At Myral’s woebegone look, another round of laughter filled the chamber.
“So…for the moment, I would say that it behooves us to request the surtax be levied. Then…we shall see those who are prudent and look to the future good of Candar and those who look to lining their wallets with golds, no matter how great the price their children may pay.” Myral took a sweeping bow and seated himself.
A movement caught Cerryl’s eyes, and he watched as Sterol eased his way back along the pillars on the south side of the Hall, reappearing at the side of the front of the dais, studying Jeslek.
Anya reappeared at her desk, and even from where Cerryl stood he could see the apologetic smile she flashed to Fydel and then to Faltar.
“She is good, in a sneaky way,” murmured Lyasa. “You do have a vantage point here.”
Cerryl nodded, pondering Myral’s words-words that had sounded fine. Somehow what the older mage had said disturbed Cerryl, as if something did not scree true.
Darkness, he wished he knew more.
X
DESPITE THE DARKNESS, Cerryl could feel the heat as he found himself struggling through a forest, but a forest like no other he had seen, one with trees taller than the Wizards’ Tower, trees that he could sense but not see. He took a breath, then another, as he found his lungs laboring, as a cloying and sickly sweet scent permeated the air around him.
A long vine swung by his shoulder, then brushed the bare skin of his upper arm again. It turned woody like a liana, sending forth rootlets to cling to him as though he were one of the massive trees of the unfamiliar forest. The strange and cloying perfume grew stronger…so strong he could barely breathe, and his heart pounded in his chest.
Cerryl bolted upright in his bed, sweat streaming down his face, as if he were standing at his guard post in full summer sun. Or in a cook fire…
Chaos flickered from his locked door-a door he always kept locked when he slept-now that he could lock it, unlike when he’d been a student. He slipped toward the door, extending his senses. Without opening it, he could sense the white glow of chaos shielded, could feel the footsteps behind a light shield, could catch the faintest scent of sandalwood perfume.
Anya…headed along the corridor toward Faltar’s room.
Cerryl forced himself to take a long and slow breath as he eased back to his bed, where he sat down slowly-suddenly shivering. After a moment, he wrapped the red woolen blanket around himself, then massaged his throbbing forehead with the fingers of his right hand.
“…only a dream…” Except it wasn’t, not exactly. The forest and the clinging vines had been a dream, but Anya had definitely been outside his door on her way to visit Faltar. He’d sensed her chaos aura before-on all the times when she’d visited Faltar when he and Cerryl had been only student mages. Now that Faltar was a full mage, albeit junior like Cerryl, there was no reason they couldn’t sleep together, but Anya was still sneaking to see Faltar. That meant she didn’t want it known she was seeing Faltar. Was she fearful of Sterol’s jealousy? Cerryl shook his head slowly.
Lyasa had mentioned Anya and Jeslek-so how many mages was Anya bedding? Cerryl frowned, recalling the words of Benthann-the mistress of the scrivener Tellis, for whom he’d apprenticed before the Guild had found him. What had Benthann said? Something like…
“Sex is the only power a woman has in Fairhaven. Remember that. Even if she has a strong room full of coins or, light forbid, she’s a mage, sex is the only real power a woman has…The only thing a man offers a woman, really, is power. Coins are power. Don’t forget that. Sex for power, power for sex, that’s the way the world works.”
So…Anya, powerful a mage as she was, was trading sex for power? Or a future obligation or…something? Cerryl took a deep breath.
Darkness, he hoped it didn’t turn out that way between him and Leyladin. It seemed different…but how would he know?
You know…you have to trust yourself…His lips tightened. That was easy enough to think, but he’d already seen how easy it was for people, even for himself, to deceive themselves.
Will you be able to avoid deceiving yourself? Still shivering under the blanket, he massaged his aching forehead, knowing that the morning would come all too early. Far, far, far too early.
XI
CERRYL WIPED HIS forehead. Even in the shaded part of the rampart area of the guardhouse he was hot, and summer had yet to come. The afternoons were getting wanner and warmer, and it would be at least another eight-day, from what he’d heard, before Kinowin split gate-guard duty into two rotations. With his luck, he’d probably get the hot late-afternoon duty.
Creeaaakkkk…He glanced out along the White highway to the north. A single cart rolled toward the gates. The gray donkey pulling it was led by a white-haired woman who plodded down the road almost as methodically as the beast.
Cerryl couldn’t sense any medallion on the cart, and he leaned over the rampart. “Gyral?”
“Yes, ser?” The lanky detail leader glanced up.
“Do us both a favor and yell to that woman. Tell her that if she doesn’t have a medallion and she gets close to the gates, I’ll have to destroy her cart and take her donkey. Just tell her to turn around and take one of the farm roads-or something. Or that she’ll need to get a medallion right now.”
The White Guard frowned, then grinned. “You know her?”
“No. I just don’t like taking things from old women. Maybe she doesn’t know the laws.”
“I don’t know, ser. Some of them are pretty stubborn. I’ll try.” Gyral marched away from the two other guards toward the approaching peasant.
Creaaakkk…The cart carried several stacks of woven grass baskets and some of reeds. The woman made her way toward the gates, aided by a long wooden staff half again her height.
Gyral squared his shoulders. “Woman! You can’t use the White roads without a medallion. If you come to the gates and you don’t have the coppers for a medallion, then we’ll have to take your cart and donkey.”
“The roads be for all. That be what you White ninnies are always saying. I be one of the all, and I need to sell my baskets so that my family can live till harvest. And no spare coppers are you a-getting.”
“You can’t bring the cart in on the highway,” Gyral answered. “Not without a medallion.”
“There be no other way. Like as you know that.”
“We’ll have to take your cart and baskets.” Gyral stepped backward.
“You and who else, young fellow?” The crone raised the walking stick and brandished it, waving it at the detail leader.
The lancer backed away and glanced toward Cerryl.
Cerryl gave an overlarge shrug and called down, “If that’s the way she wants it!”
Donkey, cart, and woman creaked toward the gate with no sign of slowing.
“You have to stop,” announced Gyral.
“I belong not to your White City, and, by the light, I’ll sell where I please. The land gives me those rights, not some man who wears white and rides in a gold carriage.” The crone swung the staff at Gyral and the guard beside him. Both backed away, although they had their shortswords out.
“Stand back!” snapped Cerryl.
Even the crone looked up.
Cerryl concentrated, trying to form a fireball that was part firelance, one that would strike the staff and not the woman.
Whhssst! The end of the staff vanished in flame, and then white ashes drifted across the stones.
The crone held a piece of wood no longer than a short truncheon, one that flamed. She dropped it on the granite paving stones before the guardhouse.
“Darkness and the Black angels take you!” The woman clawed at her belt, and a dark iron knife appeared as she launched herself at Gyral.
Whhhsstt! The firebolt enveloped the old woman, and when it subsided where the crone had stood was a faint greasy spot and a pile of white ashes that drifted in the light breeze.