Cerryl began to reroll the scroll as Hiser walked toward the cot. “Good evening, Hiser.”
“Evening, ser. Not trying to be too nosy, ser, but you got a scroll a bit ago.”
“From the High Wizard,” Cerryl admitted. “He wants us to keep guarding the road, even farther west now.”
“We haven’t seen a blue in two eight-days, could be longer.”
“That doesn’t mean we couldn’t. Or won’t.”
“So we’re still staying here, ser?” asked Hiser.
“For now.” Cerryl gestured vaguely with the loosely rolled scroll. “The High Wizard remains concerned that the Black Isle has some secret way to attack from his rear or to destroy all the White mages if they are in one place. So we will remain here.”
The young blonde subofficer shrugged. “It could be worse. We’re taking fewer losses than those with the High Wizard.”
“Is that what the messengers are saying?”
“The blues-or that Black warleader, they say his name is Brede or some such-are using knives you can’t see to cut lancers out of their saddles. They pose as peasants or merchants and then shoot unsuspecting lancers in the back. The men are angry.” A sad smile crossed Hiser’s face. “Ours but grumble.”
“Better grumbling than dead.” Brede…he’s causing enough trouble that even the men know his name?
“Most think that way.” Hiser nodded, then looked to the north and the lingering red in the western part of the northern sky. “Might be getting some rain.”
“The air feels damp,” Cerryl agreed. What else can you say? Besides that you don’t know what the High Wizard is doing-or why?
C
SLIGHTLY PAST MIDAFTERNOON, well after the morning patrol, Cerryl was grooming the gelding, something he did less well than he would have liked, when one of the lancer scouts rode up to the crude corral.
“Ser? That supply wagon? It’s for us.” The thin redhead’s words burst forth.
Cerryl looked up.
“That’s what the lead guard said. He asked if I was one of your’n. He did, and then he said he had stuff, but you had to claim it.”
“I guess I’d better get there. How far out are they?” The mage set aside the brush and began to saddle the gelding.
“Three kays east or so.”
“I’ll be ready in a few moments.” A supply wagon for them? Coming all the way from Fairhaven? When he had first seen the wagon in the screeing glass, he had assumed that it held some form of supplies and luxuries for the High Wizard.
Once he had the gelding saddled, Cerryl and the lancer scout rode not quite directly into a cool wind out of the northeast. The grasses beside the road bent in the steady wind, and the air held that indefinable scent that promised fall before summer had ended-a mixture of heavy grass, leaves ready to winter-turn gray, late-blooming flowers, and the touch of mold from the first grasses and fallen leaves already decaying.
The mounted guard before the wagon consisted of five White Lancers and five guards in green. All slowed, as did the wagon, when Cerryl rode up, accompanied by the red-haired scout and followed by Ferek and a half-score lancers.
“Ser mage? I be Ersad, senior trade guard for Ser Layel,” said the white-bearded guard in green, riding at the front of the column beside a lancer subofficer. “You are Cerryl?”
“I’m Cerryl.”
“He’s Cerryl,” blurted the scout.
Behind the scout, Ferek laughed, once, but gently. “He is Cerryl, White mage and commander of the two companies that hold the road for Fairhaven and its friends.”
Both the subofficer and the older guard looked coldly at the scout, who flushed and clamped his lips together.
The older green-vested guard leader inclined his head, studied Cerryl for a moment, then extended a scroll. “We have supplies for you and your lancers from ser Layal and Lady Leyladin.”
“We are most grateful.” Cerryl inclined his head and took the scroll but did not break the green wax of the seal as he slipped the scroll into his tunic. “And we appreciate your effort in bringing them all this long way to us.”
“Our task, ser mage.”
Cerryl turned his mount and rode alongside the older guard.
Ferek brought his escort around behind the high-sided and canvas-covered wagon, past the circular emblem of Layel, painted in gold over the green of the wagon body.
“How was the journey?” Cerryl addressed the trader’s lead guard, then nodded toward the lancer subofficer.
“Better than it will be after season turn,” replied the guard in green, a far darker green than that Leyladin affected. “We trust we will be able to deliver the other supplies to the High Wizard and be back through the Easthorns by then.”
“The High Wizard is but three, perhaps four days to the west-on this road.”
“Hmmmm…close timing for the Easthorns, but may chaos favor us.”
“Chaos and prosperity be with you,” Cerryl answered. “You are most welcome to camp here tonight. What we have is simple, but the lancers would hear of what happens in Fairhaven.”
“We shall do so.” The lead merchant guard nodded, as did the lancer subofficer who rode beside him.
When they reached the encampment, Cerryl watched from his saddle as the barrels were rolled into the small structure that had once been a barn and now served as a storehouse-barrels of flour, of salted pork, of maize meal, even a small barrel of dried fruit and one of roasted and salted nuts.
“There are also two baskets for you, ser,” the green-vested guard said as one of the armsmen in green approached with two circular wicker baskets tied in rope. Each cylindrical basket was not quite two cubits high and a cubit across.
“Ah…could you set them by the door of that cot there?” asked Cerryl, gesturing toward the cot that served as his conference room, bedchamber, and screeing place.
“Yes, ser.”
Once the wagon had been unloaded and the merchant guards and the lancers were establishing their camp, Cerryl rode to the corral and dismounted.
“The men are pleased already.” Ferek had already dismounted, and he turned to the mage. “How did…ah…Merchants are not known to favor the White Tower…”
“Ser Layel is one who does.” Cerryl smiled.
“We need watch the dried fruit. Too much will turn their bowels to water.” Ferek frowned.
“As you see fit, Ferek. Ration it out so that there is some in the eight-days ahead.”
Hiser marched toward them. “Those…are they truly for us?”
Cerryl nodded.
“The trader Layel sent them to Mage Cerryl and his men.” Ferek grinned. “Even more so, I am glad to be termed such.”
“He sent supplies to the High Wizard as well,” Cerryl pointed out.
“Only to keep the High Wizard from feeling slighted, I wager,” said Hiser.
Cerryl wasn’t about to take that wager. “Layel would like to be thought supportive of the White Tower.”
“I’ll make sure the men know he sent the food-and the fruit and nuts.” Hiser grinned.
“That would be good.” Cerryl unsaddled the gelding, then led the horse into the corral, where he took off the bridle. He patted his mount’s shoulder, and the horse snorted, then tossed his head, before trotting away and toward the water trough.
Cerryl walked back to his cot. There he extracted the scroll and broke the seal. He unrolled the short length of parchment, looking at the flowing characters set so precisely in green ink-green ink for a green-eyed healer.
Dearest…
Dearest? Cerryl swallowed. You didn’t expect that.
Sending you provisions is doubtless breaking some Guild or lancer rule, but few will complain if your men benefit. Most is for them, and you, as their commander, except for the two baskets for you…
I have also sensed your presence, gently, over the seasons, and that presence has come to mean much to me, in spite of the differences between us. Kinowin has told me of your duties patrolling the road, and we both feel that is for the best in these days, though you will be in Elparta before winter, we feel…