The chestnut whuffed, and Cerryl patted his neck again. “We’ll stop for water before long. You can have the last of the grain.”
The gelding didn’t look that thin, but Cerryl wondered. He’d managed to stop where there had been some lush grass, but he doubted that grazing was enough, and he’d not been able to afford as much grain as he’d have liked. He’d tried not to push the pace, letting the gelding carry him easily, knowing that he didn’t really know enough about horses, either.
He held in a sigh, then took a deep breath.
Jeslek had wanted him to fail. Why? Had Myral been right? That Cerryl was a threat? But Cerryl didn’t really want to be High Wizard. He just wanted people to stop trying to get rid of him or push him around. Is that so much to ask?
For some people, apparently it was.
Cerryl frowned. What had saved him was what Jeslek had not known—like Cerryl’s awareness of the light shield or his own mastery of targeted fire lances. Jeslek was far more powerful . . . but he didn’t know everything. Knowledge was a form of power. Not the only kind of power, as witness the mountains that the overmage had raised, but the kind of power Cerryl could master. Would have to master—for many reasons, one of them who wore green and whose green eyes danced in his thoughts and memories.
CII
“GOOD DAY.” CERRYL waved to the merchant on the wagon seat as he eased the chestnut around the big wagon drawn by a four-horse team.
“Good day to you, young ser.” The gray-bearded and trim man in green who held the reins in his right hand nodded pleasantly. “You think it be raining afore long?”
The guard beside the merchant smiled.
Cerryl glanced at the clouds overhead, dark gray, and tried to gain a sense of the weather. He could feel the churning chaos and the black order bands within the gray, so low were the heavy clouds. “Not right now, but not too long.”
“Darkness . . . hoped we could make it farther.”
Cerryl glanced back at the covered wagon. “What have you there?”
“Mostly carpets, but some hangings—good pieces out of Sarronnyn. Hard to come by these days. Lot easier before the prefect and those traders in Spidlar decided they knew better than all of Candar.” The trader spat to the side, behind Cerryl. “Fairhaven your home? You headed back?”
Cerryl slowed his mount slightly out of politeness, pacing the wagon. “Yes.” Fairhaven was his home, more than any place, despite Jeslek, and the overmage’s struggles with Sterol. Fairhaven was where Myral was, and Lyasa, Faltar, and Heralt, and, especially, Leyladin, all the family he really had, now that his aunt Nail and uncle Syodor were dead—for reasons he still didn’t understand. Except you want Leyladin to be more than just a relative . . . “Fairhaven’s home.”
“Musta been an eight-day back, maybe not quite, saw a bunch of lancers and mages headed back. One of the lancers said they’d beaten a big Gallosian force. You think that was true?”
“It was true.” Cerryl smiled. “I was there. I had to do something else before I returned.”
“Might teach that prefect not to be so self-mighty.” The gray-bearded merchant offered an ironic smile. “Then . . . some folk never learn. Well . . . won’t be keeping you, young mage. Have a safe trip.”
“Thank you.” Cerryl gently urged the chestnut on, on toward Fairhaven.
The merchant’s parting words echoed in his ears. “Some folk never learn . . . never learn . . .”
But who is to say what learning is? Cerryl had learned that all too often, when people talked about learning, they wanted you to see things their way. Except maybe Myral, or Dylert . . . and, he hoped, Leyladin.
CIII
RATHER THAN TAKE the avenue, Cerryl rode in the back streets to the stable on the west side of the Halls of the Mages. He’d also camped outside Fairhaven the night before, wanting to be more rested and also wanting Myral to be more rested. If he were to have any chance, he’d have to meet with Myral before he met with Sterol, and especially before he confronted Jeslek, not that he wanted a confrontation, but it might happen whether Cerryl wanted it or not.
The autumn wind was chill, under partly clouded sides, but not cold, and swirled across him in gentle gusts. His eyes flicked past a bronze grate on the side of the paved road, and his lips quirked, thinking of all the time he’d spent in the sewers. As he took a deep breath, he compared Fairhaven to Fenard—and there was no comparison.
Fenard smelled of sewers and smoke and dirt, and Fairhaven smelled of clean granite and trees and grass, and occasional clean odors of cooking and women’s scents. In Fenard, buildings were dirty and crowded on top of each other. Fairhaven’s stone structures were solid and clean and left enough space for people to breathe. In Fenard, there were open sewers and starving urchins and brigands. While there might be a few beggars and smugglers in Fairhaven, there were certainly far fewer ruffians and hungry folk—far fewer. And there was Leyladin. Fenard had nothing like her. Perhaps no city did.