The White Order (42 page)

   Kochar tried the same thing, with the same results.

   “Too far,” muttered the redhead.

   “Get the closer ones!” snapped Fydel. “You can do that.”

   Cerryl's eyes inadvertently flicked to the south, where yet another rank of mounted Gallosians thundered over, through, and around their fallen comrades toward the white lancers, who used blades against the handful of Gallosians from the first two attacks who had survived the fireballs.

   An arrow clattered on the stones beneath Cerryl, and he jerked his eyes back to the Great Highway.

   A good dozen archers remained mounted, loosing shafts.

   Cerryl glanced to his left and right. No one was watching. Gathering chaos as he had in the runnels, he focused it into a golden lance that flew straight-straight through the lead archer, who flew from his mount in flames.

   Whhstt! One of Lyasa's firebolts took out an archer on the flank.

   Fydel lifted another fat fireball that exploded in the midst of the archers, leaving but two mounted. One turned his horse and started to ride away.

   Whhsttt!

   The thin student mage mustered more chaos and released another light lance, effective at downing the last archer moving forward.

   Behind the archers rode another company of the purple-clad arms-men bearing long iron blades that glittered in the midday sun.

   Fydel staggered and reached out to grasp the road wall.

   Cerryl glanced toward the riders, then tried to spray chaos across the front rank, the way he once had in the sewers.

   A flare of light washed across the Gallosians, and the four riders and their mounts slowly tumbled into a blazing line of fire, a line that nearly engulfed the next set of riders.

   Whsstt! Lyasa's firebolt scored more riders, and even a smaller blast from Kochar splashed into those who followed.

   The road cleared-almost. Out of the smoke came a single rider. The lancer bore down on Cerryl, the long gray blade swinging straight at the student, even as the armsman tried to shield himself behind the smallish oval shield.

   Whhst!

   A flare of golden light-like an arrow-speared the lancer, who looked dumbfounded as he pitched back out of the saddle onto the ground.

   Cerryl glanced around. The road was empty, except for a handful of white lancers, the mages, and burned heaps that had once been men and mounts.

   Lyasa stepped up beside Cerryl and glanced at the circular hole in the beaten leather armor of the Gallosian. She glanced at Cerryl, then cast a small fireball onto the corpse.

   “Why-” Cerryl broke off his question.

   “Better this way.”

   “Thank you.”

   Lyasa smiled. “There will come a time ...”

   Cerryl nodded. He would pay his debts.

   They turned. The ridge was a sea of swirling smoke and dark heaps. To the west, Cerryl could see a handful of riders in purple, moving slowly. On the ridge line remained only the white lancers-perhaps two thirds of them.

   Jeslek sat exhausted on the road wall, his face so red that Cerryl could see the color from more than a hundred cubits away. Anya sat beside the overmage, her back to Cerryl and Lyasa.

   Kochar stepped up beside the two student mages and looked at the charred corpse of the last lancer. “Oh, you two did stop him.”

   “We managed,” Cerryl said. “I needed some help from Lyasa.”

   “At least he admits it...” Fydel's words drifted with the wind and the smoke from the intermittently burning grass and low brush toward Cerryl. The bearded mage also sat on the road wall, leaning forward, forehead resting in his hands.

   Cerryl swallowed, trying not to smell the odor of smoldering brush and burnt flesh, wondering what and how much he would have to keep hidden in order to survive.

   “Let's look at that arm,” demanded Lyasa.

   Cerryl glanced at his arms, first one, then the other. His sleeves were smudged with dirt, soot, and grime, but he didn't think he'd been wounded. He felt stupid as he realized Kochar had been hurt, and he watched as Lyasa lightly bathed the slash in chaos-one of Broka's techniques, he recalled-and then bound it.

   Around them, white lancers began checking corpses for weapons and coins.

   Cerryl looked at the last lancer he had killed.

   “Go ahead,” said Lyasa. “His purse is yours.”

   Cerryl forced himself to cut the thongs and take the purse, only lightly burned. It held two silvers and three coppers. Was that the worth of a man's life?

   He put the coins in his own wallet, trying not to shake his head. He glanced upward. Was it midafternoon already?

   Behind them, Fydel slowly stood and walked westward, toward Jeslek and Anya.

   “I don't understand.” Kochar checked the dressing on his arm. “About Jeslek. He can raise mountains, but those Gallosians, they almost got us.”

   “It's simple.” Lyasa sighed. “Chaos-fire is pure chaos-it's concentrated chaos. It takes more effort. When Jeslek raises the hills, he's moving and directing a lot of chaos in the ground that's already there. When you cast a firebolt, you have to separate the chaos from the world and force it somewhere. That's harder.” She looked at Kochar. “How do you feel right now?”

   “Like horse droppings,” admitted the redhead.

   “Look at all three of them.” She gestured toward the section of road wall where the three mages sat, talking in low voices. “I couldn't raise a chaos-fire ball the size of my fingernail. I'll bet they couldn't either.”

   Cerryl kept his mouth shut, just nodding. “Maybe we should join them.”

   The other two walked alongside him as the three made their way toward the full mages.

In the gray of dawn, Cerryl finished his cheese and biscuits with a swallow of water. Then he walked down to the drainage way, where a thin stream of water flowed and refilled the bottle, concentrating on channeling chaos heat into the water until it boiled. The heat wasn't the hard part. Wrapping the bottle in order to keep it from breaking was.

   He couldn't drink the water until it cooled, and he walked back to where the chestnut was tethered, easing the bottle into the straps.

   A faint orange glow filled the sky above the newly raised hills to the east, but the morning was silent-only the scattered chirping of insects. The light wind carried the odor of death, and Cerryl was glad that they would be traveling on, but worried. How long before the prefect decided to sacrifice more men?

   Cerryl was well aware that twice as many Gallosians might have carried the skirmish or battle, and he wondered if Jeslek had understood that also.

   A hundred cubits or so west of Cerryl, Jeslek stood beside Klybel, and the two talked in low voices. Klybel nodded, reluctantly, and turned. He mounted his horse and rode past Cerryl, back to where the lancers had camped.

   “Cerryl?” called the overmage.

   Cerryl walked quickly toward Jeslek.

   The older man's face was shadowed, and lines radiated from his eyes, lines of age that Cerryl had not seen before. His sun-gold eyes still glittered, and the dullness had left the white hair.

   “You saw how the Gallosians received us yesterday?”

   “Yes, ser.”

   The overmage cleared his throat, then fixed Cerryl with his eyes. “Cerryl, all students must undertake a task-a thing to be accomplished alone-before they are accepted into the Guild. The task is set before each in a manner to ensure that the mage-to-be indicates utterly his devotion to the Guild.”

   Cerryl didn't like what he knew was coming, even if he had no idea of what task Jeslek was about to lay upon him.

   The gold-eyed mage smiled. “Many have questioned your devotion, and I have set you a task after which none can gainsay your right to the Brotherhood.”

   “Yes, ser.”

   “You are to remove the prefect of Gallos.”

   Cerryl swallowed, as much because of the growing chaos that swirled around Jeslek as because of the task. Was that because Jeslek expected him to refuse?

   “Ser?”

   “Why do I task you, is that what you wonder?”

   “Not exactly, ser. You have the power to destroy massed armies ...” Cerryl wanted to know more, even if he were in no position to refuse the overmage.

   “Ah ... and I could ravage the lands, you think.”

   “You have that power. Of that, after yesterday, there is no doubt.”

   “That is indeed true.” Jeslek stroked his chin. “Therein lies a problem. If I did indeed ravage Gallos-then who would farm the land, or cut the timber-or collect the road duties? Likewise, if the removal of the prefect is accomplished by a lesser mage ... then who will refute the wisdom of acquiescing to the 'requests' of Fairhaven?”

   “And how am I to accomplish this, ser? I cannot very well walk up to Fenard-”

   “You will be sent with a lancer guard as an assistant to Sverlik. He, of course, as an envoy, could not act overtly against Lyam.” Jeslek shrugged. “How you deal with Lyam, that I leave to your discretion, save that you must vanish from Fenard and return to Fairhaven without knowledge of any in Gallos. A simple enough task for one who would be a mage.” Jeslek smiled.

   “How am I to deal with those armsmen who escaped, ser? They will claim we attacked them.”

   “You have been most creative so far. I am sure you will find a way.” Jeslek shrugged, and the chaos continued to build around him. “Captain Klybel is forming your escort right now. He will also provide some extra rations for you. It is best you do not have to forage. I would like you to leave as quickly as possible.” Another false and quick smile followed. “We have made our point, and will also be returning to Fairhaven shortly.”

   Cerryl preferred the more direct speech Jeslek had used when Cerryl had been a more junior student mage.

   “Best you prepare,” Jeslek suggested pointedly.

   “Yes, ser.” Cerryl bowed and turned. Even before he was a dozen steps away, Jeslek had summoned Anya.

   “Anya ... I'd like you and Fydel to ride south-just a kay or so- to the end of that ridge, and study the area. Have Fydel scree it for Gallosians. I'll need to trace the chaos lines there. I'd like you to leave immediately.,.”

   Cerryl frowned as he walked back toward where he and the other students had camped and where the chestnut was tethered.

   “What was that about?” asked Lyasa. “Should I ask?”

   Cerryl glanced around. Kochar was nowhere in sight. “Jeslek has insisted that I go to be an assistant to Sverlik in Fenard. I have to do something for him and Sverlik. As a test.”

   “After this?” Lyasa also glanced around, then back to Cerryl, her olive-brown eyes filled with concern.

 
  “After this. One does not argue with an overmage.” He glanced along the road to where Jeslek had dismissed Anya. “I would like another favor. Jeslek says you're headed back to Fairhaven before long. Would you tell Myral? Just Myral?”

   “I can do that.” Lyasa paused. “I'd rather tell Leyladin, and let her tell him. I don't see him often, and people would notice. I can trust her.”

   “If you think so.” He smiled as he strapped his pack on the gelding. “All right. Thank you.”

   Klybel rode past, leading a line of lancers-doubtless Cerryl's escort. The captain did not look at Cerryl.

   “You be careful,” cautioned Lyasa.

   “As careful as I can be.”

   “Cerryl!” called Jeslek.

   The student mage untethered the chestnut and began to lead his mount toward the group around Jeslek.

   “Good luck,” whispered Lyasa.

   “Thank you.”

   All of the lancers were mounted, save one-an armsman with a single silver bar on his left tunic collar who inclined his head.

   “This is Undercaptain Ludren, young Cerryl,” said Klybel. “Your escort will be a half-score. That should be large enough to deter brigands and small enough not to alarm the people of Gallos.” The lancer captain leaned forward and extended a folded parchment square. “This is a map of the main roads of Gallos. We trust it is accurate.”

   Cerryl took the map with a nod. “Thank you.”

   “If you are attacked, you have leave to defend yourself, but I would encourage you not to use your powers against any except those who do attack you.” Jeslek's voice was mild, reasonable, and Cerryl could sense that the chaos around the overmage had begun to subside.

   “I will use what powers I have,” Cerryl answered as he mounted the chestnut, “only if attacked.”

   “Good.”

   Ludren remounted, then looked at Cerryl.

   “Whenever you are ready, Undercaptain.”

   Ludren nodded and turned his mount westward on the Great White Highway.

   Cerryl's lips tightened as he could sense a screen of chaos rising behind them, one that doubtless blurred his departure. Sterol has set you as a check to Jeslek, and Jeslek wants you removed in a manner not to be traced to him.

   Still, there was nothing he dared do. Not yet. His lips tightened. Perhaps not ever, but definitely not yet. He flicked the reins and let the chestnut pull alongside the Undercaptain and his mount.

Through the day and a half since Cerryl and his escort had left the main body of the Fairhaven forces, the twelve had ridden alone westward on the Great White Highway, not encountering anyone, in and out of intermittent cool rain and chilly breezes. Puddles collected next to the granite road wall, and their mounts occasionally splashed through flat sheets of water running off the nearly level granite paving stones.

   “Empty, it is,” Ludren said once more, as he did every few kays.

   “Not a soul in sight,” answered Cerryl. The only living thing outside his group was a single black vulcrow that flew ahead of them and waited, then watched as they passed, and flew farther ahead-either looking for scraps or for someone or some animal to keel over and die.

   Ahead, Cerryl could see a side road-one that crossed the Great Highway, or that the Highway crossed. As they neared the crossroads, he could make out a single kaystone with two arrows. One pointed south with the name Tellura-one of the names that had led to his mapmaking. The north-pointing arrow bore the name Fenard.

   “Toward Fenard.” Cerryl turned the chestnut off the Great White Highway and onto the clay-packed trail that bore hoofprints-not terribly recent prints.

   “Here's where it may get rough, ser,” said Ludren.

   “Do you think that the Gallosians would wait on the side road this far from Fenard?” Cerryl doubted it very much. They might run into a company of armsmen closer to the capital. Might? He held back a laugh, since Ludren would have taken it wrong.

   Ludren frowned, then nodded slowly. “You might be right, ser.”

   “I don't know. I'm new to this,” Cerryl said as the chestnut carried him along the narrower packed clay road. “I would think that the arms-men who survived would probably ride to Fenard to tell the prefect.”

   “Like as not, he won't be wishing to see us.”

   “No.” That was an understatement. Jeslek had clearly set Cerryl a near-impossible task, doubtless in hopes that someone would kill him. More than a day of riding, and Cerryl still didn't have a good idea of how he was going to get into Fenard, let alone kill the prefect and get out.

   Half-surprisingly, the thought of killing the prefect didn't bother him. Was that because what everyone had said and what he had seen gave the impression of a very unpleasant character? What if Lyam weren't as pictured?

   Cerryl glanced back over his shoulder at the white lancers. The pair behind him-Jubuul and Zusta, he thought-rode silently and dejectedly. The mage wondered what they had done to displease Klybel and Jeslek.

   “Ludren?”

   “Yes, ser.”

   “What were you told about escorting me to Fenard?”

   “Well... ser ... I can't say as I was told much. The captain said I was to get you there, and then we were to try to catch them on the Great Highway, and if not, to rejoin them at the South Barracks.”

   “You weren't supposed to carry any messages or supplies to the mage Sverlik or back from him?”

   “No, ser. We were to escort you to the prefect's palace and then return.”

   Cerryl nodded. “How long have you been a lancer?”

   “Nigh on ten years, ser. Glad I was that the captain and the over-mage offered this. Otherwise, it might have been another ten afore I made captain. That's why there be no silver on my tunic-just the rank bar.”

   “It must take a while to make rank.”

   “Depends, ser. Huylar made undercaptain in six, but he was in the Sligan campaign-the one where they put down the timber camps and the traders so as they'd listen to the Brotherhood. To make rank, you take chances or time.”

   The Sligan campaign? “When was that?”

   “Three, four years ago. Huylar's been 'round longer than me.”

   “Were you involved in the Sligan campaign?”

   “Me, ser? No. I was part of the mage's guard in Hydolar, like Viurat is in Fenard.”

   “I don't know Viurat,” Cerryl said pleasantly, his eyes on the road ahead, and where it wound to the left around a long hill that flanked the road on the east.

   “Viurat's my cousin. No reason as you'd know him, ser.”

   “How long has he been in Fenard?”

   “Must be five years now. Brought Ryentyl-she's his consort-he brought her with him.” Ludren laughed. “Lancers aren't supposed to have consorts unless they're officers, but no one really looks. Not that hard. Guess they like Fenard. He's still there.”

   Cerryl steered the chestnut around a particularly deep-looking pothole filled with dark and muddy water, glancing at the sky to the north. The clouds were dropping and darkening, foreshadowing another storm, if not for another few kays-and more headaches.

   “Storm coming,” the undercaptain added. “Might keep those purple lancers from looking for us.”

   “I doubt they're looking for us. Not here.” Of course, any Gallosians who saw them might well want to eliminate anyone from Fairhaven, especially a student mage, but Cerryl doubted anyone was actually out searching. Not yet. That might change after the survivors of Jeslek's fire attacks reached Fenard.

   “Hope you're right, ser.”

   Cerryl nodded, his mind more on what awaited him. Even assuming he could get into Fenard, assuming he didn't have to evade or flee Gallosian armsmen, Jeslek had said he was to remove the prefect and to leave Fenard unseen. How? The only way he could be unseen was to cloak himself in light, as Anya had done in visiting Faltar, and Jeslek knew Cerryl hadn't ever done anything like that.

   Could he channel light around himself the way he could channel chaos? He ought to be able to-light was a form of chaos. Still, what he ought to be able to do and what he could do might be very different.

   He concentrated ... and found himself blind-enclosed in darkness. The chestnut half-whuffed, half-whimper-screamed, as the darkness surrounded them. Cerryl quickly released the light-shifting screens, or whatever what he had done was called. The gelding stepped forward and sideways for a moment.

   “What was that?” Ludren leaned forward. “For a moment, you were not there.”

   Cerryl forced a quizzical expression. “You must be mistaken. I have been here all along. My mount... something spooked him.”

   “I would have sworn...”

   “Still say he disappeared ...” came the mumbled words from Jubuul. “... trouble with mages.... never where you think they are.”

   Cerryl licked his lips. He needed more practice, but it wouldn't help much to practice while riding with the lancers. He forced a laugh. “Isn't that true about most things?”

   “What, ser?” asked the earnest Ludren.

   “Oh ... nothing's exactly what or where you think it is.”

   “If you say so, ser.”

   A long ride to Fenard, a long ride to certain trouble, trouble he wasn't even quite certain he could avoid or master. Cerryl did not shake his head but kept his pleasant smile in place.