The Sligan campaign? “When was that?”
“Three, four years ago. Huylar’s been ’round longer than me.”
“Were you involved in the Sligan campaign?”
“Me, ser? No. I was part of the mage’s guard in Hydolar, like Viurat is in Fenard.”
“I don’t know Viurat,” Cerryl said pleasantly, his eyes on the road ahead, and where it wound to the left around a long hill that flanked the road on the east.
“Viurat’s my cousin. No reason as you’d know him, ser.”
“How long has he been in Fenard?”
“Must be five years now. Brought Ryentyl—she’s his consort—he brought her with him.” Ludren laughed. “Lancers aren’t supposed to have consorts unless they’re officers, but no one really looks. Not that hard. Guess they like Fenard. He’s still there.”
Cerryl steered the chestnut around a particularly deep-looking pothole filled with dark and muddy water, glancing at the sky to the north. The clouds were dropping and darkening, foreshadowing another storm, if not for another few kays—and more headaches.
“Storm coming,” the undercaptain added. “Might keep those purple lancers from looking for us.”
“I doubt they’re looking for us. Not here.” Of course, any Gallosians who saw them might well want to eliminate anyone from Fairhaven, especially a student mage, but Cerryl doubted anyone was actually out searching. Not yet. That might change after the survivors of Jeslek’s fire attacks reached Fenard.
“Hope you’re right, ser.”
Cerryl nodded, his mind more on what awaited him. Even assuming he could get into Fenard, assuming he didn’t have to evade or flee Gallosian armsmen, Jeslek had said he was to remove the prefect and to leave Fenard unseen. How? The only way he could be unseen was to cloak himself in light, as Anya had done in visiting Faltar, and Jeslek knew Cerryl hadn’t ever done anything like that.
Could he channel light around himself the way he could channel chaos? He ought to be able to—light was a form of chaos. Still, what he ought to be able to do and what he could do might be very different.
He concentrated . . . and found himself blind—enclosed in darkness. The chestnut half-whuffed, half-whimper-screamed, as the darkness surrounded them. Cerryl quickly released the light-shifting screens, or whatever what he had done was called. The gelding stepped forward and sideways for a moment.
“What was that?” Ludren leaned forward. “For a moment, you were not there.”
Cerryl forced a quizzical expression. “You must be mistaken. I have been here all along. My mount . . . something spooked him.”
“I would have sworn . . .”
“Still say he disappeared . . .” came the mumbled words from Jubuul. “. . . trouble with mages. . . . never where you think they are.”
Cerryl licked his lips. He needed more practice, but it wouldn’t help much to practice while riding with the lancers. He forced a laugh. “Isn’t that true about most things?”
“What, ser?” asked the earnest Ludren.
“Oh . . . nothing’s exactly what or where you think it is.”
“If you say so, ser.”
A long ride to Fenard, a long ride to certain trouble, trouble he wasn’t even quite certain he could avoid or master. Cerryl did not shake his head but kept his pleasant smile in place.
XCVIII
CERRYL PEERED THROUGH the cool fall drizzle, wishing he’d brought a true waterproof. The leather jacket was hot, and tended to soak up the misting rain after a time, but the rain was too cool to ride through in just his shirt and white tunic.
Ahead, to the north, a narrow stone bridge arched over the river. Beyond the river, a wagon drawn by a single horse creaked past the browning grass of the roadside meadows toward still-distant Fenard.
The student mage eased out the map and looked at it. “That’s the River Gallos, I think.”
“Is that close to Fenard?” asked Ludren.
“Not that close,” Cerryl said. “We’d see more people on the road. Fenard is a big place.”
Cerryl wasn’t looking forward to reaching Fenard. He couldn’t afford not to succeed because if he survived without carrying out Jeslek’s charge to him, Sterol would say that Cerryl should have confronted Jeslek immediately. But Jeslek would have tried to destroy Cerryl, and Cerryl wasn’t certain he was strong enough yet to hold off Jeslek’s power.
He laughed softly to himself. Who was he deceiving? Jeslek would have turned Cerryl into ashes if he’d refused to undertake the task—and then told everyone that Cerryl had attacked him, or some such. There was a reason Anya and Fydel weren’t anywhere around when Cerryl left. Doubtless, Jeslek would claim that Cerryl had run away—or something. As for the lancers, they were the ones no one would miss—probably listed as lost on a scouting mission. Lost to hostile Gallosians, providing another reason for bringing the force of Fairhaven to bear on the prefect.