Magi'i of Cyador (16 page)

Yet the slim volume is missing two pages, and Lorn suspects that one would have been a title page and the other would have born the name of the writer, for there are no inscriptions anywhere within it that say when the book was written or for what purpose or by whom. There are no numbers, no strange cursives or codes. There are just the poems, and no one in Cyad writes poems, not publicly, not that Lorn knows. And no one has in generations, at least not poems shared beyond a family or a lover, and not that there is any restriction on writing them. It is just not done.

His lips curl. Just as it is not written that a student mage who is not properly reverential shall not become a full mage.

He fingers the pages of the book again. He can scarcely see where the cuts had been made to remove the pages, and the material of each page seems stronger than shimmercloth. No knife he knows would cut such tough material so cleanly. But the pages have been removed.

He opens the volume, almost at random. He has promised to read it, every page. He knows Ryalth must have had a reason, a reason well beyond sentiment, for though she has feelings, those emotions will not betray her.

He reads the words on the page before him once. Somehow, unspoken, they are not satisfactory. He murmurs them softly as he reads them again.

Although the old lands are in my heart,

in towers that anchored life with certain art,

in eyes that will not again see bold

the hills of Angloria or surf at Winterhold,

I greet the coming evening, and the night,

proud purple from the strange and setting sun

and the towered ragged course that I have run,

towers yet that hold the chaos of life,

and struggle with order's unending strife,

for endless may they hold our light

against the long and coming night.

Worlds change, I'm told,

mirror silver to heavy gold,

and the new becomes the old,

with the way the story's told.

Lorn shakes his head. The words, or most of them, are familiar, but hint at a meaning beyond the obvious. Yet Ryalth had asked a question when she had given him the book. What were the Firstborn like?

Will the volume in his hands tell Lorn that?

The lancer undercaptain slowly closes the ancient yet ageless volume. He will read more. In time. He has years at Isahl. Years.

XXVII

Despite the clear green-blue sky, and a bright sun nearly at its noon zenith, the winter wind whistles out of the northeast, chilling Lorn's cheeks and ears, driving through the light earflaps on his white winter garrison cap. A faint dusting of snow lies scattered on bare patches of ground beyond the shoulder of the road and on the brown grass that stretches toward the lonely single hut and barn to the south of the road that is less than a narrow cart track.

The hoofs of the lancers' mounts clunk faintly on the frozen clay of the road that stretches northeast past the single stead toward a gap between two hills. Beyond those hills, according to Nytral and the maps, lies another valley, one where three families raise black-wooled sheep and some few field crops.

Using his chaos senses, Lorn practices listening to the comments of the lancers in the first company behind him.

"...winter patrols..."

"...lot of riding... last eightday... first raiders all winter..."

"...probably the last, too..."

"...like that last winter... two bunches all winter... turned and rode away."

"...let the undercaptain hear that... or the sub-majer... be riding every patrol till you hit the Steps."

"...lancers don't hit the Steps to Paradise... get buried under 'em... Drext... even the officers."

"Specially the officers." A low laugh follows.

Nytral, riding beside Lorn for the moment, turns in the saddle, and the murmurs die away. The only sounds are the low whistle of the wind, the whuffing of mounts, and the dull clumping of hoofs on the frozen road.

Lorn smiles at Nytral. "Officers are the ones who send them out on winter patrols."

"You hear more than most officers, ser. That'd not be always good."

"So long as I know what they think, and so long as I listen to you and my own judgment, knowing what they think is better than not knowing."

Nytral frowns momentarily.

One of the lancers earlier sent forward as a scout reappears on the road leading to the gap in the hills, but he rides southeast toward the Fifth Company with the measured pace that indicates he has found nothing disturbing ahead. Since the patrol is but Lorn's second alone, the under-captain is perfectly willing not to be riding into trouble with barbarian raiders.

"Looks good, ser," observes Nytral.

"That's fine."

The scout turns his mount to ride beside Lorn, and Nytral guides his mount to the scout's right.

"What did you find?" Lorn asks.

"Road's clear to the holding in the next valley, sers," the lancer reports. "No hoofprints on the road or the grass. Herders are out some, one or two, anyways."

"Good," grunts Nytral. "What about fires... cookfires?"

"Fires from most of the chimneys, maybe all. Could smell something cooking."

Both Lorn and Nytral nod, nearly simultaneously.

Once the column, rising two abreast on the frozen road, reaches the low crest that overlooks the next valley, Lorn again studies the valley, trying to fix the details in his mind, hoping that he can, and knowing that the more he can retain, the better the chances for his success and survival over the years ahead. On a slight rise in the middle of the valley are dwellings clustered together and surrounded by an earthen dike tall enough to seem high from where the company rides nearly three kays away. The whitish smoke from the chimneys is blown into a low line that stretches from the northeast to the southwest.

"Cold as a trader's heart at tariff time it be, ser," offers Dubrez, riding behind Lorn and to his left.

"Or a lancer's blade in winter?" asks Lorn.

"Colder'n a good lancer's blade, ser."

Nytral laughs once.

Lorn merely nods.

Below the crest, the road turns more directly eastward, and they travel another kay before they begin to near the earthworks in the center of the elongated oval valley. The earthworks are not insubstantial for a small holding, rising a good six cubits above the level ground, and close to nine above the base of the shallow ditch on the outer side of the earthen wall.

"It wouldn't be easy for the barbarians to get over that," Lorn observes.

"Easy enough to climb, but the old man here was an archer for the Mirror Foot years back. Taught his kin."

"So the barbarians could climb over, but they'd have to leave mounts behind, and a handful of men and women with bows could pick off most of them?"

"Don't know as most, ser, but raiding parties are not often more than two or three score, five maybe sometimes, and they'd lose maybe a score, and get little enough... some sheep, a woman or two, maybe a young girl, and some flour and maize, and fewer mounts than they'd lose in a raid."

A single herder stands by the open gate on the west end of the earthworks, apparently the sole means of entry to the holding. The herder beckons toward the gate, and Lorn and Nytral guide their mounts toward the man in the sheepskin jacket and leather trousers.

"Might as well bring your patrol inside the dike, sers," calls the herder.

"Thank you," Lorn responds. As he rides through the open, but narrow, timbered gate, Lorn notes the huge pile of rocks on the top of the earthworks, and the chutes that would funnel those rocks behind the gate. He shakes his head at the amount of effort behind the herders' defenses.

The single visible herd of sheep is clustered in a corral beside a long and low, sod-walled barn, and the corral is well inside the earthen dike that protects the holding. The man who has beckoned them also wears a bulky hat with heavy earflaps that Lorn momentarily envies. The local lumbers toward them as Lorn and Nytral-and the Fifth Company-rein up and wait.

"Greetings there, sers!" calls the herder. "Leastwise, you picked a sunny day to visit Ram's End."

"Greetings," Lorn returns.

"Hear tell that there were raiders west 'a here..." The white-bearded herder looks at Lorn but briefly, then drops his eyes.

"There were," Lorn admits. "They killed everyone in a holding. We caught and killed them all."

"All?"

"Every last one, and the undercaptain killed two himself," snaps Nytral.

The herder shivers, a gesture visible despite his heavy coat and hat. "Come spring, their kin'll ride for blood."

"They ride for blood anyway," Nytral points out, a harsh laugh following his words. "This springtime, there'll be fewer riding."

"Fewer raiders are always better for us-specially for the herds."

"They pick off animals?"

"Last time they came into the dike, they lost near-on a score. We lost not a soul." The herder shrugs. "Be five years back or so. Figure they'll be forgetting afore too long."

"Their memories aren't that long," Nytral agrees.

Lorn glances at the lancers of his company, sensing their cold and impatience, then looks directly at the herder, waiting.

As he receives the long searching glance of the undercaptain, the white-bearded herder clears his throat, once, twice, before finally speaking. "Sers... we be a poor folk not to offer... but... we be not wealthy, either. But bread and some mutton stew we could spare for you and your men."

Lorn glances at Nytral, catching the minute nod. "We would welcome that, but only what you can spare." He pauses, then adds, "and perhaps the use of your barn to let them warm themselves before we ride on."

"Might as have to take turns, sers... with two score mounts...." The herder offers a crooked grin. "But seeing as we're glad to have a patrol now and again...."

"And you'd like us to come back a lot more in the spring?" Lorn grins. The herder grins back. "Can't say as any of us'd mind such."

"We'll accept your hospitality, herder-but only for a bit." Lorn nods to Nytral.

"First squad... you'll eat and warm first! Shofirg, have 'em follow the herder! Second squad..."

Lorn remains in the saddle, waiting to eat and warm himself with Dubrez's squad. His eyes look to the frozen hills that barely seem to rise above the earthworks of Ram's End, the Grass Hills that shelter all too many barbarians, he fears.

XXVIII

Lorn sits at the corner desk in the officers' study, the one in the northwest corner-where the chill and the wind seep in around the high window overhead and plummet down to make it the coldest spot in the room. Even the low fire, fed by both dried dung and the peat dug by the lancers on disciplinary duty, fails to lift all the chill out of the study.

The undercaptain reads over the words of his last report, ignoring the drafty chill at his back and upon his neck, wanting to ensure that Overcaptain Chyorst and Sub-Majer Brevyl will have little to criticize-or at least as little as Lorn can manage.

...The valleys to the west of Ram's End showed no sign of raiders, and the people there had not reported seeing any barbarians in the past four eightdays...

...Two mounts were lamed from being ridden and slipping on the icy surface of the road beyond Eryutn...

Lorn looks down at the words again and frowns, then glances at the notes he had jotted down at the end of each day of patroling. There should be more to report, but he can think of nothing, nothing to convey the chill and the empty kays that had followed one after another as the Fifth Company has ridden patrol after patrol for the past four eightdays. One raid more than five eightdays before, and empty roads and empty hills ever since.

As the chill of a screeing glass sweeps over him, Lorn freezes momentarily, then looks at the report he holds once more, studying it until the unseen inner chill passes. That chill is clearly not felt by any but him, and certainly not by the three captains clustered around the next desk, sharing several bottles of wine that one has brought back from his midwinter furlough-a luxury Lorn will not see until after his first complete year at Isahl.

Lorn half-hears their words as he looks up from the last words of the report that will go to Sub-Majer Brevyl in the morning.

"...that double patrol put a stop to their raids..."

"...can't do double patrols all the time... too many areas don't get covered, and they'll know it...." The squat and swarthy captain who replies to Zandrey's observation is Jostyn, an officer Lorn knows only from the officers' dining hall.

"Barbarians know too much," suggests Eghyr, a blond and rail-thin captain who always has a smile on his lips, but seldom in his eyes.

"They just watch, and when we go one way, they go the other." Zandrey takes a small sip from the goblet, still nearly half full for all that the three have been drinking ever since dinner.

"Lorn!" calls Jostyn, lifting a hand and beckoning to the undercaptain. "You can't write reports all night. Have a glass with us...."

"We'd like you to share some of this Alafraan," adds Zandrey more temperately. "We don't get it that often, and it'll spoil by the time I get back from patrol."

"You could leave it for us," counters Jostyn. "Warm us up with the coldest part of the winter yet to come."

"Not the coldest," corrects Eghyr. "The longest, but not the coldest."

Lorn sets the report face down on his desk and pulls his chair over to the corner of the desk where the three are seated.

"Lorn will enjoy his first glass more than you'll enjoy your fifth," says Zandrey with a laugh, pouring a goblet he has produced from somewhere half-full and handing it to the undercaptain.

"Thank you." Lorn takes the goblet with a smile, lifts it in salute to the three and takes a very small swallow. The amber wine tastes warmer than it is, with a hint of both pearapples and trilia... and something else that he cannot identify. "It's good."

"Far better than what we usually get," comments Eghyr, "thanks to Zandrey."

"My uncle's a vintner in Escadr."

"If this is his wine, he is very good." Lorn has never heard of Escadr, and he had thought he knew nearly every town in Cyador.