The White Order

LXXXVIII

UNDER THE EARLY harvest sun, Cerryl fidgeted in his saddle again, a saddle that seemed as hard as the glazed bricks of the sewer tunnels, and as unyielding. He knew that for all his efforts he still swayed and bounced far too much.

The western side of Certis was hillier, but the oilseed fields were interspersed with meadows where grazed small herds of cattle. Not sheep? Then, the meadows were more lush than those of Montgren. Scattered stone houses reared out of the green hills, located seemingly without pattern.

Cerryl wondered why they had even gone to Jellico. It was more than four days out of the way, since they were headed to Gallos on the Great White Highway, and all they had done was stay for two days and ride off.

Then, he had no idea exactly what Jeslek and Eliasar were conveying to Rystryr. A show of magely force? A trade agreement?

He shrugged. Who knew? No one was telling him-that was certain. His eyes went to the way before them. Ahead on either side of the Great White Highway, looming into the western sky, lay the Easthorns. Even in late summer, the tops of the peaks were crowned in snow, and by harvest time, snowfalls had resumed on the higher slopes.

Despite the heat, as he glanced toward the mountains, swaying in the saddle, Cerryl shivered. He had no doubts that the road through the Easthorns would be cold.

“More snow than usual,” commented Fydel from his mount in front of Cerryl. “It could be a cold winter in Candar. There are times when it would help to have weather mages.”

“Not like the accursed Creslin, thank you,” said Anya.

“Megaera was red-haired, you know.” Fydel laughed. “I wonder if, way back, you might be related.”

Fire flared from Anya’s fingertips, lancelike fire. “Would you like to see how I am otherwise like her, dear Fydel?”

Cerryl could sense Fydel’s order shields rise, and perceived that the square-bearded mage’s shields were nowhere strong enough to contain the power that rose around Anya. He swallowed, half-wondering if Faltar had any idea of the power Anya could raise.

“I think that the overmage would be less than pleased if we turned chaos-fire among ourselves.” Fydel’s voice bore an edge.

“The overmage will find much work for your chaos, Anya.” As Jeslek turned the saddle, his voice was mild, but the sun-gold eyes burned. “And your other talents.”

Anya smiled, more brightly than normal, and more falsely, the chaos-fire lance gone as though it had never been. “I am here to do your bidding, honored Jeslek.”

“Good. And I hope all of you are using your senses to study the road.” Jeslek turned and resumed his conversation with Klybel.

Lyasa coughed, lightly, and Cerryl looked to his left. The black-haired student lifted her fingers in imitation of Anya and then raised her eyebrows, mouthing the words “Did you see that?”

Cerryl nodded.

“What are you talking about?” asked Kochar abruptly.

“The snow,” answered Cerryl, grasping for the first words that crossed his mind that made any sense. “Fydel was saying that it might be a cold winter with all the snow up there already. Lyasa wanted to know if I’d seen where he pointed.”

“Oh. .”

“I have the feeling the way is going to get colder.”

“Fine by me,” suggested Kochar. “I’ll take cold over heat any day.”

Cerryl wasn’t so sure, although his face was sunburned and his legs ached, cramping so fiercely that he knew that when he did dismount, he would barely be able to stand for several moments after he did.

“You haven’t felt the mountain cold,” added Lyasa.

Cerryl wasn’t certain he wanted to, not as he recalled how cold his winters with Dylert had been. He shifted his weight in the saddle again, his eyes traveling to the Easthorns once more, then to the shadows cast by the chestnut on the white granite of the road, the hard white granite of the road. Only slightly past midday, and that meant a great deal more riding.

He took a deep breath, trying to relax.

The Great White Highway seemed endless, and they had yet to reach the base of the Easthorns.