L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

As the family rises and as Elthya and the shorter serving girl step forward out of the shadows to clear the table, Kien’elth beckons to Lorn. “I’d like to talk with you for a few moments, Lorn.”

“Yes, ser.” Lorn, slightly taller and slightly broader across the chest than his father or his younger brother, follows Kien’elth along the outside upper arched portico until they reach the open door of the study.

The study is lit by the pair of oil lamps at each end of the pale oak table-desk. Their silvered mantels-and their separation-cast an even glow across the room so that the shadows are faint against the warmth of the blond wood panels that comprise the walls and the amber leather of the volumes set in the bookcase that is built into the wall beside the desk. The scents of frysya and baked pearapples linger in the room, reminding Lorn of the glazed tarts that had followed dinner.

Kien’elth turns and stands between his desk, empty except for the lamps, and the stand that holds the shimmering white cupridium pen that is yet another mark of his position as amagus. The polished white oak case that holds his chaos glass rests on the small octagonal table to the right of the desk proper.

Lorn’s eyes pass over the glass, though he has often felt its power when his father has employed it to observe him from afar.

After a moment of silence, the magus turns to his dark-haired son. “I spoke with Lector Hyrist’elth.”

Lorn nods, waits for his father to continue.

“He is not displeased with your studies, Lorn, but he is not pleased, either. He and I both feel that while you learn all that comes before you, and more, you learn because it is easier for you to learn than to oppose us.” Kien’elth smiles. “I have seen you on the korfal field. There, you are unfettered, almost joyous. I would wish you to show such joy in learning and in studies.”

“I learn everything that I can, ser,” Lorn replies carefully, knowing he must choose his words with care, for his father can sense any hint of untruth-as can anyone within the family-and Lorn does not wish to have his father use his chaos glass to follow him continually, though he can sense when Kien’elth-or any of the Magi’i-seek him with a glass. Most of his actions are innocent enough, but there is little sense in provoking his father into deeper inquiries. “It is true that, presently, learning for me is not so joyous, but I will persevere until, I hope, it is such.”

“All Cyador rests on the Magi’i,” says the older man. “Without the chaos towers, the firewagons would not run, and neither lancers nor foot nor crops could be carried to where they must go. The barges could not run the Great Canal. Without the chaos chisels, the stone for the roads would have to be quarried by hand, and it would take years to pave but a kay of road. The Great Eastern Highway alone … Without chaos glasses, we could not see the storms or the larger barbarian forces, …”

Lorn listens politely as his father continues.

“ … and that is why it is a great honor and a worthy duty to become a magus, and a goal for which you should strive.”

“I understand that, father.”

“Lorn … you nod politely, and you apply yourself diligently enough, and you have mastered the art of chaos transfer, indeed more than mastered it, and you have even learned the basics of healing from Jerial, though that be more of a serving art than a magely one, and you have, I know, the skill to truthread, and that is something but a handful ever fully master.”

“Is that not what I am required to do, ser?”

“You are capable of more, far more. You have the talent to become one of the great mages. But that requires more than talent.” Kien’elth looks squarely at his oldest son. “I would hope that you would see such.” He shrugs. “I have told Lector Hyrist’elth that, if you do not show great love of your studies, I will seek an officership for you with the Mirror Lancers. You possess the skills to direct the lances of an entire company already, and perhaps the time on the frontiers would rekindle your love of chaos.”

Lorn continues to meet his sire’s searching study. “I will do my best for the year ahead, ser, but I can promise only diligence and hard work.”

“That I know you will provide, Lorn.” Kien’elth shakes his head slowly. “But each one of the Magi’i must possess the very fire of chaos within himself or the chaos with which he works will consume him as surely as a firelance will consume whatever its fire strikes. If you cannot find such passion, no matter how great your skill, you would be better as an officer of the Mirror Lancers than as the highest of the Magi’i.” His lined face and silver hair do not hide the sadness within him as he beholds his eldest son.

“I understand, father. I will do what I can do.”

Kien’elth nods. “I know.”

Lorn cannot disguise the frown as he closes the polished wooden door behind him and steps from the study into the open pillared corridor that rings the upper levels of the house. As he had sensed, Jerial waits in the shadows. Lorn turns to his older sister.

“How is Father?” asks Jerial. “He was quiet at dinner, andyou’re frowning. It must have been a serious discussion.”

“It was. We discussed how, without the Magi’i, the Great Eastern Highway-and the Great North Highway-would still be under construction,” Lorn finishes with a smile, “since even the North Highway’s length is four hundred and ninety three kays. We also talked about how I should build a new chaos tower when I finish my studies.”

“Lorn. someday you’re going to have to be serious.”

“I am serious.” The dark-haired young man smiles at his older sister. “I’m always serious.” The smile fades. “Too serious in my studies for father. He wishes that I approach them as a lover.”

“Well. Jerial grins, “you’ve already had enough experience there, brother dear. Surely. surely …”

Lorn laughs. “Ah … if I could.”

Jerial smiles, then slips away.

After a moment, Lorn shrugs and takes the outside steps down into the rear garden, past the fruit trees and the grape arbor. He pauses by the rear gate, in the shielded darkness, and concentrates on his adaptation of chaos transfer.

Hssst! A small firebolt arcs from his fingers onto the white stone, splashing like liquid flame, rearing up a good two spans into the gloom.

Lorn quickly steps on the twig that has caught fire and stamps out the small fire with his heavy white boots. “Careful …” He glances around, but there are no sounds beyond the murmurs that drift from the servants’ quarters beyond the garden. He should have used even less chaos.

After a last look at the house, he leaves by the rear gate, and walks down the paved and spotless alley to the lower street, above which tower the three levels of the family dwelling.

Lorn strides along the Road of Perpetual Light, eastward, away from the taverns frequented by the higher-ranking lancers and the cider-houses that cater to the students. The cylar trees overhanging the white-paved street whisper in the night breeze, and the autumn perfume of the purple arymids fills the cool air.

Lorn senses red-dark chaos … or trouble, and wonders what it might be. His eyes note little distinction between twilight and night as he strides purposefully eastward, almost welcoming the reddish-whiteness that he nears-after the talk with his father.

A couple walks toward him, nearly in the white and sparkling center of the wide walkway flanking the road, and Lorn can see from shimmering blue attire that both are from the merchanters. The man is slender, and his attention is upon the red-haired woman he escorts. Chaos lurks behind them, in the hulking figure that follows, apparently unseen in the shadowed darkness of the trees.