Lifting his glass, he said, “To you.” What else can I say?
“To you, dear one.” She lifted her glass in turn.
They both sipped.
The kitchen door opened.
“About time it is…Much longer and it’d be dry as dust and as hard as bone.” Meridis set two platters on the table, then returned with another. “And there be honey cake for later. Enjoy.”
“Thank you,” offered Cerryl.
“No thanks to me, but thanks to the lady. Be her wish, only my doing.” The gruff words were belied by the broad smile before the cook vanished into the kitchen.
Leyladin took two of the already-sliced sections of roast and stuffing, each covered with a clear apple glaze, then tendered the serving platter to Cerryl. His arm twinged as he took the platter, but he set the serving dish down carefully and served himself.
Leyladin leaned forward and served the cabbage rolls to Cerryl. “I saw that.”
“The arm’s better. That only happens every so often.”
“Likely tale.” She flashed a warm grin.
“Most likely.”
After another silence that seemed to stretch out, he took a sip of the wine, then offered, “I didn’t know your father had ships.”
“He has three. He uses them mainly for what he calls long-voyage trading. Prices change too quickly across Candar. He sends the three out for goods that can’t come from Candar or Recluce.”
Cerryl frowned, trying to think what goods might not come from either, considering that the Black mages could reputedly grow just about anything. “Such as?” he finally asked.
“There are some dyes…There’s a crimson one that comes from crushed insects that only live in the southern jungles of Hamor and a deep purple one that the Austrans get from some sort of mussel.” The blonde took a sip of wine. “And silver, now that the silver mines in Kyphros are worn out. There’s a dark wood, like lorken, very rare-that comes from Hamor.”
“I think I understand,” Cerryl said. “It’s like the way he trades, things that others would like that he can get more cheaply with his own ships.”
“How do you like the roast?”
“It’s good. Would you like some more, before I eat it all?”
“Just one more slice,” she said.
Cerryl served her one slice and then took the last two for himself.
“What are we going to do?” he finally asked, after glancing down at a clean platter, surprised not that he had eaten so much, but that he did not feel stuffed. “The two of us?”
“Listen to Myral,” she said. “He told me that we shouldn’t hurry, not right now, not until you understand how to handle your power better. He told me not to worry.” She shook her head. “He’s dying, and he told me not to worry.”
Cerryl lifted the goblet but did not drink, his eyes on the still-falling white beyond the window. “There’s not much other choice, is there?”
“No. I trust Myral. Sometimes…he sees things.”
Cerryl trusted Myral’s sight, but even so, that left the question of what to do about it, and Anya’s arguments and Kinowin’s counterarguments ran through his mind.
“What are you thinking?”
“Kinowin called it something like Ryba’s curse. If you see a vision, and if it’s true, how do you make it come true? By doing what you planned to do or doing something different?”
“What did Kinowin say?” asked Leyladin.
“He never answered the question.”
“What do you think?” she pursued, fingers loosely circled around the crystal stem of the wine goblet.
“I don’t know what to think.” He pursed his lips, then let his breath out slowly. “I suppose…I suppose you-we-do what we think is best and hope.”
“Do you think waiting to become lovers is wrong?”
“No…I don’t like it, but you and Myral are probably right.” About that, anyway… “I cannot say I am pleased, though.”
“Nor I.” Leyladin leaned forward so that her hand could reach across the table and grasp his. “But we can be together.”
Cerryl nodded slowly, then smiled.
Colors of the Guild
XLIV
CERRYL SCRIPTED OUT the last of his daily report, his eyes running over the hand-written letters whose narrowness Tellis had insisted upon so long ago-at least it seemed so long ago.
A gust of hot wind from the high window that was barely open brushed his hair, and he glanced up. It had been more than a year, more like a year and a season, since he had become a Patrol mage, and he was still on morning duty. Another fall and another harvest was coming in another handful of eight-days, and little had changed. He still walked the streets with the area patrols occasionally, and while peacebreaking had dropped for a time, the number of offenders had seemed unchanged for the past two seasons.
There was still the occasional cart or wagon with goods and driver missing, but no other traces-and while Cerryl had kept personal records, he had not ventured beyond what Fydel would have called “simple peacekeeping.” Cerryl had his ideas, but without proof and/or more understanding, his ideas were but ideas. He’d learned early that to those without power patience was a necessity, however little he liked waiting. The incident with the iron arrow had reemphasized that lesson.
That also applied to Leyladin. He and Leyladin saw each other more frequently, but a sense of reserve had built between them, an unspoken wall. Behind everything Cerryl felt forces were building, forces he could not see but certainly could feel.
His eyes went to the Patrol report before him:
…Guarl, who is a laborer for the tanner Huyter, stole five loaves of bread from the baker Sidor. Guarl was caught by Duarrl’s patrol. Guarl claimed he needed the bread for his consort and children…given refuse duty for four eight-days…
Cerryl shook his head-he’d bent the rules on that one, but his truth-read had shown Guarl to be honest and desperate. Afterward, Cerryl had gone to the tanner’s and asked Huyter about Guarl. The tanner had said that he had only been able to pay his laborers half their normal pay because he had no coins left. The boot makers were getting their leather from a factor named Kosior, supposedly made from hides from Hydlen, where the maize crop had failed and the late rains had devastated the grasslands earlier parched by the late-summer drought. After a second year of grassland and crop failure, rather than have the cattle starve, Hydlenese farmers had sold many for slaughter, with the meat salted and the hides sold for what they would bring.
“So…” Cerryl murmured to himself, “cheap leather comes to Fairhaven, and tanners cannot pay their laborers. The Blacks use their ships to bring cheaper goods to Spidlar and then use the coins to buy scarce grain.” He shook his head. “And I keep the simple peace in the southeast sector.” He folded the report.
After a moment, he blotted his forehead, then called, “Orial?”
The messenger in red appeared.
“Here’s the daily report for the Patrol chief.”
“I’m leaving, ser.” With a smile, the redhead bowed and scurried out and down the corridor.
Cerryl stood. Gyskas had not arrived yet, since the older mage no longer hurried to relieve Cerryl, an indirect compliment or acceptance, Cerryl supposed.
He walked back and forth in front of the table-desk. Myral had cautioned patience, and so had Leyladin. Having few choices, and none better, Cerryl had been patient.
Jeslek remained High Wizard and had accompanied Eliasar to Fenard-and then returned, with a chest of golds from Prefect Syrma. Most of the “honor guard” of White Lancers had also returned, but according to Jeslek’s reports at the seasonal Guild meetings, the golds had continued to come from Fenard and Certis. Nothing came from Spidlar but cheaper goods smuggled on back roads, followed by protests that the prefect could not spare the armsmen to patrol every road in the desmesne of Gallos. Less loud demurrals came from the viscount of Certis.