Colors of Chaos

CLXXV

IN THE LATE-SUMMER twilight, Cerryl walked quietly along the Avenue, his form half-shielded by the blur screen, a slight headache remaining from the afternoon thundershower. At the steps to The Golden Ram, he turned and entered the inn, slipping along the wall and up the steps to the second level and through the half-ajar door into a private room.

Five mages sat around the table, two on each side of Anya, the space across from her empty.

Anya frowned. “I thought I heard someone.”

The four men glanced around, their eyes sliding across Cerryl as though he were not there.

“Close the door.”

A thin-faced and brown-goateed mage rose quickly to comply.

Cerryl smiled to himself. Always someone else is there to do her bidding. Cloaked and blurred in the shadows, he listened.

“We have to act soon. The High Wizard-the younger mages claim he is everywhere and that he must be older and wiser than he is, that he hides his true appearance.”

“Zurchak…Zurchak…” Anya shook her head disapprovingly. “Do not believe every word you hear on the wind. The High Wizard has but two strengths, and both are formidable. He can raise shields strong enough to stop any order or chaos forces known to any but perhaps the great Jeslek. He also can sense where the golds and silvers flow. Other than those traits, he is a normal mage. He does not drift through walls. He does not hear his name murmured on the wind. For darkness’ sake, he sleeps with a Black healer, and he could scarce do that if he bore mighty chaos within him.”

In his cloaked and shadowed corner, Cerryl nodded to himself.

“Cerryl the cautious. He does nothing unless he has calculated and planned.”

“Caution is not always without merit, Muerchal,” observed Anya, the tip of her tongue touching her lips after she spoke. “He is High Wizard, and the Guild has more golds than when he took the amulet.”

“Golds…golds are not glory. They don’t bring the Guild or us power or respect.” Muerchal snorted.

“They do pay our stipends,” added the goateed mage. “There is much to be said for that.”

“If Cerryl the cautious were bolder, the Guild would be more greatly respected, and the golds would flow in,” retorted Muerchal.

“Perhaps…perhaps when you are High Wizard, you can make that happen,” suggested Anya, smiling broadly.

“I will. Even as overmage, I could do more than doddering old Kinowin or Redark the repeater.”

“Muerchal-you talk so much now, but when you get in the chamber we won’t hear so much as a whisper.”

“You will. You will, Aalkiron.”

“We’ll see.” The goateed Aalkiron snickered.

“What about you, Aalkiron?”

“I’ll leave the words to you, Muerchal.”

“Enough…enough,” Anya said. “The High Wizard has promised that there will be an attack upon Recluce. Should he fail to address that, we must question his resolve.”

“He will address it, at great length, and with many words,” suggested Zurchak. “If the words mean anything new, that is another question.”

Cerryl’s unseen smile was crooked. Your time is getting short, shorter than you would like.

“Others-older mages-will listen with care as well,” Anya replied. “They have been more patient, but they will take it amiss if nothing definite is promised.”

“They will take it amiss?” Muerchal laughed. “And then what? Will they ask for more and more words?”

Cerryl decided that Muerchal needed to serve somewhere outside of Fairhaven, preferably aboard a ship-a small ship that was barely seaworthy.

After a time, when a serving woman appeared with more wine, Cerryl slipped from the upper room. He walked silent and unseen up the Avenue and past the Halls of the Mages, nearly to the Market Square. Then he turned westward toward Layel’s dwelling.

Leyladin was waiting in the front room, the one with the portrait of her mother. “What did you discover?” She stood and offered an embrace.

Cerryl returned it, adding a kiss, before responding. “Anya and her group of younger acolytes will indeed push me to commit to the attack on Recluce. She says she has also talked to some of the older mages, Broka and Fydel, I’d guess, and perhaps Gyskas and a few others. They want action as well.”

“So long as others’ blood is shed.” The healer led the way to the silk-hung bedchamber and closed the door behind them.

“That has been the case since I was a student mage, and doubtless before that.” Cerryl sat on the small chair and began to pull off the heavy white boots.

“Do you want anything to eat?”

“No. I’m not hungry.”

“Not hungry?” The dark-green eyes danced in the light of the single lamp lit in the bedchamber. “I don’t know that such is good. What can I do with a mage without hunger?”

“Woman…”

“Do not forget that, my highest wizard. I have waited long, and the season you have been back is too short…” Her eyes went to the second boot as it thumped on the green rug that covered the polished floor stones. Then she smiled. “No one notices that the High Wizard still wears the heavy working boots of a patrol mage.”

“There is much they do not notice,” Cerryl said with a grin, “and probably that is for the best-for us.”

“Best they do not notice your evenings.” Leyladin stepped forward, her arms encircling him as he rose.