L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

Redark smiled, warmly.

“That’s perfect,” hissed Lyasa. “He can’t decide what he wants to eat most days. He’ll do whatever Jeslek wants because he’s not smart enough to understand Kinowin and won’t admit it.”

Cerryl looked at Lyasa quizzically.

“Believe me. I know.”

The bleak tone in the black-haired mage’s voice convinced Cerryl, as did the quiet and muted sighs that swept the chamber.

“Are there any other suggestions?” asked Kinowin, turning to Jeslek.

Jeslek offered the smallest of shrugs.

“Since there are no other suggestions, and since the honorable Redark is a full and qualified member of the Guild, the Council accepts him as overmage.” Kinowin inclined his head to Jeslek.

Is that blotch on Kinowin’s cheek more flushed? Cerryl wondered, admiring Kinowin for his poise in what had to be a strained situation, a very strained situation.

Redark rose and stepped down the aisle toward the dais.

“They threw him out of the Patrol, years ago,” Lyasa added.

“How did you know that?” hissed Heralt.

“Derka told me before he left for Hydolar.” She shook her head. “Some say he’s Jeslek’s cousin, but no one really knows.”

Cerryl moistened his lips, his eyes on Anya, seeing the cold smile in profile-a very cold smile.

THE THIN DRESSING on his arm felt like it bulged even under the loose shirt. Cerryl glanced at his shoulder and the white tunic and shirt that revealed nothing, then studied the flat desk. Even though he’d been out an eight-day, the desk looked the same as ever-the two empty wooden boxes, the inkwell and quill stand, the lamp, and a stack of rough paper.

Zubal peered into the duty room. “You all right now, ser?”

“I’m fine,” he told the messenger. “I’ll spend a little time patrolling, with Nuryl, this morning, I think.”

“Yes, ser.” Zubal bobbed his head and withdrew.

After another look at the empty desk, Cerryl shifted his weight, put his white Patrol jacket back on, and then walked through the predawn gloom to the assembly room.

“He’s back…”

“…told you wouldn’t be long.”

Cerryl beckoned to Nuryl.

The area Patrol leader slipped away from his men and over to Cerryl. “You’re going with us, ser?” Nuryl’s eyes went to Cerryl’s shoulder.

“It’s not as though I have to swing a blade,” Cerryl pointed out. “Besides, you’re all out there every day.” He grinned.

After a moment, Nuryl smiled back, then nodded, and returned to his men. “Let’s go.”

Cerryl listened to the comments from Fystl’s and Sheffl’s men, the only groups that remained, as he walked out of the assembly room beside Nuryl.

“…wouldn’t go out after taking a war arrow…not that soon.”

“…why they get the coins…”

“…told you he was a tough little bastard.”

Somehow Cerryl didn’t think of himself as tough in the way someone like Eliasar was, or even as Kinowin must have been in his younger days, both men physically imposing and appearing able to break smaller figures in pieces. Even Jeslek was fairly imposing, at least compared to Cerryl.

Outside, the streets were still damp with water from the storm of the previous night, glistening almost silver in the gray light just before dawn.

FAT WHITE FLAKES of snow drifted down, some sliding off Cerryl’s oil-polished white leather jacket, others melting when they struck the stones of the Avenue or the walkway. Cerryl glanced ahead and to the side, alert for anything unusual, his eyes and senses changing focus continually as he walked northward toward Leyladin’s.

The Market Square was nearly deserted under the fall of fluffy snow, with but a handful of painted carts clustered in the center. As Cerryl turned westward just south of the square, he surveyed the wall from which he had been shot. The trees, with their shrunken and wizened gray winter leaves, now offered little cover. A thin layer of white covered grass and shrubs, but not stone roads, walkways, or tile roofs.

He continued westward.

A thin line of white smoke rose from the center chimney of Leyladin’s house, but the shutters remained open, the glass windows shut. Cerryl remained half-amazed at all the glass windows in Fairhaven-amazed and grateful that even the Halls of the Mages had them.

Soaris opened the door. “How be the arm, ser mage?”

“Much better, Soaris. Much better. I appreciated your handling of the carriage. I didn’t thank you at the time, but I trust you understand I wasn’t feeling as well as I might have.”

“I understand, ser.” Not a trace of a smile crossed the houseman’s face, though his eyes betrayed a slight twinkle as he stepped back and opened the door fully. “Lady Leyladin asked that you wait in the right-hand sitting room. Her healing duties at the Tower took somewhat longer than she had thought.”

Following Soaris, Cerryl sat down in one of the velvet upholstered armchairs, the one facing the silver-framed picture on the inside wall. This time he had a chance to study the portrait of Leyladin’s mother. The smile was warmer than Cerryl remembered and the blonde hair longer and more golden than Leyladin’s reddish-tinted hair. The gold threads on the green vest had been carefully reproduced by the artist, so faithfully that even a loose thread near the side pocket showed. The woman’s blue eyes held the same common sense and wisdom as her daughter’s, but not the laughter.

Had life somehow been hard for Leyladin’s mother? Harder than for the daughter? Cerryl wondered, his own eyes meeting those of the painting. After a moment, he looked away, reviewing the elegant furnishings-the settee, the other armchair, the matching cabinets of polished dark wood, and the low inlaid table before him. All were spotless, as if the room were never used-and almost as though it never had been.

The scent in the room was that of Leyladin, light and flowery, with a hint of depth.

After a time, at the sound of leather slippers on the marble of the hall, he turned and stood. “You look beautiful.”

“I look tired.” A fleeting and crooked smile crossed her lips, erasing for an instant the darkness beneath her eyes.

“You still look beautiful.”

“You’re kind.” In silklike green shirt and trousers, with a heavier but sleeveless vest of purple wool, the healer sat on the green velvet settee and touched the place beside her. “Sit by me…please.”

“Don’t look so serious,” he pleaded as he settled beside her.

“I am serious. I can’t laugh all the time.”

Cerryl waited.

“I know you care for me, Cerryl, and I care for you. We keep seeing each other, but we don’t say too much. We look like lovers to others, but we don’t talk like lovers.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to,” Cerryl said slowly. “I thought, because I’m White and you’re Black, we had to be very careful, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

Leyladin’s eyes shimmered, as if she were close to tears. She tightened her lips, then turned so her eyes met his.

Cerryl looked into her eyes, feeling again as if he were falling into their green depths.

“Cerryl.”

Although her voice was gentle, he almost jumped. “Yes?” He tried not to look at her so intently. “I’m sorry. Sometimes, I feel like I could get lost in your eyes.”

“That sounds like you’re trying to be a poet. Or a lancer officer with a maid he’s just met.” The words were tempered with another smile, a gentle one with a hint of laughter.

Cerryl winced. “That’s not what I meant. That’s how I feel, but I wasn’t trying…You’re getting…when you do that…but you don’t…” He sighed and stopped, finally shrugging. “I can’t say what I mean.”