L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

Lorn shrugs gently, his eyes and senses fully upon the more senior officer. “It was accurate.”

“Oh, I am most certain it was accurate. Every report you have submitted has been most truthful in every detail you have provided.”

“And I have provided every important detail, Majer,” Lorn continues, “so that you and Commander Meylyd will be kept well informed.”

“We both appreciate that. Yes, we do.” Maran’s smile turns vaguely apologetic. “Captain … there are a few items we should discuss. Better alone, I would think. I suggest that we should take a ride.”

“Perhaps that would be best,” Lorn concurs. “Is your mount …?”

“He is tied outside. I will meet you by the gates,” Maran suggests. “Shortly.” He flashes his warm smile once more before he turns and leaves.

For several moments, Lorn looks to the open window, knowing that he must face the results of his decisions, and that, after today, there is no turning from his course, that he-he and Ryalth, for his decisions no longer impact but himself-are committed to long and dangerous years. He shakes his head. Being who he is, there never was another course, and all he can do is work to ensure she is not too adversely affected. That will be more than difficult, for his failure will lead to death.

He laughs, once, harshly. Turning from one’s dreams is a greater death than failing to reach them. A far worse death-that he has already seen in others-for one experiences it each day anew.

Lorn stacks the reports and places the thin Lancer manual on them to hold them against the breeze from the window before reclaiming the Brystan sabre and clipping the scabbard to his belt. Then he steps out into the outer study.

“Ser?” Kusyl looks up.

“I’ll be taking a ride with Majer Maran,” Lorn tells thesenior squad leader. “He has requested I accompany him. I would doubt it will be long.” He grins ruefully at Kusyl. “With senior officers, one never knows, though.”

“No, ser.” Kusyl’s brow furrows, but he does not speak further.

“I hope to be back soon.” Lorn adds as he leaves.

When he crosses the courtyard, he looks for the majer, but Maran has already left or is on the other side of one of the courtyard structures.

Suforis is not in the stable, and Lorn has finished saddling the gelding and is leading him out before the blond ostler appears.

“You won’t be riding him hard today, will you, ser? I could get another mount …? It would not take but a moment.”

“No. I doubt I’ll travel more than a few kays. Majer Maran has something he wants to talk about or show me.”

“Yes, ser.” Suforis’s assent contains some doubt.

“There’s no rain or chill, Suforis, and I won’t be riding hard. Or far.” With a smile, Lorn mounts the gelding. He rides at a walk across the stone-paved courtyard and past the duty guards.

Maran is waiting, reined up a half-kay from the gates on the road that leads past the chaos-tower building and toward the ward-wall. The majer’s mount is the same white stallion he had ridden earlier when he had given Lorn a tour of the ward-wall near Geliendra.

“You took your time, Captain.”

“The ostler was out, and I had to saddle up my mount. I wasn’t expecting to take a ride.” Lorn’s voice is even, casual.

“No, I suppose you were not. At least, not today.” A hint of amusement colors Maran’s deep and warm voice. The majer’s heels touch the stallion’s flanks, and the big mount carries the majer along the access road.

Lorn follows Maran’s lead, suppressing a knowing nod as the majer follows the road that flanks the wall connecting the chaos tower building to the ward-wall. They turn southwest on the wall road, riding toward Westend.

Lorn does not speak, just rides on the side of the road closest to the wall, as the two officers cover first a kay, then nearly a second, before Maran looks at Lorn again. “It is too bad you were not born five generations earlier, Captain.”

“I appreciate the compliment.” Lorn laughs. “But I like this time, thank you.” He glances back over his shoulder, but he cannot make out any figures near the compound, just the walls.

“This time does not behoove you.” Maran continues in his deep and thoughtful tones, almost as if Lorn were not riding a handful of cubits away. “You are capable, Captain, far too capable for a mere lancer.”

“All lancers should strive to be capable,” Lorn says conversationally, breaking into the older officer’s monologue, “as a mere beginning.”

Maran glances at Lorn, the brown eyes momentarily flat, instead of warm.

“Tell me, Maran,” Lorn adds, deliberately omitting the senior officer’s title. “When does a senior officer have the right to threaten the lives of a junior’s company and men for the sake of secretive plotting? Or for the interests of a few senior officers in Cyad?”

Maran raises his eyebrows, and the warm smile returns to his deep brown eyes. “I do not believe that has ever occurred. Threatening the lives of lancers, that is.”

“By the way,” Lorn says, “I thought you might wish to know that you have made my decisions far easier … oh, and that I have taken the liberty of taking a consort.”

“You did not consult with the Commander, or me, and that is usual. Then, you seldom do the usual.”

“But not required,” Lorn says, “not under the Lancer Rules of Procedure.” He continues to smile.

“There are many things which are not required, but wise, nonetheless,” Maran adds, “as you will doubtless discover in your short career.”

“No,” Lorn replies quietly. “As you will discover in a shorter career.” He draws the Brystan sabre that looks littledifferent from a lancer sabre now that it shimmers with a cupridium finish.

“You do anticipate, Captain, but …”

Hssst! The firebolt of a full magus flies at Lorn.

Lorn raises the sabre and twists it, also twisting the shields he holds, and flings the firebolt, energy he has now encased in black order-ordered chaos-fire-back at the majer. He turns the gelding so that he faces Maran’s right side.

“Trifling.” Maran languidly raises a hand as if to dispel the firebolt.

Lorn follows the returned firebolt with the sabre, letting it fly, guided by chaos-order, and filled with the twined order and chaos he has learned from the Accursed Forest.

“Uhhh!” As the firebolt shatters, the Brystan sabre’s sharpened point drives through the majer’s shoulder.

The warm smile vanishes from the majer’s face, and Lorn uses his chaos senses to drive another order-chaos beam at Maran.

“Black … angel …” Those are Maran’s last words. There are no hisses, no screams-Maran’s body just flares as the glowing golden white of chaos, enfolded by the deep black of order, flows around it. Then, there are no traces that he had ever been there, except for a handful of buckles, some coins-and the two sabres, Lorn’s and Maran’s, all of which slide off the white leather of Maran’s saddle.

Lorn sits stock-still for a moment, somehow both surprised that his attack has been so successful and gratified that his understanding of Maran has been so accurate. He also silently thanks Majer Brevyl.

After that short moment, Lorn rides forward and grasps the reins of Maran’s stallion, then dismounts.

First, he reclaims the Brystan sabre, gleaming as if it had never drawn blood. Then, he gathers Maran’s sabre and the metal in his gloved hands. He walks toward the ward-wall.

There he lifts the sabre … and tosses it over the ward-wall, followed by the other metal remnants. As the weapon crosses the chaos-net, it flares, and the heat-shimmering blade tumbles into the greenery on the inside of the granite.