Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The dark-haired healer shrugs. “As I was telling Ryalth, he came back from the Quarter and told me I’d have to come alone. He’s over at his father’s. Kharl wanted to talk to him.” She sighs. “He’s been spending a great deal of time with Kharl lately. I cannot say I like it.”

  Lorn looks at his sister. “Is anything the matter?” He seats himself beside Ryalth on the settee.

  Myryan offers a sad smile in return. “Nothing that is any different from before, Lorn. Ciesrt is centered on himself, like most of the Magi’i, but he is kind enough, and gentle enough.”

  “What about his parents?”

  “I detest them.” Myryan’s words are level.

  Lorn can sense near-fury, and absolute truth in the three words.

  “Because of the children thing?” asks Ryalth.

  “That… and because, to them, I’m an ornament. No… I’m a tool to be used. I’m a thing that is valuable because of who my parents were.”

  “Doesn’t Ciesrt… ?” Ryalth ventures.

  “He tries… but Kharl is strong, and will have his way. Ciesrt can’t stand up to him.” A wry smile crosses her face as she brushes back unruly black curls from her forehead and looks at Ryalth. “Lorn could. Lorn stood up to Father, and to senior officers. Ciesrt isn’t that strong. I knew that. I didn’t think that his father… though…” She shakes her head. “I have decided something, though,” she adds, as if it were an afterthought.

  “What?”

  “Too much order, even in healing, is worse than too much chaos.”

  “Is there any doubt of that?” Lorn says with a laugh.

  “Ah…” Myryan draws the word out with exaggerated slowness, “but do you know why?”

  Ryalth frowns, her blue eyes flicking between her consort and his sister.

  “I don’t see where you’re going,” Lorn admits.

  “Order’s greatest cruelty is that it denies chaos,” Myryan declares, her eyes glowing even brighter. “I see that now.”

  Lorn nods slowly, trying to make sense out of all the words, and find the meaning behind them. “Why do you say that?” he temporizes, trying to draw her out.

  “Lorn… perfect order is perfect memory. Would you truly wish to remember every unkindness done to you, every cruelty you dispensed? Would you wish to live in a world where every chamber is perfect, yet without heat? Where fire does not exist… because it changes, and order denies change? Where children are never born, and no one dies? Where each person is unchanging… ?”

  Lorn finds himself shivering at the image.

  “The kindness of time is that it passes…” Myryan murmurs. Then she smiles abruptly. “I didn’t come here to mope about things. I came because I like to be around you two.” She smiles at Kerial, and the boy tries to lurch from Ryalth’s lap.

  Ryalth stands and carries her son to his aunt.

  “He’s so good,” the healer says, taking the Kerial into her arms. “And he feels so good to hold.”

  “Most of the time,” Lorn suggests, “unless he’s wet.”

  “We should probably begin dinner,” Ryalth ventures, “or it will get overcooked, and I do not care much for overcooked fowl. Also, Kerial is being good, and how long that will last…”

  Lorn laughs.

  As the three enter the dining area, Kysia appears and takes Kerial.

  The three sit, and Ayleha begins to bring in the serving platters, starring with a gold-rimmed blue platter holding slices of fowl covered in a golden cream sauce.

  “When I’m here, everything is so elegant,” Myryan says.

  “You deserve elegance,” Lorn says, laughing and adding, “and so do we, but we only get it when we have company.”

  “Elegance and grown-up company,” Ryalth adds, passing the tray to Lorn, who takes but one slice of sun-nut bread, before holding it for Myryan.

  “You have been busy lately,” Myryan says. “Even Ciesrt is talking about how effective your demonstrations of the firelances have been. Are you the one who developed those drills?”

  “They’re just variations on what I’ve used in the field,” Lorn says, holding the platter to allow Myryan to take several slices of the sauce-covered chicken. “No drill really shows what it’s like.”

  “We were at Kharl’s several nights ago, and Ciesrt suggested that perhaps some of the Magi’i should put on a display.” Myryan laughs, if with a note of sadness. “Kharl was not amused. He said that the use of chaos was for what needed to be done to preserve Cyad, not to provide entertainment for outland traders and ignorant… folk.”

  “He said ‘ignorant merchanters,’ I would wager,” Ryalth responds.

  “He did. I sometimes forget how sharp you two are… until I come here. I think that’s another reason why Ciesrt feels uncomfortable with our family. Everyone sees things he doesn’t, and he has trouble accepting that.” She shrugs. “Then, Kharl sees what Ciesrt doesn’t, and I suppose Ciesrt doesn’t wish to be someplace else that reminds him of that.”

  “I’m sorry for him,” Ryalth says. “I felt that way at first, I think, but your father and mother helped so much.”

  “I miss them,” Myryan says simply.

  “We all do.”

  For a time, the three eat, near-silently.

  Lorn takes the last sip of the Alafraan in his goblet. “I think this is even better than usual. What do you think?” He inclines his head to Myryan.

  “Brother dear, how would I know? Your wine is the only one I drink, and I can take little enough of that.”

  “It is good,” Ryalth says. “Is there anything left in your garden?”

  “After last eightday’s frost?” Myryan shakes her head. “Just some of the root vegetables, the late carrots, potatoes… I did get all the rest of the pearapples pickled or stewed.”

  “Stewed pearapples… waste of a good fruit,” Lorn grumbles.

  “Letting them rot on the tree or the ground is the waste.”

  Ayleha appears, silently as always, and begins to clear away the dishes.

  “How much did you put up?” Ryalth asks.

  “I don’t know. It seemed like scores and scores of jars. But they’ll all be gone before midwinter, I’d guess.”

  As the serving woman places a dish of egg custard before her, Ryalth smiles. “I might actually finish a dinner by myself.” She frowns. “That’s really not fair to Kerial. He deserves a more regular schedule, but I never know when I can leave Ryalor House or when I’ll be late.”

  “Or when I will be,” Lorn adds.

  “Part of that is because you both want to spent time with him and each other,” Myryan suggests.

  “Until this year, we haven’t spent that much time together,” Lorn agrees.

  “It has been good to see him every night.” Ryalth smiles.

  “Sometimes, it amazes me,” the healer says. “You two belong together, and I’ve heard the story so many times, yet it doesn’t quite seem real.”

  Lorn and Ryalth share a glance.

  “That’s what I mean. Neither of you are Magi’i, yet you know so much about each other.”

  “Names are not everything,” Lorn observes, taking a last mouthful of the egg custard and adding, “That was good.”

  “Almost as good as pearapple tarts?” asks Myryan, with an innocent-looking smile.

  “It was very good,” Lorn grins back, “better than anything except the best of pearapple tarts.”

  Myryan tries to cover a yawn.

  “Are you getting enough rest?” asks Lorn.

  “Always the big brother. It’s been a long day. I spent the morning in the garden and then went to the infirmary.”

  “I have a carriage waiting to take you home. Pheryk will go with you,” Lorn says.

  “I can make my own way,” Myryan insists.

  “I am sure you can,” Ryalth says, “but Lorn and I would feel better if you accepted the offer.”

  “Besides,” Lorn adds with a laugh, “you’d waste my coins. I’ve already
paid for the carriage.”

  “I would not do that. Not to either of you.” Myryan smiles the extra-bright smile once more. “It has been a long day, and I will not insist.”

  The three rise and make their way out of the dining area and then to the foyer off the veranda.

  “You have to come more often,” Ryalth says, opening the door.

  “With or without Ciesrt,” Lorn adds. “We like to see you.”

  “I like to see you two,” Myryan replies.

  The three walk out to the iron gate, the area lit by a single lamp Pheryk had obviously hung and lit sometime during dinner.

  Myryan smiles a last time before entering the carriage.

  Pheryk nods to Lorn and Ryalth. “Be back shortly, ser, Lady.”

  Once the sound of the carriage dies away, Lorn closes the iron gate and locks it, then looks at the redhead beside him.

  She looks back at him. “There’s something wrong.”

  “There’s a lot wrong,” Lorn says. “But there’s no flux chaos around her, and no excessive order.”

  They walk slowly through the cold darkness, past the still fountain.

  “You think she and Ciesrt are having problems?” asks Ryalth.

  “I don’t know. I was truth-reading her. There are things she doesn’t want me to know. That, I could sense, but they center on Kharl, I feel. There’s just… a sadness… around her when she mentions Ciesrt. I don’t feel I could use the glass…” Lorn shakes his head.

  “Even for her safety?”

  “Dearest… you see how often I use the glass to follow Tasjan, and how little I discover from each attempt. Myryan would know my screeing, and how would she feel seeing me watch over her every other moment?”

  “She is your sister, but I worry.”

  “So do I.” Lorn opens the door from the veranda to the foyer. “So do I.”

  CXLVI

  Toziel leans forward in the smaller version of the malachite-and-silver throne that dominates the Lesser Audience Hall. “For the past two eightdays, the Mirror Lancers have held their maneuvers on the new parade grounds above the harbor. I would have each of you provide his thoughts on the effectiveness of such.” With a faint smile, the Emperor straightens. “Perhaps you should begin, honored Majer-Commander, since the lancers are under your command.”

  Rynst bows, then looks directly at the slender figure with the dark-rimmed eyes within the silver robes. “Your Mightiness… as you suggested, the Mirror Lancers have transferred two companies from the Grass Hills to provide… as it were… a portrait of their abilities where those abilities could be viewed by outlanders. During the first days, nearly tenscore watched each day, but, as we suspected, the numbers of those who watched have declined. Yesterday, there were but twoscore. Most of those were outlanders. If but twoscore outlanders each day watch the lancers and are dissuaded from thinking to take advantage of Cyador, the golds spent to provide such… edifying… entertainment may be well spent.”

  Toziel nods to the First Magus. “Honored Chyenfel?”

  “I must confess, Your Mightiness, that I was among the tenscore, for I did wish to see for myself the effect of such a demonstration. And I would agree with the most honorable Majer-Commander that the display of firelances and the skill of those who employed them created a most desirable effect. I do have concerns about the wisdom of maintaining such for long periods of time here in Cyad. I would ask that I be given leave to advance those concerns after hearing what the honored Merchanter Advisor may have to add.”

  “All will heed your concerns, First Magus.” Toziel looks to Vyanat. “Your thoughts, honored Merchanter Advisor?”

  “I am more than somewhat puzzled,” says the Merchanter Advisor. “I cannot recall when one of the Magi’i expressed concern over the Mirror Lancers being more effective. Certainly, most of us who are merchanters are pleased, for the obvious power of the firelances has left many outlanders shaking their heads. They are indeed chastened. They are so taken aback that one would wish that this stratagem had been adopted earlier.” Vyanat looks to his right at the First Magus. “Or is the First Magus concerned about the additional authority that such lancers invest in the Majer-Commander?”

  “Majer-Commander Rynst has always used his authority and the Mirror Lancers for the good of Cyad and Cyador, and I have no doubts that he will continue to do so. In years to come, his successors may not be so astute, and what we do must serve the future as well as the present.” Chyenfel bows to Vyanat. “My concerns lie not in having such demonstrations by the Mirror Lancers, but in their frequency. I would suggest that Your Mightiness could obtain the same or greater impact by merely bringing in a different set of companies twice a year for two eightdays, or four times a year for a single eightday. In this fashion, all would see with fresh eyes the power of the Mirror Lancers. Likewise, we would not see the development of what might be called city lancers, as opposed to those lancers who must face and fight the barbarians.” The First Magus bows to the Emperor.

  “You raise some matters of concern to us all,” Toziel says deliberately.

  Behind him, Ryenyel coughs, once.

  The Emperor turns and smiles. “Is it chill in here, my dear?”

  “I caught something in my throat. I beg your pardon for interrupting.” Ryenyel smiles at her consort. “I truly do.”

  “Sire?” asks Vyanat.

  “Yes, Vyanat’mer?”

  “I would ask that we see how matters progress for another three eightdays,” suggests the Merchanter Advisor, “before any decision is considered. Even should the most honorable Chyenfel prove correct in his assessment, I would argue that for the first appearance of the Mirror Lancers in Cyad, a longer period might well prove necessary, and would not prove detrimental. After all, we are in a time of change, and at this time, as many outland traders as possible should see the true power of the Mirror Lancers.” With only the slightest of pauses, the merchanter adds, “And the First Magus has noted that in this time, while Majer-Commander Rynst serves the Empire of Light, all will be well with such lancers.”

  “That would seem reasonable,” suggests Toziel. “At our normal audience three eightdays from now, we will revisit the matter.”

  Chyenfel nods. “I will defer as His Mightiness suggests.”

  “And I, also,” adds Rynst.

  “Although I retain grave doubts about relying upon the mere occasional appearance of the Mirror Lancers,” counters Vyanat, “in three eightdays, the matter may well become more clear as to how Cyador may best show the outlanders its might.”

  The shadow of a frown crosses Ryenyel’s face, although no eyes are upon her.

  CXLVII

  Rynst motions for Lorn to take one of the chairs set before the Majer-Commander’s study desk. Lorn does so, and waits, watching the Majer-Commander and listening to the moan of the early-winter wind that lows around the ancient blue windowpanes, a cold wind, despite the bright sunlight that falls on Cyad.

  “Yesterday, I attended the regular audience with the Emperor,” Rynst begins, conversationally. “There I heard that your maneuvers have been successful in giving some of the outland traders a few matters to think about.”

  “I understand that such was the intent, as you told me, ser. The maneuvers are but exercises and are at best a limited way of showing what the Mirror Lancers can do.”

  “They are indeed, but they are effective.” Rynst purses his lips, and then tilts his head to the side. “Perhaps too effective. The First Magus raised a most interesting point. He suggested that perhaps it would not be wise to maintain the lancers in Cyad for any great period, but for perhaps two or three eightdays twice a year. Or one eightday every season, with a different set of lancer companies each period.”

  Lorn waits once more.

  “He fears that any companies remaining in the City of Light will become city lancers, and, although he did not say such directly, another tool of the Majer-Commander. He also feels that their presence, in daily maneuvers, wil
l jade all those who watch, and the impact on outlanders will fade, while the citizens of Cyad will come to believe the Mirror Lancers are unmatched.”

  “They are unmatched, but they can be outnumbered, ser, as we know.”

  “We know that, but those in Cyad do not understand what lies beyond its borders. They do not see the hatred of our land, our roads, our cities, our prosperity. If the First Magus is correct, and correct he may well be,” Rynst continues with a wry smile, “we of the Mirror Lancers may find it even more difficult to obtain the golds required to equip and maintain the forces necessary to repel the barbarians in the years to come. And should any within the city raise arms, in years to come, there will be few Magi’i to stand against such a mob, and no firelances to bring. It will be a far different land, yet few wish to contemplate that.”

  Lorn nods slowly.

  “You will live in that time and land, Majer. And so will your son.” Rynst pauses momentarily. “As you are the commander of the lancer companies in Cyad, I felt you should know this. I would not pass this on to them at this moment. If you are asked, I would suggest that you tell the truth, and that is that the role of Mirror Lancer companies in Cyad is being considered by the Emperor.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “That is all, Majer. I expect a copy of the report on the latest fireship replacement meeting by midmorning tomorrow.”

  “Yes, ser.” Lorn stands.

  Rynst does not seem to look up as Lorn departs the study.

  As Lorn descends the stairs to his study, he considers what Rynst has said. Everything that the Majer-Commander has relayed makes sense, far too much sense, in some ways. One thing does not. That is why Rynst has told Lorn before any decision is made, and why Lorn has been told when a decision will be made.

  Lorn fears he understands that, as well. Rynst wants the lancers used- somehow-before they must leave Cyad. Yet the Majer-Commander cannot order such, or will not, and if they are used, he will not be the one to give the order-unless there is a danger obvious to all.