L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

The woman server who followed added a basket of bread, a jar of conserve, and a second, opened, bottle of the same wine as in the first bottle.

Westcort placed a brass handbell on the table, equidistant from either, but on Anya’s right. “If you need anything more…”

“Thank you, Westcort.” The red-haired mage lifted her knife and the fork.

Cerryl followed her example, glad he’d had some experience with good cutlery, thanks to Leyladin, although, once again, the dinnerware was not so good as either that of Layel or that at Furenk’s. Neither were the cutlets outstanding, if far better than the fare served below.

After taking several bites, Anya glanced at the younger mage. “You are surprising, Cerryl.”

“I am who I am,” he answered, not quite sure what he could say.

“Yes, you are.” She flashed the warm, winning, and insincere smile. “That is what is surprising. You are an orphan raised by a miner and his consort-I did find that out, you know? Yet your speech bears no roughness. You worked in a mill and then for a scrivener. Yet you handle cutlery well, and your manners would grace any table. It is not what you are that is so surprising. It is what you are not.” Another smile followed, less open, ironic, and more honest.

“What am I not?” Cerryl offered a gentle laugh.

“You are not rough, ill-spoken, and untutored. You do not-unlike others of a similar background-seek the more…violent avenues of advancement within the Guild.”

“I was not aware I sought any.” Cerryl took another small sip of the wine. “My ignorance has made me cautious.”

“Ah…yes…caution. You are wise to be cautious now. Even Myral has hinted that the times are changing.” She lifted the goblet and finished the wine in it.

Cerryl poured her another half-goblet, to the level that Westcort had initially.

“Myral is old, but more than a few times his visions have been true,” mused Anya. “Some may be true but do not matter.”

Cerryl frowned, then cut another section of cutlet, making sure the meat was well coated with the pearapple glaze before he put it to his mouth.

“They do not matter,” Anya continued after a swallow of wine, “because they will happen long after you are dust. Does it matter that Fairhaven will be melted by a second sun-or that mad White chaos wielders will roam all of Candar? Or that Recluce will be sundered in twain by one of its own?”

“Perhaps it does. Perhaps, knowing such, we can change what might otherwise be.”

“Perhaps.” The tip of her tongue curled just over her perfect lips, and in the glow of the lamps her eyes seemed to flicker from pale gray to pale blue. “And perhaps not. Perhaps our actions in trying to avoid his visions are what will make them happen.”

Cerryl almost shivered at that thought. How could one ever know which was the right course, then?

“That bothers you, doesn’t it?” Anya smiled. “Better you enjoy the life you have than struggle to make right a future that your actions might equally make wrong.”

Cerryl forced himself to take a slow sip of wine. “The wine is good.”

“It is. There are better wines, but a good wine and a good life, lived now, are far more desirous than seeking a distant good that one’s efforts may destroy as easily as create.”

Cerryl tried to keep his head from spinning at the implications of Anya’s words. She’s trying to upset you…and she’s doing it…demon-damned darkness! Finally, he said, “Do you think Myral is right about the times changing?”

She laughed, gently and generously. “Cerryl, all times change. How can Myral be wrong?”

“I know, but sometimes the changes are little, and sometimes…”

“Sometimes, the entire world changes?” She ate several bites of the rice before continuing. “Jeslek has raised mountains. You know. You were there when he began. No mage has ever done that. So times have changed.” She lifted her shoulders, then dropped them theatrically. “Some things never change. Men will always want coins, and power, and beautiful women. Women will want what they want.” Her eyes fixed Cerryl’s. “What do you want from being a mage?”

Cerryl remained stock-still for a long moment before answering. “I don’t know that I know.”

“Best you find out before someone else chooses for you.”

“It can be hard to choose when you know little of the choices,” he pointed out.

“Well,” she began, her voice light, “you could ask Myral and Kinowin to help you become a trade monitor. You’d probably end up in Quend, freezing half the year and using your glass to scree through cargo of fish and more fish. Or you could ask Eliasar for arms training-”

“And end up cutting off my own foot,” he interjected with a laugh.

“Or you could work with Jeslek raising mountains and chaos, getting old before your time. Or you could spend the next half-score of years flaming old ladies from the gate ramparts…”

“You make few of the choices attractive,” he pointed out.

“Exactly. All paths have drudgery. That is the problem with seeking fulfillment through one’s skills in meeting the Guild’s needs.” Anya drained her wine.

Cerryl replenished her goblet, emptying the first bottle in adding but a touch to his own goblet, more to distract from the fact that he had drunk little than from any desire for more wine. “What would you suggest?”

“Ah…I won’t. Not now, dearest Cerryl. I’m a cruel woman. You need to think about what I’ve said. You and Faltar and Lyasa and Myredin and Heralt and Bealtur, you all have to make your own choices. But no one tells you enough.” Anya smiled the broad insincere smile.

Cerryl stiffened within.

“What I will tell you is that nothing is as it seems. Not the Guild, not Kinowin, not Myral, not Sterol, not even me. I’ll tell you that. They won’t.” She took another swallow of the dark red wine. “No matter what anyone says, best you question it within yourself.” Another swallow of wine followed. “Wine doesn’t lie, Cerryl. We lie to ourselves; we lie to others. Wine lies to none.” The bright smile was slightly off-center as Anya stared at Cerryl before lifting her glass once more and draining it.

Cerryl refilled it, almost absently. There was less than half of the second bottle remaining.

“You could be dangerous, Cerryl, but you’re too kind. Even with those you trust not, you are kind. Best you be careful of that as well.” Anya’s pale eyes had turned darker, almost owlish, as she cradled the goblet in both hands.

Too kind? Cerryl swallowed a yawn.

“You are tired, and confused. Or partly confused. Or less confused than many, but still confused.”

Confused? Yes, but not in the way you think…dear Anya .

“Run along, Cerryl. Run along back to your mine-cave-room.” Anya gestured broadly. “Go back and be a cautious miner, and think.” She laughed, this time almost raucously. “It won’t help. It won’t help at all.”

Cerryl stood, then bowed slightly. “I am tired. Could I walk you back to the Hall?”

“Yes. You could. I would like that.” Anya rose, gracefully despite all the wine she had drunk.

Cerryl followed Anya down the stairs, half-ready to reach for her if she fell, but the redhead swayed only slightly more than normal and with a grace that was almost seductive.

Almost .

“Good night, Westcort.” Anya offered a head bow as she passed the proprietor.

“Good night, Lady Anya…ser.”

“Good night,” Cerryl added. Since Westcort had not asked for coin, either Anya was known to be good for the debt…or she had already paid.

“You are wondering, are you not?” asked the redhead as Cerryl helped her up the steps to the front Hall. “You are wondering. Well…I will let you wonder.”