White Order
LXXXIV
Several large droplets of water splatted from the overhead arch of the water tunnel onto Cerryl's already damp hair and oozed down his forehead toward his eyes. He blotted them away with the back of his forearm and watched Leyladin's gesture.
“There's some of the dark chaos along this joint,” said Leyladin.
Cerryl studied the polished stone of the tunnel walls, the damp gray broken by a line of dark green.
Whhsstt He eased a firebolt onto the slime that coated the mortar, a firebolt because he didn't wish to use the fire lances when Jeslek was watching-or anyone who might report that ability to the overmage. Ashes flaked into the damp air of the water tunnel. Both Leyladin and Cerryl coughed.
Under the light of the bronze lamp carried by the lancer, as the ashes flaked away, the surface of the mortar appeared, yellowed with age, and with a long crack, still dark-looking.
“There's more ...”
“I know,” Cerryl said tiredly. “I can see the dark stuff there.” He did not glance over his shoulder, sensing Jeslek's presence with every bit of chaos he channeled into destroying the flux-causing natural chaos in the decayed joints of cracked granite runnel walls. Making sure he revealed nothing of his own abilities to focus chaos into light lances made the job even harder, but he trusted Leyladin's suggestion that he reveal nothing he did not have to.
After a deep breath, Cerryl half-dropped, half-arced another firebolt against the mortar. This time the darkness-and the flux chaos-vanished in the swirling white ashes.
Cerryl found himself taking another deep breath, leaning forward, and trying not to pant.
“Kochar, you see what Cerryl is doing. The next one Leyladin finds, you clean it up.” Jeslek's voice was crisp and impersonal. “Stand back.”
WHHHHSSTTT! Once again, another wall of flame flared down the tunnel, scouring most of the surface of the granite, leaving just the rough patches not touched by Jeslek's flame blasts.
Cerryl coughed again as the ashes and white fire dust settled and as the drier air came through the tunnel vent opened by the lancers who followed along the top of the stone tunnel.
“Here.” Leyladin stepped forward another half-dozen paces-followed by a tall lancer with the bronze lamp-and pointed, then stepped back.
Whst. Kochar's small fireball plopped onto the dark patch on the side wall.
“Another one, please,” requested the blonde.
“Keep at it, Kochar.” Jeslek's voice was hard. “We need to finish today. The reserve tanks are almost empty, and we need to reopen the tunnel.”
“... trying ...”
Cerryl almost felt sympathy for the redhead.
By the end of the day, when Cerryl stepped out of the tunnel access building into the late afternoon sun, into the dust and heat, he had somewhat less sympathy, since Kochar had lost all ability to raise chaos halfway through the afternoon, leaving Cerryl to handle all of the rough patches and cracks.
Heat waves shimmered off the side road. Slowly, he heaved himself into the chestnut's saddle, trying not to grunt. Leyladin and Jeslek mounted easily, as did Kochar and the half-score of white lancers.
The saddle remained hard as he tried not to bounce on the ride back into Fairhaven. He still had to work on relaxing his fingers. When he didn't think about it, they tightened around the leather of the reins until his hands were almost cramped.
In the west, the sun burned over the hazy hills, and heat waves rose off the white granite of the road. Sweat began to seep down Cerryl's back, and he almost wished for the dampness and cool of the water tunnels.
He was soaked when he reined up before the stables. Jeslek, Kochar, and Leyladin had already dismounted, even before he had stopped.
Cerryl swung his leg over the saddle, almost catching his boot on it. Then he stood wavering on the hard stone of the courtyard, his hand reaching out for the chestnut to steady himself.
Jeslek stepped forward, his eyes raking the three and settling on Cerryl. “That's all the work we'll do on the tunnel this season. I'll see you and Kochar tomorrow after breakfast.” He did not smile as he turned and walked toward the Halls.
Kochar looked at the departing overmage, then trudged after him. Cerryl took a deep breath and looked for Leyladin, but she, too, had vanished. With a shrug, he walked slowly to his cell and then to the bathing chamber.
His stomach was growling by the time he finally reached the meal hall, right after the bells rang. Even so, Kochar had a full platter already and was walking toward the table where Bealtur and Heralt ate together in the corner. The redhead sat down with them.
Cerryl walked slowly from the serving area toward one of the empty round tables, where he sat. He glanced at what was supposed to be lemon-creamed lamb, then across the table, unmindful of the soreness in too many muscles from riding to and from the water runnel for three days, scrambling through the slippery tunnel, and feeling Jeslek watching over his shoulder every moment. The more he was around Jeslek, the less he trusted the overmage, despite Jeslek's apparent straightforwardness.
“Might we join you, ser mage?”
Cerryl looked up at the warm voice to see the blonde hair and green tunic, then staggered to his feet. “Of course.”
“Sit down,” Leyladin added. “If you're as tired as I am, you don't need to be jumping up for people.”
Leyladin and Lyasa sat down on the other side of the table.
Cerryl sat and absently fingered his chin.
“You know, you'd look better if you didn't try to grow a beard.”
Cerryl blinked, refocusing on the blonde.
“You're like all the other young mages, growing a beard to look older.”
Cerryl's mouth opened.
“You'd look much better without it,” she continued, breaking off a chunk of fresh dark bread.
“Iron irritates me,” Cerryl said. “Even a sharp iron blade does.”
“It does many of the whites. There are answers to that. I'm sure you'll find one. Besides, you'll look old and distinguished soon enough.” Leyladin's eyes twinkled, and her voice lowered. “It's always better to be underestimated when you don't have as much power, and everyone knows it.”
“That's why I laugh a lot. Laughing mages can't be taken seriously.”
“Nor women,” added Lyasa.
For some reason, Cerryl's thoughts went back to Benthann and her comments about women always being considered for what they provided in bed. “The Guild allows women to be full mages. What about Anya or the older woman in Ruzor that Myral was telling me about?”
“Shenan,” mumbled Lyasa. “Think she's Myral's younger sister. He doesn't say.”
Leyladin frowned. “He's never mentioned her.”
“There's usually something most mages don't mention.” Lyasa took a long swallow of ale. “That tastes good.”
“What were you doing today?” Cerryl glanced at the black-haired student.
“Anya and Whuyl were showing me how to use a dagger-in close It's a lot of work.”
Cerryl took a mouthful of the lamb, dry despite the thick sauce.
“No one's taught me about daggers.”
“Anya says a female needs that kind of knowledge.”
“She'd know,” suggested Leyladin quietly. “If it can kill, she's looked into it.”
“I don't know that she has a choice,” pointed out Lyasa. A wry smile crossed her lips. “You can't use your body for everything.”
Cerryl almost choked, especially when he saw Falter at the serving table.
“We'll behave,” promised Leyladin, her eyes sparkling.
Cerryl wasn't quite sure he wanted her to behave. Even Lyasa snorted.
After a moment, he finally asked the question he'd wondered about for over a year. “Why do you spend so much time with Myral? He doesn't need that much healing.”
“Myral is old, very old for a white mage, Cerryl. He must be threescore, and most whites don't live much past two score.” Leyladin lifted her shoulders and dropped them. “I'm a healer, and that's what he needs.”
“That's all?”
“Handling chaos is hard on the body. You should know that. Especially after today.”
Cerryl gave a rueful smile. “But Myral?”
“I'm a healer, Cerryl. Myral's not too proud to ask for my help, unlike Sterol or Esaak. And I can learn from him. He knows a lot.” Leyladin studied him. “You ... you're actually jealous.”
Cerryl looked down, then forced himself to meet the laughing green eyes. “Yes.”
“And honest.”
“I try,” he said. “I don't know how honest.”
“You're honest. That's one reason why Myral likes you.”
“Honesty isn't enough around here.”
“No,” interjected Lyasa, “it's not enough. But all the other stuff you need to know isn't enough without it, either. Not over time.”
“My ... we're all so philosophical...” Leyladin laughed.
Both Cerryl and Lyasa joined her laughter.