L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

Then he continues past the pillars and turns toward the door to the courtyard.

“ … never know when he’ll show up …”

“ … just knows …”

Lorn pauses, as if to check the pointing on the bricks beside the doorway, letting his chaos senses try to pick up what Stynnet is saying to Yubner.

“ … he hear …?”

“ … don’t know … got that smile … told me to announce him ….”

Lorn steps through the doorway and into the faintly orange light of dawn.

Fifth Company has another patrol to ride, one that Lorn hopes will be uneventful, even as he prepares for it to be otherwise.

LORN STEPS INTO the study in the square tower and glances toward the outpost commander. The darkness under the Majer’s eyes is obvious for the first time Lorn can recall. Brevyl’s face is almost gaunt, and his short bushy hair is thinner. The faintest hint of raspiness edges his voice as he gestures. “Take a seat, Captain.” He lifts a scroll slightly, then sets it on the table-desk.

Lorn nods and settles into the armless wooden chair, his own eyes remaining on the white-haired majer.

“You’re being ordered to the main outpost at Geliendra, Captain Lorn. You will command a company whose duty is to guard the ward-wall and to protect the Mirror Engineers. After home leave in Cyad.” Brevyl snorts, lifting the order scroll from the desk again, before dropping it on the polished wood. His eyes flick to the doorway, as if to ensure that the white oak door is securely closed. “Stupid orders. Waste of training.”

There is little Lorn can say. He says nothing, waiting for the majer’s next words.

“I didn’t like you, Captain, when you came here as a green undercaptain. Well … you’re as good a captain as I’ve got,better than most I’ll ever get, and I still don’t like you.” The majer leans forward. “That doesn’t matter. I respect you. You work hard. Lancers all want to serve under you, and they follow your orders to the word. You kill more barbarians and lose fewer men than any officer I have. I have to respect all that. I don’t have to like you.”

Lorn nods slightly.

“You know that most of the senior officers in Cyad don’t like Magi’i-trained lancer officers. Neither do the Magi’i. And they like the good ones even less. In a word, they’re afraid of you. They have been afraid of men like you for the past four generations, ever since Alyiakal made himself emperor. They don’t want it to happen again.” Brevyl snorts. “It couldn’t happen now, but they don’t see that. If it did, it wouldn’t last because the chaos towers won’t last that much longer. What earthly good would a magus-born Emperor be without the chaos powers of the towers?”

The majer studies Lorn, then continues. “You didn’t blink an eye at what I said. You knew all that before you came here. You said it didn’t matter that they were twisting a splintered staff up your rectum. I’ve heard that before from others. All words.” Brevyl leans back. “You believed those words, and you went out to learn how to kill barbarians and lead your men … and save them.”

“Yes, ser. I tried.”

Brevyl brushes away Lorn’s words with his left hand. “So … now they’ll send you to Geliendra, and if you’re not careful, one night a stun lizard or a big cat will appear, and you’ll disappear. No one will see the creature of the Accursed Forest, but you’ll be gone.” Brevyl’s smile is harsh. “I don’t like you, but sending you to Geliendra is a waste of a good captain when I don’t get many. They’d rather see half of Cyador fall to the barbarians than risk another emperor like Alyiakal. They forget he was the best emperor in a century. All they recall is that he was a magus-born lancer.” The majer laughs once more. “He was an emperor who didn’t bow and scrape to the Magi’i … or ask the price of everything from his ohso-dear-and-valued merchanter advisors.”

Lorn has not heard more than offhand references by his father to the origins of the mighty Alyiakal, references that had prompted covert research in his sire’s books. He waits, sensing that Brevyl has indeed told the truth in all of what he has said. Lorn hopes the majer may add more.

“That’s all, Captain.” Brevyl stands and extends the scroll. “You can leave tomorrow, or the day after, at your choice. You’re off patrols, right now.”

Lorn stands quickly, gracefully, and takes the scroll. He bows his head. “Yes, ser. Thank you for everything, ser.”

“And, Captain?”

“Ser?”

“I never said anything except to give you your orders and wish you well with Majer Maran. He’s very good at what he does.”

“Yes, ser.” Lorn bows again. “Yes, ser.”

Brevyl watches, unblinking, as Lorn turns, then opens the aged white oak door that predates the emperor Alyiakal.

In the narrow corridor outside the majer’s study, with the order scroll in his hand, Lorn nods at Kielt.

“Be wishing you a good trip and success, ser,” offers the senior squad leader.

“Thank you, Kielt.” Lorn walks slowly out of the square tower and into the gray fall afternoon. A light mist seeps down from the low-hanging clouds, leaving a glistening sheen of water on the stones of the outpost courtyard.

“Maran.” Lorn murmurs the name to fix it in his mind. Brevyl had dropped the name advisedly, most advisedly. The question wasn’t why so much as what he expected of Lorn-and Brevyl definitely expected something. Then, Brevyl had always been like that, never acknowledging the slightest possibility that Lorn might have some magely abilities. The Mirror Lancers were happy to benefit from those abilities, but would never acknowledge them in any positive way. That Lorn understands all too well.

After standing for several moments in the misty courtyard, Lorn begins to walk toward the officers’ barracks.

LORN FOLDS THE heavy winter tunic and lays it on the bed next to the other uniforms he has folded before he will pack them in his kit bags.

As he lifts an undertunic, he catches a flash of greenish light and picks up the silver-covered volume. He flips through the pages he has not read recently. Had the ancient writer written aught about duty changes from a bad outpost to a worse one? His lips quirk as another question surfaces. Why is there no poetry written in Cyad? Lorn frowns. He cannot remember ever seeing a written poem before Ryalth-yet he had known what the verse had been. He stops at the one verse that catches his eye and reads softly, aloud, if barely.

Do not ask me which carillon has rung

or if the Forest’s silent god has sung.

Best you watch white granite towers,

raised in pride, doze in the dusky sun

until the altered green-bloody rivers run

down to the coming night where chaos cowers.

Wondering how and why chaos could cower, Lorn still winces at the images, and riffles through the unmarked pages until he comes to a short verse standing by itself-about smiles. Perhaps …

He reads.

Smiles are so fragile,

like images on the pond of being,

reflections only made possible

by the black depths beneath.

What had been written is not exactly a poem, he reflects. Still … do not smiles hide depths no one wishes to see?

Poetry will not help with the Accursed Forest, nor speed him to Cyad and Ryalth. He closes the book, and slips it into the bag between his smallclothes.

IN THE ORANGE light of dawn at Syadtar, Lorn stands beside one of the fluted white columns supporting the sunstone portico that shelters travelers waiting for the firewagons which link the farflung cities of Cyador. The chaos-powered vehicles roll along the polished stone highways from warm and western Summerdock to the southern delta city of Fyrad, from Cyad to Syadtar, as they have for more than two centuries.