L. Modesitt - The White Order

Cerryl nodded.

“Think I’ll walk over to the stable, see how the gray is doing. Worry about that hoof still.” With a nod, Rinfur turned and crossed the porch, leaving Cerryl alone at the railing.

The youth ran his hand through hair still slightly damp from a quick rinse before dinner. He watched as the cloud slowly faded into gray.

The door from the kitchen opened, and he turned.

“Oh. . I didn’t know you were out here, Cerryl,” blurted Erhana, her hands around a book.

“I was waiting for my lesson,” he answered with a careful smile.

“This is the more advanced grammar.”

“I can try.”

Erhana shrugged and sat on the bench. Cerryl sat beside her, careful not to let his leg touch hers. She opened the book, and Cerryl followed her as she slowly read aloud.

“. . the cooper fashions barrels from staves of wood. Barrels are used to store flour and grains. Some barrels hold water and wine. .”

Cerryl wondered if all grammar books said things that people already knew, but he said nothing and tried to match what Erhana read with the letters on the page.

“It’s getting dark,” Erhana said after a while. “Can you even see the book?”

“I can still see it,” answered Cerryl. “What’s an ‘acolyte’?”

“That’s not in the copybook.”

“I know, but I wondered.”

“I can’t help you if you ask me about things that aren’t in the books.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why do you want to learn your letters?” Erhana asked abruptly, closing the grammar book and letting it rest on her trousered legs.

“I need to learn things,” Cerryl answered, shifting his weight on the hard surface of the bench.

“They don’t write about sawmills in books, silly boy.” Erhana laughed. “Not about how the mill works, anyway.”

“They should,” Cerryl offered. “Everyone knows about coopers and fullers and smiths.”

“Of course. You begin to read by learning how the words you know are written.”

Cerryl refrained from wincing at Erhana’s self-satisfied tone.

“Isn’t there a book that has all the words you don’t know?”

“That’s a dictionary. Siglinda has one. They have lots and lots of words and how to spell them and what they mean.”

Cerryl fingered his chin. Where could he find one? “A dictionary?”

“That’s right.” Erhana sighed.

In the momentary silence, Cerryl could hear voices in the kitchen. He strained to pick out the words.

“. . no sense in telling him now. . good thing he was up in the woods when Wreasohn came. .”

“Have to tell him sooner or later, Dylert. .”

“Can’t stay here, not forever. .”

“Hush. . he’s still on the porch. We’ll talk about it later.”

“Best let Erhana help him with his letters, then. Poor lad.”

In the growing darkness, Cerryl swallowed. Something awful had happened to Syodor and Nall. . but what? And why? Who would harm a partly crippled old miner and his consort who were helping a cousin raise sheep?

“You’re quiet, Cerryl,” ventured Erhana.

“Oh, I was still thinking about dictionaries,” he lied quietly. “They must be hard to come by.”

“I guess so. Siglinda always says hers is worth its weight in gold.” Erhana shrugged. “I don’t know as they’re worth that much.”

“Books aren’t cheap,” he pointed out. “They have to be copied page by page.”

“Siglinda says there are lots of scriveners in Lydiar. When I’m rich, I’ll hire one and have him copy all the books I want.”

The porch door opened, and Dyella peered out. “Are you still out here, Erhana?”

“Yes, Mother.” Erhana stood, clutching the grammar. “I’m coming.”

“Best you be. Canning the early peaches we are tomorrow.” Dyella glanced toward Cerryl. “And more logging for you as well, Cerryl.”

“Another side slope.” Dylert’s voice rumbled out from the kitchen.

“Yes, ser,” said Cerryl, easing his way toward the steps. “I’ll be ready.”

“Till the morn,” said Dylert just before Dyella closed the door behind Erhana.

Cerryl’s boots clumped on the planks of the porch, noisy because he was too tired to move silently. He walked slowly down the steps and the path to his room. His legs and back still ached. He glanced back at the house, looming up like a black blot in the late twilight. What had happened to his aunt and uncle? Had they died in a plague? Of the bloody flux? In an accident?

Around him, the chorus of insects rose and fell, rose and fell as he meandered slowly down toward the finish lumber barn.

Why didn’t Dylert want to tell him? How could he find out?

He almost stumbled as he opened the door to his cubby room. The screeing glass? That he could try.

After closing the door, and the window door as well, he eased the silver-rimmed mirror from its hiding place and set it on the stool. Then he sat on the edge of the pallet and began to concentrate, trying to visualize Syodor’s weathered face, strong hands, and leather eyepatch, Nall’s gray hair and probing eyes.

The mists swirled. . finally revealing a burned-out cot. The roof timbers were black, the mud-brick walls cracked. The windows, ringed in black, gaped like a skull’s eye sockets. Lines of blackness seared the grass around the walls.

“No. .” Cerryl tightened his lips, refusing the tears that welled up inside him. “No.”

He sat, rigid, on the edge of the pallet, well into the full darkness of night, the blank mirror on the stool before him showing nothing.

THE GRAY AND the dun plodded slowly across the hill, dragging the log harness. Rinfur guided the big horses, his eyes watching them, the log they dragged toward the wagon ramp, and the road ahead.

Dylert, Viental, and Brental stood waiting until the last log was dragged up the ramp. Then they rolled it sideways onto the wagon.

While the four men loaded the cut logs onto the wagon, Cerryl had continued sawing the smaller lengths of pole pine branches into sections a cubit long, wood for cooking and heat, stacking each length neatly in the pile.

Despite the leather gloves Dylert had given him, Cerryl’s hands were blistered, and his fingers ached-along with his arms, legs, and back. He kept sawing, stopping only to blot back the sweat that continually threatened to run into his eyes. His shirt was soaked, and his feet felt like they rested in pooled sweat inside the heavy boots.

“Cerryl, lad,” called Dylert as Viental and Brental wedged the last log in place on the wagon bed, “rack that saw back on the side of the wagon and take a breather.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Looks to be dry for a day or so. Rinfur and you can come up tomorrow and pile all the hearth wood in the small wagon.” Dylert grinned at the teamster. “A little lifting would not harm you, Rinfur.”

“So long as Cerryl does most of it.” Rinfur grinned and continued unhitching the two horses he had used for dragging the logs so that he could reharness them to the full team to bring the log wagon down to the mill.

Brental picked up the log harness and slipped it into the panel under the wagon seats.

Dylert looked at Cerryl, who had just racked the handsaw. “Takes more than just a strong back.”

The brown-haired youth nodded.

“Have to gauge the trees.” Dylert wiped his sweating forehead in the late afternoon sun as Rinfur switched the horses’ harnesses from the log-dragging rig to the wagon. “Watch ’em year by year. Cut them too soon, and you lose coins. Wait too long, and the heartwood gets too brittle and tough. You can break a blade and get nothing but firewood and kindling. We got the widest blade this end of Candar, but it be good but for two cubits and a span on a single pass. .”