white mages kill her?”
“Couldn't say for sure.... She never told either Nail nor me. Said the less we knew ... safer you'd be.”
“She had to leave? Why?”
“They had lancers a-looking for her most places.... Shandreth asked me once if I'd seen her. Had to tell him no, even when she was eating and sleeping not a hundred cubits from the hearth.”
“Looking for her?”
“Don't know as who else. White lancers ... they be mean men, Cerryl. You stay clear of them, no matter what it be taking.”
Cerryl shivered, thinking about the day he'd seen the white lancers in Hewlett. They'd looked mean then.
“The mages ... they be mages, but the lancers are killers, without souls, no better than the old black demons of the Westhorns.” Syodor fingered his chin. “Could be a mite worse, from what I hear.” He shrugged. “Well, boy ... got to be going, be well away from here afore the rain lifts. Wouldn't want my image showing in the glass, not with the power of them books showing, too.” Syodor extended a big hand and clapped Cerryl on the shoulder. “We'll be seeing you as we can. You know that, lad, do you not?”
“I know.” Cerryl swallowed. “I know.”
“Be off now.”
Cerryl stood under the dark oak, watching until Syodor vanished into the rain and mist. Then he walked slowly back to the lumber barn.
In the dimness of the room, Cerryl eased open the canvas, glad that he could see better than most in the dark. There were two slender books, bound in age-darkened leather. His eyes watered as he glanced at them.
Then he frowned. Between them was a white-bronze circlet. He turned it over. Two rough patches in the metal on the back indicated brackets or something had once been attached.
Except for a thicker rim, the circlet, a half-span across, was of uniform thickness and smooth to the touch. Yet... Cerryl studied it for a long time in the darkness.
Finally, he nodded. Somehow, the pin or ornament was made of two separate metals that met in an undulating edge, put together so smoothly that he could not feel the joins, only sense them with the sight that was not sight.
The books went behind the board with the book fragment he already had cached there, but the circlet-that he kept, his fingers around it even when he lay back on his pallet and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
White Order
XI
A. soft breeze brushed across the porch, carrying the scent of late apple blossoms, the turned earth of the garden to the southwest of the house, and the less welcome odor of the horse manure Cerryl had spent the day cleaning out of the stable.
Cerryl sat on the edge of the porch, his boots on the top stone step, looking eastward, supposedly toward Lydiar. The more distant hills were fading into the early twilight.
“What do you do at the mill, Cerryl?” asked Erhana from the bench behind him.
“Whatever they need me to do. You saw me with the shovel and manure.” Cerryl's hair was still damp, plastered against his skull, and his forearms itched, despite his washing in cold water before dinner. Without the nightly washing before dinner, he had discovered, his arms became covered with an ugly red rash, and after dealing with the stable, he'd definitely needed to wash up, almost all over.
“Da-Father-Siglinda says that I should say 'Father.' Father doesn't let me in the mill. He let Brental in there when he was smaller than I am.”
“Brental will have to run the mill.”
“I wouldn't want to.” Erhana lifted her head slightly-Cerryl could tell that without turning. “I'm going to have a wealthy consort and live in a fine house in Lydiar.” Her voice dropped slightly. “You didn't say what you really do in the mill.”
“I sweep floors, stack the timbers, move things, clean the sawpit. Brental's beginning to teach me about the oxen.” He paused, then asked, turning finally to look
“Couldn't say for sure.... She never told either Nail nor me. Said the less we knew ... safer you'd be.”
“She had to leave? Why?”
“They had lancers a-looking for her most places.... Shandreth asked me once if I'd seen her. Had to tell him no, even when she was eating and sleeping not a hundred cubits from the hearth.”
“Looking for her?”
“Don't know as who else. White lancers ... they be mean men, Cerryl. You stay clear of them, no matter what it be taking.”
Cerryl shivered, thinking about the day he'd seen the white lancers in Hewlett. They'd looked mean then.
“The mages ... they be mages, but the lancers are killers, without souls, no better than the old black demons of the Westhorns.” Syodor fingered his chin. “Could be a mite worse, from what I hear.” He shrugged. “Well, boy ... got to be going, be well away from here afore the rain lifts. Wouldn't want my image showing in the glass, not with the power of them books showing, too.” Syodor extended a big hand and clapped Cerryl on the shoulder. “We'll be seeing you as we can. You know that, lad, do you not?”
“I know.” Cerryl swallowed. “I know.”
“Be off now.”
Cerryl stood under the dark oak, watching until Syodor vanished into the rain and mist. Then he walked slowly back to the lumber barn.
In the dimness of the room, Cerryl eased open the canvas, glad that he could see better than most in the dark. There were two slender books, bound in age-darkened leather. His eyes watered as he glanced at them.
Then he frowned. Between them was a white-bronze circlet. He turned it over. Two rough patches in the metal on the back indicated brackets or something had once been attached.
Except for a thicker rim, the circlet, a half-span across, was of uniform thickness and smooth to the touch. Yet... Cerryl studied it for a long time in the darkness.
Finally, he nodded. Somehow, the pin or ornament was made of two separate metals that met in an undulating edge, put together so smoothly that he could not feel the joins, only sense them with the sight that was not sight.
The books went behind the board with the book fragment he already had cached there, but the circlet-that he kept, his fingers around it even when he lay back on his pallet and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
White Order
XI
A. soft breeze brushed across the porch, carrying the scent of late apple blossoms, the turned earth of the garden to the southwest of the house, and the less welcome odor of the horse manure Cerryl had spent the day cleaning out of the stable.
Cerryl sat on the edge of the porch, his boots on the top stone step, looking eastward, supposedly toward Lydiar. The more distant hills were fading into the early twilight.
“What do you do at the mill, Cerryl?” asked Erhana from the bench behind him.
“Whatever they need me to do. You saw me with the shovel and manure.” Cerryl's hair was still damp, plastered against his skull, and his forearms itched, despite his washing in cold water before dinner. Without the nightly washing before dinner, he had discovered, his arms became covered with an ugly red rash, and after dealing with the stable, he'd definitely needed to wash up, almost all over.
“Da-Father-Siglinda says that I should say 'Father.' Father doesn't let me in the mill. He let Brental in there when he was smaller than I am.”
“Brental will have to run the mill.”
“I wouldn't want to.” Erhana lifted her head slightly-Cerryl could tell that without turning. “I'm going to have a wealthy consort and live in a fine house in Lydiar.” Her voice dropped slightly. “You didn't say what you really do in the mill.”
“I sweep floors, stack the timbers, move things, clean the sawpit. Brental's beginning to teach me about the oxen.” He paused, then asked, turning finally to look
Similar Books
