L. Modesitt: Cyador’s Heirs

His aunt shakes her head. “And working with chaos?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Because there are chaos fragments swirling around and through you.” She shakes her head once more. “You can do it that way, but if you keep it up you’ll be dead long before you’re even my age.”

“Father isn’t dead. Neither are you.”

“Healers don’t handle chaos, and I don’t deal with order that way either, since it shortens one’s life, if not as much as with chaos. Your father doesn’t have the strength you and Lephi have. That comes from your mother.”

“Father can throw firebolts, more than Lephi can.”

“Not that many, and not for that long, and he can do it better than Lephi right now because he has better control. Lephi will be stronger when he’s older.”

“How do you know that?”

“What have you been doing for the past days? Haven’t you seen?”

Lerial frowns.

“Have you observed your father and Lephi together? Which one glows whiter?”

“Lephi. I thought that was because he’s younger.”

“That’s partly true, but not as much as people think. The ability to handle chaos and order requires a certain skill. Some people have more than others, and it tends to be passed from parents to children. Your grandsire wouldn’t have been considered as a magus if he hadn’t been Emperor. He had that little ability as a magus. Your grandmother would have been a strong healer if she’d been born to the poorest tradesman or crafter in Cyad.”

“That doesn’t solve anything. Lephi-”

“I am trying to help you. Complaining and whining won’t help.”

“What am I supposed to do? I’m of the Magi’i,” replies Lerial, a touch of bitterness in his words. “I’m supposed to be a white wizard who can handle a blade with the best.”

“You could be a stronger gray magus and still handle a blade. You just can’t do it the same way Lephi and your father do. Can you observe the Lancers sparring without being seen?”

“I can’t do concealments yet, and I didn’t know there were gray Magi’i.”

“They have never been many. Most ended up as Mirror Lancer officers. Lorn was likely one. These days, no one is likely to say anything, especially since you’re not the eldest. I didn’t mean you should try a concealment. I just want you to watch some of them spar. Try to sense how order and chaos move around them. You should see a pattern.”

“What sort of pattern?”

Emerya shakes her head, then picks up a small cloth bag tied tightly at the top with twine. She tosses it to Lerial. He catches it without thinking. It is filled with sand.

“Toss it back.”

Lerial does so.

“Close your eyes. Go ahead. Close them. Now try to catch the bag.”

The bag bounces off his hands. He opens his eyes, then bends and scoops the bag off the woven grass carpet, dyed in green and white, before straightening up.

“Concentrate on me, not the bag. Keep your eyes closed and toss the bag back to me,” orders Emerya.

Lerial closes his eyes and lofts the bag back toward where she had been.

“Lerial! I moved. Keep trying to sense where I am.”

At the end of close to half a glass Lerial is again soaked in sweat … but by then he has a good feel for where the bag will be-and where Emerya is-by the way order flows around her.

“How will this help?”

“Do you need light to see what I’m doing?”

“Oh…”

“If you can sense where someone is when the light is bad…”

Lerial nods.

“That’s not the only reason, but you aren’t good enough yet for the second one to be obvious. You’ll have to trust me on that.”

Lerial smiles. “I can do that.” For you.

“Now … there’s something else you need to think about. Chaos comes in different shades of red,” explains Emerya. “Tomorrow…” She shakes her head. “No … tomorrow won’t work. Nor threeday. On fourday, you’ll come to the Hall of Healing after your lessons. I’ll arrange that with Saltaryn and your mother. While you’re there, you can see some of the differing shades of chaos. Order isn’t quite the same.”

“It’s all black, but…” Lerial frowns. “Aren’t there different shades? In some people, it’s like the black is deeper, even though it feels like there’s no difference in the color.”

“How do you know that?” asked his aunt. “I’ve never mentioned that.”

“Ryalah is a brighter black than Amaira. I thought that was because she was younger.”

This time, Emerya is the one to frown. “You definitely need more training in order and chaos, especially in order. That might be a problem.” After a moment, she adds, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention that to anyone quite yet.”

“I won’t. Will you tell me when I can talk about it?”

“I will.” Emerya smiles. “Go and get a good night’s sleep. You need it.”

After he leaves his aunt’s rooms, Lerial realizes that Emerya has never responded directly to his observation about Amaira not showing as deep a sense of order blackness as did Ryalah. Because her father wasn’t of the Magi’i? Or for some other reason? And why was she disturbed about your being able to feel different degrees of order blackness?

He shakes his head, thinking about how complicated things are getting just because he’d told his aunt about his troubles in sparring with Lephi. Or would they have gotten complicated anyway?

On fourday, after breakfast, but well before midmorning, Lerial stands outside the stables off the north courtyard of the palace, holding the reins of the brown gelding that has been his mount for the past five years, despite Lephi’s scarcely veiled suggestions that a stallion might be more appropriate. He wears the pale green summer trousers and tunic that are worn by either Lancer or healer trainees, not that there are many men who are healers. He has picked a spot where he and the gelding can stand in the narrow shadows that are shrinking moment by moment as he waits for Emerya.

For an instant, he does not recognize the rider who approaches, followed by two Lancer guards, because Emerya is wearing a filmy but largely opaque head scarf that hides her red-streaked, silver-white hair. He immediately mounts and urges the gelding to move up beside his aunt, who is riding a mare, if one nearly as large as Lerial’s gelding.

“I’m glad you’re ready,” Emerya says. “Your father had a few questions I had to answer before I left.”

“About me coming with you?”

“He didn’t know about that until I told him. When I said it was necessary for you to get better control of your abilities and that I’d talked to Magus Saltaryn, he just nodded. No … there were other matters we discussed. If you want to know what they are, you’ll have to ask him.”

Lerial manages not to frown, since Emerya has to know that he isn’t about to ask his father about anything unless Kiedron brings up the subject first. But then, that’s why she said it that way, rather than just saying she wouldn’t tell you.

The courtyard gates are open, and guarded but by a pair of Lancers, both to the eye not that much older than Lerial. Neither gives Emerya, Lerial, or the two Lancer guards more than a passing glance.

Once on the main square in front of the palace, Emerya turns her mare to the left toward the boulevard leading northeast. On the right is the Ministry-the building that holds the high minister, and the tariff inspectors and the well-guarded treasury on the lower level. As he rides past the two-story structure, Lerial looks ahead. While he knows that the Hall of Healing is on a low rise overlooking the river piers, and has even ridden past it more than a few times, he has never been inside the sandstone walls, let alone into the Hall itself.