The wavering wall of order darkness that spread to the north of the road flexed under the rising and expanding globule of reddened-white chaos.
“More . . . all of you,” grunted Anya. “You don’t . . . give more . . . Fydel, and I’ll let you fry first.”
The darkness thickened.
Cerryl glanced down the road, where Jeslek stood alone, a point of white amid the chaos that shimmered like light reflected from a still sea at twilight, except more brightly. As he watched, the light around Jeslek brightened even more.
The ground rumbled with a thundering from below, shuddering so much that Cerryl could feel it through his boots.
One of the mounts held by lancers somewhere behind them screamed.
“Hold, you ball-less beast! Hold!”
Cerryl took a quick step forward, trying to keep his balance and his concentration on the interworking of order and chaos.
“Demon damn him . . .” muttered Anya, half under her breath. “Demon damn him . . .”
“Quiet . . .” grunted Fydel.
Sweat, the leftover moisture from the rain, and the hot mist combined in streams of water that poured down the mages’ faces, even down the creamy chiseled features of the red-headed Anya, plastering her hair down across her forehead.
The smell of brimstone raised with the steam that escaped the shifting and rising ground drifted from the north and the west across the mages and toward the lancers.
Cerryl swallowed, trying not to gag at the odor.
Behind him, Kochar retched.
“You . . . haven’t time to retch . . . Keep holding the . . . barrier,” demanded Anya.
Kochar retched again, but then an additional sense of order joined that of the others.
The sounds of other disgruntled horses, not quite screams, punctuated the rumbling from the depths and the rippling of the ground that had been the low hills of the high grasslands.
Gurrr . . . rrrrr . . .
Cerryl blotted his brow with the back of his forearm sleeve and continued to concentrate on channeling chaos back into the depths under the rising hills and away from the road. For him, channeling was easier, and seemed more productive than straining to hold order barriers against the heat and reddish white power loosed by Jeslek.
“Getting it . . .” Anya’s voice was hoarse.
“If . . . he doesn’t loose . . . more chaos . . .” replied Fydel.
“Still . . . holding . . .”
The brown-haired and thin-faced student mage turned another wave of chaos back, back toward the upwelling that had already become a small mountain two kays and more north of the Great White Highway.
“No more chaos . . . now,” called Jeslek. “Just . . . hold for a bit . . . not too long.”
“Easy . . . for him . . . to say,” whispered Lyasa, the words barely reaching Cerryl.
He nodded briefly, silently.
Slowly, the pressure of the chaos faded . . . subsided.
“Keep holding!” ordered Jeslek.
Cerryl blotted away more sweat, but not enough to keep the salty stuff out of the corners of his eyes, which burned anyway.
A light gust of hot wind carried another gout of brimstone, and he swallowed back the bile that threatened to climb into his throat—or higher.
“Better . . .” said Fydel. “Better.”
Anya straightened. “All right. You can rest.”
Jeslek turned and began to walk, ever so slowly, back toward the other mages. He stopped and bent slightly, breathing hard, as if trying to catch his breath.
“Even Jeslek . . . pushed too much.”
“Won’t see that happen much,” answered Fydel.
Kochar and Lyasa exchanged glances.
Jeslek stopped a dozen cubits from the group of mages, brushed back overlong white hair. “That’s a good start for the prefect. It will give him something to worry about.”
Gurrrr . . . rrr . . .
As if to emphasize Jeslek’s words, the ground trembled . . . and rippled, even as the low hills to the northwest continued to shudder their way upward, cutting off the direct late afternoon sun.
The smell of brimstone continued to drift over Cerryl both from the north and the west as he studied Jeslek.
For the first time, the overmage looked exhausted, his face drawn, almost pinched. The white hair that usually sparkled was dull and lifeless, and his face was covered with a gray stubbly beard.
Cerryl slumped onto the wall at the side of the road, hot from chaos and indirect sun, faint stars flashing before his tired eyes, eyes that burned. After a moment, he lifted his head, wishing he had taken his water bottle when he had dismounted.
Lyasa sat beside him, offering him some of her water.
“Thank you. I wish I’d thought of it.”
“I’ll take some of yours later. There won’t be much water around here for a while.”