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into the worn surface of the worktable-or was it the discarded oak galls
festering in the bottom of the waste bin?
Then you should ask, ventured Tellis, his eyes back on Colors of White,
his fingers steady as he replicated the letters on the virgin vellum. What do
you find hard to understand?
Cerryl dipped his own quill and copied for a moment before replying. There
is so much. He paused, ensuring the quill was well clear of the vellum before
he spoke. There are mentions of iron birds that brought the white way to
Candar, but little is said of the time before Cyador.
I thought you had questions about matters difficult to understand. Tellis
continued to copy, his eyes on the book, the quill nearly a blur under fingers
swift and sure.
Those as well, master Tellis. Cerryl nodded, then copied another few
words, his thoughts jumbled as he tried to recall something he could claim was
confusing.
Such as? prompted Tellis.
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Well, there are so many things, but I do not understand about Westwind.
How could anyone live on the Roof of the World? No one lives there today, but
the histories say it was even colder then, yet Westwind prospered until it got
warmer. Cerryl wanted to smile to himself at coming up with the question.
Instead, he dipped the quill and resumed copying.
Oh, Cerryl. Tellis actually sighed. You read, and you understand the
words, and yet you do not see what is before you. When the winters were
colder, then only the angels could bear the Roof of the World for much of the
year, and they did not have to spend so much gold and effort to defend
themselves. Few could reach their citadel. After the great change, when the
years got warmer, then the western lands thought about what had once been
theirs, and they sought to reclaim those domains, for the warmer weather made
the summers in the lowlands harder on the flocks and herds and the green
grasses of the highlands more attractive. The Roof of the World was easier to
reach for more of the year, and the guards were stretched thinner. Do you not
see?
When you put it that way, master Tellis, it is clear enough, but that is
not the way the Historic reads. Cerryl frowned as he noted the fractional
widening of his letters. He wiped the quill s nib clean and took out the
penknife to sharpen the point.
The Historic is written for men who think, not for those who wish every
word explained.
Although Tellis s voice was mild, Cerryl winced. He supposed he deserved
the reprimand. He tried the reshaped nib on his palimpsest then nodded at the
letter width.
You are younger than your years in your thoughts and far older in your
heart, Tellis added. I can do little for your heart, but for Dylert s sake I
will press you to think. Another puzzling question-a better one?
Cerryl did not answer immediately, stifling a yawn once more.
No matter how tired you are, Cerryl, you must always keep your thoughts
and wits about you. After a moment, the scrivener added, In Fairhaven,
especially.
Cerryl looked down, trying to dredge up another question, a better one.
After what seemed far too long, he spoke. Nowhere does it say why the black
mages can control the winds. The white mages can create fire, and I know fire
creates drafts, but& He let the question hang.
That is a better question, said Tellis.
Cerryl had hoped so. He covered his mouth with the back of his free hand.
Was it the bitter odor seeping around the writing board he had laid over the
battered surface? Or just his own tiredness?
The great winds are spawned, we are told, in the cold places of the world,
above the Roof of the World and in the far north. Leastwise, that is where the
great winds seem to come from. The black mages, as their ancestors the black
angels, are creatures of the cold and, hence, are closer to the chill and the
wind, while the white mages come from the warmth of the sun and hold to
mastery of flame and prosperity. Tellis nodded at his explanation.
But it takes fire to forge iron, and the white mages cannot bear its
touch, countered Cerryl.
Touch cold iron sometime, and feel it suck all heat out of you. Tellis
smiled. Remember, nothing is as it seems, and though I do my best to instruct
you, there is much beyond what even a master scrivener knows, even one raised
with the education I was fortunate to receive.
Cerryl covered his mouth again, wishing he did not have to yawn so much.
A good thing it is we are near finished for the day. Tellis glanced at
Cerryl and shook his head. You go. A quick nap will do you good. Beryal or
Benthann will knock on your door. No reading-a nap, dinner, and a good night s
slumber. Tomorrow I ll be at the tower, for they want a copyist, and you must
speed copying the Herbes book. Nivor asked about our progress yesterday.
Yes, ser. Cerryl nodded politely. The herbal book wasn t totally boring,
but he did not find it nearly so interesting as even the Historic which he
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read periodically in order to answer Tellis s questions.
Off with you.
Cerryl closed the Herbes book, cleaned the quill, and stoppered the ink
then washed his hands. Tellis did not look up from his copying of The Colors
of White.
Dinner won t be that long, Beryal announced from the kitchen as Cerryl
passed through the common room and stepped out the back door into the
courtyard.
Thank you, Beryal. He wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve as
he stood for a moment in the light and cooling breeze, a breeze that carried
the scent of wet wool from the alleyway.
Cerryl took a step, then another, and stopped, looking around from the
middle of the courtyard. He glanced toward the rear gate, confident he would
see Pattera there. The space was empty. He frowned, certain that someone had
been watching him.
After a moment, he turned back toward the main part of the house, but no
one stood in the doorway to the common room. He glanced back at the gate, and
then at the side door to the room Tellis and Benthann shared. The doors were
closed, and the gateway empty.
Slowly, he walked to his room, but the feeling of being watched continued
as he opened his door. The room was empty.
Abruptly as it had come, the feeling of being watched vanished. Cerryl
shuddered as he closed the door.
With the chill in his bones, all thought of sleep vanished. He checked the
shutters-closed tightly. Then, almost furtively, Cerryl eased the screeing
glass from behind the wooden panel he had loosened, leaving his books there.
Could he? He looked down at the silver-rimmed glass, seeing the thin-faced
reflection of a youth with barely a hint of a beard-if that. Not even a man
yet, and why was he even thinking about using the glass? His eyes went to the
closed shutters. Yet he had to do something. More and more, he felt that
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