Colors of Chaos

LXXV

WE’RE GOING TO Furenk’s tonight,” Leyladin had told Cerryl, in the firm tone that brooked no argument. “I’m paying, and you’re going to enjoy the food and the wine.”

The two walked down the Avenue, carefully avoiding the few patches of ice remaining on the paving stones. The air bore the trace of an acrid odor, one Cerryl would have described as that of damp chaos, though he had no idea how chaos could have been damp.

“It’s been a cold winter,” said Leyladin.

“It was a warm harvest and a hot summer, though.”

“Hydolar was beastly. I’m glad you came and got me.”

“How was Duke Ferobar?”

“I don’t know. I never saw him. I think he was fearful of mages. I’d rather not talk about it anymore. I was glad to see you. I was even halfway glad to see Anya.”

“That is something.”

Leyladin’s eyebrows rose. “Fydel is nice enough, but he’ll only do what he’s told. You and Anya will do what you think is necessary. Jeslek sent Anya to make sure Hydlen paid. He sent you to make sure the duke paid.”

“You don’t like him.”

“No, I don’t, but…” She left the sentence unfinished.

“You’re not sure which is worse-Sterol’s caution or Jeslek’s actions?”

“Something like that.” The blonde gestured toward the archway. The marble plaque at Furenk’s was unchanged, still proclaiming: “The Inn at Fairhaven,” although the pink marble steps were damp from the mist that had followed the cold rain.

Despite the season, the entry area held the faint scent of flowers. Incense? wondered Cerryl, although he saw no braziers.

As had occurred the last time, a tall functionary in a pale blue cotton shirt and a dark blue vest appeared. “Lady Leyladin, Mage Cerryl, how good to see you both.”

As Cerryl wondered how the man in blue knew his name, the functionary took both their coats and then led the way to a corner table in the back dining room. He seated Leyladin.

Cerryl sat down across from the blonde healer. Again, the ten tables of the back dining room were empty, except for the one where they sat. The pale blue linen was spotless and ironed smooth. The polished bronze lamp in the middle of the table cast a warm but faint glow, and the hearth in the middle of the wall held a moderately high fire that removed all trace of chill from the back dining area.

“It’s as elegant as I remember. Like you,” offered Cerryl.

“You’re elegant, too, you know.” Leyladin smiled. “I didn’t want to share you tonight. Father would have talked and talked and talked about trade and how bad things are getting.”

“They are, but…I’m glad we’re here.”

“Lady…ser?” A heavyset woman in the dark blue trousers and vest with the pale blue shirt appeared beside the table. “This evening, we have the special sliced beef with mushrooms and pearapples or a rack of lamb, young lamb glazed in minted apple.”

“The lamb,” said Leyladin, “and a bottle of the Kyphran gold wine.”

“The beef.”

After the server left, Cerryl looked across the table at the blonde in green, at the deep green eyes he often felt he could fall into. He smiled.

“Why the smile?”

“You.”

“Good. I’m glad. You know, you never tell me about what it was like growing up outside of Fairhaven.”

“Hard. Not terrible…but hard in a way. I had to fetch water from the spring above the mines. The ones below ran green and yellow sometimes and smelled of brimstone. The house…it was nicer than many, even in Hrisbarg. Uncle Syodor took the best from the mine buildings after the old duke closed the mines…” Cerryl continued to offer his impressions of the mines and growing up there. “…something sad about a place where so many men had worked, and then where only my uncle was left.” He paused as the server returned with the wine.

Leyladin sipped the first drops, then nodded and let the server fill each goblet half-full.

Cerryl lifted the goblet and took a sip, smiling as he tasted the Kyphran gold wine, a wine that smelled and tasted like it held faint traces of the best fruits of spring, summer, and fall swirled together. “This is good, maybe the best wine I’ve tasted.”

“I’ve always liked it. Father said I should.” Leyladin grinned. “It’s four silvers a bottle.”

Cerryl swallowed-almost half a gold for a single bottle? “No wonder it’s good.”

“Enjoy it.” Leyladin lifted her goblet.

After a moment, Cerryl took another sip. Four silvers or not, it was good. “What do you think about Kinowin telling me Jeslek wants me to go to Jellico and then Spidlar?”

“He doesn’t want you too close to him here in Fairhaven, perhaps anywhere. I think he’s afraid of you, in a way.”

“Me?”

“No false modesty, Cerryl. None of the younger mages have your strength or talent.”

“Still…” he mused.

“Had I thought of it, I would have expected that Jeslek wanted you to go with the forces to Spidlar.” Leyladin tightened her lips. “He may even let it be known that you are the mage who removed two rulers.”

Cerryl frowned. He had thought of that. “But if he does, then, if he has to have anyone, not just me, but anyone, do that again, it makes it harder.”

“There is that.” Her eyebrows arched.

“You don’t trust him?”

“I trust him to do what benefits him. You benefit him-now. You won’t always, you know.”

“I know.” He took another sip of the golden wine, trying to separate out the flavors…and failing.

“So long as he has problems…”

“That could be a while. I still don’t quite understand how things got so bad. Heralt was pointing out that nothing is new. I mean, we’ve had bad crops, problems with Recluce, ungrateful rulers, trade difficulties…sometimes all at once, but the Guild hasn’t had to fight half of Candar in one form or another.”

“No mage has created mountains before,” she answered.

“I wondered about that.” He looked up as the server returned with two plates. “Part of the reason is that it’s easier to manipulate chaos within the ground than pull pure chaos from the ground and cast it like a firebolt. Part is, I think, that Jeslek wants to split Gallos in two with the mountains. I said that, and he didn’t correct me.”

The heavyset woman placed the lamb before Leyladin and the beef before Cerryl.

“Thank you,” Leyladin said.

“Will there be anything else, lady, ser?”

Cerryl and Leyladin exchanged glances. Then Cerryl spoke. “No, thank you.”

The gray-eyed mage cut a small sliver of the beef and chewed it slowly. “Also good.”

“Try a bite of the lamb.” Leyladin extended a morsel.

After clearing his mouth with a sip of the wine, he ate the lamb. “Good. Better than the beef, I think, but not much.” He recalled Faltar and his aversion to lamb, then pushed away the thought.

After a short silence, Leyladin said, “You think too highly of Jeslek, even as you worry about him.”

Cerryl frowned. “Do you really think that? Why?”

“You seem to think Jeslek thinks beyond himself. I have doubts of that. Either way, he would have you with him to do those tasks he would rather not do. So would Anya, for different reasons.”

Cerryl offered an enigmatic smile.

“You aren’t listening. You always give me that order-cursed smile when you don’t want to tell me I’m wrong. Anya is pure poison, especially for you. Everything she says is twisted, but you listen to everyone, and then you have to figure it out. You usually do, but while you’re trying to understand it all, you can do stupid things…” Leyladin shook her head. “I don’t know why I bother.”

“I don’t trust her, either. I have few choices. I would rather stay with you.” Cerryl sighed slowly. “There. Is that better?”

“It’s more honest,” said Leyladin. “Why don’t you try it?”

“What? Honesty?” Cerryl laughed gently. “I have. It doesn’t work. Except with you, and you’re a Black.”

“You were honest with Myral. You’re honest with Kinowin.”

“I never lied. I’ve misled them both with partial truths.” Cerryl’s mouth twisted. “In that way, Jeslek is honest. He doesn’t pretend to be listening. He can afford that. You can, you know, when you’re the most powerful White wizard in recorded history.”

“What about the ancient Whites?”

“I don’t trust legends. In any case, that knowledge has mostly been lost.” Cerryl finished the last of his beef and pearapples and then wiped up the sauce with a scrap of bread. “That was outstanding. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now you understand why I like to come here.”

“I do.” He frowned.

“What’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing. You said I’d understand, and I do, but most people don’t. People talk about understanding,” the gray-eyed wizard mused. “What they mean is that they want you to understand what they want or believe enough so that you’ll change. Understanding itself doesn’t change anything.”

“You are cynical.”

“Truth isn’t cynical, Leyladin.”

“Enough of truth or cynicism. We don’t have that much time left.” She gestured toward the server, who had peered into the rear dining area, then waited for the woman to approach.

“Yes, lady?”

“What of sweets?”

“We have a honey cake and an egg custard glazed with the rare raw sugar of Hamor.”

“The egg custard,” Leyladin ordered.

“I’d like that also.” Cerryl nodded in agreement.

With a smile, the server turned. Cerryl refilled both their goblets, emptying the bottle. “I’ve enjoyed the meal…and the company.”

“I liked the company, too. But not another word about the Guild.”

“Yes, lady.” He smiled at her.

“What was your uncle like? You’ve never said, except that he was a master miner.”

“He was a miner. His words were rough, and his heart was good. He believed in doing his best in working. Dylert-the mill master-once said that he admired him above all the other craft masters. I didn’t know he was a master crafter until after I’d left the mines.”

“Did he know you’d be a mage?”

“He and Aunt Nall both knew I had the talent. They tried to keep glasses away from me when I was young.”

“Wise of them.”

“I didn’t think so at the time.” Cerryl laughed, then paused as the server arrived with the egg custards, each in a circular dish covered with a hard and dark brown glaze.

Leyladin raised her eyebrows at the server and mouthed something.

“Seven and five, lady.”

“Thank you.” The healer turned to Cerryl and smiled. “Go ahead. Try it.”

The glaze was powerfully sweet, sweeter even than honey, contrasting with the subdued richness of the custard.

“Rich…but good,” he finally said, looking at the empty dish.

“I take it you like rich but good?”

Cerryl flushed.

“I like it when you do that.” She giggled.

“I’m glad you do.” He could feel that he was still red.

She reached across the table and touched his hand. She was still smiling. “Let me enjoy this…now.”

He had to smile back. “I guess I do like rich…and good.”

She giggled again.

Cerryl tried not to wince as Leyladin left eight silvers on the table for the server-almost his stipend for an entire eight-day. Instead, after they donned the jackets that the server had returned to them, he offered his arm as they left the rear dining area and walked through the half-filled front area.

“Lady Leyladin…He’s a mage…don’t know his name…Patrollers say he’s one not to anger…”

“…fair…though…”

“…her father…almost as many coins as Jiolt…”

Cerryl wondered if he’d ever get used to the whispers and the speculations that seemed to trail him. As they stepped out into the dark and chill, he bent toward Leyladin. “Thank you again. It was wonderful.”

“I’m glad.” For a moment she leaned her head against his, and he could smell the faint floral scent and the scent of the woman he loved-and wondered if he would ever have, except as a friend.

They walked slowly back up the Avenue and then westward toward Leyladin’s house. The wind was colder, wet, raw, promising another winter storm before long.

Leyladin took Cerryl’s hand. “Promise me that you’ll follow Kinowin’s advice for now. Not always-just for the next year or so.”

“You have visions, too?” He smiled gently, squeezing her fingers gently.

“Not visions, feelings.”

“I trust them, and I’ll do my best.”

“Don’t humor me.”

“I’m not. Sometimes…I can’t always do what I want. I didn’t want to deal with either the prefect or Duke Ferobar. I didn’t get that much of a choice.”

She squeezed his hand, and they walked up the stone walk toward the door of the house she considered modest-compared to those of factors in other cities.