V
Cerryl stretched, standing in the sun of the small guardhouse porch, glad that spring had returned. Even the hills in the distance were showing signs of full greening.
He sat down on the backed stool provided for him, just high enough to be able to see over the granite rampart. He kept his eyes open but concentrated on focusing the chaos energy of the sun into an ever-tighter line of pure chaos-something like a light lance, but no thicker than his index finger.
Whst! The barely audible hiss followed as the narrow line of golden fire cut into the granite at the bottom of the rampart, drilling into the hard stone. White dust oozed out onto the walkway.
Cerryl released the light dagger-or whatever it might be-and sat there quietly, sweating, although the day was not that warm, trying to cool off from his silent effort. The area under the rampart ledge wasn’t that visible, and if anyone did look, he’d only assume that the stonecutters had made an error and perhaps filled in with powdered stone that had leached away over time.
Kinowin had suggested he use his time to improve his skills… but how? And where? He couldn’t very well have said that he’d mostly mastered the light cloak that left him invisible, certainly not in the Tower, where the walls had both eyes and ears. Nor did he wish to make known his light lances, and if he used those on guard duty, everyone in the Halls of the Mages-including Jeslek-would know in days.
Cerryl had wondered what other skills might be useful… that he could work on quietly. Somehow, focusing chaos into a tighter focus might help. At some time he wanted to try the light dagger against cold iron, but he dared not experiment with that where anyone could see or scree him. Chaos against iron would alert any mage nearby.
The sound of wagon wheels on the stones of the highway broke into his reverie, and he sat up straight, looking at the afternoon coach from Lydiar. The four passengers all filed out and stood by the guardhouse while Cerryl studied with his senses the boxes and bags roped to the top. Outside of one black case that held a set of iron knives, the bags were all filled with what seemed to be fabric or leather-things with a “soft” feel.
“Ser?” called the duty officer.
“The black bag has knives, but there’s no rule against personal weapons.”
The swarthy black-bearded trader in purple looked up at the thin mage, standing at the guardhouse upper rampart, back to the duty guard, then shook his head.
“… see why you’d best not be smuggling?” asked the rotund Sligan in his embroidered jacket.
“… demon-damned mages know what you eat for breakfast…”
“It makes your efforts more profitable,” suggested the third man, a blond man in a gray tunic and trousers with high black boots, an outfit Cerryl didn’t recognize.
“Smugglers don’t take the White highways.”
“If they don’t, they’ll not be carrying much.”
“Let’s go!” called the coach’s driver.
As the coach pulled through the gates, the duty guard gave a broad smile to Cerryl. “That be keeping them thinking, ser.”
“Let us hope so.” Cerryl still wondered about the blond man in gray and black. The fellow could have been almost any age and showed neither order nor chaos. But something about him bothered Cerryl. Or was it that he just couldn’t determine from where the fellow might hail?
Cerryl sat back down on the stool, fingering his smooth chin.
So many things were unsettled. Leyladin was off in Hydlen, and while he was pleased with his progress in using the light dagger, he felt he needed to come up with something more.
He’d have to think about it, not only about what other chaos skills he could hone or develop, but where so that others, Anya and Jeslek, especially, did not discover, not quickly, in any case.