He also had a stool and a small desktop built into the wall, with a bookshelf above it. Two sets of whites, four sets of smallclothes, two blankets, and his boots-that was all. That was the total of what any of the student mages had, except for the books on their shelves, and those varied according to their mentors. There was no mirror. None of the cells had mirrors. Once he would have considered his cell almost rich-before he had seen Muneat’s dwelling or the bedchamber of the woman in green through his glass.
Cerryl placed the worn copy of Colors of White on the shelf, next to The Founding of Fyrad and the White Land which had arrived in a package from the High Wizard. Beside them was Great Historie of Candar. On the desk lay a thinner volume-Naturale Mathematicks.
His eyes crossed the mathematicks book. He’d scarcely even looked at that. It had been left for him; he didn’t even know who might be his tutor there. His stomach growled. He glanced at the door, knowing he needed to head to the meal hall.
Thrap.
“Are you coming to eat?” Faltar’s voice was clear through the door.
Cerryl took a deep breath. “Yes. I’m coming.” He stepped into the corridor and closed the door. None of the cells had bolts, just simple latches.
“You felt like smashing Bealtur, didn’t you?” asked Faltar, running a hand through his thin blond hair and pushing it off his forehead.
“I wasn’t that angry.” Almost, but not quite, came the correcting voice in his thoughts as Cerryl matched steps with Faltar.
“It’s Kesrik. He’s trying to get you angry. He’s using Bealtur.” Faltar glanced back along the hall. “That’s what he did to Yullur. Yullur tried to throw fire at him, and. .” The words trailed off.
“Sterol or Jeslek or someone found out, and put him on the road?”
“No. .” Faltar glanced back down the empty hallway again. “Yullur tried it when Sterol was just outside the study. Kesrik knew it and ran at Sterol for protection. Yullur was so angry, he didn’t really see the High Wizard when he threw the chaos-fire at Kesrik.” Faltar gave a twisted smile. “The High Wizard didn’t have a choice then. He turned Yullur into ash and put Kesrik on sewer duty and the refuse wagons for nearly a season. It didn’t matter. When he came back, Kesrik had a big smile on his face for a couple of eight-days, and none of us could do anything about it.”
Cerryl nodded. “What did the honored Jeslek say?”
“Who knows? He stays away from the High Wizard. He travels a lot, all the way to Gallos at times. He’s taken Kesrik, but not always.”
The two walked slowly into the small meal hall, a hall containing but a dozen circular tables and a table that held platters and dishes of food.
Two mages in white sat at a corner table. Cerryl knew one.
“The bald one with jowls-that’s Esaak.”
Cerryl had seen the other mage, a burly and rugged-looking man with trimmed ginger whiskers, come to Jeslek’s quarters once, but Jeslek had dismissed Cerryl on an errand immediately. “Eliasar. .” he murmured, dredging up the name. “It is, isn’t it?”
“I think so.”
“What do you know about him?” Cerryl kept his voice low.
“He’s in charge of the white lancers. He doesn’t like Sterol much. That’s what Lyasa told me.”
Did anyone? Cerryl wondered, even as he stepped toward the momentarily empty serving table. His twitching nose told him that the burkha was even more heavily seasoned than normal, and he took just a small dipping of the sauce, beside the large heap of heavy egg noodles. Dark bread, cold and nearly stale, and a pearapple also went on his platter. The light ale was almost drinkable, and he was tired of water all the time. So he carried the mug of ale and the platter to a wall table as far from the older mages as possible.
One of the serving boys in red quickly refilled the pitcher after Faltar had poured a mug.
Faltar slipped onto the stool across from Cerryl, glancing back at the dark-haired serving boy. “When I did that, I always wanted to be a student mage.”
“You came from the creche?”
“Most of us do, except the few who come from coins-like Kesrik. Or Anya-you know, the red-haired mage?”
Cerryl nodded.
“Kesrik’s father is a trader. He has more teams and wagons than the Duke of Lydiar.” Faltar grimaced. “That’s what he says.”
“I know. He’s told me.” Cerryl bit into the chewy bread, twisting off a corner with his teeth and eating slowly.
“He’s also told everyone else.” Faltar laughed gently. “But he’s no better than any of us.”
“He’s better at getting others into trouble,” Cerryl pointed out.
“You put things so well, Cerryl.”
Cerryl was certain he didn’t. Otherwise, why would Kesrik be trying to force him into doing something stupid?
Faltar frowned, then covered it with a smile. “How are you finding all the histories?”
Cerryl felt the eyes on his back and framed the name “Kesrik” without speaking.
Faltar nodded, nearly imperceptibly.
“A lot of it’s new to me,” the thin-faced student answered quietly, but not quietly enough.
“Sleeping in a bed is new to some. And bathing.” Kesrik’s tone was light as he passed on his way to the serving table. Bealtur walked beside the older student mage.
“It is good not to have to draw ice-cold water every morning to bathe.” Cerryl smiled brightly at Kesrik. “I appreciate the advantages.”
Faltar swallowed.
“It’s good you do,” answered Kesrik blandly, turning away.
“I told you,” whispered Faltar.
“He’s net the problem,” Cerryl said quietly. “Let him think he is. It’s safer that way.” He took a mouthful of barely sauced noodles, followed by a sip of the ale. At least he could eat all he needed.
XLIX
CERRYL WATCHED AS another gold oak carriage rolled through the shadow of the white tower and up to the front of the Hall of Mages. He turned and walked toward the back of the foyer, near the doorway to the fountain courtyard.
Faltar and Bealtur stepped through the doorway, Faltar’s blond hair shimmering in the indirect light, Bealtur’s wispy goatee looking more like iron-gall ink dripping off his chin.
“Why are they gathering?” asked Cerryl.
Bealtur offered a smile, one underlaid with a sneer. “All the mages-or most of them anyway-have a meeting twice a year. That doesn’t count the special meetings, Broka says.” Bealtur squared his shoulders.
“What do they do at the meetings?” pursued Cerryl.
Faltar rolled his eyes, then looked at the white stone floor tiles.
“Mage stuff. This time there’s something about trade. The black ones on Recluce are causing problems. They always do.” Bealtur added, after a pause, “The meetings are where students become real mages. Next year, it’ll be my turn-and Kesrik’s.”
Cerryl wasn’t sure he wanted to be anywhere near when Kesrik became a full mage, not that he’d have any great choice.
A thin and gray-haired wizard walked briskly up the steps and through the open double doors on the right side of the foyer, into the Great Hall, or Council Chamber.
“Sverlik! All the way from Fenard. .”
“How goes it with the young prefect. .”
The voices died away. Another mage walked past where Cerryl, Faltar, and Bealtur stood at the side of the corridor, then stopped and studied the three. His hair was an impossible shade of gold, but deep lines ran from the corners of his eyes and mouth.
Cerryl waited, feeling as though he’d somehow been caught doing something he should not.