Scion of Cyador (40 page)

“Yes, ser.”

“I’ll make sure you all have orders by this evening.”

As he turns and recrosses the courtyard, he hears the low voices.

“…doesn’t look good…”

“…always looked out for his men…”

“…angel-fire few officers like that…”

Lorn has no more than returned to the study and reseated himself at the desk he occupies when there is a knock on the door, and a squad leader- Gryal-peers in.

“Ser?”

“Come on in.”

Gryal steps forward and hands Lorn a scroll, one with a blue seal and bound in a blue ribbon. “This came in for you with the couriers. Thought you ought to get it personal.”

“Thank you. I suspect it’s from my consort. Her earlier scrolls never reached Inividra.”

“There was word about that…”

“Were there any other dispatches?”

“No, ser. But word is that you get everything first.” Gryal grins. “Way it ought to be.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a problem, ser. The squad leader bows and backs out.

Lorn lifts the scroll, then breaks the seal and begins to read.

My dearest lancer,

I have received the first scroll from you in seasons, but I knew, as you know, that you care, and now I know why there were no scrolls.

Jerial says that she is not surprised by your former classmate, nor am I surprised at what you discovered in Jera, or that you have found yourself in Assyadt. In my own poor way, I have passed on the information you have sent, and spoken, if briefly, to Vyanat’mer. He already knew and had read your official report, and he appreciated that you had seen fit to inform him so that he was not surprised in meeting with His Mightiness.

I do not know what will come of your actions and report. Much is in turmoil here, with your family, as you know…

Lorn swallows. His family? His parents? Myryan? It could not be Jerial. Later, when he is truly alone, he will have to search with the chaos-glass.

…and with the death of the Hand of the Emperor. No one knows who the Hand was, as always, but word of his death still did get out. The Emperor himself was ailing for a time. So no one knows about many matters and may not for several days yet, and it may take longer for you to find out.

Whatever may happen, I love you and know that you have done the best you could, with your destiny and your talents, and we hope you will be safe and in Cyad before too long.

Lorn looks at the scroll. Safe and in Cyad? Those two do not go together. That he knows all too well.

He takes a deep breath. He needs to draft the orders for the five companies and their lancers. That is one problem he can resolve… and one he should have handled earlier, or at least considered before he did.

LXXVII

In the darkness and quiet of the quarters for visiting senior officers, Lorn sets the chaos-glass on the narrow desk. He takes a long slow breath, and then concentrates. The silver mists fill the glass, then swirl and finally part. But the glass is blank, an opaque and silvered shimmering blankness.

He lets go of the image he has sought, and tries a second time, this time thinking about his mother, about the conversation that they had had on the portico in a cold wind so many years before. But once more, the mists reveal only the silver blankness.

Lorn can feel the perspiration on his forehead, despite the warmth of the late-spring evening. For a time longer, he sits in the dimness, wondering if he has lost the ability to control the image in the glass, because of his fears or the strains upon him.

Then he tries again, and this time the mists reveal Ryalth and Kerial- asleep on the ornate bed. Ryalth turns, as if restlessly, and Lorn releases the image, reluctantly, but glad that she and Kerial appear well.

He tries once more for the first image… and is rewarded again with the silvered blankness that fills the circular glass. When he stops concentrating and the glass clears, his eyes burn. That blankness must mean that his parents are dead, and they have been dead for at least a time, because of the tone of Ryalth’s letter. She had written as if their deaths had occurred eightdays in the past.

That is yet another reason for Dettaur’s death-except Lorn almost wishes he had made Dettaur’s end far more painful. Why had Dettaur been so petty? He still could have sought to discredit Lorn without such smallness.

Lorn shakes his head. Even as he understands, he does not.

Finally, in the dimness of the single oil lamp, he picks up the silver-covered book, leafing through it until his eyes find a verse.

Ashes to ashes and dust to dust…

Chaos to order and back to flame

Brings back no songs without name…

Except… except Lorn will remember, remember words of concern, words of advice, guidance he had not known his parents had even exerted or offered.

He looks sightlessly into the darkness.

LXXVIII

Lorn looks out into the gray late afternoon. While it has rained earlier, the clouds have lifted some, and the heavy rain has subsided into a light mist. A fog rises from the stones of the courtyard.

Three days earlier, Gyraet and five of the six lancer companies from Inividra had left on their return. The officers had been both concerned about Lorn and relieved to be heading back. Lorn can understand both sets of feelings, and remains grateful for their concern. Surprisingly, at least to Lorn, after all those chill touches on the Jeran campaign, he has not felt the touch of a single chaos-glass. Does that mean that the Majer-Commander does not trust the Magi’i in dealing with Lorn? Lorn is not certain whether that is to his benefit or not. His eyes take in the gray clouds once more. Is the delay because of the delicate situation with the Emperor? Or because the Captain-Commander or the Majer-Commander is gathering Mirror Lancer companies to send to Assyadt? That would seem unlikely, yet Dettaur’s pettiness in destroying personal scrolls to Lorn also had been unlikely, for such destruction had done nothing to advance Dettaur.

Lorn shakes his head, reminding himself that he has certainly not been above pettiness.

Thrap. The worried sub-majer’s head snaps up at the knock. “Yes? Come in.”

“Majer… ?” Esfayl steps into the study with a lancer.

The lancer, who bears the green braid of a special messenger from the Majer-Commander, carries a dispatch pack and glances nervously from Lorn to the dark-haired captain, and then back to Lorn.

“He just got here from Cyad,” Esfayl explains. “I thought he ought to see you first. He has dispatches from the Majer-Commander.”

“Ser, there are two for you, but one is for Commander Ikynd.”

Lorn looks at Esfayl. “Is the commander in his study?”

“I think so.”

“We’ll all go there. That might be best.” Lorn smiles wryly. “I could be wrong, but if the Majer-Commander is sending two scrolls to me, then I can hope for the best.”

A puzzled look crosses the messenger’s face, but Lorn does not elaborate as he stands and steps toward the door. “Come on.”

The messenger follows Lorn across the corridor and into the second study.

Lorn nods to the messenger. “That’s Commander Ikynd. He can read his scroll first.”

The messenger steps forward and hands one scroll to Ikynd, then steps back and hands two to Lorn. He eases back beside Esfayl by the half-open study door.

“You aren’t reading them all first?” asks Ikynd.

“That one is for you.”

“They’re sending you somewhere else.” Ikynd laughs. “Otherwise, there would have been companies of lancers here.”

“Unless they’re insisting I take Dettaur’s place,” Lorn suggests.

“I could do worse,” the commander says dryly. “You actually ask what I think.” He breaks the seal and begins to scan the lines, then looks up. “You can read yours, Sub-Majer. I won’t spoil the surprise.” A look of both ruefulness and interest appears on his face.

Lorn opens the first scroll. The message is brief, curt.

Sub-Majer Lorn, Mirror Lancers, Assyadt/Inividra,

You are hereby detached from your present assignment immediately upon receipt of these orders and ordered to report to the Majer-Commander, Cyad, personally, for assignment at his discretion.

The only unusual feature is that the orders are signed and sealed by Rynst, the Majer-Commander, himself. Lorn opens the second scroll.

Sub-Majer Lorn, Mirror Lancers, Commanding, Inividra,

This is to commend you for your actions in undertaking a campaign to ensure the safety of the northern borders of Cyador, the Empire of Eternal Light. Your actions in destroying barbarian staging areas and confiscating and destroying large quantities of Hamorian-forged blades have resulted in the saving of untold lives of the Mirror Lancers and in resolving a potentially serious situation before it could worsen. Your immediate superior, Commander Ikynd, will also be commended by separate notice, for his wisdom in allowing you the latitude necessary to undertake this dangerous campaign. A copy of this commendation has been placed in your file at Mirror Lancer headquarters.

The second scroll is also signed by Rynst.

Esfayl looks from Lorn to Ikynd and back again.

“It’s all right,” Lorn finally says. “The commander and I have been commended, and I’m being transferred to Mirror Lancer headquarters in Cyad.”

“Congratulations, sers,” says Esfayl.

“I think you’ll probably be leaving tomorrow, when I do,” Lorn tells the young captain, then looks at Ikynd, “if you agree, Commander.”

“He can take the provisions wagons an eightday early,” Ikynd says.

Lorn nods toward the door. “The commander and I have a few matters to discuss.”

“Ah… yes, ser.”

Both the lancer messenger and Esfayl step out of the commander’s study. Esfayl closes the door behind him.

“You know what that commendation says, don’t you?” Ikynd’s genial tone returns.

“I’d assume that it says that you authorized me to undertake a dangerous and foolhardy campaign, on the verge of breaking every Mirror Lancer regulation, but that, since it was successful beyond anyone’s expectations, we are to be commended-and watched most carefully in the future. That’s why I’m going to Cyad to report to the Majer-Commander personally.”

“That is the way I would read it.” Ikynd shrugs. “It doesn’t matter much to me. They’d never have promoted me again anyway, and I’ve but one tour left after this before I can get a pension-stipend. Rynst doesn’t know what to do with you, but you’re too valuable to have killed, and too dangerous to let loose for a while. I’d guess he wants you around him, the way some men want trained giant cats.”

Lorn smiles wryly. “So that everyone watches me, instead of him?”

“Something like that.” Ikynd tilts his head. “Dettaur was dangerous because he was too self-centered, you know?”

“I know. If he’d been successful in getting me and my lancers killed, he would have found himself before a discipline hearing-or something would have happened to him.”

“Now… I’m short something like four officers.” Ikynd smiles ruefully. “I’ll have to draft my own orders.”

“You’ll have four more officers within the eightday. With the moving of the lancers out of the
Accursed
Forest
posts, headquarters will be happy to have openings for a majer, sub-majer, and two captains or undercaptains.” Lorn adds, “And they’ll all be good, traditional lancer officers.”

Ikynd nods. “We could use more tradition for a while.”

Lorn steps toward the door. “By your leave, Commander?”

“I appreciate the courtesy, Sub-Majer.” Ikynd shakes his head as Lorn steps out and closes the door behind him.

LXXIX

In the early-morning light, Lorn rides toward the firewagon portico in the center of Assyadt, followed by the two lancers from Esfayl’s Second Company. The two will return the white gelding to the stable at Assyadt before leaving with Esfayl to ride back to Inividra.

As the three lancers pass the south side of the square in the early-morning light, Lorn can see a number of people under the porch of the Cuprite Kettle, the largest inn in Assyadt. Most of those on the porch seem to be watching him. His chaos-trained ears pick up the low words he should not be able to hear.

“Sure enough… that’s him, the one they call the Butcher.”

“Looks young…”

“…rode all the way to Jera… sacked every town… killed scores and scores.”

“…say he took over the compound here… made the head of the lancers in Cyad meet his terms.”

“…can’t be… just a sub-majer.”

“That’s what they say.”

“…looks like a nice young officer…”

“…what’s a real killer look like? No different from anyone else…”

Lorn keeps his shoulders square, and a smile on his face, even as he wonders how the whole town knows. Then, how could they not know, not when six companies of lancers held the compound for an eightday?

The three ride through the square and toward the white sunstone portico that lies another three hundred kays ahead.

“We’ll wait, ser, until the firewagon pulls up,” offers one of the lancers.

“Thank you. I think it will be awhile before Captain Esfayl is ready, anyway.”

“Rather wait here than help load wagons,” suggests the second lancer.

“Ser… how long ‘fore the barbarians start raiding again?” asks the first.