The White Order(179)

“Do you, of your own free will, promise to use your talents for the good of the Guild and for the good of Fairhaven, and of all Candar?”

“Yes,” answered Cerryl. What else could he do, being who he was?

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“And do you faithfully promise to hold to the rules of the Guild, even when those rules may conflict with your personal and private desires?”

“Yes,” answered the three, nearly simultaneously.

“Do you promise that you will do your personal best to ensure that chaos is never raised against the helpless and always to benefit the greater good?”

“Yes.”

“And finally, do you promise that you will always stand by those in the Guild to ensure that mastery of the forces of chaos—and order—is limited to those who will use such abilities for good and not for personal gain and benefit?”

“Yes,” replied Cerryl. Yes!

“Therefore in the powers of chaos and in the sight of the Guild, you are each a full mage of the White Order of Fairhaven . . .”

A shimmering touch of chaos brushed Cerryl’s sleeves . . . and the red stripes were gone—as if they had never been.

“Welcome, Lyasa, Cerryl, and Faltar . . .” Sterol offered a broad smile and looked across the assembled group. “Now that we have welcomed the new mages, our business is over, and all may greet them.”

Murmurs, and then conversation, broke out across the chamber.

Sterol glanced at the three. “I’m very pleased that all of you have succeeded. You have very different talents, and in the troubling days ahead, we will need each of those talents, I fear.” The High Wizard’s eyes were, for once, reflected Cerryl, warm and friendly.

“Congratulations!” Kinowin stepped up and clasped Cerryl’s shoulder. The big mage smiled warmly. “You must know I have personal sympathy for anyone who comes from the background we share.”

“You mean the lack of background?” replied Cerryl with a laugh.

A broader smile crossed Kinowin’s face, then faded. “It doesn’t get easier, but if you need anything, I’m here.” He patted Cerryl’s shoulder and slipped away.

Lyasa touched Cerryl’s forearm, and he turned.

“Good,” said Jeslek. “Before you are flooded with well-wishers, I wanted to let you know some things quickly. Each of you now has quarters in the second rear hall, on the second level—there is a bronze plate on each door.” The sun-eyed overmage smiled. “Best you move your things and get settled quickly. There are some youngsters from the creche who would trade their red for white trimmed with red. You can still eat in the hall, but that is your choice now. You, as do all full mages, receive a stipend of one gold an eight-day. Not extravagant, but since the Guild supplies all your raiment and equipment and lodging, it’s generally enough for modest pleasures. You will be assigned more permanent duties sometime in the next eight-day, after the High Wizard, overmage Kinowin, and I review the Guild assignments.” Jeslek flashed a broad smile, the one Cerryl still mistrusted. “Now . . . enjoy yourselves.” The white-haired overmage nodded and slipped across the dais.

“Congratulations!” Anya appeared and offered Faltar a warm hug, then turned to Cerryl. “And to you, too. And to you, Lyasa.”

“Thank you.” Cerryl inclined his head.

Fydel stepped forward. “Congratulations, all of you.” His eyes went to Cerryl. “You’ve proved you belong here, more than most.” With a smile, he was gone.

“Lyasa!” Esaak lumbered forward, something cradled in his arms.

Cerryl glanced at the dark-haired new mage beside him, watching her eyebrows rise as the older mage extended the thin, freshly bound volume. “Since you will not take my tutoring seriously . . . this is a copy of The Mathematicks of Logic.” A broad smile crossed Esaak’s face. “Your very own.”

Lyasa bent forward and hugged Esaak.

Cerryl stepped back and turned to Myral. “Thank you . . . I haven’t said it, but I mean it.”

The older mage smiled. “Don’t thank me. You worked for it, and you will make the Guild proud. I know that. Now . . . enjoy the day.”

Another mage—one Cerryl didn’t know—stepped up to Faltar. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Faltar inclined his head.

As the crowd of mages finally filtered away, Cerryl leaned against one of the white stone pillars at the side of the chamber. He glanced at Faltar, and then Lyasa.

“Is it what you expected?” asked the black-haired mage, her olive-brown eyes resting on Cerryl.

“I don’t know. I didn’t let myself think about it,” he confessed.