Scion of Cyador (26 page)

Lorn snorts. Another temptation for him to spend himself. If he does not use his abilities to recharge firelances-quietly-more lancers will die. Yet one lancer-magus can recharge comparatively few firelances for five companies, and he cannot afford to exhaust himself in that fashion, not with the amount of chaos-energy he must spend using the chaos-glass. As in everything, the higher he rises, the more demands there are that he has neither time nor energy to fulfill.

After a long slow breath, Lorn looks out at the snow once more. Well before spring he had best decide what he can do, and what he will need to do, for Jera is a port that remains ice-free throughout the winter, and trading vessels continue to tie to the piers there-and to bring in ever greater numbers of higher quality iron blades.

LII

In the late-winter afternoon, Lorn stares into the chaos-glass, painstakingly transferring details of the image he has called up onto the maps on his personal study desk, as he tries to trace the geography of where the Jeranyi raiders travel. After he finishes drawing in a section of river, and the low hills around it, he releases the image, sets the pen in its holder and closes his eyes. He massages his temples for a moment, then leans back, his eyes still closed.

His thoughts do not cease, and he has to wonder, even with his maps, how he can continue to fight against a seemingly endless enemy. How many new strategies will he be able to develop come spring and summer when the barbarians flood southward once again? How can he direct his patrols under such conditions without giving away the secret of his ability to find the barbarians?

His abilities, mighty as they might seem to some, are limited. If he concentrates greatly, he can summon images in a chaos-glass, or charge a firelance or so, or move a door latch from the other side of the door, or throw a handful of firebolts. He cannot do all at once, or even in succession. His abilities can only change the edges of what may be-so far as he can tell.

After a moment, he opens his eyes, and shakes his head. Why had he been so successful in Biehl? Because he had not waited for the enemy to come to him, but moved to take the fight to them. Was that the overall problem with Cyador?

Why had no one taken the fight to the Jeranyi?

He fingers his chin, looking blankly through the window into the cold and gray afternoon, out at patches of snow and frozen and thawed and frozen ground beyond the walls of the compound.

Cyador is far from crowded. Its people do not use all the lands they have, not really. So the Mirror Lancers are not attacking, but merely defending. Lorn shakes his head. Had the ancients established the
Land
of
Light
with all their force in the belief it would grow to fill those borders? Or to use the border areas as buffers?

He ponders, considering the discussion he had years earlier with his mother, before he was sent to Jakaafra to patrol the
Accursed
Forest
, where she had pointed out that Lancers and Magi’i were few indeed. Cyador has expanded, and those who have been expanding their numbers have not been the lancer officers and the Magi’i, but merchanters, crafters, working folk, peasants, and others. Even so, Cyador has not expanded to fill its lands to overflowing.

Is that because its people are prosperous? What is prosperity? Is prosperity the answer to the first of his father’s questions? A frown follows that. Cyad would exist without prosperity, and without the Magi’i, but it would not be Cyad as he has known it.

His mind skips to the third question, and he laughs as he thinks of Dettaur, realizing that Dettaur does not understand that a lancer officer’s power comes only from the acceptance by his men of the officer’s authority. A single officer can be killed by a misaimed firelance from behind, or by one deliberately misaimed.

Therefore, as his father’s second question intimates, the lancer officers maintain power because the people accept their handling of it. The barbarians do not accept the power of the Mirror Lancers, and so, the struggle is between the beliefs of the people of Cyad and those of the Jeranyi and Cerlynyi.

And that conclusion helps little at all in determining how he will face the spring and summer raids.

His lips twist, and, slowly he reaches for the silver volume, opening it and paging through, stopping and reading the last lines of the verses about recalling the Rational Stars.

I had a tower once, across heavens from here…

Oh… take these new lake isles and green green seas;

take these sylvan ponds and soaring trees;

take these desert dunes and sunswept sands,

and pour them through your empty hands.

Those are not the words of an empire builder, Lorn feels, or of a man seeking to conquer lands. He pages farther into the book, reading another section.

…I hear the altage souls lifting lances

against what the future past advances,

while time-towers hold at bay

the winters of another day,

what we would not face

what we could not erase…

until those towers crumble into sand

and Cyad can no longer stand.

Those, too, are the words of a defender. He shakes his head. Everything his father has stood for, and the Mirror Lancers-all are the roles of defenders. And while Cyad-and her people-are well worth defending, defenders always lose in the end… if they always fight on their own territory.

His eyes look into the gray afternoon, an afternoon that somehow does not appear quite so gray, quite so forbidding. He needs to find a way to take the fight to the Jeranyi.

Yet how can he? With five companies, six at the turn of spring?

Does he have to defeat the barbarians? What about the question Rhalyt had raised? He had no fleet, no fireships to stop the traders going to Jera.

Then he nods. Perhaps there is a way. Perhaps… but it will require much more screeing, and time, and then… he will see.

LIII

The winter light coming through the ancient windowpanes of the low Tower of the Magi’i is supplemented by that of the wall lamps and their polished cupridium reflectors. The First Magus does not stand, but remains seated behind the desk in the austere study on the topmost level of the tower as the Second Magus bows and makes his way to the golden oak armchair opposite Chyenfel.

The Second Magus bows once more before seating himself. Had he looked directly at the First Magus, he would not have seen his reflection in the eyes of the older magus, but only the blank sun-gold of an aging and powerful magus.

“You are so mannerly, Kharl,” offers Chyenfel. “It is one of your virtues, and I do most appreciate that.”

“You wished to see me? In private?”

“I did. The inner tower of the Magi’i will fail at any time. It could last a year, two at the outside, but it could collapse within a season. I thought you had best know this, for the Captain-Commander will doubtless press you when I announce that we will again be cutting back on the recharging of firelances and firewagon chaos-cells.”

The green eyes of the Second Magus flicker but once. “Can we not suggest that it is merely weakened?”

“You would have me lie to the Emperor and the Mirror Lancers? When the Hand of the Emperor will know, and when he will ask such of the Hand?”

“Neither the Hand nor the Emperor will long last, ser.”

“Nor will I, you are thinking.”

“I cannot deceive you.” Kharl shrugs. “Yet… in public I would counsel prudence. Any chaos-tower but that one can fail. That one, it must not be seen to fail.”

“And when the word is out, what then?” Chyenfel’s tone is mild. “We will have lied, and failed.”

“By then, ser, it will matter not. I warned you of this, years ago. I told you that we would need every chaos-tower. You assured me that the
Accursed
Forest
was a greater danger. Now you have taken the towers of the ward-walls, and hidden them in the mists of time. Half the fireships are without chaos-towers, and we cannot hide that. We have but a handful left. Without the towers, Cyad as we know it will perish. Without the power of the firelances, for no magus can recharge but a handful a day, not and do aught else, without the speed of the firewagons, and without the might of the fireships…” Kharl tilts his head and raises his eyebrows. “What will we have?”

“We still have the cupridium blades, and lances such as are used by the District Guards. We have great roads and canals that none can match. We have a people of talent and wisdom.”

“For how long? Cupridium cannot be forged without the towers.”

“Kharl, that is not so. Tools of cupridium can be forged with the residual chaos of the world-and there is much of that.”

“It will take a magus for each blade, and each will have to be hand-forged-if there is anyone with the technique.”

Chyenfel leans back and smiles. “You surprise me, Second Magus. I would not have thought you so. What message are you conveying? That we pretend all is well?”

“I find it preferable to the flux chaos of the alternative.” The red-haired and green-eyed Second Magus pauses, then adds, “Then, the inner chaos-tower may last a few years.”

“Long enough for me to have returned to chaos, so that you may do as you see fit, I am sure.”

“I would not offend you, nor cross you, honored First Magus.”

“Not while I live.” Chyenfel smiles. “I may yet retain my vitality longer than you suppose. I did wish to tell you, in the event that your most creative mind might seek a more… encouraging approach.”

“I thank you, and I will think upon it.” Kharl inclines his head. “If you have no further requirement of me… ?”

“Not at the moment. Not at the moment. But… Kharl… what if the next Emperor is as Toziel, and not as, shall we say, the Captain-Commander? Or even a younger magus?”

“Such as Rustyl, you mean?”

“I know you would follow Toziel, but that will not and cannot happen. Content yourself with following me. For all your deviousness, you would make an effective First Magus. I suggest you consider such.”

“I will consider much, honored First Magus.”

“With more than polite lip service, I would suggest. While Toziel is far older than he appears, he is not yet failing, and he searches for a heir to the Malachite Throne-an heir who is not of the Magi’i.”

“He will search far, for there are none among the lancers, that he will ever find, and certainly, to elevate a merchanter would stain the sunstone of the
Palace
of
Eternal Light
with so much blood that it could never be scrubbed away.”

“I have learned, as you must have-or will-that ‘never’ and ‘none’ are most dangerous words, and that those who utter them often must swallow them most often.”

“I bow to your wisdom.” The Second Magus inclines his head, as if waiting.

“You may go.” A weariness infuses Chyenfel’s words, and he nods at the younger magus.

“I thank you, and wish you a pleasant rest.” Kharl stands and bows, before turning and easing his way from the austerity of the study.

The sungold eyes of the First Magus follow him out with the power of still-banked and massive chaos. A faint smile lingers on his lips.

LIV

In the late afternoon, Lorn steps into the front corridor and foyer of the square tower at Inividra, his saddlebags over his shoulder, sabre at his belt, and his winter jacket still fastened. He nods to Nesmyl. “We’re back.”

“Yes, ser. Were there any barbarians?”

“No. They know it’s winter. Only lancers are out now.” Lorn laughs ruefully. “Any dispatches from Assyadt?”

“No, ser. Captain Esfayl would like to see you. One of his men deserted, and was found in the local hamlet-with a local… entertainer.”

Lorn nods. “We’ll have to do something.” Since Esfayl’s Second Company wasn’t actually on patrol, Lorn may be able to just have the man given a few lashes, and have his pay docked for a season, but he will need to speak to Esfayl first. “Is there anything else?”

“No, ser.”

“Good.” Lorn gestures toward the narrow back stairs. “I’ll be in my quarters until dinner.”

“Yes, ser. If you do not need me…”

“Go.” Lorn laughs. “You’ll be doing long days come spring.”

Nesmyl smiles, as if reluctantly, then bows.

Lorn carries his gear up the narrow stairs. His legs ache from riding in the chill. Although the patrol from which he and the Fourth Company have just returned to Inividra has been short, the cold makes such patrols seem far longer. They had found no barbarians, as Lorn had known, and no tracks of such, but he will be able to report to Dettaur that he has indeed taken another patrol, for all must seem in accord with the Dettaur’s wishes, and those of Commander Ikynd.

Once in his quarters, Lorn pulls off the winter jacket, glad that one of the lancers has at least kept the stove stoked so that Lorn’s rooms are passably warm. Then he puts away his gear and unclips the sabre, setting it by the armoire.

The tired sub-majer stands for a moment at the foot of the bed and tries to stretch his legs. Then he walks to the small study, pausing behind the chair and desk to glance out through the half-frosted ancient panes. Outside, the gray clouds make it difficult to tell whether the flat and dim light is because of the clouds or the coming twilight.

With a wry twist to his lips, Lorn seats himself once more at the desk in the upper study of the square tower and takes out the maps. He has almost a bell before dinner, and he might as well accomplish something more fruitful than empty patrols required by a vengeful superior.