“But… old as Chyenfel is… he is still strong, and he keeps chaos at bay,” Myryan says.
“Exactly,” Lorn says. “Who is not keeping chaos at bay, or will not be able to for long?”
Myryan and Ryalth look at each other, then at Lorn.
Lorn waits. He does not want to offer any suggestion, because he wants to see if the connection is logical.
“Rynst is old…” says Myryan.
“He looks older than he is. He will outlive Chyenfel,” Lorn says.
“Vyanat’mer is the youngest of the advisors to the Emperor,” Ryalth says.
Myryan’s hand goes to her mouth. “You aren’t serious… a Magi’i… the Malachite Throne… the lancers… oh… that’s why you mentioned Luss.”
“I don’t know that,” Lorn says. “But you had mentioned that they had been pushing for a child before. And you are the daughter of the most respected magus of the generation.”
“If Myryan has a child, then there are two generations of heirs… is that what you’re suggesting?” asks Ryalth.
“I don’t know. They just could want grandchildren…”
“Ciesrt’s older sister consorted with Zubyl almost two years ago, and she’s finally expecting in midwinter.” Myryan snorts. “They haven’t said so much as a word about it. Kharl hasn’t, anyway.”
Lorn takes a small sip of the Alafraan. His guts are churning.
“This upsets you, doesn’t it?” asks his sister.
“Yes. Not as much as it’s upsetting you, though.” He offers a crooked smile. “I was just guessing.”
“No one wagers against your guesses,” Myryan says. “Not if they know you, and I’ve known you too long.” She pauses. “I still can’t believe it. How could he possibly think… ? And Ciesrt, he’s never said a word. Not a word.”
“Would he know?” asks Ryalth.
A bitter smile crosses Myryan’s face. “He wouldn’t even think of it. He hopes he’ll make lector someday. He’s knows he’s not as bright as his father, and in that way, he’d do whatever he could to please Kharl.” She looks at Lorn. “Whatever made you think of that?”
He shrugs helplessly. “I couldn’t say. The pieces were there, and…” He shrugs again.
“Do you want a child?” asks Ryalth.
“No…” Myryan shakes her head slowly. “Not like this… not… I can accept being a consort. I can support Ciesrt, and make him happy. I’m not strong enough, not like Jerial. I couldn’t take having everyone look at me, and judge me, or say no one wanted me…” She swallows. “I’ll be all right. Really… I will be.”
Ryalth reaches across the table with her one free hand and places it on Myryan’s. “We’re here. You can stay here…”
“Everyone would know.”
“Healers are respected elsewhere,” Ryalth says. “I could get you passage anywhere in Candar-even find you a patron in some ports.”
Myryan shakes her head once more. “I’ll be fine. Sometimes… I just pity myself too much. I have a consort who wants me, and he’s gentle, and kind in his own way. I have a house and a garden. I’m respected as a healer. I’ve never had to make my own way, the way you have, Ryalth. Or fight people like Lorn has.” She swallows. “I’ll be fine.”
“You can stay here tonight,” Ryalth says.
“I’ll do that, but that’s all. Tomorrow… I’ll be fine. It’s just… Who could I tell? Jerial’s so strong. She doesn’t understand. Mother understood… I miss her so much. I wish I could talk to her.” Twin streaks of tears ooze down her cheeks. “I miss her…”
“I miss them both,” Lorn says.
‘ “Gaaaa…” Kerial says, softly, a chubby hand extending toward the sobbing healer.
“She would have understood… she would have…” Myryan blots her eyes with a shimmercloth handkerchief.
Lorn and Ryalth exchange a brief glance.
“I’ll be fine,” Myryan says, more emphatically, wiping away the last trace of tears. “I just need a cry now and then. I didn’t expect… not here, but I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll stay here tonight,” Ryalth says, and her words are not a question.
“In the morning,” Lorn adds, “you can talk to Pheryk about where he ought to put the garden. Neither Ryalth nor I would have the faintest idea.”
“I can do that.” Myryan offers a faint smile. “Thank you for listening… both of you.”
“What is family for?” says Lorn.
“You’ve always been there, Lorn. I remember that. No one else knew… except Mother. And you went to Father when he was mad at you for other things, and you gave me time.” She shakes her head. “Sometimes, I wish I were the one giving.”
“You do. Healers give all the time.” Lorn grins. “And you give things like fruits and vegetables we couldn’t get elsewhere.”
“I mean… big things, like you and Father have done,” replies the healer.
“Right now, all I do is read reports and go to meetings and write reports on them to the Majer-Commander. That’s not very big.”
Myryan looks at him, her eyes unwavering. “You know what I mean. You’re sweet, dear brother, but please don’t humor me.”
“The vegetables were to cheer you up,” he replies, “but I meant it about the healing.”
Myryan laughs, and there is but a slight edge to the sound. “You’re still the big brother.”
“I always will be.” He gives an exaggerated and sheepish shrug. “For better or worse-mostly worse, I fear.”
“You two…” Ryalth’s tone is half scolding, half mock-exasperation. “If you keep this up, Kerial will get cranky, and I won’t get to eat any pearapple tarts because I’ll be putting him to bed, and Lorn…”
“…will eat them all,” finishes Myryan.
“What can I say?” asks Lorn.
“Not too much,” suggests Ryalth, gesturing toward Kysia, who has peered out from the archway from the kitchen. “If we could have the tarts?”
“Right away, Lady.”
“I’ll never live down the tarts,” Lorn complains.
“Never,” Myryan agrees.
Lorn only hopes that Myryan is as fine as she says she is, even as he knows she is not, and as he knows he does not know how to resolve her problem, not as quickly as it needs to be resolved.
CXIX
In the golden glow of the single lamp, Lorn sits on the edge of the ornate bed, his eyes focused nowhere. He can hear Kerial’s gentle breathing from the small bed against the wall.
“You’re worried about Myryan.” Ryalth sits up, propping a pillow behind her against the headboard.
“Wouldn’t you be?” asks Lorn. “I’ve thought about it, but I can’t think of anything that would help.” He frowns. “Not that wouldn’t hurt you and Kerial worse.”
“You’ve thought about that before.”
“I debated killing Kharl’elth just before I became a lancer officer, when it was clear Father would consort Myryan to Ciesrt. I didn’t try. Instead, I pleaded to Father. He waited almost two years, but he still did it. He wrote me, told me that none of us had the choices others thought we did. I’m still not sure if he was right-or if I shouldn’t have done something then.”
“They would have found out, and killed you, and then I’d have lost you, and Kerial wouldn’t be.”
“They didn’t find out other-”
“Lorn… he’s the Second Magus. The Magi’i would never stop look-ing.”
“It doesn’t matter. I didn’t. I didn’t even try.” He does not look at Ryalth, instead looks nowhere.
“Lorn…”
“What?”
“You won’t solve this by looking into space. You can try to sleep. You can talk to me. You can try to find a verse in the book that helps. You can use the chaos-glass… seek out something… I know you…”
He turns, opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it. He shakes his head. “That’s not fair.”
She raises her eyebrows.
&nbs
p; “Nothing.”
After a long silence, he finally reaches for the silver-covered volume that has remained on the bedside table since he returned from Assyadt. He looks at the cover, the green-tinged silver that almost holds a rainbow in the lamplight, before he turns the pages. After a time, he reads.
Should I again listen to which song?
We have listened oh so long.
Should I again fly on learning wings?
We have learned what yearning brings.
“That’s sad,” Ryalth says. “It is like Myryan in a way.” Lorn swallows. “I know. That’s why I read it.” He continues to turn pages. Then he begins again, more slowly, until he comes to a verse which, strangely, he does not quite recall, not really, yet now the words seem all too clear.
The sages honor the chains of duty, pride,
how they uplift those who live, those who died.
What think they of the death of love and care?
Of the children women will never bear,
a dry-eyed consort too bereft to cry,
a mother who will see her sons but die,
a consorting suit that never will be worn-
these weapons of the forgotten and forlorn
pierce bright cupridium and chaos fire,
flaming honor to ashes of desire.
Speak not of honor, you who command hold,
nor bright ballads write of your days of old,
when, in age, you put your pen upon the page
and claim that all you did was meet and sage.
I have claimed the same, and yet well I know
that to that chaos I created will I go.
Lorn shakes his head. After a while, he begins to speak. “That’s the problem. No matter how great the ideal, no matter how noble the cause, the innocent suffer. Anything I do for Myryan-that I know how to do-will hurt others worse. All I can do is listen, and try to cheer her up. And it’s not enough.”
“Sometimes… sometimes listening is all anyone can do. And sometimes it is enough.” Ryalth offers a kind smile. “She knows you care. That helps.”
As he sets down the book, and finally turns down the lamp wick until the flame gutters out, Lorn wonders: Will his caring help enough?
CXX
It is near midday when Lorn walks into the Majer-Commander’s study, uncertain of the reason for his summons, since he has submitted all the reports that are required. Has the Majer-Commander finally decided to discuss his draft report on the Jeranyi strategy?
He bows. “Ser?”
“Please have a seat, Majer.” Rynst leans back in his armchair, the one behind the wide table desk. Behind him, bathed in warm fall light, the Palace of Eternal Light is once more framed in the large and ancient windows.
Lorn sits, comfortably, but neither fully into the seat, nor on the front edge.
“Majer… you are considered a good commander of lancers, by every commander who has supervised you. Most are wary of you, but all recommend you. Would you care to explain?”
“Ser, I honestly cannot say I know why this is so.”
Rynst laughs. “Well and carefully said. Then I will ask you to guess why such might be so.”
Lorn considers what and how much he should say. Finally, he begins. “I would guess, and this is but a guess, that my approach to tactics differs initially, although my goals have always been to accomplish any task with the greatest gain and fewest losses for the Mirror Lancers and for Cyador.”
“Perhaps the last few words explain it all,” suggests Rynst.
“Ser?” Lorn immediately wishes he had not said those three words, safe though they had sounded.
“‘… and for Cyador.’ You do believe in the Empire of Perpetual Light”
“Yes, ser.”
“Why? Please do not provide the words of the Lancers’ Code or some such.”
“Because, ser, for all its faults, from what I have seen, Cyador offers more than any other land in which people live. There is less hatred, and people live better lives in less fear.”
“A practical answer from a very practical lancer officer.” Rynst nods. “Majer… why were you successful in subverting Majer Dettaur’s attempts to have you removed from your position?”
Lorn does not try to hide the frown, knowing that Rynst is looking for something other than the obvious. “I recognized that was his goal from the beginning.”
The Majer-Commander smiles coldly. “That is the first element of dealing with a problem. One must recognize the problem. What did you do then?”
“I did my best to train and upgrade the forces at Inividra and to use the most effective tactics I could develop.”
“Again… a simple application of well-known maxims, enhanced by your ability to develop and use tactics others had not considered… for various reasons.” Rynst fingers his chin. “Yet… when you returned to Inividra, whether you will acknowledge it or not, and I do not intend to press the matter, Majer Dettaur had arranged for you to be relieved in disgrace. You took six companies to Assyadt. Why? And why was that successful?”
Lorn smiles coolly, managing not to swallow, and gambling that he faces a time when only truth will suffice. “Because there is never more than a company of lancers at Assyadt and because, once I held the compound, I knew that I could use the reports and the materials there to prove that Majer Dettaur was acting contrary to the best interests of the Mirror Lancers.”
“As you did.” Rynst nods once more. “Most carefully, and most meticulously. You were right about the records. You were right about the tactics, and you were right about Majer Dettaur’s goals. For all that, you would have failed, except for six companies of lancers.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Sometimes, one must have his forces where they can be noticed.”
Lorn nods, silently wondering exactly where the Majer-Commander is leading the strange discussion-and why.
“We have but four fireships now. What are the most effective forces remaining that can still draw upon chaos?”
“The Mirror Lancers-and the firelances that remain.”
“And where are they?”
“Stationed around the Accursed Forest, and mostly along the Grass Hills.”
“And where do the outland traders port most often?” presses the gray-haired Rynst.
“In Cyad.” Lorn pauses. “You are suggesting that it might be advisable to have some of the Mirror Lancers here? Or perhaps at times, with maneuvers that the outlanders could watch-with firelances while we still have such?”
“What do you think of that proposition, Majer?”
“It could not but help.” Lorn frowns. “We would have to set up a maneuver area near the piers, perhaps where some of the older warehouses now stand. If the Mirror Engineers used something like their firecannon to level the structures… that might also create an impression.”
“Hmmm… that is also a good idea. Commander Muyro would like that.”
Lorn waits.
“There remains one significant problem with that proposition.”
“Ser?”
“I have no field commanders here with recent experience, and those in the field now do not understand the delicacy of the situation. I trust you can understand that.”
Lorn fears that he does. “You would like me to help a commander with these, as your aide?”
“No.” Rynst’s denial is firm and cold.
“If you wish a recommendation,” Lorn says slowly, “perhaps Majer Brevyl-”
“I think it best that you command the two companies-and that one of them be a company you know already. You have a reputation. I intend to ensure that the outlanders know of that reputation.” Rynst pauses. “Do you understand, Majer?”
“Yes, ser.”
“I believe you do. I believe you honestly do.” The Majer-Commander leans forward. “Before the afternoon is out, you will submit a list of companies that you would wish-with the company officer you desire. You will command them as if Cyad were a standard o
utpost. That is, your duties will remain as they are here, except that you will plan and direct the training and maneuver schedules, based on the port schedules of the outland traders. And you will offer invitations-in person, if necessary-to those traders and ships’ masters as I direct. Also, much as you dislike it, you will, as you can, suggest that it is past time that Cyad should take over ports in Candar that are unfriendly. Then, you will stress that, of course, those are but your own ideas.”
Lorn conceals-he hopes-the wince he feels.
“Do you understand the importance of that, Majer? Can you explain it back to me?”
“Yes, ser. I believe I am to be regarded as an example of the bloody-minded lancer officer who would sack every trading port in Candar for Cyador, were I not kept under tight rein by my commanders.”
Rynst laughs. “You can be slightly less direct than that. Just allow them to guess such from your carriage and actions.”
“Yes, ser.”
“And, Majer…” Rynst’s voice hardens.
“Yes, ser.”
“You and those two companies are under my direct command… and no one else’s. Should anything happen to me, you are under the Emperor’s direct command, and no one else’s. And this you are to tell no one. No one.”
Lorn does swallow before responding. “Yes, ser.”
“I am very glad you understand that.” A smile follows. “I doubt anything will ever come to that, but it is best to have that clear. That is also another reason why this command is yours.”
Lorn waits again.
“You are a scion of Cyador, not of the Mirror Lancers, no matter how well you serve. At times, we need such, and this is one of those times.” Rynst nods. “You may go.”
“By your leave, ser?”
“By my leave.”
Lorn stands, bows, and then walks from the study. No matter how matters are couched, the idea of two companies of Mirror Lancers in Cyad, pledged to the Majer-Commander directly, and then to the Emperor, is a frightening thought.
A faint smile crosses his lips as he descends the stairs from the foyer to his own study, a smile not of humor, but of irony. More frightening than that is the realization that Rynst understands Lorn well enough to know that Lorn will indeed regard himself as bound to the Emperor and Cyador and not to the Captain-Commander or any other commander.
Scion of Cyador Page 52
