Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Rustyl pauses, and the quiet in the study draws out before he finally speaks. “Yes, ser. He makes it known that I am not worthy or ready of greater responsibilities. He casts doubt upon your judgment. He gains greater trust from the Mirror Lancers. But he is Third Magus, and not Second.”

  “And who of the Mirror Lancers is close to the Second Magus?”

  “The Captain-Commander.” Rustyl’s face clears, and he nods.

  “Exactly. Rynst will never trust the Second, and whom does that leave?” asks Chyenfel.

  “What would you have me do, then, ser?”

  “Nothing different, not for now. For if you change what you do, it will validate what the actions of the Third Magus have suggested.”

  “I see.”

  “I believe you do.” Chyenfel smiles once more, if coolly. “Think upon this incident, Rustyl. Think upon it with great care.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “You may go.” Chyenfel looks blankly out upon the Palace of Eternal Light for some long moments after the first-level adept has left the study. Then he takes a deep breath.

  CIX

  In the dimness of the upstairs study in the dwelling, Lorn rubs his forehead, then concentrates once more on the chaos-glass before him, trying to bring up the image of Rustyl. He smiles to himself. At least one advantage of using the glass in Cyad is that any of the upper-level adepts of the Magi’i might be suspect, and since none have felt his use of the glass, Lorn wagers that they will not know who follows them. The silver mists appear, and then clear.

  The blond figure of the first-level adept appears, in the same study where Lorn had seen him with Liataphi. Rustyl glances up from the study desk-and the glass before him-an annoyed expression on his narrow features. Even through the glass Lorn can see the hardness in the other’s deep-set eyes. Rustyl looks down at the glass, clearly concentrating.

  Hoping that Rustyl cannot use his glass to see who is screeing him, Lorn quickly releases the image. Then he almost casually slides the wooden cover across the glass, so that there appears before him but a wooden box, before leaning back and massaging his forehead with his left hand, then the back of his neck. Even after several moments, there is no feeling of the chill which accompanies a glass looking at him, and he slowly releases the breath he had not quite realized he was holding.

  After blotting his forehead, for the evening is warm despite the ocean breeze that helps to cool the upper level of their dwelling, Lorn takes several more deep breaths before he leans forward and returns to the chaos-glass.

  He concentrates again, and the silver mists part to reveal the red-haired Commander Sypcal sitting on the edge of a bed in a modest bedchamber. Sypcal is bare-legged and wears but an undertunic. The woman to whom he is talking is gray-haired. She is propped up with pillows and wears a high-necked white cotton gown. She smiles as the commander speaks.

  Lorn releases that image quickly as well, but with a more cheerful feeling.

  The next image he attempts is that of Rynst, but the gray-haired commander sleeps on his back in a bed next to a figure Lorn suspects is the Majer-Commander’s consort.

  The following image he calls up is that of the Captain-Commander. Luss sits alone at a table in a dwelling, with a bottle of wine before him. Lorn almost feels sorry for the man, even though he knows Luss has plotted for Lorn’s failure more than once.

  At last, Lorn slides the chaos-glass into the compartment at the back of the drawer, and stands. He has learned little, as he does most nights and afternoons, but he knows more of those with whom he deals, and those insights gain more value with each passing day.

  He walks down the hall to the bedchamber, remembering to slide the iron bolt in place as he steps inside.

  Ryalth looks up from the bed, where Kerial nurses at her breast. “Did you discover aught?”

  “Very little new. Rustyl is using his glass-almost every night, I think, but I have not sensed him seeking us, and I wonder if he is so discreet that I cannot sense him.”

  Ryalth shakes her head. “He is of the Magi’i. A fallen student magus who is but a majer is no threat to a high first-level adept.”

  Lorn laughs. “That could be.” He shakes his head, and his eyes go to the silver volume beside the bed. He picks it up, and flips through the pages until he finds the lines. He reads softly.

  There is no Cyad for souls of thought,

  who doubt the promises they have bought…

  …their faces of cupridium’s silver-white

  reflect each other’s chaotic light.

  Should Sampson pick this temple,

  here too, he would be blind,

  his eyes untouched,

  his simple trust

  lost in the reflections.

  “I wonder yet about that verse,” Ryalth says softly, easing Kerial into a different position for nursing.

  “I don’t even know who this Sampson was,” Lorn says, “but I feel like he must have faced what we do.”

  “You are wise enough not to have simple trust, dear lancer,” Ryalth says. “Not in Cyad.” After a moment, she adds, “Even if you do want to think of Cyad as something special.”

  “It is. There’s never been a city in the world like it.”

  “That is true,” Ryalth concedes, “but it was created by people like any other.”

  Not quite, Lorn reflects, or Cyad would not exist.

  Ryalth eases Kerial to her shoulder and pats his back. He burps softly, then yawns.

  Lorn smiles at his consort.

  “He’s sleepy,” she says softly.

  “Good,” murmurs Lorn. “Good.”

  “So am I,” she says with a faint smile as she rises to slip their son into his bed. “Sleepy, I mean.”

  Lorn manages not to roll his eyes. He can use the sleep.

  CX

  Lorn bows after he closes the door and enters the study of the Majer-Commander. “Here are the reports of the last meetings, ser. You requested that I deliver them personally.”

  Without looking up from the scroll he peruses, Rynst gestures for Lorn to seat himself on the far side of the wide table desk. Lorn does so, his eyes momentarily taking in the cloudy morning, and the Palace of Eternal Light framed by the window behind the senior lancer officer.

  Rynst finally sets down the scroll and shakes his head. “What did you find out when you met with the Third Magus?”

  Although he had not mentioned the meeting to anyone, Lorn is scarcely surprised that Rynst has discovered that it took place. “Not that much, ser. He is troubled by the confidence that the First Magus places in Rustyl, and he expressed a certain lack of surprise that I had never met the father of my sister’s consort.”

  “Why did you go?”

  “My father’s last letter to me, the one he left in his papers, requested that I pay my-and his-respects.”

  Rynst nods. “Do you intend to visit him again?”

  “No, ser. Not in his study. Not unless you have a duty for me.”

  “I note a careful phrasing there.”

  “My best friend is likely to become the consort of his daughter. If this happens, I may see the Third Magus again.”

  “Ah…” Rynst smiles, somewhat more warmly. “He is the one with whom you spar.”

  “Yes, ser. He is very good.”

  “That is what Commander Lhary said. In fact, the commander suggested that the young man might have made a good lancer officer.”

  “I told Tyrsal that, ser, but he did not believe me. If I might relay the commander’s observation… ?”

  “You certainly may.” The Majer-Commander pauses, as if to signify his desire to change subjects. “Majer…” Rynst draws out the title.

  “Yes, ser?”

  “I have not spoken to you about your report. Nor will I for a time.”

  “Yes, ser.” Lorn waits.

  “The Captain-Commander has expressed some interest. Has he inquired of you?”

  “He asked if I had completed it. I told him I h
ad submitted a draft and that you had made no comments.”

  “A draft. Very good phrasing, Majer. And what did he say then?”

  “He said that you would read it, and that you would use it in the best fashion to benefit the Mirror Lancers.”

  “Anything more?”

  “Only that I should not expect recognition for my work, that the Mirror Lancer Court was not the place for such. I told him that such was what I expected.”

  Rynst glances at the reports Lorn has set on the desk.

  Lorn eases them across the polished wood.

  “Luss is right. For that you can be thankful.” Rynst nods brusquely. “You may go.”

  “Yes, ser.” Lorn rises and bows before turning and departing the study.

  CXI

  Ryalth pats her hair into place as the hired carriage rolls eastward along the Road of Perpetual Light, past the Sixth Harbor Way East. “I still wonder why the invitation was sent to Ryalor House.”

  “First, because it is a social occasion, and second,” Lorn continues, “because a lady trader who heads a house is more important than a mere junior majer in the Mirror Lancers.”

  “You will turn my head with such words.” She puts out a hand to steady herself as the carriage turns uphill.

  “I do hope so.”

  “You don’t think Jerial minds taking care-”

  “If Jerial minded,” Lorn says dryly, “we’d both know it.”

  “Yes. We would.” Ryalth laughs. She shakes her head. “I still can’t believe that Rustyl had the nerve to ask her if she would be his consort when he had already asked Ceyla.”

  “He didn’t ask that seriously. He did it to try to upset her, and me.”

  “He picked the wrong healer for that,” Ryalth says. “If it had been Myryan…”

  Lorn nods. “I’m glad it wasn’t.”

  “I can see why you don’t care for him.”

  “He still could be dangerous with Chyenfel supporting him.”

  “Only because his mistakes will hurt innocent people.” Ryalth snorts.

  Lorn isn’t sure. Rustyl is far from stupid, and what appears to be a stupid maneuver must have a deeper purpose. Lorn just can’t figure out what it might be, unless it’s a blunt attempt to force Lorn to act against Rustyl. Or one designed to show utter contempt… which may be the most likely explanation of all, Lorn reflects.

  The hired carriage rolls to a stop opposite the gate of sunstone sculpted into the semblance of a bower wreath. Behind and to the west of the stone flowers of the gate-wreath rises a three-story dwelling. Gate and house are just west of the corner where the Ninth Way East meets the Road of Prosperity. Liataphi’s three-story house is but two blocks from the one Lorn had grown up in-now inhabited by Vernt and Mycela.

  As she steps from the carriage, Ryalth looks down at the wide blue shimmercloth trousers, the white shirt, and the green-trimmed blue vest and blue boots she wears. Then she glances at Lorn. “How do I look?”

  “Wonderful.”

  “You say that because you love me.”

  “I love you, but you still look wonderful.” Lorn looks to the coachman. “It will doubtless be well after dark.”

  “You’ve paid handsomely, ser,” replies the balding driver. “I’ll be here. Be much easier on me than driving all over Cyad.”

  The two step through the gate and up the halfscore of steps to the outside privacy screen, where Lorn rings the bell.

  Almost immediately, Lorn hears the door open, and the broad-shouldered Liataphi steps around the screen and bows. “Welcome. Do come in. Tyrsal and Aleyar are already up in the sitting room.” He bows again to Ryalth. “Lady trader, all have remarked upon your abilities, but none have mentioned your beauty.”

  “Thank you.” Ryalth flushes slightly.

  Lorn smiles.

  “You are most fortunate, Lorn, to have a consort of talent and beauty.”

  “I am, and even more fortunate that she was kind enough to accept me as a consort when I asked.”

  “As I recall, your father was surprised. Pleasantly so, but surprised.” Liataphi nods. “We should not be talking down here. Do come along.”

  As they follow the Third Magus up the circular stone staircase, Lorn murmurs, “I said that you looked wonderful.”

  “You were right, but it’s pleasant to hear it from someone else.”

  The redheaded Tyrsal rises from the settee as Lorn and Ryalth step through the archway. “Greetings.”

  Aleyar rises and bows to Ryalth, then to Lorn. The older and white-haired woman, wearing a white-and-green shimmercloth tunic and trousers and sitting in the armchair to the right of the healer, nods pleasantly.

  “This is my consort Lleya,” Liataphi says. “You know Tyrsal and Aleyar, of course.”

  “We’re pleased to meet you, Lady Lleya,” offers Ryalth.

  “I would appreciate it greatly if you would do away with honorifics,” Lleya says warmly. “We must deal with them all too much away from home.”

  Lorn and Ryalth seat themselves on the second settee, upholstered in white and green.

  “You are a healer?” Lorn asks Lleya.

  “I no longer go to the infirmary, for there are others, like Aleyar and your sisters, who are far better than I.”

  “She’s still good,” Aleyar affirms.

  “My most loyal daughter.”

  “Most accurate,” Liataphi says. “Were you a poor healer, she would have said nothing.”

  “Healing takes more energy as one ages.” Lleya touches her snow-white hair. “So I work with the herbs in my garden. I do have a special kind of brinn. I’ve managed twenty generations of it, and each more powerful than the last.”

  “Your astra is also good,” Aleyar adds.

  “Before we have dinner, Lorn, Ryalth… there is one thing.” Tyrsal turns slightly red. “Outside of the families, you should be the first to know. Aleyar has consented to be my consort.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Lorn says, feeling fully the warm smile that spreads across his face.

  “I’m so glad for you two,” Ryalth adds.

  Tyrsal glances at Lorn, but Lorn just smiles.

  Tyrsal still flushes.

  “You two!” Ryalth chides the younger men.

  Lorn flushes and manages to swallow a laugh. “My apologies, my dear. And to you, Aleyar.”

  “Whatever it is, you two rascals should bury it,” Lleya mock-scolds.

  “If we don’t,” Lorn replies, “my lady trader is likely to bury me.”

  Tyrsal laughs. “She’s the only one ever to get the better of you.”

  “And I hope I’m wise enough to remember that,” Lorn counters.

  “On those words, perhaps we should move to the dining area,” suggests Lleya, rising from her chair.

  “Excellent idea,” seconds Liataphi.

  Lorn and Ryalth sit together on one side of the table, with Aleyar and Tyrsal on the other side, and Liataphi and Lleya on each end.

  “This is a mild and traditional lamb loaf in lemon citron sauce,” Lleya says, “with grass-rice and chopped quilla.”

  Lorn has never been that fond of quilla, but he helps himself to the rice and quilla, as well as the lamb, and is surprised to find that however the normally oily root has been prepared, has left it merely tangy and mild and a complement to the slight bitterness of the dark grass-rice. “This is excellent.”

  “Very good,” Tyrsal adds.

  “If the recipe is not a family secret… ?” Ryalth ventures.

  “Oh… I’d be happy to share it with you,” Lleya says. “Or Aleyar can show you. She prepares it as well as I do-perhaps better.”

  “As well… if I am fortunate,” says the blonde healer.

  Lorn takes another chunk of the sun-nut bread, ignoring Ryalth’s knowing smile. “I cannot say how much we appreciate the invitation. After so many years of being away from Cyad, it is so good to be able to dine with friends and their family. I was always here such a short time,
that we scarcely saw more than my family.”

  “I was so sorry to hear about your parents,” Lleya says. “They were such good people, and both will be missed far more than most will ever know.”

  “Thank you,” Lorn says. “I miss them. I was lucky to have them.” He inclines his head to Ryalth. “My lady was not so fortunate. Her parents perished in a shipwreck when she was a child.”

  Lleya nods. “That is hard.”

  “I wondered…” Tyrsal says, “but I didn’t wish to intrude.”

  “My father was a merchanter in Fyrad,” Ryalth says. “Then I came here to live with my aunt. She died the year before I met Lorn.”

  “You two have known each other for a long time, have you not?” asks Lleya. “You act that way. Or are you so well-known to each other by closeness of spirit?”

  “Both,” Lorn says quickly. “I met Ryalth when I was still a student magus. It took me a time to appreciate her as fully as I now do.”

  Lleya glances at Ryalth, as if asking for the redhead’s view.

  Ryalth laughs, gently. “I fear it also took me much time to appreciate him. I also did not think it appropriate to encourage a magus. Or even a Mirror Lancer.”

  “But he obviously persisted,” replies Lleya.

  “There was no one else to compare to her. For me, there still is not,” Lorn says.

  “That’s true,” Tyrsal says. “I didn’t know who she was when we were students, and later, but he never looked at anyone else.”

  After a moment of silence, Lleya glances at Lorn. “Isn’t it rather strange for you to be on the personal staff of the Majer-Commander…” The older woman shakes her head. “I am afraid that did not come out the way I intended. What I meant is that you have accomplished a great deal very young, and most of those with whom you work in Mirror Lancer Court are far older. Does that not seem strange?”

  “I can’t say that I’ve had the time to think of that,” Lorn says. “I knew I would probably be the youngest officer there, and the most junior, and what I do is basically make matters easier for the Majer-Commander. I take notes at meetings and follow up with the other officers to make sure that the material the Majer-Commander wants is supplied.” He shrugs. “It’s a job for a junior majer. You have to know enough to understand what he needs and wants, and be young enough not to worry about running errands.”