the hills that shudder upwards around the white wizard with the glistening white hair and the eyes like points of sun.
…rrrrmmmmm…thrummmbblle…
Still, the ground shakes.
In the distance a river shakes from its bed, and silvered waters pour southward, inundating what had been meadows. At a greater distance, buildings rock, and stone walls shiver. Some roofs collapse upon their hapless inhabitants.
The hills shudder yet higher, dwarfing even more completely the magician who has raised them, yet they do not threaten him nor the glistening strip of white stone that stretches westward.
…wehhhhheeeeeeee…cracccckkkkk…crackkkkk…
Across the Eastern Ocean, five men and women, garbed in black, look upon a mirror. Those who do not shake their heads frown. One man does both. He is tall and thin.
“He builds mountains to protect their road.”
“Yet they do not rise to crush him.”
“Is he the result of too much order in Recluce?”
“How could we have less? Already we pay a high price.” The dark-haired woman looks to the thin wizard.
“He will be the next High Wizard,” says the thin man.
“Getting to be High Wizard is easier than keeping the amulet,” observes the woman.
In the mirror, the smoke swirls around the blinding point of whiteness.
XXII
What did he expect from the people of Vergren? The words had worried Dorrin all through the afternoon and evening, through the eerie walk along nearly spotless streets that were tinged with unseen whiteness, through an evening supper of stew not much thicker than the soup of the midday, and through a near-sleepless night on the dusty planks of the Three Chimneys.
Sleeping on hard planks in a garret with Kadara and Brede isbad enough, but listening to the two nuzzle and coo is bad enough—even though they are polite enough, or circumspect enough, not to make total love until he is asleep or after he has staggered up and out in the morning.
He scratches a flea bite under his armpit. While he can persuade the creatures to leave him while he is awake, his healing talents do not work quite so well asleep—although more accomplished magisters can erect wards that work even while they sleep.
As they ride eastward out of Vergren, the fog swirls around them, and water drips from slate roofs onto the stone. Townspeople appear—like the spirits of ancient angels—in and out of the fog, their steps silent on the stone pavement. A clinking harness echoes down the street.
“Quiet,” observes Brede, and his words sound almost hollow.
“You said that yesterday,” snaps Kadara.
“It was quiet yesterday.”
With his senses ranging through the fog and mist, Dorrin gathers nothing beyond the unseen whiteness that oozes beneath the entire town, almost like an unvoiced grief. Are all towns ruled by the White Wizards so quiet?
Or is it the spirit of Vergren that still languishes? Because Montgren helped the Founders? Or because the people instinctively embraced order?
Dorrin shakes his head. The White Wizards must have some order. They cannot be totally chaotic, not if Fairhaven has successfully ruled most of Candar for the centuries since Creslin fled Candar. Yet Vergren oozes despair amidst its order.
Meriwhen whinnies and steps sideways to avoid a pile of manure.
“Dorrin?”
“…uhh…what?” The healer turns toward Kadara.
“You need to watch where you’re riding. Stop thinking about machines and whatever.”
“I was watching.” But he straightens himself in the saddle, and pats Meriwhen on the neck.
After the walls of Vergren fade into the morning mist and disappear behind the hills, the loudest sounds along the stone road are those of hoofs and the voices of the three from Recluce. Even the sheep graze silently, like so many miniature clouds drifting across the damp hillside meadows.
Brede and Kadara converse in low voices.
“…Spidlarian blade is too thin, not enough metal to stand up to a hand and a half…”
“You wouldn’t fight
…rrrrmmmmm…thrummmbblle…
Still, the ground shakes.
In the distance a river shakes from its bed, and silvered waters pour southward, inundating what had been meadows. At a greater distance, buildings rock, and stone walls shiver. Some roofs collapse upon their hapless inhabitants.
The hills shudder yet higher, dwarfing even more completely the magician who has raised them, yet they do not threaten him nor the glistening strip of white stone that stretches westward.
…wehhhhheeeeeeee…cracccckkkkk…crackkkkk…
Across the Eastern Ocean, five men and women, garbed in black, look upon a mirror. Those who do not shake their heads frown. One man does both. He is tall and thin.
“He builds mountains to protect their road.”
“Yet they do not rise to crush him.”
“Is he the result of too much order in Recluce?”
“How could we have less? Already we pay a high price.” The dark-haired woman looks to the thin wizard.
“He will be the next High Wizard,” says the thin man.
“Getting to be High Wizard is easier than keeping the amulet,” observes the woman.
In the mirror, the smoke swirls around the blinding point of whiteness.
XXII
What did he expect from the people of Vergren? The words had worried Dorrin all through the afternoon and evening, through the eerie walk along nearly spotless streets that were tinged with unseen whiteness, through an evening supper of stew not much thicker than the soup of the midday, and through a near-sleepless night on the dusty planks of the Three Chimneys.
Sleeping on hard planks in a garret with Kadara and Brede isbad enough, but listening to the two nuzzle and coo is bad enough—even though they are polite enough, or circumspect enough, not to make total love until he is asleep or after he has staggered up and out in the morning.
He scratches a flea bite under his armpit. While he can persuade the creatures to leave him while he is awake, his healing talents do not work quite so well asleep—although more accomplished magisters can erect wards that work even while they sleep.
As they ride eastward out of Vergren, the fog swirls around them, and water drips from slate roofs onto the stone. Townspeople appear—like the spirits of ancient angels—in and out of the fog, their steps silent on the stone pavement. A clinking harness echoes down the street.
“Quiet,” observes Brede, and his words sound almost hollow.
“You said that yesterday,” snaps Kadara.
“It was quiet yesterday.”
With his senses ranging through the fog and mist, Dorrin gathers nothing beyond the unseen whiteness that oozes beneath the entire town, almost like an unvoiced grief. Are all towns ruled by the White Wizards so quiet?
Or is it the spirit of Vergren that still languishes? Because Montgren helped the Founders? Or because the people instinctively embraced order?
Dorrin shakes his head. The White Wizards must have some order. They cannot be totally chaotic, not if Fairhaven has successfully ruled most of Candar for the centuries since Creslin fled Candar. Yet Vergren oozes despair amidst its order.
Meriwhen whinnies and steps sideways to avoid a pile of manure.
“Dorrin?”
“…uhh…what?” The healer turns toward Kadara.
“You need to watch where you’re riding. Stop thinking about machines and whatever.”
“I was watching.” But he straightens himself in the saddle, and pats Meriwhen on the neck.
After the walls of Vergren fade into the morning mist and disappear behind the hills, the loudest sounds along the stone road are those of hoofs and the voices of the three from Recluce. Even the sheep graze silently, like so many miniature clouds drifting across the damp hillside meadows.
Brede and Kadara converse in low voices.
“…Spidlarian blade is too thin, not enough metal to stand up to a hand and a half…”
“You wouldn’t fight
Similar Books
