Colors of Chaos

CXVI

THE BRIGHT FIRST yellow-orange light reflected off the newly dropped snow, through the slits at the side of the shutters and into the sitting room, and then into the study-cascading across the glass and disrupting Cerryl’s concentration.

He blinked twice, then rubbed his forehead, letting the mists in the screeing glass dissipate. He looked straight down but saw only his own reflection-thin brown hair, narrow chin, straight nose, gray eyes with faint circles beneath them-his own image and the image of the dark-beamed ceiling above.

For the fourth day…he could not find Leyladin in his glass. There might be many reasons. She could be in a place where the glass was blocked, like on a ship or traveling a large river or somewhere amid hills filled with order and iron, or she could be shielding herself, as Cerryl could do if he worked at it. There were reasons, but her continued absence bothered him.

He walked to the sitting room window and closed the front shutters-slightly ajar-all the way. Ignoring the lancer guards in the front foyer and the chill that held the room, he returned to the polished wooden table and the blank glass. Was he losing his ability to seek out Blacks? Had he used chaos too much, careful as he had tried to be?

He concentrated once more.

The silver mists swirled, then dissipated to reveal the redheaded smith of Diev, tongs in hand, sliding a chunk of highly ordered iron from the forge onto an anvil. A striker stood in the background, extending a hammer to the smith.

A puzzled look appeared on Dorrin’s face, and Cerryl let the image lapse. Like Leyladin, the Black could sense a glass seeking his image.

But where was Cerryl’s blonde healer? Careful…she’s not yours. She’s not anyone’s.

He took a deep breath. Maybe tomorrow.