Colors of Chaos

CLXXXII

THERE YOU HAVE the fleet,” said Cerryl, nodding toward the glass in the center of the table. A dozen ships bearing the red thunderbolt banner straggled back into the Great North Bay. Cerryl raised a finger, and the image vanished from the mirror. “Now what do you suggest?”

“You send out another fleet, this time one that will follow orders. That is, if you wish to continue as High Wizard,” Anya said lazily from where she half-reclined in the chair across the table from Leyladin and Cerryl. Anya’s eyes focused not on Cerryl, but past him and on the high gray clouds visible through the Tower window beyond the table. On one side of the table rested a deep basin of cold water.

“Sterol was right,” Cerryl added, his voice conversational as he looked at the box on the small side table, a box containing a gold-painted iron amulet.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to let that nobody on Recluce humiliate us?” Anya’s voice took a harder tone. “After what he did to Fydel…and to Jeslek? You’ll let it pass? And stand up and tell the Guild that?”

“There is a Balance, and we can accept it or fight it. Everyone who has fought it has lost. The trick is to make it work for you.”

“You sound like you’re weaseling out, Cerryl. We can’t have that.” Anya sat up straight in the chair but did not rise to her feet.

“Why don’t you listen, for a moment? It won’t hurt.” You really don’t think she will, do you? She’s convinced that you won’t ever act against her. Cerryl stood and walked to the window, glancing toward the cold gray clouds, then back at the redhead.

“I’m listening.” The words were cold, yet white flames lurked behind her eyes.

“This smith-wizard builds machines. Those machines must contain chaos-fired steam or water. That means they embody great, great order. If he builds many of his machines, he increases the amount of chaos in the world. That would increase our power more greatly than his, because his order would be locked in those machines.”

“So you would encourage him to build those machines? To attack and destroy our ships? That would certainly increase chaos. How much good it would do us is another question.” Anya rose like a pillar of white flame.

“He won’t do that.” Cerryl gestured at the now-blank mirror. “He could have destroyed the entire fleet with his little Black ship. He didn’t. He’s certainly no weak-willed Black idiot either. Weak-willed idiots don’t fight head-on. He destroyed Jeslek and Fydel one-on-one-Fydel with a staff, not even that iron clad chaos of his.”

Cerryl turned slowly, almost indolently, and stepped over to the small side table. His back to the redhead, he slipped off the amulet he wore in a quick motion and set it on the table. He opened the wooden box and removed the painted amulet, concealing a wince as the metal burned his hands, not badly, but enough to sting. He had to get back to using less chaos…somehow. “Besides, you saw his ship. Even if we could board it, what could anyone do? Our White Lancers couldn’t even touch half of it with all that black iron.”

Anya eased out of her chair and stepped toward Cerryl’s back. “It’s too bad you’ll follow Sterol, Cerryl dear. You’ll see once the fleet mages return.”

Leyladin stiffened but did not move.

“I don’t think so.” Cerryl lifted the amulet and turned. “But here, you wear it. You always wanted to.” With a quick gesture he dropped the gold-painted iron links around her neck.

Anya lifted her hands, then screamed as a circle of flame burned away the gold paint and the white cloth beneath it. Her hands reached for the hot iron, but Cerryl grasped her wrists and nodded toward the door.

“I’m not quite as dense as I look, dear Anya. And while I’m not as powerful as you believe you are, or Sterol did, I do occasionally think.” His voice rose. “Gostar! Hertyl!”

The three guards who hurried through the Tower door and across the white stone floor bore chains of heavy and cold iron in their gloved hands.

“You need me!” the redhead screamed as the additional heavy iron chains slipped around her.

“Indeed we do. You will make a perfect example for future would-be schemers. You will look ravishing once your image is captured for display. Most fetching.” Cerryl smiled and inclined his head to the guards. “Good day, Anya.”

The redhead straightened, ignoring the pain of the cold iron. “You don’t understand, Cerryl. I can see. See like Myral. No matter what you do, it doesn’t matter. I know. I saw you in this room with the amulet. Why do you think your aunt and uncle died? Why did those brigands attack you in the sewer? Despite everything I did, all my actions brought you here.” Her face twisted in pain and rage. “Don’t you see? Everything you do is for nothing. Fairhaven will fall. It will melt under a sun you cannot even think about. Everything you want to do will end as ashes. It’s all worthless! You’re worthless.”

“Good day, Anya,” Cerryl repeated, watching as the leather-gloved guards wrapped the cold iron chains around the redhead.

As the door closed, he plunged his hands into the basin of cold water, taking a deep breath as the water soothed his hands.

Leyladin stepped up beside him. “With all that iron on her, she’ll die before the Guild meets.”

“I know,” Cerryl said soberly. “That is proof she could not maintain the balance necessary for a mage. It will also relieve everyone of having to make a decision…and leave the blood on my hands.”

“Sometimes…you can be cruel.”

“Sometimes a High Wizard has to be cruel. No one listens otherwise. Anya didn’t listen at the end, either.” He shivered. Will you listen? Or will you become like all the others?

“Was she right?”

Cerryl offered a harsh laugh. “Of course she was…in a way. Everything ends. Fairhaven will fall. So will Recluce. Cyador and Westwind fell. But she was wrong about what it all means. The end is always the same. That’s why what we do does matter. Good or bad, we die. If we bring some light and prosperity into the world, isn’t that better than there being less light?” He dried his hands on his trousers, ignoring the red blotches on his fingers.

“Some would say, then, that power for one’s self is all that there is.” Leyladin’s eyebrows lifted momentarily.

“Some would. I wouldn’t. Power for one’s self is hard to amass and harder to hold. Where are Jeslek? Sterol? Anya?” He shrugged. “Myral died as peacefully as he could have. Kinowin is still here. So are we.” So far…

“So far,” she repeated. “And I am with you.”

“I’m glad.”

The healer touched his hands, and the soothing darkness spread across his skin, lifting the discomfort. “She was screaming about an image.”

“I’m having her statue put up on the ledge. I did promise her that, and I keep my promises.”

“You didn’t set one up for Myral.”

“No, I didn’t. He was more than an image…much more.”