The White Order

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “In more ways than one.” Lyasa shook her head, adding a wry smile. “She’s an apprentice healer or some such. You’re an apprentice white. You want to kill both of you? Black and white don’t mix that way.”

  “I didn’t know.” Cerryl could feel his face fall, but a sense of elation followed. Leyladin… she probably wasn’t a test by Jeslek, at least.

  “That’s obvious. It’s one of the things we have to live with.” Lyasa reached out and patted his shoulder. “At least you’re not watching Anya… the way Faltar does.”

  Cerryl didn’t know what to say.

  “You understand that.” Lyasa’s tone was low and matter-of-fact. “Now… if Jeslek wanted you, you’d better hurry. He’s not all that patient.”

  “No… he’s not.”

  With an indulgent smile, Lyasa touched his shoulder again, then watched as he hurried across the courtyard and into the hall toward the steps. Again, he was breathing hard by the time he reached the back of the building.

  Gostar, the guard outside Jeslek’s quarters, nodded as Cerryl approached. Cerryl stepped past the armed guard and rapped on the door. “Cerryl, ser, as you requested.”

  “Come in.” Jeslek’s voice resonated through the closed white oak door.

  After opening the door and closing it behind him, Cerryl bowed. “I have the map you requested, ser.”

  “About time.”

  “Yes, ser.” Cerryl bowed again.

  “Kesrik, move the glass to the side table.” Jeslek nodded to the older student mage, then to Cerryl. “Spread it on the table.”

  Once Kesrik had removed the glass, Cerryl eased the vellum onto the table, then stepped back as Jeslek studied the map, squinting and shifting his eyes from point to point.

  “Tellura… Hierna… Quessa… Kyphrien… hmmm.”

  At the “hmmmm,” Cerryl took a slow and deliberate breath. He’s just trying to upset you. Calm, you have to be calm.

  Kesrik continued to display a broad smile as Jeslek pored over the vellum.

  After what seemed like eight-days, the white mage straightened and looked at Cerryl. “It’s basically accurate. At least it’s the best one could expect from a new student, and one who was a scrivener’s apprentice.” Jeslek nodded. “You may have it put with the others in the racks in the library.”

  Kesrik did not manage to conceal a smirk from where he stood by the wall.

  “Yes, ser.”

  “You are disturbed? You find my judgment harsh?” Jeslek’s tone was light, amused, even as Cerryl could sense the white forces building.

  “You are my master, ser, and you know what is best.” Cerryl was surprised to find his words level and even, with an unseen barrier between his rage and his words and surface feelings.

  “You actually believe that. My… my… how refreshing.” The mage paused. “And very good for you.” The sense of power dwindled. “You may go and rack your map. I will see you again tomorrow morning. Immediately after breakfast. Immediately.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Go.”

  Cerryl reached forward and gently lifted the map. Jeslek nodded to Kesrik, who turned toward the small table and the screeing glass.

  Cerryl bowed and turned, glad that Jeslek had not found any overt faults in the map. He rolled up the vellum, forcing himself to remain detached and deliberate as he departed, carrying the map.

  There was no sign of the blonde girl-woman-or Lyasa-as he walked toward the library.

  LVIII

  Cerryl walked up to Jeslek’s door with a stride more confident than he felt within himself.

  “He be expecting you,” said Gostar from beside the door, one hand casually on the hilt of the white-bronze shortsword used by the inside guards.

  “Thank you.” Cerryl knocked cautiously.

  “Enter.”

  The student mage stepped inside and closed the heavy white oak door behind him. The mage stood by the screeing table-alone. With the considerable residue of unseen white around the table, Cerryl could sense that Jeslek had been using the glass recently. “I am here as you requested, ser.”

  “Your map was good.” Jeslek watched Cerryl.

  “Ser… you did not seem pleased. I will try to do better in the future.”

  “It was good,” Jeslek repeated. “Yet I did not say so. Why might that be?”

  “Kesrik was here.”

  Jeslek nodded. “Have I permitted you to work with chaos-fire?”

  “No, ser.”

  “Kesrik has been a student for nearly four years. He has been working with chaos-fire for over two years. My reasons should be clear to you, if you consider them.” Jeslek offered a perfunctory smile. “You are very bright, Cerryl. Perhaps too bright. You also do not understand in your heart what the Guild is, and why it is good for Fairhaven and Candar. With your talent, that presents a problem.”

  Since Cerryl couldn’t say much to that, although he questioned whether he had that much talent, he nodded and waited.

  “Sterol and I have agreed on this.”

  Jeslek’s overly polite tone confirmed to Cerryl that whatever they had agreed upon was one of the few areas where the two mages had bached agreement.

  “You will see Myral after you leave here. You will work with him to service the sewers until spring… or longer, as he sees fit. I have told him to expect you,” Jeslek said mildly. “You will not have any more instruction from me until then. Nor from any other mage except Myral… oh, and Esaak. He has told me you are terribly deficient in your calculations. Do not bother to try to see the High Wizard… about this or anything else. He and I have already discussed this.”

  “Yes, ser.” Cerryl bowed.

  “You have my leave to use your abilities to handle chaos as you can, but only as directed by Myral-only Myral.”

  Cerryl waited to see if any other directions were forthcoming.

  “And, young Cerryl?”

  “Yes, ser?”

  “I know you can block your innermost feelings from any mage. So can I. It is a useful talent, but one best used sparingly. One should not have too much to hide, especially not a student.”

  “Yes, ser.” What else could he say?

  “Think about light while you work in the darkness of the sewers. I would suggest you think a great deal about it, and do not hesitate to ask Myral. In such matters, he is a good instructor.” Jeslek smiled another of his perfunctory smiles. “You may go. I told Myral to expect you.”

  “Thank you, ser.”

  “You are welcome, and some day you may understand exactly how much. Good day, Cerryl.”

  Cerryl bowed again before he left.

  Almost every time he had met with Jeslek for nearly two seasons, the mage had unsettled him, and his words this time were no less unsettling. Cerryl walked down the steps and then out of the rear hall into the courtyard and past the fountain. The wind whipped spray across him, and it felt like ice on his face.

  First, Jeslek had suggested that Kesrik would have used chaos-fire on Cerryl. Why? Because Cerryl wasn’t mage-born? Or from wealthy parentage? Or for some other reason? Then, Jeslek had implied that Myral was a good instructor, but not terribly good at other things. But at what was the balding mage lacking? And finally, Jeslek had flatly stated that Cerryl owed Jeslek great thanks. For letting Cerryl survive?

  The thin-faced young man took a deep breath as he entered the rear of the front foyer, and several more before he reached the second level of the white tower.

  “Jeslek said to expect you.” The older and rotund mage with the thinning and wispy black hair opened the door before Cerryl could knock, and gestured for the young man to enter the room.

  Myral’s quarters were smaller than either Jeslek’s or Sterol’s, and one entire wall of the single squarish room was filled with books-‘ perhaps as many as a third of what was contained in the entire library. Practically underneath the shuttered windows was a narrow bed, wide enough for one person, unlike the spacious beds favored by both Stero
l and Jeslek. Through the window, Cerryl could see the avenue angling toward the artisans’ square.

  The wall opposite the bookshelves held two desks and a round table with a screeing glass and four chairs. One of the chairs was occupied- the one on the far side of the screeing glass-by a woman in pale green with red-blonde hair. A large tome lay open before her. Cerryl froze for a moment.

  “Ah, you must have seen Leyladin around the halls.” Myral made a sweeping gesture from Cerryl to Leyladin as he turned to the young woman. “This is Cerryl. Like you, he does not come from the creche or a magely parent. He was a scrivener’s apprentice.” The mage smiled, a smile that took in both mouth and eyes. “Now I have to teach him about sewers and wastes.”

  “It’s good to see you here.” Leyladin stood, her gaze meeting Cerryl’s, a faint and amused smile upon her lips, the hint of a glimmer in her dark green eyes.

  “I’m glad to meet you.” As he bowed, Cerryl felt she saw right through him, that she knew he’d once screed her through his glass, the glass probably still hidden in the wall at Tellis’s place.

  “I should go,” she said to Myral, stepping away from the table. “Before they-”

  “No. This will take but a moment.” Myral smiled and turned to Cerryl. “Pay attention to me, if you will, not the young lady.”

  Cerryl flushed.

  “I’m not nearly so gentle to look upon, young Cerryl, but we have work to prepare for.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Fairhaven has its name for a reason.” Myral’s voice was high, almost squeaky, and he steepled his fingers, then gestured vaguely in the direction of the door-or the square. “If you travel to most places, they dump their night soil and everything else in the streets, and they stink.” The mage wrinkled his nose. “Fairhaven is fair, and one of the tasks before us is to keep it fair…”

  Myral half-turned toward the books, and Cerryl’s eyes strayed again to Leyladin.

  Her eyes were so green, like a deep ocean. She pointed to Myral, as if to suggest that Cerryl had best listen.

  “… and we have to work to keep Fairhaven clean. You probably don’t know how much work that is. Everyone who has lived here knows some things about keeping a city clean-sewer catches and clean walks-jakes here in the hall’s and in the greater homes. No rubbish in the streets. The big waste wagons, but much more goes on unseen.”

  Suddenly, the rotund mage turned and walked over to the book-shelves, pulling out one book, then another and another. He walked back to the table and set five of them down.

  “Jeslek says that you read quickly. Can you read these in the next eight-day?”

  Cerryl looked at the stack of books, then at the mage. “I think so If there’s not something strange about them.”

  “Only the subject matter… I even wrote one of them.” A brief grin followed. “If you can’t, come and see me. If you can, study them, and come back here an eight-day from now, immediately after breakfast.” Myral paused again. “Study them as if I were Jeslek.”

  “Yes, ser.” Cerryl bowed.

  “One other thing.” Myral bustled toward the corner of the room, almost behind the white oak door, where he rummaged through a chest of some sort, one with thin drawers that he slid out, one after the other. “Ah… this will help.”

  The white mage rolled a section of vellum into a tube as he headed toward Cerryl. He thrust the tube at Cerryl. Cerryl stepped back as he took it. What was it?

  “That? Oh, that’s the best map of all the sewers. You need to study that, too. Learn where every sewer runs. You shouldn’t have any trouble. Jeslek said you were good with maps. It might help if you took a few walks with it and tried to locate where the main sewers are.”

  Cerryl felt like he’d been frozen in a different way. First, running into Leyladin, and then being assaulted with a pile of books and a sewer map. A sewer map, for darkness’s sake!

  “An eight-day from now,” Myral said cheerfully as he piled the books into Cerryl’s arms. “Best get on with it.”

  His arms full, Cerryl nodded toward Leyladin. “It was good to meet you.”

  “I was glad to see you.” She smiled an enigmatic and faint smile. “More closely.” The green eyes sparkled.

  Suppressing a wince at the gentle reminder, Cerryl nodded to her again and to Myral. “An eight-day from now, ser.”

  The door closed behind him with a thunk.

  He walked slowly down the stairs, his arms already beginning to ache with the weight of the books and the rolled map, his thoughts spinning. What was Leyladin doing with Myral? It wasn’t conclusive, but the pudgy mage had but a single bed, and there had been an open tome on the table.

  You hope she’s just studying…but what can you do if it’s more?

  And why had she wanted to leave when he’d come in? Or said that she was glad to meet him-more closely? Had that just been a jab, or had she meant it?

  He tried to shift his grip on the books and staggered against the wall in an effort to keep his hold on the map.

  A sewer map? What was he going to be doing with Myral? What did books have to do with sewers? Or sewers with becoming a white mage?

  Another form of test?

  LIX

  In the late afternoon, with gray light falling through the library windows, Cerryl rubbed his forehead, forcing himself to concentrate on the words on the vellum.

  … the heavy greases, be they cooking tallow or Tenderer’s leavings or… reform in a weak order upon exposure to heat or chaos or heat created by the chaos within chaos-rich wastes… such scattered blocks of order combine with detritus of a less solid nature to impede the flow of fluids necessary for evacuation…

  He’d thought the histories and the philosophizing of Colors of White had been boring and difficult to follow, but they were transparently clear compared to Myral’s The Management of Offal. The book wasn’t even that long, less than a hundred pages. He continued reading and turned the page.

  … odoriferous as they may appear, night soil and animal droppings retain but a weak order and will dissolve in the presence of water into a liquid which can be purified through the application of simple techniques…“

  “Cerryl?”

  He looked up. Faltar and Lyasa stood by the library table. “Didn’t you hear the bells?”

  “The bells?” Even as he asked, he felt stupid. He knew he sounded stupid.

  “Those are Myral’s books, aren’t they?” Lyasa pointed to the volumes by his elbow. “The ones on wastes and offal?”

  Cerryl nodded.

  “How long have you had them?” she asked.

  “Since yesterday.” Cerryl massaged his forehead again, this time with his left hand, then the back of his neck, trying to work out the tension.

  “How many years did it take Myral to write them?” Lyasa demanded.

  Faltar offered an ironic smile.

  “He only wrote one. This one.” Cerryl glanced from Faltar to the dark-haired student.

  “It’s the same thing.” Lyasa’s voice bore a tinge of exasperation. “It took him years to figure it out enough to write it, and you’re trying to learn it all in a day.”

  “I only have an eight-day.”

  “You have an eight-day to read it - not learn it word by word.”

  “Cerryl has to know it better than anyone… even Myral,” said Faltar.

  “Says who?”

  “Cerryl,” answered the blond student mage.

  “You two.” Lyasa glared at Faltar, then at Cerryl. “Let’s go eat.”

  Cerryl stood, feeling his muscles twinge. How long had he reading?

  “Too long,” answered Faltar.

  Lyasa had already left the common by the time Cerryl scooped up the books from the table and started down the corridor toward the meal hall. He stopped by his cell and quickly set the books on the desk.

  “Why do you have to learn everything as quickly as you do?” asked Faltar as Cerryl stepped back into the corridor.

  “This i
s the first place where I’ve ever been supposed to learn, and… I don’t know.” Cerryl looked down at the polished stone floor tiles, glad he didn’t have to scrub floors any longer.

  “Why did the scrivener take you on? I mean…”

  “I was a mill boy without any learning?” Cerryl nodded. “I got the millmaster’s daughter to teach me my letters and help me. She gave me books, both in the old tongue and in Temple. They’re really not that different.”

  “You taught yourself to read?” Faltar shook his head.

  “There wasn’t anyone else.” Cerryl glanced around the meal hall, only half-occupied because the full mages ate there intermittently. Kesrik was at a corner table, apparently being lectured by Fydel about something, because his face was more sullen than usual. Lyasa was at the serving table. “And I didn’t do it alone. I did have help.”

  “Darkness,” hissed Faltar. “It’s the lemon lamb.”

  The lemon lamb was fine with Cerryl, but he nodded. “It could be worse.”

  “Cheese in the sewer? It would take that. Oh… sorry… it’ll be my turn next, I suppose.”

  “You haven’t done sewer duty?” Cerryl took a large serving of the lamb and a chunk of dark bread and a too-firm pearapple-none of which showed signs of chaos, and probably never would, but the habit he’d developed early had stayed with him.

  “Some people get it early, some late, some-like Kesrik-get it more than once.” Faltar took a smaller helping of stew, nearly half a loaf of the dark bread, and two pearapples.

  “Kesrik’s had two times on sewer duty?”

  “That I know of. They say Kinowin did four as a student, and Eliasar three.”

  Cerryl frowned. The big mage had done sewer duty four times? The arms mage three times?

  Faltar inclined his head toward the round table where Lyasa sat alone, and Cerryl followed him.

  “I see you two finally got hungry.” The black-haired young woman looked up as they sat down.

  “For lemon lamb?” Faltar broke off a chunk of bread, then took a swallow of the light ale. “For this I should hurry?”