piece to stay on their good side. Aye, and he should.”
Their good side? Had they one? Cerryl wondered.
“Glad I be as just a mill man,” said Brental, following his words with a nervous laugh.
Cerryl forced himself not to look down at the blade in his hands, a blade that felt strangely comfortable and simultaneously uncomfortable as he held it loosely.
“Well...” Dylert added into the silence, glancing to the west where the sun hung low over the house. “Day's done. Be time soon for dinner.” He turned and walked briskly back uphill.
After a moment, Brental nodded and followed his father.
With the near-setting sun warming his face, Cerryl looked down at the blade, the same white bronze as the knife from his father, recalling how the dead man had knocked down arrows and firebolts ... and how his efforts had been in vain.
And how he had sought Cerryl. The youth shivered.
White Order
XXI
Cerryl reread the passage in Colors of White, trying to keep the sounds and images in his head, as he'd overheard Siglinda tell Erhana during one of the tutoring sessions when he'd been stacking hearth wood outside the millmaster's house.
“... all that is under the sun can only be because of the chaos of the sun. Even the wisest of mages cannot perceive any portion of all that exists on and under the earth itself except through the operation of chaos.”
He wanted to shake his head. He understood the words, but there was something about the meaning that eluded him.
Brental had said that the man who had fled the lancers of Lydiar- and the white wizard-had flung chaos fire against the wizard. Cerryl had seen that, and how the wizard had turned it back with little more than a glance. Or so it had seemed. Still, the fugitive had held his own for a time against outlandish odds.
Cerryl wasn't sure if he wished the blond man had won or not, but he wouldn't soon forget the cold and impartial attitude of the white wizard, acting as if the fugitive were little more than vermin to be destroyed.
He cleared his throat, realizing he had been murmuring the words, and clamped his lips shut as he studied the page again, then flipped to another page, farther along.
Still nothing about chaos fire.
He tried another page, and then another.
He glanced down at Colors of White again. Why didn't he have the second part, instead of a worthless history? The second part would have explained everything, like how to create chaos fire.
He frowned, touching his chin, a chin that remained beardless and smooth. Could he create chaos fire?
In the dimness, he held up his left hand, concentrated on somehow making fire appear at his fingertips, the way the fugitive had.
Was there a glow there? He squinted through the gloom at the faintest spark at the tip of his index finger. Then the point of light vanished. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead. A deeper and ugly red glow lingered in the air for several moments.
Cerryl took a deep breath, then another.
White Order
XXII
In the light drizzle that drifted from the low-hanging gray clouds, Cerryl used the dark brown laundry soap and washed his hands and face at the well, the one uphill of the south end of the porch. He shook his hands as dry as he could in the damp air, then began to walk toward the porch of the mill master's house, noticing that Rinfur was already stepping into the kitchen. Viental had gone-again-to visit his “sister.”
Dylert was waiting on the porch just back of the top step, his face somber.
“Yes, ser?” Cerryl could feel his stomach tightening, but kept his expression pleasant.
“You've learned the letters, haven't you, boy?” Dylert asked, stepping back and gesturing for Cerryl to take a seat on the porch bench.
“Ser?” Meeting the millmaster's eyes squarely, Cerryl managed a blank expression. He did not sit
Their good side? Had they one? Cerryl wondered.
“Glad I be as just a mill man,” said Brental, following his words with a nervous laugh.
Cerryl forced himself not to look down at the blade in his hands, a blade that felt strangely comfortable and simultaneously uncomfortable as he held it loosely.
“Well...” Dylert added into the silence, glancing to the west where the sun hung low over the house. “Day's done. Be time soon for dinner.” He turned and walked briskly back uphill.
After a moment, Brental nodded and followed his father.
With the near-setting sun warming his face, Cerryl looked down at the blade, the same white bronze as the knife from his father, recalling how the dead man had knocked down arrows and firebolts ... and how his efforts had been in vain.
And how he had sought Cerryl. The youth shivered.
White Order
XXI
Cerryl reread the passage in Colors of White, trying to keep the sounds and images in his head, as he'd overheard Siglinda tell Erhana during one of the tutoring sessions when he'd been stacking hearth wood outside the millmaster's house.
“... all that is under the sun can only be because of the chaos of the sun. Even the wisest of mages cannot perceive any portion of all that exists on and under the earth itself except through the operation of chaos.”
He wanted to shake his head. He understood the words, but there was something about the meaning that eluded him.
Brental had said that the man who had fled the lancers of Lydiar- and the white wizard-had flung chaos fire against the wizard. Cerryl had seen that, and how the wizard had turned it back with little more than a glance. Or so it had seemed. Still, the fugitive had held his own for a time against outlandish odds.
Cerryl wasn't sure if he wished the blond man had won or not, but he wouldn't soon forget the cold and impartial attitude of the white wizard, acting as if the fugitive were little more than vermin to be destroyed.
He cleared his throat, realizing he had been murmuring the words, and clamped his lips shut as he studied the page again, then flipped to another page, farther along.
Still nothing about chaos fire.
He tried another page, and then another.
He glanced down at Colors of White again. Why didn't he have the second part, instead of a worthless history? The second part would have explained everything, like how to create chaos fire.
He frowned, touching his chin, a chin that remained beardless and smooth. Could he create chaos fire?
In the dimness, he held up his left hand, concentrated on somehow making fire appear at his fingertips, the way the fugitive had.
Was there a glow there? He squinted through the gloom at the faintest spark at the tip of his index finger. Then the point of light vanished. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead. A deeper and ugly red glow lingered in the air for several moments.
Cerryl took a deep breath, then another.
White Order
XXII
In the light drizzle that drifted from the low-hanging gray clouds, Cerryl used the dark brown laundry soap and washed his hands and face at the well, the one uphill of the south end of the porch. He shook his hands as dry as he could in the damp air, then began to walk toward the porch of the mill master's house, noticing that Rinfur was already stepping into the kitchen. Viental had gone-again-to visit his “sister.”
Dylert was waiting on the porch just back of the top step, his face somber.
“Yes, ser?” Cerryl could feel his stomach tightening, but kept his expression pleasant.
“You've learned the letters, haven't you, boy?” Dylert asked, stepping back and gesturing for Cerryl to take a seat on the porch bench.
“Ser?” Meeting the millmaster's eyes squarely, Cerryl managed a blank expression. He did not sit
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