The White Order(135)

The glass seemed to shiver before it clouded with white mists. Slowly, slowly, in the middle of the mists, appeared the door to the mill and a wagon on which a red-haired man loaded timbers from the lumber cart. Cerryl concentrated on seeing the redhead, and the image grew until only the man, the lumber cart, and the side of the wagon filled the glass.

Brental’s face bore lines Cerryl did not remember, and the once-bright red beard was filled with white streaks. He did not smile as he lifted timber after timber, almost mechanically.

Cerryl found sweat oozing from all over his face, collecting in the thin wisps of hair on his jaw and chin that might become a beard someday. Then he let go of the chaos light he had focused on the glass, and took a deep breath.

How long had it been since he had seen Brental in person—more than four years? Enough to bring white to his beard?

Cerryl took another slow and long breath, this time trying to recall and focus on the kitchen and the long trestle table where he had eaten so often.

The second image came more easily, but Cerryl was still sweating as the silver mists formed and then ringed the view in the glass.

Dyella stood by the hearth. Her once-brown hair was streaked with silver. Beside her stood a young woman, a woman with a round face and black hair woven into a single braid wound into a bun on the back of her head.

Four places were set at the table.

Cerryl frowned as he released the image. The black-haired woman had to be Brental’s consort. Matters could not be going well for Dylert—not with Brental’s haggardness. Yet there was nothing that Cerryl could do. He had no coins beyond a silver and a handful of coppers, and no way to help the millmaster. He thought of the four places at the table and swallowed.

He studied the blank glass again, feeling helpless.

Jeslek had suggested that he attempt to use the glass to find images along the Great White Highway. How should he start? How could he start?

He thought about Tellura, the town that he hadn’t known about that had resulted in his having to draft the map of eastern Candar for Jeslek. Then he squared his shoulders and concentrated once more.

All he got was a set of swirling silver mist in the glass—and even hotter. He let the mists vanish and got up from the stool, then walked to the bed, where he stood on the end and tried to push back the shutters even wider to get some air, but the day was so still that not a breath of air entered the small cell.

He went back to the screeing glass and sat down. He tried to call up the image of the white road into Fairhaven. While slightly blurry at first . . . that effort worked, and he let the image lapse.

Cerryl wiped his forehead again, trying to keep the sweat from running into his eyes. He blinked. His entire head ached. He closed his eyes and sat before the desktop for a time, until the sharpest of the twinges had subsided. Then he opened his eyes, stood, and stretched. He couldn’t go back to using the glass immediately, even if he were far, far from the expertise that Jeslek wished.

After opening the cell door and stepping into the cooler corridor, he walked slowly down the corridor toward the commons, which was empty, except for Bealtur, who sat alone at one of the tables, poring over a thick volume Cerryl didn’t recognize. Cerryl turned toward the open windows, which offered no breeze, blotting his still wet forehead with the back of his forearm.

“Cerryl?”

Cerryl turned. “Yes, Bealtur?”

“I’m sorry.” The hazel eyes twitched, and Bealtur’s hand went to the thin dark goatee. “I didn’t know Kesrik meant something like that.”

Cerryl forced a pleasant smile. “I do not think many expected that. I didn’t.”

“Well . . . I am sorry. I wanted you to know that.” Bealtur looked almost like a whipped dog.

“I understand.” Believe me, I do.

“Cerryl? What are you doing here?” Faltar trudged into the commons, a set of books under his arm.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were out in the sewers.”

Faltar gave a grim smile and lifted the leather-bound books. “Esaak and Broka prevailed on Derka and Myral. One morning a week for them. That’s today.” He slid into the chair at the table next to the one used by Bealtur. “Esaak even said continuing studies had benefitted you . . .”

Cerryl gave the blond student a wry smile. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know which is worse—mathematicks and anatomie or the sewers.”

“The sewers,” suggested Cerryl. “The sewers.”

“Cerryl is right,” added Bealtur. “Especially now, when it is so hot and the odor in the tunnels leads you to retch. I was there last summer.” He shook his head.