Colors of Chaos

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CERRYL SHIFTED HIS weight. He stood in the west corner of the small second-level rampart of the guardhouse before the north gates to the White City of Fairhaven. That was the only corner where the sun touched. His white leather jacket was fastened all the way up to his neck, and even with the heavy shirt and white wool tunic of a full mage underneath, he was cold.

He glanced out at the white granite highway that stretched north and, just beyond where he could see, curved eastward toward Lydiar. As the day had passed, it had warmed enough that his breath no longer formed a white cloud, but the north wind still cut through his white woolen trousers. His eyes went down to the armsmen in red-trimmed white tunics who stamped their boots and walked back and forth in front of the gates, waiting for travelers.

The rumbling of another set of wheels-iron ones-on the stone alerted Cerryl, and he looked up and out along the highway to study the approaching vehicle, a high-sided wagon painted cyan and cream, escorted by a full score of lancers in cyan livery, ten preceding and ten following the wagon. Cyan was the color of the Duke of Lydiar.

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