Recluce Tales

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I don’t see why—”

  “Kiedron, if you wish to be a ruler of anything, you must show that you are a leader. With Cyad gone, you cannot lead just because your father was Emperor. The more skills you can show, the more likely people will follow you. You need the Mirror Lancers to make sure they do and to protect the people whom you wish to lead. The Lancers respect skill with weapons. Do you understand?” Mairena’s voice hardens with the last words.

  “That’s also why you can’t say stupid things,” adds Emerya. “You haven’t learned a thing from what’s happened.”

  Mairena offers an icy look at her daughter.

  “But…” Emerya’s voice dies off.

  “You two need each other. Who will protect you, Emerya, when I am gone? And who can you trust to heal you then, Kiedron? You can honestly disagree, but I will not have cruel statements between you two.”

  Emerya lowers her eyes for a moment, then says, “I’m sorry.” She looks to her brother. “But I was right about what you can’t say.”

  “Yes, you were.” Mairena turns to her son. “You need to listen better. You also need to ask why someone agrees with you or why they disagree. A man or woman who wants something is likely to agree with the most foolish notion you express. A man who is a schemer may disagree to tempt you into rushing into a rash act because he angers you. You need to consider not only what people say, but why they say what they do.”

  Kiedron actually nods in response to her words.

  Mairena can but hope that he has actually taken in the meaning of her words. And hope can be such a frail reed.

  VII

  Early in the afternoon on oneday, Captain Heisyrt sends the same junior officer who had escorted Emerya and Kiedron on board to request that the Empress join him on the bridge. She follows the fresh-faced undercaptain, or whatever his equivalent rank must be, up the ladder to the bridge. As soon as they enter the bridge, Heisyrt steps away from the helmsman and toward the hatchway to the port lookout’s platform. Mairena follows him out onto the platform. The lookout stations himself as far from the two of them as possible.

  “We are approaching Fyrad, Lady … or where Fyrad once was.” While Heisyrt’s words are even, he looks intently at the Empress.

  “You sound doubtful, Captain.”

  “I can see a plume of water that must be from the river, but I see no signs of the city, where it should have been, only an enormous bay surrounded by mud flats filled with fallen trees and other debris.”

  “Then that is what is left of Fyrad.”

  “You are not surprised, Empress?”

  “No. Saddened to see what I have felt, but not surprised.”

  “What would you suggest, now?”

  “We make our way to Hamor.”

  “Why Hamor, Lady? Why do we not land at one of the less damaged ports in Candar … perhaps Lydiar?” asks Heisyrt.

  “And then what, Captain?” replies the Empress. “Who in all Candar would be willing to allow the heir to the Throne of Light and two companies of Mirror Lancers to set foot on their soil? And if we did fight our way to shore, how long before we are overwhelmed?”

  “The same will happen in Hamor.”

  “It will not. We will purchase land on the Swarth River, upstream of Swartheld, and agree to defend it for the Duke of Afrit against the Heldyans and Meroweyans. He can use the golds, and we will quietly re-establish the Malachite Throne there. Unlike those in Candar, who have always chafed at the power of Cyador, the Hamorians will see little danger in a single ship, especially when that ship can hold the upper river and, by doing so, protect the lower river from river raiders coming from the south.”

  Heisyrt’s face screws up in disbelief. “My lady…”

  “Did I not save you and this ship … and all aboard?”

  “I do not know that we have enough coal…”

  “Your bunkers are full, are they not? Who do you think made sure you were provisioned and ready for sea?”

  Heisyrt inclines his head in acceptance of her statement. “Still … there is the matter of coal … Hamor is not exactly near.”

  “Two boilers can be converted to burn wood, also,” the Empress points out.

  “You know much about the Kerial, Lady.”

  “I have seen all that the Emperor saw.” And likely studied it longer and with greater care. Not that she is ever likely to say that. “And he had great foresight in having the Kerial built.”

  “Should we not see what other Cyadoran vessels may be near?”

  “For a few days, perhaps,” Mairena replies. While she doubts that many, if any, vessels, even Cyadoran ones, will near the Kerial, she knows that she will need to make some concessions to keep from turning the captain even more against her.

  “That would be good. We should head back toward Cyad. We’re more likely to encounter Cyadoran merchanters there.”

  “Then we will see,” concludes the Empress.

  Heisyrt nods.

  Once she has left the bridge and returned to her quarters, Mairena sends Viera—who else can she dispatch?—to request that Captain Altyrn join her on the side deck, then slips from the stateroom that is a sitting room of sorts out onto the deck to wait for the Lancer officer. Her eyes drift to the large bay and the mixed swirls of muddy water, darker river water that holds the remnants of who knows what, and the blue-green waters of the Western Ocean.

  In less than a quarter glass, Altyrn climbs the outside ladder and presents himself. “What do you require of me, Empress?”

  “I need to address all the Magi’i and those of the Mirror Lancers you think appropriate and tell them what has happened.”

  “What will that be?”

  “That Cyad and Cyador are no more.”

  “I have feared such with each kay of devastation we have passed.”

  While Altyrn works with the Lancers and the crew to clear a space on the main deck, Mairena once more summons Tyrsalyn. When he arrives, she gestures toward the mixed muddied waters and the mud flats that appear to compose nearly all the land around the bay, although Mairena notices shoots of green in many places and wonders, Trees, saplings … so soon. She only asks, “Do you recognize where we are, First Magus?”

  “Near or above what remains of Fyrad, if what I have seen in my glass is correct.”

  “What have you seen of other cities?”

  “No cities remain in Cyador itself, only scattered small towns … and the ruins of Summerdock and Dellash.”

  The Empress cannot refrain from frowning. “Small towns, but nothing else?”

  “I fear that the Accursed Forest and the dark angels lashed out at wherever there was chaos. Small towns often have no Magi’i.”

  “But Dellash … Summerdock … and the Kerial?”

  “Water and distance diminish the effect. Dellash is on the isle. Summerdock is mostly surrounded by water and is close to the farthest point west from the Accursed Forest—”

  “And the Kerial was in deep water?” If barely.

  “Exactly, Lady.”

  “I have summoned everyone to a meeting. They also must know and come to accept what is. You will be beside me.”

  Tyrsalyn nods.

  Almost a glass later, Mairena stands on a small platform created from several planks laid over the top of a capstan. She faces aft and to starboard, where most of the adults from the Magi’i on board, and a handful of junior Mirror Lancer officers, have gathered. Most of the practicing Magi’i are ironmages or healers, largely women. The others are gray-bearded men, a handful of older but not elderly Magi’i, most likely instructors from the academy where young mages are taught and tested.

  The Empress waits until those gathered are silent. Then she begins. “For those of you who do not already know it, the large bay with the waters of mixed colors is all that remains of Fyrad. You have also seen the destruction along the coast of what once was Cyador. This destruction has enfolded all of Cyador.”

  After another silence, she turns
and gestures to Tyrsalyn. “First Magus, what has your glass shown of Cyad, Fyrad, or any of the great cities of Cyador?”

  “All of them have vanished, as if they never existed, save for Summerdock. It lies in ruins, and few survive there.”

  “No!” comes a cry from one of the women in the group. “It cannot be.… It cannot be.…”

  “Who would doubt the vision of the First Magus,” declares the Empress, “especially since we have just seen what remains of Fyrad? Whatever there once was has sunk deep beneath the water.”

  To the side, Tyrsalyn nods slowly.

  “In the next few days,” declares Mairena, firmly and clearly, “we will decide where we should go.”

  “Back to Cyad!” exclaims a man.

  “Cyad,” echo several voices, and heads nod in agreement.

  “That is where we are headed. But … if there is nothing there, we will have to go elsewhere.” Before anyone can say anything else, she steps down off the makeshift platform. She had hoped for greater understanding, but had doubted it would be forthcoming.

  VIII

  A glass later, Mairena stands in her small sleeping quarters, looking at her daughter. “You have asked me, if not in words, why I have done what I have done.”

  “I’ve never said a word.”

  Mairena smiles, if faintly. “You didn’t have to.” She extends a deep-green enameled box.

  Emerya takes it, looking down. “What is it?”

  “The answer, in part, to your unspoken question. Go ahead. Open it.”

  Her daughter does so. Inside is a lambent cupridium-and-lacquer pin displaying three miniature items: a lance and a jagged lightning bolt crossed over a sheaf of grain.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “Look on the back,” replies Mairena. “That should tell you.”

  Emerya does so, squinting to make out the tiny letters cut into the untarnished and ancient, but still shining, cupridium. “Lorn’elth’alt’mer,” she murmurs, before she looks up. “It belonged to the Emperor Lorn? It really did?”

  “Yes, it did.”

  “You got this from Father?”

  “No. I got it from my mother. It has been handed down from Ryalth through daughters and an occasional niece, always woman to woman. It will be yours one day.”

  “Then … you’re…”

  Mairena nods.

  “But…”

  “Your father chose me, not just because I was moderately attractive and a healer, but for other reasons as well, represented by that pin.” From just where do you think you and your brother get your elthage abilities, do you think?

  “You … but there has never been an Empress who ruled, has there?”

  “No. And now is not the time for that. The best I can do is act as part of the Council for your brother.” And make certain he does what he must to maintain and preserve his heritage … and that of all the women who made it possible.

  “You could—”

  “Not now. Not when too many traditions and beliefs have already been overthrown. Not when people need to believe in the Emperor to come.” And not when Kiedron is yet unprepared to do what must be done … now. Nor should those deeds rest on his shoulders. He will have to bear enough.

  Emerya replaces the pin and closes the box. “When it is time for me to care for it, I will do so.” She hands the box back to her mother.

  Mairena accepts the small box and nods. “I know.”

  Whatever there is in or behind the words of the Empress is more than enough that Emerya shivers.

  IX

  For the next glass Mairena remains alone and out of sight, but after the third glass of the afternoon, she knows what she must do. Rather … she has always known, but had hoped it would not be necessary. Seeing the faces that had watched her has convinced her that her instincts were correct, those instincts that Lephi had mistrusted and ignored. She heads for the hatch to the outside deck.

  Kiedron, recovering from his afternoon session with the captain, looks up. “Where are you going?”

  “To talk to people. Too many of them do not understand.”

  “They don’t need to understand. You are the Empress of Light.”

  “If they understand … matters will be easier.” Much easier.

  Before long, Mairena finds a familiar face, a woman who stands at the railing on the starboard side, looking toward the empty coast.

  “Aedina?”

  The graying woman turns. “Empress.”

  Mairena wants to tell her to use her given name. She does not. Instead, she says, “There’s not much left.”

  “I know, but I just want to go home.”

  “We have no home left. There is nothing there, Aedina.”

  “Triendar will be there. He always…” The graying woman whom the Empress has known since both were girls stops as her eyes rest fully on Mairena, and her words trail off. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “The dark angels and the Accursed Forest destroyed him—and Lephi … and all the Magi’i who sought to defeat the barbarians.”

  “How could that happen? How?”

  Mairena gestures toward the shore, now more distant, and the mists that still shroud much of the land. “You saw what that power did.”

  “Why? Cyador gave the barbarians so much. What did Triendar do to them?”

  Besides trying to destroy them for rejecting Cyador? “We cannot change the past, dear Aedina. We can only move forward.”

  “Where? Where is there to go? They’re all barbarians everywhere.”

  “We go where we can change them. To Hamor.”

  “That’s…”

  “Across the Great Western Ocean? It is, but I’ve brought golds and we have the last great fireship and Mirror Lancers. We are the Magi’i of Cyador … are we not?”

  “Why so far?”

  “Because those golds will go farther and will buy what we cannot build…”

  In the end, Mairena spends almost a glass with Aedina … and that conversation is only the first of many she will need to undertake.

  X

  On threeday morning, while Kiedron is undergoing another sparring session, Mairena gathers Tyrsalyn and the three Magi’i she judges to be the most powerful and influential of those aboard the Kerial, also likely to be three of the most powerful remaining after what has befallen Cyador.

  “I’ve heard rumors, Lady Empress,” announces Chamsym, a still-burly magus with iron-gray hair, the most noticeable sign of his age being the bloodshot nature of his eyes and the dark pouches beneath them. “I don’t like rumors. Why are we here?”

  “To discuss the future of Cyador and the Malachite Throne, of course.”

  “The Emperor is dead. So are the First and Second Magus, and Cyador has been leveled. What is there to discuss?” Chamsym’s laugh is sardonic.

  “The heir is alive, and so are we,” replies Vaernt. Dark-haired with no sign of gray, he is slender, more than wiry, less than massively muscular.

  “That is true,” admits Mueryt. “Still…” He shrugs with the temporizing gesture that Mairena recalls all too well from the times he has visited the Palace of Light.

  “The Accursed Forest is spreading into most of the lands where we once held sway,” begins Tyrsalyn.

  “Is that what your glass tells you?” asks Chamsym.

  “Among other things. My eyes also tell me that what the glass reveals is true.”

  “Earthquakes and floods happen. Men rebuild and put things right. Men,” Chamsym announces. “They don’t go run off because things get difficult.”

  “I see,” says the Empress. “The destruction of every city in Cyador and the death of most of their people is just one of those things? A massive wave of destruction that almost every magus and healer sensed, most of whom were prostrated—or killed—that was just one of those little things?”

  “I didn’t feel a thing,” declared Chamsym. “I see no reason to skulk off to Hamor.”

  “Even if staying here me
ans misery and death for most?”

  “It won’t. Things will get better.”

  The Empress restrains a sigh. “I take it that you will oppose my plan to go to Hamor and re-establish the Malachite Throne, then?”

  “Far better to land at Summerdock and set it right. You’ll go to Hamor over my dead body,” declares Chamsym.

  “There’s nothing left to set right,” Tyrsalyn points out.

  “Then we’ll build it…”

  “With what?” asks Vaernt.

  “Our hands.”

  “Your hands?” asks Mueryt. “When did you ever dirty your hands, except with chaos?”

  “That won’t help,” says the Empress. She looks directly at Chamsym. “What do you have against rebuilding in Hamor, far from the dark angels and the Accursed Forest?”

  “That’s giving up, surrendering to an enemy we defeated before.”

  “Except we were losing that battle even when the Emperor dispatched every magus he could spare to keep the forest within its boundaries.”

  Chamsym flushes. “We’ll retreat to Hamor over my dead body.”

  “I think you’ve made your point.” Mairena smiles sadly … and concentrates.

  Chamsym stiffens, as if jolted, and his arms twitch before he slumps in his chair, his eyes wide and lifeless. Almost immediately, the chaos within him, unrestrained by order, begins to transform his remains into ash.

  Vaernt looks to Tyrsalyn, then to Mueryt, before his eyes return to the Empress. “You’re a healer … not…”

  “The power to use order can be used for more than healing. I’d prefer to have acted otherwise, but what once was Cyador is no longer suited to the Magi’i.” She turns to Tyrsalyn. “Is that not so?”

  “I fear it is.” His eyes take in the other two Magi’i. “If either of you can use a glass, you will see just how much the land has changed, and how it is still changing.”

  “I’ve seen,” admits Vaernt.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” declares Mueryt. “Using a glass splits my skull … and if I’m looking at order…” He shakes his head. “What about Chamsym?”

  “He got so angry that no one would listen to him that his heart stopped,” declares the Empress. In a way, that is what happened.