L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

He frowned. He had to do something. Did he dare to take the chance? Then he shrugged and turned, hoping he could find the redheaded mage.

Anya surprised him. She was in the Library, poring through a thick and ancient tome. “Cerryl.”

“Anya. Have you a moment?”

Anya flashed the broad smile, and the scent of trilia and sandalwood flowed around him. “For you, Cerryl, I can spare a moment.”

“I am most grateful.”

They walked to the fountain courtyard. There Cerryl walked into the shade in the corner where the falling water would mask their voices.

“What do you want?” For once, Anya was not smiling as she turned to him. Her eyes darted to the far corner, toward the door from the main Hall.

“I’ll be but a moment. I was thinking, and I wanted to thank you.”

“I don’t know as I merit thanks.” Puzzlement and interest appeared in her pale eyes, eyes neither quite green nor blue.

“After Jeslek’s death, you offered me the amulet, in a way. I think I understand why now, and I appreciate the gesture. I’m leaving for Spidlaria in the morning to take Eliasar’s place, but I wanted you to know that I did appreciate your suggestion.”

“Thank you, Cerryl.” A faint smile appeared and vanished. “Is that all?”

“Well,” he added, “you seem to work well with Sterol. But you know where you can reach me, and Leyladin can get me a message if you need something I can provide.”

That brought a faint smile, one not quite real, but one with a hint of self-satisfaction and wistfulness, an expression that faded as she spoke. “I forget at times how young you were when you became a full mage. You continue to grow. I thank you for your offer.” The bright smile appeared. “You had best be readying yourself.”

“I will.”

Together they turned back toward the rear Hall. Once inside, Anya slipped toward the Library and Cerryl toward his quarters. He packed what he thought he might need-including two sets of whites, smallclothes, spare boots, and his ragged-edged copy of Colors of White -and set it on the narrow single bed.

Then he left, walking quickly through the Halls and up the Avenue toward the Market Square, before turning left at the side street leading to Layel’s dwelling.

Soaris opened the door, his eyes widening slightly as he beheld the White mage.

“Is Lady Leyladin here, Soaris?”

“I believe so, ser. Would you come in?”

“Thank you.” Cerryl followed the blue-vested and huge man into the sitting room.

“I will tell her you are here. It may be a moment.”

“Thank you,” Cerryl repeated. He did not sit but studied the portrait of Leyladin’s mother, studying the blue eyes that seemed to follow the beholder.

Leyladin appeared nearly immediately-wearing green trousers and a light silk shirt without a vest. Her red-gold hair was ruffled, half-disarrayed. “It’s barely afternoon.” The usually dancing green eyes were somber and fixed on Cerryl’s gray orbs. “What happened?”

“Eliasar was killed. The High Wizard is sending me back to Spidlaria to take his place. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

He nodded.

She was silent, then stepped forward and slipped her arms around him. For a time, they just embraced.

Then the healer eased back, her arms still loosely around him. “This is all a ploy to get you out of Fairhaven…and to discredit you.” Her voice was low, pitched as if to keep it from others.

“I know. Making me responsible for obtaining and collecting tariffs when there’s no trade. Why me?”

“Neither Sterol nor Anya wish you around.” She snorted. “You might actually come up with the tariff coins. No one else could, and the way we’re losing mages, you’re already one of the few really skilled ones left.”

“Recluce is winning this war, if it is a war.” He paused. “I told Anya you could get me a message if she needed one.”

“You what?” The healer stiffened.

“I worry about Kinowin’s health, and I’m not so sure about Sterol. It’s just a feeling. He’s not quite the same, and I don’t know why. Anya can be counted on to preserve herself.”

Abruptly Leyladin smiled. “You’re more devious than you let on, dear mage. You implied that she could count on you if something happens.”

“I suppose I did. Was that wrong?” Cerryl frowned.

“No. Not since you told me.” Her eyes narrowed. “But when did you tell her this?”

“Just before I came here.”

“Ah…coming from another woman to me?”

“That’s not…” He grinned as he realized she had been teasing. “You!”

“You’d best remember that.”

“I promise.”

“Now…I know you have to leave early in the morning, but you are staying here the rest of today and tonight.”

“Are you sure?” asked Cerryl, grinning in spite of himself.

“Of that I’m quite sure.”

They both smiled…bittersweet smiles.

THE WHITE SERPENT pitched forward, riding the downside of the swell before spray cascaded over the bow. Cerryl swallowed hard, hanging onto the heavy wooden railing and glancing toward the west, wondering if his stomach would hold for the remaining two days of the voyage from Lydiar to Spidlaria.

The ship was a faster way to get to Spidlaria, but not terribly comfortable, especially in the heavy swells.

“How ye be, mage?” The ship’s second stood at Cerryl’s elbow, standing there without holding onto anything.

“Fine.” Cerryl forced a grin. “Except I don’t seem to be able to walk anywhere without holding on.”

“Must be a storm to the northwest…a mite unseasonable this far north in summer. Hope the Black ones haven’t been calling their storm mages.” The second gestured off the starboard bow quarter, almost into the sun that beat down out of a green-blue sky that held but the faintest hint of high, hazy clouds. “Don’t ye worry. We’ll have ye ashore afore the worst reaches this far south.”

“Good.” Cerryl paused. “Did you see the Black ship-the one that needed no sails?”

The second’s face clouded. “Aye. Demon-driven it was, and the Black one skirted the reefs and left us near becalmed. The mages’ fire-it washed over the ship, scarce touching it. Evil as anything I ever saw upon the deep, that it was.”

“It’s anchored off Recluce,” Cerryl volunteered.

“I’d wish it were anchored twenty-score cubits deep.” The second laughed. “Not that chaos listens to a poor sailor.” With a nod, the man turned back aft.

If the Black ship worked, Cerryl knew, there would be more on the Eastern Ocean, just as there had been more chaos mages once the ancients had unleashed the White power, just as Recluce had become inevitable after the fall of Westwind.

He glanced to his left, in the general direction of Fairhaven. He hoped Leyladin would be all right. Once at sea, with the swirls of order and chaos, he couldn’t use his glass, even in the times when the ocean was calmer.

Kinowin would watch out for her, and Anya wouldn’t seek her harm, scheming as the redhead was, because Anya wouldn’t want to upset Cerryl, not while she still had uses for him.

The reluctant arms mage’s lips quirked. You’d almost rather deal with the Black smith than with Anya-except that you have no choice .

The White Serpent pitched again, and his fingers tightened on the railing.

IN THE EARLY-AFTERNOON sun, Cerryl set the two packs down beside the railing where three crewmen wrestled the gangway into place. He inclined his head to the dark-bearded master of the White Serpent . “Thank you, Captain.”

“My duty, mage.”