L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

Lorn smiles and begins to pen his reply.

My dearest trader,

My two-eightday furlough begins the ninth eightday of winter, and I have made the arrangements discussed a year ago, and am well-pleased with the thought of keeping my word on this matter. I am hoping that it will be convenient for you to come to the town of Jakaafra at that time, and I have arranged a modest dwelling for you, so that all can be handled with decorum and grace. Should I not be immediately present on account of my duties, inquire of the factor who has arranged much ….

Should you wish to demur, I will make otherarrangements to keep this word whenever you desire it to be such ….

Lorn frowns at his words. He does not wish to seem too formal, but he does not wish Ryalth to be compromised in the event the scroll falls into the wrong hands.

Finally, he concludes.

As you know, I am less than most perfectly able to express myself under these circumstances, and must trust to words more formal than what I feel, but I trust that my actions will express me far better than my poor words, and that you will understand as you have done so well and so often over the years.

He looks blankly toward the window and the rain beyond as he finally seals the missive, his eyes fixed far beyond the grayness of the compound.

AS THE WHITE gelding carries him southeast along the road beside the white granite of the ward-wall, Lorn wipes the cold drizzle off his forehead. Sweat continues to ooze from under the garrison cap to mix with the fine rain. Without the oiled white leather winter jacket, he would be soaked, but cold as it had been when they had left Jakaafra, he had chosen the warmer jacket over a waterproof. The weather has warmed somewhat, and under the jacket, even unfastened as it is, he is too warm.

No lancer can carry enough for all types of weather, not and be able to fight giant cats-not and carry two firelances and two sabres.

“Far too wet and cold not to wear a jacket,” Shynt observes from where he rides on the outer side of the ward-wallroad, echoing Lorn’s feelings, “and too warm to wear such.”

Lorn shakes his head. “And it’s not really wet enough for this to help crops much, and too damp for healthy riding. No one really benefits. Some patrols are like that.”

“Most … in the winter.”

The lancer captain nods in agreement, then glances ahead. Through the mid-day drizzle, the white granite oblong bulk of the structure housing the non-functioning midpoint chaos tower looms ahead and slightly to the left of the ward-wall road. Before long, the first squad will have to ride around the mid-point tower, and then, somewhere beyond that, farther southeast, they will find another fallen tree.

It has been almost two eightdays and two complete patrol circuits since he sent off his fateful scroll to Ryalth, and he has heard nothing, but still he must deal with patrols and trees and escaped creatures. Then, he reminds himself, it is still early for her response. He turns back to study the wall. His eyes and senses check the chaos-net and the increasingly irregular pulses of the chaos flows confirm to him that another tree has fallen across the white granite barrier-several kays to the southeast of the midpoint tower. The irregularity of the chaos-greater irregularity, he corrects himself, for chaos flows are never regular-remind him again that he pursues a dangerous path … as his father had suggested more than once.

Yet, being who he is, what other can he do? Other than smile and make provisions.

Smile? The ancient words, in their slanted characters, run through his mind.

Smiles … images on the pond of being, reflections only made possible by the black depths beneath .

Black depths-he has black depths. That he knows as he pushes the words away. He knows, too, that what he must do in dealing with the fallen tree ahead-riding alone as a target-will work, and that no wild creatures are likely to escape. He also knows that if too many more patrol reports show neither casualties nor escaped animals, it will not bethat long before Majer Maran returns to Jakaafra with another chore in mind-one for which Lorn is not certain he is fully prepared.

Provisions must be made … and I have made them.

But are they enough? That … he will never know, unless he fails, and then it will be too late. With a faint smile, Lorn leans forward slightly in the saddle and runs the fingertips of his right hand over the two firelances, one after the other. Both are fully charged. Then he straightens up and studies the ward-wall to his right once more, trying to guess how many kays they will ride before a lancer will spot the fallen Forest tree, how many kays before he will have to use concealed chaos once more, because a magus-born lancer cannot be suffered to be successful.

LORN LOOKS UP from the patrol report he is writing as Kusyl stands by the door to the inner study.

“This came with the Engineers, ser.” The senior squad leader extends the white and green sealed scroll.

Lorn stands to take it. “Thank you. It will be a bit before I have the reports ready to go.”

“Myserk will stop back before they leave,” Kusyl replies. “He understands.” With a nod, he steps back and closes the door.

Lorn looks at the scroll, then forces himself to set it on the side of the desk. He picks up the pen and continues until he reaches the last lines of the summary that will be dispatched to Majer Maran.

… no casualties, and no creatures escaped. Patrol remained on station at the fallen trunk for two days until Mirror Engineers could respond. Return patrol without Accursed Forest events.

With a smile of relief, he lays the summary beside the completed full report for both to dry and finally picks up the scroll Kusyl had brought him. Lorn is not that surprised to see that the seal has been carefully slit from the paper and then re-heated-as shown by the blurring of his father’s “K” on the wax.

He breaks the seal and begins to read.

… is always good to hear how well you are doing. I have received favorable reports on your progress from many, including the officer who recommended you for lancer training so many years ago. He continues in that post today as well as then. Apparently, younger lancers are the ones who move more from duty assignment to duty assignment ….

Jerial has spent more time with me lately, and perhaps I was too hasty in my suggestions about future consorts. This is indeed something that we should discuss when you return, but I would like to assure you that I now believe your earlier inclinations may have true merit, and would be in your best interests if you still remain so inclined ….

Lorn frowns. Has Jerial talked about Ryalth to their father? Or has Ryalth’s success become more noted? Or is something else afoot about which Lorn knows nothing?

Vernt continues to pursue his efforts with both diligence and recognition. He has been raised to a lower second level, as has Ciesrt, although both are in very different aspects of magial endeavors. Myryan’s garden is a wonder, and she is most pleased with that aspect of her life and dwelling ….

Lorn winces. He suspects he knows exactly what his father’s words convey, and he can only hope his younger sister is not too terribly unhappy.

Sylirya has been taken as a consort by a cabinetmaker, so that Kysia has become the head of the household staff. She is good enough to run the household of a trading magnate and will in time perhaps have the skills needed to assist some high functionary in the Palace of Light, though we would certainly miss her here. In time, she will doubtless leave us for a younger family, but her loyalty cannot be faulted …