L. Modesitt - The White Order

“Thank you.”

“After we eat,” Dylert repeated, opening the door to the kitchen.

AFTER WASHING AT the well and coming back to his room to finish dressing, Cerryl took out the silver-rimmed mirror and studied himself. The pale gray shirt and trousers were not new but almost could have passed for such, and the thicksoled boots Brental had given him seemed barely worn. In his pack, besides his books, were his old work clothes and an older sheepskin jacket, the fleece to the inside and barely matted.

His hair was shorter-Dyella had trimmed it for him the day before-but the shorter length seemed to emphasize the narrow triangular shape of his face. He fingered his chin, feeling the first hints of what might be a beard. Somehow, he doubted that any beard he grew would match the thick splendor of those of his uncle or of Dylert, or even the red bush sported by Brental.

The mirror went back in the pack, wrapped inside his spare smallclothes but on top of the heavier books. Then he slipped the scroll to Tellis on the very top and laced the pack shut.

He looked around the room, bare as ever, the blankets folded on the foot of the pallet, the board where he’d hidden his few valuables securely back in place, the white-bronze sword left there as well, the only possession he had left behind, but it was too big to conceal in anything he owned.

Thrap! Cerryl turned at the knock.

“You coming, Cerryl?” asked Rinfur. “Be a long day even leaving now.”

“I’m coming.” Cerryl lifted the pack off the stool and opened the door. Outside, standing at the back of the finish lumber barn, he paused and looked across the hillside. The oaks loomed across the field like ancient guardians of night, and the predawn gray was beginning to lighten. Cerryl closed the door and swallowed. A single terwhit echoed from the oaks to the west, and the night hum of insects had long since died away.

He turned toward the mill and lifted his pack. After receiving all the clothes from Dylert, Cerryl had been more than hesitant to ask the millmaster for his pay, and had kept putting off asking. Now he wished he hadn’t. What would he do in Fairhaven with only two coppers to his name-the same two coppers he’d brought to the mill? Should he have taken the short blade from the fugitive? His lips tightened. Not with the aura of chaos around it. He knew enough to know the blade alone would bring him trouble, much as he disliked leaving it behind.

His eyes went uphill to the empty porch of the millmaster’s house. Erhana was doubtless still sleeping, though the thin trail of smoke from the kitchen chimney indicated that Dyella was up and at work.

Dylert was inspecting the wood that had been loaded the afternoon before, and Rinfur was rechecking the harnesses as Cerryl hurried toward the wagon.

“Put your pack under the seat,” Rinfur called without looking up or toward Cerryl.

The brown-haired youth eased the pack under the seat.

By the time he had straightened, Dylert had vaulted off the wagon. “Here’s what I owe you, young fellow, and a bit to spare.” Dylert pulled a cloth purse from his belt and extended it to Cerryl. “You be just like your uncle, not one to ask or press. Sometimes, mayhap, you must.” The millmaster grinned. “For all that, young fellow, we be missing you here. You got that scroll?”

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl wanted to feel the purse but didn’t, instead fastening it to his belt. “I thank you.”

“No thanks be due. You worked hard, and you deserve the coin. And the recommendation to Tellis.” Dylert grinned. “He can be gruff. Don’t let it fool you. Understand?”

Cerryl nodded. He cleared his throat.

“Yes, lad?”

“Ser? In. . my room. . I mean. . it was my room. . there’s a board under the cubby. . behind it. . there’s a bronze blade. . Brental might want it.”

Dylert nodded solemnly. “He might. Whether I let him. . that be between us. I thank you for saying such. . and you be a wise lad not to carry it.”

“You. . best know.” The words were hard for Cerryl to get out.

Dylert smiled and clapped Cerryl on the shoulder. “Keep that head in place, lad, and you be doing fine.”

Rinfur walked toward them.

“The provisions Dyella set up be under your seat, Rinfur. Extra this time.” Dylert nodded toward Cerryl. “Still growing, I’d wager.”

“Don’t know as growing,” answered the teamster, climbing up onto the seat, “but he eats like he be. Best be up here, lad. A long road ahead we got.”

Cerryl followed Rinfur’s example, except that, with his shorter legs, he had to pull himself up onto the seat. He looked at Dylert, knowing he should say something but not knowing what. Finally, as Rinfur flicked the long leads to the team, he said, “Thank you, ser. Thank you again.”

“Be nothing, young fellow. Take care, and give Tellis my best.”

“Yes, ser.”

Cerryl swallowed as the wagon lurched off the causeway and onto the lane heading down to the road. He wanted to look back but didn’t, instead fixing his eyes on the stream to the left of the lane, his eyes skipping over the patch of blackened soil and rock that remained even after a handful of eight-days of sun and rain.

Until Rinfur had the team on the straightaway toward the road, the wagon moved at the slowest of walks. At the end of the lane, Rinfur turned the team right-left on the road away from Hrisbarg proper.

“Hrisbarg is that way,” said Cerryl, pointing to the right and the uphill road.

“Aye, but the wizards’ road be this way, lad, and that road be smoother and far swifter than the way through Hrisbarg and Howlett.” Rinfur smiled, showing brown teeth. “Trust me. The roads I know, and master Dylert’d not give over this wagon to one he’d not trust.”

That was something about which Cerryl had few doubts at all.

“You ever been on a wizards’ road?” asked Rinfur.

“No. Never been on a wagon before, except around the mill,” Cerryl admitted, shifting his weight on the hard seat.

“A lot you be seeing, then.”