L. Modesitt - Scion of Cyador

“People are stupid when it comes to power.” He pauses. “The Second Magus attacked? Someone attacked Kharl? I suppose he deserves it…but who?”

“I don’t know. No one seems to.”

Lorn steps into the bedchamber, where he pulls trousers and undertunic from the armoire, then fumbles on his second pair of boots. “I want to see Kerial.”

“He is fine.”

Lorn stops in the chamber doorway. “What aren’t you telling me? What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

“Lorn…there’s more,” Ryalth says softly, her eyes dark not just with fatigue, but with concern. “I wanted you to have a few moments…”

“Who…What…? It’s not Kerial? You said he was all right.”

“He’s just fine,” she repeats. “Jerial came to Ryalor House this morning. She brought this.” Ryalth hands Lorn a scroll, apparently unsealed. But within the unsealed scroll-parchment, not paper-is a second sealed scroll, of a paper fine but faintly tinted with green. “She is waiting in the kitchen with Kerial.”

Lorn frowns. “Myryan. It can only be Myryan.” He swallows as he opens and reads the inner scroll. He holds in a shiver at the familiar script and the few words written there.

For the partners of the house…

“Such an odd phrasing…” he murmurs.

Ryalth returns his look of inquiry with open blue eyes that do not flinch from the pain in his.

Lorn continues, reading deliberately.

The absence of order within the heart of those who hold chaos second-most dear will lead to the ultimate order, whether for those thought far higher than merchanters or lancers…or for a consort without understanding.

A healer cannot heal the absence of understanding, and healers cannot heal their own wounds or hold their own deaths at bay. A healer can use skills to allow chaos to unbalance those already unbalanced, whether through hatred of happier households, boundless ambition, or petty jealousy…

All a healer can do is but use her skills to allow a soul or a land to heal, and hope that those who follow to complete the healing…if they but will.

I have done what I must…for I cannot be held captive to the desires of others, whether for heirs or power…I have done what I can for you, and I have done so gladly.

Lorn just looks at the scroll, written so precisely, and yet it seems to make almost no sense except for the last paragraph.

“Jerial is waiting downstairs,” Ryalth says gently. “She can tell you, far better than I, what happened.”

His fingers clench about the scroll and he walks toward the bedchamber door. Ryalth follows silently.

Jerial is waiting at the foot of the stairs, as if she has sensed or heard his approach. Her eyes are red-rimmed.

Lorn holds out the scroll. “What happened to her? Is she ill?” As he asks the question and looks at Jerial, he knows. “How? She was fine. Who…? Did that…Kharl? Ciesrt?”

“Let her tell you, dearest.” Ryalth touches Lorn’s shoulder, gently.

Lorn moistens his lips. His eyes rest on Jerial.

“I got a message, and I hurried to her dwelling. Late last night.” Jerial shakes her head. “She was just lying there. She just waited…until I was there, and then she pressed the scroll into my hands, and she…said…it was better…this way…” Jerial’s voice trembles, and her reddened eyes tear again; Lorn has never seen either from his sister the competent healer.

“Better…?” he asks. “Better?” His voice is rough.

Jerial’s face hardens. “She was with child.”

“What?”

“It was hard to find…but…someone had removed what we had done…only…a first-level adept…”

“Ciesrt?” blurts Ryalth.

“Kharl,” Lorn says. “He wanted heirs. The bastard wanted heirs…Myryan worried about that. I didn’t think he’d go that far…I didn’t think…” He looks down at the shimmering and spotless stone tiles of the floor. “I didn’t think…”

After a moment, he raises his head and looks at his sister. “I don’t understand.” He lifts the scroll he still clenches in his hand. He looks at the parchment, almost as if he has not seen it. “She says she did what she could…”

“She said she’d just come back from Kharl’s,” Jerial explains. “He needed healing. Ciesrt said he’d been attacked on his way back from the quarter. So Ciesrt took her to heal his father. Ciesrt had brought her home, and helped her to bed, then he went back to his father’s when I came.”

“Why? If she was so ill…?” asks Lorn.

“She didn’t let him know. She just got him to send a messenger and a carriage for me. As soon as I arrived, he left.”

“Did you tell him?”

“I waited. I sent a message for Kharl’s consort, and Liataphi’s as well. This morning I also sent a message to Tyrsal. I thought he should know, and I didn’t want you to have to do it, not after I heard about the fighting in the streets.” Jerial’s smile is cold, even as the tears ooze from her eyes, slowly, as if she has few tears left to give. “Lleya came immediately; Kharl’s consort-I don’t even know her name-she came later. We all agreed that somehow she had overextended herself in healing, possibly at the infirmary, and not understood that the child would take what little chaos and strength she had left. Ciesrt is distraught…truly so.”

“It is not enough,” Lorn whispers. “Distraught…merely distraught.” He stands rigid until he can see again. “She healed Kharl…after all he had done? I don’t understand.”

“I don’t, either, Lorn,” Jerial says softly. “But you know Myryan and I have never looked at things quite from the same window.”

Abruptly, Lorn extends the scroll to Ryalth. “Do you know what she means?”

Lorn sees her eyes go back over the words…once, twice. Abruptly, her eyes shimmer, and tears course from her eyes, silently, but the only word she offers is, “No.”

“I should have done more,” Lorn finally whispers. “I should have acted all those years back. I should have. Father was wrong.”

But the protest changes nothing, and Lorn gazes across the dining area, his eyes blank.

Ryalth shudders.

Jerial stands there mute.

Kysia appears at the edge of the room. “Ser, Ladies…there is a magus at the gate.”

“If it’s Ciesrt…I don’t want to see him,” Lorn says.

“This late?” asks Jerial.

“Did he say who he is?” asks Ryalth.

“His name is Tyrsal. He has red hair…”

Lorn turns. “I’ll go.

Tyrsal stands beside the gate. He has tethered his mount to the single bronze ring set in the wall. Behind him the lancers watch.

“It’s all right,” Lorn calls to them. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes as he unlocks the gate and motions for the redheaded magus to enter.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I should be the one apologizing for coming this late and intruding.” Tyrsal steps inside the iron gate, and gestures back at the mounted lancers. “Your idea?”

“The new Majer-Commander’s.” Lorn locks the gate, steps around the privacy screen, and turns back along the darkened marble way.

“Rynst? What happened? He wasn’t in the fighting, was he?” Tyrsal steps up beside Lorn as they circle the silent fountain.

“He vanished last night. Then Commander Lhary killed the Captain-Commander, and I killed Lhary.” Lorn shrugs as he walks.

“That isn’t everything,” Tyrsal says.

“You’re too good with truth-reading. No…it’s not,” Lorn admits, “but that’s the way it will be.”

“It’s interesting that Kharl was wounded last night, badly enough to need a healer,” Tyrsal says. “I doubt a common bravo would have the skill…”

“It could be,” Lorn says tiredly. “But there’s not much I can do except watch Kharl now…is there?” He opens the veranda door once more.