L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“He won’t do that.” Cerryl gestured at the now-blank mirror. “He could have destroyed the entire fleet with his little Black ship. He didn’t. He’s certainly no weak-willed Black idiot either. Weak-willed idiots don’t fight head-on. He destroyed Jeslek and Fydel one-on-one-Fydel with a staff, not even that iron clad chaos of his.”

Cerryl turned slowly, almost indolently, and stepped over to the small side table. His back to the redhead, he slipped off the amulet he wore in a quick motion and set it on the table. He opened the wooden box and removed the painted amulet, concealing a wince as the metal burned his hands, not badly, but enough to sting. He had to get back to using less chaos…somehow. “Besides, you saw his ship. Even if we could board it, what could anyone do? Our White Lancers couldn’t even touch half of it with all that black iron.”

Anya eased out of her chair and stepped toward Cerryl’s back. “It’s too bad you’ll follow Sterol, Cerryl dear. You’ll see once the fleet mages return.”

Leyladin stiffened but did not move.

“I don’t think so.” Cerryl lifted the amulet and turned. “But here, you wear it. You always wanted to.” With a quick gesture he dropped the gold-painted iron links around her neck.

Anya lifted her hands, then screamed as a circle of flame burned away the gold paint and the white cloth beneath it. Her hands reached for the hot iron, but Cerryl grasped her wrists and nodded toward the door.

“I’m not quite as dense as I look, dear Anya. And while I’m not as powerful as you believe you are, or Sterol did, I do occasionally think.” His voice rose. “Gostar! Hertyl!”

The three guards who hurried through the Tower door and across the white stone floor bore chains of heavy and cold iron in their gloved hands.

“You need me!” the redhead screamed as the additional heavy iron chains slipped around her.

“Indeed we do. You will make a perfect example for future would-be schemers. You will look ravishing once your image is captured for display. Most fetching.” Cerryl smiled and inclined his head to the guards. “Good day, Anya.”

The redhead straightened, ignoring the pain of the cold iron. “You don’t understand, Cerryl. I can see . See like Myral. No matter what you do, it doesn’t matter. I know. I saw you in this room with the amulet. Why do you think your aunt and uncle died? Why did those brigands attack you in the sewer? Despite everything I did, all my actions brought you here.” Her face twisted in pain and rage. “Don’t you see? Everything you do is for nothing. Fairhaven will fall. It will melt under a sun you cannot even think about. Everything you want to do will end as ashes. It’s all worthless! You’re worthless.”

“Good day, Anya,” Cerryl repeated, watching as the leather-gloved guards wrapped the cold iron chains around the redhead.

As the door closed, he plunged his hands into the basin of cold water, taking a deep breath as the water soothed his hands.

Leyladin stepped up beside him. “With all that iron on her, she’ll die before the Guild meets.”

“I know,” Cerryl said soberly. “That is proof she could not maintain the balance necessary for a mage. It will also relieve everyone of having to make a decision…and leave the blood on my hands.”

“Sometimes…you can be cruel.”

“Sometimes a High Wizard has to be cruel. No one listens otherwise. Anya didn’t listen at the end, either.” He shivered. Will you listen? Or will you become like all the others?

“Was she right?”

Cerryl offered a harsh laugh. “Of course she was…in a way. Everything ends. Fairhaven will fall. So will Recluce. Cyador and Westwind fell. But she was wrong about what it all means. The end is always the same. That’s why what we do does matter. Good or bad, we die. If we bring some light and prosperity into the world, isn’t that better than there being less light?” He dried his hands on his trousers, ignoring the red blotches on his fingers.

“Some would say, then, that power for one’s self is all that there is.” Leyladin’s eyebrows lifted momentarily.

“Some would. I wouldn’t. Power for one’s self is hard to amass and harder to hold. Where are Jeslek? Sterol? Anya?” He shrugged. “Myral died as peacefully as he could have. Kinowin is still here. So are we.” So far …

“So far,” she repeated. “And I am with you.”

“I’m glad.”

The healer touched his hands, and the soothing darkness spread across his skin, lifting the discomfort. “She was screaming about an image.”

“I’m having her statue put up on the ledge. I did promise her that, and I keep my promises.”

“You didn’t set one up for Myral.”

“No, I didn’t. He was more than an image…much more.”

THE HIGH WIZARD dismounted at the alley gate, and the pair of lancers checked the courtyard before he crossed the rain-puddled stones and entered the small common room that had once seemed so spacious.

Beside the table stood a wide-eyed boy of less than a handful of years and a woman.

“Is that you, Cerryl?” Benthann’s voice was hoarse, and the once-blonde hair was mostly gray, the blonde like streaks of sunlight against gray autumn clouds.

He nodded.

“Why did you wait so long to come back?”

“Because had I shown any affection toward you or Tellis or Beryal, my enemies would have used you. The only way I could show my gratitude was not to come.” He smiled, not concealing the twist to his lips. “I did what else I could.”

“The golds in the leather bags?”

“Yes.”

“I thought they might have come from you.”

“Your son?” He inclined his head toward the towheaded boy. “He is handsome.”

“Like I was once, I suppose.”

“Yes. I always looked at you.”

“I know.” Her eyes dropped. “You’re not here just for me.”

“I need to thank Tellis. I owe where I am to him. Because he took in a mill boy and made him a scrivener.”

“He won’t know what to do.” Her voice was low. “He’s in the workroom.”

“Where else would he be?” Cerryl looked at the boy. “If you need help…”

“Only if I really need it.”

“If you do…” He nodded and stepped through the archway.

Tellis was bent over the copying desk as Cerryl stepped into the workroom, but the scrivener’s head jerked up. “Ser? I did not see you enter. My apologies, ser, my apologies. Have you seen the latest copies of the Histories ?” Abruptly the scrivener stopped, his eyes on the golden amulet. “Oh, Your Mightiness…what can this humble scrivener-”

“Tellis.” Cerryl laid a manuscript on the table. “It’s been a long time, but I’d like you to make three copies for me. If you would…”

“Of course, honored ser. Of course.”

Cerryl wanted to wince at the politeness, the servility, the near-groveling. “As I told Benthann…I owe you my life and more, and until now there was little I could do to repay it, except through purses left by stealth. I am sorry…but I do try to repay my debts.”

After a moment, Tellis looked at the manuscript. “Your letters are wide…honored ser.”

“They were not, once upon a time.” Cerryl grinned crookedly. “If you could find some of the green leather, I would appreciate that. Oh…and if you can finish them by the turn of summer, your fee will be ten golds-for each of the three I need.”

“Some, honored ser, pay their debts, and that be what a good scrivener would hope for. You’ll have your three, and all in green.”

Cerryl finally nodded, knowing that to say more would not help. “Thank you. For everything.” For life, for Leyladin, for the chance to become what I have…for not making it too hard to try to repay debts…old debts .