L. Modesitt - The White Order

An open archway at the end of the short corridor revealed a dining hall, though one Cerryl would not have called small, as it was a good fifty cubits long and half that in width.

Eliasar and Jeslek stood near the head of the table, talking with a younger man in a gaudy green-and-gold tunic. Rystryr was a big and broad-shouldered man, almost as tall as Kinowin, with ruddy cheeks above a bushy beard and under thick blond hair. With the three at the head of the table, was another mage in white-clearly Shyren, the only mage in the dining hall Cerryl had not met.

In a corner by the unfit marble fireplace at the foot of the table were gathered a number of Certan officers. They fell silent, and the viscount glanced up, raising his eyebrows as Anya led in Cerryl and the others. “With such an assembly of mages, we scarcely might need food.” Rystryr’s voice was as big and hearty as he was, and he followed the words with a broad smile. “Welcome to Jellico!”

“We thank you,” answered Jeslek. “You are and have always been most hospitable.”

“With all the guests present, I suggest we eat.” Rystryr made a sweeping gesture toward the table.

Cerryl looked blankly at the long table, wondering where he was to sit and how to determine that.

“Look for your name on the place slate,” whispered Anya before smiling broadly and stepping forward.

Cerryl’s bronze-framed place slate-bearing a statuette of an undercaptain-was more than halfway down the long walnut table and read in a chalked old tongue script, “Carrl.” Jeslek and Eliasar sat on the right and left of the viscount, while Shyren-an older and heavier man-sat to Eliasar’s left. Anya sat beside Jeslek, while Fydel sat below Jeslek. Then came an officer in green and gold, and beside him Klybel.

“You ever used a blade, young ser?” asked the dark-haired undercaptain across the table from Cerryl.

“Only enough to know that I’d make a poor armsman,” Cerryl admitted. “I’m Cerryl.”

“Deltry, undercaptain of the Fourth.”

“Slekyr, undercaptain of the Second.” The older undercaptain who sat beside Cerryl and toward the head of the table had streaks of gray in his trimmed beard.

“Lyasa.”

“Kochar,” gulped the redhead, who sat below two other undercaptains.

After a moment of silence, Deltry took the pitcher and filled the goblets of those around him with the red wine.

“Thank you,” said Lyasa.

“My pleasure, and for that I would beg you clear up a question for me. It’s said that a white mage can still kill an armsman, even one with an iron blade,” offered Deltry as he broke a chunk of rye bread from the loaf in the basket and handed it to Lyasa. “I don’t see how, myself, especially if the armsman had mind enough to carry an iron shield.”

Lyasa smiled, taking the basket.

“You smile, apprentice mage,” noted Slekyr, his eyes meeting those of the dark-haired young woman. “Know you for a fact any mage who has confronted cold iron one on one and survived?”

Cerryl looked down, fearing what was coming.

“Yes. Cerryl there was attacked by two men with iron blades and shields. He killed them both.”

Slekyr turned and studied Cerryl. “Is that true?”

“Yes.” Cerryl looked up and met the other’s eyes.

“Yet you are not a full mage yet?” asked Deltry.

“No.” Cerryl wanted to say “no, ser,” but knew that doing so would undermine the status the three students had been granted. He added, “undercaptain,” belatedly. “Mages have to learn much.”

“So it would seem.” Slekyr laughed. “I’m just as glad that our viscount counts himself a friend of Fairhaven.”

“So are we,” answered Cerryl, reaching for the bread.

“You really killed two men armed with cold iron?” pursued Deltry.

“Three, actually,” added Lyasa. “Cerryl tends to be modest.”

“And they. . just stood there? I am not sure I understand.” Deltry’s voice was easy, warm, conversational.

“I. . came upon them in my duties in the tunnels,” Cerryl said carefully. “The first two attacked. I had no choice, since they would have killed me.”

“But what did you do? Turn them stone?”

“No. I can’t do that. I turned them into ashes with chaos-fire.” Cerryl felt a twinge in his skull at the exaggeration. He’d merely killed them, while Sterol had turned them into dust and ashes.

Deltry swallowed.

“You had to ask, didn’t you?” commented Slekyr into the silence, his voice slightly ironic.

Deltry offered a smile, both to Slekyr and Cerryl. “My apologies, ser.”

Cerryl returned it with a smile he hoped was almost shy. “I understand. Four years ago I would not have believed it, either.”

“You are not from Fairhaven, then?” asked Slekyr.

“No. I came from Hrisbarg and was apprenticed to a scrivener in Fairhaven.”

“Some have said that all mages come from higher birth. .”

“I am afraid mine was not high, nor that of some others,” Cerryl replied, glancing toward the platter of meat making its way down the table and trying not to drool.

“Some mages come from high families,” confirmed Lyasa, “others from where their talents are discovered. The skills are rare enough that the Guild does not waste them.”

“Even women mages, I see.” Slekyr’s eyes lingered on Lyasa for a moment.

“They are fewer, but still number among the Guild.” Lyasa’s head inclined toward the head of the table. “Anya is one of the more powerful mages, and she is most definitely a woman.”

Both Deltry and Slekyr nodded politely.

“We hear that the prefect of Gallos has begun to make life difficult for some in Certis,” suggested Lyasa, taking the half-empty platter and serving herself some of the brown-sauced meat.

“Mostly talk,” suggested Slekyr easily. “We can sell our oilseeds to Hydolar as easily as to Gallos.”

“Just not for as much, perhaps,” suggested Lyasa with a smile.

“There is that, but the viscount is hardly likely to go to war over a few coppers’ difference in a barrel of seed oil.” Slekyr took a deep swallow of wine.

Cerryl took little more than a sip, then concentrated on serving himself and eating the half-tough meat and the not-quite-dry rye bread.

“And wool?” asked Kochar politely.

“Many would sell us wool.” Slekyr reached for the wine pitcher and refilled his goblet.

“Are you from Jellico?” asked Lyasa.

“Me? No. I come from Rytel. . and most of the family’s still there.”

“How did you get to be a captain?”

“I’m not. . yet. . but an armsman. Well. . like many a thing, I didn’t quite plan it that way. .”

Cerryl ate and listened, listened and ate, occasionally looking toward the head of the table, where Jeslek listened and ate, ate and listened to Shyren and Rystryr.

UNDER THE EARLY harvest sun, Cerryl fidgeted in his saddle again, a saddle that seemed as hard as the glazed bricks of the sewer tunnels, and as unyielding. He knew that for all his efforts he still swayed and bounced far too much.

The western side of Certis was hillier, but the oilseed fields were interspersed with meadows where grazed small herds of cattle. Not sheep? Then, the meadows were more lush than those of Montgren. Scattered stone houses reared out of the green hills, located seemingly without pattern.

Cerryl wondered why they had even gone to Jellico. It was more than four days out of the way, since they were headed to Gallos on the Great White Highway, and all they had done was stay for two days and ride off.

Then, he had no idea exactly what Jeslek and Eliasar were conveying to Rystryr. A show of magely force? A trade agreement?