Colors of Chaos

Colors of Candar
LXXVIII

STANDING IN THE stable courtyard at the far rear of the Halls of the Mages, Cerryl looked at the mount and at the white and red livery. He’d never been that comfortable on a horse, probably because he’d never been in the saddle until he’d become a student mage. His last effort on horseback had resulted in a long, long walk.

Finally, he mounted and eased his mount over beside Fydel’s, dreading the ride ahead. At least the gelding seemed more tractable than the beast he’d stolen in Hydolar.

Although the dawn wind blew out of the northeast, damp and cold, but not strong, his jacket kept him warm. So far…He looked around. A half-score of lancers sat mounted by the gate from the courtyard.

Fydel glanced at Cerryl, then toward the small group of lancers. “Best we be going now.”

“Where are all the lancers?” Cerryl asked.

“Most of them are at the South Barracks. We’ll meet them there.”

“Fifty score?”

“Half that. The others will come with the High Wizard when he deems it necessary.” Fydel urged his mount forward.

Cerryl flicked the gelding’s reins to catch up to the older mage. He hadn’t missed the tinge of bitterness in the square-bearded mage’s voice. “After he takes them to Hydolar?”

“After he takes them to Hydolar and brings down another Tower to prove his mightiness-and takes the coins necessary to wage this war. It has been too long since the powers of chaos were unleashed.” Fydel shrugged as he turned his mount onto the Avenue. “In generations, only Gallos has felt them-when we were last there.” He snorted. “For all that, for the destruction of near on twenty-score lancers, the prefect yet ignores Fairhaven when he thinks he can do so, and less than two years have passed. The viscount bows in perfect obeisance and does as he pleases. We have twice removed the Dukes of Hydolar, and yet the merchants believe not our power.” Another snort followed.

Are all rulers moved only by considering which forces are the greatest? Cerryl felt as bleak as the gray morning.

The gelding’s hoofs clopped dully on the white stone of the Avenue, a stone that seemed lifeless in the gray before dawn.