The White Order(117)
Had he heard the whisper of footsteps on the polished stone of the corridor? Or was that the wind outside the halls?
He sniffed. Even through the door he could smell the faint odor of sandalwood and flowers, and his senses told him that someone in the corridor had warped or twisted light somehow.
The faintest snick of a lifted latch—had he heard that, or was it his overactive imagination?
Anya? Visiting Faltar again?
Briefly, the corners of his mouth lifted in the darkness as he thought how he would react if someone slipped into his room. Say someone like Leyladin . . .
He swallowed and pushed that thought away as he sensed, almost like a white shadow, a looming but partly shielded chaos presence, farther away—where, he couldn’t sense, but not too far. And that chaos presence was definitely watching.
Cerryl swallowed. Anya was visiting Faltar, and Cerryl had no doubts about what kind of visits the redhead was making, and someone was watching Anya, and both were hiding their presence.
The thin-faced—and cold-footed—young man slipped back from his door to his bed, easing his blanket back around him, trying to let his feet warm up as his thoughts swirled in his head.
What did Anya want of Faltar—a mere student? Mere sexual pleasure? Somehow, recalling Anya’s smile and the coolness beneath it, Cerryl doubted that.
Should he tell Faltar? How much should he say? Or should he just wait? What else can you do but wait. Wait and learn . . . and hope.
He turned over, wrapping the blanket tighter about him, but sleep was long in returning.
LXXIII
HOW DID THOSE mathematicks problems go with Esaak?” asked Faltar, taking a swig of ale from his mug, then following it with a mouthful of the crusty hot bread.
“I managed to figure out most of them.” Cerryl sipped the mug of water. Ale was something he couldn’t swallow in the morning. Cheese and bread were bad enough, but trying to handle chaos fire on an empty stomach was worse. He broke off another chunk of bread and ate it slowly, his eyes on the oiled and polished white oak table that had turned a burnished gold over the years.
“Esaak wants everyone to know how much water the sewers can carry and how you determine how strong a wall or bridge is.”
“Walls and bridges?” blurted Cerryl.
“Those are next,” affirmed Faltar, attacking another chunk of hard yellow cheese. “He says being a mage isn’t just wielding chaos-force. Oh, and Derka says I’ll start doing sewers pretty soon, maybe before you finish. He has to talk to Myral.”
“It’s not exactly fun,” demurred Cerryl.
“That’s what he says.”
As he chewed the fresh bread, Cerryl looked at Kesrik, not so much with his eyes as with his senses. The stocky blond sat at the corner table with the red-haired Kochar and the goateed Bealtur, and at that moment, none were looking toward Cerryl or Faltar. Then Cerryl turned his scrutiny to Kinowin, who stood over the table where Esaak had been eating alone.
Cerryl blinked, then looked more at Esaak. Clearly, a far greater chaos power surrounded Kinowin—although far less than Cerryl would have guessed—than the other two, and even the aging Esaak blazed with power compared to Kesrik. Cerryl glanced at Faltar the same way.
“What’s the matter? You have a funny look,” mumbled Faltar.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
About chaos power and who shows it. “All sorts of things. Esaak, Kinowin, Kesrik.”
“Sometimes you think too much.” Faltar swallowed the last of the ale in his mug.
Cerryl tried not to wince at the thought of starting the day with ale, glancing at Lyasa, who walked into the meal hall with Leyladin. Lyasa, like Faltar, showed a modicum of chaos. The red-golden-haired Leyladin flickered with what Cerryl sensed as flecks or streaks of white that seemed to swirl in and through an unseen black mist that enshrouded the blond. Was that what a black mage looked/felt like? Black mists? Cerryl quickly looked down at his platter as Leyladin’s eyes swept toward him.
“Too bad she’s a black,” murmured Faltar.
“I thought you were more interested in Anya,” countered Cerryl in a low tone.
Faltar flushed.
“She’s beautiful,” agreed Cerryl. But so are lances and daggers. “Anya, I meant.”
“I got who you meant.”
“Even if I were a full mage, I think I’d walk carefully with her,” Cerryl murmured.
“I didn’t ask . . .” Faltar looked hard at Cerryl. “You aren’t a full mage.”
“You’re right.” Cerryl forced a smile. “Anyway . . . different women appeal to different men.” He paused. “It’s your choice. When the time comes, Faltar, the best of luck to you.”