Magi'i of Cyador

XIV

LORN WALKS SLOWLY along the covered upper portico of the dwelling, trying to ignore both his faint headache and the patter and splatting the sudden winter rain, such a change from the frost of the day before or even from the dryness of the afternoon. His head seems to pulse with the hissing of the rain and the dripping of the larger droplets that have rolled off the tile roof and fall onto the edge of the walks and the walls.

He finally stops outside the open door to his father’s study, waiting for a moment, as if to see whether his sire will notice. When there is no response or invitation, Lorn steps into the study. “You summoned me, ser?”

In the storm-dim gloom, lightened by the oil lamps at each end of the pale oak desk-table, Kien’elth looks up from the scroll he peruses. “Sit down, Lorn.” The silver-haired magus sets the scroll aside. The crossed lightning bolts on his tunic radiate a faint golden light of their own.

Although the silver-manteled lamps cast an even glow across the room, suffusing with a warm light the blond wooden wall panels and the dark amber leather of the volumes set in the bookcase built into the wall beside the desk, the room is chill. Lorn lowers himself into the hard seat of the single armless and straight-backed wooden chair. He faces his father and waits.

“I have been talking to Lector Hyrist’elth and Lector Chyenfel’elth ….” Kien’elth’s fine eyebrows lift as if asking for Lorn’s response.

“Yes, ser.”

“They have noted that while your knowledge and scholarship remain outstanding, you do not manifest the love of the Magi’i and our works that are necessary for true success as a magus.” Kien’elth studies his son. “We have discussed this before, Lorn, and I had hoped you would change yourapproach to your studies and to the senior Lectors.”

“Ser …. I have learned a great deal, and even the Lectors have indicated that my studies have been superior.” Lorn lets a puzzled expression cross his face. “Have I not been diligent and enthusiastic in my studies?”

“Mere excellence in studies is not enough for a magus, Lorn. Enthusiasm for studies alone is not sufficient, either. One must always carry the awareness that the Magi’i are what distinguishes Cyador from the barbarians or the Hamorians-and what distinguished the Rational Stars from the black angels. Without the understanding of chaos as the font of life and the core of prosperity, a flame lance is little more than a brighter, sharper barbarian blade. A firewagon is little more than a more powerful eight-horse team.”

“I have always understood and accepted that, Father,” Lorn says truthfully.

“Yes … you have. But you have not understood that there is a greater good beyond personal accomplishments.” The older man offers a rueful smile. “Nor do you understand with your heart that golds are mere counters in a child’s game, or that all Cyador rests on how the Magi’i balance chaos and the black order.”

Lorn represses a frown. While his studies and his practical work as an advanced student magus have touched upon the balancing of chaos with the cold and deadly nature of order, this is the first time his father has directly mentioned such balancing-or even suggested that he has observed Lorn’s clandestine merchanting ventures.

“I have prevailed upon my friendship with Captain-Commander Luss’alt to have you accepted as a probationary officer trainee. Luss’alt is in charge of the Mirror Lancer operations throughout all Cyador, under Majer-Commander Rynst’alt. You also know, I am certain, that lancer training is well away from Cyad.” Kien’elth pauses.

Lorn considers both the words and the pause. Knowing that his father is a closer acquaintance of Rynst’alt than would be normal from their relative positions within the Quarter of the Magi’i, Lorn also understands that there ismuch he does not understand, except that his father thinks it is important that Lorn know a favor has been called in, and that Rynst’alt has not been involved. “Yes, ser.”

“High Lector Chyenfel’elth and Lector Hyrist’elth are most impressed with your talent, but not your attitude.” The older man gestures as if to wave off any objection Lorn may raise. “Yes, you are most respectful. Yes, you learn everything before you, and more. Yes, you have greater mastery of chaos forces than any other student magus and probably a mastery greater than most of the fourth level adepts, and even some third level Magi’i. And you have greater potential than that, even if you receive no more training. However …” Kien’elth draws out the word. “Now is not the best of times for a talented magus to manifest less than perfect adulation.”

“So Vernt is safe, then?” inquires Lorn, understanding his own danger, if not precisely all the possible forms that danger could lead to were he to remain a student and become a full magus. If he were allowed that far. Then he realizes what else his father has said and nods.

“He is safe. He does not have either excessive talent or excessive skepticism, and he will learn more, because he is patient, if not so precociously brilliant as his elder brother.”

“Is this because the towers are failing?”

Kien’elth raises his eyebrows. “I should have guessed that you would puzzle that out.” He pauses, steepling his fingers together. “It would not be wise for me, or for you, to discuss this farther. So let us talk of other matters. You may recall that the barbarian attacks are increasing, and increased attacks require greater chaos transfers for firewagons and firelances. A greater number of firelances must be charged and transported north and west. Likewise, more lancers must be raised and trained, and more cupridium blades must be forged.” Kien’elth smiles, but his golden eyes remain concerned, and their expression does not match that upon his mouth.

Lorn understands. His father-all the Magi’i-live and work where the truth, or falsehood, of every word they utter can be sensed and used in one fashion or another-at leastby the most talented of the Magi’i. That understanding breeds caution even in settings that others might consider safe from scrutiny.

“The need for more lancers means a need for more junior officers, and that affords you an opportunity.” This time, his father’s smile is more complete. “Although Luss’alt and I do not, shall we say, see exactly eye to eye, he needs more capable junior officers, and he has heard of your skills with a blade. He has not heard of where you have been … such as this afternoon. I would not repeat such a visitation as that before you leave Cyad, no matter what her charms may be.”

“Yes, ser. Thank you. Very much. I will do my best.”

“I’m sure you will. And in the Mirror Lancers, success is measured more by ability than by attitude.” Kien’elth laughs. “Not totally … but more.”

“I understand.” Lorn also understands the warning. The Mirror Lancers are no different from the Magi’i, except that most Lancer officers cannot truthread, and therefore must judge more by actions than by hidden intent revealed by truthreading.

“You will leave for Kynstaar tomorrow. There will be a firewagon departing from the school. You will doubtless face some difficulties, there, but … you have surmounted such before, and I have every confidence that you will again.”

“Yes, ser.” Lorn nods.

Kien’elth stands slowly. “I wish …” He shrugs apologetically.

Lorn also stands. “I know, ser. It’s not your doing.”

“I can still wish, my son.”

Lorn lowers his head for a moment.

After he leaves the study, Lorn walks slowly along the covered portico of the upper level of the house, pausing to look southward through the rain that is beginning to taper off toward the gray stormy waters of the harbor, waters more often than not usually an intense blue, with the intensity of the water’s color underscored by the white sunstone piers. Today, the piers are gray, like the sky and the water.

Then he descends one level and slips toward the rear ofthe dwelling. There, he pauses before the closed door of his older sister’s chambers.

“You can come in, Lorn,” Jerial calls.

He opens the heavy oak door, slowly, and closes it behind him.

As usual, Jerial wears a form-fitting tunic-this one of a silky black that shows her petite but well-endowed figure. She stands beside a polished white oak table desk that is almost empty, and her eyes are intent as she studies Lorn. Beyond the narrow archway, Lorn sees the bed chamber, with the dark blue coverlet set neatly on the narrow bed, and the tables as neat as the sitting room where they stand.

“Dice?” Lorn looks at the six white cubes on his sister’s table. “I suppose there’s the uniform of a beardless junior lancer in your wardrobe?”

“No.” Jerial smiles back. “That of a young merchanter, a spoiled youth who has more coins than sense. Someone who loses most of the time, but loses little, and wins seldom, but well. Not, shall we say, a scholarly enumerator.”

Lorn looks from the dice to the wardrobe and then back to the dice.

“Why not?” asks Jerial. “I can be a healer, or a brood mare. Neither will gain me golds nor independence.”

“You have the golds invested in the Exchange?” Lorn raises his eyebrows.

“No. The Bank of the Clanless Traders. There’s no interest, but far fewer questions.”

“Something like Jeron’mer?”

“You might say so,” Jerial replies, “but I’d appreciate your not asking.”

“In case you’re forced into being a brood mare? So I can’t reveal anything to father?”

Jerial nods, then smiles wryly. “I like Cyad, Lorn, but not enough to consort with someone I detest. So far, I’ve managed to steer father away from people like Ciesrt ….”

“I see.” His sister’s words remind Lom-again-that he has yet to do anything about the impending consorting of Myryan to Ciesrt. His eyes light on Jerial’s face, taking inthe determined and set chin, the hard and piercing blue eyes. “What’s Ciesrt’s weakness?”

Jerial shrugs. “He has no strengths.”

Lorn nods. “And no principles, except self-interest.”

“You, my brother, do well enough to conceal such.” Jerial’s eyebrows both arch.

“Maybe I’m like him, then.”

“No one would ever say that, even Dettaur, and he detests you. He thinks you’re the one who broke his fingers years ago.”

“That could be a problem in time to come. I’m leaving for Kynstaar in the morning,” Lorn says quietly.

“Is that why you’re here?”

“I thought you’d like to know.” He grins insouciantly, as if he were on the korfal field or in a coffee house.

“At least you can be an officer, and Dettaur won’t be that senior to you.”

“If I don’t get thrown from a mount or ‘accidentally’ incinerated by a firelance, you mean?” Lorn’s laugh is half humorous, half deprecating. “I have some chance of surviving there.”

“You have no illusions, brother dear?” Jerial’s laugh is somehow both ironic and supportive. “That will doubtless help.”

“I wanted to talk about healing,” he says.

Jerial nods. “You would.”

“I’ve seen you and Myryan do it. There’s a black mist that enfolds you-is that why you like black?”

“Black has its uses, one of which is illusion.”

“Ciesrt wouldn’t like black,” Lorn notes. “About the healing?”

“I think of it almost as an order of sorts. It’s the opposite of the surging power of chaos, and there really are two kinds of chaos, the unclean kind in a wound and the kind in the towers and the power cells of the firewagons-”

“You’ve never been near a tower,” Lorn says.

“I don’t have to be. Father has been clear that the chaos that powers the firewagons is the same as the chaos thatcomes from the towers. You’ve all talked about how the Magi’i transfer that chaos into the firewagons, and I’ve certainly been close enough to firewagons to sense the difference.”

“And you’ve looked with all your senses. Most healers don’t.”

“Except healers raised in this house,” counters Jerial.

“That’s true enough.” He glances from Jerial to the dice, and then back to her fine-featured face, a visage that, for all its beauty, might have been carved from sunstone or granite.

“What do you want to do with what I show you?” Jerial asks.

Lorn offers a lazy smile, hoping he will not have to respond verbally.

“Brother dear … you’re sweet when you want to be, but you use everyone and everything.” Her hard smile softens. “Sometimes.”

“I’ve tried not to hurt either of you.”

“You’ve learned to use people, including us, without hurting them, but it’s still use, Lorn. Remember when you gave both Myryan and me those chaos-cut emeralds set in cupridium.”

“Yes,” Lorn admits warily.

“You never told mother and father, did you?”

“No.”

“But they knew all the same.” Jerial smiles as if the answer were obvious.

“I suppose so.”

“How would either of us wear something that costly without mother or father asking?” She laughs. “That way, you created the impression of modesty and caring.” A shrug follows. “I know you care, but you also wanted them to know you cared, and you impressed them all the more by doing it quietly.” A crooked smile follows. “And … they couldn’t ask you how you managed to come up with all those golds.”

Lorn flushes.

“How did you? Gambling … or theft?”

Lorn steels himself, then shrugs reluctantly. “Neither.Trade. You know that. That’s why you talked about enumerators.”

“You aren’t allowed to handle coins, and the Lectors-oh … who is it? What woman, I should ask. It would have to be a merchanter woman.” Abruptly, she laughs. “The scent! Of course.” Jerial shakes her head. “So much scent that we all thought …”

“I don’t believe you’ve met her,” Lorn says quietly. “I’ve known her for over a year. Over two,” he corrects himself.

“Do you … I won’t ask that.”

“Thank you.”

“You must want to know about healing badly … or you wouldn’t have given away so much. You can’t use it on yourself, you know? Except to keep flux-chaos out, if you have the strength.”

“I know.”

“Very astute.” Jerial nods. “I’ll show you some more.” She smiles. “Myryan told me what she showed you.”

“A man has no secrets ….” he protests.

“From his sisters?” She laughs warmly. “Not too many, but you hold more than most men.”

Lorn sincerely hopes so. Most sincerely.