L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

THE MAN WEARS white trousers and a white tunic, belted with white leather and secured with a glistening white metallic buckle. His boots are white, including the thick leather soles, and his hands are encased in white gloves. The only items of color upon his body are the pair of gold starbursts-one on each of the short square collars of his tunic.

A dark-haired boy wearing shimmering gray trousers and a short-sleeved shirt of the same shimmering fabric holds the man’s left hand. Both walk along a corridor. The floors, walls, and ceiling are all of white granite, except for one window of a glass-like substance so dark it appears nearly black. The black window is on the man’s right, exactly halfway between the two metal doors, each also of shimmering white metal.

When the pair reaches the window, the man halts, bends, and lifts the boy, holding him so that their heads are almost even with each other. The man inclines his head toward the dark expanse of glass. “There. There is the First Tower.”

The dark-haired youth, his amber eyes shielded by the ancient dark glass, stares at the glittering trapezoid of light beyond the wall. The dark transparency filters out all that lies beyond the wall except for the blistering light that is the Tower.

“One day,” says the man, “one day, Lorn’elth … you and your brother will be Magi’i of the Rational Stars. One day, you will direct the workings of Towers of Light to harness the power of chaos and to continue to bring peace and prosperity to Cyad and to all of Cyador.”

Abruptly, the boy shivers, then stiffens, though his eyes do not leave the chaos light of the Tower.

“To be of the Magi’i-it is a long and difficult struggle.” The man smiles at his son, and even his sun-golden eyes smile. “But as you grow older, you will see that it is worththe effort, for nothing compares to the glory that is Cyad, and the peace and the grace of her people.”

The magus slowly lowers Lorn’elth to the polished white stone floor and takes his son’s hand once more. They continue along the corridor to the second door, where the father raises his hand. A flicker of golden energy flashes from a point just beyond his gloves to the door. Then he slides the door into its recess-to his left. The two enter the second corridor, and the magus closes the door behind them.

Another window awaits them midway down the second white stone corridor.

At this window, the man again lifts his son, speaking softly as he does. “You will be the ones who will transfer the pure chaos energy from the towers to the fireships, to the firewagons, and to the firelances of Cyador. You will ensure that the fair city remains so, and that her people bless the Emperor and the Magi’i of the Rational Stars.”

Serious-eyed, the boy watches through the darkened glass-not so dark as that in the first corridor-as the six-wheeled firewagon rolls silently into the shimmering enclosure that flanks the chamber holding the mighty tower. Figures scurry and remove the square cells from the rear of the vehicle, replacing them with other cells that almost glitter. Then the firewagon rolls out, and another rolls in and halts.

“This is the heart of Cyad, and Cyador, and it can be yours, Lorn’elth.” The father lowers his son once more. “It will be yours.”

The two return as they came, their heavy boots whispering but slightly on the hard stone of the corridor.

RISING ABOVE THE bay and the Great Western Ocean to the south are puffy white clouds, clouds not dark enough to forecast rain at any time soon, nor high enough to block the sun that casts its mid-day autumn light upon the playing fieldthat had been carved from the hillside generations earlier. There on the field, with a gentle sea-breeze cooling them, a score of students alternate jerky bursts of speed with sudden stops, their polished wooden mallets glistening as they jockey for position on the reddish surface. All wear white trousers and undertunics, but the undertunics bear green collars and green borders upon the sleeves.

“Lorn!” calls one student as the polished wooden oval skitters from his mallet toward another youth.

“Thanks!” With his dark-brown hair and wiry frame, Lorn is neither the largest nor the smallest on the playing field, but he streaks past a defender, his mallet almost lazily precise as it strikes the oval that is weighted unevenly. Lorn slips one way, and the oval flashes the other way, yet both Lorn and the oval meet at full speed beyond the defender as Lorn sprints inward and toward the trapezoidal frame in the middle of the circular field of play. His eyes take in the last defender and the smaller redheaded player dashing toward the goal. Lorn smiles and flicks his wrist, calling, “Tyrsal, it’s yours!”

Lorn’s mallet strikes the oval, and it skitters over the packed clay toward Tyrsal.

The small and redheaded Tyrsal darts around the taller and more muscular young defender and swings his mallet. The oval spins, but lifts off the clay and accelerates toward the trapezoidal goal. When it strikes to one side of the goal frame, it veers sideways and skids into the net of the opening.

“Goal!” The redhead jumps up in glee. “I got by you, Dett!”

“That’s the last time, Tyrsal!” The tall and heavily muscled blond student drops his mallet and tackles the redhead, whose polished wooden mallet skids across the smooth red clay as both students lurch toward the ground.

Despite Tyrsal’s struggles, Dett handily dumps the smaller youth onto the clay and raises an arm as if to strike Tyrsal.

“Bruggage! Bruggage!” Four other youths jump on top of the two who struggle.

The dark-haired Lorn is the second to slam into the pile,but the first to put his shoulder and then his elbow into the midsection of the larger Dett.

“ … oooffff …”

Dett struggles to take his hands away from the squirming Tyrsal, to fend off the hidden attack on himself.

A low voice whispers in the muscular boy’s ear, “Don’t do it again, Dett. Ever.”

“Says who?” The bully gets his knees under him and one hand on the clay and starts to elbow his way clear, unsure of who has spoken to him.

Snap … snap!

The other students fall away from the larger figure, who bellows, then staggers upright holding an injured hand, coddling two fingers that have already begun to swell. “Barbarians! Sheep-loving swill-drinkers!” Dett turns toward the students who had piled on. “Cowards! You just wait … You’ll see.”

“Dett … hurt his hand.”

“ … couldn’t happen to a better fellow …”

“ … bullied enough … deserved it …”

“ … careful … get you …”

Even before he rises, neither the first nor the last, Lorn slips the polished pair of wooden rods back inside his belt. After he stands, he limps slightly as he walks toward the mallet he abandoned, bending gracefully and scooping it up left-handed.

Tyrsal, the last to scramble up, quickly extinguishes a grin and avoids looking at the injured Dett.

“That’s it! Over here!” orders the schoolyard proctor, a tallish man with a pointed goatee and wavy black hair that stands away from his head. “All of you. You know the rules! Bruggages are forbidden!”

The score of students slouch toward the proctor and the columns of the low white stone building behind him. None move to brush away the smears of reddish clay upon their student garments, nor lift their eyes to the shimmering white of the Palace that stands farther to the south and which dominates the gradual slope rising from the harbor, nor even tothe white structures that lie uphill of the school, the dwellings of the senior Magi’i and Mirror Lancer commanders.