Quill pen in her hand, she looked down at whatever she wrote. Then she set the quill in the holder. Abruptly, she frowned.
She was older, Cerryl could tell. Then, so was he. Her face crinkled into a frown, and she glanced up from the writing desk, her eyes going in one direction, then another.
She stood and walked to the window, then turned, her eyes going to the glass on the wall.
Abruptly, Cerryl released his hold on the glass. She’d known she was being watched, but how?
Even so, he could feel heat radiating from his glass, as though someone had thrown chaos-fire at it just as he had broken off his viewing. He wiped his forehead, suddenly feeling even more tired.
Quickly, as though he feared he were being observed by some other scrier, he slipped the silver-rimmed mirror back into its hiding place. After a moment, he took a deep breath, relieved that the feeling of being watched had not returned. He’d gotten away with using the glass.
This time, a small voice in his head reminded him. This time.
With a brief smile, he pulled off his boots and lay down on the pallet, his eyes closing almost as soon as he stretched out.
Almost immediately, he found himself walking across a high-vaulted room, a hall really, where the ceiling was supported by fluted white stone columns. The room was empty, yet it was not.
“You . . . you don’t belong here, scrivener’s apprentice. He will turn you to ashes if you stay.”
The voice was sultry, but Cerryl couldn’t make out the face. He turned, but there was no one beside him.
“I won’t be seen, not if I don’t wish to be. We whites control the light, you know. If you were worth anything, you could, too. In little ways, anyway.” The unseen laugh was cruel, as he remembered from somewhere.
Thrap!
“Come on, you sleepy apprentice. Dinner be awaiting!”
Cerryl struggled out of the whitish fog. Had the redheaded white mage really been in his dreams? He hadn’t seen her, but the voice had belonged to her. How could he forget that voice? He shivered.
“Cerryl!”
“I’m coming,” he rasped. “I’m coming.” His head felt as though it were being squeezed in the nipping press.
“Good thing you are.” Benthann’s voice faded away as he struggled into a sitting position and pulled on his boots.
After a moment, Cerryl stood, almost staggering as the pain of the headache came and went. He gathered himself together and made his way from his room, across the courtyard, and inside into the common room.
“Did you get a nap?” Tellis looked up from the burkha steaming on his platter.
“Yes, ser. You were right. I was tired.” Cerryl slid onto his end of the bench, careful not to get too close to Beryal. He broke off a chunk of the dark bread and set it on the edge of his platter, then used the ladle to serve himself a portion of the hot-mint brown stew. “This smells good.”
“Always does, and you always say it does.” Beryal laughed.
The apprentice shrugged and scooped up a mouthful of stew with the bread, trying not to gulp it down.
“Be summer before too long, real summer.” Tellis grunted, then served himself more of the burkha.
“It was hot today,” Cerryl said, taking a long swallow of water, still half amazed that the water in Fairhaven was fit to drink.
“Be hotter yet in an eight-day or so. Then people be out in the streets all the time.” Beryal snorted. “Too hot to stay inside.”
“I was standing in the courtyard this afternoon, and I know someone was looking at me.” Benthann turned to Beryal. “Tellis and Cerryl were both in the workroom, and you were at the market. When I looked up and down the alley, no one was there.” She frowned. “Hasn’t been the first time in the last eight-day, either.”
“Swore I could have heard someone in the back alley last night.” Beryal’s eyes lifted from the crockery to Cerryl. “Did you hear anything?”
“I fell asleep trying to read the Historie.” Cerryl managed a sheepish expression and dropped his eyes. He had fallen asleep over the Historie more than once.
“Lad . . .” Tellis cleared his throat.
“Even your dutiful apprentice can’t always stay awake over those musty books.” Benthann laughed. “Proves he’s a normal young fellow after all.”
“He’s normal, all right.” A faint smile crossed Beryal’s lips.
Cerryl flushed.
Benthann laughed.
“A scrivener can’t fall asleep over books,” announced Tellis, “normal or not.”
“You’re a spoilsport.” Benthann offered an overfull pout.
“Eat,” ordered Beryal.
Cerryl followed her orders, partly because it was easier, especially with his headache, and partly because he was still hungry.