L. Modesitt - The White Order

After a moment, Brental nodded and followed his father.

With the near-setting sun warming his face, Cerryl looked down at the blade, the same white bronze as the knife from his father, recalling how the dead man had knocked down arrows and firebolts. . and how his efforts had been in vain.

And how he had sought Cerryl. The youth shivered.

CERRYL REREAD THE passage in Colors of White , trying to keep the sounds and images in his head, as he’d overheard Siglinda tell Erhana during one of the tutoring sessions when he’d been stacking hearth wood outside the millmaster’s house.

“. . all that is under the sun can only be because of the chaos of the sun. Even the wisest of mages cannot perceive any portion of all that exists on and under the earth itself except through the operation of chaos.”

He wanted to shake his head. He understood the words, but there was something about the meaning that eluded him.

Brental had said that the man who had fled the lancers of Lydiar-and the white wizard-had flung chaos fire against the wizard. Cerryl had seen that, and how the wizard had turned it back with little more than a glance. Or so it had seemed. Still, the fugitive had held his own for a time against outlandish odds.

Cerryl wasn’t sure if he wished the blond man had won or not, but he wouldn’t soon forget the cold and impartial attitude of the white wizard, acting as if the fugitive were little more than vermin to be destroyed.

He cleared his throat, realizing he had been murmuring the words, and clamped his lips shut as he studied the page again, then flipped to another page, farther along.

Still nothing about chaos fire.

He tried another page, and then another.

He glanced down at Colors of White again. Why didn’t he have the second part, instead of a worthless history? The second part would have explained everything, like how to create chaos fire.

He frowned, touching his chin, a chin that remained beardless and smooth. Could he create chaos fire?

In the dimness, he held up his left hand, concentrated on somehow making fire appear at his fingertips, the way the fugitive had.

Was there a glow there? He squinted through the gloom at the faintest spark at the tip of his index finger. Then the point of light vanished. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead. A deeper and ugly red glow lingered in the air for several moments.

Cerryl took a deep breath, then another.

IN THE LIGHT drizzle that drifted from the low-hanging gray clouds, Cerryl used the dark brown laundry soap and washed his hands and face at the well, the one uphill of the south end of the porch. He shook his hands as dry as he could in the damp air, then began to walk toward the porch of the millmaster’s house, noticing that Rinfur was already stepping into the kitchen. Viental had gone-again-to visit his “sister.”

Dylert was waiting on the porch just back of the top step, his face somber.

“Yes, ser?” Cerryl could feel his stomach tightening, but kept his expression pleasant.

“You’ve learned the letters, haven’t you, boy?” Dylert asked, stepping back and gesturing for Cerryl to take a seat on the porch bench.

“Ser?” Meeting the millmaster’s eyes squarely, Cerryl managed a blank expression. He did not sit down.

Dylert laughed. “Young fellow, from your look I’d not know, but my daughter I can see through like she was fine timber.”

“Yes, ser. I asked her to teach me. But only when I was not working, ser.” Cerryl’s gray eyes continued to hold those of the millmaster. “Most times, after dinner.”

“I’ve no complaints with your work or anything else you have done, young Cerryl.” Dylert fingered his beard, then cleared his throat. “That’d not be the problem.”

Cerryl waited.

“That fellow-the one the white mage got the other day? Something like that. . well, it happened to your da. You know that, do you not?” Dylert’s eyes flicked downhill, toward the spot on the edge of the road where the rocks and clay remained blackened.

“I know that something happened. Uncle Syodor and Aunt Nall-they didn’t say much about it.”

“Syodor. . he was. . he be not the type to speak of it.” Dylert fingered his beard again.

A pattering of heavier rain swept across the porch roof, followed by a light gust of wind that ruffled Cerryl’s hair. Water began to drip from the eaves.

“Speaking or not, though, fact is, be a dangerous time to stay here for a young fellow with a da like yours.”

“Did the white mages kill Uncle Syodor, too?” Cerryl asked softly. “You would only tell me that he and Nall were dead.”

“Too sharp for your own eyes, you be, young fellow.” Dylert frowned. “Like as they died in a fire, that be what Wreasohn said. How that fire got started, I’d not be guessing. Nor you, either.”

Cerryl nodded. But why? What had they done to anger the white mages? If the mages knew Cerryl existed, wouldn’t they have come after him?

“I’ve a wagon of white oak a-heading to Fairhaven the day after next. To Fasse, the cabinet maker there.” The millmaster cleared his throat. “I’ve a scroll here-Siglinda, she helped me with it-and it says that you’re a hardworking young fellow better suited to finer things. It also says you’re a tattered britches relative of mine, of a distant cousin.” Dylert frowned. “Don’t be making me a liar, now.”

“I won’t, ser.” Cerryl could feel the ache in his guts growing, but kept his eyes on Dylert.

“It’s like this, Cerryl. Your da and your uncle, they did things that, well. . they did not. . I mean. . the white mages can be jealous. . of anything much. . much close. . to what. . what they do.” The millmaster wiped his forehead. “You be their son and nephew, and Hrisbarg. . well, small it is. All the folk know all the folk.” He shrugged. “In Fairhaven. . none care. . not that ways, anyway.”

What had Uncle Syodor done? His uncle had stayed away from anything like the white mages had done, and Aunt Nall-she’d had a fit when she’d even seen a fragment of a mirror or glass around Cerryl.

“I thought of Tellis. Been owing me a long time, ever since I sent him the best gold oak timbers for his shop. . and a few other things.” Dylert’s face clouded.

Cerryl wondered what favor was so bad that the genial Dylert had a bad memory about it.

“Now, Tellis, he’s a cousin of Dyella, and he’s a scrivener. You know what a scrivener is?”

Cerryl didn’t have to feign puzzlement. Why was Dylert talking about scriveners?

“Scriveners write things for others,” Dylert said slowly, “and in Fairhaven they make books, like the ones Erhana let you read.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Well, you be liking books, and Tellis owing me, and sure as he could use a young fellow works hard as you. . and Fairhaven being a better place for you. . and. . well. . being a place where someone with. . the kind of talent mayhap you have. . seeing as if you didn’t use it. . it wouldn’t be so unexpected. . and Tellis, he knows how that land lies, if you see the line I’m laying. .” Dylert cleared his throat.

Cerryl did see the line Dylert laid. The millmaster was worried that any passing white wizard might stumble on Cerryl and hold Dylert responsible. He was also suggesting that Cerryl would be safer in Fairhaven, especially if he did not use his talents openly-or perhaps at all. “Yes, ser.”

“You understand, young fellow. . it’s not just you. .”

“I understand, ser. You’ve been fair and good to me.”

“Dinner be ready,” Dylert said. “We’ll talk more after we eat. You be needing some clothes, and a pair of good boots.”