L. Modesitt - Scion of Cyador

Then there is another series of flashes of chaos.

After a time, Kharl slowly opens one of the doors to the balcony outside the study, then flings a few metal items into the night. He leaves the door open, and walks unsteadily toward the closed door leading to the fifth-floor foyer, and the empty stone staircase. One hand holds his left shoulder.

Just before the door opens, he appears to vanish, and the study of the Majer-Commander is empty.

In the dining area Lorn and Ryalth sit alone, eating, in the reflected glow of a pair of lamps set in wall sconces.

“You were late tonight. You were preparing for an attack by Sasyk’s guards.” Ryalth nibbles on the crust of the dark bread.

“I think they will attack, but the Majer-Commander is not sure whether it will be tomorrow or the day after.” Lorn eats the lamb stew slowly, methodically, hardly tasting what passes his lips.

“Noon or afternoon tomorrow, I would guess,” Ryalth says.

“Why do you think that?”

“The winds in the morning will make a swift approach difficult, and there were no vessels standing off the harbor.”

“That is good to know.” Lorn takes a sip of wine he scarcely tastes. “Rynst told me that the Majer-Commander can never be Emperor. Nor the Captain-Commander. He said it would destroy Cyador. He believes his own words.”

“He’s telling you to kill Luss, if anything happens to him, isn’t he?”

“I fear he’s suggesting that Luss will reach for the Malachite Throne.”

“What will you do?”

“What I must. If I must.” Lorn shrugs wearily. After a moment, he asks, “Did you hear anything about Husdryt and Torvyl?”

Ryalth shakes her head. “None knows anything, and there were a score of greensuited guards around Dyjani House today.”

“That’s all? Sasyk just kills the heirs and walks in?”

“What would you have them do?” asks Ryalth. “Traders are not lancers, and all those with arms owe their allegiance to Sasyk. Why have the Mirror Lancers not acted, I could well ask.”

Lorn takes a sip of the Fhynyco before responding. “I asked the Majer-Commander about that. Lancers aren’t supposed to interfere in the internal doings of merchanter houses. We only act if a house threatens other houses, or the Palace. Or, I suppose, the Mirror Lancers.”

“You were right to deal with Tasjan silently. None would lift arms until it would bloody all Cyad.”

“That could still happen,” Lorn says. “Perhaps you should stay here tomorrow.”

“In the afternoon…”

“What is so important that you would risk yourself in the morning?” he finally asks Ryalth.

“If I shy from the Plaza when others do not…then who will trade with me? I have spent years, dear lancer, getting folk to understand that I am no frail woman.” Ryalth raises her eyebrows.

Lorn sighs. He recognizes the cupridium in her voice. “Promise me this. If other houses close…you close as well, even if it is morning. And take Pheryk and the hired guards. There is a difference between prudence and faintheartedness.”

“I will-but I will not be the first to close.”

Lorn holds back a frown. Ryalth’s words are not quite true. “You don’t have to be the very last.”

“I will not be so, not if I can help it.”

Lorn relaxes slightly. Those words are clearly truth-felt. He takes another sip of the wine. Then he stiffens, shaking his head. “Did you hear about the First Magus?”

Ryalth frowns. “I cannot said that I did, save that some ask why the Magi’i have not stepped forward to press for an heir.”

“A chaos-tower failed yesterday, and the First Magus was killed. Rynst said that he was trying to stabilize it because there are but two towers remaining in all Cyad. Except for three on fireships.”

“That does not ring fair.”

“No, and that means Kharl will be First Magus. I do not like that at all.”

“Could he have…?”

“Tyrsal says that, old as he is, Chyenfel is…was…far stronger than Kharl in handling chaos.” Lorn frowns.

“Should you talk to Tyrsal?” Ryalth asks.

“I should…but I do not dare take the time to seek him, nor compromise him, not tomorrow, not when we know not what Sasyk plans.” Lorn shrugs. “All the glass shows is Sasyk plotting and guards upon ships.” He laughs once. “We know both almost without a glass, and a glass does not tell when something will happen until it does.”

Ryalth looks at Lorn. “You had not planned for this.”

He shakes his head slowly. “No. I had thought…” He breaks off with a sad and wistful smile. “One doesn’t think…life changes…I had not thought my parents would die so soon…” He smiles. “At least they saw Kerial…and you. Your parents didn’t get to see any of that.”

Her smile is sad. “When one wishes…the costs are far greater than mere golds.”

“Is Ryalor House worth it?”

“It is. My mother would be pleased. My father would be astonished. Yet…there is always something more to be done. There is always another cargo lost, another factor who distrusts a woman…”

“And a consort who is often never around?”

“I cannot ask you to be what you are not, dear one, and you have loved me more than any could hope or ask. I would that I could give you half of what you have given me.” Her hand reaches across the table and takes his. “It is just…in these times…we do what we must…and never know if it is what should be done…or what may come of it.”

Lorn squeezes her hand, half wondering, half dreading, just what the morrow may bring.

Ciesrt holds Myryan’s arm as they climb the steps to the second level of the dwelling. His steps are so quick he is almost dragging her slight frame. “Please hurry…. please…”

“I won’t be much help…not if I can’t breathe when I get there.” Myryan’s voice is low.

“I told you. Don’t you understand?” Ciesrt slows his climb to match her steps. “Father needs a healer…and you are one of the best.”

“You told me that.”

“A bravo attacked him coming back from the Quarter tonight,” Ciesrt explains. “He must have had an iron blade…or something.” He says nothing more, and they walk, silently, the last cubits up the steps and across the portico to the study.

Slightly behind her consort, Myryan follows Ciesrt into the lamplit study.

Kharl is half seated, half slumped, lying back in an armchair, his feet on a stool. His face is flour-white, and his breathing is fast and shallow, almost panting. His tunic and undertunic have been removed, and his chest would be bare, saving that it is covered with a blanket, except for his left shoulder and arm. His green eyes are open, and fierce, even as his form convulses into another shudder.

A woman in white, Kharl’s consort, places a damp cloth across the forehead of the magus, and another across the shoulder and the arm.

“The iron…Mother removed it as soon as he got here, but she has not your skill,” Ciesrt explains.

The new First Magus says nothing as Myryan bends and moves the cold damp cloth to inspect the wound. Her fingers brush his skin momentarily. Red lines spread from a small wound, no larger than a thumb, in his left upper arm just below the top of his shoulder. Heat radiates from the entire arm and shoulder.

“Well…” The normally smooth and modulated voice is raw.

“It is ferric poisoning.” Myryan’s face is drawn. “It is well along, but I think I can do something about it.”

“If you would…” Ciesrt says.

“Quickly,” rasps Kharl.

Myryan touches the skin of the magus once more, lightly. She winces, murmuring. “Order-spelled iron.”