Recluce Tales

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  One of the palace guards opens the door to the antechamber, and Toziel steps inside, making his way through the sitting room that his mother so seldom used and into the bedchamber beyond.

  Propped against the pillows of the large bed, a woman surveys him. Her hair is silver, but the silver of the Magi’i, not the often lifeless silver of time and age. Her green eyes remain intent, despite the darkness under and around them, and that intensity almost makes Toziel forget the gauntness of her face.

  “Come closer,” she commands.

  Toziel complies, with a faint smile that contains amusement and sadness, and comes to stand beside the bed.

  “My time is short…,” she begins, lifting a trembling hand slightly, as if to stop any words he might issue, “and I want a promise from you.”

  “Of course.” Toziel knows well what she will say.

  “Do not humor me!” The force behind the words takes much of her energy, and when she is finished, she sinks back into the pillows for a moment, but her eyes remain fierce and focused on her son. Shortly, after several breaths, she continues, “You, my son, carry the elthage lineage, yet your magely talents are so slim as to be nonexistent. That may not be for the worst, for in your reign and life, much of what has sustained Cyad and Cyador may well begin to fail. Your father thought such might occur in our time. We were fortunate…” She coughs … then swallows laboriously.

  Toziel waits.

  “You must choose a consort … and one who will love and support you.”

  Toziel forebears to say that he is not exactly unfamiliar with her views on that subject or that he is neither a youth nor exactly ancient at twenty-seven years.

  “Promise me … once the formalities are all observed when I am gone … that you will hold a ball…” Her voice fades, and even her eyes dim for a moment. “You know why…”

  “I believe I understand, Mother.”

  “You don’t understand enough, my son.” For an instant, the firm and cutting tone he has heard all his life fills the room, then fades. “Do you see that book on the table?” Her voice is strong, but even Toziel can tell that the words take all her strength.

  He nods, then says, “Yes,” as he realizes that her sight is failing as well.

  “There was once another…” She coughs once more. “They should be a pair … united … but that … about that I can no longer worry.” Another silence follows before she gathers her fading strength. “That book will tell you the proper choice of consort, my son. Trust it more than you trust your heart. Your father did … as did his…” A cough racks her body.

  Toziel leans forward.

  “You … can do … nothing for me.” She gathers her strength. “Trust the book and read it well.” She tries to moisten her lips and fails. “Trust the book.…”

  He would say more … but there is nothing to be said, and he takes her hand and waits for the inevitable that will not be long in arriving.

  II

  Within the private study of the Emperor, Toziel stands by the wide window overlooking the harbor he can barely see through the mist. He is clad in shimmercloth black, with only the silver and malachite sash to distinguish him from the others at the memorial that he has just conducted in the great audience hall.

  Outside the Palace of Light, the mist of winter has gathered once more, though Toziel knows that it will soon fade under the growing intensity of the afternoon sun. Still …

  “Fitting for the day.” He turns, but does not step onto the Analerian wool carpet of subdued green-and-gold geometric designs that has graced the study from the time of the Emperor Alyiakal.

  Instead, he lifts from the table the volume with the green-sheened silver cover and opens it to the first page and the title—Meditations upon the Land of Light. He quickly turns to the second page that holds a dedication: To those of the Towers, to those of the Land, and to those who endured. Below the dedication is a name, one all too familiar to Toziel, if in a far different context—Kiedral Daloren, Vice Marshal, Anglorian Unity.

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

  Virtues of old hold fast.

  Morning’s blaze cannot last;

  and rose petals soon part.

  Not so a steadfast heart.

  “Trust the book,” he murmurs.

  He walks to the table desk and seats himself, turning to the beginning, seeing yet another set of lines. “Verse … to be trusted more?”

  Still, he begins to read the opening lines.

  Although the old lands are in my heart,

  in towers that anchored life with certain art,

  in eyes that will not again see bold

  the hills of Angloria or surf at Winterhold,

  I greet the coming evening, and the night,

  proud purple from the strange and setting sun …

  Toziel lowers the small volume, but does not close it. The words are not archaic, not quite, but they do convey a sense of loss and longing missing from the official records and the histories.

  III

  The early summer air is perfumed and heavy. The warm, slow breeze seeps from the south, past the fluted bars on the balcony grillworks with barely enough force to create a trilling and humming from the bars pleasant and loud enough to foil eavesdroppers. While cupridium ornamentation or elaborate-appearing flowers might have served the same function, the lines of the Palace of Light are clean, elegant, and without decoration, even carved inscriptions. To the south, and downhill, beyond the trade quarter and the warehouses, are the white stone piers of the harbor of Cyad, where lie moored three white-hulled fireships. North of the piers and below the palace, the sunstone walks and white-granite paved streets half-glow in the twilight of the spring evening.

  Toziel surveys the tranquil scene spread out before him. In a few moments, he will leave the sitting room and walk up the steps to the grand ballroom, whose outside verandas overlook all Cyad. There, he will see, among the Magi’i of Cyad and their wives, all too many young women, many of them beautiful, and certainly none of them ugly, not in Cyad, the City of Light. He will dance with a number of them, converse with others, and be pleasant to all. And then …

  A wry smile crosses his lips. And then, what will be … will be.

  After a time, there is a single knock on the door. “Everyone has arrived, ser.”

  “Thank you.” Toziel takes a last look at the harbor, then turns and walks to the door, opening it.

  Outside are a pair of palace guards, and a round-faced man dressed in formal greens who inclines his head. “Your Mightiness, everything is as you requested.”

  “Thank you, Dauret.”

  Dauret leads the way to main staircase, that magnificent edifice that bisects the palace and leads to the uppermost level … and the grand ballroom. Toziel follows. When he reaches the top of the white stone steps, he follows Dauret to the left and around the opening for the staircase to the center archway into the ballroom.

  When Toziel halts, Dauret gestures. A single trumpet sounds, clear but low and melodic, and all the muted conversations and whispers immediately cease.

  “His Mightiness, Toziel’elth’alt’mer,” announces Dauret, his mouth twisting as he finishes, as if he wanted to add all the titles that protocol would dictate should follow Toziel’s full name, titles that Toziel had insisted would be inappropriate for the occasion.

  As Toziel enters the ballroom, the musicians, as instructed, begin to play—music suitable for dancing, again not customary, but he’d explained it simply. “It was her last wish.”

  No one had brought the matter up again.

  He walks at an angle across the ballroom, seemingly almost aimlessly, but he watches all those he passes, without seeming to do so.

  A willowy blonde in a blue that matches her eyes lowers her head slightly, just enough to signify that she is interested, but does not wish to seem brazen or forward.

  Toziel steps forward and smiles. “Might
I have this dance and your name?”

  “Halaria’elth.”

  “That’s a beautiful name.” Toziel takes her hand in his and places his other on her back, easing her out onto the polished wood of the dance floor.

  Several senior Mirror Lancer officers, as also instructed, immediately take their consorts and join him, so that in moments, many couples are dancing.

  “Tell me about yourself, Halaria, if you would,” asks Toziel gently. “Do you live in Cyad?”

  “No, ser. We come from Fyrad. My father … he is the magus in charge of the Mirror Towers at the port.”

  A second level adept, reflects Toziel, but loyal. “Have you any brothers or sisters?”

  “My brother Abram is a student magus here. They say he has talent in understanding the Mirror Towers.”

  “Have you thought about being a healer?”

  “I do not seem to have that talent, ser, though my mother and little sister do.”

  “It is indeed strange,” Toziel replies warmly, “which talents go to which children and why.” In the few moments he has danced with her, he can feel that she is not even a possibility.

  His next partner is Istyla, a brunette with an effusively warm manner. Too effusive. And after that, there is the silver-haired Gaylena.

  “What is it like, being who you are?” she asks.

  “That’s a good question,” he replies. “Some days, it’s quite clear, and, on others, I ask the same question. What of you?”

  “I’m a Magi’i daughter. I can heal a little, but not a lot. It’s not enough to be a healer…”

  Toziel can sense that she has more than enough ability to be a healer and after a short dance moves on. He scarcely remembers the next three young women, pretty and warm as they are. Then he spies a slender woman in a clinging black gown that reveals a modestly womanly figure, with gray eyes and clear skin set off by the shimmering brilliant silver hair of a true daughter of the Magi’i. As he nears her, she turns. Her smile is dazzling, yet seemingly honest and open.

  “Your Mightiness…” Her voice is firm, but warm.

  “A dance, if you would.”

  She glides into his arms, and Toziel, as he guides her out onto the polished wood dance floor, finds that dancing with her is effortless.

  “I never asked your name.”

  “Cythera. Cythera’elth, of course.”

  “Of course?” he asks humorously.

  “You only invited daughters and families of elthage background, except for your trusted senior officers. Isn’t that so?”

  “It is indeed.”

  “So I’m just one of a number of women who are here so that you can see if you like them … and they you. Not that such matters to most.”

  “But it does to you?”

  “It does. Shouldn’t it? I’d think that a life of power and responsibility would be almost unbearable unless those cares were shared. Sharing doesn’t work unless both care.”

  “Tell me more,” he says, not quite teasingly.

  “My father brought me here, to the Palace of Light, when I was very little. The only thing that made it warm was the way your father looked at your mother. I remember that.”

  “When was that?” Toziel couldn’t remember an occasion where that might have happened.

  “More than fifteen years ago…” She pauses. “It was a festival, for the turn of fall. You looked very serious. You were wearing a green uniform, like a Lancer.”

  Toziel does remember. He’d hated the uniform, because he’d asked for an officer’s uniform and his father had said, “Heir or no heir, you don’t know enough to be an officer. Not yet.” And his father had made Toziel wear the uniform identical to that of a Lancer recruit. At that recollection, Toziel laughs.

  Cythera looks surprised, if but for an instant.

  “You’re kind,” Toziel explains. “I was behaving like a spoiled child because my father had reprimanded me—and made it stick.”

  She cannot quite hide her smile.

  He finds her amusement, and her attempt to hide it, attractive.

  Before long, the dance is over, and he inclines his head to her. “Please do not leave early this evening.”

  “Since you ask, I wouldn’t think of it.” Her smile is less dazzling but warmer than the one with which she greeted him.

  Toziel’s next partner is another blonde, named Carliana, attractive and a good dancer, and all too polite. As he leaves her, he catches sight of a redhead, a woman he suspects is closer to his own age. She stands well away from the dancers, talking to an older couple and a younger woman in black and silver, with the silver hair of the Magi’i. The younger woman has creamy skin and a perfect profile, yet Toziel finds his eyes lingering on the redhead, who wears a gown of green somewhere between teal and the shade of the Great Eastern Ocean in summer, her fair skin lightly freckled under thick fire-red hair holding a golden luster. She also is a daughter of the Magi’i, if of a less illustrious heritage, he suspects, but a healer as well, for only healers can wear that green in a formal setting.

  He finds himself making his way to her, bowing slightly and asking, “Might I have this dance?”

  “You might, Your Mightiness,” she replies with a warm full voice that is not in the slightest throaty or husky.

  Toziel can sense a slight confusion among the three that he and the redhead leave behind as they walk the few yards to the dance floor. He can also sense the redhead’s amusement. “I never asked your name.”

  “Ryenyel’elth.”

  “And you’re a practicing healer?” he asks as they begin to dance. “Where?”

  “I work with the Mirror Lancers most of the time.”

  He cannot help but frown. “Here in Cyad?”

  “I seem to be good at helping them recover from injuries that others feel could not be remedied.”

  “Go on,” he prompts.

  “There are some whose backs were injured in fighting against the barbarians in the Stone Hills. They could barely walk. One squad leader could not walk at all.”

  “And you healed them?”

  “Not all of them. Some were beyond me, but more than a few.”

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Almost ten years.”

  “Since you came of age?”

  She actually grins at him. “Are you asking my age, Your Mightiness? I’m twenty-six, older than most of the young ladies you invited.”

  Older than almost all of them. “And you’ve never been consorted?”

  “No. I’ve never been interested in merely being an appendage to someone else, even a highly valued appendage.”

  Toziel shakes his head. “Are you always this direct?”

  Abruptly, she smiles warmly and pleasantly. “I was only seeking to do what you requested, ser.” Then the smile drops away, to be replaced by a totally honest grin. “For tonight, direct honesty is best, don’t you think?”

  For the first time all evening, Toziel’s formal boots seem to lose track of the music, yet in instants, somehow, he regains his rhythm. Or did she do that? At the moment, he is not about to ask. Instead, he goes on, “Your family?”

  “They live in Summerdock. I have been staying with my uncle and aunt and my cousin Elthya.”

  Toziel smiles. “And since my invitation included all eligible women…”

  “I thought I would take advantage of that. I have never been to the Palace of Light. I did not expect you to ask me to dance.”

  “I didn’t expect to, either,” he admits. “You are … different.”

  “For better or worse, Your Mightiness, I am who I am.”

  “But you can conceal it rather well, I suspect.”

  “For healers, that is possible. We are judged by what we can do, and so long as we are polite and pleasant…”

  “And charming,” he adds.

  “That is slightly more difficult.” A touch of irony colors her words.

  In time, barely longer than he has spent with the
more interesting of the young women with whom he has danced, Toziel escorts her back to her aunt and uncle, and then asks for a dance from Elthya. That dance is far shorter, charming though the younger woman is.

  Over the next glass, Toziel dances with nine other eligible women, before finding himself with another green-eyed healer, Kierstia, whose silver hair is as perfect as possible.

  “Where do you practice your healing?” he asks as they begin to dance.

  “In the Hall of Healing here in Cyad, Your Mightiness.”

  “How long have you been there?”

  “Just three years, but it is so rewarding, especially when you can help a child or a mother.”

  Toziel is touched by the intensity of her feelings and asks, “Are there other healers in your family?”

  “Not now. My great-grandmother was, I’m told. They say she was a healer here at the palace. I never knew her.”

  “What would you like to do in life?”

  Kierstia’s eyes drop for an instant. “Whatever I can do to do good.”

  Toziel smiles. “Then you will be an outstanding healer. Does your family still live here in Cyad?”

  “My father does. He’s a Magi’i engineer who repairs the fireships. My mother … she died when I was young.”

  “Is that why you became a healer … besides having the ability?”

  She nods.

  In time, Toziel ends his dance with her and takes yet another partner, and then another.

  Somewhat before the glass at which the ball will end, Toziel bows to his last partner, a sweet, if slightly insipid young woman named Tyantha’elth, and steps away, looking around the grand ballroom until he finds Dauret. After a moment, he catches Dauret’s eyes, then gestures. The older man slips around several couples and joins Toziel. Those near the two pretend not to look, but Toziel still knows that, while the musicians still play and others dance, the attention of many is indirectly focused on the two of them.

  “You have the names of all those with whom I danced?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “There are two with whom I would like to meet … for what you arranged.”

  Dauret nods, waiting.

  “Cythera’elth and Ryenyel’elth.”

  Although the assistant steward does not show any outward reaction, Toziel can sense his surprise at the second name. “Wasn’t that the purpose of the ball?”