Free The White Order by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

Viental, with a look at the youth.
       “Time enough to complain when we find he be wrong,” answered Dylert. “If he be wrong. Cerryl's not a flighty chap, like some.”
       A last shove by Viental, and the log slipped away from the blade. Brental looked at the drop gear and then at the water gates before taking a cloth and brushing away the sawdust that had swirled around the circular toothed blade.
       The color drained from the redhead's face. “There's a crack here ... might not a held another pass.” His eyes went to Cerryl.
       Then Dylert glanced at Cerryl, frowned, then grinned. “Guess you might yet make a mill man, boy. Anyone hear a blade off-true like that...” He shook his head. “My da, he claimed he could. I never could. That be why... I check the blade so often. Thought he was a-tellin' tales.”
       Cerryl looked down for a moment, his eyes on the sawdust-covered stones around the saw platform. “I wasn't sure, not all the way, but... I didn't want anyone hurt, and you talked about how a broken blade...”
       “He listens, too,” said Brental. “Glad I am that he does.”
       Viental shook his head ruefully. “Know why my mother said to wait afore talking.”
       “Well... good thing Henkar got the new blade forged and tempered ... This rate we'll never survive ... two blades this season. Best we get to it,” Dylert said. “Can't be cutting with a cracked blade.”
       While the three men wrestled to replace the blade, Cerryl stepped back and slipped out of the mill, trying to keep from shaking as he did. Again, he'd barely managed to avoid revealing what he had really seen.
       Outside, in the hot but slightly cooler shade by the now-silent millrace, he swallowed.
       Finally, he lifted the heavy yoke and walked slowly uphill toward the stables.
     
     

White Order
    XV
     
    Cerryl looked at the handcart, upside down on the flooring stones just inside the mill door, then at the dark-stained and battered half bucket filled with grease.
       With a slow and silent deep breath, Cerryl reached into the bucket and dipped out a globule of the dark substance with his right hand and methodically began to grease the cart wheels and axle, using a thin stripped fir branch, barely more than a twig, to push the grease where his fingers couldn't reach.
       Behind him, at the other side of the mill, Dylert directed Brental and Viental as the three continued cutting a half-dozen oak logs from the upper woods, logs that Dylert had marked and felled a season before. Cerryl's eyes went to the saw platform, but his senses only saw the normal whitish red of the cutting, not the angry red of a stressed or cracked blade. He nodded and looked back down at the dark gray grease.
       After another repressed sigh, he dipped out more grease.
       “Some folk here to see you, Cerryl.” Erhana stood in the door to the mill, her voice barely audible over the whine of the big blade and the thump, thump of the wheels.
       “Me?” Cerryl finished daubing grease on the top exposed part of the cart's axle. “To see me?”
       Erhana smiled, then added, “Your aunt and uncle, I think.”
       Cerryl looked around for the grease rag, then saw it under the side of the upended left cart wheel, where he'd placed it to keep any extra grease from falling on the floor stones. He picked it up and wiped his hand as clean as he could, then straightened, and walked out the door into the sunlight.
       Overhead, the summer sky was filled with white puffy clouds scudding westward, clouds that cast fast-moving shadows across the hills of western Lydiar and the forests to the north of the mill.
       Cerryl glanced from Erhana to his aunt and uncle and then back to the brown-haired girl. “Thank you.”
       Erhana nodded and slipped uphill toward the house where Dyella was carding wool in the shade of the porch.
       “How are you?” Cerryl asked after a moment.
       Syodor carried a small pack.