LXVII
Cerryl roused himself out of a state of stupor and exhaustion as the wagon rumbled up the Avenue and neared the Halls of the Mages. The sky was fading into dark purple.
“If you could stop somewhere near the square there…” Cerryl forced himself erect on the hard wagon seat.
“That I can do, ser mage. That I can.”
After the wagon halted, Cerryl eased off the seat and turned to Narst. “I thank you.” He extended his last silvers and clasped them into the trader’s hand. “I wish it were more, but I cannot tell you how grateful I am.”
“You need not pay me…”
“I would not feel right if I did not,” Cerryl said. “Mages are not wealthy. If I were, it would be more. Success in your trading.” He smiled, though he was seeing stars before his eyes. “More than success.”
He could hear the guards as he turned to the steps of Halls.
“… more amazing yet… a mage who pays.”
“… he be human… and I hope to the light he remains such.”
The faint praise bothered Cerryl nearly as much as curses would have, but he had to watch every step, afraid he would trip and fall on his way through the front foyer and to the fountain court. The chill of the spray from the fountain sent him into another bout of shivering.
The two apprentice mages he passed steered away from him, and Myredin nodded but did not speak. Ceryl was too tired to worry about it and crossed the rear courtyard to his own Hall.
Lyasa came scurrying as Cerryl limped toward the steps to his quarters and to where he could get water and a good bath. He wanted those more than food.
“Demon-darkness… what… ? You’re sick…”
“I’m getting better.” That was true. He felt far better than the day before. Or the day before that. “Two days ago, I wasn’t sure I’d live.”
“What happened?” Lyasa followed Cerryl for a moment, then took his arm as he made his way to his door.
“Not much sleep, bad food, flux, lost mount, lots of walking… long trip back from Hydolar.” He opened his door. His room appeared unchanged. “I need a bath.”
“You need some food and wine.” Lyasa studied him. “You’re going to fall over.”
“Am not.” He sank into the chair in front of the desk. “Need to see Jeslek, too.”
“Now?”
“I have to.”
“You’re stubborn.” Lyasa sighed. “I’ll find something for you while you bathe.”
“Thank you.”
Lyasa offered another sigh before turning.
Cerryl struggled through a bath, shaving, and changing into fresh whites, wondering if the soiled set he had dragged across Candar could ever be gotten clean, especially the jacket. He was pulling on boots that had seen better days when Lyasa returned with a tray.
“Eat slowly,” she commanded, setting the tray on the desk before him. “I couldn’t get any wine. If Leyladin could see you now…”
Cerryl started with small mouthfuls of bread, interspersed with slivers of cheese. Shortly the stars flashing before his eyes subsided, as did the worst of the light-headedness. Abruptly he stopped. “I’m full.”
“You didn’t eat that much. Just what have you eaten lately?”
“Very little.” Cerryl took a healthy sip of the redberry, probably better for him than ale or wine in his present condition. “I have to see Jeslek.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“When the High Wizard told me to report as soon as I returned?”
Lyasa gave an exasperated sigh. “Mages…”
“You’re a mage, too.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. Just go and see Jeslek, and then come back here and get into bed-and eat some more if you can.”
“Yes, Aunt Lyasa.” Cerryl grinned.
Lyasa grimaced.
Cerryl pulled himself to his feet. Lyasa watched as he walked slowly out the door and down the corridor. Going down the steps to the main level wasn’t that bad. Nor was crossing the courtyards and making his way back through the front Hall and foyer. The flights of steps to the top of the White Tower took all the strength he had, or so it seemed.
Hertyl glanced up as Cerryl dragged himself toward Jeslek’s door and the ever-present guard.
“Tell the High Wizard I have returned.” Cerryl slumped onto the bench next to the messenger, who eased to the end away from the mage.
Hertyl rapped on the door. “The mage Cerryl has returned, sire. He awaits your pleasure.”
For the first time Cerryl could recall, Jeslek opened the door. His eyes swept over Cerryl. “Come in.”
Cerryl forced himself to his feet and followed the High Wizard inside.
After he closed the door, Jeslek gestured to the chair across the table from the one he took. “Sit down. You look worn out.”
Cerryl sat and looked at the High Wizard, behind whom, through the glass of the window, Cerryl could see scattered points of light across the city. “Thank you. It was a long trip, and harder than I thought. The duke barred the city to us…”
“Anya reported that.” Jeslek’s face clouded. “That I had not expected. Never has that occurred, not once since the founding of the Order.”
After the silence, Cerryl continued. “As you ordered, I removed the duke. Then I climbed down the roof and left the chamber bolted and empty. I couldn’t close the window behind me…” Cerryl went on to explain his return, not omitting, but not dwelling on in detail, his bout with the flux and his having to walk and ride the last two-thirds of the journey.
“You didn’t tell the merchant anything?” probed Jeslek.
“Only that I was junior mage and that we ran errands, did small tasks, and that I’d lost my mount in rough ground.”
“Best you could have done.” The High Wizard pursed his lips. “Duke Ferobar is dead-and vanished? You are certain?” Jeslek’s eyes centered on Cerryl.
“Yes, ser. So is his personal guard, but no others.”
“Where did this happen?
“At night, in his personal chambers. I had to hide there and wait for a time until he dozed.”
“Did you leave any traces of your presence?”
“Except for a sense of chaos, no, ser.”
Jeslek nodded, and a smile crossed his lips. “Good. I had hoped the silence out of Hydolar had meant your success, but it is good to know that.” He reached for the scroll on the table and extended it to Cerryl. “Read this. Is it accurate?”
Cerryl had to force himself to focus on the black script, and his eyes wanted to skip over words.
…Duke Ferobar mocked his own people by murdering the rightful Duke Uulrac. He mocked Fairhaven by attempting to murder a representative of the High Wizard, and by imprisoning an innocent healer, and then by closing the city gates on emissaries of the Guild…
… Duke Ferobar has been removed to where none will ever see him again, and the east tower of Hydolar has been destroyed. These actions should remind the new Duke of Hydlen of his duties to the people of his land and to the Guild. We trust that the road duties will be paid immediately. We also trust that an additional sum of 1,000 golds will be paid to recompense the Guild for its efforts to set matters as they should have been…
“Yes, ser. I mean, the part about what happened to the duke is. He’s ash, and no one will ever see him again.” Cerryl swallowed.
“I would prefer not to level the city, but I will, if I must.” Jeslek smiled, almost sadly. “Fairhaven can no longer be perceived as weak or tolerant of lapses of obligations by other lands. Weakness leads to either defeat or the need to be more ruthless than strength would have been.”
“Oh…” Cerryl shook his head. “I heard something else. The trader who gave me a ride… he said that people were saying that Rystryr had raised the road tariffs and was keeping the increase but everyone that it was going to Fairhaven.” He shrugged. “He was telling what he thought was the truth.”
“I had heard some such along those lines from others.” The High Wizard nodded. “We will look into that. Now… you are weak and ill. Do not worry about gate-guard duty. We have a few new mages. Take the next eight-day to rest and recover. Come to me when you are well.”
“Yes, ser.” Cerryl managed to get to his feet and out of the High Wizard’s chambers without staggering.
Going down the stairs was also no problem, unlike climbing the last steps back up to his room, which left him panting and his vision filled with stars.
Leyladin was waiting when Cerryl trudged into his room.
“Oh… Cerryl… just lie down.”
Cerryl didn’t argue, just stretched out on his bed.
Leyladin pulled off his boots, shaking her head. He could feel her order senses probing him, ever so gently.
“Feels good to lie down.”
“It’s almost as though someone poisoned you.”
“Maybe they did,” he said hoarsely, explaining about the apples from Duke Ferobar’s fruit bowl.
“The poisoners weren’t very good. You can do that to apples, but the fluxes conflict, especially for a mage. If they’d put that in pastry, you wouldn’t be here.” Her hand was cool on his forehead. “Don’t talk now. You can tell me everything later.”
He lay back on the bed, just glad to be there, glad she was there.