L. Modesitt - Scion of Cyador

Lorn bows his head, but his eyes watch Kharl.

“This is a travesty…Lorn is but a butcher and a pup without the ability to rule his own dwelling, let alone Cyad or Cyador.” Kharl steps away from Vyanat.

Lorn can sense the massive amount of chaos swirling up and infusing itself around Kharl. At the same time, he can sense a pit of darkness within the other, one he doubts Kharl can even sense. Lorn lifts his own shields, knowing he must strike, and strike quickly. The Brystan sabre is in his hand, and he steps away from the guards.

“Let them be!” cracks Ryenyel’s voice. “What will be, will be.”

Sypcal and Vyanat back away from Kharl, as do the two guards from Lorn.

Lorn has the Brystan sabre in a guard position even before the chaos-firebolt reaches him.

Hsssst!

With a lazy smile, Lorn uses the order of the iron blade to turn and fling the firebolt back at the First Magus…and then lets the blade follow the firebolt, its iron-cored length slashing into the older magus-and linking with that dark order within the First Magus.

Kharl opens his mouth, and suddenly his eyes widen in shock, and the font of chaos that Kharl has summoned collapses back in upon him, drawn by that well of dark order. The iron-cored blade-momentarily halted, as if in midair, slashes even deeper into Kharl. Sparkles of light flare into the air of the bedchamber.

Lorn blinks. So do the others.

When he can see again, there is little on the chamber floor-except a few cupridium items, a melted pin that had once been an emblem of crossed lightning, some buckles, and cupridium boot-nails-and a shimmering sabre.

Lorn bows to the Empress. “I beg your mercy.”

“I should beg yours, Lorn, for I see that you have mastered more than would appear.” The Empress’s words are dry. Her eyes travel to Sypcal, and then to Vyanat. “Have either of you, for yourself, or those you represent, any objections?”

“No, Lady Empress,” offers Sypcal. He turns and bows to Lorn. “Your Mightiness.”

A broad smile crosses Vyanat’s face. “If we cannot have a merchanter, we will have an Emperor whose consort has proven herself as among the best of merchanters, and all will be pleased with that.” He, too, bows to Lorn. “Your Mightiness.”

Ryenyel clears her throat, as if with difficulty. She looks at Lorn. “Before you go, and prepare to ascend the Malachite Throne…take the book here on the table-and read it well.”

Lorn steps forward toward the Empress and the table on the window side of the bed.

“There,” she says. “It is yours, to read and to pass on in your time.”

“Yes, Lady.” He picks up the volume with the green-sheened silver cover-so like the book of verse with which Ryalth had entrusted him so many years before.

“Read it well.” Ryenyel pauses and turns toward the two men at the foot of the bed. “None of you will see me again. That is as I wish it. Now…please…depart while I retain some dignity.” When Lorn and the two advisors do not move, she adds, “I do mean that. Honor that as my last request.”

The three bow and slip from the chamber, followed by the pair of guards.

Lorn realizes, absently, that he has the answer to his father’s final question, an answer he has known all along: The world is based on power. Power is simple. It is the ability to get others to do one’s will. Nothing more, nothing less-but its complexity lies in how one obtains the compliance of others.

As Lorn stands in the foyer outside the bedchamber, half pondering what he has so belatedly recognized, Sypcal steps up and hands Lorn the Brystan blade. “I trust you will not need this, but you might wish to keep it. I would that you not leave the Palace to inform your consort until your lancers can escort you.”

“I will wait,” Lorn says.

“You will find you will wait more than you ever wished, Your Mightiness,” Sypcal says, as they leave the foyer outside the bedchamber of the dying Empress.

Lorn suspects Sypcal’s words are all too true.

Lorn shakes his head as he reins up outside his dwelling, followed by Palace Guards, and a company of Mirror Lancers commanded by Cheryk. At Sypcal’s insistence, Lorn has earlier sent a messenger to Ryalor House requesting Ryalth meet him at their dwelling. He glances at the clear green-blue sky, a winter day’s sky somehow…austere. Or perhaps that is the way he feels.

“Your Mightiness…while it is an imposing dwelling, I do not think you will see much of it,” suggests Cheryk as Lorn dismounts.

The title sounds strange to Lorn, but he offers a smile to the captain. “There’s likely much I will not see as I did.” He turns and unlocks the iron gate. He is barely inside the walls, followed by two of the Palace Guards in the green-and-silver, when Ryalth comes running from the veranda.

She slows a good dozen paces short of Lorn, and her eyes go from Lorn to the guards, then back to him. “What’s the matter? Are you in trouble?”

“I think,” he begins with a smile, “we are both in trouble.” After a slight pause, he adds, “I have the stone…or it has me. Toziel named me his heir. That makes you Empress-Consort.”

Her eyes widen. For a moment they both stand in the chill and sunny day, beside a fountain that does not flow.

“Truly?” the redhead murmurs.

“Truly.”

Another silence falls between them.

“What of the Magi’i?” she finally asks. “Most would oppose you.”

“Kharl…he tried to kill me when the advisors were read the declaration. I was fortunate enough to prevail.”

“There is no one else left, then?”

“Liataphi will be First Magus. Rustyl was the magus who died with Chyenfel. Sypcal will be Majer-Commander. Vyanat declares he is pleased, that in these days the merchanters are most gratified that you are Empress-Consort, for they will have a voice.” Lorn grins. “And that they will have a voice is certain.”

Abruptly, Ryalth shivers. “It’s cold out here.”

Lorn takes her arm, and the two turn toward the veranda. One of the Palace Guards slips ahead of them and into the house. The other holds the door.

Lorn and Ryalth descend the steps and cross the foyer into the sitting room. Lorn looks at Ryalth. “Where’s Kerial?”

“Kysia’s feeding him in the kitchen.”

“Good. I just worry.” Lorn nods.

“What are you holding?” she asks.

He lifts the silver-covered volume. “Something of great interest.” He extends the book to her. “The Empress gave it to me. It was the Emperor’s. There’s a note. Go ahead…read it.”

Lorn looks over her shoulder, seeing the words again, as Ryalth reads the angular and shaky script of the note.

To the Emperor-to-come:

These are the words of His Mightiness Kiedral’elth’alt’mer, the Second Emperor of Light, as he wrote them. So far as is known, this is the only remaining copy.

He has much to say. Read them all, if you dare, before you sit in the Malachite Throne.

There is a verse marked …for the Emperor Toziel….

At the bottom is a single, spiraled initial R .

“Have you opened it?” Ryalth asks.

Rather than answer, the man who is not sure he is either Mirror Lancer majer or Emperor opens the silver cover, holding it open to the first page, a page with but a title in large letters: Meditations Upon the Land of Light . When he is certain Ryalth has read it, he turns to the second page, and a dedication: To those of the Towers, to those of the Land, and to those who endured . Below the dedication is a name, and a title Lorn has never seen nor heard before: Kiedral Daloren, Vice Marshal, Anglorian Unity .

Then he turns to the page with the green leather marker, and reads the lines there slowly, aloud.