L. Modesitt: The White Order

“Enough troubles without them. Wish I’d get my hands on one of them. Teach them a lesson.”

The steps receded. Cerryl waited, his hands burning, his lungs rasping, before he began to lever himself down. His entire body was aching and trembling before his boots touched the street outside the walls. He forced himself to cross the street with care and slip into the side street, behind the rain barrel, listening until he could hear no one.

He released the light shield, and the afternoon sun struck him like a blow, and he staggered, putting a hand out to the wall. He just leaned against the wall, panting, aware that his hands burned and his head ached. Finally, he straightened and walked slowly down the narrow street, the sun at his back, toward the cooper’s.

A woman stepped out of a door, saw him, and stepped back inside quickly.

Wonder of wonders, the chestnut was still tied there. He began to untie the reins.

“That your mount, fellow?”

Cerryl continued to unfasten the reins as he turned. “Yes.”

A heavyset man with a leather apron stood under the over-hanging eaves that formed a porch of sorts. “Those hitching rings are for customers.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.” Cerryl fumbled in his wallet. “I don’t have much. Would a copper help?”

“Wouldn’t help me. I gave your mount some water. You shouldn’t have left him so long.”

Cerryl looked down. The cooper was right, but Cerryl wasn’t sure he’d had that much choice. His head still ached, but he looked at the gray-bearded man. “I’m sorry. Are you sure I couldn’t give you something?”

“No.” The bearded man laughed generously. “You don’t look as you’d need a barrel or even a hogshead. Keep your copper; spend it on grain for your beast. Just remember that Mydyr is the best cooper in Fenard-and when you do need barrels, I’d like to see you.”

“Mydyr-I’ll remember.”

“What’s your name?”

“Cerryl.” Cerryl knew no one in Fenard knew his name, and there was no reason to lie about it. “Thank you. I’ve got to get going.” He mounted quickly.

“Don’t forget, now.”

“I won’t, ser.” His knees were trembling, and he hoped the cooper didn’t see that, or his reddened and burning hands. “I won’t.”

He mounted and rode slowly down the side street, and then around the square, hoping he didn’t get lost, and managed to find the main avenue again. It was beginning to fill with carts departing Fenard, and he rode slowly behind a cart with mostly empty baskets, except for one half-filled with maize.

His legs hurt; his vision kept blurring, and his head throbbed. His hands still burned, feeling both hot and as though they had been bruised. But trying to ride faster would only call more attention to him, and he wasn’t sure he could handle any more attention.

As he neared the gate, he wondered whether he should try to use the light shield to get out of the gate. He shook his head. That would slow him down, and the sooner he was outside the walls the better. If the guards challenged him. . then. . then he would do what was necessary. As you have all along. . no matter the cost to others . .

He swallowed and kept riding.

The guard waved the maize cart and driver through, then looked at Cerryl lazily. “Where to, fellow?”

“Tellura. . then maybe Quessa, depending on. .”

“Go. . better you be there than here.” The bored-looking fellow waved Cerryl on.

Was that all there was to it? Was there a chance he would get back to Fairhaven and Leyladin? Would she even care?

Once past the low-lying fields and over the bridge, he looked back, but the gates remained open, almost as though the city were oblivious to the death of its prefect.

Although his head felt as though it were being ripped apart by Dylert’s big mill saw, he kept riding as the sun dropped behind the western hills, and the sounds of insects rose above the whisper of the wind at his back, a wind that carried the scents of damp autumn earth and molding grasses, and the chill of the winter yet to come.

CERRYL GLANCED AT the still-steaming heights ahead-the hills that Jeslek had raised into mountains. He patted the chestnut on the neck and glanced along the empty Great White Highway.

After more than five long days, he was back on the Great Highway, and back in the whites of a student mage. He hadn’t changed out of his “bravo” disguise until he’d finally been on the Great White Highway for more than a day, but he kept the darker cloak strapped on top of his pack-just in case he ran into some Gallosian armsmen.

The clouds that moved slowly out of the northeast were thickening, and darkening. He looked up, judging that rain would not fall until midafternoon, and hoping it would not be heavy.

His hands still hadn’t healed totally, and his headache, while it had faded, had not disappeared, and a rainstorm would just make that worse. His thighs threatened to cramp, but hadn’t, perhaps because he was getting more used to riding. His neck was stiff-probably from looking over his shoulder to see who might be pursuing him.

Better think some about what’s ahead . .

His stomach growled, reminding him that he needed to stop and eat something, not that he had all that much to eat. He’d spent most of the remaining coins on travel food at a small town just short of the Great Highway-hoping that the hard cheese and road biscuits would last until he returned to Fairhaven.

On the road to Tellura, he’d encountered some travelers, but the highway had been vacant, totally vacant. Was that because traders loyal to Fairhaven couldn’t sell their goods at a low enough price to compete in Gallos? And because the disloyal ones hadn’t paid road tariffs and feared using the roads after Jeslek’s destruction of the Gallosian lancers? Or did they fear the prefect’s wrath?

Cerryl held the reins loosely-very loosely. His hands remained tender, especially across the palms, where he’d gripped the gate bars tightly.

Touching iron didn’t usually burn him. Was that because he’d been using chaos energies? Would that bar him from Leyladin? He winced at that thought. Something else you really don’t know . . He sighed. There was so much he didn’t know, and he wondered if he would ever learn all that he needed.

His eyes went to the empty road ahead, stretching like a white ribbon into the ugly darkness raised by Jeslek.

Some things just didn’t seem to make sense. How had he been able to kill Lyam so easily? Why hadn’t anyone even looked for him? The sometime wavering of the light shield was a giveaway. If anyone knew what it meant . .

He nodded. Was that why the Guild sought out all those with chaos or order talent? To keep the rest of Candar from knowing exactly what the white mages could do? Or had the secrecy just happened and been discovered to be beneficial?

About the only thing most people knew was that mages could use the screeing glasses to see things and that they could throw chaos-fire-and that black mages could sometimes heal.

Cerryl laughed. Now they knew that mages could raise mountains. But that was so rare and improbable that in generations to come no one would remember. Cerryl couldn’t imagine that the world produced many Jesleks, or very often.

Again. . the rules of the Guild made sense, although he didn’t have to like the way some, like Jeslek, used them to their personal advantage.

Could you do better?

Cerryl laughed at the thought. He’d like to try, but the chances of an orphaned scrivener’s apprentice becoming an overmage, or especially High Wizard, weren’t exactly overwhelming.

The chestnut whuffed , and Cerryl patted his neck again. “We’ll stop for water before long. You can have the last of the grain.”