The White Order(32)

“You understand, young fellow . . . it’s not just you . . .”

“I understand, ser. You’ve been fair and good to me.”

“Dinner be ready,” Dylert said. “We’ll talk more after we eat. You be needing some clothes, and a pair of good boots.”

“Thank you.”

“After we eat,” Dylert repeated, opening the door to the kitchen.





XXIII




UNDER THE SPELLS and songs of Creslin, who descended from the black Nylan and the dark songmage Ayrlyn, Megaera persuaded her cousin, the Duke of Montgren, to give both herself and Creslin refuge, for the white brethren had pursued the two and sought to bind them before they brought yet more darkness unto all of Candar.

In his weakness, the duke brought his cousin and her dark liege Creslin under his protection, and Creslin used the refuge at Vergren to build his powers, until darkness infested every stone of that ancient keep, until the very sun was kept at bay.

In the depths of that keep, Creslin took Megaera for consort, and bound her to him with the dark tie that meant, should he die, so, too, would she. Such blasphemy of light and goodness was too great even for the duke, and he fell into a stupor.

Fearing that, without the duke’s protection, the keep would be opened to the forces of light, Creslin and Megaera fled over the northern hills.

As he knew what the evil pair might bring upon Candar, the Viscount of Certis sent forth a host, but Creslin seized the winds of the north and pummeled that force with spears of ice and hammers of frost, and he slew from the depths of a magic fog the fair young wizard that advised the lancers of Certis, and only a handful of those lancers ever returned to Jellico.

When Creslin and Megaera reached the port of Tyrhavven, there they seized a ship of the duke’s, binding the crew with darkness and forcing them to carry the two dark mages across the gulf to the desert isle of Recluce . . .

Colors of White

(Manual of the Guild at Fairhaven)

Preface





XXIV




AFTER WASHING AT the well and coming back to his room to finish dressing, Cerryl took out the silver-rimmed mirror and studied himself. The pale gray shirt and trousers were not new but almost could have passed for such, and the thicksoled boots Brental had given him seemed barely worn. In his pack, besides his books, were his old work clothes and an older sheepskin jacket, the fleece to the inside and barely matted.

His hair was shorter—Dyella had trimmed it for him the day before—but the shorter length seemed to emphasize the narrow triangular shape of his face. He fingered his chin, feeling the first hints of what might be a beard. Somehow, he doubted that any beard he grew would match the thick splendor of those of his uncle or of Dylert, or even the red bush sported by Brental.

The mirror went back in the pack, wrapped inside his spare smallclothes but on top of the heavier books. Then he slipped the scroll to Tellis on the very top and laced the pack shut.

He looked around the room, bare as ever, the blankets folded on the foot of the pallet, the board where he’d hidden his few valuables securely back in place, the white-bronze sword left there as well, the only possession he had left behind, but it was too big to conceal in anything he owned.

Thrap! Cerryl turned at the knock.

“You coming, Cerryl?” asked Rinfur. “Be a long day even leaving now.”

“I’m coming.” Cerryl lifted the pack off the stool and opened the door. Outside, standing at the back of the finish lumber barn, he paused and looked across the hillside. The oaks loomed across the field like ancient guardians of night, and the predawn gray was beginning to lighten. Cerryl closed the door and swallowed. A single terwhit echoed from the oaks to the west, and the night hum of insects had long since died away.

He turned toward the mill and lifted his pack. After receiving all the clothes from Dylert, Cerryl had been more than hesitant to ask the millmaster for his pay, and had kept putting off asking. Now he wished he hadn’t. What would he do in Fairhaven with only two coppers to his name—the same two coppers he’d brought to the mill? Should he have taken the short blade from the fugitive? His lips tightened. Not with the aura of chaos around it. He knew enough to know the blade alone would bring him trouble, much as he disliked leaving it behind.

His eyes went uphill to the empty porch of the millmaster’s house. Erhana was doubtless still sleeping, though the thin trail of smoke from the kitchen chimney indicated that Dyella was up and at work.

Dylert was inspecting the wood that had been loaded the afternoon before, and Rinfur was rechecking the harnesses as Cerryl hurried toward the wagon.

“Put your pack under the seat,” Rinfur called without looking up or toward Cerryl.