Myryan smiles a last time before entering the carriage.

   Pheryk nods to Lorn and Ryalth. "Be back shortly, ser, Lady."

   Once the sound of the carriage dies away, Lorn closes the iron gate and locks it, then looks at the redhead beside him.

   She looks back at him. "There's something wrong."

   "There's a lot wrong," Lorn says. "But there's no flux chaos around her, and no excessive order."

   They walk slowly through the cold darkness, past the still fountain.

   "You think she and Ciesrt are having problems?" asks Ryalth.

   "I don't know. I was truth-reading her. There are things she doesn't want me to know. That, I could sense, but they center on Kharl, I feel. There's just... a sadness... around her when she mentions Ciesrt. I don't feel I could use the glass..." Lorn shakes his head.

   "Even for her safety?"

   "Dearest... you see how often I use the glass to follow Tasjan, and how little I discover from each attempt. Myryan would know my screeing, and how would she feel seeing me watch over her every other moment?"

   "She is your sister, but I worry."

   "So do I." Lorn opens the door from the veranda to the foyer. "So do I."

 

 

CXLVI

 

Toziel leans forward in the smaller version of the malachite-and-silver throne that dominates the Lesser Audience Hall. "For the past two eightdays, the Mirror Lancers have held their maneuvers on the new parade grounds above the harbor. I would have each of you provide his thoughts on the effectiveness of such." With a faint smile, the Emperor straightens. "Perhaps you should begin, honored Majer-Commander, since the lancers are under your command."

   Rynst bows, then looks directly at the slender figure with the dark-rimmed eyes within the silver robes. "Your Mightiness... as you suggested, the Mirror Lancers have transferred two companies from the Grass Hills to provide... as it were... a portrait of their abilities where those abilities could be viewed by outlanders. During the first days, nearly tenscore watched each day, but, as we suspected, the numbers of those who watched have declined. Yesterday, there were but twoscore. Most of those were outlanders. If but twoscore outlanders each day watch the lancers and are dissuaded from thinking to take advantage of Cyador, the golds spent to provide such... edifying... entertainment may be well spent."

   Toziel nods to the First Magus. "Honored Chyenfel?"

   "I must confess, Your Mightiness, that I was among the tenscore, for I did wish to see for myself the effect of such a demonstration. And I would agree with the most honorable Majer-Commander that the display of firelances and the skill of those who employed them created a most desirable effect. I do have concerns about the wisdom of maintaining such for long periods of time here in Cyad. I would ask that I be given leave to advance those concerns after hearing what the honored Merchanter Advisor may have to add."

   "All will heed your concerns, First Magus." Toziel looks to Vyanat. "Your thoughts, honored Merchanter Advisor?"

   "I am more than somewhat puzzled," says the Merchanter Advisor. "I cannot recall when one of the Magi'i expressed concern over the Mirror Lancers being more effective. Certainly, most of us who are merchanters are pleased, for the obvious power of the firelances has left many outlanders shaking their heads. They are indeed chastened. They are so taken aback that one would wish that this stratagem had been adopted earlier." Vyanat looks to his right at the First Magus. "Or is the First Magus concerned about the additional authority that such lancers invest in the Majer-Commander?"

   "Majer-Commander Rynst has always used his authority and the Mirror Lancers for the good of Cyad and Cyador, and I have no doubts that he will continue to do so. In years to come, his successors may not be so astute, and what we do must serve the future as well as the present." Chyenfel bows to Vyanat. "My concerns lie not in having such demonstrations by the Mirror Lancers, but in their frequency. I would suggest that Your Mightiness could obtain the same or greater impact by merely bringing in a different set of companies twice a year for two eightdays, or four times a year for a single eightday. In this fashion, all would see with fresh eyes the power of the Mirror Lancers. Likewise, we would not see the development of what might be called city lancers, as opposed to those lancers who must face and fight the barbarians." The First Magus bows to the Emperor.

   "You raise some matters of concern to us all," Toziel says deliberately.

   Behind him, Ryenyel coughs, once.

   The Emperor turns and smiles. "Is it chill in here, my dear?"

   "I caught something in my throat. I beg your pardon for interrupting." Ryenyel smiles at her consort. "I truly do."

   "Sire?" asks Vyanat.

   "Yes, Vyanat'mer?"

   "I would ask that we see how matters progress for another three eightdays," suggests the Merchanter Advisor, "before any decision is considered. Even should the most honorable Chyenfel prove correct in his assessment, I would argue that for the first appearance of the Mirror Lancers in Cyad, a longer period might well prove necessary, and would not prove detrimental. After all, we are in a time of change, and at this time, as many outland traders as possible should see the true power of the Mirror Lancers." With only the slightest of pauses, the merchanter adds, "And the First Magus has noted that in this time, while Majer-Commander Rynst serves the Empire of Light, all will be well with such lancers."

   "That would seem reasonable," suggests Toziel. "At our normal audience three eightdays from now, we will revisit the matter."

   Chyenfel nods. "I will defer as His Mightiness suggests."

   "And I, also," adds Rynst.

   "Although I retain grave doubts about relying upon the mere occasional appearance of the Mirror Lancers," counters Vyanat, "in three eightdays, the matter may well become more clear as to how Cyador may best show the outlanders its might."

   The shadow of a frown crosses Ryenyel's face, although no eyes are upon her.

 

 

CXLVII

 

Rynst motions for Lorn to take one of the chairs set before the Majer-Commander's study desk. Lorn does so, and waits, watching the Majer-Commander and listening to the moan of the early-winter wind that lows around the ancient blue windowpanes, a cold wind, despite the bright sunlight that falls on Cyad.

   "Yesterday, I attended the regular audience with the Emperor," Rynst begins, conversationally. "There I heard that your maneuvers have been successful in giving some of the outland traders a few matters to think about."

   "I understand that such was the intent, as you told me, ser. The maneuvers are but exercises and are at best a limited way of showing what the Mirror Lancers can do."

   "They are indeed, but they are effective." Rynst purses his lips, and then tilts his head to the side. "Perhaps too effective. The First Magus raised a most interesting point. He suggested that perhaps it would not be wise to maintain the lancers in Cyad for any great period, but for perhaps two or three eightdays twice a year. Or one eightday every season, with a different set of lancer companies each period."

   Lorn waits once more.

   "He fears that any companies remaining in the City of Light will become city lancers, and, although he did not say such directly, another tool of the Majer-Commander. He also feels that their presence, in daily maneuvers, will jade all those who watch, and the impact on outlanders will fade, while the citizens of Cyad will come to believe the Mirror Lancers are unmatched."

   "They are unmatched, but they can be outnumbered, ser, as we know."

   "We know that, but those in Cyad do not understand what lies beyond its borders. They do not see the hatred of our land, our roads, our cities, our prosperity. If the First Magus is correct, and correct he may well be," Rynst continues with a wry smile, "we of the Mirror Lancers may find it even more difficult to obtain the golds required to equip and maintain the forces necessary to repel the barbarians in the years to come. And should any within the city raise arms, in years to come, there will be few Magi'i to stand against such a mob, and no firelances to bring. It will be a far different land, yet few wish to contemplate that."

   Lorn nods slowly.

   "You will live in that time and land, Majer. And so will your son." Rynst pauses momentarily. "As you are the commander of the lancer companies in Cyad, I felt you should know this. I would not pass this on to them at this moment. If you are asked, I would suggest that you tell the truth, and that is that the role of Mirror Lancer companies in Cyad is being considered by the Emperor."

   "Yes, ser."

   "That is all, Majer. I expect a copy of the report on the latest fireship replacement meeting by midmorning tomorrow."

   "Yes, ser." Lorn stands.

   Rynst does not seem to look up as Lorn departs the study.

   As Lorn descends the stairs to his study, he considers what Rynst has said. Everything that the Majer-Commander has relayed makes sense, far too much sense, in some ways. One thing does not. That is why Rynst has told Lorn before any decision is made, and why Lorn has been told when a decision will be made.

   Lorn fears he understands that, as well. Rynst wants the lancers used- somehow-before they must leave Cyad. Yet the Majer-Commander cannot order such, or will not, and if they are used, he will not be the one to give the order-unless there is a danger obvious to all.

 

 

CXLVIII

 

In the late evening, with but a single lamp lit, Lorn sits at the study desk, squinting at the chaos-glass, and drawing out the rooms in Tasjan's dwelling on sheets of paper beside the glass. With each image, he draws what he needs to know, then checks what he has drawn, and finally lets the image fade. Then he closes his eyes and rubs his neck before he calls forth the next image from the glass.

   The lower levels of Tasjan's dwelling have no windows that are not barred, and all the doors are iron-bound, bolted, and guarded at all times. The outside guards, and those that patrol the gardens and porticoes, wear green. Those inside wear blue.

   Lorn looks at what he has drawn, shifting from sheet to sheet.

   Tasjan's private study opens onto a balcony, and that balcony can be reached easily enough by climbing up a stepped chimney from the second-level portico. There are two guard posts along the portico flanking the upper gardens, but if the guards see no one ...

   All Lorn has to do is figure out how to get to the second-level portico.

   With a deep breath, he looks down at the glass yet another time.

   A dozen or more glimpses of Tasjan's dwelling, and he thinks he has a way. If he can climb a particular tree. If he can hold his blur shield long enough. If it works.

   He shakes his head and puts away the glass, ignoring the burning in his eyes, and the headache that seems as though someone is trying to cleave his skull with a very dull and heavy ax. Then he turns down the wick and puts out the single lamp in the study.

   He walks quietly along the upper corridor to the bedchamber, where he slides the iron bolt shut.

   "You were using the glass late," Ryalth says sleepily.

   "Later than I would have liked. I was studying Tasjan's dwelling and how he enters and leaves it." Lorn sits on the end of the bed and pulls off his boots, then stands and begins to disrobe.

   "Will you check Kerial?" she murmurs.

   "I will." After he pulls off his undertunic, he steps to the small bed and glances down, listening as much as looking. The small figure breathes evenly, regularly. Lorn smiles and steps away to hang his clothes in the armoire, then returns and slides under the covers next to his sleepy redhead.

   "He's fine."

   "Good." She snuggles against him and seems to relax.

   Lorn slips one arm around her, enjoying her closeness. But he stares through the darkness, and it is some time before he finally drops into sleep.

 

 

CXLIX

 

In the late afternoon, almost upon returning from Mirror Lancer Court, Lorn pulls the merchanter blues-those normally worn by a senior enumerator-from the back of the armoire. Then come the blue boots, stiff, but usable.

   "It might yet be wiser to wait," Ryalth says from the doorway, before stepping into the bedchamber.

   "No... it would be safer for me to wait, but what if Tasjan does not dine at Ayadar next eightday... or the eightday after, then what? Rynst has indicated that, in no more than three eightdays, they will decide when the Mirror Lancers will leave Cyad, and that it is likely to be immediately. Then who will oppose Tasjan and the greensuits? If I wait until then, there will be no lancers, and then how could I oppose Tasjan, knowing that Sasyk would leave even more blood across all the sunstones?"

   "So you will act sooner, rather than later, for fewer will suspect you now?"

   "Most expect less action before decisions are made-especially in Cyad, where acting wrongly and early can be most dangerous." Lorn offers a crooked smile.

   Ryalth nods. "How will you do this?"

   "With the blurring shield I showed you." Lorn sits on the edge of the bed and pulls off his white lancer boots. "And some tree-climbing..."

   "Will he not sense it?"

   "I think not. That is why only the upper-level adepts are taught such, because it is an aversion, not the use of order to bend the chaos of light away from one. Use of much order or chaos creates a disruption that any sensitive to chaos or order may sense. This uses less chaos than that from the sun during the heat of the day."

   Ryalth frowns. "Will you wait until it is full dark?"

   "No. I leave shortly-in merchanter blue." He smiles. "These Jerial had made for me years ago still fit well enough." The cream-and-green uniform comes off next, to be hung in the armoire, and Lorn pulls on the blue trousers, then the tunic.

   "You would have the merchanters torn by strife?"

   "They already are," Lorn points out dryly as he sits to pull on the blue leather boots. "Tasjan is trying to overthrow Vyanat. Blouyal was using his position to gain unfair advantage for his house. Vyel wanted to kill you to take over Ryalor House. I suspect other problems have occurred with Kysan House, from what you have said, and Denys, you said, schemes to redeem Bluyet House." He pauses. "My plan is to have it clear that one of Sasyk's guards murdered Tasjan. I do not want the cream-and-green seen near Tasjan's."

   "See that you do that." She nods slowly. "Still... I do not like that you must act so quickly."

   "I like it not that I should have to act at all. Yet... I can sense far more is taking place than I know."

   "That is always so," Ryalth responds.

   Lorn holds a frown. She is not telling all she knows. "What else should I know?"

   Ryalth shrugs, almost helplessly. "I fear that Sasyk holds more power in the Dyjani House than any realize, but that I do not know. Like you, I can feel currents beneath the surface of a harbor that seems calm. Yet I can see nothing."

   "As can I. And if we wait until we can..."

   "Then it may be too late," Ryalth concludes.

   Lorn nods, then stands. "Best I be going." He fastens the Brystan sabre to his blue belt. While most enumerators do not wear blades, some do, and there is no standard for what type of blade they wear, save that it can be worn off a belt.

   "Be most careful, my love."

   "I intend such. Since I will not follow Alyiakal... I must be most careful so that you can support me when I am stipended off as an old, old majer."

   "Were it to happen so, that would be only fair. You have made possible all that is Ryalor House." She smiles, then leans forward and embraces him, brushing his cheek with her lips. "Be most careful."

   "I will."

   They walk down the stairs and out onto the veranda. With a single backward glance, Lorn walks from the veranda, past the fountain, and out the gate, locking it behind him. His blues should not be remarked, for most know that the dwelling belongs to a trader.

   In the twilight, Lorn walks westward down the lane and then up the Fifth Harbor Way. At the next corner, he turns westward once more until he reaches the Eighth Harbor Way, although, like all ways and roads outside of the central trading quarter of Cyad, it is unmarked.

   Tasjan's dwelling occupies a small block of its own, and at the first level, the building walls are blank stone and offer no windows or entrance except for the carriage gate and a service door, and both are guarded inside and out. There are no other guards outside the dwelling. The tall trees-Lorn has no idea what they are-grow outside the walls and arch over the upper-level porticos. They are still shedding second-year leaves and turning the first-year leaves gray for winter, but all those on the main ways have been trimmed of lower branches.

   Lorn continues westward on the unnamed lane at the back of the dwelling until he reaches the gnarled tree that stands perhaps fifty cubits east of the west corner. He thinks the tree is a lorken, whose dark wood resists most axes and all but the sharpest saws. The tree is far shorter than the others, and its topmost branches barely reach the top of the second-level portico columns. Those short branches are sturdy, and the remaining leaves barely move despite the cold wind blowing northward off the harbor.

   Lorn eases the blurring shield around himself. He has to jump to grasp the lowermost branch, and then levers himself into the tree. His scabbard slams against his leg, hard enough that it will probably leave a bruise, and he sits on the branch in the fading light, catching his breath for a moment.

   Then he begins to climb, testing each branch. The wind that rustles the branches of the taller trees will help, both in disguising any movement of the leaves of the lorken, and in concealing any sounds he may make.

   When he stands as high as he can safely go, he is three cubits from the stone railing. To reach the railing will take a leap-one that must be successful or he will fall close to twenty cubits onto hard stone. He extends his chaos-senses, and listens closely, as well. A single guard walks past. Once the man is more than fifteen cubits away, still pacing eastward, Lorn takes a deep breath, then leaps.

   Again he must lever himself up and over the railing, and he stands in the shadows of the portico pillars, catching his breath, while he waits for the return of the single guard in green who patrols the corner post of the second-level covered portico that encloses the garden

   As the man passes, Lorn steps out, and using his chaos-enhanced Brystan blade, takes a single cut. There is little more than a muted cry, a gurgle, and the sound of a body falling on pebbles.

   Lorn wipes his blade on the green tunic of the dead guard, then eases the shortsword from the man's scabbard. He glances around, letting his chaos-senses scan the area, but no one is near.

   He concentrates, and chaos flares across the body. All that remain are some coins, some iron nails, and a few metal studs. Using his kerchief to protect his fingers from the lingering heat, Lorn scoops up the items and tosses them out and over the railing. The faint clink of the coins on the stones below cannot even be heard.

   The use of chaos leaves him with a headache-not as bad as some, but one that is more than a mere dull ache. He slips the shortsword through his belt and eases his way along the railing and past one pillar and then another until he reaches the east side of the garden. Then, concealed by his blur-shield, he waits until the next green-clad guard passes before he climbs onto the railing and lifts himself onto the brick step of the chimney. He makes his way up the three huge stepped sides of the chimney.

   Tasjan should still be dining. Above him, the study windows are dark yet. While using the blur-shield, Lorn could still follow the trader, anywhere in the dwelling, until he has an opportunity-but the study would be best.

   There are three windows. He can reach two from where he stands. The first is shut firmly. The second is closed, but there is a crack there. Slowly, with the back edge of the shortsword, Lorn wiggles it wider, and then wider, until he can pull it open.

   Then he jumps and grabs the sill, and slowly drags himself up and into the empty study. He closes the window, slowly and gently, then makes his way to a corner behind the carved desk, a corner where the built-in bookshelves meet.

   While there is a temptation to look at the papers and folders on the desk, Lorn refrains and merely stands in the corner. He lets the blur-shield down while he waits. There is little sense in using the effort when none are around to see him.

   He waits for some time-so long that he has begun to debate whether he should strike out with his chaos-senses and try to locate Tasjan. Then, he reflects, waiting in another's dwelling to murder someone may well slow time.

   The sound of steps, and a click, alerts Lorn, and he cloaks himself in aversion and waits.

   The door opens, and dim light from the corridor oozes into the study. A slender figure stands in the door, looking across the study. With the door still open, Tasjan takes the striker from his belt, and clicks it, once, twice, before light creeps from the lamp set in the sconce beside the doorway.

   Tasjan glances around the study, once, then again. His brow furrows, and he looks almost directly at Lorn, but his eyes pass by the lancer in blue.

   Finally, the merchanter closes the door and slides the bolt. He steps toward the table desk.

   Lorn moves from the corner, and with the borrowed blade, slashes across the left side of the merchanter's unprotected neck.

   Tasjan barely has the time to look surprised.

   Lorn manages to grab part of the merchanter's tunic and swings the body so that it falls onto the carpet, rather than into the desk or the chair before it. Then he lowers the shortsword with the green leather grip to the carpet beside the dead merchanter.

   Standing quickly, he slides the window back open. Then, regathering the blur-shield back around him, he slides out, lowering himself down to the first ledge. He leaves the window wide open. Slowly, in the growing twilight, he makes his way down the stepped sections of the chimney to the portico roof. There he freezes, blur-shield around him.

   Two guards have stopped on the far side of the railing, and are talking.

   "You see Wyst?"

   "No. You're on his post. Thought he got the flux or something."

   "...just disappeared... Gyan's asking all the guards... be not happy..."

   "...something up... don't know what... calling in the guards off the ships..."

   "Double guards at the Plaza building, too."

   "Sasyk whipped someone in the second squad... doesn't do that 'less he's frettin'."

   "Look up there... he's at it again. Light still on in the study."

   "Not that warm... he's got the window open..."

   "Where he sits these days, it's warm enough." The first guard laughs.

   "Funny, though. Cold out here, and it'll be colder 'afore Vansyn comes on relief. Give anything to be inside and warm, and he's inside and warm, and trying to get cooler."

   "Life is like that, friend. Better keep moving. Don't want to get on Cyan's bad side."

   "Nor Sasyk's."

   The two part and walk back along their separate posts, away from the corner. Lorn slips from the deeper shadows and with one hand holding the stone rail, he leaps across the emptiness, and slides through greenery, finally managing to clutch a branch. He can feel the scratches on his hands and on his neck. He keeps clutching the branch, letting stretched muscles rest, and breathing deeply.

   Even after he reaches the base of the tree, he holds the blurring shield until he is two blocks away, despite the pain in his eyes that has grown into sharp daggers jabbing into his skull, intensifying the headache he already suffers. He uses a kerchief from his belt wallet to blot the blood from the scratches on his neck.

   It feels as though every eye is on him as he walks back down Eighth Harbor Way West, yet the streets are almost empty, and, so far as he can tell, neither eyes nor screeing glasses are upon him.

   As he turns onto the narrow way that holds their dwelling, he can sense the chill of a chaos-glass. There is little he can do but continue walking, and the feeling passes even before he reaches the iron gate.

   He can but wonder what magus was screeing him-wonder and hope. At least he was not observed by a glass while near Tasjan's dwelling.

   He double-checks the locking on the iron gate before he makes his way along the marble walk toward the veranda. "Ser?" calls a voice. "It's me, Pheryk. I'm back."

   "The lady asked me to watch for you, and to let the geese out of the pen once you returned."

   "Thank you. You can do that. I'm not going out again. It's been a long day."

   "Good night, ser "

   "Good night." Lorn opens the veranda door, then slides the bolt behind him and steps down into the foyer. "Is that you, Lorn?"

   "It's me."

   Ryalth waits in the sitting room, a goblet of Alafraan in her hand, a second goblet on the table. Lorn looks at the goblet.

   "I thought you might need it. You look like it was harder than you planned."

   "You didn't ask how it went."

   "I could tell that when you entered. There's a coldness about you. It was there after Shevelt, but I didn't recognize it as such then. You've got some cuts, and your eyes are watering. Are any..."

   "No... the cuts are from a lorken tree I was climbing. I got them climbing down. They're just scratches." Lorn takes up the goblet. "Thank you."

   "And you used enough chaos that your head is splitting and your eyes water?"

   "That, too." He sits on the front edge of the chair across from Ryalth, who leans forward on the settee. "It's all a mess." After the smallest sip of Alafraan, he adds, "Tasjan blackmails Vyel to kill you. He releases papers so that all would believe Vyanat murdered his own brother to save himself, when Vyanat had killed his brother to show he would not countenance favoritism and ill-doing by his brother. Now I act so that Tasjan cannot create a cause..."

   "...and Sasyk will use it as such in some way?"

   "Possibly," Lorn admits. "Or someone else."

   "Did you leave something to tie the death to Sasyk?"

   "A green-wrapped blade and an open window-and one guard is missing."

   Ryalth nods. "That will suffice." Her blue eyes are as sad and hard as Lorn's amber orbs.

   They each take another sip of the Alafraan.

 

 

CL

 

The blond and broad-shouldered first-level adept magus steps into the study in the private dwelling. He bows to the older magus who stands by the window, looking down across Cyad itself at the gray winter waters of the harbor.

   "You suggested we talk before dinner, ser?" asks the tall and blond first-level adept.

   "It would be opportune," answers Kharl as he turns. "How is Ceyla?"

   "Your daughter is in good health, and talks with your consort in the sitting room." Rustyl smiles politely.

   "A magnificent harbor, is it not?" Kharl gestures to the scene framed in the window. "It is a pity that, unless some action is taken soon, it will fall to the outlanders, and within your life, Rustyl, perhaps sooner."

   "The First Magus has suggested such can be averted if the Magi'i gain greater control of Cyad."

   "It is rather late for Chyenfel to think of such," Kharl snorts. "He is the one who buried the chaos-towers of the Accursed Forest in the mists of time, and now we have too few towers to power the firewagons, or to charge the firelances of the Mirror Lancers when we need them most. We have no tow-wagons on the Great Canal, and soon will have no fireships."

   "But... would not the Accursed Forest-"

   "The Accursed Forest... what was it? A place that bred large animals that occasionally killed livestock and a few peasants? A place whose name was used to frighten children? There were twelve chaos-towers there. And ten still functioned. We have but three left in Cyad, and the tower that serves the Quarter is failing. And Chyenfel gave away years of good use of the towers so that a few peasants might live? He gave away much of the power of the Magi'i." The second snort is far louder. "Did he not keep you from that project? Why? I wonder. Or was it because you might see that Chyenfel wanted to be known for a great deed-a deed that for its greatness would cost Cyador and those of the Magi'i who follow him dearly? And now he says that the Magi'i should seek greater control?" After a moment of silence, the Second Magus adds, "I fear that it will take the Magi'i far greater control than Chyenfel believes, for us to redeem Cyad. You know the Emperor will not last a half a season, do you not?" Kharl's green eyes focus upon the younger magus.

   "Who does not know that?" Rustyl laughs.

   "Most outside the Magi'i do not. Do not assume others know what you do." Kharl's warm smile returns. "Now that you have a consort... you could have heirs."

   "We do so hope."

   "I know you do, and they will be welcome. Most welcome." The Second Magus smiles warmly. "You have been favored by Chyenfel-to the point that there has been talk about your becoming First Magus." Kharl holds up his hand. "No... do not deny such. Chyenfel has made his favoritism clear within the Magi'i." He frowns. "There is a problem with that."

   "Oh... ?"

   "Chyenfel remains First Magus."

   "He cannot do so forever." Rustyl smiles, the twisting of his lips providing an ironic edge to his words.

   "If he remains First Magus long enough, his support of you can only harm you. If he is First Magus when the Emperor's heir takes the Malachite Throne..." Kharl shrugs. "Then... it may be that the new Emperor will also favor Chyenfel, as Toziel has."

   "Who do you favor for the successor?" asks Rustyl. "Or think it may be?"

   "The most honorable Tasjan was playing for that, and the word is that a former lancer named Sasyk is rallying the tenscore armed guards he trained for Tasjan-as well as others within the merchanters-to force a merchanter upon the Malachite Throne."

   "A merchanter emperor?" Rustyl sneers.

   "That is why the Majer-Commander has two companies of trained lancers in Cyad, under his best and bloodiest field commander."

   "What is to prevent Lorn from seeking the throne? His lancers will support him." Rustyl watches the older magus.

   "Majer Lorn has removed himself from serious consideration as the Mirror Lancer heir," Kharl says.

   "Removed himself? He is yet on duty." Rustyl frowns. "No. I found him entering his dwelling-wearing merchanter blues. Two nights ago. The very night that Tasjan was murdered by one of his guards. That is... a guard is missing, and his weapon murdered Tasjan within his own study."

   "One could scarcely advance a charge such as that against the majer and expect many to believe it," Rustyl points out. "Not after all he is perceived to have done for Cyador over the years."

   "One need not prove such, only point out that such an action benefits Ryalor House and Majer Lorn. Vyanat can offer no support to any, not after all that has occurred with Hyshrah Clan, and if one were to point out that he has specially favored Ryalor House... and Rynst were persuaded to step aside... and if all the Magi'i opposed Lorn..."

   "I count three ifs, honored ser." Rustyl's voice is polite. "Only two. Vyanat is truly powerless. I have strong reasons to believe that the present Captain-Commander will shortly succeed the Majer-Commander... and if you become First Magus, and I am Second..." Kharl smiles. "You see... it is most simple. Nothing need be said or done, unless Rynst steps aside. And if he does... why then, you can decide whether you will be First Magus, or whether Lorn may be Emperor. The choice is in your hands."

   "My hands? What of yours?"

   "All know me as Second Magus, as clever, as scheming. Who indeed would accept me as First Magus?" Kharl offers a self-deprecating smile. "But... it is of no matter, yet. We can only see what may occur."

   "That is true."

   "We should join the others." The Second Magus starts for the study door, then pauses. "There is also something you should know. Should you lack sufficient chaos to accomplish a task, a first-level adept can indeed draw upon the power of the chaos-towers directly-that is, from their very core. One must do so with care, but I should explain how this may be done, in the event that you find yourself threatened...." Rustyl nods as Kharl continues to explain.

 

 

CLI

 

It is almost midafternoon in Cyad, and Lorn finds himself once more before the Majer-Commander, not knowing exactly what Rynst may have in mind. He bows. "Ser?"

   Rynst looks up from his desk, surprisingly less cluttered with papers than is normally the case. "Yes, Majer. There are some things I thought you should know. Several matters." The Majer-Commander does not smile. "A number of old bills of lading and other papers have appeared at the Traders' Plaza."

   "Ser?" Lorn does not have to counterfeit puzzlement.

   "They appear to be authentic, according to the First Magus. They are records showing that the recently murdered Dyjani clan head was receiving additional golds from cargoes and goods he was selling in Swartheld. There were also shipments of iron shortswords, for which he paid nothing. Shortly thereafter, other documents appeared. The accuracy of these is more in doubt, but they would indicate that the Emperor's Merchanter Advisor had his brother killed to ensure that his own failings were not made public."

   Lorn nods to hear what he already knows.

   "I would trust that you will hold your lancers in readiness, Majer, and that all drills you hold for the next few days be without firelances, so that, should they be needed, full charges will remain in all lances."

   "Yes, ser."

   "And I expect you to be where you can be reached by messenger."

   "I'll either be here, ser, or at home, or at the harbor barracks or grounds."

   "Good. You should be here early tomorrow, and the morning after."

   "Yes, ser."

   "That will be all, Majer."

   "Yes, ser."

   Before Lorn can turn, Rynst adds, "And I trust you recall your orders and chain of command, Majer."

   "Yes, ser."

   Lorn manages to retain a pleasant smile on his face as he makes his way out of the Majer-Commander's study and down the stairs to the fourth-floor foyer.

   The thin-faced commander Shykt is standing outside his study door. "Fayrken said you would not be long, and he was right."

   Lorn nods. "Yes, ser."

   "I've been dispatched to Dellash with Commander Dhynt and Commander Muyro to study the disabled fireships, and we're to make a firsthand report." Shykt smiles, if nervously. "I thought you might like to know, in case it applies to any reports you are doing."

   "Thank you, ser. I appreciate the notice."

   "You are most welcome, Majer." The thin-faced commander pauses. "Did you hear about Commander Sypcal?"

   Lorn's stomach tightens even more. "No, ser."

   "Quite ill, I understand. Some sort of flux. If he recovers, it will be eightdays before he's himself again." Shykt offers another strained smile. "I'd guess that would leave you, the Majer-Commander, the Captain-Commander, and Commander Lhary at the next twoday meeting."

   "I suppose it would, ser. I appreciate knowing that, as well."

   "I thought you might." Shykt nods.

   "Have a good trip, ser."

   "I'm sure it will do us good."

   Lorn walks back into his study-but only long enough to gather his personal items, before he walks back out.

   He stops by Fayrken's desk station. "I'll be down at the harbor barracks. There are some things I need to discuss with the officers and rankers."

   "Yes, ser. Will you be back this afternoon?"

   "I don't know." Lorn shrugs. "If I can be."

   As he walks down toward the harbor, he can again sense a chaos-glass being focused on him, and whatever magus follows him holds the image until he enters the end of the converted warehouse that holds the studies of the two Mirror Lancer captains.

   He finds both Cheryk and Esfayl in the slightly larger space-Cheryk's study.

   "Ser!" Both officers stand.

   "Matters here in Cyad are getting... shall we say... unsettled."

   Cheryk and Esfayl exchange glances.

   "I can see you have heard something along those lines," Lorn says with a faint smile. "What, might I ask?"

   "Well... there's word that the merchanters are gathering together the greensuit guards," Cheryk ventures. "Some are saying the Palace had that Tasjan fellow killed."

   "And others say that the Emperor is ailing," adds Esfayl. "I don't know that the Emperor is any more ill than he has been," Lorn says, "but the guards of Dyjani House could be a real problem. You are to restrict tomorrow's maneuvers to light one-on-one drills with padded blades. You are to keep all firelances ready, but under your personal control, and no one is to leave the area without my orders or those of Majer-Commander Rynst-and the only Majer-Commander to whom you answer is Rynst. Otherwise, you answer to the Emperor. If none of those can offer you orders, you are to protect the Palace of Eternal Light."

   "Those are grim orders, ser."

   "I doubt it will come to that, but those are the orders I received."

   "Ser... ?" offers Esfayl. "Yes." Lorn's voice is level.

   "Majer Brevyl said one other thing. He said never to wager against you, and never to ignore your orders." Esfayl smiles ruefully. "Tell us what to do, and we'll do it." Cheryk nods.

   "What we want to do is hold Cyad together," Lorn admits. "I can't tell you how, for sure, but it's likely we'll have to take on the greensuits, and even with firelances, it won't be easy. They've been trained by a renegade lancer officer, and I'd wager they have mirror shields somewhere. You might think about how to attack a squad with a mirror shield wall on foot in the streets where they can't easily be flanked."

   "Too bad we can't use the firecannon," mutters Cheryk. "That'd do it." Lorn smiles. "Why don't you find out who can operate it? Let me know by messenger. I'll see if the Majer-Commander will put them under my command for a while."

   Cheryk smiles. "That... that we'll do."

   "Now... I'm headed back to the Mirror Lancer Court..."

   "Ser... best you take your mount, and take him to your dwelling," suggests Cheryk.

   Lorn nods. He may indeed need speed.

 

 

CLII

 

His Mightiness Toziel'elth'alt'mer looks up from the high bed. His head does not move as he murmurs. "Ryenyel... my dearest... you can do no more. There are so few shreds of order left in this frail form, that any strength you give me... it will destroy me yet sooner. I would... have liked... to have spent... another spring..."

   "So... so would I." The redhead whose hair whitens even as she holds his hand, kneels on the chair beside the bed, her head almost beside his.

   "I would... not... have left Cyador... so." He takes several wheezing shallow breaths before he speaks again. "We tried so hard to find one who could hold... our Land of Eternal Light..."

   "We did as we could, dear one." She squeezes his hand, offering the slightest hint of order.

   "Your touch... good... as always."

   "I am here, dearest."

   "You must... write out the documents-one for each, naming him as heir-hold as you can... and choose as you must." He forces a smile that lapses as he struggles for another breath. "How... Which... ?"

   "Lorn-he may yet surmount what faces him. I would have him over Kharl or any merchanter, but either Kharl or Lorn will keep Cyador strong."

   "Cyador... Cyad... there is no other... no other."

   Once she has completed her task, and he his, as the night darkens, the Empress-Consort continues to hold Toziel's hand, long past that time when she can offer strength or warmth.

 

 

CLIII

 

In the darkness just after dusk, Lorn sits at the small study desk in his dwelling. He looks into the chaos-glass as the silver mists slip away. Ryalth stands behind him, holding Kerial. The image in the glass is clear enough. Five men sit around a table. Lorn recognizes but one of the five, and that is Sasyk.

   "Daaa!" Kerial tries to lurch from Ryalth's arms toward the chaos-glass. "Gaaa..."

   "Kerial! Hold still!"

   At the sharpness of Ryalth's tone, tears begin to form at the corners of the boy's eyes.

   "Hush... be quiet, dearest." Ryalth cuddles him even as she strains to make out the faces in the lamplit glass. "Sasyk is the one in the middle... I don't know the two others in green... that's Kernys on the right, and Denys on the left."

   "That is Denys?" For some reason Lorn has pictured Denys like his predecessor, large and bulky, but Bluoyal's successor as the head of Bluyet House is a handsome man of modest proportion.

   "For all his looks, dearest, he is less trustworthy than Bluoyal was."

   Lorn lets the image lapse. He closes his eyes and massages his forehead for a moment before turning and looking at his consort. "I do not see others from Dyjani Clan. You had said that the clan would most likely support others."

   "Nor do I see those who should be there." Ryalth sighs. "That bodes ill for Husdryt and Torvyl."

   "Could Sasyk be plotting with Kernys and Denys? To hold Dyjani House?"

   "It would appear that he already does. So Sasyk has the Dyjani, Bluyet House, and Kysan House behind him? Most merchanters do not trust Vyanat that much because of the death of his brother."

   "What about Yuryan House?" Lorn asks.

   "Veljan will not support Sasyk, but the strength of Yuryan House lies in its vessels and outland warehouses and factors." As she stands beside Lorn, Ryalth rocks Kerial back and forth in the dimness of the study, lit by the single lamp on corner of the desk. "Sasyk is telling all that the Magi'i killed Tasjan, for only a magus could enter a locked and guarded dwelling and vanish so. He says that is because they wish to take more of the merchanters' golds for themselves."

   Lorn gestures at the blank glass. "Some believe him."

   "They are the ones who wish to believe."

   "Were you the one who had the old bills of lading and other papers showing Tasjan's treachery appear in the Plaza?" Lorn raises his eyebrows. "Rynst told me this had happened."

   "I did not do such." Ryalth smiles. "But it would not have happened had I not requested a favor."

   "It may help. I hope that it does." Lorn frowns. "Rynst ordered Shykt, Dhynt, and Muyro to Dellash. They're all his supporters, after a fashion. Why would he order them away from Cyad right now? Sypcal's been poisoned, or something, and he's the only tactical commander besides me who supports Rynst. That leaves the Captain-Commander and Commander Lhary and they oppose Rynst."

   "The Majer-Commander left you in Cyad," Ryalth points out. "And, you command the only Mirror Lancers around. Could the others do anything-except have their loyalty tried and risk being killed?"

   "Rynst truly expects bloodshed."

   "He expects you to shed it."

   "How soon?"

   "Sasyk does not have all the guards yet in Cyad, but he will have what he needs in the days ahead, perhaps less than half an eightday."

   "Will some come by ship?"

   "I would think so."

   "Good." Lorn pauses. "I do not favor what we see." He shakes his head. "Once I had hoped..."

   "Like Alyiakal? It still might happen."

   "I think not, for to preserve Cyad, I will have to shed blood, far too much blood, it would appear from what the glass shows."

   "One can hope otherwise," Ryalth suggests.

   "I will hope, but we must plan for what will come." Lorn looks back at the glass to call forth another image.

 

 

CLIV

 

The two figures in shimmering white stand at opposite sides of the corridor that adjoins the Quarter chaos-tower of the Magi'i.

   "You requested I join you here for a demonstration, Rustyl," Chyenfel says slowly. "Have you found some way in which to prolong the life of the failing chaos-tower?"

   "Were you ever interested in such? Really?" asks the younger adept. "If you were so interested, why did you bury so many chaos-towers within the mists of time, so that now we must struggle to charge firewagons and firelances but from a pair of chaos-towers beyond this one?"

   Chyenfel frowns. "I thought you understood. What use would a handful of chaos-towers be, surrounded by a resurgent Accursed Forest? How would one even reach them?"

   "What does the safety of a handful of peasants matter, when Cyador struggles to defend herself because you gave away the greatest of the chaos-towers?"

   "You are mistaken, Rustyl. Gravely mistaken. That is not the case-"

   "It is the case. You do not wish me to succeed you as First Magus. Or even Kharl."

   Chyenfel's mouth opens. "Dear Rustyl. I had never, ever expected that. I had thought more of you-both in ability, and in common sense. Why did I expose you to all of the facets of Magi'i operations? Yet why do few outside the Magi'i know of you? Surely you can understand that now?"

   "You only wished to use me a counter to Kharl... nothing more." Chaos flares around the younger mage as his shield forms.

   "That is not so... but were it such, is that not an honorable duty-to counter one who would destroy all for which the Magi'i stand?" A paler, deeper shield forms around the slightly bent form of the First Magus.

   "He would have the Magi'i strong. You merely wished to be recalled for a great deed, and care little for what happens to those who follow you." The taller mage casts a bolt of chaos at the older man.

   The older magus merely stands and lets the firebolt splatter into nothingness across his order-chaos shield. "You were the Magi'i candidate to be Toziel's heir. I can see my hopes exceeded my reason."

   "You tell me that now to save yourself." Rustyl sneers. Another firebolt begins to form.

   "I need no words to save myself from an ungrateful whelp such as you." A searing white-red flame rips the air in the corridor, throwing Rustyl against the granite wall, his shield diminished to a mere shadow of that which he had raised but moments before.

   "You are a demented old man, who would ruin Cyad for your own glory," Rustyl snaps as he straightens, frowning. His body begins to glow, even as the shimmer that filters through the black glass portal to the chaos-tower chamber begins to diminish.

   Chyenfel's mouth opens, but momentarily. "No... you must not. You will destroy yourself as well."

   "Again... you throw words to save yourself. I will do as I must!" Rustyl returns, a broad smile crossing his face.

   A massive bolt of blue-white chaos appears before Rustyl, and incandescence fills the corridor, expanding in all directions as elemental chaos sears the corridor and further whitens the granite.

   In the granite structure behind the now-empty corridor, the chaos-tower glows blue, if momentarily, before it begins to melt into itself.

   At the far end of the Quarter of the Magi'i, the Second Magus smiles, then nods to himself, murmuring in words that do not leave his study, "If Chyenfel can use a halfscore failing towers, then one is a fair price to save Cyad from weakness."

 

 

CLV

 

Rynst stands by the study window, half-turned toward the Palace of Light, its white walls seeming less crisp than normal in the hazy midmorning light of a day in early winter. His eyes ease to Lorn, but the Majer-Commander does not move from the window.

   "Ser?" Lorn bows after closing the door to the Majer-Commander's study. Then he steps past the conference table and halts before the desk, waiting.

   "One of the chaos-towers of the Magi'i failed last night," Rynst begins, without looking at Lorn. "The First Magus was killed, as was another magus. They were attempting to stabilize the chaos-tower, according to the Second Magus, but something went astray. So... now there are but two chaos-towers operating in all of Cyador, save the three on the remaining fireships."

   Lorn swallows silently, waiting.

   Finally, Rynst turns from the closed and ancient glass panes. He does not step toward the desk. "That is not the worst. The Emperor has canceled all audiences. It is unlikely he will survive the eightday. The Empress has announced that the heir has been decided and will be named shortly. That could be before or after the Emperor's death. It may not matter. You should have your lancers in readiness, Majer."

   Lorn nods his acknowledgment.

   "I have not heard how the Magi'i will choose a successor to Chyenfel, but it is likely that the Second Magus will become the First Magus, and the Third the Second, and that a Third Magus will be named at a later time." Rynst smiles, briefly, and without meaning. "For these reasons, and others, I have approved your request to put the Mirror Engineers operating the firecannon directly under your command. That order is good for three eightdays. That should be sufficient." The Majer-Commander offers a cold smile. "I have also informed Majer Hrenk and Captain Ghyrat that you are their superior in the chain of command, and that whatever orders you give regarding the use and placement of the firecannon are to be obeyed and carried out without delay."

   "I hope it is not necessary, ser."

   "So do I, but it is appearing more so. Former captain Sasyk appears to have seized control of the guards of Dyjani House. Word is that he has killed the two most notable candidates to succeed Tasjan." Rynst's lips curl. "That is a merchanter matter, and one in which neither the Magi'i nor the Mirror Lancers can intervene without the order of the Emperor. The Emperor is unlikely to give any more orders."

   "And until the merchanters strike, you can do nothing?" Lorn asks.

   "Unless the merchanters threaten the city or the Palace, the Mirror Lancers will not shed blood. What the merchanters do within their houses is their affair."

   Lorn nods.

   "Once it leaves the merchanters, it is our affair. Your affair, Majer, and I will not second-guess your actions or decisions. I only order you to make sure that whatever heir the Emperor names does take the Malachite Throne." Rynst's voice hardens. "Whomever the Emperor names. No matter what that name may be."

   "Yes, ser."

   "You are known as an officer whose word has always remained unbroken. Will it be so in this, Majer?"

   "Yes, ser."

   Rynst nods abruptly. "Good. Best you see to your companies and to the engineers. I would judge that little will occur before tomorrow, but that is but a wager in a game whose rules are unannounced and changing with each passing moment."

   Lorn bows.

   "And Majer..."

   "Ser?"

   "Without honor, without duty, you have nothing. Nor do I. The Majer-Commander of Mirror Lancers must never be a candidate for the Malachite Throne. Nor the Captain-Commander. Were that to happen... then none could trust the Mirror Lancers. I would hope the Magi'i would feel that way as well. I know Chyenfel did."

   "Yes, ser."

   "Good day, Majer." Rynst turns back to the window, his eyes on the Palace of Eternal Light.

   As he leaves the Majer-Commander, Lorn's face is impassive, but the combination of duty and near-fatality in Rynst's words chills him within. Rynst has as much as ordered him not to allow Luss to claim the Malachite Throne. Yet it is an unspoken order.

   The white gelding remains where Lorn had tied him earlier in the morning, in the third stall in the small stable for visiting officers. Lorn gives the gelding a pat, then leads the horse out into a day that remains chill and hazy. As he rides the white gelding from Mirror Lancer Court down Third Harbor Way West, his eyes scan the streets. They seem almost as normal, although there may be a touch fewer souls about. Then, that may be because of the chill wind out of the northeast. He rides past the warehouse barracks to the next building, the one housing the Mirror Engineers and their large and small firecannon. He has barely dismounted and tied the gelding to the bronze ring of the innermost hitching post, before a ginger-bearded, balding, and young-faced captain steps out of the narrow doorway and toward Lorn.

   "Ser." Ghyrat bows. "I have received the Majer-Commander's orders. What can we do for you?"

   "Nothing... I hope, but I fear we will need both your cannon."

   "So do I." Ghyrat fingers his pointed goatee. "The Majer-Commander would scarce order such were he not concerned. Yet he offered no reasons."

   Lorn nods. "I doubt he would wish any placed in ink. It appears likely that the Dyjani merchanters may use the piers to land ships and more of their greensuited guards, to require a merchanter heir to the Palace."

   "A merchanter heir?"

   "The current head of Dyjani House has assembled more than tenscore of the armed greensuited guards. He is a former Mirror Lancer officer and has trained them to the same degree as are lancer rankers."

   "Tenscore?" Ghyrat swallows.

   "Also, the First Magus was killed in an accident with a chaos-tower last night. How that may impact us... I am uncertain."

   "I would not guess, ser, save that it might make the merchanters more quick to act."

   "If any vessels appear with the Dyjani ensign or any that appear unknown or otherwise suspicious, can you move the firecannon quickly to the base of the pier? The large one?"

   The engineer officer nods. "We can have it set to move."

   "Then do so, if you would. As quickly as you can."

   "We will. But you will have to give the orders to fire and upon whom."

   "If it comes to that, then I will." Lorn holds back a frown. Rynst has given Lorn a clear chain of command, but to whom can Lorn turn? For he is not invincible, as he knows all too well.

   "Ser?"

   Lorn glances toward the harbor and the piers, empty except for a Sligan deepwater vessel and a Gallosian coaster. "I hope an heir is named soon, one that all accept, and that it does not come to the use of lances and cannon."

   "We all hope such, Majer," replies Ghyrat. "But who is the man whom all will accept as heir and Emperor in these times?"

   Who indeed?

   "The Emperor has decided," Lorn replies. "We are to support whatever that decision may be." In chaos and in blood-the chaos and the blood Lorn has never wished upon Cyad, City of Eternal Light.

 

 

CLVI

 

In the darkness after dusk, Rynst turns from the window, away from the myriad lamps that illumine the Palace of Eternal Light, and sits down behind his table desk. He looks at the blank sheet of parchment before him and shakes his head.

   Then, in the glow cast from the lamps on his desk, he looks up as the faintest click comes from the latch to his study door. The ancient golden-oak door to the Majer-Commander's study opens, then closes.

   A faint breeze wafts from the door and then fades.

   Deliberately, slowly, Rynst eases back his chair. The fingers of his left hand ease the black iron throwing knife from the slit pocket in his belt.

   "I cannot say I am surprised, Kharl," the Majer-Commander says slowly, though his eyes search the space between the door and his desk for any sign of the unusual. "Managing to get Rustyl to remove Chyenfel showed your touch."

   There is the slightest whisper of leather on the sunstone tiles of the study floor.

   "I suppose Luss has no idea of this. That way you can have the Third Magus truth-read him, and Luss can answer honestly that he has no idea what happened."

   The figure of the Second Magus appears at the end of the conference table closest to the Majer-Commander. Kharl smiles ironically. "You say you would not be surprised, yet you still underestimate me."

   Rynst shakes his head as he eases his chair slightly farther back from the desk, his right hand visible on the edge of the wood. "No, honored Second Magus, I underestimated Chyenfel. I thought he would hold you more in check, and I thought you had some vestige of honor. I thought you would stop at becoming First Magus, and I did not realize you would sacrifice a chaos-tower to your endless ambition. Do you really think you can seize the Malachite Throne?"

   "That depends on what the Empress announces as the Emperor's decision, does it not? For now, I am First Magus, at least in practice, if not in title." Kharl's green eyes dance.

   "For the moment." Rynst shrugs, and then his left hand blurs, and the iron throwing knife flashes toward the red-haired magus. Hsssst!

   Firebolt and knife meet, but the chaos-flames and iron droplets splash back across Kharl's left shoulder.

   As the magus steps back, Rynst quickly slides out the cupridium-plated and iron-cored sabre from the scabbard fastened to the underside of his table desk, and leaps forward with the iron-cored blade in his right hand. Kharl steps back, silently, giving ground.

   Rynst holds the blade high, his eyes flicking between the midsection of the magus and his eyes, moving closer to Kharl.

   Abruptly, firebolts flash toward the Majer-Commander from the left and then the right. Rynst's sabre flicks to the left, parrying one firebolt. His blade is slow on the return, and the second firebolt slams into his right shoulder. His blade drops from his numbed fingers. Another firebolt catches him full in the chest, and he topples forward.

   For a long time, there is silence and the sound of one man's heavy breathing.

   Then there is another series of flashes of chaos.

   After a time, Kharl slowly opens one of the doors to the balcony outside the study, then flings a few metal items into the night. He leaves the door open, and walks unsteadily toward the closed door leading to the fifth-floor foyer, and the empty stone staircase. One hand holds his left shoulder.

   Just before the door opens, he appears to vanish, and the study of the Majer-Commander is empty.

 

 

CLVII

 

In the dining area Lorn and Ryalth sit alone, eating, in the reflected glow of a pair of lamps set in wall sconces.

   "You were late tonight. You were preparing for an attack by Sasyk's guards." Ryalth nibbles on the crust of the dark bread.

   "I think they will attack, but the Majer-Commander is not sure whether it will be tomorrow or the day after." Lorn eats the lamb stew slowly, methodically, hardly tasting what passes his lips.

   "Noon or afternoon tomorrow, I would guess," Ryalth says.

   "Why do you think that?"

   "The winds in the morning will make a swift approach difficult, and there were no vessels standing off the harbor."

   "That is good to know." Lorn takes a sip of wine he scarcely tastes. "Rynst told me that the Majer-Commander can never be Emperor. Nor the Captain-Commander. He said it would destroy Cyador. He believes his own words."

   "He's telling you to kill Luss, if anything happens to him, isn't he?"

   "I fear he's suggesting that Luss will reach for the Malachite Throne."

   "What will you do?"

   "What I must. If I must." Lorn shrugs wearily. After a moment, he asks, "Did you hear anything about Husdryt and Torvyl?"

   Ryalth shakes her head. "None knows anything, and there were a score of greensuited guards around Dyjani House today."

   "That's all? Sasyk just kills the heirs and walks in?"

   "What would you have them do?" asks Ryalth. "Traders are not lancers, and all those with arms owe their allegiance to Sasyk. Why have the Mirror Lancers not acted, I could well ask."

   Lorn takes a sip of the Fhynyco before responding. "I asked the Majer-Commander about that. Lancers aren't supposed to interfere in the internal doings of merchanter houses. We only act if a house threatens other houses, or the Palace. Or, I suppose, the Mirror Lancers."

   "You were right to deal with Tasjan silently. None would lift arms until it would bloody all Cyad."

   "That could still happen," Lorn says. "Perhaps you should stay here tomorrow."

   "In the afternoon..."

   "What is so important that you would risk yourself in the morning?" he finally asks Ryalth.

   "If I shy from the Plaza when others do not... then who will trade with me? I have spent years, dear lancer, getting folk to understand that I am no frail woman." Ryalth raises her eyebrows.

   Lorn sighs. He recognizes the cupridium in her voice. "Promise me this. If other houses close... you close as well, even if it is morning. And take Pheryk and the hired guards. There is a difference between prudence and faintheartedness."

   "I will-but I will not be the first to close."

   Lorn holds back a frown. Ryalth's words are not quite true. "You don't have to be the very last."

   "I will not be so, not if I can help it."

   Lorn relaxes slightly. Those words are clearly truth-felt. He takes another sip of the wine. Then he stiffens, shaking his head. "Did you hear about the First Magus?"

   Ryalth frowns. "I cannot said that I did, save that some ask why the Magi'i have not stepped forward to press for an heir."

   "A chaos-tower failed yesterday, and the First Magus was killed. Rynst said that he was trying to stabilize it because there are but two towers remaining in all Cyad. Except for three on fireships."

   "That does not ring fair."

   "No, and that means Kharl will be First Magus. I do not like that at all."

   "Could he have... ?"

   "Tyrsal says that, old as he is, Chyenfel is... was... far stronger than Kharl in handling chaos." Lorn frowns.

   "Should you talk to Tyrsal?" Ryalth asks.

   "I should... but I do not dare take the time to seek him, nor compromise him, not tomorrow, not when we know not what Sasyk plans." Lorn shrugs. "All the glass shows is Sasyk plotting and guards upon ships." He laughs once. "We know both almost without a glass, and a glass does not tell when something will happen until it does."

   Ryalth looks at Lorn. "You had not planned for this."

   He shakes his head slowly. "No. I had thought..." He breaks off with a sad and wistful smile. "One doesn't think... life changes... I had not thought my parents would die so soon..." He smiles. "At least they saw Kerial... and you. Your parents didn't get to see any of that."

   Her smile is sad. "When one wishes... the costs are far greater than mere golds."

   "Is Ryalor House worth it?"

   "It is. My mother would be pleased. My father would be astonished. Yet... there is always something more to be done. There is always another cargo lost, another factor who distrusts a woman..."

   "And a consort who is often never around?"

   "I cannot ask you to be what you are not, dear one, and you have loved me more than any could hope or ask. I would that I could give you half of what you have given me." Her hand reaches across the table and takes his. "It is just... in these times... we do what we must... and never know if it is what should be done... or what may come of it."

   Lorn squeezes her hand, half wondering, half dreading, just what the morrow may bring.

 

 

CLVIII

 

Ciesrt holds Myryan's arm as they climb the steps to the second level of the dwelling. His steps are so quick he is almost dragging her slight frame. "Please hurry.... please..."

   "I won't be much help... not if I can't breathe when I get there." Myryan's voice is low.

   "I told you. Don't you understand?" Ciesrt slows his climb to match her steps. "Father needs a healer... and you are one of the best."

   "You told me that."

   "A bravo attacked him coming back from the Quarter tonight," Ciesrt explains. "He must have had an iron blade... or something." He says nothing more, and they walk, silently, the last cubits up the steps and across the portico to the study.

   Slightly behind her consort, Myryan follows Ciesrt into the lamplit study.

   Kharl is half seated, half slumped, lying back in an armchair, his feet on a stool. His face is flour-white, and his breathing is fast and shallow, almost panting. His tunic and undertunic have been removed, and his chest would be bare, saving that it is covered with a blanket, except for his left shoulder and arm. His green eyes are open, and fierce, even as his form convulses into another shudder.

   A woman in white, Kharl's consort, places a damp cloth across the forehead of the magus, and another across the shoulder and the arm.

   "The iron... Mother removed it as soon as he got here, but she has not your skill," Ciesrt explains.

   The new First Magus says nothing as Myryan bends and moves the cold damp cloth to inspect the wound. Her fingers brush his skin momentarily. Red lines spread from a small wound, no larger than a thumb, in his left upper arm just below the top of his shoulder. Heat radiates from the entire arm and shoulder.

   "Well..." The normally smooth and modulated voice is raw.

   "It is ferric poisoning." Myryan's face is drawn. "It is well along, but I think I can do something about it."

   "If you would..." Ciesrt says.

   "Quickly," rasps Kharl.

   Myryan touches the skin of the magus once more, lightly. She winces, murmuring. "Order-spelled iron."

   "...would be..." mutters Kharl.

   Myryan seats herself on the stool that Ciesrt has drawn from somewhere for her. A cloud of unseen darkness rises from the healer and gathers about the wound. The air within a quarter of a cubit of the center of the wound sparkles, as if tiny points of order and chaos collide in miniature firebolts.

   All eyes in the study are upon the sparkling, and none notice the second veil of darkness that wells from the healer and slips into the ailing magus.

   Myryan shivers on the stool, and Ciesrt must steady her.

   "Better..." says the First Magus. "...can feel it already."

   "You're wonderful," Ciesrt tells Myryan. "No one could do that but you."

   The faintest of smiles appears and vanishes before she speaks. "I'm sorry." Her head turns slowly to Ciesrt, as if it is a tremendous effort. "I can do no more, and... I must rest."

   "She is a good consort, son. Have her rest." Kharl says.

   She offers a wan smile in return. Her face is pale, and she leans on Ciesrt, as she steps from the study.

   Behind her, the green eyes of the Second Magus are cold on her back.

 

 

CLIX

 

Mirror Lancer Court is almost empty when Lorn walks into the lower foyer not all that long after dawn and starts up the staircase to his study. Even the whispered impact of his light steps echoes in the vault of the open staircase.

   "Ser?" calls Fayrken, even before Lorn's foot touches the first tile of the fourth-floor foyer.

   "What is it, Fayrken?" Lorn moves toward the senior squad leader.

   "The Captain-Commander... he was already asking for you."

   "So early?"

   "He said he needed to see you. As soon as you arrived. He had me send a messenger down to the warehouse barracks in case you went there first."

   A faint smile crosses Lorn's face. "Do you know if the Majer-Commander is in yet?"

   "Tygyl hasn't seen him. He left the door to the portico open last night."

   The smile leaves Lorn's face.

   Fayrken steps back, almost involuntarily. "Ser?"

   "I'd best see the Captain-Commander. Thank you, Fayrken. Thank you very much." Lorn's fingers brush the hilt of the Brystan sabre as he turns back toward the staircase. He takes his time ascending the last flight.

   Once he reaches the open fifth-floor foyer, Lorn pauses by Tygyl's open desk. "Tygyl... could I trouble you to have a messenger sent to Captain Cheryk? If you would, just tell him to have the men ready to ride. I should be there shortly, but I didn't expect to be meeting with anyone this early."

   "Yes, ser. We can do that." The senior-most of the senior squad leaders raises his eyebrows.

   "It appears that the Dyjani usurper will be bringing in close to fifteenscore armed guards today... most likely by ship."

   "Yes, ser. I'll send that message."

   "The Captain-Commander?"

   "He's in his study, ser. Commander Lhary is with him. They expect you."

   "I'm sure that they do. Thank you, Tygyl." Lorn turns to the right and steps toward the door to Luss's study.

   As he steps inside the study, he closes the door, but keeps his eyes on the two men standing before Luss's table desk. "Ser. You requested my presence."

   Luss looks at Lorn. Lhary stands behind the Captain-Commander's right shoulder.

   "Yes... I did, Majer." Luss offers the warm and open smile of the type that Lorn distrusts. "You always do your duty, and in these times, we are grateful for officers such as you." Luss pauses. "The Majer-Commander has vanished. He is not in his dwelling. Nor is he in his study, nor have any seen him. Have you any knowledge of this? You have been... familiar... with the disappearance of officers, it is said."

   Lorn smiles, lazily. "No, ser. I have not seen the Majer-Commander. Nor do I know aught about his disappearance. His disappearance would scarce benefit Cyador, and it would benefit me even less."

   "Yet you smile, Majer," offers Lhary.

   "I am a loyal Mirror Lancer officer, and I stand ready to carry out my duties to protect the Emperor and Cyador." Lorn's eyes continue to watch Luss.

   "What do you intend, Majer?" Luss's blue eyes seem to focus into the distance for a moment, even as he studies Lorn.

   "My last orders from the Majer-Commander were to ensure that the merchanters did not threaten either the Emperor or the Palace of Light. I will carry them out."

   "The Emperor has died. There is no Emperor to protect. And there is no Majer-Commander." After the briefest of pauses, Luss adds, "Not that can be found."

   "Yes, ser."

   "I believe we discussed this earlier, Majer."

   "We did, ser. There is still duty, ser." Lorn ostentatiously touches the hilt of the Brystan sabre.

   Lhary's eyes tighten, and a frown begins.

   Lorn's sabre is in his hand, even before either man starts to react. The first chaos-aided cut goes through Luss's throat. Luss tries to speak, then slowly crumples.

   "No!" Lhary yells as he reaches for his sabre. He has his blade clear of his scabbard, if barely, when Lorn's chaos-aided iron and cupridium runs through his chest.

   Lorn looks at both bodies, then wipes his blade on Lhary's tunic, even before the commander's eyes turn dull. In turn, he takes Lhary's blade from the dying man's hand and runs the edge across Luss's throat, before replacing it beside Lhary's outstretched hand.

   Then he stands and sheathes the Brystan sabre, wondering how Luss could ever have bested Rynst and disposed of the Majer-Commander's body. Then, Lhary could have done it.

   For a long moment, Lorn looks at the two bodies on the sunstone tiles. Then he steps out into the foyer.

   Tygyl stands outside the door, sabre in hand, face blank. Behind him is Fayrken.

   Lorn shakes his head. "Commander Lhary attacked the Captain-Commander. I was a shade too slow to save Captain-Commander Luss. I was fast enough not to allow Commander Lhary to succeed in his treachery."

   "Ser... treachery?"

   "The Majer-Commander is missing. Commander Lhary is the senior commander in the Mirror Lancers. I believe the idea was to insist I attacked the Captain-Commander. Commander Lhary would dispatch me for my treachery. After all, I am the Butcher. Then, as senior commander, he would be acting Majer-Commander, and a hero to all the traditional officers for removing me."

   Fayrken and Tygyl look at each other, but hold their sabres ready.

   "According to the chain of command, I believe Commander Sypcal is now acting Majer-Commander."

   Lorn freezes for a moment as the chill of a chaos-glass sweeps across him, but forces himself to wait calmly for Tygyl's response.

   "He be ill still, ser." Tygyl's face remains blank, and he does not lower his sabre. "Are you not better fitted?"

   "Tygyl... I am under the command of the Emperor, but I am not Majer-Commander of Mirror Lancers. Nor should I be. Sypcal is a good officer, and a good man, and he was probably poisoned by Lhary... just because he is a good and loyal officer. If you and the other senior squad leaders would ensure his protection... I'm sure the Emperor-or his heir-will confirm Commander Sypcal. If they do not, there are other senior commanders of talent. Perhaps someday I might be one of them." Lorn smiles grimly, half relieved as the sense of being observed in the chaos-glass vanishes. He wonders if the magus who has screed him is Kharl or Rustyl. "I need to get to the harbor before the ships carrying the merchanter guards arrive."

   Tygyl lowers his sabre. So does Fayrken.

   "Best we get to Commander Sypcal, then..." Tygyl says.

   "And perhaps you should sent a message to Commander Shykt in Dellash, as well." Lorn frowns. "Would you ask Commander Sypcal if he would consider bringing Majer Brevyl to Cyad to serve? As my suggestion. A suggestion only."

   "Ah... yes, ser."

   "That's the commander's choice, but with a commander and the Captain-Commander dead, and the Majer-Commander missing, and probably dead through some plotting of Commander Lhary... Commander Sypcal and the Emperor may need some talented and loyal officers."

   "Yes, ser."

   Lorn turns and hurries down the steps.

   "Not one officer in a score... turn down that..."

   "...meant what he said..."

   "...always does..."

   Lorn only hopes that he can continue to keep his word, both to Rynst, and to himself.

 

 

CLX

 

Lorn glances at the cold blue sky to the south, above the harbor, as he rides downhill toward the maneuver grounds and the warehouse barracks beyond. He thinks he sees two ships under sail on the horizon, but that could be because he expects to see them. He looks again, standing in the stirrups, but still is not sure.

   Cheryk is standing outside the barracks as Lorn reins up the gelding and dismounts.

   "Ser... there was a messenger for you..."

   "I already got it. The Captain-Commander wanted to see me. That's why I'm late."

   "The messenger said we'd be posted to protect the Mirror Lancer Court," Cheryk says in a level tone.

   Lorn shakes his head. "Matters... The Majer-Commander has disappeared. Commander Lhary killed the Captain-Commander, and tried to kill me. Commander Sypcal is acting Majer-Commander."

   "Commander Lhary? Ser? They say he's most excellent with a blade."

   "Not quite excellent enough. He's dead." Lorn's voice is weary. "We're still to protect access to the Palace."

   "After all that, ser?"

   "Especially after all that. Our duty, and our orders from the Majer-Commander and the Emperor, were to protect the Palace and the city. That doesn't change." Lorn pauses. "And if anything happens to me, those are your orders, Captain." Lorn's voice is like cold ordered iron.

   "Yes, ser."

   Esfayl steps out of the barracks. "Everyone's mounted out back and ready to ride, ser."

   Lorn motions for Esfayl to join him and Cheryk, waiting until the younger captain steps closer. "Cheryk, I'd like you to take your company and Esfayl's second squad to Second Harbor Way West-I'd say the coiner of Benevolent Commerce. That's above the Dyjani compound where they're mustering the greensuits already here in Cyad. That way, you'll be between the greensuits and the Palace."

   "How do you want it handled?" asks the older captain.

   "Have them lay down their arms and turn back or they get killed." Lorn frowns. "Can your men aim the lances low enough to hit their legs if they use mirrorlike shields?"

   "We practiced that last eightday. With short bursts. Ought to be good enough to tear holes in their shield wall somewhere. Then we'll fire on the open sides of the gap."

   "Do what you can. If you can rout them quickly, try not to leave many survivors. We don't want them re-forming later in the eightday. If you can't hold them, fall back and send me a messenger. Esfayl and I will be supporting the firecannon to stop reinforcements from being landed on the piers. If we can stop them, then we'll rejoin you. If you can stop the greensuits there, hold your position, but send Esfayl's squad here to the piers." Lorn glances from Cheryk to Esfayl, then back. "Is that clear?"

   "Yes, ser," the two reply.

   "Then we'd better start. Esfayl, have your first squad meet me at the Mirror Engineer building."

   Esfayl nods, then turns and hurries into the barracks. Lorn remounts and rides the gelding the quarter-kay to the Mirror Engineer building, where Ghyrat, as Cheryk was, is waiting for Lorn. His breath steams in the cool morning air.

   "Majer, we're ready to move the cannon up to Mirror Lancer Court."

   Lorn does not dismount as he replies. "The Majer-Commander is missing, and the Captain-Commander was killed by Commander Lhary. Commander Sypcal is acting Majer-Commander, and our original orders stand, Captain. There are two ships coming into the piers. I'd guess the outermost deepwater pier. You'll need to set up at the foot of the pier so that you can sweep it clear of any armsmen. We may have to fire the ships as well."

   "Cyadoran ships?"

   "Cyadoran ships carrying armed guards to reinforce those already trying to storm the Palace. They would put a merchanter on the Malachite Throne."

   "You know this?"

   "So did the Majer-Commander and the Captain-Commander. Our job is to hold Cyad for the Emperor." Whoever he may be. "So... move the cannon to the foot of the outermost pier, but leave it ready to be moved again, if necessary."

   "Yes, ser." Ghyrat bows and reenters the engineer building. Lorn turns in the saddle, waiting as Esfayl and his squad of lancers ride toward him.

   As they near, Lorn calls, "To the outermost pier." Without looking back, he urges the gelding past the engineer building, and then along the paved seawall road from which the piers jut into the water.

   Just short of the foot of the outermost pier, Lorn reins up and again studies the harbor-and the Great Western Ocean to the south. The blue-gray water of the harbor itself bears a slight chop, with a scattered small whitecap here and there. Farther out are indeed the sails of two large trading vessels.

   "Coming in for sure, ser," Esfayl says from where he has reined up beside Lorn. "Not with the best wind, either."

   Lorn turns to Esfayl. "Once the firecannon is set up here, I don't want your first squad in sight of the piers."

   "You want the guards on shore before we attack," Esfayl suggests.

   "I'd rather not have you attack at all. You're here in case the cannon can't destroy them. If necessary, I'll have Ghyrat turn the cannon on the masts, or even the hulls, but I'd prefer to sweep the pier and save the ship."

   The black-haired captain nods. "Treat them just like the Jeranyi."

   "These are worse," Lorn says slowly. "The Jeranyi had no understanding of Cyador and did not know what it offers. These guards would destroy it for a handful of golds."

   "We can stand down behind the sheds between the piers," Esfayl suggests.

   Lorn nods. "If you would also take my mount... but you need to be the one who can watch for my orders, if we need you."

   "Yes, ser."

   Behind him, Lorn can hear the rumbling and whining of a small firewagon as it tows the cannon-like those once used against the Accursed Forest-along the seawall road. The small firewagon is but four-wheeled, and armored in cupridium plate. It tows an armored two-wheeled device with a tubular projection. When the firewagon halts, several engineers step from a hatch in the side, and unhitch the cannon, and slowly wheel it toward the pier.

   Lorn turns the gelding and gestures as to where he wants the cannon placed. "Here... on a straight shot along the pier."

   "Yes, ser," replies Ghyrat.

   Once the cannon is positioned, one of the engineer rankers brings a crank out and inserts it into a fitting on the side of the cannon. He turns it rapidly, and, slowly, a small hatch opens on the side of the cannon. The engineer slips into the hatch. Another ranker rolls a long cable from the firewagon that has towed the cannon, to an assembly on the rear of the cannon. There, he fits the sheathed cupridium cable into a square bracket.

   When Ghyrat has the cannon set up and positioned as Lorn desires, the majer waits until Ghyrat steps forward and looks up at the mounted lancer officer.

   "You can hit anything on the pier, can you not?" Lorn asks, seeking a confirmation of what he has seen years earlier.

   "Ah... yes, ser."

   "Stand by for a moment." Lorn looks out from the foot of the outermost deepwater pier. The wind has shifted, and now blows from the south, much as Ryalth has predicted. The two vessels bearing no ensigns or banners make their way toward Cyad, along the wide main channel, under more than half-canvas, far more than most vessels coming into the piers.

   Lorn looks at the engineer captain, then points to the ships. "Those will be Dyjani vessels. Or they will carry Dyjani guards. We will see." Then he turns to Esfayl. "Best you pull the lancers back." He dismounts and hands the gelding's reins to the young curly-haired captain.

   "Yes, ser. We'll await your orders." Esfayl eases both mounts back toward the still-mounted squad. "Back behind those sheds."

   "How long will it take to fire the cannon after I give the order?" Lorn asks Ghyrat.

   "A few moments, no more."

   "So, if I said to fire now..."

   "One... two... three... now," Ghyrat says. "That long."

   "Can you widen the chaos-bolt so that it is as wide as the pier?"

   "Ah... we could... but it wouldn't be as strong."

   "Would it be strong enough to kill men in light armor?"

   "Oh... yes."

   "How long would it take to change the bolt back?"

   "Not much longer than to fire the cannon."

   "Then have them widen the bolt and have it centered on the middle of the pier for now."

   "Yes, ser." Ghyrat turns and walks back to open cannon hatch where he leans partway inside. Shortly, he returns. "It is as you ordered, ser."

   "Good. Now we wait."

   The wind has risen somewhat, but gotten warmer, when the first vessel swings in toward the pier, and two seamen jump from the slowly moving ship, carrying light lines. As soon as they have planted themselves by bollards, each pulls in, hand over hand, the heavier hawser, and with practiced movements, use hawser and bollard to kill the vessel's momentum. On the ship itself windlasses creak, and the lines are drawn tighter, easing the vessel up to the pier.

   "We'll wait as long as we can," Lorn says. "I'd really like them both to be tied up at the pier."

   "Will they?"

   "I hope so. All that they can see is a vehicle and few souls. I'm trusting that won't put them off. I doubt any have seen a firecannon that is not on a ship."

   The second vessel swings in farther along the outer pier than the first has, and, again, linemen leap onto the pier.

   Two gangways drop onto the stone surface of the pier from the first vessel, to tie up, and almost as quickly from the second.

   "Now?" asks Ghyrat.

   "Not yet. Wait until they have armsmen formed up." Lorn hopes that they will have such.

   His hopes, or fears, are well-founded, for green-clad armsmen scurry down the gangways and form into ranks. Lorn frowns as he sees the shimmering, near-body-length shields in the first rank, and the long cupridium - sheathed pikes being passed down.

   "Almost fourscore already..." he murmurs, noting that the two groups of twoscore each appear almost ready to march down the pier. He turns. "Now."

   Ghyrat runs forward to the firecannon, thrusting his head inside, then turns and runs back to stand behind Lorn.

   The two wait.

   HHHSSSTTT! With a whooshing hiss, the narrow flame sprays along the pier. Even from fifty cubits behind the cannon, Lorn can feel the intense heat. The mirrorlike shields have provided no protection, and the fourscore or so green-clad armsmen stand momentarily like charred posts before slowly toppling onto the stone of the piers.

   Lorn can see nearly as many armsmen on the open decks of the ships.

   Then, suddenly, seamen are scrambling up the rigging. Lorn can see that someone is using an ax to cut the hawser on the rearmost vessel-the one closest to him and the cannon.

   "Chaos!" Lorn turns to Ghyrat. "Rake the ships. First one, then the other. Use the wide flame. Then tighten it and cut the masts! Now!"

   Ghyrat hurries to the cannon, issues an order, then hurries back toward Lorn.

   HHHSSSTTT! With another loud hiss, the narrow flame sprays the nearer ship. Almost immediately, the sails-which had just begun to billow-are half flames, half charred canvas. Some of the spars have caught flame.

   The second blast is not as well-aligned, and the forward mast of the more distant vessel escapes part of the flame discharge.

   "Ghyrat!" Lorn bellows. "Take the masts of the far ship first! The far one first!"

   The engineer officer sprints back to the cannon.

   Hssst! Hsst! It takes two blasts, but the ship farthest out on the pier is demasted and a mass of flames even before the cannon turns slightly and shears all three masts of the innermost vessel, reducing it to a flaming pyre.

   Lorn turns, and gestures. "Esfayl! My mount!" He hopes his voice carries, but Esfayl either hears or guesses correctly, for the captain appears from behind the shed, riding toward the base of the pier, leading the white gelding.

   Ghyrat walks from the cannon toward Lorn. His face is white.

   "Thank you, Captain," Lorn says. "You and your men did a good job."

   "Yes... ser."

   Lorn looks back at the burning hulls, then at Esfayl, who has just reined up a halfscore of cubits away. "Have we heard from Cheryk?"

   "Yes, ser. They have mirror shields. He's giving ground... as slowly as he can."

   Lorn turns back to the Mirror Engineer captain. "We need to reinforce Cheryk as fast as we can get there. Captain-hold your position here. If any of the green guards attack from the city, use the cannon on them. If another ship appears, do what I did here." Lorn mounts the gelding.

   "Those are your orders, ser." Ghyrat swallows.

   From astride the white gelding, Lorn looks hard at the young-faced and goateed captain. "They are the orders of the Majer-Commander and the Emperor."

   "Yes, ser."

   Lorn turns the gelding. For perhaps the first time, he truly understands, with both feelings and mind, why the loss of the fireships is such a blow to Cyador.

   "Ser... there's little left..." Esfayl notes. "If we had one of those in the streets..."

   "With one of those in the city, I'm not sure we'd have a city left to hold," Lorn says.

   "Oh... hadn't thought that way."

   "What else did Cheryk's messenger say?"

   "Sasyk has his force moving up Second Harbor Way, where the shops are wall-to-wall. They have pikes and mirror shields, and except at the infrequent intersections, there is little way for the lancers to strike them."

   "We'll try an attack from the rear, then," Lorn says.

   Esfayl's squad rides behind him as he leads them along the seawall road and then to the west, and then onto the lower section of Second Harbor Way West near the harbor. Even from there, he can hear the hssing of firelances, the occasional dull sound of metal on metal, and men yelling, both orders and imprecations.

   "Firelances at the ready!" he orders. "Pour-abreast."

   "At the ready," Esfayl echoes. "Four-abreast."

   As the small column nears the fighting from the south, Lorn can see his fears have indeed been realized. Not only has Sasyk developed a shield wall, but behind the shields, and protruding forward, are long cupridium pikes, the cupridium untouched by the chaos-bolts of the firelances.

   Cheryk has his lancers firing their lances at legs well enough, but the shields are long, and for each man that falls, another appears with a shimmering shield, and step by step the phalanx is pushing the lancers back uphill toward the Palace of Eternal Light.

   From behind the shield wall come arrows, arching over the ranks and into the lancers. Those arrows have taken a toll, for Cheryk looks to have lost almost a squad.

   Lorn watches for a long moment, but only for that. There are no pikes left on the back side of the phalanx and the shields there are few and spread.

   "Ser?" asks Esfayl.

   "First, we're going to charge and try to flame down the archers from behind. If they don't have any pikes, we'll run right up their backsides. They can't be that well trained."

   "Ah... ser..."

   "I'm leading the charge, and I expect everyone to be with me."

   "Yes, ser." Esfayl smiles.

   "Six-abreast, and three trailers," Lorn orders.

   "Six-abreast. Move up as needed! Lances ready!" Esfayl's voice is tight, but clear above the muted din coming from the gently sloping way ahead.

   The lancers' mounts pick their way over and around perhaps a score of fallen greensuits, but the rear of the ever more swiftly moving phalanx is almost open. Lorn can see that Cheryk is retreating more quickly uphill and toward the Palace. Has the older captain seen Lorn's force, and is he trying to lure Sasyk forward so that the former lancer will not check his rear? Lorn hopes so.

   The halfscore of archers stands behind large mirror shields that require both arms for the guards who shield them. The archers continue to loft shafts toward the retreating lancers.

   "Charge!" Lorn orders.

   "Discharge at will! Short bursts!"

   So occupied are the archers in lofting arrows toward the retreating lancers under Cheryk, that only two look up, initially, as Lorn and Esfayl's single squad bears down on them.

   Hssst! Hssst!

   "Last rank to the rear! Last rank to the rear!" comes an order from somewhere among the green figures. Hssst!

   One archer turns and tries to loose a shaft, but is transfixed by a firebolt from one of Esfayl's lancers.

   Lorn directs one burst, then two, with his own personal chaos, felling two archers immediately, then a third.

    Within moments, most of the archers are down, but almost a halfscore of the green-suited shieldmen have banded together, and Lorn can see some of the pikemen trying to swing the polelike weapons to fend off Lorn's attack.

   "Now!" He digs his heels into the gelding's flank. If they do not break the shield wall while it is forming, they will not break it at all.

   "Follow the majer!"

   Lorn lays chaos in all directions before him, slashing with the sabre that cuts as no blade should, and firing power-bolts from the lance. The gelding lurches, and Lorn has to fight to hold his seat even as he slashes down with the chaos-aided sabre to cut aside one shield-bearer, and then another.

   "Major's through! Widen the gap!"

   The words seem to float past him as sabre and lance flare. Behind him a mount screams.

   Every green tunic he sees that moves gets a bolt of chaos or a cut from the sabre, and he knows he must cut through the green tunics ahead. The tightness of Sasyk's formation now helps, because the green-clad guards have nowhere to go, except to break formation and face the firelances and sabres before them, or risk being cut down from behind.

   Lorn wheels the gelding short of the first line of pikemen still facing uphill, and begins to chaos-slash and hack his way eastward.

   The disciplined phalanx has begun to disintegrate.

   : "Charge!" comes the command from Cheryk, and a full company of lancers sweeps downward, chaos-bolts flaring.

   Then pikes fall and the green-clad guards begin to run.

   Lorn charges after three, cutting one down with his firelance, the second with the sabre, and the third with the lance.

   He turns the gelding, using the short lance to knock aside a single pike, then aims it and dispatches the pikeman. He knows, somewhere, that he has no charges left in the lance, and that he is drawing chaos from where he can find it. He will pay for that-but pay he will... later... for if he does not use chaos now, there will be no "later" for him to consider.

   So he rides one lane, then another, then a road, then a way, leading perhaps three lancers, perhaps four, although he does not turn to count, using sabre or chaos or both, as necessary, on fleeing forms in green.

   It is midafternoon, or later, when Lorn reins up in the white stone street. He glances around, finally recognizing that he is still on Second Harbor Way West. The white granite is red-and-pink most places, those where it is not covered with blood-smeared silver shields or green tunics. Black splotches appear in places on the walls of the shops lining the street. Bodies-those of men and mounts-lie everywhere, but most are clad in green.

   "Ser!"

   Lorn wheels the gelding, sabre and firelance ready, but the call comes from Cheryk. The veteran rides toward Lorn slowly. "It's over, ser."

   Lorn blinks. His eyes water, and he realizes that he can barely see, so bright are the flashes of after-chaos that flare before his eyes. His head throbs, and that will get worse, he knows. Or, rather, he will feel it more.

   "Maybe a halfscore escaped. Once you broke their back... they had nowhere to go."

   Lorn nods, slowly. "You'd better send out a few men as scouts... down to the Plaza... and to the west piers. Make sure there aren't any more armsmen forming up."

   "Yes, ser."

   Lorn doubts his forces could fight more than a handful of armed men after the carnage and the cost of the street battle. He winces inside, thinking about the mirror shields and pikes. How could he have missed those? On an open field, the lancers would have an advantage, but not in the streets of Cyad, and Sasyk had known that. Then, Sasyk had been a lancer, a corrupt ' one, but corrupt did not mean stupid. And Sasyk knew he would be working against the Magi'i and had doubtless kept himself away from the shields and pikes so that their presence would not have been detected.

   Cheryk turns his mount, and Lorn just sits on the gelding, trying to watch, his eyes watering, his head splitting, letting the remaining squad leaders supervise the collecting of weapons and the stacking of bodies in the wagons someone has commandeered.

   After a time, shivering in the afternoon chill, he eases his mount into the full sun as the wind rises.

   "Ser..." Cheryk rides back to Lorn and reins up. "No sign of any trouble anywhere. City is quiet everywhere."

   "Everyone's in shock," Lorn says. "The first time ever, or since Alyiakal, when there's been blood on the streets here."

   "Was there any other way, ser?"

   "No one seemed to know it. I didn't." Lorn pauses. "I haven't seen Esfayl... Did he... ?"

   "Yes, ser." Cheryk looks at Lorn. "Only six of you broke through. You slaughtered close to fourscore, but..."

   "There wasn't anything else we could do. At least, I couldn't think of anything that would work in time."

   "Ser... you made something work that no one else could."

   "We haven't done the task as well as any would like." Lorn smiles raggedly. "How many of them... ?"

   "Our count is rough, but the men say we took down almost twentyscore here on the streets."

   Lorn shakes his head.

   "Ser... could be more."

   "Cheryk... I'd guess your count was right. There were close to tenscore on the piers, and that doesn't count the sailors we fired with the cannon."

   "Chaos-fire, ser..." Cheryk is the one to shake his head.

   "Sasyk?" Lorn asks.

   "You cut him down, ser. Don't you remember?"

   "There were so many. I just went for whoever was giving the orders. It was a bloody mess breaking that phalanx."

   They both look down at the stones that are no longer white.

   Lorn straightens in the saddle, conscious that his entire body aches, that his eyes water, that he has trouble seeing, and that his head is being cleft with a dull ax. "I need to report to the Majer-Commander."

   Cheryk gestures, and two pair of mounted lancers ride toward them. "Escort the majer... wherever he goes."

   "Yes, ser."

   Lorn rides slowly back up to Mirror Lancer Court, the four lancers he does not even know by his side. There, he dismounts by the front entrance, and hands the gelding's reins to one of them. "If you would wait..."

   "Yes, ser."

   Lorn turns and trudges up the steps, ignoring the squad leaders who step away from him as he walks into the lower foyer and starts up the staircase that seems all too long.

   "Ser?" Tygyl looks at Lorn as the majer reaches the topmost level and takes several deep breaths.

   Lorn looks down. His uniform is stained everywhere with blood and other, less-sightly remnants of the battle. "We won. If you consider the loss of a company, the slaughter of nearly thirtyscore greensuits, and the total destruction of two good merchant vessels a victory." He takes a deep breath. "Is the acting Majer-Commander here?"

   "Yes, ser. He's pretty weak, but he said he'd see you when you returned." Tygyl offers a tight smile. "He said you would."

   Lorn nods slightly and turns toward the fifth-floor study that had been Rynst's. He opens the door and steps inside.

   "You can close it, Majer." Sypcal sits in one of the armchairs in front of the desk. His feet are propped on a stool. He still wears a commander's insignia, and the uniform collar is not tight. "You will pardon me if I do not stand."

   "I doubt you should, ser." Lorn stops five paces back from the senior officer, and bows. "For now, we hold Cyad, and Sasyk is dead. So are almost all of his armsmen."

   Sypcal takes a long look at Lorn. "When I heard the first reports and how many armsmen Sasyk had gathered... I wasn't sure even you could break them."

   "We almost didn't. According to a rough count, they had thirtyscore under arms with mirror shield men, archers, and pikes."

   Sypcal smiles. "Vyanat'mer has already been here. He said that all the merchanters would accept whoever the Emperor's testament named as heir." Sypcal's laugh is weak, but his eyes are bright. "He said that, thanks to the Mirror Lancers and Ryalor House, there were no dissidents left. The Traders' Council will pick the heir to Dyjani Clan. Sasyk murdered all those next in line."

   Ryalor House? Lorn will discover that later, he fears. He decides against raising that question on a day that has raised all too many. "What about the Magi'i?"

   Sypcal shakes his head once. "We have heard nothing. I doubt we will anytime soon. Possibly not until the heir is officially announced."

   "Is there any word on who that might be?"

   "None. It may be that the heir named by Toziel is already dead." Lorn winces. "Then what?"

   "Then... Then, matters will become more interesting." Sypcal coughs before speaking, and Lorn can sense the weakness in the man. "I suggest, Majer, that a half-squad of your lancers... no... I am ordering a full-squad to guard your dwelling. Go to it, and rest. We may need you and your skills again." There is another smile. "I doubt it will be again today, and probably not tomorrow. After that... who knows?"

   "Yes, ser." Lorn bows.

   "And Majer... the Mirror Lancers owe you more than they can ever repay. I tell you this because I cannot afford to have all of what you did made known. But we pay our debts. Now... get some rest."

   "Yes, ser." Lorn turns and walks slowly from the study of the Majer- , Commander.

   Hoping that Sypcal can hold himself and Mirror Lancer Court together, Lorn slowly makes his way down the stairs. Several of the senior rankers make their way to the balcony railings and watch. Lorn can hear the murmurs.

   "...see why... Rynst brought him here..."

   "...talking to the lancers came with him... said he broke a shield wall himself... killed nearly twoscore himself, giving orders and directions the whole time... none of 'em ever saw anything like it..."

   "...don't take on the Butcher..."

   "...Butcher... maybe... but none more honest..." Lorn winces but keeps descending the white stone stairs, feeling that every eye around the open foyers is upon him.

   Is that what it takes to keep Cyador from falling into anarchy? Lorn asks himself. The ability to butcher mercilessly? He laughs once, harshly. Who is he to judge, with the blood on his hands and spirit?

   He mounts slowly for the ride back to the barracks... for he still has much to do before he can rest.

   The sun dips below the dwellings and the hills in the west as he rides slowly back down to the harbor. Behind him, the four lancers are silent.

 

 

CLXI

 

Outlined in the green-maroon sky of dusk, Lorn steps down from the veranda door and into the foyer. Ryalth hurries through the archway from the sitting room, then stops, relief flooding her face.

   "Thank chaos... you're all right," Lorn says.

   "I'm so glad to see you," she says almost at the same moment. "You're... you're not wounded... are you?" Ryalth looks at him, at the blood on his uniform and the tiredness in his eyes.

   "Not in body." He sees the blackness in her eyes. "I heard that there are no dissidents among the merchanters, thanks to Ryalor House. Kernys and Denys?"

   She nods slowly.

   "Are you sure you're all right?" he asks.

   "I'm fine. What I did was easy."

   Again... her words are not fully true, yet he can sense the concern behind what she says... and the tiredness. "I'm not sure about that. That was why you were worried last night."

   "And about you."

   "I'm fine. Mostly," he adds.

   "You can barely stand or see, and your head is splitting."

   "How do you know?" he asks.

   "I can sense that, remember?"

   "Kernys and Denys?" he asks again.

   "I had them over to Ryalor House, on the promise to ask for your support. Brinn and tyacl in wine. It takes about a half-day, and it is tasteless." She takes a deep breath. "They had promised another fivescore armsmen to support Sasyk and the Dyjani Clan." She pauses. "You look exhausted. At least come into the sitting room and sit down."

   "Where dare I sit?" Lorn glances down at his uniform. "Kerial? Is he all right?"

   "He's fine. Ayleha is feeding him mashed pearapples in the kitchen." Her lips curl into a semblance of a smile, if but momentarily. "He does take after you in that."

   "Let me get out of this uniform. I want it burned." She but nods once more as he walks heavily toward the stairs, and up to the bedchamber, and then into the washroom, where he begins to peel off the stained and bloody tunic. "Sasyk murdered all the heirs to Dyjani House, Sypcal told me. I assume that means Husdryt and Torvyl."

   "Yes." She frowns. "Sypcal? Why Sypcal?"

   Lorn sits on the washstool and pulls off his boots, one at a rime. His hands come away dull red. His once-white boots are mottled pink and dull red. He sighs. "Someone killed Rynst. I think. He vanished last night. It's likely it was Luss and Lhary, but if they were the ones, I won't know." Lorn looks down. Even his undertunic is splotched with blood in several places. He pulls it off, and his trousers as well, and begins to wash. "You won't know?"

   "I told the lancers that Lhary killed Luss, and tried to set me up as the killer. They believed me, maybe because I insisted that Sypcal be acting Majer-Commander. He's capable and honest. That was even before the piers or the street battles."

   "I think you'd better tell me more," the redhead says. As he washes, Lorn recounts the day, ending with his meeting with Sypcal: "...then I checked with Cheryk at the barracks and rode home. Oh... as Sypcal said, we are guarded by a squad of lancers tonight." He looks down. The basin water is pinkish. "A squad will stop any armed men left in Cyad. Nothing might stop the Magi'i, but I don't see why they would come after me."

   She shakes her head. "Half the merchanter heirs gone, one way or another, most of the high command of the Mirror Lancers gone, the First Magus dead, the Second Magus attacked, and the Emperor dead. It's stupid."

   "People are stupid when it comes to power." He pauses. "The Second Magus attacked? Someone attacked Kharl? I suppose he deserves it... but who?"

   "I don't know. No one seems to."

   Lorn steps into the bedchamber, where he pulls trousers and undertunic from the armoire, then fumbles on his second pair of boots. "I want to see Kerial."

   "He is fine."

   Lorn stops in the chamber doorway. "What aren't you telling me? What's happened? What's wrong?"

   "Lorn... there's more," Ryalth says softly, her eyes dark not just with fatigue, but with concern. "I wanted you to have a few moments..."

   "Who... What... ? It's not Kerial? You said he was all right."

   "He's just fine," she repeats. "Jerial came to Ryalor House this morning. She brought this." Ryalth hands Lorn a scroll, apparently unsealed. But within the unsealed scroll-parchment, not paper-is a second sealed scroll, of a paper fine but faintly tinted with green. "She is waiting in the kitchen with Kerial."

   Lorn frowns. "Myryan. It can only be Myryan." He swallows as he opens and reads the inner scroll. He holds in a shiver at the familiar script and the few words written there.

 

   For the partners of the house ...

 

   "Such an odd phrasing..." he murmurs.

   Ryalth returns his look of inquiry with open blue eyes that do not flinch from the pain in his.

   Lorn continues, reading deliberately.

 

   The absence of order within the heart of those who hold chaos second-most dear will lead to the ultimate order, whether for those thought far higher than merchanters or lancers... or for a consort without understanding.

   A healer cannot heal the absence of understanding, and healers cannot heal their own wounds or hold their own deaths at bay. A healer can use skills to allow chaos to unbalance those already unbalanced, whether through hatred of happier households, boundless ambition, or petty jealousy ...

   All a healer can do is but use her skills to allow a soul or a land to heal, and hope that those who follow to complete the healing... if they but will.

   I have done what I must... for I cannot be held captive to the desires of others, whether for heirs or power... I have done what I can for you, and I have done so gladly.

 

   Lorn just looks at the scroll, written so precisely, and yet it seems to make almost no sense except for the last paragraph.

   "Jerial is waiting downstairs," Ryalth says gently. "She can tell you, far better than I, what happened."

   His fingers clench about the scroll and he walks toward the bedchamber door. Ryalth follows silently.

   Jerial is waiting at the foot of the stairs, as if she has sensed or heard his approach. Her eyes are red-rimmed.

   Lorn holds out the scroll. "What happened to her? Is she ill?" As he asks the question and looks at Jerial, he knows. "How? She was fine. Who... ? Did that... Kharl? Ciesrt?"

   "Let her tell you, dearest." Ryalth touches Lorn's shoulder, gently.

   Lorn moistens his lips. His eyes rest on Jerial.

   "I got a message, and I hurried to her dwelling. Late last night." Jerial shakes her head. "She was just lying there. She just waited... until I was there, and then she pressed the scroll into my hands, and she... said... it was better... this way..." Jerial's voice trembles, and her reddened eyes tear again; Lorn has never seen either from his sister the competent healer.

   "Better ...?" he asks. "Better?" His voice is rough.

   Jerial's face hardens. "She was with child."

   "What?"

   "It was hard to find... but... someone had removed what we had done... only... a first-level adept..."

   "Ciesrt?" blurts Ryalth.

   "Kharl," Lorn says. "He wanted heirs. The bastard wanted heirs... Myryan worried about that. I didn't think he'd go that far... I didn't think..." He looks down at the shimmering and spotless stone riles of the floor. "I didn't think..."

   After a moment, he raises his head and looks at his sister. "I don't understand." He lifts the scroll he still clenches in his hand. He looks at the parchment, almost as if he has not seen it. "She says she did what she could..."

   "She said she'd just come back from Kharl's," Jerial explains. "He needed healing. Ciesrt said he'd been attacked on his way back from the quarter. So Ciesrt took her to heal his father. Ciesrt had brought her home, and helped her to bed, then he went back to his father's when I came."

   "Why? If she was so ill... ?" asks Lorn.

   "She didn't let him know. She just got him to send a messenger and a carriage for me. As soon as I arrived, he left."

   "Did you tell him?"

   "I waited. I sent a message for Kharl's consort, and Liataphi's as well. This morning I also sent a message to Tyrsal. I thought he should know, and I didn't want you to have to do it, not after I heard about the fighting in the streets." Jerial's smile is cold, even as the tears ooze from her eyes, slowly, as if she has few tears left to give. "Lleya came immediately; Kharl's consort-I don't even know her name-she came later. We all agreed that somehow she had overextended herself in healing, possibly at the infirmary, and not understood that the child would take what little chaos and strength she had left. Ciesrt is distraught... truly so."

   "It is not enough," Lorn whispers. "Distraught... merely distraught." He stands rigid until he can see again. "She healed Kharl... after all he had done? I don't understand."

   "I don't, either, Lorn," Jerial says softly. "But you know Myryan and I have never looked at things quite from the same window."

   Abruptly, Lorn extends the scroll to Ryalth. "Do you know what she means?"

   Lorn sees her eyes go back over the words... once, twice. Abruptly, her eyes shimmer, and tears course from her eyes, silently, but the only word she offers is, "No."

   "I should have done more," Lorn finally whispers. "I should have acted all those years back. I should have. Father was wrong."

   But the protest changes nothing, and Lorn gazes across the dining area, his eyes blank.

   Ryalth shudders.

   Jerial stands there mute.

   Kysia appears at the edge of the room. "Ser, Ladies... there is a magus at the gate."

   "If it's Ciesrt... I don't want to see him," Lorn says.

   "This late?" asks Jerial.

   "Did he say who he is?" asks Ryalth.

   "His name is Tyrsal. He has red hair..."

   Lorn turns. "I'll go.

   Tyrsal stands beside the gate. He has tethered his mount to the single bronze ring set in the wall. Behind him the lancers watch.

   "It's all right," Lorn calls to them. "I'm sorry," he apologizes as he unlocks the gate and morions for the redheaded magus to enter.

   "There's nothing to be sorry about. I should be the one apologizing for coming this late and intruding." Tyrsal steps inside the iron gate, and gestures back at the mounted lancers. "Your idea?"

   "The new Majer-Commander's." Lorn locks the gate, steps around the privacy screen, and turns back along the darkened marble way.

   "Rynst? What happened? He wasn't in the fighting, was he?" Tyrsal steps up beside Lorn as they circle the silent fountain.

   "He vanished last night. Then Commander Lhary killed the Captain-Commander, and I killed Lhary." Lorn shrugs as he walks.

   "That isn't everything," Tyrsal says.

   "You're too good with truth-reading. No... it's not," Lorn admits, "but that's the way it will be."

   "It's interesting that Kharl was wounded last night, badly enough to need a healer," Tyrsal says. "I doubt a common bravo would have the skill..."

   "It could be," Lorn says tiredly. "But there's not much I can do except watch Kharl now... is there?" He opens the veranda door once more.

   Tyrsal stops, and looks at Lorn. "Before we go inside, you need to know something."

   Lorn waits.

   "Ciesrt died in all the turmoil."

   "Ciesrt?"

   The redheaded magus offers a sad smile. "I killed him. I followed your example. No one will ever find him."

   "Because of Myryan?"

   "After Jerial's message, I decided." The redhead nods. "There's not much else I can say, Lorn. I'm not asking for forgiveness or praise. Ciesrt was weak, and he let his weakness destroy Myryan. He would have let it happen again, and keep letting it happen."

   "I know." Lorn looks down. "I should have taken care of the problem when I could. I didn't, and I'll always regret that."

   "I don't need to come in," Tyrsal says. "Aleyar is worried. She didn't want me out at all, but I wanted you to know before tomorrow."

   "I'm glad you came." Lorn claps Tyrsal's arm and hand. "...Thank you... for caring... for being a friend."

   Tyrsal smiles wanly. "Sometimes... that's not enough. I know that."

   "It is enough." Lorn says, meaning it fully. "Thank you."

   "I'll talk to you later." Tyrsal turns.

   Lorn and Tyrsal walk silently back to the gate, where Lorn unlocks it and lets Tyrsal out. He watches until the sound of hoofs dies away. Then Lorn walks back into the house. "Where is Tyrsal?" asks Jerial.

   "Tyrsal just wanted to say he was sorry. He didn't want stay or to come in. Aleyar is worried."

   "He must have wanted to let you know that a great deal," Jerial says, "to be out on a night like this."

   "He did. He is... He's always been a true friend." Lorn looks at Jerial. "You'll stay here tonight."

   "I'd thought I would."

   Then he looks at Ryalth. "I'm going upstairs. I just need to be alone for a little bit."

   She nods and smiles softly, sadly. "Kerial and I will be waiting in the bedchamber. Whenever..."

   "I won't be long."

   Lorn walks up the steps, slowly, heavily. He puts a hand to the railing to steady himself. Once on the second level, he slips into the bedchamber, where he picks up the silver-covered book. He carries it to his study, where he uses a striker to light the lamp. Even the thought of using chaos for as little as that intensifies the headache that has yet to show any signs of subsiding.

   After looking for long moments at the silver-covered book, he slowly leafs through it until he finds the page he recalls. He reads the words slowly.

 

   Ashes to ashes

   and dust to dust

   will not bring back the dance

   nor the dancer.

   Chaos to order and back to flame

   brings back no songs without name.

 

   For the lesson that I have learned

   is that there is none.

   No one else will sing those songs,

   nor dance, nor smile that smile,

   because one less one is none.

 

   In her own way, Myryan had been a dancer, a dancer of the soul... Had he and Ryalth-and Tyrsal-been the only ones to see that?

   For a long time, he studies the lines in the book. Finally, he closes it and gazes out the window into the darkness.

   A man can change the times-sometimes-and the times may make one man, but they destroy many others in the process.

   There is a rustle behind him, and he turns.

   Ryalth stands there. "I was worried."

   "I'm all right," he lies. Then he opens the book and hands it to her, open to the verse he has read again and again. "I was thinking about Myryan."

   She nods and twin lines of silver streak her cheeks. In time, she closes the book, and he turns down the lamp wick, and they walk to the bedchamber, where Kerial sleeps, restlessly.

   They watch their son, silently, as the night deepens.

 

 

CLXII

 

Lorn stands before the acting Majer-Commander of the Mirror Lancers. Behind Sypcal, cold droplets of water bead on the antique panes of the study windows, droplets from the cold drizzle that blankets Cyad and the Palace of Light.

   "You report that all is calm in Cyad, Majer. Can you be sure of such?" asks Sypcal, leaning forward slightly over the table desk that had been Rynst's.

   Lorn nods. "Since the street battles, I have taken the liberty of having squads ride the roads and ways, ser. They have seen no signs of others bearing arms." Lorn does not report that he has also used his chaos-glass, if sparingly, because of the headache that has not yet fully left him, and asked Tyrsal to do the same. "The rain may aid in keeping the calm."

   "And your presence, I am certain, has a certain restraining effect."

   "They're afraid I'll slaughter them?" Lorn smiles mirthlessly. "I only slew those who rose against the Emperor."

   "Exactly. If they do not rise, then you will not slaughter them." Sypcal's smile is almost as mirthless as Lorn's. The acting Majer-Commander remains seated behind the table desk. His red hair seems dull, although his eyes are alert as he looks at Lorn. "There is one more matter, Majer."

   "Ser?"

   "Your presence has been requested at the Palace. By the Empress. Immediately."

   Lorn swallows.

   "She wishes to convey her gratitude to you for saving Cyad from Sasyk. In person." Sypcal frowns slightly. "She is less than perfectly well, I understand, but she insisted that I bring you in person."

   "Yes, ser."

   "I will meet you at the entrance shortly."

   "Yes, ser," Lorn responds a last time. He bows, then makes his way out of the Majer-Commander's study.

 

 

CLXIII

 

Lorn's white boots whisper on the polished sunstone and granite floors of the Palace of Eternal Light as he and Sypcal follow the two guards along the high-ceilinged and pillared corridor. To the right, between the columns, are narrow windows stretching nearly fifteen cubits from the polished floor to the buttresses that connect the columns. Outside of Palace Guards dressed in green uniforms with silver trim, the Palace seems eerily empty, and Lorn glances at Sypcal.

   A faint smile crosses the face of the acting Majer-Commander as he looks back at Lorn. "Don't ask me. I've been here but a handful of times, and only to the Great and Lesser Audience Halls. Like you, I'm following orders."

   Lorn laughs to himself.

   The two green-clad Palace Guards lead them down a smaller corridor- ten cubits wide, and then to a set of double doors, guarded by yet another pair in green. One opens the right-hand door, and Lorn follows Sypcal into a foyer a good twenty cubits square. There are several golden-oak chairs set against the paneled walls, and a single guard in silver stands by the inner door.

   The guard in silver looks at Sypcal. "Ser... the Empress has requested that you remain here until the other advisors arrive. She will see you all together. She wishes to see Majer Lorn first, alone, and she wishes that he bring the special sabre at his side."

   Lorn moistens his lips. "The special sabre"? How does the Empress know it is special?

   Sypcal smiles. "Best of luck, Majer."

   "Thank you, ser." Lorn steps through the door. He finds himself at the end of a bedchamber-one comparatively modest for what he has seen in the Palace of Light so far, perhaps thirty cubits long, and fifteen wide. The left side of the chamber is comprised of alternating panels of polished green marble and green tinted glass, that somehow seem to diminish the light pouring in from the south. Still, Lorn can see the harbor, and the two hulks that were once Dyjani trading vessels.

   The high bed is wide enough for four people, and the headboard is almost plain, but of a wood that might have once been white oak, but which now bears a green stain that allows the grain to show through despite the darkness of the color. The Empress is propped up on the window side of the overlarge bed, the white counterpane folded back at her waist. She wears a plain dark-green velvet gown with long sleeves. Her hair is half mahogany, half snow-white.

   "Majer... please do not delay. Step forward, if you will." The voice is firm, and almost melodic. In her left hand is a scroll, sealed with green-and-silver wax, and wrapped with green ribbon.

   As he steps forward, finally halting at the foot of the bed, just a cubit from the green-and-cream velvet coverlet, Lorn studies her and nods, almost to himself, in spite of his resolve to betray nothing until he truly knows why he has been summoned.

   "Why do you nod, Majer?"

   "You are a healer. The Emperor would have died years earlier, would he not?"

   "It is most likely, but that concerns you not." A faint smile creases the wrinkled face. "You are both healer and magus, lancer and merchanter. But you will not be Emperor unless you act quickly and decisively."

   "Why would I be Emperor?"

   "Who else could there be now?" she counters, a wry twist to her lips. "Your actions have left very few with any ability."

   "I did not slay any for that reason," Lorn says quietly.

   "Had you, you would not be here." She pauses, as if gathering herself together. "In a few moments, the advisors will enter, and I will to announce you as heir... you must be prepared for all manner of trial. Nothing may occur, and then it may."

   Lorn bows. What is there to say?

   "What indeed?" Ryenyel pauses. "You have trusted your consort, have you not?"

   "You must know I have."

   "You will need to trust her even more, for if you become Emperor, all save her will seek to flatter you and deceive you, and many will be skilled enough to deceive you with only the truth." A small smile precedes her next words. "As you yourself have often done."

   Lorn returns her smile with a slight one of his own.

   "Oh . . . the Palace thanks you for your efforts in saving Cyad from the depredations of Sasyk. I should have said that first, but I have little time, and it is an effort to continue to think clearly." Ryenyel clears her throat. "Why did you have the sabre plated with cupridium so many years ago?"

   "I could not say, Lady Empress, save that it seemed like a good idea, and that it has proven so over the years."

   She laughs. "If you only knew how much consternation that act created for how many people for years..." She reaches up with her right hand and tugs the bellpull.

   The door behind Lorn opens, and the silver-clad guard enters and bows.

   "Norgyn... are the advisors here?"

   "Yes, Lady Empress."

   "Send in the guards for Majer Lorn, then... after they are here, bid the advisors enter."

   Lorn frowns, but does not move.

   "You will stand at the side, Majer, between the windows there. The guards are required when any bring a weapon into the Emperor's or Empress's presence. They will convey another impression, which will be... useful." She smiles. "They would be no match for you, but I trust you will not test them so."

   "Not unless necessary, Lady."

   "Good."

   A second door, one so flush to the inner paneled wall that Lorn had not noticed it, opens, and two of the regular Palace Guards in green appear. They walk around the bed and station themselves on each side of Lorn. They bear the short firelances in scabbards fastened to their silver belts.

   The hidden door closes, and the door through which Lorn has entered opens. First comes a magus, broad-shouldered, tall, red-haired and green-eyed. Although Lorn has never met him, Lorn knows the magus must be Kharl, both from the resemblance to Ciesrt and from the crossed lightning-bolts on the breast of his white shimmercloth tunic.

   After Kharl comes Commander Sypcal, his face expressionless, and after Sypcal comes Vyanat, who avoids looking in Lorn's direction.

   The three line up at the foot of the massive bed, looking at the Empress.

   "I have summoned you, in the name and memory of Toziel." Ryenyel lifts the beribboned scroll slightly. "He has named his heir."

   "This is not a proper audience, Lady Empress," states the new First Magus.

   "How can it not be proper? The three Advisors are present. His widow is present. There are witnesses." Ryenyel smiles serenely. "And... as you can see... I doubt I will survive to what you might term a proper audience."

   "Might I ask why a mere majer is present, Lady?" asks Kharl, inclining his head toward Lorn.

   "He was the one who saved Cyad from being turned over to flux chaos and who kept the Palace of Eternal Light inviolate, most honored First Magus. For his reward, do you not think he should be among the first to know the heir?"

   Kharl bows slightly.

   "Have any of you words on this before I break the seal?"

   "Lady Empress," Kharl says smoothly, "I would but say that the people of Cyad would wish to see the father figure of the Emperor . . . one who has known their pain and their grief..."

   Ryenyel nods. "You mean that you wish to fulfill that image? Would you recall that folk outside of Cyad itself only wish to live their lives in prosperity and be left alone, and that they would prefer one who would guarantee such?"

   "The two can be one," Kharl points out, "and I am certain that the Emperor understood such... at least before his last illness."

   Ryenyel's voice strengthens. "What does the house of a crafter in Jakaafra look like, First Magus? You have such wide experience... would you describe it to me?"

   Kharl looks at the Empress as if she is mad.

   "Does it not have thick and sturdy shutters-and a strong ceramic screen built so as to allow air to flow yet so none can see directly into the dwelling-with yet a second screen inside the dwelling so that any welcomed at the door can scarce see the interior?"

   "That may be," Kharl admits.

   The hint of smile plays across Vyanat's lips. Sypcal merely watches.

   "Are not most houses built so?" questions Ryenyel.

   "I would not attempt to guess what the common folk built or how they dwell."

   "Yet you would be their father figure?" A lilting laugh follows the words. "Come now... does not the very structure of such a dwelling tell you that those who live there wish their lives to be hidden from the Emperor, the Mirror Lancers, and the Magi'i... and your chaos-glasses?" Ryenyel turns her head to Sypcal, then back to Kharl. "Do you, First Magus... do you think it a whim or a coincidence that no streets are named in the cities beyond Cyad and Fyrad? That the common folk guard their names jealously?"

   "They are as children," Kharl offers gently. "They must be protected."

   "That they must be protected... on that we all agree, I am certain," the Empress responds.

   Lorn looks at her countenance. He is certain that far more of her hair is white than when he first entered the chamber, and there are more wrinkles and creases upon her face.

   "Here is the will of the Emperor," Ryenyel states. "Majer-Commander... I would have you break the seal and read what is written thereon."

   "As you command, Lady Empress." Sypcal bows, and steps forward. He takes the still-sealed scroll from her and turns. He breaks the seal and slowly unrolls the short parchment. Then he reads:

 

   I, Toziel'elth'alt'mer, Emperor of Cyador, in the fullness of time, and in the wisdom of experience, hereby declare that the heir to the Malachite Throne, the man who shall succeed me when I am gone, and my spirit returned to the Steps of Paradise, on the path to the Rational Stars, shall be Lorn'alt, Majer of the Mirror Lancers, of elthage birth, Mirror Lancer through ability, and merchanter through consortship, fulfilling all the needs and requirements of Emperor. Let it be so.

 

   Sypcal smiles, if slightly.

   "Lorn'elth'alt'mer will be the son and heir of Toziel," Ryenyel orders.

   Lorn bows his head, but his eyes watch Kharl.

   "This is a travesty... Lorn is but a butcher and a pup without the ability to rule his own dwelling, let alone Cyad or Cyador." Kharl steps away from Vyanat.

   Lorn can sense the massive amount of chaos swirling up and infusing itself around Kharl. At the same time, he can sense a pit of darkness within the other, one he doubts Kharl can even sense. Lorn lifts his own shields, knowing he must strike, and strike quickly. The Brystan sabre is in his hand, and he steps away from the guards.

   "Let them be!" cracks Ryenyel's voice. "What will be, will be."

   Sypcal and Vyanat back away from Kharl, as do the two guards from Lorn.

   Lorn has the Brystan sabre in a guard position even before the chaos-firebolt reaches him.

   Hsssst!

   With a lazy smile, Lorn uses the order of the iron blade to turn and fling the firebolt back at the First Magus... and then lets the blade follow the firebolt, its iron-cored length slashing into the older magus-and linking with that dark order within the First Magus.

   Kharl opens his mouth, and suddenly his eyes widen in shock, and the font of chaos that Kharl has summoned collapses back in upon him, drawn by that well of dark order. The iron-cored blade-momentarily halted, as if in midair, slashes even deeper into Kharl. Sparkles of light flare into the air of the bedchamber.

   Lorn blinks. So do the others.

   When he can see again, there is little on the chamber floor-except a few cupridium items, a melted pin that had once been an emblem of crossed lightning, some buckles, and cupridium boot-nails-and a shimmering sabre.

   Lorn bows to the Empress. "I beg your mercy."

   "I should beg yours, Lorn, for I see that you have mastered more than would appear." The Empress's words are dry. Her eyes travel to Sypcal, and then to Vyanat. "Have either of you, for yourself, or those you represent, any objections?"

   "No, Lady Empress," offers Sypcal. He turns and bows to Lorn. "Your Mightiness."

   A broad smile crosses Vyanat's face. "If we cannot have a merchanter, we will have an Emperor whose consort has proven herself as among the best of merchanters, and all will be pleased with that." He, too, bows to Lorn. "Your Mightiness."

   Ryenyel clears her throat, as if with difficulty. She looks at Lorn. "Before you go, and prepare to ascend the Malachite Throne... take the book here on the table-and read it well."

   Lorn steps forward toward the Empress and the table on the window side of the bed.

   "There," she says. "It is yours, to read and to pass on in your time."

   "Yes, Lady." He picks up the volume with the green-sheened silver cover-so like the book of verse with which Ryalth had entrusted him so many years before.

   "Read it well." Ryenyel pauses and turns toward the two men at the foot of the bed. "None of you will see me again. That is as I wish it. Now... please... depart while I retain some dignity." When Lorn and the two advisors do not move, she adds, "I do mean that. Honor that as my last request."

   The three bow and slip from the chamber, followed by the pair of guards.

   Lorn realizes, absently, that he has the answer to his father's final question, an answer he has known all along: The world is based on power. Power is simple. It is the ability to get others to do one's will. Nothing more, nothing less-but its complexity lies in how one obtains the compliance of others.

   As Lorn stands in the foyer outside the bedchamber, half pondering what he has so belatedly recognized, Sypcal steps up and hands Lorn the Brystan blade. "I trust you will not need this, but you might wish to keep it. I would that you not leave the Palace to inform your consort until your lancers can escort you."

   "I will wait," Lorn says.

   "You will find you will wait more than you ever wished, Your Mightiness," Sypcal says, as they leave the foyer outside the bedchamber of the dying Empress.

   Lorn suspects Sypcal's words are all too true.

 

 

CLXIV

 

Lorn shakes his head as he reins up outside his dwelling, followed by Palace Guards, and a company of Mirror Lancers commanded by Cheryk. At Sypcal's insistence, Lorn has earlier sent a messenger to Ryalor House requesting Ryalth meet him at their dwelling. He glances at the clear green-blue sky, a winter day's sky somehow... austere. Or perhaps that is the way he feels.

   "Your Mightiness... while it is an imposing dwelling, I do not think you will see much of it," suggests Cheryk as Lorn dismounts.

   The title sounds strange to Lorn, but he offers a smile to the captain. "There's likely much I will not see as I did." He turns and unlocks the iron gate. He is barely inside the walls, followed by two of the Palace Guards in the green-and-silver, when Ryalth comes running from the veranda.

   She slows a good dozen paces short of Lorn, and her eyes go from Lorn to the guards, then back to him. "What's the matter? Are you in trouble?"

   "I think," he begins with a smile, "we are both in trouble." After a slight pause, he adds, "I have the stone... or it has me. Toziel named me his heir. That makes you Empress-Consort."

   Her eyes widen. For a moment they both stand in the chill and sunny day, beside a fountain that does not flow.

   "Truly?" the redhead murmurs.

   "Truly."

   Another silence falls between them.

   "What of the Magi'i?" she finally asks. "Most would oppose you."

   "Kharl... he tried to kill me when the advisors were read the declaration. I was fortunate enough to prevail."

   "There is no one else left, then?"

   "Liataphi will be First Magus. Rustyl was the magus who died with Chyenfel. Sypcal will be Majer-Commander. Vyanat declares he is pleased, that in these days the merchanters are most gratified that you are Empress-Consort, for they will have a voice." Lorn grins. "And that they will have a voice is certain."

   Abruptly, Ryalth shivers. "It's cold out here."

   Lorn takes her arm, and the two turn toward the veranda. One of the Palace Guards slips ahead of them and into the house. The other holds the door.

   Lorn and Ryalth descend the steps and cross the foyer into the sitting room. Lorn looks at Ryalth. "Where's Kerial?"

   "Kysia's feeding him in the kitchen."

   "Good. I just worry." Lorn nods.

   "What are you holding?" she asks.

   He lifts the silver-covered volume. "Something of great interest." He extends the book to her. "The Empress gave it to me. It was the Emperor's. There's a note. Go ahead... read it."

   Lorn looks over her shoulder, seeing the words again, as Ryalth reads the angular and shaky script of the note.

 

To the Emperor-to-come:

   These are the words of His Mightiness Kiedral'elth'alt'mer, the Second Emperor of Light, as he wrote them. So far as is known, this is the only remaining copy.

   He has much to say. Read them all, if you dare, before you sit in the Malachite Throne.

   There is a verse marked...for the Emperor Toziel....

 

   At the bottom is a single, spiraled initial R. "Have you opened it?" Ryalth asks.

   Rather than answer, the man who is not sure he is either Mirror Lancer majer or Emperor opens the silver cover, holding it open to the first page, a page with but a title in large letters: Meditations Upon the Land of Light. When he is certain Ryalth has read it, he turns to the second page, and a dedication: To those of the Towers, to those of the Land, and to those who endured. Below the dedication is a name, and a title Lorn has never seen nor heard before: Kiedral Daloren, Vice Marshal, Anglorian Unity.

   Then he turns to the page with the green leather marker, and reads the lines there slowly, aloud.

 

   I would be remembered in the morning breeze,

   in a single daffodil above late snow,

   in slanting sun through trees,

   and distant hills where cold winds blow.

 

   Do not wear mourning green; you have seen what I have seen.

 

   Is that the way Toziel would like to be remembered-or as the father figure that the Emperor always must be?

   Ryalth's eyes are bright, and her blue eyes meet Lorn's. "I wonder."

   He closes the book, then takes the note from her hand and slips it inside the front cover, before he hands her the book. "We each have a copy." He smiles. "Since you have entrusted yours to me these long years, I will entrust mine to you."

 

 

CLXV

 

Jerial steps into the green-walled salon of the Empress. Her eyes circle the room, then come to rest on the man in the silver-trimmed green tunic and trousers who stands from where he has been sitting on the white divan, beside a red-haired woman in formal blue tunic, trimmed in both green and silver.

   A small boy in green trousers and tunic turns. "Jehwhal!" His legs pump, carrying him toward the healer in green.

   Jerial bends and scoops him up, hugging him.

   Lorn and Ryalth follow their son.

   "This is all... hard to believe," Jerial says, shifting Kerial to her left shoulder.

   "It's hard to believe you won't be staying in Cyad," Ryalth says. "I worry about Kerial... with you gone."

   "You and Aleyar can do all that I could." Jerial turns to her younger brother. "You know it's better this way. All I've ever really wanted was to be free and to help you as I could, and with you on the Malachite Throne..."

   "I know," Lorn says heavily. "We still worry."

   "I'll be fine. Ryalth has arranged a villa for me in Lydiar... and a position as the healer for Ryalor House there."

   "Eileyt will ensure that we know if you need anything," Ryalth confirms.

   "It was good you gave him Ryalor House."

   "Besides Lorn, he worked the hardest to build it. But he didn't get everything," Ryalth says. "You're getting the two thousand golds, and we did keep a little, in an account with the Trader's Exchange. It has to be mine. Lorn cannot own anything." She smiles. "If anyone had thought about a lady trader as Empress-Consort... they would have forbidden that, too, and someone will probably make sure it does not happen again." She laughs gently.

   "I wish you could be here for the ceremony," Lorn says.

   "The longer I stay, the harder it will be to leave, and if I try to be free here, I'll always be looking over my shoulder. And you will worry about me, and then I will be caged by your concerns." Jerial eases Kerial back to Ryalth.

   The healer and the heir embrace, and then Ryalth and Jerial embrace.

   After a time, Jerial looks back once, at the door, before she steps from the salon.

 

 

CLXVI

 

Do times make the man? Or does the man make the times?

   His Mightiness, Lorn'elth'alt'mer, looks at the malachite-and-silver throne, then at the Empress-Consort who follows him, their son in her arms, as he walks slowly from the doors of the Great Audience Chamber toward the Malachite Throne.

   On the immediate left side of the Great Hall are the Magi'i of Cyador, and their families. In the group of Magi'i stands Tyrsal, who will be the Hand of the Emperor, and knows it not, and Aleyar, who doubtless does. Beside Tyrsal stands Vernt, who believes he is there solely because he is Lorn's brother. The First Magus, the sad-faced Liataphi, stands to the left at the base of the dais.

   Also to the left is the newly-promoted Majer-Commander Sypcal, who will never fully recover from his poisoning, and who is slowly dying and knows it, and behind him, Captain-Commander Brevyl, who yet protests his triple promotion and who still does not care personally for Lorn, but for whom honesty and duty remain more important than personal tastes. Behind them are the remaining senior commanders, and the newly-promoted overcaptain Cheryk.

   On the right side of the hall are the heads of the merchanter houses, and those who head the trading firms too small to be houses.

   Lorn steps toward the Malachite Throne, each step measured.

   Do times make the man? Or man the times?

   Does it matter? Except to acknowledge that, either way, the costs are high?

   Lorn bows his head as he approaches the Malachite Throne, not in respect for the throne, but in homage to all those who have paid those costs, one way or another, from the innocent grower's daughter who still at times haunts his dreams, to Myryan, and to Tyrsal, who will pay more than he knows for Ciesrt's death. He bows, too, in respect for all those who have paid whom he does not know and may never know.

   ...and in respect to the ancient Emperor whose words helped in ways the writer could never have imagined.

   ...and the new becomes the old, with the way the story's told... So shine forth both in sun and into night bright city of prosperity and light.

 

 

L. E. Modesitt, Jr., lives in Cedar City, Utah.

 

TOR BOOKS BY L. E. MODESITT, JR.

 

THE SAGA OF RECLUCE

1  The Magic of Recluce

2  The Towers of the Sunset

3  The Magic Engineer

4  The Order War

5  The Death of Chaos

6  Fall of Angels

7  The Chaos Balance

8  The White Order

9  Colors of Chaos

10 Magi'i of Cyandor

11 Scion of Cyandor

 

THE SPELLSONG CYCLE

The Soprano Sorceress

The Spellsong War

Darksong Rising

 

THE ECOLITAN MATTER

The Ecologic Envoy

The Ecolitan Operation

The Ecologic Secession

The Ecolitan Enigma

 

THE FOREVER HERO

Dawn for a Distant Earth

The Silent Warrior

In Endless Twilight

 

Of Tangible Ghosts

The Ghost of the Revelator

 

The Timegod

Timediver's Dawn

 

The Hammer of Darkness

The Parafaith War

Adiamante

The Green Progression (with Bruce Scott Levinson)

 

SCION OF CYADOR

The New Novel in the Saga of Recluce

   "Modesitt has established himself with his Recluce series as one of the best '90s writers of fantasy. The fantasies are characterized by a highly developed and consistent system of magic."

-Vector

   "Reading any novel in the series invites the reader to fill in the picture of a tangible setting some critics have compared to Tolkien's Middle-Earth With rounded characters, a fast-moving plot, and a convincing alien world, Colors of Chaos shines in all its facets."

-Amarillo Sunday News-Globe

   "Marked by high intelligence. A powerful, educated, serious, and understated imagination is plainly at work in this latest entry to a saga that is beginning to take on the complexity Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time cycle."

-Publishers Weekly on Colors of Chaos

 

   $27.95 ($39.95 CAN)

   "Tour de force of characterization, Modesitt paints the other side of the picture, adding a rare depth and richness to what is already a landmark fantasy series."

   -Romantic Times (4 stars) on Colors of Chaos

   "As in all of his books, the deeper that one reads, the more Modesitt forces the reader to think. The vivid accounts of Cerryl's work as a law enforcement officer, assassin, military commander, and administrator of a hostile city carry the interest of the reader seeking only fast-paced adventure, while the thoughtful reader gains much, much more. Colors of Chaos cannot be recommended highly enough-it belongs in every YA collection."

   -VOYA

   "L. E. Modesitt, Jr., has been building a world that seems fantastic, with magic and feudalism rampant, but is riveted pretty thoroughly to the rigors of science fiction. That is to say, wizards can't do just anything they can imagine, and what they do needs discipline and energy. There's a consistency across this universe that makes the magic, the science, the politics, and the economy seem plausibly well integrated."

   -San Diego Union-Tribune

   L. E. Modesitt, Jr., is one of the standard names in fantasy entering the new decade and his most famous series is the Saga of Recluce. Each novel fills in pieces of the history of this land where Chaos and Order strive to maintain a magical balance.

   Scion of Cyador continues the story begun in Magi'i of Cyador. Exploring the rich depths of the history of Recluce, Magi'i of Cyador introduced Lorn, a talented boy born into a family of Magi'i. A fastidious student mage who lacked blind devotion, Lorn was made into a lancer officer and shipped off to the frontier-a career that comes with a fifty percent mortality rate.

   Having survived his extended stint fighting both barbarian raiders and the giant beasts of the Accursed Forest, Lorn has proven himself to be a fine officer . . . perhaps too fine an officer. As his prowess

   (continued on back flap)

   (continued from from flap)

   has grown, so has the number of his enemies and rivals. Too much success has made him a marked man. When he returns to his home, both he and his young family become targets while all of Cyad is in upheaval over deadly political infighting. But Lorn is now hardened, a deadly fighter himself, especially when the Empire is at stake.

   Scion of Cyador is the completion of another grand story in the Recluce saga.

 

   "The author's skill in portraying the humanity of characters who possess the power to destroy others with a thought adds a level of verisimilitude and immediacy rarely found in grand-scale fantasy."

-Library journal on Colors of Chaos

   "Another entry in Modesitt's popular Recluce series, one that upholds the saga's reputation for intelligence and increasing originality... this volume in the series stands unusually well on its own as a classic and competent coming-of-age story."

-Booklist on The White Order

 

L. E. MODESITT, JR., lives in Cedar City, Utah.

Jacket art by Darrell K. Sweet

Jacket design by Carol Russo Design

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