Colors of Chaos

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I thought you didn’t want me to,” Cerryl said slowly. “I thought, because I’m White and you’re Black, we had to be very careful, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Leyladin’s eyes shimmered, as if she were close to tears. She tightened her lips, then turned so her eyes met his.

  Cerryl looked into her eyes, feeling again as if he were falling into their green depths. “Cerryl.”

  Although her voice was gentle, he almost jumped. “Yes?” He tried not to look at her so intently. “I’m sorry. Sometimes, I feel like I could get lost in your eyes.”

  “That sounds like you’re trying to be a poet. Or a lancer officer with a maid he’s just met.” The words were tempered with another smile, a gentle one with a hint of laughter.

  Cerryl winced. “That’s not what I meant. That’s how I feel, but I wasn’t trying… You’re getting… when you do that… but you don’t…” He sighed and stopped, finally shrugging. “I can’t say what I mean.”

  “Try it again,” she suggested gently. “Just say the words. Don’t try to impress me or convince me. Say what you mean.”

  He swallowed. “I did. I do feel like I could get lost in your eyes. I didn’t say it to make you feel anything. It’s the way I feel. I don’t know how to be a poet. Sometimes, I still feel like I have to watch every word so that I don’t sound like a miner or a mill boy.”

  “That is what makes it so difficult.” She looked down. “If only, if only you were not a mage and I a healer.”

  “We are what we are. Does it matter?” Cerryl reached out and took Leyladin’s hand. “I can hold your hand. Do you feel any chaos there? Any burning?”

  “That’s now,” she said quietly. “What about next season? Or next year?”

  “I’m doing everything Myral taught me, and you can touch him to heal him.”

  “Myral isn’t my consort.”

  “White mages can’t have consorts,” he responded. “You know that.”

  “But Black healers can,” she pointed out.

  Cerryl swallowed. “Are you saying, because I’m a White mage…” Cerryl swallowed once, then again, feeling his stomach turn in a sickening sense of despair.

  “I’m not throwing that at you. I’m not considering becoming anyone else’s consort, but whether it’s recognized or not, I want that sort of relationship.”

  Cerryl nodded, wondering how he could ever fill that role. How could she ever consider a mere Patrol mage as anything more than a friend? How could he have hoped for more?

  “Cerryl… dear one… you are dear to me.”

  “More like a friend, I fear,” he said hoarsely.

  “I would not hug a friend so, nor bestow the lightest of kisses.”

  “Then… ?” He shrugged helplessly.

  “I want you, but I want you as though you were my consort. I want you to be able to hold me, no matter what you have done as a mage. I do not want a man who holds chaos and her power as his mistress while he says he is my consort.”

  Cerryl nodded slowly. With her words he could scarcely argue, yet

  …was what she wanted even possible?

  “Don’t look so downcast. You’ve barely over a score of years. We do have time to see if that is what you also wish.” She smiled warmly, her green eyes twinkling. “Besides, Meridis has fixed a pork roast, stuffed with apples and spiced bread dressing, just for us. And no quilla.”

  “Your father? Isn’t he here?” For the moment Cerryl was stunned, stunned at Leyladin’s directness and stunned at where all that she had said might lead them. He grasped at her father’s absence, at anything to give himself some space to let himself take in her earlier words.

  “Father remains in Lydiar, making arrangements for his ships.” She leaned forward and brushed his cheek with her lips, then rose from the settee. “I’m hungry. Myral was worse, and it took a long time.”

  “I think the Guild meeting tired him. I talked to him the other night, and he almost fell asleep. It was barely dark.”

  “He has to sleep so much, these days.” She shook her head as she led the way to the dining hall.

  The room had two place settings, across from each other at the end toward the kitchen. The rest of the long white golden table shimmered in the lights from the wall lamps as the light from the windows faded with the coming of evening. Cerryl gestured to the white golden oak chair and waited until Leyladin seated herself on the dark green velvet upholstered seat.

  Then he sat, careful not to brush the pale white china that rested upon a place mat of light green linen. Following Leyladin’s example, he took the green linen napkin and laid it in his lap. Since the amber wine bottle was already uncorked, he filled her fluted crystal goblet, then his own.

  Lifting his glass, he said, “To you.” What else can I say?

  “To you, dear one.” She lifted her glass in turn.

  They both sipped.

  The kitchen door opened.

  “About time it is… Much longer and it’d be dry as dust and as hard as bone.” Meridis set two platters on the table, then returned with another. “And there be honey cake for later. Enjoy.”

  “Thank you,” offered Cerryl.

  “No thanks to me, but thanks to the lady. Be her wish, only my doing.” The gruff words were belied by the broad smile before the cook vanished into the kitchen.

  Leyladin took two of the already-sliced sections of roast and stuffing, each covered with a clear apple glaze, then tendered the serving platter to Cerryl. His arm twinged as he took the platter, but he set the serving dish down carefully and served himself.

  Leyladin leaned forward and served the cabbage rolls to Cerryl. “I saw that.”

  “The arm’s better. That only happens every so often.”

  “Likely tale.” She flashed a warm grin.

  “Most likely.”

  After another silence that seemed to stretch out, he took a sip of the wine, then offered, “I didn’t know your father had ships.”

  “He has three. He uses them mainly for what he calls long-voyage trading. Prices change too quickly across Candar. He sends the three out for goods that can’t come from Candar or Recluce.”

  Cerryl frowned, trying to think what goods might not come from either, considering that the Black mages could reputedly grow just about anything. “Such as?” he finally asked.

  “There are some dyes… There’s a crimson one that comes from crushed insects that only live in the southern jungles of Hamor and a deep purple one that the Austrans get from some sort of mussel.” The blonde took a sip of wine. “And silver, now that the silver mines in Kyphros are worn out. There’s a dark wood, like lorken, very rare- that comes from Hamor.”

  “I think I understand,” Cerryl said. “It’s like the way he trades, things that others would like that he can get more cheaply with his own ships.”

  “How do you like the roast?”

  “It’s good. Would you like some more, before I eat it all?”

  “Just one more slice,” she said.

  Cerryl served her one slice and then took the last two for himself.

  “What are we going to do?” he finally asked, after glancing down at a clean platter, surprised not that he had eaten so much, but that he did not feel stuffed. “The two of us?”

  “Listen to Myral,” she said. “He told me that we shouldn’t hurry, not right now, not until you understand how to handle your power better. He told me not to worry.” She shook her head. “He’s dying, and he told me not to worry.”

  Cerryl lifted the goblet but did not drink, his eyes on the still-falling white beyond the window. “There’s not much other choice, is there?”

  “No. I trust Myral. Sometimes… he sees things.”

  Cerryl trusted Myral’s sight, but even so, that left the question of what to do about it, and Anya’s arguments and Kinowin’s counterarguments ran through his mind.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Kinowin called it something like Ryba’s curse.
If you see a vision, and if it’s true, how do you make it come true? By doing what you planned to do or doing something different?”

  “What did Kinowin say?” asked Leyladin.

  “He never answered the question.”

  “What do you think?” she pursued, fingers loosely circled around the crystal stem of the wine goblet.

  “I don’t know what to think.” He pursed his lips, then let his breath out slowly. “I suppose… I suppose you-we-do what we think is best and hope.”

  “Do you think waiting to become lovers is wrong?”

  “No… I don’t like it, but you and Myral are probably right.” About that, anyway… “I cannot say I am pleased, though.”

  “Nor I.” Leyladin leaned forward so that her hand could reach across the table and grasp his. “But we can be together.”

  Cerryl nodded slowly, then smiled.

  Part II

  Colors of the Guild

  XLIV

  Cerryl scripted out the last of his daily report, his eyes running over the hand-written letters whose narrowness Tellis had insisted upon so long ago-at least it seemed so long ago.

  A gust of hot wind from the high window that was barely open brushed his hair, and he glanced up. It had been more than a year, more like a year and a season, since he had become a Patrol mage, and he was still on morning duty. Another fall and another harvest was coming in another handful of eight-days, and little had changed. He still walked the streets with the area patrols occasionally, and while peacebreaking had dropped for a time, the number of offenders had seemed unchanged for the past two seasons.

  There was still the occasional cart or wagon with goods and driver missing, but no other traces-and while Cerryl had kept personal records, he had not ventured beyond what Fydel would have called “simple peacekeeping.” Cerryl had his ideas, but without proof and/or more understanding, his ideas were but ideas. He’d learned early that to those without power patience was a necessity, however little he liked waiting. The incident with the iron arrow had reemphasized that lesson.

  That also applied to Leyladin. He and Leyladin saw each other more frequently, but a sense of reserve had built between them, an unspoken wall. Behind everything Cerryl felt forces were building, forces he could not see but certainly could feel.

  His eyes went to the Patrol report before him:

  …Guarl, who is a laborer for the tanner Huyter, stole five loaves of bread from the baker Sidor. Guarl was caught by Duarrl’s patrol. Guarl claimed he needed the bread for his consort and children… given refuse duty for four eight-days…

  Cerryl shook his head-he’d bent the rules on that one, but his truth-read had shown Guarl to be honest and desperate. Afterward, Cerryl had gone to the tanner’s and asked Huyter about Guarl. The tanner had said that he had only been able to pay his laborers half their normal pay because he had no coins left. The boot makers were getting their leather from a factor named Kosior, supposedly made from hides from Hydlen, where the maize crop had failed and the late rains had devastated the grasslands earlier parched by the late-summer drought. After a second year of grassland and crop failure, rather than have the cattle starve, Hydlenese farmers had sold many for slaughter, with the meat salted and the hides sold for what they would bring.

  “So…” Cerryl murmured to himself, “cheap leather comes to Fairhaven, and tanners cannot pay their laborers. The Blacks use their ships to bring cheaper goods to Spidlar and then use the coins to buy scarce grain.” He shook his head. “And I keep the simple peace in the southeast sector.” He folded the report.

  After a moment, he blotted his forehead, then called, “Orial?”

  The messenger in red appeared.

  “Here’s the daily report for the Patrol chief.”

  “I’m leaving, ser.” With a smile, the redhead bowed and scurried out and down the corridor.

  Cerryl stood. Gyskas had not arrived yet, since the older mage no longer hurried to relieve Cerryl, an indirect compliment or acceptance, Cerryl supposed.

  He walked back and forth in front of the table-desk. Myral had cautioned patience, and so had Leyladin. Having few choices, and none better, Cerryl had been patient.

  Jeslek remained High Wizard and had accompanied Eliasar to Fenard-and then returned, with a chest of golds from Prefect Syrma. Most of the “honor guard” of White Lancers had also returned, but according to Jeslek’s reports at the seasonal Guild meetings, the golds had continued to come from Fenard and Certis. Nothing came from Spidlar but cheaper goods smuggled on back roads, followed by protests that the prefect could not spare the armsmen to patrol every road in the desmesne of Gallos. Less loud demurrals came from the Viscount of Certis.

  Cerryl paused in his pacing as he sensed the rush of chaos that accompanied Gyskas.

  “Anything new?” asked the balding older mage, blotting dampness off his high forehead.

  “I put a tanner’s laborer on the refuse crew.”

  “Beating a woman?”

  “Stole some bread for his family because he wasn’t paid.”

  Gyskas frowned. “That should be road crew.”

  “I know, but I truth-read him. Child and mother are sick; they don’t have enough coins. The tanner can’t pay because of the cheap leather from Hydlen.” Cerryl shrugged. “I couldn’t let him go, but…”

  “Cerryl, be careful that you don’t get in the habit of bending the rules. Especially now. We’re going to see more of that.” Gyskas took a deep breath. “I still say that whatever Jeslek did in raising those mountains changed the weather, and it’s hurt the crops and grass. Bread’s a copper for two of the big loaves. Ale at four coppers at The Ram?”

  “I don’t see as many carts in the Market Square, either,” Cerryl pointed out.

  “They don’t want to travel the roads when they can get as much or more in Hydlen or Spidlar.”

  “Would you?” asked the younger mage.

  “Probably not, but this can’t go on.”

  “The High Wizard’s waiting until both the wealthy factors and the poor traders see that.”

  “He’s waited long enough.” Gyskas walked around the table-desk and pulled out the chair. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Till tomorrow.” Cerryl nodded and left, passing the assembly room before the second shift patrols filed out.

  The wind on the street was hot and dry, as always in the height of late summer. Cerryl turned south, toward the Way of the Tanners, eyes and senses studying everything as he moved quickly along one block, then another.

  “Afternoon, ser Cerryl!” called the washerwoman who had set her basket on the narrow porch of Esad’s-a store of odd items, neither a chandlery nor a miller’s market nor a weaver’s shop, but a place that held items partaking selectedly of all.

  “I hope it has been a good one for you,” he answered, not recalling her name but knowing he had seen her in the assembly room a season back for something.

  “Some days are good, some bad, but Ikor does not beat me now. The foul words-those he may keep and use.” She smiled and lifted the basket.

  Cerryl nodded and resumed walking.

  When he reached the Way of the Tanners, he turned eastward and continued on for another two blocks until he reached a narrow building with a single window and a wooden boot hung over the doorway. He stepped under the wooden boot over the open entry and into the shop.

  The black-haired boot maker at the bench looked up. “Ser Cerryl, your boots were ready the day before yesterday.”

  “I know. I had to take part of a duty in the northeast section.” Cerryl shrugged. Isork had only let Cerryl cover the time until dinner, saying that it wasn’t Cerryl’s lack of experience, but that he didn’t want to overwork anyone. So Cerryl had taken the first part and Klyat the second, while Wascot recovered from a flux from bad food.

  “They say there be more peacebreaking there in the past eight-days,” offered the boot maker, turning toward the shelf on the wall where rested a pair of white and thick
-soled Patrol boots. He lifted the boots off the shoulder-high shelf and turned back to Cerryl. “You keep the peace good here. Fairer ‘n most, too.”

  “I try, Miern.”

  “That’ll be a gold, you know?”

  Cerryl extracted a gold and a half-silver from his wallet. “There.”

  “You need not-”

  “Good boots are worth it.” Cerryl reached for the boots.

  “For that… at least…” Miern fumbled under the workbench and came out with a worn cloth sack. “… don’t need this anyway.” The boot maker put the boots in the gray sack, splotched with faded patches nearly white, and extended the sack.

  “Thank you.”

  “Got to take care of those who pay in these days.” Miern smiled.

  “Is it that bad for you? Someone told me that leather is getting cheaper,” Cerryl ventured.

  “Cow leather,” Miern affirmed. “I make my boots, the sturdy ones, from bull leather. Don’t care for that cheap leather from Hydlen. One thing that Beykr and I agree on.”

  The Patrol mage had to grin. “I didn’t know as you agreed on anything.”

  “Precious little, ser mage. Precious little.”

  “Thank you, Miern,” Cerryl said again.

  “Thanks be to you, ser mage.”

  Cerryl stepped out onto the walk that flanked the Way of the Tanners and turned westward, toward the White Tower and the Halls of the Mages.

  Ahead of him, he could see clouds building and darkening. He hoped the storms weren’t too bad. With harvest hardly begun, a heavy storm could ruin much of the wheat corn, and that would only lead to higher prices, prices that had continued to rise since the previous winter, driving up the price of bread and, unhappily for him, the amount of small theft, even if other forms of peacebreaking seemed to be declining in his section.

  Leyladin was waiting in the fountain court at the Halls of the Mages, as she did when she could.

  Cerryl couldn’t help smiling, and smiling more broadly when she smiled back. “You still make me smile.”

  “Good. You weren’t here yesterday or the day before. I was afraid I’d done something.”