LXIX
OUTSIDE THE MAGES’ tower, the cold early spring rain beat on the stones and shutters, and occasional chill gusts sifted past the closed shutters. Inside, the heaped coals imparted a welcome warmth to Myral’s room.
Cerryl sat on the hard chair.
“You look troubled.” Myral lifted his steaming cider. “Have some.”
“Thank you.” The younger man poured a half a mug from the pitcher, half-scanning it for chaos, then took a sip of the warming liquid, hoping it might lessen his headache.
“What is the difficulty?”
“Sometimes, I seem to be able to clean large sections of the bricks easily, as if. . as if I had been doing it for years. But at other times, or at almost any time I try to focus the chaos-fire on anything, it sort of just. . dribbles out. Or it’s like a ray of light that warms the bricks but doesn’t scour. Sometimes, I can get it to blacken the slime-”
“The fire like a light ray?” asked Myral.
Cerryl nodded.
“That’s what you should work on. . if you can.”
“If I can? Can’t all mages-”
“No.” The older mage shook his head. “The ancients of Cyador all could, if one can believe the old writings, but few can today. Very few. It would be good if you could.”
“I don’t know. There’s a lot of order use it takes. . I think.” Cerryl wondered at Myral’s diffidence, at a subtle wrongness, and yet Myral was clearly concerned for Cerryl. Again. . what was being withheld?
“Cerryl,” said Myral mildly, “you can use chaos without being of chaos.”
That was a clear, direct, and truthful statement, and the younger mage swallowed as Myral continued.
“The world is filled with order and chaos. Some floats free; some is mixed with the elements of the world. There is chaos in the molten rock of the fire mountains, and chaos feeds the waters of hot springs. Order is bound into iron. Chaos is not bound into you-or me, or Jeslek. We direct the chaos-that is, gathering it from the world around us. I have told you this before. It is written in Colors of White. But you need to understand this. When you marshal chaos fire in the sewers, it does not come from within you but from the world. You do not have to make it part of you. Some do.” Myral smlied sadly. “They die young.”
“But. . why?”
“It is easier at first to let the chaos flow through you and be part of you.” Myral offered an ironic smile. “Most of the time, in whatever trade one engages in, true skill takes greater effort and time to develop. You are struggling between trying to channel chaos outside yourself and letting it flow through you. You get better results now, if it goes through you. Is this not true?”
“Yes,” Cerryl admitted.
“The choice is yours.” Myral stood. “I have no special tricks to offer you, no easy steps to control, just observations.” He gestured toward the door. “And you need to keep working at it in the sewers, for so long as it takes until you can handle chaos consistently and with control.”
Cerryl hurriedly swallowed the last of the cider, wincing as the hot liquid seared his throat, then eased back the straight-backed chair and stood.
“I am not hiding a secret from you,” Myral added. “I can tell you what is, but you have to find out how to make it work for you.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Cerryl.” Myral’s voice hardened. “You can honestly try to understand, or you can pretend you do and fail or die young. You choose.” He nodded to the door once more.
As Cerryl left and started down the stone steps, the sound of the white oak door’s closing still echoing in his ears, his throat still burning, he felt like screaming. If he didn’t have the ability to muster strong chaos force, he would be at the mercy of the Kesriks of Candar. If he didn’t get control of the chaos force outside himself, he’d die young. If he didn’t keep some ability to handle chaos, he’d fail and die.
But. . Myral was suggesting that the ways that Cerryl knew would work were wrong, and that the ways he couldn’t even see how to master were right, and then Myral had the coldness. . the something. . not even to offer a single practical piece of advice.
The young would-be mage shook his head as he walked down the steps, thinking of another long day in the sewers, fumbling and scrambling with his uncertain control of chaos-fire. . and his all-too-uncertain life in Fairhaven.
LXX
BEHIND CERRYL, BACK up the tunnel toward the steps to the street and the bronze sewer grate, Ullan’s lance tapped nervously, then stopped, as if Dientyr had jammed an elbow-or something-into the other lancer.
Cerryl could sense that the day was getting late. He was sweating, and his tunic probably reeked from sweat and fear and sewage, so much so that he smelled nothing.
He had tried everything he could think of, but still the only way he could seem to manifest a decent amount of chaos-fire was to let it flow through him-half-instinctively. Yet Myral had been quite clear that such was far from the best way.
Cerryl wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, looking almost blankly into the darkness. His eyes were tired, and the darkness seemed to flash at him in waves.
For a moment, he closed his eyes, trying to think. What was he overlooking? He had to be missing something. Maybe there wasn’t enough chaos close enough to him to channel. Did one have to gather chaos? How?
There had to be a way. Myral’s words still rang in his ears. “. . use chaos without being of chaos. . gathering chaos from the world around us. .”
What drew in chaos? Sunlight?
Cerryl nodded, imagining himself as a huge flower, drawing in chaos as a blossom drew in sunlight, turning that sunlight into flame, and directing it toward the slime on the bricks. .
Whhhssstttt. . A line of golden white flame-a line of flame flashed from the air before Cerryl down the tunnel. . not touching the green-coated bricks until-who knew how far away?
Cerryl stood motionless, unable to believe what he had seen. Had he really seen it?
Again, after another deep breath, he tried to replicate the sense of gathering chaos as the flowers gathered sunlight, and to let it flow around him-not through him-but around him and slightly down.
Whhsttt!
The golden white flame lance seared a line across the bricks.
A wide grin spread across Cerryl’s face, and he felt like jumping up and down in joy. Instead. . he tried to replicate the feeling, the actions, again.
Whhhsstt!
For the third time, the flame lance flared down the tunnel, at a flatter angle that seared away even more of the scum and slime.
The young mage, unable to keep the grin off his face, kept looking into the darkness as he took another long breath. He was winded, and tired, but he had something, something he wasn’t sure he’d seen elsewhere. But would Jeslek or Sterol have showed all they had?
He shook his head.
Behind him, Ullan’s lance tapped nervously, once, twice.
“Not now,” hissed Dientyr.
Cerryl turned, wiping the grin off his face. “Ullan. . I know it’s uncomfortable down here, and I know you don’t like it, but when you keep tapping that lance, it distracts me, and that means whatever I’m doing will take longer.” He paused. “I’d appreciate it if you’d make a bigger effort not to tap it on the bricks.”
“Yes, ser.” Ullan’s voice squeaked on the “ser,” and the thin dark mustache bobbed, and sweat streamed down his forehead.
“Good.” Cerryl turned back to the tunnel, wanting to see how much more progress he could make while refining his new technique.
“Lucky. . Ullan. . real lucky,” whispered Dientyr.