L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

Lorn eases onto the same side of the road as the skulker who moves toward the couple, but the student magus is too late as the heavy and tall man leaps and strikes the male merchanter, with a blunt club or some such. The man collapses in a heap, and the woman turns to flee, but the attacker grabs her arm.

“Halthor! Let go of me!” she screams. “Help! The Patrol!”

The man called Halthor drops the club to muffle her screams with his oversized hand.

Lorn steps out of the shadows, then ducks and picks up the truncheon as Halthor releases the woman. Lorn moves as if he had seen the large fist coming and steps under the giant’s arms, bringing the short wooden truncheon into the vee of the man’s ribs. Something cracks. The giant gasps, standing there immobile.

Lorn’s eyes glitter gold for but an instant as he speaks. “I believe that all would be best if you jumped off the southernmost pier in the harbor and inhaled as much water as you can.”

The taller man shivers, then turns, breathing laboriously, and begins to walk westward along the Road of Perpetual Light, ignoring the fallen trader, the woman merchanter, and Lorn.

Despite the sudden knife-like headache that has shivered through his skull, Lorn lowers the truncheon and turns towardthe woman in shimmering blue, his voice filled with concern. “Are you all right?”

“Ah … I think so. Yes.” She does not quite shiver, as she bends toward the fallen man.

Through slightly blurred vision, Lorn sees that she is a redhead, and lightly freckled, with creamy skin, and a full figure under the shimmering blue tunic.

“What did you do?” she asks. “He … just turned away and left.”

“Just offered an opinion ….” Lorn’s laugh sounds easy. “He won’t be bothering anyone soon.” The warm and friendly smile appears as he also steps toward the fallen junior trader. “We need to attend to your friend.”

The male trader squints, rolls to his knees, glances up at the redhead, then at Lorn. “What did you do to Halthor? He’d like as kill you, student magus or not.” He slowly rises to his feet, but he shivers and staggers.

Lorn extends a hand. “As I told your lady friend, I offered my opinion to the fellow, that he take himself elsewhere.”

“He’s never heeded anyone’s advice before.” The trader groans as he straightens up. “Cracked in my skull.”

“This … young man,” says the woman, “offered it rather persuasively. Halthor was almost doubled over. He has a cracked rib or two, perhaps.”

The male trader lowers his head and holds it in both hands. “My head’s splitting.”

“I’m sure it only feels that way,” says the woman.

Lorn’s fingers brush the man’s skull.

“That’s better,” admits the wounded trader.

Somehow the slight healing Lorn can offer the trader also lessens his own headache, if marginally.

“Are you a healer, young ser?” asks the woman.

“Me?” Lorn shakes his head ingenuously. “I’ve picked up some from my older sister, who is, but I’m afraid I’m poor in comparison to her.” He looks eastward, along the white stones of the road, past two couples who are strolling in a leisurely fashion down the cross-street toward the pavilions that wait on the beach front park. “I think you do need tolie down before long. Are your … quarters far from here?”

“No. Just two streets up.” The trader takes a step and pales, then takes another.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Alyet?” asks the woman.

“For two streets … yes.”

Lorn takes the man’s arm once more. “Just lean on me.”

“And me.” The woman takes his other arm, and the three walk slowly eastward until they reach an archway on the uphill side of the way.

“There …” mumbles Alyet. “There.”

The woman and Lorn guide the trader up three steps and toward a darkened doorway to the left. She fumbles a shining brass key from Alyet’s belt wallet and unlocks the door.

Once inside, they cross a small sitting room that holds but a small table with two chairs, and a low settee under the high window. A sleeping chamber barely big enough for the bed and a chest lies through a narrow archway.

They help Alyet lower himself onto the bed that is draped with a dark blue coverlet.

“Are you sure he’ll be all right?” asks the woman.

“He has some bad bruises, and a lump on his skull, but nothing’s broken, I think,” Lorn ventures, “and his head will ache for days.”

“Ryalth … be careful … sorry … don’t think I can see you home,” Alyet apologizes.

“I’ll make sure she’s safe,” Lorn promises. “Don’t you worry.”

Ryalth raises her well-formed but narrow eyebrows. She does not protest as they leave Alyet’s quarters.

Once they are back on the Road of Eternal Light, standing beneath the arch of curved white stone-merely alabaster, and not sunstone-Lorn turns to Ryalth, “We should decide what we should do tonight.”

Her eyebrows arch. “I do not know you, ser, and you appear to be a student.”

“I am indeed a student, but that’s all the more reason for you not to worry. Besides, you scarcely need to end the evening on such an upsetting note.” Lorn takes the young woman’s hand and smiles winningly.

COOL WINTER SUNLIGHT angles through the high windows and strikes the age- and chaos-whitened granite walls well above the heads of the five figures in the discussion room, illuminating the space with an indirectly intense light. Four student Magi’i sit on straight-backed chairs facing the Lector who stands before them in shimmering white tunic, trousers, belt, and boots.

Lorn wonders, not for the first time, whether the Lector’s smallclothes shimmer as well, even though he knows his father’s do not-but somehow, a Lector who monitors his studies is more forbidding.

Ciesrt’elth shifts his weight in his chair, and it creaks. Lector Abram’elth ignores the sound and looks across the group of four with eyes that glow golden, as do the eyes of many of the senior Magi’i. “The time has come for you to once again observe a chaos tower, this time in light of the knowledge that you have acquired and with all your senses, and not just your eyes. You will be escorted in pairs. Ciesrt’elth and Rustyl’elth will be first. Tyrsal’elth and Lorn’elth will be the second group. You two in the second group will wait here.”

After the other three leave and the golden oak door closes, Tyrsal glances at Lorn. “Why would it look different now? The tower, I mean?”

“We’ve seen one before, and we’ve seen the drawings. It probably looks the same, just like the drawings, except it would have to glow with chaos. It is a chaos tower. That’s probably what the Lector wants to know-whether we can sense the chaos.” Lorn smiles and laughs gently.

“Maybe it doesn’t look like that at all with chaos senses. Maybe we just thought we saw a tower before.”

“What would be the point of deceiving us about that? It would just be a waste of time.”

“They say that none of the halls in the Palace of Eternal Light are actually the way people draw them,” Tyrsal counters. “And that they change them all the time.”

“That’s different. Anyone can request an audience with the Emperor or his Voice or his Advisors. They don’t know who might be coming in, and I suppose the Emperor cannot trust anyone. Except the Hand, and that’s because no one knows who he is. The senior and more talented Magi’i could use a chaos glass to scree the Palace. That’s why they have lancers and firelances behind the screens throughout the Palace. Here … the only ones who see the towers are the Magi’i, and the older students.”

“Have you … a chaos glass?” Tyrsal stumbles over his words.