L. Modesitt - Scion of Cyador

My dearest,

The trip to Biehl was itself most uneventful, but coming here has been far different from anything either of us could have imagined. To begin with, there was no one to relieve, since the previous overcaptain was an older officer who died over a season ago. As result of his untimely death, even more has been required than I had first thought because much has been neglected. The city, rather more of a large and old town, sits on the west side of the River Behla, to the south of the Northern Ocean…When the winds blow, it can be chill indeed…

It appears as though my duty here will also require recruiting and training young lancers so that I may provide trained men for service elsewhere, as required by the Majer-Commander. This is in addition to refurbishing the compound and providing lancers as necessary for the Emperor’s Enumerators, who have done without such support and presence at least since the death of the previous overcaptain.

With quarters far larger than I ever could have imagined, and even suitable for a consort-at least to visit, although they are ornate in the old style, I do have some space in which to think, and to read in quiet. And I have a serving woman, consorted to one of the older lancers, who cleans and also cooks my evening meal. Although her meals are simple and plain, they are far better than the food at my earlier duty assignments…Because all has been so busy in dealing with the unsettled situation created by the untimely death of the previous overcaptain, I still have not had a chance to spend much time in the town itself or to determine what wares might be unique…but I have not forgotten that such is necessary…

I do miss you, and trust that all continues well with you.

He sets the scroll aside to dry, and sits back for a moment in the ancient and not terribly comfortable chair. Somehow, the quarters remind Lorn of the silver-covered book, almost as if they call up the time of the ancient writer. Biehl is an old town, and it is possible that the compound walls may date from the early years of Cyador, but the quarters date back perhaps three generations, certainly no longer.

With the scrolls still drying, Lorn picks up the slim silver volume, as unmarked as when Ryalth had first pressed it upon him, despite its being carried back and forth across Cyador. He opens it and fingers his way through the pages, until he reaches one of the more enigmatic verses.

I hear the lonely Magi’i

imprisoning their chaos-souls

in the corridors of their quarter,

forging firewagons, ships, and firespears

to ensure an old world never reappears.

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.

Lorn frowns as he pages through the book and finds the other verse, the one that shows Cyad as far more. He reads the first two stanzas out loud.

In this season, the stones are sharp and clear,

from decisions once made in hope and fear,

those traditions grafted from stars long lost,

distant battles fought without thought of cost

lands wrenched from the grasp of order’s dead hand,

that refugees could build a fruitful land.

Cyad, from your green and streets of white stone

will come the first peace this poor land has known.

From the Rational Stars and the three ways

will follow hope and justice for all days…

Lorn murmurs the rest of the poem’s words to himself once. The same writer, and in one case he has written of the greatness of Cyad, and in the other, of its inevitable fall. Lorn frowns. Cyad must not fall-not in his life.

He closes the book slowly. The writer had felt all those years ago that the towers would fail, and yet he had persevered. Lorn frowns. Had he? The book offers no guarantee of such. There are no verses saying what became of the writer, nor any hints as to how the slim volume came into the hands of Ryalth’s mother.

Lorn glances out the window into the darkness that has fallen on the compound. He is trying to rebuild the garrison and compound. Can it be done? Can Cyad be reformed to retain its greatness without firewagons, without fireships, without firelances? Will it remain Cyad?

And what is Cyad? He wonders, still without an answer to his father’s question, not one that satisfies him. All those questions, and the melancholy words of the ancient writer, bring up once more the other question, simple enough, yet also without a simple answer. Do the times make a man, or can a man make the times? Was the ancient writer produced by the pressures of creating Cyador, merely reacting to those pressures? Or did he direct them? Since Lorn knows not who the man was, he has no answers, and the words of the writer offer no absolute assurances of either.

Lorn shakes his head, ruefully, yawning. Such philosophical speculations will not help in accomplishing what he must. He yawns once more, then stands and turns out the light. He has much to do on the morrow, as he does on every morrow.

The two men stand on the end of a white stone pier at which no vessels are tied. Under the heavy clouds of a chill spring day, the wind creates small whitecaps on the choppy gray-blue waters of the harbor of Cyad. Halfway toward the shore are two groups of guards, each by a separate bollard. One set of guards is clad in green uniforms, with gold trim, the second and smaller group in shapeless blue. All the guards watch the two merchanters who face each other.

Both men are beardless and wear blue shimmercloth. One is ponderous, tall, heavy, and his brown eyes seem almost hidden by heavy lids. His dark brown hair, though trimmed carefully, is thinning and lank and flops in the wind. The second merchanter is of average height, and trim. His hair is sandy-colored, tinged with silver-gray, and his eyes are hazel.

The heavy merchanter looks down at the smaller man. “Most honored Clan Head Tasjan, I have heard that there are those in the Dyjani Clan who murmur about the need for change among the merchanters.”

“There are always those who wish change.” Tasjan’s voice is a mellow and deep bass, surprisingly for one so slender.

“The words are for more than change. There is talk about who will be Emperor.”

“There have always been some who ask, ‘Is it not time for a merchanter Emperor? Can we not support with our blades and golds someone who will live in the years to come? Can we not do away with those who revere the cracked and failing vase of the past?’” Tasjan laughs. “I have heard such questions since I was a boy. So have you.”

“Such questions are dangerous now,” Bluoyal observes.

“Because the Emperor is aging, Bluoyal? Or because he is less than satisfied with his Merchanter Advisor?”

“Remember, Tasjan, I was the one who calmed Fuyol when he would have hired blades to dismember you and your heirs, and the one who counseled patience.”

“I appreciate your efforts, my old and valued friend.” Tasjan shrugs. “Yet none would accept his golds, and now he is dying, and all look the other way.”

“There was the matter of a Dyjani trade plaque,” Bluoyal points out. “And a Brystan sabre refinished in cupridium. And the Dyjani are the ones who trade most in sabres from Brysta-the only ones, as I recall.”

“Everyone knows we alone trade in such arms, excepting, of course, Bluyet House, which also does, but we know that the Emperor’s Merchanter Advisor is far above suspicion,” Tasjan replies. “That is why it was meaningless. It was an easy way to cast suspicion.”

“And why,” asks Bluoyal with a laugh, “would anyone wish to cast suspicion upon the most honorable Dyjani Clan? Because you are all so beloved?”