L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

“That’s fine by me.” Lorn nods. He suspects neither of them is interested in revealing much, especially not with Akytol present.

Kyl turns his head to watch the buildings on the west side of North Avenue pass by.

In turn, Lorn watches those on the east side-and the few carts and carriages, and the scattered handfuls of people, a few in shimmercloth, but most in the green cottons of workers and crafters. Before long, Cyad lies behind them and the firewagon has turned eastward onto the Eastern Highway. The sun has dropped below the horizon, and the clear green-blue sky has begun to purple.

Lorn sees as well as senses the glow of chaos that surrounds the firewagon as it rolls through the twilight toward Kynstaar, the only sound the low rumble of the six cupridium-coated iron wheels on the whitened granite of the Great Eastern Highway. To an outsider the vehicle would indeed resemble a horseless and fire-swathed wagon or carriage.

Across from him, Akytol sits back, his eyes closed, a faint snore punctuating his sleep. Kyl glances nervously from Lorn to Akytol, and then for long periods out the tinted window. There is no sound from the front compartment and the unnamed lancer officer.

Finally, Lorn closes his own eyes. He can do nothing until he reaches Kynstaar..

LORN’ALT STANDS RIGIDLY in formal lancer whites, whitescabbarded sabre at his side, white garrison cap set squarely in place over his short brown hair. He is the fourth man in the front line of five new Mirror Lancer officers, listening to the graying but trim lancer commander standing on the podium before the score of new undercaptains ranked in the open sunstone arena-an arena nearly empty except for the officers who had trained them, who had whittled down three score possible candidates to the score who remained nearly a year later. A score had left voluntarily, and a score had died or been too severely injured to continue.

“ … you are the first line of defense against the barbarians of the north. At times, you will be all that stands between Cyador and the black order of death ….”

Standing one rank back and three junior officers to his left is Kyl’alt, and somewhere farther to the rear, surprisingly, is Akytol’alt, towering over most of the other new undercaptains. Lorn concentrates on the commander’s words, as though they were new, as though he had not already heard similar banalities all his life.

“ … never has our world had a land that offered so much to so many for so long … never has our world had a light that has shone so brightly as that raised by Cyador … and you are here to ensure that light will shine forever, and that peace and prosperity will reign endlessly. You are a Mirror Lancer officer. Never forget that! Never forget that you are here because generations of Lancer officers have stood between the dark tide of the order of death and the light and prosperity of chaos. That was their duty, and they did it well. May you carry out your duty as well.”

After a moment of silence, the commander adds, “You will step forward as your name is called.” He pauses, then announces, “Undercaptain Bruk’alt.”

When the commander calls Lorn’s name, the former student magus steps forward as had the others. The commander hands the two silver bars to Lorn.

“Thank you, ser.”

“Don’t thank me, Undercaptain. You earned them, and you will continue to earn them every day you are on duty in the service of Cyador-and even when you are not.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Lorn’alt …” the commander offers in an even lower voice.

“Yes, ser?”

“Perchance I am wrong, but you could easily have been first in the training company.” The flint-gray eyes never leave Lorn’s.

“Ser … I wanted to do well, but I also was more concerned about learning everything I could. I made mistakes that way, ser.”

The faintest of smiles crinkles the commander’s lined face. “I hope that’s the truth, Undercaptain Lorn. The Lancers have no place for officers who let someone else be first to blunt the charge, and then rise to take credit. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, ser.”

The commander nods brusquely, and Lorn turns and steps back to his place in the formation.

“Undercaptain Jykan’alt …”

LORN STANDS IN the narrow hallway, sabre at his side, white garrison cap tucked in his belt, waiting for his interview with the majer who will inform Lorn just what duty he will undertake for the Mirror Lancers in the service of Cyador. Although it is early winter, nearly a year after he had left the Quarter of the Magi’i, the air flowing through the outside arch to his left is warm and moist, more like spring in Cyad,carrying with it a hint of arymid. But then, Kynstaar is actually south and east of Cyad, where the southern currents of the Great Western Ocean first touch Candar before swinging westward and north.

Lorn shifts his weight, trying to hear the conversation beyond the door, but even his magus-honed skills can only enable him to catch phrases.

“ … being posted to Hristak … Great Canal south to Fyrad … Majer Derin’alt … two scrolls … and seal ring … understand?”

“Yes, ser!” Rydenber’s words are far louder and clearer than the majer’s.

After Rydenber steps out through the open white oak door, Lorn waits a moment before entering Majer Styphi’s office. Light floods into the small space from an open window to Lorn’s right and the majer’s left. The office contains little besides the desk, an oil lamp set head-high in a bronze bracket on the stone wall, and two chairs.

Majer Styphi sits on one chair, behind the small desk that he dominates. At his right hand is a neat stack of scrolls. His cream and green tunic is slightly wrinkled, and darkness fills the hollows under his eyes, but his green eyes are hard and fix on Lorn. “Undercaptain Lorn’alt?”

“Yes, ser.”

“You’re being posted to Isahl. First, you will take the lancer firewagon tomorrow morning. It will take you and a number of others to the transfer station on the Great North Highway. There you will wait and take the regular firewagon to Syadtar. That’s where you will pick up the replacement lancers and Nytral-he’s a seasoned squad leader. Then you’ll take the lancers and the replacement mounts on the trade road northwest to Isahl. Sub-majer Brevyl is the area commander. You’ll report to him.” The majer hands a scroll to Lorn. “This scroll confirms that.” He hands a cupridium seal ring to Lorn. “There’s your seal ring. Don’t lose it. Nytral will ask to see it, just like every other good squad leader you’ll command when you’re coming in alone.” A second smaller scroll follows. “Here are his posting orders. Thereare two copies there for you-one goes to Commander Thiataphi’s clerk in Syadtar, the other to Nytral. You understand?”

“Yes, ser.” Lorn slips the seal ring onto the third finger of his right hand. The ring fits well enough that it will not slip off.

“You’ll draw a mount in Syadtar. Choose it carefully.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Get your kit together. Then spend some time with your fellows. Most of you won’t see each other for some time.”

Lorn bows once more before he turns and leaves.

Kyl is waiting outside in the group of undercaptains who have yet to see Majer Styphi. He glances inquiringly at Lorn. “Where are you headed?”

Lorn grins. “Where every good lancer goes. To fight the barbarians of the Grass Hills. In a town called Isahl.”

“It’s better than the guard detail in Geliendra where you have to patrol the borders of the Accursed Forest,” volunteers Kyl.