The White Order (22 page)

Despite the breeze from the open windows of the study common, sweat beaded in his hair, even cut as short as it was, and oozed onto his forehead and down the back of his neck. Cerryl ignored it and flipped to the next page of Colors of White, forcing himself to read each word and to fit the thoughts together, wondering how any of them related to the histories Tellis had forced on him, the mill work he had done for Dylert, or the reality that was Fairhaven, which included both chaos-fire and the vast golds of those like Muneat... or even why his father had been hunted and he had been spared.

   So much made so little sense.

   “You read that so quickly.” On the other side of the study table, Faltar shifted his weight, his eyes lifting from his own book, his blond hair almost white with the late afternoon sun through the tall study windows backlighting it.

   “Big surprise ... he was a scrivener. That's what they do.” The low rnurmur came from the only other occupied table, the one at which Bealtur sat.

   Cerryl kept his eyes on the page of Colors of White that lay open before him, ignoring the low-voiced and snide tone of the goateed student.

   “Reading is one thing... scriveners don't understand. That's why they're scriveners.”

   The thin-faced Cerryl licked his lips and kept reading.

   “... not enough behind the eyes to do more than copy ...” Bealtur stretched and smiled at Cerryl.

   Cerryl smiled back.

   His back to Bealtur, Faltar frowned.

   Cerryl closed the book, gently, and stood, walking from the open common down the narrow white-stone hallway to his cell. There, he opened his door and stepped inside, into a space even smaller than what he had occupied in the back of the mill barn at Dylert's. The bed was softer and the room without drafts, though he had to stand on the end of the bed to open and close the ancient oak shutters.

   He also had a stool and a small desktop built into the wall, with a bookshelf above it. Two sets of whites, four sets of smallclothes, two blankets, and his boots-that was all. That was the total of what any of the student mages had, except for the books on their shelves, and those varied according to their mentors. There was no mirror. None of the cells had mirrors. Once he would have considered his cell almost rich- before he had seen Muneat's dwelling or the bedchamber of the woman in green through his glass.

   Cerryl placed the worn copy of Colors of White on the shelf, next to The Founding of Fyrad and the White Lands, which had arrived in a package from the High Wizard. Beside them was Great Historie of Candar. On the desk lay a thinner volume-Naturale Mathematicks.

   His eyes crossed the mathematicks book. He'd scarcely even looked at that. It had been left for him; he didn't even know who might be his tutor there. His stomach growled. He glanced at the door, knowing he needed to head to the meal hall. Thrap.

   “Are you coming to eat?” Faltar's voice was clear through the door.

   Cerryl took a deep breath. “Yes. I'm coming.” He stepped into the corridor and closed the door. None of the cells had bolts, just simple latches.

   “You felt like smashing Bealtur, didn't you?” asked Faltar, running a hand through his thin blond hair and pushing it off his forehead.

   “I wasn't that angry.” Almost, but not quite, came the correcting voice in his thoughts as Cerryl matched steps with Faltar.

   “It's Kesrik. He's trying to get you angry. He's using Bealtur.” Faltar glanced back along the hall. “That's what he did to Yullur. Yullur tried to throw fire at him, and ...” The words trailed off.

   “Sterol or Jeslek or someone found out, and put him on the road?”

   “No ...” Faltar glanced back down the empty hallway again. “Yullur tried it when Sterol was just outside the study. Kesrik knew it and ran at Sterol for protection. Yullur was so angry, he didn't really see the High Wizard when he threw the chaos-fire at Kesrik.” Faltar gave a twisted smile. “The High Wizard didn't have a choice then. He turned Yullur into ash and put Kesrik on sewer duty and the refuse wagons for nearly a season. It didn't matter. When he came back, Kesrik had a big smile on his face for a couple of eight-days, and none of us could do anything about it.”

   Cerryl nodded. “What did the honored Jeslek say?”

   '“Who knows? He stays away from the High Wizard. He travels a lot, all the way to Gallos at times. He's taken Kesrik, but not always.”

   The two walked slowly into the small meal hall, a hall containing but a dozen circular tables and a table that held platters and dishes of food.

   Two mages in white sat at a corner table. Cerryl knew one.

   “The bald one with jowls-that's Esaak.”

   Cerryl had seen the other mage, a burly and rugged-looking man with trimmed ginger whiskers, come to Jeslek's quarters once, but Jeslek had dismissed Cerryl on an errand immediately. “Eliasar ...” he murmured, dredging up the name. “It is, isn't it?”

   “I think so.”

   “What do you know about him?” Cerryl kept his voice low.

   “He's in charge of the white lancers. He doesn't like Sterol much. That's what Lyasa told me.”

   Did anyone? Cerryl wondered, even as he stepped toward the momentarily empty serving table. His twitching nose told him that the burkha was even more heavily seasoned than normal, and he took just a small dipping of the sauce, beside the large heap of heavy egg noodles. Dark bread, cold and nearly stale, and a pearapple also went on his platter. The light ale was almost drinkable, and he was tired of water all the time. So he carried the mug of ale and the platter to a wall table as far from the older mages as possible.

   One of the serving boys in red quickly refilled the pitcher after Faltar had poured a mug.

   Faltar slipped onto the stool across from Cerryl, glancing back at the dark-haired serving boy. “When I did that, I always wanted to be a student mage.”

   “You came from the creche?”

   “Most of us do, except the few who come from coins-like Kesrik. Or Anya-you know, the red-haired mage?”

   Cerryl nodded.

   “Kesrik's father is a trader. He has more teams and wagons than the Duke of Lydiar.” Faltar grimaced. “That's what he says.”

   “I know. He's told me.” Cerryl bit into the chewy bread, twisting a corner with his teeth and eating slowly.

   “He's also told everyone else.” Faltar laughed gently. “But he's no better than any of us.”

   “He's better at getting others into trouble,” Cerryl pointed out.

   “You put things so well, Cerryl.”

   Cerryl was certain he didn't. Otherwise, why would Kesrik be trying to force him into doing something stupid?

   Faltar frowned, then covered it with a smile. “How are you finding all the histories?”

   Cerryl felt the eyes on his back and framed the name “Kesrik” without speaking.

   Faltar nodded, nearly imperceptibly.

   “A lot of it's new to me,” the thin-faced student answered quietly, but not quietly enough.

   “Sleeping in a bed is new to some. And bathing.” Kesrik's tone was light as he passed on his way to the serving table. Bealtur walked beside the older student mage.

   “It is good not to have to draw ice-cold water every morning to bathe.” Cerryl smiled brightly at Kesrik. “I appreciate the advantages.”

   Faltar swallowed.

   “It's good you do,” answered Kesrik blandly, turning away.

   “I told you,” whispered Faltar.

   “He's not the problem,” Cerryl said quietly. “Let him think he is. It's safer that way.” He took a mouthful of barely sauced noodles, followed by a sip of the ale. At least he could eat all he needed.

Cerryl watched as another gold oak carriage rolled through the shadow of the white tower and up to the front of the Hall of Mages. He turned and walked toward the back of the foyer, near the doorway to the fountain courtyard.

   Faltar and Bealtur stepped through the doorway, Faltar's blond hair shimmering in the indirect light, Bealtur's wispy goatee looking more like iron-gall ink dripping off his chin.

   “Why are they gathering?” asked Cerryl.

   Bealtur offered a smile, one underlaid with a sneer. “All the mages-or most of them anyway-have a meeting twice a year. That doesn't count the special meetings, Broka says.” Bealtur squared his shoulders.

   “What do they do at the meetings?” pursued Cerryl.

   Faltar rolled his eyes, then looked at the white stone floor tiles.

   “Mage stuff. This time there's something about trade. The black ones on Recluce are causing problems. They always do.” Bealtur added, after a pause, “The meetings are where students become real mages. next year, it'll be my turn-and Kesrik's.”

   Cerryl wasn't sure he wanted to be anywhere near when Kesrik became a full mage, not that he'd have any great choice.

   A thin and gray-haired wizard walked briskly up the steps and through the open double doors on the right side of the foyer, into the Great Hall, or Council Chamber.

   “Sverlik! All the way from Fenard ...”

   “How goes it with the young prefect...”

   The voices died away. Another mage walked past where Cerryl, Faltar, and Bealtur stood at the side of the corridor, then stopped and studied the three. His hair was an impossible shade of gold, but deep lines ran from the corners of his eyes and mouth.

   Cerryl waited, feeling as though he'd somehow been caught doing something he should not.

   “Ah, yes, I can remember standing just about there, and thinking I really wanted to know what went on in the Great Hall.” Under a yellow cast to his face, the man grinned through equally yellowed teeth. “Then you become a mage, and it's not nearly so exciting.” He laughed gently and continued on toward the hall.

   “It'll still be exciting,” murmured Bealtur, his eyes following the white wizard until he vanished into the Hall.

   A heavier step-and a sense of power-fell across the three.

   Cerryl recognized Jeslek even before turning.

   “You won't learn how to be mages by watching people enter the hall.” Jeslek's sunburst collar pin seemed to radiate light, as did the sun gold eyes that surveyed the three students.

   Cerryl inclined his head, remembering Jeslek's statement about respectful silence.

   “Good. You all understand, I see. I suggest the common is more appropriate for you.” The familiar bright and perfunctory smile followed the words.

   Cerryl bowed slightly, as did the others.

   “Off with you.”

   “Yes, ser.”

   Jeslek continued to survey the three until they turned and began to Walk through the archway into the courtyard.

   As the students crossed the courtyard, past the fountain, Bealtur looked back toward the foyer and the Great Hall for a long moment.

 
 Cerryl kept his eyes on the doorway to the rear building, once more having the feeling that he was being watched through a glass. But by whom, with the mages gathering?

   He stopped by his cell and opened the door, frowning as he stepped inside and lowered the latch, because the feeling of being watched dropped away abruptly. On his desk was a earthenware mug, and beside it a bottle, a true glass bottle.

   He picked up the mug-empty, then set it aside and lifted the bottle toward the window. He couldn't tell what the liquid was. So he lowered the bottle and uncorked it. The aroma of cider seeped from the bottle almost too strong.

   Why would anyone leave him cider?

   He looked at the bottle and sniffed it, then poured a bit of the liquid into the mug. He looked at the liquid and sniffed again. It certainly smelled like cider.

   He looked at the liquid, then tried to study it with his chaos senses. Abruptly he stepped back, as the ugly white-red of chaos seemed to swirl from both bottle and the liquid in the cup.

   Poison? Did the sense of chaos in food and drink mean poison? Cerryl glanced around but could not sense anyone screeing him. He slipped the mug and bottle under his tunic, then went to the door, listening until the corridor seemed empty.

   He left his room and strolled down the corridor, easing into the jakes, glad that the halls had jakes and not chamber pots, and slipped into the stall in the corner, where he eased out the bottle and poured the cider down into the darkness. He glanced around, then wiped the bottle with his tunic. He hoped that would blur or wipe away any tint of his chaos-if there were such a thing. He set the bottle and mug against the wall in the corner, then walked to the adjoining washroom- also empty, breathing a little more easily.

   Jeslek had said there would be tests, not all that he would recognize. Had the poisoned cider been a test? Or did someone really want him dead? And why? He was almost unlearned, untutored.

   He shook his head. Did he have to sense all the food and drink in the halls? Should he have already been doing that? He swallowed, then headed for the commons.

“Why are you here, young Cerryl? Jeslek and Sterol sent you.” The slender older mage answered his own question and smiled broadly. “They sent you to me, and I will teach what I know of anatomic, which is considerable.”

   From where he sat on the hard bench against the wall, Cerryl bowed his head and waited.

   “But the question remains. Why? Why study anatomic?” Broka paused but did not look at Cerryl as he walked by the student as if Cerryl were not there. “Many are the reasons for the study of the anatomies ... many, indeed ...”

   The mage turned abruptly, and his long fingers brushed Cerryl's arm as he passed, and Cerryl wanted to cringe. He remained sitting straight up, instead, his eyes intent on the slender wizard.

   “From chaos unto chaos-that is the rule of anatomie-and of life. Life is that brief moment when chaos seizes order and creates living form, and death is when chaos abandons order. It ceases to animate form, and the form ceases to live, if you will.” Broka offered a toothy grin, then turned and walked toward the window in a gliding, swaying stride that reminded Cerryl of a lizard-or a viper.

   Cerryl looked at the skeleton on the wooden stand in the corner away from the window. Had the man or woman been a criminal or just a poor unfortunate?

   “We know food supplies chaos energy to the body, and with that energy, the body grows and changes. Any individual living body is not only constantly changing its substance but its size. When such changes cease, we have death.” Broka fixed Cerryl with his deep-set eyes. “Do you understand that, young Cerryl? When the body loses its chaos energy in one way or another, it dies.”

   “Yes, ser.”

   “Pure chaos is formless, but man is not. In fact, all land creatures with bones share a generality of structure. The hand and arm of a man, the foreleg of a dog, the wing of a bird-indeed all manifest the same type of construction.”

   Broka sidled toward the skeleton on its frame, pointing toward it. “Now we shall begin with the skeleton-precisely ... precisely two hundred distinct bones.” He gestured toward Cerryl. “Come here You do not just listen. You must touch, and feel. Feel... especially For feel is essential to a chaos master.” A soft but guttural chuckle followed.

   Cerryl rose and walked gingerly toward the skeleton, trying to position himself so that the array of bones stood between him and Broka.

   “All bones are of one of four types-lengthy bones, short bones plank or flat bones, and irregular bones.” Broka pointed to one of the arm bones. “Feel that.”

   Cerryl complied, letting his fingers trace the length of the off-white member, feeling white dust slip away under his fingertips.

   “Real living bones are not so smooth, not so cool and inviting, but this will start you on learning.”

   In the oppressive warmth of the small chamber, Cerryl wanted to yawn and step back from Broka simultaneously.

   “Prestad's will give you all the details. That's the book I will give you. Jeslek says you can read, and read you will.” Broke pushed a lock of long graying sandy hair back off his forehead, offering another broad smile.

   “Yes, ser,” answered Cerryl, uncertain what to say or do.

   “Why should you study anatomic? There are two reasons. You should learn anatomie so that you can use chaos to heal effectively or kill effectively. The other reason is that the Guild says you should learn anatomie.” Broka shrugged. “If I do not think you have learned your anatomie, then you will not become a full mage.” He looked at the skeleton. “You may indeed serve the Guild in other ways.” Yet another smile followed. “Do you understand?”

   “Yes, ser.”

   “Good.” Broka thrust forward a book Cerryl had not seen him pick up. “This is Prestad's Anatomical Explications. You will read section one until you think you understand it. We will meet in an eight-day.”

   Cerryl took the book.

   Broka glided toward the door, toothy smile in place, opening it and stepping back, his smile almost mocking.