L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

“Sire … as you know, we would use all the power in the Towers to create a barrier, the slenderest barrier of time passing, and by doing so, we would layer order and chaos about the Forest, and place the Forest in a type of sleep, so that it would come to resemble a normal forest ….”

“You have told me that. How long?”

“Twenty-five to thirty score years, we would judge-if … if , no one brings a focused order or chaos of that same magnitude to the ward-walls.”

“How could that occur, if there is no other source of focused chaos or order besides the chaos towers-which are failing-and the Forest which you will lull into an enchanted sleep?”

“We know of no such way, sire.” Chyenfel bows.

“As you say … I have no choice. Let it be done.” Toziel stands. “We will not visit this issue again.” He turns and moves toward the exit from the chamber.

A smile flits across Bluoyal’s face, a smile noted by Ryenyel alone before she turns to follow her consort.

Rynst’s cold eyes scan first Bluoyal and then the First Magus. The three advisors remain standing in place until the chamber is vacant of imperial presence.

As is their custom after the audience with the advisors, the Emperor and his consort return to the Empress’s salon, where she seats herself on the white divan.

Toziel studies his consort. “I do believe we have finallyhad enough meetings on the barrier for the Accursed Forest so that Chyenfel can create it without interference.”

“You could have ordered him to proceed a year ago,” Ryenyel points out, “were it not for other considerations.”

“Folk-even high advisors-must talk and talk and repeat themselves until they are confortable with an idea, for if they are not …”

“The delay is greater,” Ryenyel finishes drily.

“And I must appear almost dense, as if forced into acceding to the plan.” Toziel shakes his head.

Faint smiles appear on both their faces.

“And all the Magi’i had to understand that the towers there will fail.”

“You mean Kharl and Liataphi … perhaps Kien,” she suggests.

“Kien understands. He always has. He prefers to advise, and stand in the shadows. That is why he will never seek to be First Magus. Or even Third.”

“Many would not agree.”

Toziel grins at her. “But you do, and I trust your judgment.” The grin fades, and he paces to the window. There he looks out at the heavy spring rain for a time before he turns and speaks again. “Each eightday we delay, we risk failure of another tower, and the chance that the Accursed Forest will leap the wards beyond our ability to contain it.”

After a silence, the Empress-consort speaks. “Rynst now understands that Bluoyal only wishes the towers and the lancers in order to support the merchanters’ trading ships. He also understands that while he cannot brook Chyenfel, the First Magus can be trusted far more than the Second. Or the Third.”

“Only now?” Toziel snorts. “Or is it that he fears Bluoyal more than the Magi’i?”

“Bluoyal walks a narrow and dangerous path, trying to ensure that the lancers and the Magi’i do not see that their interests are closer to each other’s than to his.” She reaches for the goblet of spring water on the table, nearly draining it in a single swallow.

“They see that. They have always seen that.” The Emperor’s smile is cold. “But neither can afford to trust the other allied to Bluoyal. Yet they know that both Magi’i and Lancers are few outside of the three cities. They cooperate like a pair of giant cats against a pack of night leopards. Most carefully.”

“And when the towers fail?” she questions.

“There will be towers after we are gone,” Toziel answers.

“Not many, and not for long. You hesitate to answer?”

“You know, as do I, my dear. There will need to be more lancers against the barbarians, but the Magi’i who can draw chaos from around them will be far fewer.” He shrugs. “That will make each more powerful individually, but the families far less so, and there will be fewer. Bluoyal’s successors will find they still need lancers, but not until many perish, and more than a few vessels are lost.”

“Little will change,” she prophesies.

“The appearances will not, but the emperors to come must either be powerful Magi’i or inspire loyalty within the Mirror Lancers, for either lancers or Magi’i can destroy an Emperor. Yet they must have the support of the Merchanters, for without that there will not be the golds to support the Mirror Lancers.”

“Bluoyal is coming to believe that he can decide who will succeed you, even now. I wonder if he holds the Brystan sabre in reserve … or the man who does.”

“That part of the riddle has not surfaced.” Toziel sinks onto the divan beside her, breathing slightly heavily.

“No,” she replies, “but it will. Bluoyal already believes that the merchanters will purchase the Palace of Light in years to come.”

“For a season, perhaps, in two generations. Sooner, if we fail, and blood will stain the sunstone so deeply it will not be removed, should that occur.” He studies her drawn face. “You give too much to me.”

“What else would I do, dearest? We know there is no one else.”

“Not yet.” Her fingers rest lightly on his cheek.

IN THE MID-AFTERNOON gloom, Lorn sits at the narrow desk in his study, reading over the last lines of his patrol report, before he begins the summary report that will go to Majer Maran. Outside, the heavy rain that began the day before on the final day of patrol continues to beat down on the tile roofs of the compound and to run in sheets across the slightly slanted stone pavement of the courtyard, pouring into the drainage canal leading westward.

The lancer captain massages his forehead with his left hand, closing his eyes for a moment, listening to the drumbeat of the rain, rain that usually seems to provide headaches.

Ryalth has returned to Cyad, and Lorn has completed one complete patrol, surprisingly without a tree-fall or another excursion from the Accursed Forest. Those will come. That he knows, but he hopes that he will have some time, for he has yet to decide how he will handle what must come from Maran, if not by spring, then later.

Thrap . The knock on the study door is gentle.

“Yes?”

Kusyl opens the door and peers inside. “Ah … ser … the engineers brought the replacement firelances.”

Lorn beckons for the squad leader to come in.

Kusyl does and closes the door behind him.

“They’re not fully charged, or there aren’t enough?” Lorn suggests.

“Just a score and a half, ser. If Frynyl hadn’t run for the north, well, ser …”

“I know. There wouldn’t even be one for me. I could have borrowed one from Juist, but only one. He generally has a few extras, and they don’t discharge theirs as rapidly as we do.” Lorn smiles. “I appreciate your telling me. It won’t change anything.” He glances toward the window. “I just hope the rain lets up soon.”

“Not quite so heavy as earlier, ser.” Kusyl bobs his head. “There be anything you want, ser?”

“No, thank you.”

Once Kusyl leaves, Lorn looks out at the still-falling rain. He shakes his head sadly. Maran has made Lorn’s decision for him, although Lorn doubts Maran will understand the reasons for that decision. The captain fingers his chin. In a way, Ciesrt has also helped to make Lorn’s decision, and his sister’s consort would not understand either.

Lorn takes out another sheet of report paper and begins drafting the summary report to Majer Maran. Since nothing occurred, it is short, and before long, Lorn has handed it to Kusyl for dispatch.