Colors of Chaos

XXIX

CERRYL PICKED UP the note that lay on his bed, looking at the handwriting on the folded parchment-parchment, not the cheap brown paper used by some merchants. “Cerryl,” he murmured as he read the single name on the outside. Then he smiled as he saw the green wax seal. He broke it and read quickly, smiling more broadly at the green ink.

…returned to Fairhaven last night, and Father and I would like to have you for dinner tonight. According to Myral, you have not been assigned evening duty with the Patrol yet, and so we are hoping to see you tonight…

The note was signed with a flowing green “L.” Cerryl folded it carefully, walked to his desk, and slipped it into the covered box that held his papers, including some few notes he had penned out on various subjects.

After washing up, he left his quarters and headed for the White Tower. The corridors were mostly empty, although he did pass the thin-faced apprentice Kiella in the fountain courtyard. “Good day, Kiella.”

“Good day, ser.” Her eyes did not meet Cerryl’s, and she stepped aside quickly to let him pass, even with the space afforded by the otherwise-empty courtyard.

Cerryl nodded to the ginger-bearded Redark as the two passed in the foyer of the main Hall. Redark inclined his head in return, although his pale green eyes bore a faintly puzzled expression, as if he wondered who Cerryl might be.

Gostar-strangely, the only guard at the lower Tower door, since there were usually two and a messenger-nodded as Cerryl reached the top of the steps from the foyer and approached him. “Good day, ser. You liking Patrol duty?”

“I’ve walked over most of the southeast part of Fairhaven,” Cerryl admitted.

“You met my brother?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t know you had a brother in the Patrol.”

“Name’s Lostar.”

“I don’t think so, but I haven’t met every patroller yet, and I don’t know all the names of those I have met,” Cerryl admitted. “I’m supposed to, but I haven’t gotten that far.”

“Looks like me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Cerryl glanced toward the steps. “You know if Myral’s in?”

“Most times I wouldn’t, but he just walked up a bit ago. Alone.” Gostar grinned. “The High Wizard went somewhere in his coach. Didn’t look so happy, but he hasn’t lately. They say he’s been getting scrolls from Overmage Jeslek.”

“He’s raising more mountains in Gallos, I think.”

Gostar looked down. “Not one to say…don’t seem as natural-like, though, ser.”

“Neither chaos nor order taken to extremes is natural, Gostar. Sometimes necessary, but not natural.” Cerryl grinned. “That’s what Kinowin always says.” Not that Kinowin or Myral phrased it quite that way.

Gostar looked up as boots sounded on the stones. A second guard appeared, one Cerryl did not know.

“Gostar…Oh, sorry, ser.”

Cerryl smiled. “That’s all right.”

As the new Patrol mage headed up the stairs, he could pick up the first fragments of the conversation.

“…wish the messenger’d get back. Hate running up and down for all of them…”

“…go next time…”

“…which mage was that?”

“…named Cerryl…one of the real ones…say he was an orphan, sawmill brat…taught himself letters…made him a Patrol mage couple of eight-days ago…”

“…tough little bastard then?”

“…can hold his own, I’d say.”

Tough little bastard? Cerryl wasn’t at all sure about that, except maybe the “little” part.

Thrap! He rapped on Myral’s door, conscious that he wasn’t even winded from the steps. Maybe all the Patrol walking did have some benefits. “It’s Cerryl.”

“Oh…you can come on in.”

Myral sat before the windows, half-shuttered, though the room was warm, sipping from a mug. Cider, Cerryl suspected, since that was almost all the older mage drank and the early apples had already been picked. Cerryl sat across the table from the half-bald, black-haired older mage.

“What can I do for you, now that you’re in the Patrol?” Myral took a sip from his mug.

“I was just thinking. Do you know if that smuggler’s entrance to the sewers was ever bricked up?”

A faint smile crossed Myral’s mouth. “You still worry about sewers?”

“We found a dead body at the end of the sewers, in the tunnel just up from the treatment ponds. He was killed from chaos burns, then dragged inside.”

“That’s what the chaos locks are for,” Myral said evenly, a hint of a smile behind his words. Abruptly the older mage coughed, several times, each cough more racking than the last.

Cerryl was on his feet before the attack subsided. “Are you all right?”

“No. But there’s little enough you or I can do.” Myral offered a wan smile. “The malady is age…age and chaos, as I have often told you.” He blotted his mouth and lips with the heavy gray cloth. “You were asking about the tunnel. It has not been bricked up, and it will not be. Oh, you may find a line of bricks before the door in the basement of the factor’s building adjoining it, but there will be another tunnel to it.”

Cerryl nodded. He had thought as much.

“You do not look surprised, Cerryl. In ten years, you are the first merely to nod.” Myral chuckled. “You may yet vindicate Kinowin’s judgment.”

“Who uses the tunnel, and what would happen if I caught them?” He didn’t think it was wise to ask what Kinowin’s judgment had been.

“A number of people doubtless use that door and tunnel, if infrequently, and I have no idea who they might be, though I tried for several years to determine just that. The only way to discover that would be to spend several dozen eight-days down there, and neither I nor the Guild had such time. As for catching them…those you caught would either be killed trying to escape or end up as road prisoners. There have been more than a score of such in the last few years.”

Cerryl let himself lean back in the chair, waiting.

As the silence drew out, Myral coughed once, then began to speak. “The sewers keep Fairhaven clean and mostly free of the flux. They also offer roads for those who do not wish to be seen-if they will pay the price. Of course, they don’t. They force some enemy or fool to open the grates. Now, what would happen if we bricked up that entrance?”

“They’d create another?”

“Precisely. And where might that be?”

Cerryl shrugged. He didn’t know.

“Neither would I nor Sterol nor Kinowin nor Isork. Before long, we’d have masons in the sewers all the time. Actually, there are two such entrances to the sewer tunnels. The other one is in the northwest, on a secondary collector off the west main tunnel. We resist, even trap with chaos, any other attempts to breach the tunnels. Those we leave alone. It works better that way. There will always be smuggling and smugglers-so long as there are tariffs or taxes, or rules on goods. This way, only those with golds are successful-”

“Or those who carry goods on their bodies or in packs.”

Myral nodded.

“How much smuggling is necessary?”

“Smuggling is unnecessary and to be frowned upon,” Myral declaimed, spoiling the ponderous tone with a smile that followed his words.

“You mean we can’t stop it entirely? So we have to keep it limited to small quantities or those who have enough coins to exercise some degree of restraint?”

“I am not certain I could have said it quite so elegantly, young Cerryl. But, yes, that is the problem that has always faced the Guild.” Myral coughed once again, more than a gentle sound, but less than the spasms that had racked him before.

“So I should be cautious?” Cerryl glanced past Myral to the clouds that seemed to be building north of the city.

“Any time you deal with people who would kill others for mere coins, or for power that will vanish even before they do, I would proceed with great caution.”

The mention of power that vanished was enough for Cerryl.

Myral coughed once more, then again.

Noting the paleness of the older mage, Cerryl asked, “Can I get anything? Should I send a messenger for the healer?”

“No. She was here earlier. There is little more she could do this day.”

“Then you should lie down.” The younger mage rose. “I will not tire you more.”

“You tire me not. It is good to feel my advice and words are still worth heeding.” Myral took a deep wheezing breath. “Still…some rest might aid.”

Cerryl eased over to the heavyset older man and extended an arm.

Myral took it and levered himself from the chair. “Thank you.” He took several steps and lowered himself onto the edge of the single bed in the corner. “Time was…didn’t need an arm.”

“Thank you for your advice.” Cerryl wished he could do more, but he could sense that Myral just wished to be left alone. Cerryl closed the door, gently but firmly, and started down the stairs, passing one of the red-clad messengers at the first landing. The lad was headed up and gave Cerryl a tentative smile. Cerryl returned the smile.

On the way out of the Tower, Cerryl nodded as he passed Gostar. The older guard nodded back but said nothing. Cerryl caught a few words between the two guards before he reached the bottom of the steps into the entry Hall.

“…leastwise…recognizes that some of us…more than bodies with blades.”

“…ought to have more that didn’t come from coins…”

Cerryl wondered about that as he crossed the entry Hall. Faltar had come from coins in a way, and so did Leyladin, and they were people who recognized that nonmages had worth and were people.

Once he was back in his room, Cerryl glanced out the window at the gathering clouds. While the land needed the rain, he hoped there weren’t too many thunderstorms. Those hurt more than the gentle rains, though either would give him a headache.

He took a deep breath as he took the slim volume from his bookcase and opened it. He could read some before he left for Leyladin’s house. He was fortunate enough that it would still be another season before he had afternoon duty. In the meantime, he really needed to reread On Peacekeeping. He’d hurried through it the first time, knowing he’d missed things. He tried to focus on the words.

…peacekeeping is based upon keeping harmony among people…yet people though they look similar may not react in the same fashion when confronted by a patroller…or especially a Patrol mage…

That was true enough. He’d felt that himself. He continued to read, nodding as he went over passages that he recognized in some fashion.

…no man may encroach upon the person or the property of another save with the express permission of the Council unless some person has been observed breaking the peace and flees…nor may any patroller enter the dwelling of any family, save as invited, or in pursuit of an observed peacebreaker or with the permission of the Council…

Cerryl frowned. Was that another reason why smugglers used the sewer tunnels? He wanted to shake his head. Being a Patrol mage wasn’t turning out quite the way he had envisioned, and he’d barely begun. In fact, he hadn’t. He would still be walking around the southeast section for another two days. He forced his eyes back to the pages before him.

…a patroller or a Patrol mage who breaks the peace will be judged by the Council…

The book didn’t give any penalties for peacebreaking, and that meant, from what Isork had said, that once someone had been found guilty of breaking the peace, judgment was in Isork’s hands-or those of the Council. Cerryl shivered, despite the warmth of his room. He didn’t know that he had a better answer, but he also knew he’d rather not have his fate in the hands of Sterol, Jeslek, and Kinowin.

Cerryl finally closed the book and rubbed his eyes, then stretched, and glanced out the window. The first evening bells would be ringing soon, and that meant he could leave for Leyladin’s house-or mansion, more properly.

He washed up again, chaos-brushed his whites to remove any soil, concentrating on keeping the actual chaos from himself, and then stepped into the corridor outside his apartment-almost running into the black-haired Lyasa.

“Oh…I’m sorry.”

“I know where you’re going.” Lyasa grinned at him. “That silly smile says it all.” Her face sobered. “Be careful, Cerryl. You’re both treading the edge, and I like you both.”

“I know…We’ve been careful.” As if I had any choice…

She glanced along the corridor, then lowered her voice. “Speaking of being careful, Jeslek is on his way back. Eliasar told me. He sounded worried.”

“I thought he and Jeslek were close.”

“Neither cares much for the High Wizard. That’s no secret, but whoever’s High Wizard no one cares much for.” Lyasa shrugged. “Anya’s been scuttling up to the High Wizard’s apartment like a rat ferreting out a granary. She thinks her shields hide her, but who else wears that much scent?”

Cerryl almost choked but coughed instead.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“It’s true,” hissed Lyasa. “Before long she’ll be using red henna to hide the gray hair that her scheming brings.”

“She can do that with chaos manipulation, I think,” Cerryl replied in a low voice. “She may be already.”

“Since she manipulates everything else,” Lyasa raised both eyebrows, “that would be easy enough.”

“You be careful,” Cerryl suggested.

“I only speak such when I know she’s on her back.”

This time, Cerryl did choke, then had to cough his throat clear.

“About some things, Cerryl, you are still innocent.”

“Not about them,” he countered. “Speaking about them.”

“I’ll have to tell Leyladin that.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“You had better be moving. I wouldn’t want you to be late.” With a smile and a wink, she turned.

When Cerryl hurried into the fountain courtyard on his way to the front Hall and the Avenue, Bealtur was talking with Elsinot by the fountain.

Cerryl nodded as he passed and, after a moment, received nods in return. He could feel both sets of eyes on his back as he entered the front building of the Halls of the Mages.

The Market Square was nearly empty when he turned west off the Avenue toward the healer’s dwelling. Most of the colorful carts were already packed, or close to it, and many had already left. Cerryl didn’t recall the merchants and farmers packing up so early in previous summers, but then he hadn’t been out of the Halls so much, either.

Again, as happened every time he approached Leyladin’s house, he found his eyes taking in the four large arched windows across the front of the imposing dwelling, each window comprised of dozens of diamond-shaped glass panes set in lead, each pane sparkling. He didn’t have to knock. Before he could lift the bronze knocker, the door opened.

“I’m glad you’re here.” The blonde healer smiled.

Cerryl smiled back. “So am I.” He followed her through the silk-hung entry hall, through the orange-scented air of the long sitting room past the portrait of Leyladin’s mother, and back into the red oak paneled study where Cerryl had first met Leyladin’s father.

Layel stood up behind his desk as Cerryl entered. “Good evening, Cerryl. And a good evening it is this day.”

“Yes, it is.” Cerryl’s eyes slipped toward Leyladin.

“Well…best we eat.” Layel gestured, and the three headed into the adjoining dining hall.

Again the long white golden oak table that could have easily contained a score was set but for the three at the end nearest the door to the kitchen. The lamps were already lit, although the orange light of sunset still filled the room.

“Meridis…”

“I be here, and so is the soup.” The gray-haired cook and server carried a white porcelain tureen out and set it on the corner of the table. “Now be seating yourself afore this gets cold.”

Layel gestured and waited for Leyladin to sit. He and Cerryl sat nearly simultaneously.

Then, as Meridis ladled soup into the white china bowls, Layel poured a clear white wine from the big bottle into the three fluted crystal goblets.

The soup was almost a mustard brown, but tangy and certainly with no taste of the hot spice. Cerryl used the big spoon gingerly, then took another spoonful and one after that. “A good soup…what is it?”

“A pumpkin gourd soup.” Leyladin extended the porcelain bread platter.

Cerryl took a chunk of the golden-crusted white bread.

“One of Meridis’s many specialties,” Leyladin added.

“She has so many that they cannot be termed specialties.” Layel smiled at Meridis, who lifted the tureen and headed back to the kitchen.

Some time later, Cerryl looked up and found he had finished the soup and his bread without speaking.

“Patrol duty must be famishing.”

“That and studying for Patrol duty. There is more to it than I had realized.” Cerryl laughed. “I have found that to be true of everything I have done.”

Layel added a laugh. “True it will be of anything of worth that you or I ever do.”

“What about me?” Leyladin asked in a tone of mock demureness.

“Daughter, since you were born, there has always been more to you and what you do than meets the eye. Why would that change now?” Layel offered a sorrowful look.

Cerryl grinned.

Leyladin turned to him with the same demure expression. “You find that amusing, ser White mage?”

“No, Lady Leyladin…merely true. You set me back the first time I saw you, and nothing has changed.”

A hearty belly laugh issued from Layel. “He knows you, Daughter. Indeed he does.”

Leyladin offered a mock grimace, then smoothed her face back into demureness. “Alas, I am surrounded. Does not anyone understand my plight?”

Cerryl shook his head.

The gray-haired server returned to remove the soup bowls, then delivered three large platters-one with four fowl halves, each covered in an orange glaze; one with sliced potatoes covered with a white sauce; and the third with long slivers of what appeared to be roots covered in the white sauce.

“You didn’t fix quilla?” Leyladin glanced from Meridis to her father.

“I do happen to like it, Daughter.”

“It tastes like sawdust.” The blonde grimaced.

“Then I like sawdust,” replied the trader.

After the momentary silence, Layel served himself one of the fowl halves, then some of the potatoes and a heaping helping of quilla. He passed the last platter to Cerryl. “I was at the seasonal auction today. The one at the Patrol building.”

Cerryl nodded and served himself fowl and potatoes and just a few slices of the smothered quilla.

“Did you bid on anything?” Leyladin took the fowl platter from Cerryl.

“I bid-and purchased-some rare oils and essences. Five golds and I got nearly a score of bottles of oil. Some fool had tried to smuggle them past the gates in a wagon with a false bottom.” Layel smiled. “The gate guards are getting better, I think. That trick used to work.”

“This was the auction of goods taken by the guards?” Cerryl took a sip of the fruit-tinged wine.

“Yes. They have one just before each season turn.” Layel refilled his goblet. “I always go, if only to see what goods are so dear that they must be smuggled. I was taken by the clarity and perfection of these oils, though, and since none seemed to recognize their value…” The merchant shrugged. “Even with a gold’s tax on my bid, I stand to triple my investment.”

“What else was so dear,” Cerryl asked, “that it was smuggled? I mean, that usually isn’t?”

“That you can never tell. At the auction, there were the usual oddments-woven willow baskets, two barrels of soft wheat flour, three second-class hand-and-a-half blades, twoscore wool and linen carpets from Hamor…I bid on those, but Muneat’s fellow took them. At what he bid, he can have them. Chorast didn’t show. Usually he doesn’t. Loboll sat there, didn’t bid but once.” Layel shoveled a mouthful of quilla down.

Leyladin winced almost imperceptibly.

Cerryl cut a small slice of the quilla and chewed, swallowing quickly after deciding that Leyladin was right-the quilla tasted even less appetizing than sawmill sawdust, more like sawdust mixed with axle grease. He’d inadvertently tasted enough of sawdust as a youth. He reached for the wine, ignoring the faint knowing smile that crossed her lips.

“Good stuff, quilla,” Layel proclaimed. “You don’t know what you’re missing, dear.” He speared the second half-fowl and transferred it to his plate.

“I’m quite happy not knowing.” The healer cut a slice of the fowl.

“How do you find Patrol duty?” The factor took a healthy slice of fowl, then dipped it in glaze before eating.

“I’m not really on duty yet, not for a few more days. I’m still learning about the southeastern section of Fairhaven.”

“That’s where all the little smugglers are-tin, pigments, copper. Why, if you mages could tax them, you’d get half the coins you’d need for the roads.”

Cerryl doubted that, but he nodded politely. “Everything seems quiet. Even the Market Square has fewer carts, and they leave early.”

“That is true in late summer, every year, almost until harvest. Then there will be peddlers everywhere,” predicted Leyladin, “but it will be quiet until then.”

“Some of the factors have not been so quiet in recent days past,” Layel volunteered. “Scerzet said that he would run any Spidlarian trader off the road, were any to cross his path.”

“Oh?” Cerryl frowned.

“’Tis simple. The Spidlarians-they do not lower their prices for wares. They match ours and then go a copper or two lower.”

“They’re actually pocketing extra coins in the amount that the tariffs raise your prices. Or just a few coppers less than that.”

“So simple that a new-minted junior mage can see it.” Layel beamed. “No matter how much we lower prices, they always can match our prices and make more coins.”

“Do you think the Gallosians are encouraging them?” asked Leyladin.

“No, Daughter. The Gallosians, like all people, think of themselves. They will buy where they can buy the best quality for the fewest coins. Unless the White mages”-he inclined his head toward Cerryl-“unless they either force the Gallosians to pay more for goods traded through Spidlar or forbid their sale at all in Gallos, the Gallosians, as will all in Candar, will buy where they can most cheaply.”

Cerryl could see more than a few problems.

As if anticipating Cerryl’s thoughts, Layel continued, “Once goods are unloaded from a ship, to ensure all tariffs are paid is like catching smoke after it has left the chimney.”

“The traders would not support a war against Gallos and Spidlar, would they?”

Layel shrugged. “Some, like the grain factors, see no difficulties. Recluce does not ship grain, and Austran grain is more dear than any grown in Candar. Nor is maize a problem. The wool factors would pay for war tomorrow-if not with many coins. So would the oilseed growers-those outside of the lowlands of Certis. The metals factors and, so I am told, the Duke of Lydiar are most wroth at the copper shipped from Southport.”

In short, it’s like everything else…with no really clear answers. Cerryl nodded.

“Few choices are there-to take either the city of Elparta or all of Spidlar…or see trade suffer and revenues for Fairhaven fall.”

“Elparta?” Cerryl asked involuntarily.

“Aye…most of the trade to Gallos comes up the river to Elparta. Some goes to Certis through Axalt, but the pass beyond Axalt is narrow and can be patrolled, if need be. So, if the lancers took Elparta…then the surtaxes could be levied there.”

“That would be somewhat difficult without the agreement of the prefect or the viscount and those of Axalt.” Leyladin’s tone was dry. “We would have to send lancers through the greater breadth of Gallos, or through Certis and Axalt.”

Layel shrugged. “It will come to such. Not this year, but it will.”

“Why do you think that?” asked Cerryl.

“The prefect will not oppose the Guild, not openly. But he will not send hordes of his own armsmen to collect our taxes, even though his own people gain vast sums of coin from the White highways. The Spidlarian traders will not impose or pay the tax, and they will sell where they can. The regular tax for them is half what it is for us. The only truly high taxes are the surtaxes, and yet they complain and complain.”

“So we will have a war over taxes?”

“No. We will have a war over trade. That has always been the basis of war with Recluce. They can travel the seas more cheaply than we can build and travel the roads. And their magics allow them to create some goods more cheaply.”

“Enough of this talk of war,” Leyladin said abruptly. “If it comes, then we can talk of it. I’d rather talk even of wool carding and dyeing.” She glanced at her father. “Or Aunt Kasia’s tatwork and embroidery.”

Cerryl smiled sheepishly. So did Layel.

“Who is your Aunt Kasia?” Cerryl finally asked, after enjoying several mouthfuls of the cheese-and-sauce-covered potatoes.

“Mother’s youngest sister. She consorted with a landholder near Weevett. I spent a summer there, and she insisted that I learn the ladylike skills of tatting and embroidering. ‘After all, dear, your children should be well turned out, and you should know how to teach them needle and yarn work. All those coins your father has amassed may not last.’”

Cerryl found himself grinning at the blonde’s mimicry of her aunt.

“It was a very long summer,” Leyladin said dryly.

“What about your aunt?” asked Layel, looking at Cerryl. “She raised you, I understand.”

“Aunt Nall?” Cerryl paused, then said slowly, “She wanted the best for me, but she didn’t want me to be a mage. There wasn’t a glass or a mirror in the house. She was always telling me that glasses were only for the high-and-mighty types of Fairhaven.” His lips quirked as he lifted his goblet. “I feel far less than high-and-mighty.”

“Would that more of ’em in the Halls felt that way. Much they’ve done for Candar and the city, but just folk with mighty skills-that’s all they are.” Layel lifted the leg-the sole remnant of fowl on his plate-and chewed on it.

Folk with mighty skills? Cerryl half-smiled at the thought, knowing that the very words would upset both Anya and Jeslek…and amuse Kinowin.

After the three finished, Meridis cleared away the china and returned with three dishes of a lumpy puddinglike dish.

“Bread pudding…good…” Layel smiled.

Leyladin took a small morsel of the pudding, then laid her spoon aside.

Cerryl took one modest mouthful-enjoying the combination of spices with the richness of the creamed and sweetened bread. Then he had another.

“See; even the White mages like bread pudding,” Layel announced after his last mouthful.

“Not all mages,” countered Leyladin. “It’s too sweet for this one.”

“I do have a fondness for sweets,” Cerryl confessed, then blushed as he saw Leyladin flush.

“I have noticed,” added Layel.

Leyladin shook her head. “You…you two.”

Cerryl took the last bite of the pudding, trying not to look at her. “It is good.”

“Next time, Daughter, you may pick the dessert, but occasionally your sire should have a choice.”

“Yes, Father.”

Contentedly full and relaxed, Cerryl found himself yawning, and he closed his mouth quickly.

“I saw that,” Leyladin said. “When do you get up?”

“Before dawn,” he admitted.

She glanced toward the window and the pitch-darkness beyond the lead-bordered glass diamonds. “You need to go.”

“I suppose so.”

“I am sure you will be back many times, Cerryl,” said Layel, rising with Leyladin. “My daughter much prefers your company to mine.”

“She has spoken quite well of your company,” Cerryl managed as he rose from the velvet-upholstered white oak chair. “Often.”

“Would that she did around me.” Layel still smiled fondly at his daughter.

“Oh, Father…”

“See your mage off, dear.”

Leyladin escorted Cerryl back through the silk-hung sitting room and front hall to the foyer. She opened the door.

“Thank you. The dinner was wonderful,” Cerryl said. “And I did learn some new things from your father. I think I have each time.”

“You always listen.” Leyladin smiled.

“Are you going to be in Fairhaven for a while?”

“I hope so.”

“So do I.” So do I!

“I will be.” She leaned forward and hugged him, then kissed him, this time gently on the lips.

His lips tingled-was it how he felt or the interplay of order and chaos?

“Both,” she said, drawing back slightly.

“Both?” He shook his head.

“When we’re that close, I can almost sense what you feel. That’s why it will be a long time.” She offered another warm smile. “Good night, Cerryl.”

As he walked back to the Halls of the Mages, through the rain that had begun to fall, with the headache that had also begun to grow, he understood what she hadn’t said. If they were ever to become closer, he could not handle chaos the way Jeslek or Anya or most of the Whites did. In fact, he’d probably have to get better at keeping chaos away from and out of his body.

Could he manage that? As a Patrol mage? As any kind of White mage? Without verging on the gray that the Guild-and Recluce-abhorred?