L. Modesitt - Scion of Cyador

Tyrsal stops, and looks at Lorn. “Before we go inside, you need to know something.”

Lorn waits.

“Ciesrt died in all the turmoil.”

“Ciesrt?”

The redheaded magus offers a sad smile. “I killed him. I followed your example. No one will ever find him.”

“Because of Myryan?”

“After Jerial’s message, I decided.” The redhead nods. “There’s not much else I can say, Lorn. I’m not asking for forgiveness or praise. Ciesrt was weak, and he let his weakness destroy Myryan. He would have let it happen again, and keep letting it happen.”

“I know.” Lorn looks down. “I should have taken care of the problem when I could. I didn’t, and I’ll always regret that.”

“I don’t need to come in,” Tyrsal says. “Aleyar is worried. She didn’t want me out at all, but I wanted you to know before tomorrow.”

“I’m glad you came.” Lorn claps Tyrsal’s arm and hand. “…Thank you…for caring…for being a friend.”

Tyrsal smiles wanly. “Sometimes…that’s not enough. I know that.”

“It is enough.” Lorn says, meaning it fully. “Thank you.”

“I’ll talk to you later.” Tyrsal turns.

Lorn and Tyrsal walk silently back to the gate, where Lorn unlocks it and lets Tyrsal out. He watches until the sound of hoofs dies away. Then Lorn walks back into the house.

“Where is Tyrsal?” asks Jerial.

“Tyrsal just wanted to say he was sorry. He didn’t want stay or to come in. Aleyar is worried.”

“He must have wanted to let you know that a great deal,” Jerial says, “to be out on a night like this.”

“He did. He is…He’s always been a true friend.” Lorn looks at Jerial. “You’ll stay here tonight.”

“I’d thought I would.”

Then he looks at Ryalth. “I’m going upstairs. I just need to be alone for a little bit.”

She nods and smiles softly, sadly. “Kerial and I will be waiting in the bedchamber. Whenever…”

“I won’t be long.”

Lorn walks up the steps, slowly, heavily. He puts a hand to the railing to steady himself. Once on the second level, he slips into the bedchamber, where he picks up the silver-covered book. He carries it to his study, where he uses a striker to light the lamp. Even the thought of using chaos for as little as that intensifies the headache that has yet to show any signs of subsiding.

After looking for long moments at the silver-covered book, he slowly leafs through it until he finds the page he recalls. He reads the words slowly.

Ashes to ashes

and dust to dust

will not bring back the dance

nor the dancer.

Chaos to order and back to flame

brings back no songs without name.

For the lesson that I have learned

is that there is none.

No one else will sing those songs,

nor dance, nor smile that smile.

because one less one is none.

In her own way, Myryan had been a dancer, a dancer of the soul…Had he and Ryalth-and Tyrsal-been the only ones to see that?

For a long time, he studies the lines in the book. Finally, he closes it and gazes out the window into the darkness.

A man can change the times-sometimes-and the times may make one man, but they destroy many others in the process.

There is a rustle behind him, and he turns.

Ryalth stands there. “I was worried.”

“I’m all right,” he lies. Then he opens the book and hands it to her, open to the verse he has read again and again. “I was thinking about Myryan.”

She nods and twin lines of silver streak her cheeks. In time, she closes the book, and he turns down the lamp wick, and they walk to the bedchamber, where Kerial sleeps, restlessly.

They watch their son, silently, as the night deepens.

Lorn stands before the acting Majer-Commander of the Mirror Lancers. Behind Sypcal, cold droplets of water bead on the antique panes of the study windows, droplets from the cold drizzle that blankets Cyad and the Palace of Light.

“You report that all is calm in Cyad, Majer. Can you be sure of such?” asks Sypcal, leaning forward slightly over the table desk that had been Rynst’s.

Lorn nods. “Since the street battles, I have taken the liberty of having squads ride the roads and ways, ser. They have seen no signs of others bearing arms.” Lorn does not report that he has also used his chaos-glass, if sparingly, because of the headache that has not yet fully left him, and asked Tyrsal to do the same. “The rain may aid in keeping the calm.”

“And your presence, I am certain, has a certain restraining effect.”

“They’re afraid I’ll slaughter them?” Lorn smiles mirthlessly. “I only slew those who rose against the Emperor.”

“Exactly. If they do not rise, then you will not slaughter them.” Sypcal’s smile is almost as mirthless as Lorn’s. The acting Majer-Commander remains seated behind the table desk. His red hair seems dull, although his eyes are alert as he looks at Lorn. “There is one more matter, Majer.”

“Ser?”

“Your presence has been requested at the Palace. By the Empress. Immediately.”

Lorn swallows.

“She wishes to convey her gratitude to you for saving Cyad from Sasyk. In person.” Sypcal frowns slightly. “She is less than perfectly well, I understand, but she insisted that I bring you in person.”

“Yes, ser.”

“I will meet you at the entrance shortly.”

“Yes, ser,” Lorn responds a last time. He bows, then makes his way out of the Majer-Commander’s study.

Lorn’s white boots whisper on the polished sunstone and granite floors of the Palace of Eternal Light as he and Sypcal follow the two guards along the high-ceilinged and pillared corridor. To the right, between the columns, are narrow windows stretching nearly fifteen cubits from the polished floor to the buttresses that connect the columns. Outside of Palace Guards dressed in green uniforms with silver trim, the Palace seems eerily empty, and Lorn glances at Sypcal.

A faint smile crosses the face of the acting Majer-Commander as he looks back at Lorn. “Don’t ask me. I’ve been here but a handful of times, and only to the Great and Lesser Audience Halls. Like you, I’m following orders.”

Lorn laughs to himself.

The two green-clad Palace Guards lead them down a smaller corridor-ten cubits wide, and then to a set of double doors, guarded by yet another pair in green. One opens the right-hand door, and Lorn follows Sypcal into a foyer a good twenty cubits square. There are several golden-oak chairs set against the paneled walls, and a single guard in silver stands by the inner door.

The guard in silver looks at Sypcal. “Ser…the Empress has requested that you remain here until the other advisors arrive. She will see you all together. She wishes to see Majer Lorn first, alone, and she wishes that he bring the special sabre at his side.”

Lorn moistens his lips. “ The special sabre ”? How does the Empress know it is special?

Sypcal smiles. “Best of luck, Majer.”

“Thank you, ser.” Lorn steps through the door. He finds himself at the end of a bedchamber-one comparatively modest for what he has seen in the Palace of Light so far, perhaps thirty cubits long, and fifteen wide. The left side of the chamber is comprised of alternating panels of polished green marble and green tinted glass, that somehow seem to diminish the light pouring in from the south. Still, Lorn can see the harbor, and the two hulks that were once Dyjani trading vessels.

The high bed is wide enough for four people, and the headboard is almost plain, but of a wood that might have once been white oak, but which now bears a green stain that allows the grain to show through despite the darkness of the color. The Empress is propped up on the window side of the overlarge bed, the white counterpane folded back at her waist. She wears a plain dark-green velvet gown with long sleeves. Her hair is half mahogany, half snow-white.