L. Modesitt - The White Order

“Good luck,” whispered Lyasa.

“Thank you.”

All of the lancers were mounted, save one-an armsman with a single silver bar on his left tunic collar who inclined his head.

“This is Undercaptain Ludren, young Cerryl,” said Klybel. “Your escort will be a half-score. That should be large enough to deter brigands and small enough not to alarm the people of Gallos.” The lancer captain leaned forward and extended a folded parchment square. “This is a map of the main roads of Gallos. We trust it is accurate.”

Cerryl took the map with a nod. “Thank you.”

“If you are attacked, you have leave to defend yourself, but I would encourage you not to use your powers against any except those who do attack you.” Jeslek’s voice was mild, reasonable, and Cerryl could sense that the chaos around the overmage had begun to subside.

“I will use what powers I have,” Cerryl answered as he mounted the chestnut, “only if attacked.”

“Good.”

Ludren remounted, then looked at Cerryl.

“Whenever you are ready, Undercaptain.”

Ludren nodded and turned his mount westward on the Great White Highway.

Cerryl’s lips tightened as he could sense a screen of chaos rising behind them, one that doubtless blurred his departure. Sterol has set you as a check to Jeslek, and Jeslek wants you removed in a manner not to be traced to him .

Still, there was nothing he dared do. Not yet. His lips tightened. Perhaps not ever, but definitely not yet. He flicked the reins and let the chestnut pull alongside the undercaptain and his mount.

THROUGH THE DAY and a half since Cerryl and his escort had left the main body of the Fairhaven forces, the twelve had ridden alone westward on the Great White Highway, not encountering anyone, in and out of intermittent cool rain and chilly breezes. Puddles collected next to the granite road wall, and their mounts occasionally splashed through flat sheets of water running off the nearly level granite paving stones.

“Empty, it is,” Ludren said once more, as he did every few kays.

“Not a soul in sight,” answered Cerryl. The only living thing outside his group was a single black vulcrow that flew ahead of them and waited, then watched as they passed, and flew farther ahead-either looking for scraps or for someone or some animal to keel over and die.

Ahead, Cerryl could see a side road-one that crossed the Great Highway, or that the Highway crossed. As they neared the crossroads, he could make out a single kaystone with two arrows. One pointed south with the name Tellura-one of the names that had led to his mapmaking. The north-pointing arrow bore the name Fenard.

“Toward Fenard.” Cerryl turned the chestnut off the Great White Highway and onto the clay-packed trail that bore hoofprints-not terribly recent prints.

“Here’s where it may get rough, ser,” said Ludren.

“Do you think that the Gallosians would wait on the side road this far from Fenard?” Cerryl doubted it very much. They might run into a company of armsmen closer to the capital. Might? He held back a laugh, since Ludren would have taken it wrong.

Ludren frowned, then nodded slowly. “You might be right, ser.”

“I don’t know. I’m new to this,” Cerryl said as the chestnut carried him along the narrower packed clay road. “I would think that the armsmen who survived would probably ride to Fenard to tell the prefect.”

“Like as not, he won’t be wishing to see us.”

“No.” That was an understatement. Jeslek had clearly set Cerryl a near-impossible task, doubtless in hopes that someone would kill him. More than a day of riding, and Cerryl still didn’t have a good idea of how he was going to get into Fenard, let alone kill the prefect and get out.

Half-surprisingly, the thought of killing the prefect didn’t bother him. Was that because what everyone had said and what he had seen gave the impression of a very unpleasant character? What if Lyam weren’t as pictured?

Cerryl glanced back over his shoulder at the white lancers. The pair behind him-Jubuul and Zusta, he thought-rode silently and dejectedly. The mage wondered what they had done to displease Klybel and Jeslek.

“Ludren?”

“Yes, ser.”

“What were you told about escorting me to Fenard?”

“Well. . ser. . I can’t say as I was told much. The captain said I was to get you there, and then we were to try to catch them on the Great Highway, and if not, to rejoin them at the South Barracks.”

“You weren’t supposed to carry any messages or supplies to the mage Sverlik or back from him?”

“No, ser. We were to escort you to the prefect’s palace and then return.”

Cerryl nodded. “How long have you been a lancer?”

“Nigh on ten years, ser. Glad I was that the captain and the overmage offered this. Otherwise, it might have been another ten afore I made captain. That’s why there be no silver on my tunic-just the rank bar.”

“It must take a while to make rank.”

“Depends, ser. Huylar made undercaptain in six, but he was in the Sligan campaign-the one where they put down the timber camps and the traders so as they’d listen to the Brotherhood. To make rank, you take chances or time.”

The Sligan campaign? “When was that?”

“Three, four years ago. Huylar’s been ’round longer than me.”

“Were you involved in the Sligan campaign?”

“Me, ser? No. I was part of the mage’s guard in Hydolar, like Viurat is in Fenard.”

“I don’t know Viurat,” Cerryl said pleasantly, his eyes on the road ahead, and where it wound to the left around a long hill that flanked the road on the east.

“Viurat’s my cousin. No reason as you’d know him, ser.”

“How long has he been in Fenard?”

“Must be five years now. Brought Ryentyl-she’s his consort-he brought her with him.” Ludren laughed. “Lancers aren’t supposed to have consorts unless they’re officers, but no one really looks. Not that hard. Guess they like Fenard. He’s still there.”

Cerryl steered the chestnut around a particularly deep-looking pothole filled with dark and muddy water, glancing at the sky to the north. The clouds were dropping and darkening, foreshadowing another storm, if not for another few kays-and more headaches.

“Storm coming,” the undercaptain added. “Might keep those purple lancers from looking for us.”

“I doubt they’re looking for us. Not here.” Of course, any Gallosians who saw them might well want to eliminate anyone from Fairhaven, especially a student mage, but Cerryl doubted anyone was actually out searching. Not yet. That might change after the survivors of Jeslek’s fire attacks reached Fenard.

“Hope you’re right, ser.”

Cerryl nodded, his mind more on what awaited him. Even assuming he could get into Fenard, assuming he didn’t have to evade or flee Gallosian armsmen, Jeslek had said he was to remove the prefect and to leave Fenard unseen. How? The only way he could be unseen was to cloak himself in light, as Anya had done in visiting Faltar, and Jeslek knew Cerryl hadn’t ever done anything like that.

Could he channel light around himself the way he could channel chaos? He ought to be able to-light was a form of chaos. Still, what he ought to be able to do and what he could do might be very different.

He concentrated. . and found himself blind-enclosed in darkness. The chestnut half-whuffed, half-whimper-screamed, as the darkness surrounded them. Cerryl quickly released the light-shifting screens, or whatever what he had done was called. The gelding stepped forward and sideways for a moment.

“What was that?” Ludren leaned forward. “For a moment, you were not there.”

Cerryl forced a quizzical expression. “You must be mistaken. I have been here all along. My mount. . something spooked him.”