Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

There, he has not taken one step inside before someone calls, “Majer in the barracks!”

  Lorn shakes his head, and walks the north wing, then the south, saying little, just looking, before leaving. He finds nothing he should not, and has not since his second informal inspection. While he does not wish to intrude or interfere too much, he also knows that his presence shows he wants to maintain order and discipline, and that he cares.

  He walks slowly back to the study, and the maps, except he pushes them aside as he seats himself at the narrow desk. Instead, he pulls out and rereads Ryalth’s last scroll.

  My dearest lancer,

  We are well, as I know you know, but still must I write you such. Your son Kerial is healthy and strong, and I believe he looks more like you, with his brown hair and amber eyes…

  I do not know that you would have heard, but the Emperor now has a new Merchanter Advisor. That is Vyanat’mer, of the Hyshrah Clan, a house nearly as strong as the Dyjani. Veljan was also considered. Bluoyal was dismissed because he had been discovered paying bribes to a senior enumerator in the port of Biehl. As you know, the enumerator has vanished, but not the record of the payments. Bluoyal has also vanished, but none can say whether by flight or by his many enemies. When one falls from power, enemies multiply…

  Ryalor House has had some profitable commerce with the Hyshrah traders, and have found them to be most careful folk, and I trust that Vyanat’mer will prove like them…

  We had once talked about iron trade, but Ryalor House has never engaged in such, although I have heard of those who have, particularly in northern ports, but after your adventures, it is most certain that we will not follow that course, even were it profitable. As poor Bluoyal has discovered, there are always records somewhere, for a trader cannot determine whether he profits or fails without such.

  Lorn frowns for a moment, then smiles at Ryalth’s observations and indirect advice. There are always records-somewhere. He finishes the scroll, and then takes out paper and his own pen.

  Dearest,

  As well you know, patience is scarcely my greatest virtue, yet all I do in these days requires such, for the barbarians seem endless at times, and, as in all new situations, there is much I must learn…

  Winter is coming, with the cold rains, and chill winds, and with it, I would hope, fewer attacks by the barbarians, and more time to plan and consider how to deal with these changing times, times that change even as most turn their eyes from the change…

  From what I can calculate and have seen, in your words, as well, you and Kerial must be doing well. I cannot tell you how much I miss not being with you in these times… but I am glad that Jerial and Myryan were there to help you, and while I have also written them to express my deep gratitude, would you also again convey it for me?

  Would that I could be there in person, but you know you are always in my mind and thoughts.

  He rereads his scroll once more, then rolls it and seals it, heating the wax with a touch of chaos.

  Then he takes out the silver volume and pages through it, settling on the verse he selects for reasons he cannot articulate.

  I look to the hills whence cometh no aid;

  my god is not divine, for he is made-

  made of man, made of fire, filled with salt.

  His eyes are a single star long since set.

  He does not praise the lame and halt.

  He judges not, nor yet does he forget.

  Is there such? A great being presiding over the Steps of Paradise? The ancient writer certainly had doubts about such-and more than a slight suggestion that mankind makes its own gods and images to worship.

  When he sets aside the volume and finally slips into his cool bed, he does not sleep well.

  L

  The Emperor and his Consort-Empress sit upon the white divan in the Empress’s salon. A cool fall wind sifts into the salon through a window open but a finger-width. Toziel massages his forehead with his left hand, then drops it and turns to Ryenyel. “The days are long… yet you have something upon your mind.”

  “Do you recall Ryalor House, my dear?” asks Ryenyel.

  “Is not that the one headed by the mistress of Kien’elth’s eldest son?”

  “Not precisely. That is, she is not his mistress. You sent an inquiry through your Merchanter Advisor.”

  “Vyanat’mer? Why would…?” Toziel smiles. “I did not. You did. Perhaps I should hear before I speak. What did Vyanat’s merchanter find-and where?”

  “In the small town of Jakaafra… in the recording book of consortships.”

  “The lancer took her as his consort, you’re telling me?”

  “Quietly… but he did, and not even his family knew in advance, from what we can tell.”

  “Good for him.”

  “Wise, as well.”

  Toziel blots his forehead. “Angels… I’m tired… I just talk to people, and I’m tired.”

  “I know.”

  He smiles sadly. “Of course you do. How much longer?”

  She shrugs.

  “A year? Two? Three? Not more than that, I would wager. Is that why you mentioned Ryalor House? They’re young.”

  “Not any younger than we were, those long years back. They have just had a child, a son.”

  “Is he… ?”

  “Who would know? But both parents are most intelligent, as are the grandparents, and seldom does such a union produce a dullard. And it may be that there is magus blood on both sides.”

  “How would you know that?” Toziel raises his eyebrows.

  “Her mother’s mother’s mother… let us just say that she was not unfamiliar with the Palace of Light… and consorted in haste.”

  Toziel laughs, then shakes his head. “That will matter little unless… What of the sub-majer?” He pauses. “You have more to say. That I can see. I should listen.”

  “He had been on port detail in Biehl-watching ships, and talking to their captains and officers, I would gather. Then he conscripted the District Guards…” She smiles.

  “He is that overcaptain?” Toziel shakes his head. “I think not so well as I should these days. Did not Rynst send him to Assyadt?”

  “He did, after the Majer-Commander discovered that every lancer commander was apprised of the details of what happened at Biehl. He was directed, even as a sub-majer, to command company patrols.”

  “I imagine the barbarians will attack in force there.” Toziel’s voice is simultaneously hoarse and wry.

  Ryenyel smiles. “We shall see. We have some seasons.” She adds, almost as if it were an afterthought, “Ryalor House has been recognized as a clan house. That was one of Bluoyal’s last acts. It takes all of the uppermost level of the plaza building on the clan side. Do you not find that interesting?”

  “Rather. So she is very sharp… and effective, I would judge, somewhat like someone else I know.”

  The Empress smiles. “You are kind.”

  “No. I know what I know.” Toziel massages his forehead before he speaks. “Do you think he can survive and prosper in-is it Inividra?”

  “I would judge so, but he must do so against the opposition of almost all the senior Mirror Lancer officers.”

  “If he can manage such over the next year or two, and is not discredited, suggest to Rynst that he would be a good assistant, you think?” Toziel leans back on the white divan and closes his eyes.

  “If he can survive, our suggestion may not be necessary,” Ryenyel replies. “As for us, there are no others, save Rustyl and Dettaur, and neither has a consort, although it is likely that Rustyl will take the daughter of the Second Magus for a consort.”

  “That will make matters difficult for Chyenfel.” Toziel laughs. “Or perhaps more so for Kharl.”

  “I think not. The Second Magus will promise to both his son and to Rustyl, and then do as he pleases with the support of both.”

  “They are both of the Magi’i.”

  “Chyenfel thinks that times may change.”

&nb
sp; “Not that quickly,” the Emperor says.

  “One would hope Rustyl will see that, but he is like a shadow cast by a man none can see. As for Ciesrt, he is but a cipher for his sire. Dettaur, on the other hand, is a cipher for no one, but he has courted many ladies, and none will have him. For an esteemed lancer, that is a message one cannot ignore.”

  “He seems to be ignoring such a message rather easily,” suggests Toziel.

  “For now.” Ryenyel coughs, several times, then finally clears her throat. “Like you, I find the days are getting longer.”

  “That is because you support me.”

  She waves off the comment, then adds, “Dettaur dislikes this Lorn, and will attempt to place him where he cannot survive.”

  “If one of them does not succeed, or Rustyl or Tasjan does, black order will follow us and raze Cyad… within a generation if not sooner. But you cannot give either anything, else he will not be strong enough to hold it.” Toziel sighs. “There have been possible scions… most with magus blood, Dymytri, Eghyr, Volynt… and something happened to each, and now we are not so young as we were or as we appear. And now the Magi’i, and even the merchanters, are seeking to advance their own to force me to acknowledge one.”

  “Luss and Kharl arranged for the failure of most of those in the lancers.” Ryenyel shrugs wearily. “Yet how could any hold Cyad if they could not hold themselves against that pair?”

  “You did not find this Lorn?”

  “No. I would that I could say such, but until Maran disappeared I did not even consider him as a possibility. Nor his consort.”

  “Many did not consider you.” Toziel laughs gently, but the laugh dies away. “I wonder if we see such worries as do those who have children.”

  “Is there any question, my love? You are the father of Cyador.”

  “A father without an heir.” Toziel’s voice is low and tired, and his eyes drift closed.

  Ryenyel touches his forehead lightly, gently.

  LI

  Lorn looks out the commander’s study window at the heavy snow pelting the ancient panes of glass. The stones of the courtyard have turned white, and rime has formed on the inner corners of his windows. Winter has begun to settle in, and his chaos-glass shows little trace of raiders, only a few scouting and foraging parties, small enough that Lorn has reverted to single-company patrols, spacing them as far apart as he dares. He finally picks up the scroll from Dettaur-the one that arrived with the replacement lancers at the turn of winter an eightday previously-and the one to which he has yet to reply, since he has no intention of sending a courier just for Dettaur.

  Your reports have been well-received by the Commander, and, we understand, by the Captain-Commander on behalf of the Majer-Commander. Much credit is due you for your efforts carrying out the policies and strategies implemented by Commander Ikynd… The number of barbarian deaths as compared to Mirror Lancer losses remains acceptable, although the Commander would hope that you could improve those numbers by the time of the spring raids, as by then you will have become more familiar with the procedures and terrain around Inividra…

  Good old Dettaur, Lorn reflects, always throwing in a dig and a suggestion of inadequacy. Some things hadn’t changed in more than ten years.

  So long as you do not use an excess of patrols requiring two companies, occasional multi-company patrols are acceptable to keep the barbarians off-guard, but the Commander wishes to remind you that continual use of such is an unacceptable gamble with the safety of the herders and people of Cyador…

  We also regret to inform you, and all other outpost commanders, that the Magi’i can but supply three firelance recharges for each lancer each season. In compensation, you will receive another company of lancers at Inividra at the turn of spring, before full barbarian raiding activities resume.

  Lorn snorts. Another temptation for him to spend himself. If he does not use his abilities to recharge firelances-quietly-more lancers will die. Yet one lancer-magus can recharge comparatively few firelances for five companies, and he cannot afford to exhaust himself in that fashion, not with the amount of chaos-energy he must spend using the chaos-glass. As in everything, the higher he rises, the more demands there are that he has neither time nor energy to fulfill.

  After a long slow breath, Lorn looks out at the snow once more. Well before spring he had best decide what he can do, and what he will need to do, for Jera is a port that remains ice-free throughout the winter, and trading vessels continue to tie to the piers there-and to bring in ever greater numbers of higher quality iron blades.

  LII

  In the late-winter afternoon, Lorn stares into the chaos-glass, painstakingly transferring details of the image he has called up onto the maps on his personal study desk, as he tries to trace the geography of where the Jeranyi raiders travel. After he finishes drawing in a section of river, and the low hills around it, he releases the image, sets the pen in its holder and closes his eyes. He massages his temples for a moment, then leans back, his eyes still closed.

  His thoughts do not cease, and he has to wonder, even with his maps, how he can continue to fight against a seemingly endless enemy. How many new strategies will he be able to develop come spring and summer when the barbarians flood southward once again? How can he direct his patrols under such conditions without giving away the secret of his ability to find the barbarians?

  His abilities, mighty as they might seem to some, are limited. If he concentrates greatly, he can summon images in a chaos-glass, or charge a firelance or so, or move a door latch from the other side of the door, or throw a handful of firebolts. He cannot do all at once, or even in succession. His abilities can only change the edges of what may be-so far as he can tell.

  After a moment, he opens his eyes, and shakes his head. Why had he been so successful in Biehl? Because he had not waited for the enemy to come to him, but moved to take the fight to them. Was that the overall problem with Cyador?

  Why had no one taken the fight to the Jeranyi?

  He fingers his chin, looking blankly through the window into the cold and gray afternoon, out at patches of snow and frozen and thawed and frozen ground beyond the walls of the compound.

  Cyador is far from crowded. Its people do not use all the lands they have, not really. So the Mirror Lancers are not attacking, but merely defending. Lorn shakes his head. Had the ancients established the Land of Light with all their force in the belief it would grow to fill those borders? Or to use the border areas as buffers?

  He ponders, considering the discussion he had years earlier with his mother, before he was sent to Jakaafra to patrol the Accursed Forest, where she had pointed out that Lancers and Magi’i were few indeed. Cyador has expanded, and those who have been expanding their numbers have not been the lancer officers and the Magi’i, but merchanters, crafters, working folk, peasants, and others. Even so, Cyador has not expanded to fill its lands to overflowing.

  Is that because its people are prosperous? What is prosperity? Is prosperity the answer to the first of his father’s questions? A frown follows that. Cyad would exist without prosperity, and without the Magi’i, but it would not be Cyad as he has known it.

  His mind skips to the third question, and he laughs as he thinks of Dettaur, realizing that Dettaur does not understand that a lancer officer’s power comes only from the acceptance by his men of the officer’s authority. A single officer can be killed by a misaimed firelance from behind, or by one deliberately misaimed.

  Therefore, as his father’s second question intimates, the lancer officers maintain power because the people accept their handling of it. The barbarians do not accept the power of the Mirror Lancers, and so, the struggle is between the beliefs of the people of Cyad and those of the Jeranyi and Cerlynyi.

  And that conclusion helps little at all in determining how he will face the spring and summer raids.

  His lips twist, and, slowly he reaches for the silver volume, opening it and paging through, stopping and reading the last line
s of the verses about recalling the Rational Stars.

  I had a tower once, across heavens from here…

  Oh… take these new lake isles and green green seas;

  take these sylvan ponds and soaring trees;

  take these desert dunes and sunswept sands,

  and pour them through your empty hands.

  Those are not the words of an empire builder, Lorn feels, or of a man seeking to conquer lands. He pages farther into the book, reading another section.

  …I hear the altage souls lifting lances

  against what the future past advances,

  while time-towers hold at bay

  the winters of another day,

  what we would not face

  what we could not erase…

  until those towers crumble into sand

  and Cyad can no longer stand.

  Those, too, are the words of a defender. He shakes his head. Everything his father has stood for, and the Mirror Lancers-all are the roles of defenders. And while Cyad-and her people-are well worth defending, defenders always lose in the end… if they always fight on their own territory.

  His eyes look into the gray afternoon, an afternoon that somehow does not appear quite so gray, quite so forbidding. He needs to find a way to take the fight to the Jeranyi.

  Yet how can he? With five companies, six at the turn of spring?

  Does he have to defeat the barbarians? What about the question Rhalyt had raised? He had no fleet, no fireships to stop the traders going to Jera.

  Then he nods. Perhaps there is a way. Perhaps… but it will require much more screeing, and time, and then… he will see.

  LIII

  The winter light coming through the ancient windowpanes of the low Tower of the Magi’i is supplemented by that of the wall lamps and their polished cupridium reflectors. The First Magus does not stand, but remains seated behind the desk in the austere study on the topmost level of the tower as the Second Magus bows and makes his way to the golden oak armchair opposite Chyenfel.