Magi'i of Cyador (10 page)

Lorn nods, waiting.

"Good luck." Ciesrt offers a half-smile, then turns. "Thank you." Lorn watches the lanky student magus for a moment, wondering if he had indeed made a mistake in not trying to deal with Ciesrt's father. Yet... all he had to go on were his feelings, and he didn't think murder should be based on feelings alone. Should it?

He turns at the sound of another set of lighter steps on the white stone pavement.

The red-haired Tyrsal stops short of the bench. "I'm sorry, Lorn. I don't understand. You were the best student."

"It's probably better this way."

"Is there anything I can do?" Tyrsal grins. "I mean, here in Cyad. If you're careful, you can take care of yourself better than I could. I still remember how you handled Dett." The redhead frowns. "He's probably a lancer officer now. You'd better be careful."

"I will." Lorn pauses. "You could stop by the house a few times and talk to my sisters. You've met them, haven't you?"

"Just Myryan."

"Jerial's my older sister. They're both healers, but Myryan's got several years before she's finished."

"Like Kylernya, except she's just started."

"She's that old?" Lorn remembers Tyrsal's sister as barely waist-high, watching a korfal game.

Tyrsal nods. "It will be a while before she gets into real healing." He pauses. "I'd be welcome at your house?"

"You're a student magus in good standing." Lorn laughs gently. "If you're worried about it, tell Vernt that I asked you to."

"We'll see. I will call on them." Tyrsal pauses. "Are you sure that's all I can do?"

"For right now." Lorn shrugs. "I really don't know what to expect... but if I need anything else, I'll let you know." If I can.

"I'll be here," Tyrsal promises, before he turns away.

The lancer firewagon is late in getting to the Quarter of the Magi'i, and Lorn has been waiting on or standing beside the hard sunstone bench for most of the afternoon before the vibration of six chaos-driven wheels shivers through the pavement, and the shimmering white vehicle slows to a stop opposite the squared stone arch. Shadows from the uphill buildings that hold the chaos towers of the Magi'i cast two bars of darkness across the gleaming white lacquer of the firewagon. The curved glass of the driver's station reflects the shadowed sunstone behind Lorn enough so that Lorn cannot see the driver of the vehicle that looms at least another six cubits above the smooth pavement.

As Lorn stands quickly, he can sense the flickers of chaos from the storage cells that are hidden behind the shining white cupridium panels at the rear of the firewagon. As quickly as the former student mage has stood, a lancer officer in a cream and green uniform is already out of the forward compartment. The two single silver bars, one on each side of his short stiff green collar, glow. The officer's eyes take in Lorn and the canvas bag beside the bench. "You Lorn?"

"Yes, ser," Lorn answers.

"Hop in. Rear compartment. Only three of you today. Be close to midnight before we reach Kynstaar."

As the officer watches, Lorn opens the side door to the rear compartment, a door of white-lacquered cupridium, light, but stronger than iron.

"Put your stuff under the seat."

"Yes, ser." Lorn glances at the two other young men. One is clearly older and far burlier than Lorn, with a swarthy complexion and a short-trimmed black beard-one of the first beards Lorn has seen on a young man. The second is slighter and far more wiry than Lorn, with hair that is somewhere between sandy-blond and light brown. "I'm Lorn."

"Akytol'alt," rumbles the larger man.

"Kyl'mer," follows the slighter figure.

"Well... I was Lorn'elth," Lorn corrects himself as he places his bag under the curved white oak bench seat and seats himself beside Kyl and facing Akytol and the other seat, "but that will change."

"One way or the other," snorts Akytol.

Even before Lorn closes the door, the vehicle begins to glide away from the Quarter of the Magi'i with the thin and distinctive whine that marks all firewagons. Despite the hardness of the lightly padded seats, their curvature makes sitting tolerable, and the suspension is strong enough that the ride is almost without bumps.

Through the right window, just before the firewagon turns north, Lorn takes what may be his last look for a long time at the Palace of Light, its windows bright with the light from the innumerable lamps within its sun-stone walls. Despite the gleaming whiteness and the lights, for a moment, or so it seems to Lorn, the Palace seems empty.

"Ever lifted a blade?" asks Akytol.

"I've had some training," Lorn admits.

"Some? Well... better than most." Akytol shakes his head, then leans back and closes his eyes.

Lorn turns to Kyl. "If one might ask... ?"

"How did a merchanter's son get sent off to lancer training?" Kyl shakes his head. "Another time... if you would."

"That's fine by me." Lorn nods. He suspects neither of them is interested in revealing much, especially not with Akytol present.

Kyl turns his head to watch the buildings on the west side of North Avenue pass by.

In turn, Lorn watches those on the east side-and the few carts and carriages, and the scattered handfuls of people, a few in shimmercloth, but most in the green cottons of workers and crafters. Before long, Cyad lies behind them and the firewagon has turned eastward onto the Eastern Highway. The sun has dropped below the horizon, and the clear green-blue sky has begun to purple.

Lorn sees as well as senses the glow of chaos that surrounds the fire-wagon as it rolls through the twilight toward Kynstaar, the only sound the low rumble of the six cupridium-coated iron wheels on the whitened granite of the Great Eastern Highway. To an outsider the vehicle would indeed resemble a horseless and fire-swathed wagon or carriage.

Across from him, Akytol sits back, his eyes closed, a faint snore punctuating his sleep. Kyl glances nervously from Lorn to Akytol, and then for long periods out the tinted window. There is no sound from the front compartment and the unnamed lancer officer.

Finally, Lorn closes his own eyes. He can do nothing until he reaches Kynstaar.

Part II - Lorn'alt, Isahl Undercaptain, Mirror Lancers

XVII

Lorn'alt stands rigidly in formal lancer whites, white-scabbarded sabre at his side, white garrison cap set squarely in place over his short brown hair. He is the fourth man in the front line of five new Mirror Lancer officers, listening to the graying but trim lancer commander standing on the podium before the score of new undercaptains ranked in the open sunstone arena-an arena nearly empty except for the officers who had trained them, who had whittled down three score possible candidates to the score who remained nearly a year later. A score had left voluntarily, and a score had died or been too severely injured to continue.

"...you are the first line of defense against the barbarians of the north. At times, you will be all that stands between Cyador and the black order of death...."

Standing one rank back and three junior officers to his left is Kyl'alt, and somewhere farther to the rear, surprisingly, is Akytol'alt, towering over most of the other new undercaptains. Lorn concentrates on the commander's words, as though they were new, as though he had not already heard similar banalities all his life.

"...never has our world had a land that offered so much to so many for so long... never has our world had a light that has shone so brightly as that raised by Cyador... and you are here to ensure that light will shine forever, and that peace and prosperity will reign endlessly. You are a Mirror Lancer officer. Never forget that! Never forget that you are here because generations of Lancer officers have stood between the dark tide of the order of death and the light and prosperity of chaos. That was their duty, and they did it well. May you carry out your duty as well."

After a moment of silence, the commander adds, "You will step forward as your name is called." He pauses, then announces, "Undercaptain Bruk'alt."

When the commander calls Lorn's name, the former student magus steps forward as had the others. The commander hands the two silver bars to Lorn.

"Thank you, ser."

"Don't thank me, Undercaptain. You earned them, and you will continue to earn them every day you are on duty in the service of Cyador- and even when you are not."

"Yes, ser."

"Lorn'alt..." the commander offers in an even lower voice.

"Yes, ser?"

"Perchance I am wrong, but you could easily have been first in the training company." The flint-gray eyes never leave Lorn's.

"Ser... I wanted to do well, but I also was more concerned about learning everything I could. I made mistakes that way, ser."

The faintest of smiles crinkles the commander's lined face. "I hope that's the truth, Undercaptain Lorn. The Lancers have no place for officers who let someone else be first to blunt the charge, and then rise to take credit. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, ser."

The commander nods brusquely, and Lorn turns and steps back to his place in the formation.

"Undercaptain Jykan'alt..."

XVIII

Lorn stands in the narrow hallway, sabre at his side, white garrison cap rucked in his belt, waiting for his interview with the majer who will inform Lorn just what duty he will undertake for the Mirror Lancers in the service of Cyador. Although it is early winter, nearly a year after he had left the Quarter of the Magi'i, the air flowing through the outside arch to his left is warm and moist, more like spring in Cyad, carrying with it a hint of arymid. But then, Kynstaar is actually south and east of Cyad, where the southern currents of the Great Western Ocean first touched Candar before swinging westward and north.

Lorn shifts his weight, trying to hear the conversation beyond the door, but even his magus-honed skills can only enable him to catch phrases.

"...being posted to Hristak... Great Canal south to Fyrad... Majer Derin'alt... two scrolls... and seal ring... understand?"

"Yes, ser!" Rydenber's words are far louder and clearer than the ma-jer's.

After Rydenber steps out through the open white oak door, Lorn waits a moment before entering Majer Styphi's office. Light floods into the small space from an open window to Lorn's right and the majer's left. The office contains little besides the desk, an oil lamp set head-high in a bronze bracket on the stone wall, and two chairs.

Majer Styphi sits on one chair, behind the small desk that he dominates. At his right hand is a neat stack of scrolls. His cream and green tunic is slightly wrinkled, and darkness fills the hollows under his eyes, but his green eyes are hard and fix on Lorn. "Undercaptain Lorn'alt?"

"Yes, ser."

"You're being posted to Isahl. First, you will take the lancer firewagon tomorrow morning. It will take you and a number of others to the transfer station on the Great North Highway. There you will wait and take the regular firewagon to Syadtar. That's where you will pick up the replacement lancers and Nytral-he's a seasoned squad leader. Then you'll take the lancers and the replacement mounts on the trade road northwest to Isahl. Sub-majer Brevyl is the area commander. You'll report to him." The majer hands a scroll to Lorn. "This scroll confirms that." He hands a cupridium seal ring to Lorn. "There's your seal ring. Don't lose it. Nytral will ask to see it, just like every other good squad leader you'll command when you're coming in alone." A second smaller scroll follows. "Here are his posting orders. There are two copies there for you-one goes to Commander Thiataphi's clerk in Syadtar, the other to Nytral. You understand?"

"Yes, ser." Lorn slips the seal ring onto the third finger of his right hand. The ring fits well enough that it will not slip off.

"You'll draw a mount in Syadtar. Choose it carefully."

"Yes, ser."

"Get your kit together. Then spend some time with your fellows. Most of you won't see each other for some time."

Lorn bows once more before he turns and leaves.

Kyl is waiting outside in the group of undercaptains who have yet to see Majer Styphi. He glances inquiringly at Lorn. "Where are you headed?"

Lorn grins. "Where every good lancer goes. To fight the barbarians of the Grass Hills. In a town called Isahl."

"It's better than the guard detail in Geliendra where you have to patrol the borders of the Accursed Forest," volunteers Kyl.

"Right," murmurs someone. "Dark-angel-right..."

"You won't get Forest duty, Kyl," Lorn says. "You know trade. They'll probably assign you to one of the coast patrols to deal with smugglers or something like that."

"I'll know in a bit." The sandy-haired undercaptain inclines his head toward the building door and Majer Styphi. "I wouldn't mind that." Kyl smiles. "I wouldn't mind anything, actually."

Lorn is not so sure that he would be equally happy with all duties, but since he has no choice over his duty assignment, he sees no point in comparing the potential satisfaction of duty assignments he would be unlikely to get. "I'll talk to you later, and you can tell me where you're headed."

"I will," promises Kyl.

As Lorn turns, he overhears the comments.

"...good as he is... not many make it back from the Hills of Endless Grass...."

"...anyone who does makes full captain and majer quick though...."

"...maybe... but he was magus-born... some don't like that...." Lorn takes in the low words most would not have believed he has heard, then nods to several others as he passes, walking back to the small cubicle that contains his uniforms, his weapons, and his handful of personal items.

The firewagon to the north will not depart until the following morning, assuming it is on schedule, and that will leave him time to write scrolls to his parents, to Myryan... and to Ryalth... before he follows the majer's advice and talks a last time with the other new undercaptains.

And, as he promised, he will read from Ryalth's book, though he does not know if he understands the Firstborn any better for all the words he has read in the green-silver covered volume.

XIX

As the low orange light of dawn fills the front compartment of the fire-wagon, Lorn yawns and rubs his eyes. Although he had garnered a short night's sleep on a hard cot at the highway transfer station located in Ilypsya-a town beside the Great North Highway that Lorn had never heard of-after more than two days of near-continuous travel from Ilypsya, except for short comfort stops, Lorn is tired. The flickering chaos that envelops the vehicle bothers none of the other passengers, it seems, but Lorn finds himself still studying it. Even though he is no longer a student magus, in a strange fashion the flickering almost seems to nag at him, more so than when he had studied chaos.