Colors of Chaos

XLIII

FAT WHITE FLAKES of snow drifted down, some sliding off Cerryl’s oil-polished white leather jacket, others melting when they struck the stones of the Avenue or the walkway. Cerryl glanced ahead and to the side, alert for anything unusual, his eyes and senses changing focus continually as he walked northward toward Leyladin’s.

The Market Square was nearly deserted under the fall of fluffy snow, with but a handful of painted carts clustered in the center. As Cerryl turned westward just south of the square, he surveyed the wall from which he had been shot. The trees, with their shrunken and wizened gray winter leaves, now offered little cover. A thin layer of white covered grass and shrubs, but not stone roads, walkways, or tile roofs.

He continued westward.

A thin line of white smoke rose from the center chimney of Leyladin’s house, but the shutters remained open, the glass windows shut. Cerryl remained half-amazed at all the glass windows in Fairhaven-amazed and grateful that even the Halls of the Mages had them.

Soaris opened the door. “How be the arm, ser mage?”

“Much better, Soaris. Much better. I appreciated your handling of the carriage. I didn’t thank you at the time, but I trust you understand I wasn’t feeling as well as I might have.”

“I understand, ser.” Not a trace of a smile crossed the houseman’s face, though his eyes betrayed a slight twinkle as he stepped back and opened the door fully. “Lady Leyladin asked that you wait in the right-hand sitting room. Her healing duties at the Tower took somewhat longer than she had thought.”

Following Soaris, Cerryl sat down in one of the velvet upholstered armchairs, the one facing the silver-framed picture on the inside wall. This time he had a chance to study the portrait of Leyladin’s mother. The smile was warmer than Cerryl remembered and the blonde hair longer and more golden than Leyladin’s reddish-tinted hair. The gold threads on the green vest had been carefully reproduced by the artist, so faithfully that even a loose thread near the side pocket showed. The woman’s blue eyes held the same common sense and wisdom as her daughter’s, but not the laughter.

Had life somehow been hard for Leyladin’s mother? Harder than for the daughter? Cerryl wondered, his own eyes meeting those of the painting. After a moment, he looked away, reviewing the elegant furnishings-the settee, the other armchair, the matching cabinets of polished dark wood, and the low inlaid table before him. All were spotless, as if the room were never used-and almost as though it never had been.

The scent in the room was that of Leyladin, light and flowery, with a hint of depth.

After a time, at the sound of leather slippers on the marble of the hall, he turned and stood. “You look beautiful.”

“I look tired.” A fleeting and crooked smile crossed her lips, erasing for an instant the darkness beneath her eyes.

“You still look beautiful.”

“You’re kind.” In silklike green shirt and trousers, with a heavier but sleeveless vest of purple wool, the healer sat on the green velvet settee and touched the place beside her. “Sit by me…please.”

“Don’t look so serious,” he pleaded as he settled beside her.

“I am serious. I can’t laugh all the time.”

Cerryl waited.

“I know you care for me, Cerryl, and I care for you. We keep seeing each other, but we don’t say too much. We look like lovers to others, but we don’t talk like lovers.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to,” Cerryl said slowly. “I thought, because I’m White and you’re Black, we had to be very careful, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

Leyladin’s eyes shimmered, as if she were close to tears. She tightened her lips, then turned so her eyes met his.

Cerryl looked into her eyes, feeling again as if he were falling into their green depths.

“Cerryl.”

Although her voice was gentle, he almost jumped. “Yes?” He tried not to look at her so intently. “I’m sorry. Sometimes, I feel like I could get lost in your eyes.”

“That sounds like you’re trying to be a poet. Or a lancer officer with a maid he’s just met.” The words were tempered with another smile, a gentle one with a hint of laughter.

Cerryl winced. “That’s not what I meant. That’s how I feel, but I wasn’t trying…You’re getting…when you do that…but you don’t…” He sighed and stopped, finally shrugging. “I can’t say what I mean.”

“Try it again,” she suggested gently. “Just say the words. Don’t try to impress me or convince me. Say what you mean.”

He swallowed. “I did. I do feel like I could get lost in your eyes. I didn’t say it to make you feel anything. It’s the way I feel. I don’t know how to be a poet. Sometimes, I still feel like I have to watch every word so that I don’t sound like a miner or a mill boy.”

“That is what makes it so difficult.” She looked down. “If only, if only you were not a mage and I a healer.”

“We are what we are. Does it matter?” Cerryl reached out and took Leyladin’s hand. “I can hold your hand. Do you feel any chaos there? Any burning?”

“That’s now,” she said quietly. “What about next season? Or next year?”

“I’m doing everything Myral taught me, and you can touch him to heal him.”

“Myral isn’t my consort.”

“White mages can’t have consorts,” he responded. “You know that.”

“But Black healers can,” she pointed out.

Cerryl swallowed. “Are you saying, because I’m a White mage…” Cerryl swallowed once, then again, feeling his stomach turn in a sickening sense of despair.

“I’m not throwing that at you. I’m not considering becoming anyone else’s consort, but whether it’s recognized or not, I want that sort of relationship.”

Cerryl nodded, wondering how he could ever fill that role. How could she ever consider a mere Patrol mage as anything more than a friend? How could he have hoped for more?

“Cerryl…dear one…you are dear to me.”

“More like a friend, I fear,” he said hoarsely.

“I would not hug a friend so, nor bestow the lightest of kisses.”

“Then…?” He shrugged helplessly.

“I want you, but I want you as though you were my consort. I want you to be able to hold me, no matter what you have done as a mage. I do not want a man who holds chaos and her power as his mistress while he says he is my consort.”

Cerryl nodded slowly. With her words he could scarcely argue, yet…was what she wanted even possible?

“Don’t look so downcast. You’ve barely over a score of years. We do have time to see if that is what you also wish.” She smiled warmly, her green eyes twinkling. “Besides, Meridis has fixed a pork roast, stuffed with apples and spiced bread dressing, just for us. And no quilla.”

“Your father? Isn’t he here?” For the moment Cerryl was stunned, stunned at Leyladin’s directness and stunned at where all that she had said might lead them. He grasped at her father’s absence, at anything to give himself some space to let himself take in her earlier words.

“Father remains in Lydiar, making arrangements for his ships.” She leaned forward and brushed his cheek with her lips, then rose from the settee. “I’m hungry. Myral was worse, and it took a long time.”

“I think the Guild meeting tired him. I talked to him the other night, and he almost fell asleep. It was barely dark.”

“He has to sleep so much, these days.” She shook her head as she led the way to the dining hall.

The room had two place settings, across from each other at the end toward the kitchen. The rest of the long white golden table shimmered in the lights from the wall lamps as the light from the windows faded with the coming of evening. Cerryl gestured to the white golden oak chair and waited until Leyladin seated herself on the dark green velvet upholstered seat.

Then he sat, careful not to brush the pale white china that rested upon a place mat of light green linen. Following Leyladin’s example, he took the green linen napkin and laid it in his lap. Since the amber wine bottle was already uncorked, he filled her fluted crystal goblet, then his own.

Lifting his glass, he said, “To you.” What else can I say?

“To you, dear one.” She lifted her glass in turn.

They both sipped.

The kitchen door opened.

“About time it is…Much longer and it’d be dry as dust and as hard as bone.” Meridis set two platters on the table, then returned with another. “And there be honey cake for later. Enjoy.”

“Thank you,” offered Cerryl.

“No thanks to me, but thanks to the lady. Be her wish, only my doing.” The gruff words were belied by the broad smile before the cook vanished into the kitchen.

Leyladin took two of the already-sliced sections of roast and stuffing, each covered with a clear apple glaze, then tendered the serving platter to Cerryl. His arm twinged as he took the platter, but he set the serving dish down carefully and served himself.

Leyladin leaned forward and served the cabbage rolls to Cerryl. “I saw that.”

“The arm’s better. That only happens every so often.”

“Likely tale.” She flashed a warm grin.

“Most likely.”

After another silence that seemed to stretch out, he took a sip of the wine, then offered, “I didn’t know your father had ships.”

“He has three. He uses them mainly for what he calls long-voyage trading. Prices change too quickly across Candar. He sends the three out for goods that can’t come from Candar or Recluce.”

Cerryl frowned, trying to think what goods might not come from either, considering that the Black mages could reputedly grow just about anything. “Such as?” he finally asked.

“There are some dyes…There’s a crimson one that comes from crushed insects that only live in the southern jungles of Hamor and a deep purple one that the Austrans get from some sort of mussel.” The blonde took a sip of wine. “And silver, now that the silver mines in Kyphros are worn out. There’s a dark wood, like lorken, very rare-that comes from Hamor.”

“I think I understand,” Cerryl said. “It’s like the way he trades, things that others would like that he can get more cheaply with his own ships.”

“How do you like the roast?”

“It’s good. Would you like some more, before I eat it all?”

“Just one more slice,” she said.

Cerryl served her one slice and then took the last two for himself.

“What are we going to do?” he finally asked, after glancing down at a clean platter, surprised not that he had eaten so much, but that he did not feel stuffed. “The two of us?”

“Listen to Myral,” she said. “He told me that we shouldn’t hurry, not right now, not until you understand how to handle your power better. He told me not to worry.” She shook her head. “He’s dying, and he told me not to worry.”

Cerryl lifted the goblet but did not drink, his eyes on the still-falling white beyond the window. “There’s not much other choice, is there?”

“No. I trust Myral. Sometimes…he sees things.”

Cerryl trusted Myral’s sight, but even so, that left the question of what to do about it, and Anya’s arguments and Kinowin’s counterarguments ran through his mind.

“What are you thinking?”

“Kinowin called it something like Ryba’s curse. If you see a vision, and if it’s true, how do you make it come true? By doing what you planned to do or doing something different?”

“What did Kinowin say?” asked Leyladin.

“He never answered the question.”

“What do you think?” she pursued, fingers loosely circled around the crystal stem of the wine goblet.

“I don’t know what to think.” He pursed his lips, then let his breath out slowly. “I suppose…I suppose you-we-do what we think is best and hope.”

“Do you think waiting to become lovers is wrong?”

“No…I don’t like it, but you and Myral are probably right.” About that, anyway… “I cannot say I am pleased, though.”

“Nor I.” Leyladin leaned forward so that her hand could reach across the table and grasp his. “But we can be together.”

Cerryl nodded slowly, then smiled.