LX
Anya and Fydel, already mounted, looked at Cerryl in the orange light of dawn. Cerryl glanced at the big chestnut gelding and the red and white livery. Finally, he swallowed and pulled himself into the saddle. He shifted his weight, but the saddle was as hard and as unyielding as he had recalled.
Fydel nodded to the lancer officer on the bay beside him. “Let us depart, Captain Reaz. We have a long-enough ride ahead.”
A cold breeze out of the north blew at Cerryl’s back as he urged the gelding after the other two Whites. Kinowin had been right; winter was on its way. Behind him, he could hear the sound of lancers riding nearly in unison as the column left the stable courtyards and turned onto the Avenue south of the Halls of the Mages.
Cerryl found himself riding beside Anya.
They had almost reached the south gate to Fairhaven before either spoke.
“Whatever you may be doing for Jeslek,” Anya said quietly, “I do suggest that you do it with great success and devotion.”
“I intend to,” Cerryl answered as quietly.
“And I would not let your feelings for the Lady Leyladin interfere. After all, Cerryl, there’s no real future between a Black and a White.”
“I’ve been told that,” Cerryl answered. “Right now, she is a friend.” Because that’s all she’ll let it be.
“Blacks who are friends can be useful, so long as you do not turn your back for too long. Also, Blacks who are linked to great factors can be even more useful, if you use your head and not your heart.”
The sound of hoofs echoed down the Avenue as the column rode toward the south gate, the one Cerryl had spent guarding for too long. Even after making his maps of Candar as an apprentice - a time that felt more and more distant - it felt strange to be riding west to reach Hydolar, west for a time on the Great White Highway and then southwest on one of the lesser White highways until they reached the Ohyde River and Hydolar.
“Have you thought more about Myral’s great visions?” asked Anya, in a abnormal tone. “You can see where they led him.”
“I don’t know anyone who has escaped dying,” Cerryl pointed out. “Myral lived longer than most mages. His knowledge was useful for that.”
“A few years. Someday… someday, a strong White mage will be able to live longer, far longer.”
The cold certainty of Anya’s words bothered Cerryl. “I suppose that’s possible. I suppose it’s also possible that a strong Black healer might manage the same.”
A strange expression, one Cerryl couldn’t define, flitted across the redhead’s face, so quickly Cerryl almost missed it.
“That might be so, but you are a White, and you should follow your own path. Especially now.” She smiled, overly sweetly. “Jeslek expects you to bring honor to the Guild.”
Honor? Power perhaps, but hardly honor. Then, he reflected, Fairhaven needed more power. The Guild-
“What are you thinking?” Anya asked.
“About power,” he answered truthfully. “About how the Guild needs power more than honor. If we were stronger, then we wouldn’t have to worry about having Guild representatives killed or chased out of other lands. We could suggest trade policies that would benefit all Candar and not have to argue and send lancers and wizards back and forth across Candar.”
Anya laughed. “You sound just like Jeslek. Perhaps he did pick better than he knew.”
“It’s true,” Cerryl said stubbornly, wondering why he felt he had to defend his ideas against Anya.
“Oh… Cerryl, you and Jeslek will struggle and dream, and nothing will change. We can only change that close around us for comfort or personal triumph. The world will be what it will be.”
Was there a trace of something else in her sardonic words? Envy? Pity? Cerryl couldn’t tell.
Instead he shifted his weight in the saddle, trying not to think about just how sore he would be by the end of the day.