L. Modesitt - The White Order

“I’ll take that for a yes. Now. . what was the question you were going to ask?”

“I could see the kind of chaos you were finding in the tunnel. Can’t all whites?”

The blond shook her head. “Myral could. Faltar might be able to. You clearly can. Once a white mage surrounds himself-or herself-with chaos, it’s really hard for most of them to sense lower amounts of pure physical chaos, like the stuff that grows in the sewers or the water tunnels.” She cocked her head and looked at Cerryl, almost as if she had not quite seen him before. “That could be a useful thing for you. I wouldn’t tell anyone, though.”

“Thank you.” He gestured toward the archway. “Would you like to eat. .?”

“I would.” Leyladin smiled. “But it will have to be another time. Tonight, I promised my father I’d have dinner with them. It’s his natal day.”

“Well. . I hope you have a good meal.” Cerryl offered a smile in return. “It’s probably better than in the halls.” He paused. “You don’t have to eat here, do you?”

“No. And I sleep at home. But I can’t be a full member of the Guild, either, not as a gray or black.”

“Oh. .”

“Like everything, it has its advantages and disadvantages.” She nodded. “I do have to go.”

Cerryl watched as her green-clad figure vanished through the archway that led to the southern part of the avenue. Why had the glass drawn him to her, so many years earlier? He was drawn to her, like iron to a lodestone, and even now, he wasn’t quite sure why. It wasn’t lust. Not just lust. . anyway . .

He watched where she had gone. Then he turned and walked slowly toward the meal hall, conscious that his thighs still ached. So did his rear, and his head.

More riding tomorrow? He winced.

SEVERAL LARGE DROPLETS of water splatted from the overhead arch of the water tunnel onto Cerryl’s already damp hair and oozed down his forehead toward his eyes. He blotted them away with the back of his forearm and watched Leyladin’s gesture.

“There’s some of the dark chaos along this joint,” said Leyladin.

Cerryl studied the polished stone of the tunnel walls, the damp gray broken by a line of dark green.

Whhsst! He eased a firebolt onto the slime that coated the mortar, a firebolt because he didn’t wish to use the fire lances when Jeslek was watching-or anyone who might report that ability to the overmage. Ashes flaked into the damp air of the water tunnel. Both Leyladin and Cerryl coughed.

Under the fight of the bronze lamp carried by the lancer, as the ashes flaked away, the surface of the mortar appeared, yellowed with age, and with a long crack, still dark-looking.

“There’s more. .”

“I know,” Cerryl said tiredly. “I can see the dark stuff there.” He did not glance over his shoulder, sensing Jeslek’s presence with every bit of chaos he channeled into destroying the flux-causing natural chaos in the decayed joints of cracked granite tunnel walls. Making sure he revealed nothing of his own abilities to focus chaos into light lances made the job even harder, but he trusted Leyladin’s suggestion that he reveal nothing he did not have to.

After a deep breath, Cerryl half-dropped, half-arced another firebolt against the mortar. This time the darkness-and the flux chaos-vanished in the swirling white ashes.

Cerryl found himself taking another deep breath, leaning forward, and trying not to pant.

“Kochar, you see what Cerryl is doing. The next one Leyladin finds, you clean it up.” Jeslek’s voice was crisp and impersonal. “Stand back.”

WHHHHSSTTT! Once again, another wall of flame flared down the tunnel, scouring most of the surface of the granite, leaving just the rough patches not touched by Jeslek’s flame blasts.

Cerryl coughed again as the ashes and white fire dust settled and as the drier air came through the tunnel vent opened by the lancers who followed along the top of the stone tunnel.

“Here.” Leyladin stepped forward another half-dozen paces-followed by a tall lancer with the bronze lamp-and pointed, then stepped back.

Whst . Kochar’s small fireball plopped onto the dark patch on the side wall.

“Another one, please,” requested the blond.

“Keep at it, Kochar.” Jeslek’s voice was hard. “We need to finish today. The reserve tanks are almost empty, and we need to reopen the tunnel.”

“. . trying. .”

Cerryl almost felt sympathy for the redhead.

By the end of the day, when Cerryl stepped out of the tunnel access building into the late afternoon sun, into the dust and heat, he had somewhat less sympathy, since Kochar had lost all ability to raise chaos halfway through the afternoon, leaving Cerryl to handle all of the rough patches and cracks.

Heat waves shimmered off the side road. Slowly, he heaved himself into the chestnut’s saddle, trying not to grunt. Leyladin and Jeslek mounted easily, as did Kochar and the half-score of white lancers.

The saddle remained hard as he tried not to bounce on the ride back into Fairhaven. He still had to work on relaxing his fingers. When he didn’t think about it, they tightened around the leather of the reins until his hands were almost cramped.

In the west, the sun burned over the hazy hills, and heat waves rose off the white granite of the road. Sweat began to seep down Cerryl’s back, and he almost wished for the dampness and cool of the water tunnels.

He was soaked when he reined up before the stables. Jeslek, Kochar, and Leyladin had already dismounted, even before he had stopped.

Cerryl swung his leg over the saddle, almost catching his boot on it. Then he stood wavering on the hard stone of the courtyard, his hand reaching out for the chestnut to steady himself.

Jeslek stepped forward, his eyes raking the three and settling on Cerryl. “That’s all the work we’ll do on the tunnel this season. I’ll see you and Kochar tomorrow after breakfast.” He did not smile as he turned and walked toward the Halls.

Kochar looked at the departing overmage, then trudged after him. Cerryl took a deep breath and looked for Leyladin, but she, too, had vanished. With a shrug, he walked slowly to his cell and then to the bathing chamber.

His stomach was growling by the time he finally reached the meal hall, right after the bells rang. Even so, Kochar had a full platter already and was walking toward the table where Bealtur and Heralt ate together in the corner. The redhead sat down with them.

Cerryl walked slowly from the serving area toward one of the empty round tables, where he sat. He glanced at what was supposed to be lemon-creamed lamb, then across the table, unmindful of the soreness in too many muscles from riding to and from the water tunnel for three days, scrambling through the slippery tunnel, and feeling Jeslek watching over his shoulder every moment. The more he was around Jeslek, the less he trusted the overmage, despite Jeslek’s apparent straightforwardness.

“Might we join you, ser mage?”

Cerryl looked up at the warm voice to see the blond hair and green tunic, then staggered to his feet. “Of course.”

“Sit down,” Leyladin added. “If you’re as tired as I am, you don’t need to be jumping up for people.”

Leyladin and Lyasa sat down on the other side of the table.

Cerryl sat and absently fingered his chin.

“You know, you’d look better if you didn’t try to grow a beard.”

Cerryl blinked, refocusing on the blond.

“You’re like all the other young mages, growing a beard to look older.”

Cerryl’s mouth opened.

“You’d look much better without it,” she continued, breaking off a chunk of fresh dark bread.