The White Order

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Jeslek stepped forward, his eyes raking the three and settling on Cerryl. “That’s all the work we’ll do on the tunnel this season. I’ll see you and Kochar tomorrow after breakfast.” He did not smile as he turned and walked toward the Halls.

  Kochar looked at the departing overmage, then trudged after him. Cerryl took a deep breath and looked for Leyladin, but she, too, had vanished. With a shrug, he walked slowly to his cell and then to the bathing chamber.

  His stomach was growling by the time he finally reached the meal hall, right after the bells rang. Even so, Kochar had a full platter already and was walking toward the table where Bealtur and Heralt ate together in the corner. The redhead sat down with them.

  Cerryl walked slowly from the serving area toward one of the empty round tables, where he sat. He glanced at what was supposed to be lemon-creamed lamb, then across the table, unmindful of the soreness in too many muscles from riding to and from the water runnel for three days, scrambling through the slippery tunnel, and feeling Jeslek watching over his shoulder every moment. The more he was around Jeslek, the less he trusted the overmage, despite Jeslek’s apparent straightforwardness.

  “Might we join you, ser mage?”

  Cerryl looked up at the warm voice to see the blonde hair and green tunic, then staggered to his feet. “Of course.”

  “Sit down,” Leyladin added. “If you’re as tired as I am, you don’t need to be jumping up for people.”

  Leyladin and Lyasa sat down on the other side of the table.

  Cerryl sat and absently fingered his chin.

  “You know, you’d look better if you didn’t try to grow a beard.”

  Cerryl blinked, refocusing on the blonde.

  “You’re like all the other young mages, growing a beard to look older.”

  Cerryl’s mouth opened.

  “You’d look much better without it,” she continued, breaking off a chunk of fresh dark bread.

  “Iron irritates me,” Cerryl said. “Even a sharp iron blade does.”

  “It does many of the whites. There are answers to that. I’m sure you’ll find one. Besides, you’ll look old and distinguished soon enough.” Leyladin’s eyes twinkled, and her voice lowered. “It’s always better to be underestimated when you don’t have as much power, and everyone knows it.”

  “That’s why I laugh a lot. Laughing mages can’t be taken seriously.”

  “Nor women,” added Lyasa.

  For some reason, Cerryl’s thoughts went back to Benthann and her comments about women always being considered for what they provided in bed. “The Guild allows women to be full mages. What about Anya or the older woman in Ruzor that Myral was telling me about?”

  “Shenan,” mumbled Lyasa. “Think she’s Myral’s younger sister. He doesn’t say.”

  Leyladin frowned. “He’s never mentioned her.”

  “There’s usually something most mages don’t mention.” Lyasa took a long swallow of ale. “That tastes good.”

  “What were you doing today?” Cerryl glanced at the black-haired student.

  “Anya and Whuyl were showing me how to use a dagger-in close It’s a lot of work.”

  Cerryl took a mouthful of the lamb, dry despite the thick sauce.

  “No one’s taught me about daggers.”

  “Anya says a female needs that kind of knowledge.”

  “She’d know,” suggested Leyladin quietly. “If it can kill, she’s looked into it.”

  “I don’t know that she has a choice,” pointed out Lyasa. A wry smile crossed her lips. “You can’t use your body for everything.”

  Cerryl almost choked, especially when he saw Falter at the serving table.

  “We’ll behave,” promised Leyladin, her eyes sparkling.

  Cerryl wasn’t quite sure he wanted her to behave. Even Lyasa snorted.

  After a moment, he finally asked the question he’d wondered about for over a year. “Why do you spend so much time with Myral? He doesn’t need that much healing.”

  “Myral is old, very old for a white mage, Cerryl. He must be threescore, and most whites don’t live much past two score.” Leyladin lifted her shoulders and dropped them. “I’m a healer, and that’s what he needs.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Handling chaos is hard on the body. You should know that. Especially after today.”

  Cerryl gave a rueful smile. “But Myral?”

  “I’m a healer, Cerryl. Myral’s not too proud to ask for my help, unlike Sterol or Esaak. And I can learn from him. He knows a lot.” Leyladin studied him. “You… you’re actually jealous.”

  Cerryl looked down, then forced himself to meet the laughing green eyes. “Yes.”

  “And honest.”

  “I try,” he said. “I don’t know how honest.”

  “You’re honest. That’s one reason why Myral likes you.”

  “Honesty isn’t enough around here.”

  “No,” interjected Lyasa, “it’s not enough. But all the other stuff you need to know isn’t enough without it, either. Not over time.”

  “My… we’re all so philosophical…” Leyladin laughed.

  Both Cerryl and Lyasa joined her laughter.

  LXXXV

  “Matters have worsened in Gallos.” Jeslek paced around the table, then glanced to the rear window of his quarters. “Even the High Wizard is concerned.” His eyes went to Cerryl, then to Kochar. “We will be traveling to Jellico the day after tomorrow. Get together what you will need for a long trip.”

  “Yes, ser,” said Kochar.

  Cerryl nodded.

  “There will be other mages and apprentices. You may bring your own glass, but no books. Not a word of the journey outside the Halls. From either of you.” This time, the mage’s golden eyes rested on Kochar. “You may go.”

  At least that meant that Cerryl didn’t have to worry about Esaak and mathematicks. He bowed and turned, following Kochar through the door.

  As Cerryl stepped out of Jeslek’s quarters and down the corridor, he had to move aside as Kinowin strode past him. The tall mage with the purple-blotched cheek was aimed like a quarrel toward Jeslek’s door.

  The slender student mage walked slowly down the corridor. What did he need for a journey? What kind of journey was it going to be? He wished he’d asked more, but Jeslek somehow discouraged questions, without even saying a word.

  At the foot of the steps, he glanced around, then walked slowly toward the commons but found it empty, except for Bealtur poring over a thick tome. Cerryl turned. Leyladin might have been able to give him an idea, but he hadn’t seen her.

  Who else might help-who would be around? He nodded, then turned and walked swiftly back down the corridor and out into the courtyard. Light rain joined the fountain spray in cooling the enclosed space, and Cerryl hurried into the foyer of the front hall and then up the front steps to the tower, past the silent guards.

  He tried not to cough at the fine white dust raised by his boots as he trudged up the levels to Myral’s room, where he stood for a long moment on the landing, listening, hoping he wasn’t interrupting the older mage. Finally, he knocked gingerly on Myral’s door.

  “Yes, Cerryl. You can come in.” The old mage sat in his chair by the table, but his feet were resting on a stool. “Too much chaos in the legs. It pools in the feet by late in the day, and I must elevate them to let my body redistribute it.”

  Cerryl nodded.

  “Now… young fellow… why are you here?” Myral raised his mug, almost as if in a salute.

  “Ah… ser… Jeslek is taking us to Jellico… and told us to make ready. I thought you would know if there happened to be anything I should take beyond clothes.”

  Myral laughed. “I can see Jeslek has once again assumed that all know what he does. You have not traveled much, have you?”

  “No, ser.”

  Myral nodded. “On the third shelf there, you see the matched boxes?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Open the one o
n the right. There should be several small jars of ointment inside.”

  Cerryl opened the box, holding the oak lid, carved in a pattern of interlocking triangles, in his left hand.

  “You may take one of them.”

  “Ser?”

  “It relieves the rawness of where the saddle rubs you-or anything else. Use it sparingly.”

  “Thank you, ser.”

  “Also, make sure you have a heavy jacket and an extra blanket for your bedroll.”

  Cerryl nodded. He was ashamed to admit he had not even thought of the bedroll.

  “And, if you can talk Yubni out of it, an oiled waterproof to wrap your bedroll in would also help.”

  “Is there anything else you would advise?”

  “Not traveling, but that be not your choice.” Myral took a swallow of the ever-present cider. “An extra water bottle would not be amiss, if you can obtain one, but be careful of how and where you fill it.” He coughed several times, and Cerryl wondered if the racking coughs would follow, but Myral merely continued. “Oh… you can use chaos to heat water to boiling. If you do that and let it cool, it will keep the other kinds of chaos, the kinds that cause the flux, from the water. You can also send the tiniest fragments of chaos after bed vermin.” Myral smiled grimly. “There are always vermin when you travel. Especially in Certis.”

  “Why in Certis?” Cerryl blurted.

  “That I could not tell you.” Myral shrugged. “Save many have died from flux and vermin chaos there. Take care what you drink and eat in Jellico, though with Jeslek I am certain all will be well.”

  Was there a slight irony in Myral’s words? Cerryl wasn’t sure, but he nodded.

  “If you have other questions, you can come back. I am not likely to be traipsing around Fairhaven much, not unless your friend Faltar runs into trouble in his sewer duty.”

  “I hope he doesn’t.”

  “I doubt he will. Even if there are smugglers around, they know to avoid another student mage right now.”

  “You think there are others?”

  Myral laughed. “Cerryl, we impose tariffs and road duties. Goods are not made with tariffs attached to them, like wool to a sheep. So there will always be those who would avoid taxes and tariffs, even in Fairhaven. Not all the chaos-fire you or even the great Jeslek can cast will stop those who live for silver and gold.” He pointed to the door. “Go and get what you need, and you can tell Yubni, for what it’s worth, that both Jeslek and I think you ought to be well prepared for your journey.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It be little enough.” Myral coughed, but only once, and smiled briefly.

  Cerryl eased down the tower steps slowly, hoping he would be able to follow Myral’s suggestions, carrying the box of ointment back toward his cell.

  Bealtur nodded as the two passed in the corridor by the commons, but the goateed student mage did not speak, and Cerryl didn’t feel like always being the one to offer greetings first.

  Cerryl eased down the corridor and slipped into his cell, still feeling somewhat stiff and wondering how long before he’d really get used to riding. He stepped over to the desktop.

  A soft gray leather case lay there. With a frown, he opened it, then began to smile as he lifted out the white-bronze razor. Then he laughed. “She does care.” And she has a sense of humor in making her points… He laughed softly again as he replaced the razor in the case.

  LXXXVI

  A light wind blew out of the northwest, right into Cerryl’s face, carrying faint bits of dust and grit raised by the riders in front of him. He shifted his weight in the saddle, wishing he could get more comfortable on the big chestnut, then glanced westward.

  Jeslek rode at the front of the column, bareheaded, his white hair almost glistening in the late morning sun. Beside him rode the lanky Klybel, the white lancer captain. Behind them rode the red-haired Anya, and beside her, the square-bearded Fydel. Behind the two mages rode the three students-Cerryl, Kochar, and Lyasa. Following the mages was a detachment of white lancers-more than fourscore, Cerryl thought, although he hadn’t tried to count them.

  The only sounds were the breathing of the horses and the clopping of hoofs on stone. Again, Cerryl shifted his weight in the saddle in an effort to get less uncomfortable. Riding he could do without, save that it was faster and easier than walking.

  The wind that blew out of the clear green-blue northwestern sky carried a chill that suggested the coming winter, though the sun was warm, warm enough that Cerryl was still sweating slightly.

  Abruptly, Jeslek leaned toward Klybel, then lifted his arm.

  Klybel turned his mount out to the raised shoulder of the road and ordered, “Lancers… HALT!”

  Cerryl found himself reining back the chestnut, then almost lurching forward in the saddle into his mount’s mane.

  Jeslek then circled around Anya and Fydel and eased his mount up beside the apprentice mages. “You see the road?”

  “Yes, ser,” answered Kochar and Cerryl. Lyasa nodded.

  “Do you not think it is somewhat… exposed?” A smile crossed Jeslek’s thin lips.

  “Anyone can see it,” offered Kochar quickly.

  Lyasa remained silent. Cerryl nodded, barely.

  “You do not agree, Cerryl?”

  “It is exposed, ser. I do not know if that is good or bad. It is good for someone who wishes to avoid brigands, but it could be bad for other reasons.”

  “You are cautious. Why?”

  “Because I do not know. I have not lived in Fairhaven all my life, and I have not studied all that you and the other mages have.”

  “At least you know your limits. Unlike some.” Jeslek laughed, then turned to Kochar. “You think the road would be better were it less exposed?”

  Kochar tried to conceal a frown. “If it were less exposed, the white lancers could move without all Candar knowing where they went.”

  “That is true.” Jeslek smiled. “Yet we are within a dozen kays of Fairhaven, and here it scarcely matters.”

  Kochar’s face became stolid.

  “On the other hand, beyond the Easthorns, where the road stretches across the plains of Gallos-that is another question. And that is why we may be headed there.” His smile faded. “In the meantime, I want you to use your senses to understand how the road is built and how it is held together. How a road feels is as important as all the calculations Esaak would have you make.”

  Gallos?

  They had yet to reach Certis, and Jeslek was talking about Gallos?

  “Stop scaring them,” said Anya with a laugh as Jeslek turned his mount around and rode past the other two mages.

  “You would do well to study the roads as well, Anya. Given your… inclinations,” suggested Jeslek with a smile. “You as well, Fydel. We will have much to do.” He eased his mount past the other two mages and rejoined the lancer captain. Klybel raised his arm again, and he and Jeslek resumed riding as if nothing had happened.

  “We’re going to Gallos?” whispered Kochar.

  “It would seem so,” suggested Lyasa.

  Cerryl frowned, wondering why Jeslek had stopped the column. The white mage could have made his suggestion without halting the lancers, yet had made a point to do so, and to offer barbed comments to Anya and Fydel.

  Belatedly, Cerryl flicked the reins and lurched in the saddle as the chestnut started up again.

  LXXXVII

  As the column rode across the wide stone bridge that spanned the River Jellicor, Cerryl’s eyes went to the walls that lay less than half a kay north of the bridge. Jellico was a walled city-a well-walled city with smooth stone ramparts that rose at least forty cubits above the level of the road that led to the gates.

  On the western shore, the highway turned almost northeast for a few hundred cubits before arrowing straight toward the walls. The huge red oak and ironbound gates were open, but well-oiled iron grooves showed that they could be closed rapidly.

  Armsmen in gray-and-brown leathers and with arm
less green over-tunics were stationed by the gate. Jeslek and Klybel halted, as did the three students and the lancers who followed.

  “The overmage Jeslek, to visit the viscount,” announced Klybel in a deep voice that echoed off the granite walls of the city.

  The head armsman glanced nervously from Jeslek to the next two mages, then to the students, and then at the column of white lancers.

  “Ah… you are most welcome, overmage. You know your way to the palace?”

  Jeslek nodded. “I am sure we will find it.”

  Cerryl looked up. Archers in green with bows-some strung and some unstrung-watched from the ramparts above, but none seemed terribly interested in raising their weapons.

  “The viscount is particular about who he lets enter, but not about us,” suggested Anya.

  Cerryl wasn’t sure he cared that much. The inside of his thighs felt raw, and every muscle in his legs seemed ready to cramp.

  “Most rulers in Candar are,” said Fydel in a low voice that barely carried to Cerryl.

  A messenger in green mounted a gray and quick-trotted down the avenue before them, vanishing from sight even as Jeslek nodded again to the guards and urged his mount through the archway and inside the walls of Jellico.

  Houses and shops of fired brick lined the street, wide enough for perhaps four mounts but far narrower than the avenues of Fairhaven.

  The buildings were higher, often three stories, and seemingly older and less kempt.

  Two shaggy brown dogs ran out of a side alley to the right, in front of Jeslek and Klybel, and disappeared into the alley on the left.

  “Like as they stole something,” said Kochar.

  “Probably,” agreed Lyasa. “There’s more theft here.”

  How would dogs know? Cerryl sniffed, noting the sour odor of Jellico, an odor compounded by the smells from the open sewers running next to the buildings on the right of the street, and by other odors, including burned grease and tanning acids, plus some Cerryl could not identify.

  “Smells…” murmured Kochar.

  Cerryl nodded, wondering if every city in Candar but Fairhaven did. He tried to shift his weight in the saddle again, in a way that wouldn’t rub his legs, hoping that they didn’t have to ride that much farther.