The White Order(13)

VII




CERRYL LAY ON his back, the heavy coarse blankets up to his chin, looking up through the darkness at the wide planks overhead. He could sense, rather than see, the heavy timbers that rested on those planks—the end of the finish timber rack holding oak beams. Almost a dozen score were stacked above Cerryl, seasoning, waiting for a buyer.

Even in designing where his workers’ rooms were, Dylert wasted nothing, not even barn space, since any storage where the rooms were would have been almost inaccessible. Cerryl frowned, thinking about the three men—his father, his uncle, and Dylert. One had failed and died; one had failed, but not died; and one had succeeded. Was it luck? Order? Or had chaos just struck down his father and crippled Uncle Syodor?

He recalled something Syodor had said to Nall—one night when they had thought Cerryl was sleeping—something about his father screaming he could have been High Wizard of Fairhaven had he only come from coins. Somehow, Cerryl didn’t think that being High Wizard was something coins could purchase. Or had his father meant something else? Or had Syodor really recalled what his father had said?

Cerryl inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly with no answers. His breath no longer steamed like hearth smoke, and the worst of winter had passed, or so he hoped. One eight-day had been so cold that both he and Rinfur had slept by the hearth in the millmaster’s house. The gray-haired woman who tutored Erhana on her letters had not been to the mill in four or five eight-days.

It had taken Brental a two-stone black oak timber to break the ice in the well. Cerryl shivered at the memory, glad that only an eight-day had been that chill.

His eyes went to the board under the cubby, the one he’d spent eight-days loosening. Behind it was the book he’d brought, the one he still kept puzzling over when he could.

That, too, he could sense behind the wood, in a different way, with a faint white glow, not so reddish as a fire, but with the same hidden depths. The book held a key, that he knew, but how could he find it when he couldn’t even read?

He sighed again, his eyes blank, fixed on the planks over his pallet.





VIII




A LIGHT BUT chill spring breeze blew through the open mill door, carrying the scent of damp earth and pearapple blossoms, and the hint of the words Dylert exchanged with a crafter in brown near the mill door.

Cerryl was on his knees, a relief to be off his feet, half under the fresh pine cuts rack, half-pushing, half-sweeping sawdust clear from underneath the lowest rack, using the side of the broom. He tried to ignore the itching in his nose and across his bare forearms, an itching that was worst around the pine sawdust.

“Cerryl!” called Dylert from the center aisle. “Where are you?”

“Yes, ser?” Cerryl straightened and stood, using his left hand on the rack to keep his balance. “I was cleaning out under the pine racks.”

“Good.” Dylert nodded as though he had personally ordered Cerryl to clean there. Beside him stood a burly man in brown, black-bearded with a dour look upon his face.

“There’s a handcart in the second lumber barn. Use it to bring three dozen of the narrow rough floorboards from the second barn. The best ones we have there, mind you.”

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl set the broom carefully against the rack, watching Dylert.

The millmaster turned toward the man in brown. “What will you be needing for timber? We have . . .”

Cerryl eased himself away from the rack, walking as quickly as he could toward the mill door, each step sending a knife jab up his legs.

Outside was a cart, and between the traces was a brown mule, thin and bony. The mule’s leads, and a halter rope as well, were tethered to the ring on the millrace side of the causeway.

Cerryl glanced up at the thickening clouds, then staggered and put his hand on the door frame to steady himself.

“Gee-ahh!” Brental guided the empty log cart back toward the mill, gesturing for the oxen to stop as they neared the mule cart.

With a pleasant smile plastered in place, Cerryl tried not to limp, but his toes and calves knotted with every step.

“Cerryl, what’s the matter?” asked Brental.

“Nothing. I was sweeping under the pine racks. I’m stiff.”

“Cerryl . . .” said the redhead firmly. “Sit down on the wall there. Next to the hitching post. Right now.”

“Dylert said I was to use the handcart and bring him three dozen of the narrow rough floorboards from the second barn.” Cerryl stopped beside the hitching post but did not sit.

“I’ll help you if it comes to that. Sit down,” Brental insisted.

Cerryl sat.

“Off with the boots.”

The youth looked stolidly ahead, as if Brental had not spoken.