L. Modesitt - The White Order

“Lwelter?”

Cerryl nodded.

“As you wish, ser.” He turned on the stool. “Da! Mage here to see you.” Then he turned back to the wheel. “If you don’t mind, ser. .”

“Go ahead.”

Shortly, a stooped man shuffled out from the back room. Lwelter’s sightless eyes looked past Cerryl. “Ser. .?” The cracked voice wavered.

“Lwelter?”

“That’s me. Always been me, even when I could see.”

“I was talking with Fasse, and he said you might be able to help me. You once spent time in Gallos and Kyphros, he said.”

“Been a long time back, a long time, when Deorca was younger than Flait here.”

“What can you tell me about Quessa or Hierna?”

“Hierna, ah, yes, that was the next town but one from Zrenca, and Zrenca, that was where I found Deorca.” A smile creased the thin and pale lips. “A long time back.”

“How far is Hierna from Tellura?”

“Not too far a piece. There’s a day, a short day between Hierna and Zrenca, but Zrenca is but a hamlet, not a proper town at all, you know.”

“And how far is Tellura from Zrenca?” Cerryl asked politely.

“I’d say, if there were a road, straight that is, it might take two days by horse, but the hills and the streams they don’t flow straight, and the roads wind more than the streams.”

“Zrenca is two days straight west from Tellura?” pursued Cerryl.

“Mostly, but I’d be guessing. .”

“And Hierna is another day west from Zrenca?”

“Ah. . no. Hierna. . you go as much north as west from Zrenca, and a short day, a half day hard riding.”

“Have you ever heard of a town called Quessa?”

Lwelter shrugged. “Knew it be west of Hierna, more than a few days. . two, mayhap three.”

“How big is Hierna?”

“You been to Weevett, young fellow?”

In the background, the stubby-fingered young potter winced ever so slightly.

“Well, Hierna’s half again as big as Weevett, lessen one’s growed more than the other in the last ten years.” Lwelter laughed.

“Do you know anything about Quessa?”

“Some said it was a hamlet like Zrenca. Never went there. Deorca had a cousin consorted with a miller there.”

“Did you ever go to the Westhorns from Zrenca?” asked Cerryl.

“Me? I was a potter, not a herder. ’Sides, even then, folks worried about the black she-angels. Folks say they’re all dead. Don’t you believe it.” Lwelter cackled, shaking his head. “Don’t like the lowlands, the angels don’t.”

“Da.” The word was firm. “The white mage knows all about the angels.”

Lwelter stopped cackling. “You didn’t say he was a mage.”

“He did,” Cerryl said. “You have been very helpful. Thank you.” He fumbled in his purse and handed a pair of coppers to the younger potter before turning and leaving.

“. . could have gotten us turned to ashes. .”

“. . never said. .”

Ignoring the recriminations behind him, Cerryl walked quickly back to the wizards’ square.

The dinner bell was ringing as he opened his cell door, and he washed quickly and hurried toward the meal hall. The others who ate there were already seated with platters, and he found himself alone at the serving table.

After taking a chunk of oat bread, some cheese, noodles in white sauce, and a mug of the light ale, he sat down across from Faltar. He absently let his senses range over the food, though outside of the poisoned cider, he’d never found any other sense of chaos in food in the halls.

“Where have you been?” asked the blond student mage.

Beside Faltar, the curly-haired Heralt raised his eyebrows as he chewed some of the tough bread.

“Trying to find out where Quessa is-and Hierna, and Zrenca, and. .” Cerryl broke off a corner of the bread and dipped it in the white sauce.

“Too bad scriveners can’t use glasses like real student mages. .” came the murmur from Bealtur at the adjoining table.

Cerryl stiffened momentarily, then smiled and turned to Faltar. “For some reason, the honored Jeslek did not want me to use a glass, and I would not think of going against his expressed wishes.” His face hardened slightly. “I’m sure he wouldn’t like to learn that anyone had suggested otherwise.”

There was a satisfying gulp from the adjoining table.

Faltar grinned. So did Heralt, if momentarily.

Cerryl didn’t. He had too much drawing and copying ahead. Instead, he took a chunk of the oat bread and began to chew.

AWOMAN IN green crossed the hall and started toward the courtyard and the front building as Cerryl stepped out of the library workroom with his map in hand-a woman in green with red-blond hair. . a young woman.

Cerryl looked for a moment, just looked. Could it be the girl from his glass? She was definitely a woman now.

He glanced toward the steps to Jeslek’s quarters, then in the direction she had gone, pursing his lips. After a moment, he turned toward the courtyard. Even with that momentary delay, by the time he passed the fountain and reached the end of the foyer of the front building, she had turned and was headed up the steps to the tower.

Cerryl walked more quickly, holding the map high so that he wouldn’t trip or drag it along the polished stones. He dodged around Lyasa, who gave him a questioning look, and offered a harried look that he hoped would cover his action.

Lyasa raised both eyebrows but said nothing.

By the time Cerryl reached the pair of guards at the base of the tower, breathing slightly harder than he would have liked, the young woman in green had vanished. No sound of feet echoed down the steps to the higher levels, either.

He looked at the guard standing on the right. “Hertyl. . the woman who just went up the steps. . do you know her?”

“Young ser, it be not my business to know any like her.”

Cerryl caught the twinkle in the young guard’s eye and grinned. “Nor I. . but you might know her name.”

“I’ve heard that it be Leyladin. She is a merchant’s daughter, but some say she also be a healer.” Hertyl nodded toward the steps. “I do not ask where she visits.”