The White Order(64)

Cerryl looked down, trying to dredge up another question, a better one. After what seemed far too long, he spoke. “Nowhere does it say why the black mages can control the winds. The white mages can create fire, and I know fire creates drafts, but . . .” He let the question hang.

“That is a better question,” said Tellis.

Cerryl had hoped so. He covered his mouth with the back of his free hand. Was it the bitter odor seeping around the writing board he had laid over the battered surface? Or just his own tiredness?

“The great winds are spawned, we are told, in the cold places of the world, above the Roof of the World and in the far north. Leastwise, that is where the great winds seem to come from. The black mages, as their ancestors the black angels, are creatures of the cold and, hence, are closer to the chill and the wind, while the white mages come from the warmth of the sun and hold to mastery of flame and prosperity.” Tellis nodded at his explanation.

“But it takes fire to forge iron, and the white mages cannot bear its touch,” countered Cerryl.

“Touch cold iron sometime, and feel it suck all heat out of you.” Tellis smiled. “Remember, nothing is as it seems, and though I do my best to instruct you, there is much beyond what even a master scrivener knows, even one raised with the education I was fortunate to receive.”

Cerryl covered his mouth again, wishing he did not have to yawn so much.

“A good thing it is we are near finished for the day.” Tellis glanced at Cerryl and shook his head. “You go. A quick nap will do you good. Beryal or Benthann will knock on your door. No reading—a nap, dinner, and a good night’s slumber. Tomorrow I’ll be at the tower, for they want a copyist, and you must speed copying the Herbes book. Nivor asked about our progress yesterday.”

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl nodded politely. The herbal book wasn’t totally boring, but he did not find it nearly so interesting as even the Historie, which he read periodically in order to answer Tellis’s questions.

“Off with you.”

Cerryl closed the Herbes book, cleaned the quill, and stoppered the ink, then washed his hands. Tellis did not look up from his copying of The Colors of White.

“Dinner won’t be that long,” Beryal announced from the kitchen as Cerryl passed through the common room and stepped out the back door into the courtyard.

“Thank you, Beryal.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve as he stood for a moment in the light and cooling breeze, a breeze that carried the scent of wet wool from the alleyway.

Cerryl took a step, then another, and stopped, looking around from the middle of the courtyard. He glanced toward the rear gate, confident he would see Pattera there. The space was empty. He frowned, certain that someone had been watching him.

After a moment, he turned back toward the main part of the house, but no one stood in the doorway to the common room. He glanced back at the gate, and then at the side door to the room Tellis and Benthann shared. The doors were closed, and the gateway empty.

Slowly, he walked to his room, but the feeling of being watched continued as he opened his door. The room was empty.

Abruptly as it had come, the feeling of being watched vanished. Cerryl shuddered as he closed the door.

With the chill in his bones, all thought of sleep vanished. He checked the shutters—closed tightly. Then, almost furtively, Cerryl eased the screeing glass from behind the wooden panel he had loosened, leaving his books there.

Could he? He looked down at the silver-rimmed glass, seeing the thin-faced reflection of a youth with barely a hint of a beard—if that. Not even a man yet, and why was he even thinking about using the glass? His eyes went to the closed shutters. Yet he had to do something. More and more, he felt that everyone else pushed him, directed him, that everyone else had the answers and that he would have fewer and fewer choices, especially if he waited until he got older.

He glanced back down at the glass, then frowned. Did he dare? Did he not dare? Was it the girl with the red-blond hair? Or the redhead?

He should have given up on the girl in green, yet he kept thinking about her. Why? How could a scrivener’s apprentice aspire to any consort?

“Consort?” He barely murmured the word. What an idiotic notion! He couldn’t rightly aspire to being a white mage, for all his talent and his secret study. He couldn’t even aspire to great wealth, such as that shown by Muneat.

He pushed back those thoughts, swallowed, and looked down at the mirror. As he concentrated, surprisingly the white mists formed and cleared.

The young woman sat at a writing desk, a golden oak desk in a small room. The walls were hung with green silks, and behind her was a high bed covered with blue-green silks and pillows. The oiled gold oak window shutters were closed.