L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“The boys and I’ll have the wall ’side the river be finished afore long,” Jidro said. “Took a mite longer than I’d thought. My recollections are better than my skills, these days.”

“You’ve done good work, Jidro.” Cerryl felt at his pouch, then extracted a silver, leaning down from the saddle and extending the coin. “This is extra.”

“Ser.” Jidro bowed. “I be thanking you, and saying that never did I think to get a bonus from a White mage.”

“There’s more work, if you want it.”

A puzzled look crossed Jidro’s face. “Word be that you folk be moving on.”

“We are, but the other walls need repairs. Nor are the new sewers along the main avenues complete.”

“I be willing, ser.”

“Good. Kiolt is the one to see. He’s a lancer subofficer. I’ll tell him to expect you. If you have any trouble, I’ll be here for a time yet.” Cerryl turned his mount.

“Thanks to ye, ser mage.”

“Thanks to you, Jidro.”

Cerryl rode back along the avenue, noting that two men worked on another house across from the river wall. Both avoided looking at him and the lancers who trailed him.

“What was that all about?” Fydel had reined up just beyond the pier gate and waited for Cerryl. Four other lancers waited behind the square-bearded mage.

“Finishing the repairs.”

“I don’t see why you worry about the walls and the streets so much,” said Fydel. “In another few eight-days most of us will be gone, headed downriver. You, too, this time.”

“I know. But we have to leave a detachment, and I persuaded Jeslek to leave a few dozen golds to finish the important repairs. Kiolt has agreed to supervise them. His father was a mason.”

“Why?”

Cerryl smiled. “Because it’s cheaper than having to conquer the place again.”

“We’ll have to anyway, if it comes to that. People don’t remember what happened last eight-day. You expect them to be grateful for fixing the damage we caused?”

“No. I think the locals here might remember that we can destroy or create, and the choice is theirs.”

“Tell that to Jeslek or the Guild members in Fairhaven.” Fydel flicked the reins and turned his mount to walk back toward the south gate.

Was Fydel right? Were most people so unperceptive? Or was it that too many White mages were contemptuous of the everyday people? Cerryl pondered as he rode up the hill. Pattera, the little weaver girl, had tried to warn him, years ago. Had he ever done one thing to repay her?

Cerryl winced at the recollection. And what of Tellis-who had taught him the art of scriving and made it possible for him to be a mage? That’s not so bad…He nearly threw you out when the Guild started looking for you . Still…Tellis had helped him. Are you any better than Fydel?

Cerryl wasn’t sure he was-or that he could answer himself honestly.

Back at his quarters, Cerryl stabled the gelding, glad to see that Leyladin’s mare was in the adjoining stall. That meant she’d returned from her investigations to see what healing herbs and roots she had been able to find-or dig up from the partly frozen ground. He walked to the front entrance, where he nodded at the guards, stationed on the covered brick stoop outside the foyer now that the weather had improved.

“Zoyst, Natrey, everything all right?”

“Yes, ser. Glad to see the sun, ser,” answered the darker Natrey.

“So am I.” The mage stepped into the foyer, blinking for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the comparative gloom.

“Cerryl? Is that you?” Leyladin came down the steps slowly, rubbing her eyes. “I must…have fallen asleep.”

“You’ve been healing more than you should. Your body is telling you you need the rest.”

“So many of them are so young.”

“So many? Is Jeslek sending out scores already?” Cerryl frowned.

“No. There were just two, but I looked at all the others, and…many will die. One-he had a slash in his arm. The other-he took an iron shaft in the chest.”

“Iron?”

“It was meant for Fydel, I think. From a crossbow.”

Iron shafts for mages? Cerryl shivered. The advance into Spidlar could prove costly.

“You have to be careful,” she said, stopping on the next to last step, so that she was taller than Cerryl, and putting her arms around him.

Cerryl saw the darkness in and around her eyes. “What about you? You can’t spend so much of yourself on every lancer.”

“I know,” the healer acknowledged again. “I know. But I knew I could…this time. Was I supposed to let him die?”

“You’ll have to let some die.” If you want to live .

“It’s hard. I didn’t think it would be this way. I did, but I didn’t.” She squeezed Cerryl. “I wanted to be with you, and I wanted to help. Kinowin said it would be hard.”

Cerryl returned the hug, then relaxed his hold so that he held her but loosely. “That’s why some healers can’t handle battles and wounds.”

“I can see why.” A faint smile appeared and faded.

“How is the lancer?” Cerryl wanted her to think about her success, not the pain.

“He’ll be all right.”

“But not for this season.”

“No. He’ll have to stay in Elparta.”

“He may be one of the lucky ones.” He squeezed her to him, again gently, then released her. “You need to rest. Have you eaten?”

“I had some cheese and some of the bread when I got back-and some of the joint.”

“Good.” He pointed upstairs. “You need rest, Lady Leyladin.”

“Don’t ‘lady’ me.” She offered a mock pout.

“Then get some rest.” He grinned.

She started to retort, then yawned. “Light!..You might be right.”

“I am-once in a great while.”

Leyladin stifled the yawn, then leaned forward and brushed his cheek. “This time…” Then she touched his cheek. “I know you care.”

He watched until she disappeared at the top of the stairs, then turned and went to his study. He stared at the glass on the polished wood of the round table.

After a moment, he stepped forward, seeking the red-haired mage amid the silver mists of the glass. Dorrin was not in his forge, but upon the seat of a wagon, with another seated beside him-apparently a young-faced man wearing a broad-brimmed hat. In the wagon were objects wrapped in canvas, objects that radiated order even through the glass, so much that the image shimmered and wavered. After an instant, Cerryl let the picture fade.

The smith was bringing more infernal devices somewhere-doubtless to the Black warleader. More devices to kill…and we will respond with chaos fire and lancers and more levies than the blues can raise .

Cerryl sat down in the chair that faced the archway and the front window. His eyes ignored the glass before him on the table but did not see either the brick wall before the dwelling or green-blue sky beyond it.

After a time, the foyer door opened, and Natrey called, “A Mage Faltar to see you, ser Cerryl!”

“Send him in.” Cerryl rose from the table and hurried into the sitting room toward the foyer.

At Faltar’s name, Leyladin scurried down the steps from the second bedchamber she had claimed as her work space, even though the small desk was barely wider than a three-span plank. Then, as she had that morning, she spent a good half of each day checking the worst illnesses among the lancers, when she wasn’t seeking out things like willow bark, astra, or brinn.

“Faltar…”

“Cerryl! Leyladin!” A broad smile beamed from the thin blonde mage. “I’d hoped to find you together.”

Leyladin offered a surprisingly shy smile.

“Can I get you something to drink?” asked Cerryl.