White Order
XXIV
After washing at the well and coming back to his room to finish dressing, Cerryl took out the silver-rimmed mirror and studied himself. The pale gray shirt and trousers were not new but almost could have passed for such, and the thick-soled boots Brental had given him seemed barely worn. In his pack, besides his books, were his old work clothes and an older sheepskin jacket, the fleece to the inside and barely matted.
His hair was shorter-Dyella had trimmed it for him the day before-but the shorter length seemed to emphasize the narrow triangular shape of his face. He fingered his chin, feeling the first hints of what might be a beard. Somehow, he doubted that any beard he grew would match the thick splendor of those of his uncle or of Dylert, or even the red bush sported by Brental.
The mirror went back in the pack, wrapped inside his spare smallclothes but on top of the heavier books. Then he slipped the scroll to Tellis on the very top and laced the pack shut.
He looked around the room, bare as ever, the blankets folded on the foot of the pallet, the board where he'd hidden his few valuables securely back in place, the white-bronze sword left there as well, the only possession he had left behind, but it was too big to conceal in anything he owned.
Thrap! Cerryl turned at the knock.
“You coming, Cerryl?” asked Rinfur. “Be a long day even leaving now.”
“I'm coming.” Cerryl lifted the pack off the stool and opened the door. Outside, standing at the back of the finish lumber barn, he paused and looked across the hillside. The oaks loomed across the field like ancient guardians of night, and the predawn gray was beginning to lighten. Cerryl closed the door and swallowed. A single terwhit echoed from the oaks to the west, and the night hum of insects had long since died away.
He turned toward the mill and lifted his pack. After receiving all the clothes from Dylert, Cerryl had been more than hesitant to ask the millmaster for his pay, and had kept putting off asking. Now he wished he hadn't. What would he do in Fairhaven with only two coppers to his name-the same two coppers he'd brought to the mill? Should he have taken the short blade from the fugitive? His lips tightened. Not with the aura of chaos around it. He knew enough to know the blade alone would bring him trouble, much as he disliked leaving it behind.
His eyes went uphill to the empty porch of the millmaster's house. Erhana was doubtless still sleeping, though the thin trail of smoke from the kitchen chimney indicated that Dyella was up and at work.
Dylert was inspecting the wood that had been loaded the afternoon before, and Rinfur was rechecking the harnesses as Cerryl hurried toward the wagon.
“Put your pack under the seat,” Rinfur called without looking up or toward Cerryl.
The brown-haired youth eased the pack under the seat.
By the time he had straightened, Dylert had vaulted off the wagon. “Here's what I owe you, young fellow, and a bit to spare.” Dylert pulled a cloth purse from his belt and extended it to Cerryl. “You be just like your uncle, not one to ask or press. Sometimes, mayhap, you must.” The millmaster grinned. “For all that, young fellow, we be missing you here. You got that scroll?”
“Yes, ser.” Cerryl wanted to feel the purse but didn't, instead fastening it to his belt. “I thank you.”
“No thanks be due. You worked hard, and you deserve the coin. And the recommendation to Tellis.” Dylert grinned. “He can be gruff. Don't let it fool you. Understand?”
Cerryl nodded. He cleared his throat.
“Yes, lad?”
“Ser? In ... my room ... I mean ... it was my room... there's a board under the cubby ... behind it... there's a bronze blade ... Brental might want it.”
Dylert nodded solemnly. “He might. Whether I let him ... that be between us. I thank you for saying such ... and you be a wise lad not to carry it.”
“You ... best know.” The words were hard for Cerryl to get out.
Dylert smiled and clapped Cerryl on the shoulder. “Keep that head in place, lad, and you be doing fine.”
Rinfur walked toward them.
“The provisions Dyella set up be under your seat, Rinfur. Extra this time.” Dylert nodded toward Cerryl. “Still growing, I'd wager.”
“Don't know as growing,” answered the teamster, climbing up onto the seat, “but he eats like he be. Best be up here, lad. A long road ahead we got.”
Cerryl followed Rinfur's example, except that, with his shorter legs, he had to pull himself up onto the seat. He looked at Dylert, knowing he should say something but not knowing what. Finally, as Rinfur flicked the long leads to the team, he said, “Thank you, ser. Thank you again.”
“Be nothing, young fellow. Take care, and give Tellis my best.”
“Yes, ser.”
Cerryl swallowed as the wagon lurched off the causeway and onto the lane heading down to the road. He wanted to look back but didn't, instead fixing his eyes on the stream to the left of the lane, his eyes skipping over the patch of blackened soil and rock that remained even after a handful of eight-days of sun and rain.
Until Rinfur had the team on the straightaway toward the road, the wagon moved at the slowest of walks. At the end of the lane, Rinfur turned the team right-left on the road away from Hrisbarg proper.
“Hrisbarg is that way,” said Cerryl, pointing to the right and the uphill road.
“Aye, but the wizards' road be this way, lad, and that road be smoother and far swifter than the way through Hrisbarg and Howlett.” Rinfur smiled, showing brown teeth. “Trust me. The roads I know, and master Dylert'd not give over this wagon to one he'd not trust.”
That was something about which Cerryl had few doubts at all.
“You ever been on a wizards' road?” asked Rinfur.
“No. Never been on a wagon before, except around the mill,” Cerryl admitted, shifting his weight on the hard seat.
“A lot you be seeing, then.”
“What's Fairhaven like?”
The teamster laughed. “A poor driver like me be not the one to tell. The buildings, most like be made of stone so white it glitters. All the ways and byways be paved with white stone like the wizards' road. Peaceable, too. A girl could walk stark naked, they say, and not a man dare touch her.” Rinfur grinned. “Never seen such, but some say the white mages send out female lancers like that to tempt the wild.”
Cerryl moistened his lips. He wasn't sure whether they were already dry from the dust or from what he was hearing.
“Those try to molest 'em, well, they end up working on the great highway on the far side of the Easthorns. Working till they die, some folks say.”
The wagon slowed as it climbed the low hill to the east of the mill.
“Do you know why master Dylert sends a wagon to Fairhaven?” Cerryl asked, wanting to say something.
“Don't know as I understand,” said Rinfur, “Fairhaven being half again as far as Lydiar, and master Dylert not sending wagons to the port.” He shrugged. “Near on twice a year, I take a wagon to Fasse. Always white oak. The good oak. He's from Kyphros, says there's no white oak there.”
Cerryl looked over his shoulder at the planks and small timbers neatly secured in the wagon bed. “It must be worth a lot.”
Rinfur shrugged again. “Can't say as I know. The coins go by messenger.”
By messenger? Dylert had charged Erastus something like six golds for a quarter of a wagon half the size of the mill wagon-or less. That had been black oak, but even if Dylert charged half that.... Cerryl shook his head. At least fifteen golds of wood lay stacked in the wagon.
At the thought of coins, Cerryl felt those in the purse and frowned. From what he'd figured, Dylert owed him about twenty coppers, or two silvers. The purse held more than two silvers-that he could tell.
Three silvers and ten coppers. Why? Dylert had been generous enough in giving him clothes and better boots. Because the millmaster wanted Cerryl away from the mill? Because he felt he owed something to Syodor?
The wagon slowed as it reached the hillcrest, then picked up speed slowly.
“Easy ... easy now,” murmured Rinfur.
Cerryl put out a hand to the end of the wooden wagon seat to steady himself.
As the wagon came down the low hill, Cerryl squinted. Ahead was a line of sparkling white-white despite the orange light of the rising sun, a line of white that arrowed to the right through the hills as though the hills had been cleaved to allow the road passage.
On each side of the wizards' road was a low stone wall, and to the south that wall separated the road from a small river.
“Something, be it not?” asked Rinfur. “Ah... here we go. Be a relief to get on the main road to Fairhaven.” Rinfur slowed the team with a slight pressure on the leads as he guided them past an empty stone booth, no more than four cubits by four. “Sometimes, they have a guard here, check if you paid the road taxes.”
“And if you haven't?” asked Cerryl. “How can you tell?”
“Don't let you on. There's a medal on the side of the wagon, driver's side. Bound with magic, some ways.”
The wheels rumbled on the flat stones, and Cerryl recalled Syodor's statement about the road having been paved with souls. He tightened his lips, then forced himself to relax-as much as he could as the wagon picked up speed on the flat and white stones of the main road, now heading due west. West toward Fairhaven.