He dipped the washrag into the warmish water and began to wash. With even half-warm water, it wasn’t bad, and practice would certainly help, as it had with his copying.
Practice . . . but did he dare?
He swallowed and looked at the bucket and the faint steam of the warm water in the cold room. Slowly, he lifted the now-tarnished candleholder out of the bottom of the bucket and set it back on the table.
He had to think of a better way. The brass wouldn’t hold up for long. He massaged his forehead. Neither would his head.
With a sigh, he began to dress quickly, knowing that if he didn’t get to the common room quickly, Beryal or Tellis would be knocking on his door.
He left his room with the door ajar, hoping the cool breeze would help remove the faint odor of hot metal and the slightest hint of chaos, and walked quickly across the courtyard.
Still . . . even lukewarm water had felt better than freezing—much better.
XXXV
. . . AND WHEN THEY had come to the desert isle that was Recluce, Creslin the black slew all those of the duke’s garrison as who would not swear unyielding loyalty to him, and the remainder he bound with the chains of dark order.
Once this evil deed was accomplished, more of the dark mages appeared, as if from the shadows, and stood behind Creslin, and gloom darkened the very sun.
A handful of stalwart blades, seeing the power of Creslin and the darkness that cloaked him and the faceless dark mages, swore such a powerful oath, yet resolved to stand firm against the evil, seeking a means by which they could return Recluce to the white fold, and peace and prosperity.
Megaera the wily, putting on perfumes and essences, enchanted them, and then, once under her spell, when they revealed their stalwart nature and fidelity to the Duke of Montgren and to the White Way of Truth, she laughed.
She turned her powers upon them and burned them, saying to all that such stalwarts had attempted to force themselves upon her, and that she had but defended her virtue.
Creslin and the dark mages declared that it was so, and so it was recorded, save in the true records of the Guild . . .
Colors of White
(Manual of the Guild at Fairhaven)
Preface
XXXVI
CERRYL CHECKED THE ink, then laid out the quills, and finally took down the thin and worn brown leather volume Tellis had given him two days earlier. While far shorter than the Trade volume he and Tellis had finally finished for some merchant at the grain exchange, The Science of Measurement and Reckoning almost made reading the histories of Candar a pleasure.
He glanced toward the showroom, wondering where Tellis might be, and whether he should open the front door—or at least the shutters. The master scrivener had not been at the table when Cerryl had eaten his gruel, and Beryal had said nothing, just urged Cerryl to eat and get on with his business.
“Open the front shutters! You’d think . . .” Tellis’s voice rasped from the front showroom.
Cerryl set the Measurement volume on the copy stand and hurried to comply.
Tellis dragged himself over to the workroom table and slumped onto the stool. After a moment, acting as though each movement caused great pain, he stood and shuffled to the chest, unlocking it and extracting something. Then he shuffled back to the table and looked morosely down at the faded green velvet wrapped around what appeared to be a thin volume.
“Is there anything I can do, ser?”
“Suppose you have to. Promised this . . . I’d be doing this myself, but this flux . . .” Tellis coughed, then held his forehead and closed his eyes for a moment.
“I can do it, ser,” Cerryl said, glancing at the green velvet.
“I know. Dependable, you are.” Tellis massaged his forehead once more, then looked up. “Master Muneat wanted this as soon as I finished it.” Cerryl stepped over to the worktable. A slim volume bound in green leather lay on a square of green velvet. He knew vaguely that Tellis had been working on the book, but it was one of those the scrivener kept to himself.
“Do not be opening it.”
“But what is it . . . if I might ask, ser?”
“It is . . . verse . . . of a particular sort.” Tellis flushed.
“Oh . . .”
“It’s called The Wondrous Tales of the Green Angel. And I don’t know why.” Tellis coughed, almost retching, drawing himself erect after a moment. “But Muneat, he wanted it . . . and matters have been slower than I would have liked . . . don’t turn down a pair of golds for a volume of less than fourscore sheets . . .”
Two golds?
“I promised, and it needs be delivered.” Tellis looked at Cerryl. “You can deliver a volume, can you not?”
“Yes, ser . . . ah . . . where am I going?”
“Master Muneat’s. You know the houses past the exchange? Past the jewelers’ row?” Tellis tried to clear his throat.