“Consort?” He barely murmured the word. What an idiotic notion! He couldn’t rightly aspire to being a white mage, for all his talent and his secret study. He couldn’t even aspire to great wealth, such as that shown by Muneat.
He pushed back those thoughts, swallowed, and looked down at the mirror. As he concentrated, surprisingly the white mists formed and cleared.
The young woman sat at a writing desk, a golden oak desk in a small room. The walls were hung with green silks, and behind her was a high bed covered with blue-green silks and pillows. The oiled gold oak window shutters were closed.
Quill pen in her hand, she looked down at whatever she wrote. Then she set the quill in the holder. Abruptly, she frowned.
She was older, Cerryl could tell. Then, so was he. Her face crinkled into a frown, and she glanced up from the writing desk, her eyes going in one direction, then another.
She stood and walked to the window, then turned, her eyes going to the glass on the wall.
Abruptly, Cerryl released his hold on the glass. She’d known she was being watched, but how?
Even so, he could feel heat radiating from his glass, as though someone had thrown chaos-fire at it just as he had broken off his viewing. He wiped his forehead, suddenly feeling even more tired.
Quickly, as though he feared he were being observed by some other scrier, he slipped the silver-rimmed mirror back into its hiding place. After a moment, he took a deep breath, relieved that the feeling of being watched had not returned. He’d gotten away with using the glass.
This time, a small voice in his head reminded him. This time.
With a brief smile, he pulled off his boots and lay down on the pallet, his eyes closing almost as soon as he stretched out.
Almost immediately, he found himself walking across a high-vaulted room, a hall really, where the ceiling was supported by fluted white stone columns. The room was empty, yet it was not.
“You. . you don’t belong here, scrivener’s apprentice. He will turn you to ashes if you stay.”
The voice was sultry, but Cerryl couldn’t make out the face. He turned, but there was no one beside him.
“I won’t be seen, not if I don’t wish to be. We whites control the light, you know. If you were worth anything, you could, too. In little ways, anyway.” The unseen laugh was cruel, as he remembered from somewhere.
Thrap!
“Come on, you sleepy apprentice. Dinner be awaiting!”
Cerryl struggled out of the whitish fog. Had the redheaded white mage really been in his dreams? He hadn’t seen her, but the voice had belonged to her. How could he forget that voice? He shivered.
“Cerryl!”
“I’m coming,” he rasped. “I’m coming.” His head felt as though it were being squeezed in the nipping press.
“Good thing you are.” Benthann’s voice faded away as he struggled into a sitting position and pulled on his boots.
After a moment, Cerryl stood, almost staggering as the pain of the headache came and went. He gathered himself together and made his way from his room, across the courtyard, and inside into the common room.
“Did you get a nap?” Tellis looked up from the burkha steaming on his platter.
“Yes, ser. You were right. I was tired.” Cerryl slid onto his end of the bench, careful not to get too close to Beryal. He broke off a chunk of the dark bread and set it on the edge of his platter, then used the ladle to serve himself a portion of the hot-mint brown stew. “This smells good.”
“Always does, and you always say it does.” Beryal laughed.
The apprentice shrugged and scooped up a mouthful of stew with the bread, trying not to gulp it down.
“Be summer before too long, real summer.” Tellis grunted, then served himself more of the burkha.
“It was hot today,” Cerryl said, taking a long swallow of water, still half amazed that the water in Fairhaven was fit to drink.
“Be hotter yet in an eight-day or so. Then people be out in the streets all the time.” Beryal snorted. “Too hot to stay inside.”
“I was standing in the courtyard this afternoon, and I know someone was looking at me.” Benthann turned to Beryal. “Tellis and Cerryl were both in the workroom, and you were at the market. When I looked up and down the alley, no one was there.” She frowned. “Hasn’t been the first time in the last eight-day, either.”
“Swore I could have heard someone in the back alley last night.” Beryal’s eyes lifted from the crockery to Cerryl. “Did you hear anything?”
“I fell asleep trying to read the Historie.” Cerryl managed a sheepish expression and dropped his eyes. He had fallen asleep over the Historie more than once.
“Lad. .” Tellis cleared his throat.
“Even your dutiful apprentice can’t always stay awake over those musty books.” Benthann laughed. “Proves he’s a normal young fellow after all.”
“He’s normal, all right.” A faint smile crossed Beryal’s lips.
Cerryl flushed.
Benthann laughed.
“A scrivener can’t fall asleep over books,” announced Tellis, “normal or not.”
“You’re a spoilsport.” Benthann offered an overfull pout.
“Eat,” ordered Beryal.
Cerryl followed her orders, partly because it was easier, especially with his headache, and partly because he was still hungry.
After dinner, Tellis and Benthann vanished into their room, and after he helped Beryal-silently, his thoughts still on the girl in green and the power she had almost thrown through the glass at him-Cerryl crossed the courtyard to the rear gate, then walked toward the street. The girl-except she was a woman now-or her family had coins, but not so many, he suspected, as Muneat. Did anyone really need all those coins, all those silks?
Does anyone really need to master chaos? He laughed at his own question, softly, as he turned the corner onto the way of the lesser artisans.
In the twilight, he continued slowly down the way toward the square, feeling that another pair of eyes followed him. He did not look back, knowing that he would see no one, trying to ignore the prickling on the back of his neck and the continuing throbbing in his skull.
“Cerryl!” Pattera bounded out of the weaver’s door. “Where have you been these last eight-days?”
“Master Tellis has had a large commission from. . a large commission, and I’ve had to do much of the regular copying as well as the chores.” Cerryl shrugged. “And he wants me to read the histories as well.” The apprentice didn’t have to counterfeit the yawn.
“You have dark pouches under your eyes. Oh, Cerryl. .” Pattera glanced back at the light from the doorway. “I can walk down to the square with you. Where are you going?”
“I was just walking,” he admitted. “I have a headache.” Cerryl took a step toward the square.
“Your master makes you squint over those books too much.” Pattera began to match his steps.
“You have to study books if you want to be a scrivener.”
“Not all the time.”
“Most of the time.” He paused at the avenue while a small donkey cart plodded past. The woman on the seat, reeking of roast fowl, did not turn her head.
As he crossed the white pavement, Cerryl massaged his temples with his left hand, trying to loosen the tightness he felt.
“Not that way,” said Pattera. “Just stop. Sit on the bench there.”
He sat on the second stone bench in the square, the empty one, and let her strong fingers work through his shoulder blades and up into his neck, letting her loosen the tension there. The faint odor of damp wool clung to her arms, and he wondered if the acridness of iron-gall ink clung to him.
How could someone who smelled of ink even think about a woman with silk hangings and dresses?
Yet he did, and he knew he would, even as he felt guilty accepting Pattera’s ministrations while thinking of the blond in green.