The White Order(7)

“Aye, as sure as I can be.”

“It be done, then,” Dylert said.

Syodor bent and gave Cerryl a quick hug. “Take care, lad. Dylert be a good man. Listen to him. Your aunt and I . . . we be seeing you when we can.”

Cerryl swallowed, trying to keep his eyes from tearing, trying to understand why he felt Syodor’s last words were somehow wrong. Before he was quite back in control, Syodor had released him and was walking briskly down the lane away from the mill, the sun on his back.

Cerryl felt as though he watched his uncle from a distance, even though Syodor was still less than a dozen cubits away. His lips tightened, but he watched, his face impassive.

For a time, neither Cerryl or Dylert spoke—not until Syodor’s figure vanished over the nearer hillcrest.

Then the millmaster cleared his throat.

Cerryl turned, waiting, still holding on to the sack that contained all that was his.

“Your uncle, he was near right. We’ve got time to set you up.” Dylert fingered his beard once more, then looked down to Cerryl’s bare feet. “Need some shoes, boy, around here. Let’s go up to the house and see what we got. Might have an old pair of boots.” Dylert started up the lane to the freshly oiled house with the wide front porch.

For a moment, turning to follow the millmaster, Cerryl had to squint to shut out the brightness of the early afternoon sun.

Dylert waited at the top of the three stone steps to the porch, then pointed to the bench beside the door. “Just wait here, boy.”

Cerryl sat on the bench, letting the sack rest on the wide planks of the porch, glad to be out of the sun. Not more than fifty cubits to the south, while occasionally brawkking, yellow-feathered chickens pecked the ground around a small and low chicken house.

Cerryl could feel his eyes closing.

“Boy?”

He jerked away and looked up at Dylert. “Yes, ser?”

“Long walk, was it not?”

“We left well before dawn.”

“I’d imagine so.” The millmaster extended a pair of boots, brown and scarred. “You be trying these.”

“Yes, ser. Thank you, ser.” Cerryl slipped on the worn leather boots, one after the other, wiggling his toes inside.

“Those were Hurior’s ’fore he left. They fit?”

“Yes, ser. I think so, ser.”

“Good. One problem less.”

A dark-haired girl peered from where she stood in the doorway over at Cerryl. She wore a tan short-sleeved shirt and matching trousers, with a wide leather belt that matched her boots.

“Erhana, this be Cerryl, the new mill boy.” Dylert laughed. “Don’t be distracting him while he works.”

Erhana stepped onto the porch, and Cerryl could see that she was taller than he was, and possibly older. She had her father’s brown eyes and square chin, but dark brown hair, cut evenly at shoulder length. “He’s thin.”

“Your mother’s cooking will help that.”

“He’ll still be thin,” prophesied Erhana.

“Maybe so,” said Dylert. “You can talk at supper. I need to get him settled and show him the mill.”

“Yes, Papa.” Erhana slipped back into the house.

Dylert led Cerryl back down to the nearest of the lumber barns to the west—or uphill—side, where three doors had been cut into the siding and rough-framed with half-planks. “These are the hands’ room. The far one—that’s Rinfur’s.”

Cerryl nodded.

“You know Rinfur?”

“No, ser. Uncle . . . Syodor . . . offered him a good day. He was driving the wagon.”

“Your uncle said you listened.” Dylert pointed to the second door. “That’s Viental’s.” Dylert grinned. “You know him?”

“No, ser.”

“He’s the one does stone work and helps with the burdens. You’ll know Viental when you see him. Let him go off and help his sister with the harvest. He’ll be back in an eight-day. Now,” continued the millmaster, opening the door nearest the mill, “this be yours.”

Cerryl glanced around the bare room, scarcely more than four cubits on a side, and containing little more than a pallet, a short three-legged stool, and three shelves on the wall to the right with an open cubicle under them on the wall.

The bottom of the window beside the door was level with Cerryl’s chin and a cubit high and half a cubit wide. It had neither shutters nor a canvas rollshade, just a door on two simple iron strap hinges with a swing bolt on the inside.

“Nothing fancy, but it be all yours. Put your stuff in the cubby there, boy, and I’ll show you around the mill. You need to know where everything is.”

Cerryl stepped inside and slowly eased the sack into the cubby, his eyes going to the bare pallet on the plank platform.