White Order
XLVIII
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.