Free Colors of Chaos by L. E. Modesitt Page A

the murmuring to subside.
    Lyasa slipped up beside Cerryl. “You don’t want to sit down?”
    “I can sense what’s going on better here.”
    “What is going on? Besides more taxes on things from Recluce?” The dark-haired and olive-eyed mage raised her jet-black eyebrows.
    “Much more,” he said in a low voice. “I just don’t know what.”
    “That’s always true,” Lyasa agreed.
    Both waited for Myral to speak.
    Finally, the older mage coughed once, twice, and cleared his throat. “I am a few years older than most of you.” Myral waited for the subdued chuckles to subside. “And, being older, have had more time to peruse the archives and the old records.
    “Every generation or so, this arises. Why?” Myral shrugged. “I could not say, save perhaps that every generation of rulers of the lands of Candar must learn anew the price for unity in trade and peace. As the overmage Kinowin has said, and as the honorable Jeslek pointed out, a surtax is not the best answer. In fact, it should not be necessary, but necessary it is, because other lands, especially that of Spidlar, feel they should not contribute to the roads and order that hold Candar together. The most permanent answer would be for us to take Spidlar, as we were forced to take Montgren so many centuries before.” Another shrug followed. “Alas, there are two other lands between our domains and those of Spidlar.”
    At Myral’s woebegone look, another round of laughter filled the chamber.
    “So… for the moment, I would say that it behooves us to request the surtax be levied. Then… we shall see those who are prudent and look to the future good of Candar and those who look to lining their wallets with golds, no matter how great the price their children may pay.” Myral took a sweeping bow and seated himself.
    A movement caught Cerryl’s eyes, and he watched as Sterol eased his way back along the pillars on the south side of the Hall, reappearing at the side of the front of the dais, studying Jeslek.
    Anya reappeared at her desk, and even from where Cerryl stood he could see the apologetic smile she flashed to Fydel and then to Faltar.
    “She is good, in a sneaky way,” murmured Lyasa. “You do have a vantage point here.”
    Cerryl nodded, pondering Myral’s words-words that had sounded fine. Somehow what the older mage had said disturbed Cerryl, as if something did not scree true.
    Darkness, he wished he knew more.
     
     
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    Despite the darkness, Cerryl could feel the heat as he found himself struggling through a forest, but a forest like no other he had seen, one with trees taller than the Wizards’ Tower, trees that he could sense but not see. He took a breath, then another, as he found his lungs laboring, as a cloying and sickly sweet scent permeated the air around him.
    A long vine swung by his shoulder, then brushed the bare skin of his upper arm again. It turned woody like a liana, sending forth rootlets to cling to him as though he were one of the massive trees of the unfamiliar forest. The strange and cloying perfume grew stronger… so strong he could barely breathe, and his heart pounded in his chest.
    Cerryl bolted upright in his bed, sweat streaming down his face, as if he were standing at his guard post in full summer sun. Or in a cook fire…
    Chaos flickered from his locked door-a door he always kept locked when he slept-now that he could lock it, unlike when he’d been a student. He slipped toward the door, extending his senses. Without opening it, he could sense the white glow of chaos shielded, could feel the footsteps behind a light shield, could catch the faintest scent of sandalwood perfume.
    Anya… headed along the corridor toward Faltar’s room.
    Cerryl forced himself to take a long and slow breath as he eased back to his bed, where he sat down slowly-suddenly shivering. After a moment, he wrapped the red woolen blanket around himself, then massaged his throbbing forehead with the fingers of his right