose. After the door closed, Jeslek leaned back, but his eyes remained hard and glittering, fixed more on the roaring fire than upon the younger mage.

“The healer was most helpful, and I am certain she will remain so…so long as she holds to her course as a Black. And her sire supports the Guild and its efforts.”

“I do not see that changing,” Cerryl said carefully. “Layel is well aware of the advantages the Guild offers one such as him.”

“What of the healer? Will you bed her until she is gray?”

I don’t see Anya’s talents being changed by whom she beds . “There is no reason why either of us should change. Not according to Colors of White or aught else I have studied.” Cerryl kept his voice level.

“Too much closeness to a Black will weaken you.” Jeslek’s voice was flat. “You are not so strong as you consider yourself.”

“I do not consider myself strong in comparison to you,” Cerryl replied bluntly.

Jeslek laughed. “Ah, Cerryl, always honest about power. You deceive yourself about the healer, but not about power.”

But I do deceive about power . “I try not to deceive myself where power is to be considered.” I try not to .

Jeslek shook his head. “Go. Go and bed her…or whatever you choose. You are young, and you will see. Naught I can tell you will change that. Just remember. I have told you. Power is more true than any wench, and power is fickle indeed.”

“By your leave?” Cerryl stood.

“By my leave…but throw another log on the fire before you go.”

Cerryl was beginning to sweat, but Jeslek had still left the cloak wrapped around him. “Of course.”

Jeslek did not even look up from the table and the glass before him when Cerryl left the library.

Did all White mages worry about their power being corrupted by close association with order? Or did Jeslek fear that Leyladin would make Cerryl somehow stronger? Cerryl concealed a frown as he stepped out into the corridor to find Leyladin.

FOLLOWED BY THE four lancers who trailed him everywhere, Cerryl reined up short of the section of the river wall where the work crew toiled in the sunlight, an afternoon warmer than any since fall. The crew numbered eleven, all locals of some sort.

The spritely white-haired Jidro set down an iron pry bar and walked toward the mage. “Best day in seasons, ser mage.”

“I would agree. How are things going?”