L. Modesitt - The White Order

Cerryl wasn’t sure he wanted to be anywhere near when Kesrik became a full mage, not that he’d have any great choice.

A thin and gray-haired wizard walked briskly up the steps and through the open double doors on the right side of the foyer, into the Great Hall, or Council Chamber.

“Sverlik! All the way from Fenard. .”

“How goes it with the young prefect. .”

The voices died away. Another mage walked past where Cerryl, Faltar, and Bealtur stood at the side of the corridor, then stopped and studied the three. His hair was an impossible shade of gold, but deep lines ran from the corners of his eyes and mouth.

Cerryl waited, feeling as though he’d somehow been caught doing something he should not.

“Ah, yes, I can remember standing just about there, and thinking I really wanted to know what went on in the Great Hall.” Under a yellow cast to his face, the man grinned through equally yellowed teeth. “Then you become a mage, and it’s not nearly so exciting.” He laughed gently and continued on toward the hall.

“It’ll still be exciting,” murmured Bealtur, his eyes following the white wizard until he vanished into the Hall.

A heavier step-and a sense of power-fell across the three.

Cerryl recognized Jeslek even before turning.

“You won’t learn how to be mages by watching people enter the hall.” Jeslek’s sunburst collar pin seemed to radiate light, as did the sun gold eyes that surveyed the three students.

Cerryl inclined his head, remembering Jeslek’s statement about respectful silence.

“Good. You all understand, I see. I suggest the common is more appropriate for you.” The familiar bright and perfunctory smile followed the words.

Cerryl bowed slightly, as did the others.

“Off with you.”

“Yes, ser.”

Jeslek continued to survey the three until they turned and began to walk through the archway into the courtyard.

As the students crossed the courtyard, past the fountain, Bealtur looked back toward the foyer and the Great Hall for a long moment.

Cerryl kept his eyes on the doorway to the rear building, once more having the feeling that he was being watched through a glass. But by whom, with the mages gathering?

He stopped by his cell and opened the door, frowning as he stepped inside and lowered the latch, because the feeling of being watched dropped away abruptly. On his desk was an earthenware mug, and beside it a bottle, a true glass bottle.

He picked up the mug-empty, then set it aside and lifted the bottle toward the window. He couldn’t tell what the liquid was. So he lowered the bottle and uncorked it. The aroma of cider seeped from the bottle, almost too strong.

Why would anyone leave him cider?

He looked at the bottle and sniffed it, then poured a bit of the liquid into the mug. He looked at the liquid and sniffed again. It certainly smelled like cider.

He looked at the liquid, then tried to study it with his chaos senses. Abruptly he stepped back, as the ugly white-red of chaos seemed to swirl from both bottle and the liquid in the cup.

Poison? Did the sense of chaos in food and drink mean poison? Cerryl glanced around but could not sense anyone screeing him. He slipped the mug and bottle under his tunic, then went to the door, listening until the corridor seemed empty.

He left his room and strolled down the corridor, easing into the jakes, glad that the halls had jakes and not chamber pots, and slipped into the stall in the corner, where he eased out the bottle and poured the cider down into the darkness. He glanced around, then wiped the bottle with his tunic. He hoped that would blur or wipe away any tint of his chaos-if there were such a thing. He set the bottle and mug against the wall in the corner, then walked to the adjoining washroom-also empty, breathing a little more easily.

Jeslek had said there would be tests, not all that he would recognize. Had the poisoned cider been a test? Or did someone really want him dead? And why? He was almost unlearned, untutored.

He shook his head. Did he have to sense all the food and drink in the halls? Should he have already been doing that? He swallowed, then headed for the commons.

WHY ARE YOU here, young Cerryl? Jeslek and Sterol sent you.” The slender older mage answered his own question and smiled broadly. “They sent you to me, and I will teach what I know of anatomie, which is considerable.”

From where he sat on the hard bench against the wall, Cerryl bowed his head and waited.

“But the question remains. Why? Why study anatomie?” Broka paused but did not look at Cerryl as he walked by the student as if Cerryl were not there. “Many are the reasons for the study of the anatomies. . many, indeed. .”

The mage turned abruptly, and his long fingers brushed Cerryl’s arm as he passed, and Cerryl wanted to cringe. He remained sitting straight up, instead, his eyes intent on the slender wizard.

“From chaos unto chaos-that is the rule of anatomie-and of life. Life is that brief moment when chaos seizes order and creates living form, and death is when chaos abandons order. It ceases to animate form, and the form ceases to live, if you will.” Broka offered a toothy grin, then turned and walked toward the window in a gliding, swaying stride that reminded Cerryl of a lizard-or a viper.

Cerryl looked at the skeleton on the wooden stand in the corner away from the window. Had the man or woman been a criminal or just a poor unfortunate?

“We know food supplies chaos energy to the body, and with that energy, the body grows and changes. Any individual living body is not only constantly changing its substance but its size. When such changes cease, we have death.” Broka fixed Cerryl with his deep-set eyes. “Do you understand that, young Cerryl? When the body loses its chaos energy in one way or another, it dies.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Pure chaos is formless, but man is not. In fact, all land creatures with bones share a generality of structure. The hand and arm of a man, the foreleg of a dog, the wing of a bird-indeed all manifest the same type of construction.”

Broka sidled toward the skeleton on its frame, pointing toward it. “Now we shall begin with the skeleton-precisely. . precisely two hundred distinct bones.” He gestured toward Cerryl. “Come here. You do not just listen. You must touch, and feel. Feel. . especially. For feel is essential to a chaos master.” A soft but guttural chuckle followed.

Cerryl rose and walked gingerly toward the skeleton, trying to position himself so that the array of bones stood between him and Broka.

“All bones are of one of four types-lengthy bones, short bones, plank or flat bones, and irregular bones.” Broka pointed to one of the arm bones. “Feel that.”

Cerryl complied, letting his fingers trace the length of the off-white member, feeling white dust slip away under his fingertips.

“Real living bones are not so smooth, not so cool and inviting, but this will start you on learning.”

In the oppressive warmth of the small chamber, Cerryl wanted to yawn and step back from Broka simultaneously.

“Prestad’s will give you all the details. That’s the book I will give you. Jeslek says you can read, and read you will.” Broka pushed a lock of long graying sandy hair back off his forehead, offering another broad smile.

“Yes, ser,” answered Cerryl, uncertain what to say or do.

“Why should you study anatomie? There are two reasons. You should learn anatomie so that you can use chaos to heal effectively or kill effectively. The other reason is that the Guild says you should learn anatomie.” Broka shrugged. “If I do not think you have learned your anatomie, then you will not become a full mage.” He looked at the skeleton. “You may indeed serve the Guild in other ways.” Yet another smile followed. “Do you understand?”