“As I was saying, Cerryl, you are not without power. You merely cannot stand up to Jeslek.”
Cerryl nodded, careful not to give away that he already had once, and survived.
“So you need friends and notice. You made yourself visible at a time when most young mages wait in the shadows. Why?” The bright smile followed. “You know that Jeslek is not fond of you and Kinowin is not fond of Jeslek. You support Kinowin and old Myral. They cannot stand up to Jeslek, either, but both are respected, and Jeslek would not dare remove them. So, while they live, he dare not remove you, now that both have quietly but clearly supported you.” The redhead raised her goblet and sipped. “It was most cleverly done.”
“I cannot say that I thought out anything that clearly.” Cerryl shrugged, taking a sip of the wine, but not until after he had studied it with his chaos senses.
“Oh…you probably didn’t, but you sensed it, and that is even more admirable, in many ways.” Anya took another sip of wine. “This is very good. Enjoy it while you can.”
Cerryl raised his eyebrows.
Anya laughed, not quite harshly. “That was not what I meant. The true chaos masters, like Sterol and Jeslek, are fortunate if they can enjoy more than a few swallows of good wine before the chaos in and around them begins to turn it to vinegar. Often very good vinegar, but vinegar nonetheless.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It is not something any would mention widely. But it’s true.”
“You must have a bit of that problem,” Cerryl hazarded. “You are far more powerful than you reveal.”
“Yes…and no.” Anya shrugged, the goblet held momentarily in both hands. “Chaos power is not seen quite the same when held by women.”
“Yet the Guild uses women-you, Lyasa, Shenan…”
A frown crossed Anya’s face at the mention of Shenan, the Guild representative in Ruzor and supposedly Myral’s younger sister. “Some of us…”
A discreet cough announced someone coming up the steps.
Westcort appeared with two plates, still so warm that Cerryl could sense the heat rising from them. The proprietor levered the white china onto the table, plates costlier than the heavy brown platters used in the main room below but far from the elegance of those Cerryl had seen in the back dining room at Furenk’s. “The special cutlets…with the rice and mushrooms.”
The woman server who followed added a basket of bread, a jar of conserve, and a second, opened, bottle of the same wine as in the first bottle.
Westcort placed a brass handbell on the table, equidistant from either, but on Anya’s right. “If you need anything more…”
“Thank you, Westcort.” The red-haired mage lifted her knife and the fork.
Cerryl followed her example, glad he’d had some experience with good cutlery, thanks to Leyladin, although, once again, the dinnerware was not so good as either that of Layel or that at Furenk’s. Neither were the cutlets outstanding, if far better than the fare served below.
After taking several bites, Anya glanced at the younger mage. “You are surprising, Cerryl.”
“I am who I am,” he answered, not quite sure what he could say.
“Yes, you are.” She flashed the warm, winning, and insincere smile. “That is what is surprising. You are an orphan raised by a miner and his consort-I did find that out, you know? Yet your speech bears no roughness. You worked in a mill and then for a scrivener. Yet you handle cutlery well, and your manners would grace any table. It is not what you are that is so surprising. It is what you are not.” Another smile followed, less open, ironic, and more honest.
“What am I not?” Cerryl offered a gentle laugh.
“You are not rough, ill-spoken, and untutored. You do not-unlike others of a similar background-seek the more…violent avenues of advancement within the Guild.”
“I was not aware I sought any.” Cerryl took another small sip of the wine. “My ignorance has made me cautious.”
“Ah…yes…caution. You are wise to be cautious now. Even Myral has hinted that the times are changing.” She lifted the goblet and finished the wine in it.
Cerryl poured her another half-goblet, to the level that Westcort had initially.
“Myral is old, but more than a few times his visions have been true,” mused Anya. “Some may be true but do not matter.”
Cerryl frowned, then cut another section of cutlet, making sure the meat was well coated with the pearapple glaze before he put it to his mouth.
“They do not matter,” Anya continued after a swallow of wine, “because they will happen long after you are dust. Does it matter that Fairhaven will be melted by a second sun-or that mad White chaos wielders will roam all of Candar? Or that Recluce will be sundered in twain by one of its own?”
“Perhaps it does. Perhaps, knowing such, we can change what might otherwise be.”
“Perhaps.” The tip of her tongue curled just over her perfect lips, and in the glow of the lamps her eyes seemed to flicker from pale gray to pale blue. “And perhaps not. Perhaps our actions in trying to avoid his visions are what will make them happen.”
Cerryl almost shivered at that thought. How could one ever know which was the right course, then?
“That bothers you, doesn’t it?” Anya smiled. “Better you enjoy the life you have than struggle to make right a future that your actions might equally make wrong.”
Cerryl forced himself to take a slow sip of wine. “The wine is good.”
“It is. There are better wines, but a good wine and a good life, lived now, are far more desirous than seeking a distant good that one’s efforts may destroy as easily as create.”
Cerryl tried to keep his head from spinning at the implications of Anya’s words. She’s trying to upset you…and she’s doing it…demon-damned darkness! Finally, he said, “Do you think Myral is right about the times changing?”
She laughed, gently and generously. “Cerryl, all times change. How can Myral be wrong?”
“I know, but sometimes the changes are little, and sometimes…”
“Sometimes, the entire world changes?” She ate several bites of the rice before continuing. “Jeslek has raised mountains. You know. You were there when he began. No mage has ever done that. So times have changed.” She lifted her shoulders, then dropped them theatrically. “Some things never change. Men will always want coins, and power, and beautiful women. Women will want what they want.” Her eyes fixed Cerryl’s. “What do you want from being a mage?”
Cerryl remained stock-still for a long moment before answering. “I don’t know that I know.”
“Best you find out before someone else chooses for you.”
“It can be hard to choose when you know little of the choices,” he pointed out.
“Well,” she began, her voice light, “you could ask Myral and Kinowin to help you become a trade monitor. You’d probably end up in Quend, freezing half the year and using your glass to scree through cargo of fish and more fish. Or you could ask Eliasar for arms training-”
“And end up cutting off my own foot,” he interjected with a laugh.
“Or you could work with Jeslek raising mountains and chaos, getting old before your time. Or you could spend the next half-score of years flaming old ladies from the gate ramparts…”
“You make few of the choices attractive,” he pointed out.
“Exactly. All paths have drudgery. That is the problem with seeking fulfillment through one’s skills in meeting the Guild’s needs.” Anya drained her wine.
Cerryl replenished her goblet, emptying the first bottle in adding but a touch to his own goblet, more to distract from the fact that he had drunk little than from any desire for more wine. “What would you suggest?”
“Ah…I won’t. Not now, dearest Cerryl. I’m a cruel woman. You need to think about what I’ve said. You and Faltar and Lyasa and Myredin and Heralt and Bealtur, you all have to make your own choices. But no one tells you enough.” Anya smiled the broad insincere smile.