Colors of Chaos (15 page)

“This is the best of Telsen.” He bowed.

“You may pour it, Westcort,” Anya purred.

Westcort inclined his head and filled each of the goblets half-full of the dark red wine, leaving the bottle on the table. “You had requested the special cutlets with pearapple glaze… They will be here shortly.”

“Thank you.”

Westcort bowed again before retreating down the stairs.

Cerryl wasn’t sure he wanted to know what favors or leverage Anya had used to make the proprietor so subservient, but his own experiences with her maneuvering, maneuvering that had resulted in Kesrik’s death at Sterol’s hands, left no doubt that Westcort knew her power.

“As I was saying, Cerryl, you are not without power. You merely cannot stand up to Jeslek.”

Cerryl nodded, careful not to give away that he already had once, and survived.

“So you need friends and notice. You made yourself visible at a time when most young mages wait in the shadows. Why?” The bright smile followed. “You know that Jeslek is not fond of you and Kinowin is not fond of Jeslek. You support Kinowin and old Myral. They cannot stand up to Jeslek, either, but both are respected, and Jeslek would not dare remove them. So, while they live, he dare not remove you, now that both have quietly but clearly supported you.” The redhead raised her goblet and sipped. “It was most cleverly done.”

“I cannot say that I thought out anything that clearly.” Cerryl shrugged, taking a sip of the wine, but not until after he had studied it with his chaos senses.

“Oh… you probably didn’t, but you sensed it, and that is even more admirable, in many ways.” Anya took another sip of wine. “This is very good. Enjoy it while you can.”

Cerryl raised his eyebrows.

Anya laughed, not quite harshly. “That was not what I meant. The true chaos masters, like Sterol and Jeslek, are fortunate if they can enjoy more than a few swallows of good wine before the chaos in and around them begins to turn it to vinegar. Often very good vinegar, but vinegar nonetheless.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It is not something any would mention widely. But it’s true.”

“You must have a bit of that problem,” Cerryl hazarded. “You are tar more powerful than you reveal.”

“Yes… and no.” Anya shrugged, the goblet held momentarily in both hands. “Chaos power is not seen quite the same when held by women.”

“Yet the Guild uses women-you, Lyasa, Shenan…”

A frown crossed Anya’s face at the mention of Shenan, the Guild representative in Ruzor and supposedly Myral’s younger sister. “Some of us…”

A discreet cough announced someone coming up the steps.

Westcort appeared with two plates, still so warm that Cerryl could sense the heat rising from them. The proprietor levered the white china onto the table, plates costlier than the heavy brown platters used in the main room below but far from the elegance of those Cerryl had seen in the back dining room at Furenk’s. “The special cutlets… with the rice and mushrooms.”

The woman server who followed added a basket of bread, a jar of conserve, and a second, opened, bottle of the same wine as in the first bottle.

Westcort placed a brass handbell on the table, equidistant from either, but on Anya’s right. “If you need anything more…”

“Thank you, Westcort.” The red-haired mage lifted her knife and the fork.

Cerryl followed her example, glad he’d had some experience with good cutlery, thanks to Leyladin, although, once again, the dinnerware was not so good as either that of Layel or that at Furenk’s. Neither were the cutlets outstanding, if far better than the fare served below.

After taking several bites, Anya glanced at the younger mage. “You are surprising, Cerryl.”

“I am who I am,” he answered, not quite sure what he could say.

“Yes, you are.” She flashed the warm, winning, and insincere smile. “That is what is surprising. You are an orphan raised by a miner and his consort-I did find that out, you know? Yet your speech bares no roughness. You worked in a mill and then for a scrivener. Yet you handle cutlery well, and your manners would grace any table. It is not what you are that is so surprising. It is what you are not.” Another smile followed, less open, ironic, and more honest.

“What am I not?” Cerryl offered a gentle laugh.

“You are not rough, ill-spoken, and untutored. You do not-unlike others of a similar background-seek the more… violent avenues of advancement within the Guild.”

“I was not aware I sought any.” Cerryl took another small sip of the wine. “My ignorance has made me cautious.”

“Ah… yes… caution. You are wise to be cautious now. Even Myral has hinted that the times are changing.” She lifted the goblet and finished the wine in it.

Cerryl poured her another half-goblet, to the level that Westcort had initially.

“Myral is old, but more than a few times his visions have been true,” mused Anya. “Some may be true but do not matter.”

Cerryl frowned, then cut another section of cutlet, making sure the meat was well coated with the pearapple glaze before he put it to his mouth.

“They do not matter,” Anya continued after a swallow of wine, “because they will happen long after you are dust. Does it matter that
Fairhaven will be melted by a second sun-or that mad White chaos wielders will roam all of Candar? Or that Recluce will be sundered in twain by one of its own?”

“Perhaps it does. Perhaps, knowing such, we can change what might otherwise be.”

“Perhaps.” The tip of her tongue curled just over her perfect lips, and in the glow of the lamps her eyes seemed to flicker from pale gray to pale blue. “And perhaps not. Perhaps our actions in trying to avoid his visions are what will make them happen.”

Cerryl almost shivered at that thought. How could one ever know which was the right course, then?

“That bothers you, doesn’t it?” Anya smiled. “Better you enjoy the life you have than struggle to make right a future that your actions might equally make wrong.”

Cerryl forced himself to take a slow sip of wine. “The wine is good.”

“It is. There are better wines, but a good wine and a good life, lived now, are far more desirous than seeking a distant good that one’s efforts may destroy as easily as create.”

Cerryl tried to keep his head from spinning at the implications of Anya’s words. She’s trying to upset you… and she’s doing it… demon-damned darkness! Finally, he said, “Do you think Myral is right about the times changing?”

She laughed, gently and generously. “Cerryl, all times change. How can Myral be wrong?”

“I know, but sometimes the changes are little, and sometimes…”

“Sometimes, the entire world changes?” She ate several bites of the rice before continuing. “Jeslek has raised mountains. You know. You were there when he began. No mage has ever done that. So times have changed.” She lifted her shoulders, then dropped them theatrically, “Some things never change. Men will always want coins, and power, and beautiful women.‘Women will want what they want.” Her eyes fixed Cerryl’s. “What do you want from being a mage?”

Cerryl remained stock-still for a long moment before answering. “I don’t know that I know.”

“Best you find out before someone else chooses for you.”

“It can be hard to choose when you know little of the choices,” he pointed out.

Well,“ she began, her voice light, ”you could ask Myral and Kinowin to help you become a trade monitor. You’d probably end up in Quend, freezing half the year and using your glass to scree through cargo of fish and more fish. Or you could ask Eliasar for arms training-“

“And end up cutting off my own foot,” he interjected with a laugh.

“Or you could work with Jeslek raising mountains and chaos, getting old before your time. Or you could spend the next half-score of years flaming old ladies from the gate ramparts…”

“You make few of the choices attractive,” he pointed out.

“Exactly. All paths have drudgery. That is the problem with seeking fulfillment through one’s skills in meeting the Guild’s needs.” Anya drained her wine.

Cerryl replenished her goblet, emptying the first bottle in adding but a touch to his own goblet, more to distract from the fact that he had drunk little than from any desire for more wine. “What would you suggest?”

“Ah… I won’t. Not now, dearest Cerryl. I’m a cruel woman. You need to think about what I’ve said. You and Faltar and Lyasa and Myredin and Heralt and Bealtur, you all have to make your own choices. But no one tells you enough.” Anya smiled the broad insincere smile.

Cerryl stiffened within.

“What I will tell you is that nothing is as it seems. Not the Guild, not Kinowin, not Myral, not Sterol, not even me. I’ll tell you that. They won’t.” She took another swallow of the dark red wine. “No matter what anyone says, best you question it within yourself.” Another swallow of wine followed. “Wine doesn’t lie, Cerryl. We lie to ourselves; we lie to others. Wine lies to none.” The bright smile was slightly off-center as Anya stared at Cerryl before lifting her glass once more and draining it.

Cerryl refilled it, almost absently. There was less than half of the second bottle remaining.

“You could be dangerous, Cerryl, but you’re too kind. Even with those you trust not, you are kind. Best you be careful of that as well.” Anya’s pale eyes had turned darker, almost owlish, as she cradled the goblet in both hands.

Too kind? Cerryl swallowed a yawn.

“You are tired, and confused. Or partly confused. Or less confused than many, but still confused.”

Confused? Yes, but not in the way you think… dear Anya.

“Run along, Cerryl. Run along back to your mine-cave-room.” Anya gestured broadly. “Go back and be a cautious miner, and think.” She laughed, this time almost raucously. “It won’t help. It won’t help at all.”

Cerryl stood, then bowed slightly. “I am tired. Could I walk you back to the Hall?”

“Yes. You could. I would like that.” Anya rose, gracefully despite all the wine she had drunk.

Cerryl followed Anya down the stairs, half-ready to reach for her if she fell, but the redhead swayed only slightly more than normal and with a grace that was almost seductive.

Almost.

“Good night, Westcort.” Anya offered a head bow as she passed the proprietor.

“Good-night, Lady Anya… ser.”

“Good night,” Cerryl added. Since Westcort had not asked for coin, either Anya was known to be good for the debt… or she had already paid.

“You are wondering, are you not?” asked the redhead as Cerryl helped her up the steps to the front Hall. “You are wondering. Well… I will let you wonder.”

The two walked slowly through the deserted front Hall, the sound of their boots echoing in the gloom barely relieved by the handful of scattered wall lamps, burning low and providing but a dim glow. The slight bite of the water-cooled air in the fountain courtyard was welcome and fleeting as they entered the second Hall.

“This way.” Anya turned down a side Hall past the commons, one Cerryl had walked occasionally but seldom, since it led nowhere except to the next courtyard and since other routes were more direct. “We do have quarters in our own wing. Our own wing. It makes the bathing and the jakes more convenient.”

Suddenly Anya stopped in front of a door. The bronze door plaque read: “Anya.”

“Good night, Cerryl.”

Anya slipped inside, and the bolt clicked shut.

Cerryl stood there for a moment. Had he heard a soft cry-or a laugh? He wasn’t sure. He turned.

What had Anya wanted? To upset him? To find out more about him so that she or Sterol or Jeslek could manipulate him? She hadn’t wanted him in bed. That was the only thing he was sure about-the only thing.

He walked slowly through the rear courtyard and into the farthest Hall, then up the stairs and along the corridor. He closed the door to his room slowly, wishing Leyladin were still in
Fairhaven. He would have liked to talk to the blonde healer. Some things Anya had said about him had bothered him, accurate as they were, because they had been accurate and he wasn’t sure why they had upset him.

Lyasa might help, but he’d have to be careful how much he said to the black-haired mage.

He yawned as he slowly began to disrobe. The predawn bell would ring soon-too soon.

XXIV

… Some time passed, while Candar burned under the unrelenting sun and cloudless skies, and while the great rains harnessed by Creslin slowly transformed the desert lands of Recluce into a green that the isle had never known.

Even the banner of Recluce adopted by the Blacks was of darkness, that of a black blade and a black rose, crossed, as were the hearts and minds of Creslin and Megaera.

For, despite all the rain, all the coins and the ships that plyed the
Eastern
Ocean
to gather goods under the banner of Recluce, the isle was blighted, and its people hungered.

Once again, the Black leader of Recluce struck, a dark hammer of storms and ships that flowed through the Great
North Bay under a fog that turned the day to night; and while the people of Lydiar struggled in the darkness, Creslin called down storms.

Mighty storms they were, so massive that they shivered the very stones of the Easthorns and created swamps and bogs west of Lydiar where none had been before, so powerful that their lightning shivered the keep of Lydiar into pieces of gravel.

The destruction rained upon Lydiar, and while it fell across every part of the city Creslin and his forces seized every ship and cargo in the port, and all the golds in the city, and all the food in the granaries, and all the dried fruits and meats in the warehouses.

Laughing, the Black sorcerer returned to Recluce, where he and the evil Megaera rejoiced in their plunder and divided it among all, save for the ships, which he armed and armored with the protections of order and sent out to demand tribute to Recluce from all upon the seas of the world…