White Order
XLIX
Cerryl watched as another gold oak carriage rolled through the shadow of the white tower and up to the front of the Hall of Mages. He turned and walked toward the back of the foyer, near the doorway to the fountain courtyard.
Faltar and Bealtur stepped through the doorway, Faltar's blond hair shimmering in the indirect light, Bealtur's wispy goatee looking more like iron-gall ink dripping off his chin.
“Why are they gathering?” asked Cerryl.
Bealtur offered a smile, one underlaid with a sneer. “All the mages-or most of them anyway-have a meeting twice a year. That doesn't count the special meetings, Broka says.” Bealtur squared his shoulders.
“What do they do at the meetings?” pursued Cerryl.
Faltar rolled his eyes, then looked at the white stone floor tiles.
“Mage stuff. This time there's something about trade. The black ones on Recluce are causing problems. They always do.” Bealtur added, after a pause, “The meetings are where students become real mages. next year, it'll be my turn-and Kesrik's.”
Cerryl wasn't sure he wanted to be anywhere near when Kesrik became a full mage, not that he'd have any great choice.
A thin and gray-haired wizard walked briskly up the steps and through the open double doors on the right side of the foyer, into the Great Hall, or Council Chamber.
“Sverlik! All the way from Fenard ...”
“How goes it with the young prefect...”
The voices died away. Another mage walked past where Cerryl, Faltar, and Bealtur stood at the side of the corridor, then stopped and studied the three. His hair was an impossible shade of gold, but deep lines ran from the corners of his eyes and mouth.
Cerryl waited, feeling as though he'd somehow been caught doing something he should not.
“Ah, yes, I can remember standing just about there, and thinking I really wanted to know what went on in the Great Hall.” Under a yellow cast to his face, the man grinned through equally yellowed teeth. “Then you become a mage, and it's not nearly so exciting.” He laughed gently and continued on toward the hall.
“It'll still be exciting,” murmured Bealtur, his eyes following the white wizard until he vanished into the Hall.
A heavier step-and a sense of power-fell across the three.
Cerryl recognized Jeslek even before turning.
“You won't learn how to be mages by watching people enter the hall.” Jeslek's sunburst collar pin seemed to radiate light, as did the sun gold eyes that surveyed the three students.
Cerryl inclined his head, remembering Jeslek's statement about respectful silence.
“Good. You all understand, I see. I suggest the common is more appropriate for you.” The familiar bright and perfunctory smile followed the words.
Cerryl bowed slightly, as did the others.
“Off with you.”
“Yes, ser.”
Jeslek continued to survey the three until they turned and began to Walk through the archway into the courtyard.
As the students crossed the courtyard, past the fountain, Bealtur looked back toward the foyer and the Great Hall for a long moment.
Cerryl kept his eyes on the doorway to the rear building, once more having the feeling that he was being watched through a glass. But by whom, with the mages gathering?
He stopped by his cell and opened the door, frowning as he stepped inside and lowered the latch, because the feeling of being watched dropped away abruptly. On his desk was a earthenware mug, and beside it a bottle, a true glass bottle.
He picked up the mug-empty, then set it aside and lifted the bottle toward the window. He couldn't tell what the liquid was. So he lowered the bottle and uncorked it. The aroma of cider seeped from the bottle almost too strong.
Why would anyone leave him cider?
He looked at the bottle and sniffed it, then poured a bit of the liquid into the mug. He looked at the liquid and sniffed again. It certainly smelled like cider.
He looked at the liquid, then tried to study it with his chaos senses. Abruptly he stepped back, as the ugly white-red of chaos seemed to swirl from both bottle and the liquid in the cup.
Poison? Did the sense of chaos in food and drink mean poison? Cerryl glanced around but could not sense anyone screeing him. He slipped the mug and bottle under his tunic, then went to the door, listening until the corridor seemed empty.
He left his room and strolled down the corridor, easing into the jakes, glad that the halls had jakes and not chamber pots, and slipped into the stall in the corner, where he eased out the bottle and poured the cider down into the darkness. He glanced around, then wiped the bottle with his tunic. He hoped that would blur or wipe away any tint of his chaos-if there were such a thing. He set the bottle and mug against the wall in the corner, then walked to the adjoining washroom- also empty, breathing a little more easily.
Jeslek had said there would be tests, not all that he would recognize. Had the poisoned cider been a test? Or did someone really want him dead? And why? He was almost unlearned, untutored.
He shook his head. Did he have to sense all the food and drink in the halls? Should he have already been doing that? He swallowed, then headed for the commons.