Authors: L. E. Modesitt Jr.
“Yes.” She frowns. “Sypcal? Why Sypcal?”
Lorn sits on the washstool and pulls off his boots, one at a rime. His hands come away dull red. His once-white boots are mottled pink and dull red. He sighs. “Someone killed Rynst. I think. He vanished last night. It’s likely it was Luss and Lhary, but if they were the ones, I won’t know.” Lorn looks down. Even his undertunic is splotched with blood in several places. He pulls it off, and his trousers as well, and begins to wash. “You won’t know?”
“I told the lancers that Lhary killed Luss, and tried to set me up as the killer. They believed me, maybe because I insisted that Sypcal be acting Majer-Commander. He’s capable and honest. That was even before the piers or the street battles.”
“I think you’d better tell me more,” the redhead says. As he washes, Lorn recounts the day, ending with his meeting with Sypcal: “…then I checked with Cheryk at the barracks and rode home. Oh… as Sypcal said, we are guarded by a squad of lancers tonight.” He looks down. The basin water is pinkish. “A squad will stop any armed men left in Cyad. Nothing might stop the Magi’i, but I don’t see why they would come after me.”
She shakes her head. “Half the merchanter heirs gone, one way or another, most of the high command of the Mirror Lancers gone, the First Magus dead, the Second Magus attacked, and the Emperor dead. It’s stupid.”
“People are stupid when it comes to power.” He pauses. “The Second Magus attacked? Someone attacked Kharl? I suppose he deserves it… but who?”
“I don’t know. No one seems to.”
Lorn steps into the bedchamber, where he pulls trousers and undertunic from the armoire, then fumbles on his second pair of boots. “I want to see Kerial.”
“He is fine.”
Lorn stops in the chamber doorway. “What aren’t you telling me? What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
“Lorn… there’s more,” Ryalth says softly, her eyes dark not just with fatigue, but with concern. “I wanted you to have a few moments…”
“Who… What… ? It’s not Kerial? You said he was all right.”
“He’s just fine,” she repeats. “Jerial came to Ryalor House this morning. She brought this.” Ryalth hands Lorn a scroll, apparently unsealed. But within the unsealed scroll-parchment, not paper-is a second sealed scroll, of a paper fine but faintly tinted with green. “She is waiting in the kitchen with Kerial.”
Lorn frowns. “Myryan. It can only be Myryan.” He swallows as he opens and reads the inner scroll. He holds in a shiver at the familiar script and the few words written there.
For the partners of the house…
“Such an odd phrasing…” he murmurs.
Ryalth returns his look of inquiry with open blue eyes that do not flinch from the pain in his.
Lorn continues, reading deliberately.
The absence of order within the heart of those who hold chaos second-most dear will lead to the ultimate order, whether for those thought far higher than merchanters or lancers… or for a consort without understanding.
A healer cannot heal the absence of understanding, and healers cannot heal their own wounds or hold their own deaths at bay. A healer can use skills to allow chaos to unbalance those already unbalanced, whether through hatred of happier households, boundless ambition, or petty jealousy…
All a healer can do is but use her skills to allow a soul or a land to heal, and hope that those who follow to complete the healing… if they but will.
I have done what I must… for I cannot be held captive to the desires of others, whether for heirs or power… I have done what I can for you, and I have done so gladly.
Lorn just looks at the scroll, written so precisely, and yet it seems to make almost no sense except for the last paragraph.
“Jerial is waiting downstairs,” Ryalth says gently. “She can tell you, far better than I, what happened.”
His fingers clench about the scroll and he walks toward the bedchamber door. Ryalth follows silently.
Jerial is waiting at the foot of the stairs, as if she has sensed or heard his approach. Her eyes are red-rimmed.
Lorn holds out the scroll. “What happened to her? Is she ill?” As he asks the question and looks at Jerial, he knows. “How? She was fine. Who… ? Did that… Kharl? Ciesrt?”
“Let her tell you, dearest.” Ryalth touches Lorn’s shoulder, gently.
Lorn moistens his lips. His eyes rest on Jerial.
“I got a message, and I hurried to her dwelling. Late last night.” Jerial shakes her head. “She was just lying there. She just waited… until I was there, and then she pressed the scroll into my hands, and she… said… it was better… this way…” Jerial’s voice trembles, and her reddened eyes tear again; Lorn has never seen either from his sister the competent healer.
“Better…?” he asks. “Better?” His voice is rough.
Jerial’s face hardens. “She was with child.”
“What?”
“It was hard to find… but… someone had removed what we had done… only… a first-level adept…”
“Ciesrt?” blurts Ryalth.
“Kharl,” Lorn says. “He wanted heirs. The bastard wanted heirs… Myryan worried about that. I didn’t think he’d go that far… I didn’t think…” He looks down at the shimmering and spotless stone riles of the floor. “I didn’t think…”
After a moment, he raises his head and looks at his sister. “I don’t understand.” He lifts the scroll he still clenches in his hand. He looks at the parchment, almost as if he has not seen it. “She says she did what she could…”
“She said she’d just come back from Kharl’s,” Jerial explains. “He needed healing. Ciesrt said he’d been attacked on his way back from the quarter. So Ciesrt took her to heal his father. Ciesrt had brought her home, and helped her to bed, then he went back to his father’s when I came.”
“Why? If she was so ill… ?” asks Lorn.
“She didn’t let him know. She just got him to send a messenger and a carriage for me. As soon as I arrived, he left.”
“Did you tell him?”
“I waited. I sent a message for Kharl’s consort, and Liataphi’s as well. This morning I also sent a message to Tyrsal. I thought he should know, and I didn’t want you to have to do it, not after I heard about the fighting in the streets.” Jerial’s smile is cold, even as the tears ooze from her eyes, slowly, as if she has few tears left to give. “Lleya came immediately; Kharl’s consort-I don’t even know her name-she came later. We all agreed that somehow she had overextended herself in healing, possibly at the infirmary, and not understood that the child would take what little chaos and strength she had left. Ciesrt is distraught… truly so.”
“It is not enough,” Lorn whispers. “Distraught… merely distraught.” He stands rigid until he can see again. “She healed Kharl… after all he had done? I don’t understand.”
“I don’t, either, Lorn,” Jerial says softly. “But you know Myryan and I have never looked at things quite from the same window.”
Abruptly, Lorn extends the scroll to Ryalth. “Do you know what she means?”
Lorn sees her eyes go back over the words… once, twice. Abruptly, her eyes shimmer, and tears course from her eyes, silently, but the only word she offers is, “No.”
“I should have done more,” Lorn finally whispers. “I should have acted all those years back. I should have. Father was wrong.”
But the protest changes nothing, and Lorn gazes across the dining area, his eyes blank.
Ryalth shudders.
Jerial stands there mute.
Kysia appears at the edge of the room. “Ser, Ladies… there is a magus at the gate.”
“If it’s Ciesrt… I don’t want to see him,” Lorn says.
“This late?” asks Jerial.
“Did he say who he is?” asks Ryalth.
“His name is Tyrsal. He has red hair…”
Lorn turns. “I’ll go.
Tyrsal stands beside the gate. He has tethered his mount to the single bronze ring set in the wall. Behind him the lancers watch.
“It’s all right,” Lorn calls to them. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes as he unlocks the gate and morions for the redheaded magus to enter.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I should be the one apologizing for coming this late and intruding.” Tyrsal steps inside the iron gate, and gestures back at the mounted lancers. “Your idea?”
“The new Majer-Commander’s.” Lorn locks the gate, steps around the privacy screen, and turns back along the darkened marble way.
“Rynst? What happened? He wasn’t in the fighting, was he?” Tyrsal steps up beside Lorn as they circle the silent fountain.
“He vanished last night. Then Commander Lhary killed the Captain-Commander, and I killed Lhary.” Lorn shrugs as he walks.
“That isn’t everything,” Tyrsal says.
“You’re too good with truth-reading. No… it’s not,” Lorn admits, “but that’s the way it will be.”
“It’s interesting that Kharl was wounded last night, badly enough to need a healer,” Tyrsal says. “I doubt a common bravo would have the skill…”
“It could be,” Lorn says tiredly. “But there’s not much I can do except watch Kharl now… is there?” He opens the veranda door once more.
Tyrsal stops, and looks at Lorn. “Before we go inside, you need to know something.”
Lorn waits.
“Ciesrt died in all the turmoil.”
“Ciesrt?”
The redheaded magus offers a sad smile. “I killed him. I followed your example. No one will ever find him.”
“Because of Myryan?”
“After Jerial’s message, I decided.” The redhead nods. “There’s not much else I can say, Lorn. I’m not asking for forgiveness or praise. Ciesrt was weak, and he let his weakness destroy Myryan. He would have let it happen again, and keep letting it happen.”
“I know.” Lorn looks down. “I should have taken care of the problem when I could. I didn’t, and I’ll always regret that.”
“I don’t need to come in,” Tyrsal says. “Aleyar is worried. She didn’t want me out at all, but I wanted you to know before tomorrow.”
“I’m glad you came.” Lorn claps Tyrsal’s arm and hand. “…Thank you… for caring… for being a friend.”
Tyrsal smiles wanly. “Sometimes… that’s not enough. I know that.”
“It is enough.” Lorn says, meaning it fully. “Thank you.”
“I’ll talk to you later.” Tyrsal turns.
Lorn and Tyrsal walk silently back to the gate, where Lorn unlocks it and lets Tyrsal out. He watches until the sound of hoofs dies away. Then Lorn walks back into the house. “Where is Tyrsal?” asks Jerial.
“Tyrsal just wanted to say he was sorry. He didn’t want stay or to come in. Aleyar is worried.”
“He must have wanted to let you know that a great deal,” Jerial says, “to be out on a night like this.”
“He did. He is… He’s always been a true friend.” Lorn looks at Jerial. “You’ll stay here tonight.”
“I’d thought I would.”
Then he looks at Ryalth. “I’m going upstairs. I just need to be alone for a little bit.”
She nods and smiles softly, sadly. “Kerial and I will be waiting in the bedchamber. Whenever…”
“I won’t be long.”
Lorn walks up the steps, slowly, heavily. He puts a hand to the railing to steady himself. Once on the second level, he slips into the bedchamber, where he picks up the silver-covered book. He carries it to his study, where he uses a striker to light the lamp. Even the thought of using chaos for as little as that intensifies the headache that has yet to show any signs of subsiding.
After looking for long moments at the silver-covered book, he slowly leafs through it until he finds the page he recalls. He reads the words slowly.
Ashes to ashes
and dust to dust
will not bring back the dance
nor the dancer.
Chaos to order and back to flame
brings back no songs without name.
For the lesson that I have learned
is that there is none.
No one else will sing those songs,
nor dance, nor smile that smile,
because one less one is none.
In her own way, Myryan had been a dancer, a dancer of the soul… Had he and Ryalth-and Tyrsal-been the only ones to see that?
For a long time, he studies the lines in the book. Finally, he closes it and gazes out the window into the darkness.
A man can change the times-sometimes-and the times may make one man, but they destroy many others in the process.
There is a rustle behind him, and he turns.
Ryalth stands there. “I was worried.”
“I’m all right,” he lies. Then he opens the book and hands it to her, open to the verse he has read again and again. “I was thinking about Myryan.”
She nods and twin lines of silver streak her cheeks. In time, she closes the book, and he turns down the lamp wick, and they walk to the bedchamber, where Kerial sleeps, restlessly.
They watch their son, silently, as the night deepens.
CLXII
Lorn stands before the acting Majer-Commander of the Mirror Lancers. Behind Sypcal, cold droplets of water bead on the antique panes of the study windows, droplets from the cold drizzle that blankets Cyad and the Palace of Light.
“You report that all is calm in Cyad, Majer. Can you be sure of such?” asks Sypcal, leaning forward slightly over the table desk that had been Rynst’s.
Lorn nods. “Since the street battles, I have taken the liberty of having squads ride the roads and ways, ser. They have seen no signs of others bearing arms.” Lorn does not report that he has also used his chaos-glass, if sparingly, because of the headache that has not yet fully left him, and asked Tyrsal to do the same. “The rain may aid in keeping the calm.”
“And your presence, I am certain, has a certain restraining effect.”
“They’re afraid I’ll slaughter them?” Lorn smiles mirthlessly. “I only slew those who rose against the Emperor.”