Magi'i of Cyador

XVI

IN THE CHILLY midday light, Lorn stands by the sunstone bench beside the main entrance to the Quarter of the Magi’i. Beside the bench is a single canvas bag, containing smallclothes, toiletries, and a few small personal items, including, buried deeply, Ryalth’s ancient book, the book he has promised to read and has not-yet.

Behind him, the squared arches of the entrance glitter in the sun. The light reflecting off the chaos-altered sunstone shifts moment to moment even though the sky is clear and cloudless, all traces of the rain and hail of the day before gone, except for hints of dampness on the stones where the sun has not struck.

As he waits, Lorn turns and studies the square arch that leads into the center building, a structure seemingly of smooth stone and tinted windows. The arch itself bears no decorations, no carved figures, no embellishments. Then there are few embellishments and only scattered statuary throughout Cyad. The City of Light is its own art, Lorn reflects as he notes that the only breaks in the seamless stone are the words across the center of the arch itself.

“Chaos is the heart of life; the Magi’i serve life andchaos.” He murmurs the words to himself. Is that why he will never be a magus, because he cannot bend himself to serve? Or serve blindly? He frowns, but the frown vanishes as he turns toward the sound of heavy footsteps.

Ciesrt, nearly as lanky as Lorn’s brother Vernt, but more broad-shouldered and far heavier on his feet, lumbers awkwardly toward Lorn.

“Greetings,” Lorn offers.

“So … you’re going to be a lancer?” Ciesrt half-smiles, but the smile conceals nervousness.

“I’m being sent for lancer training. If I become a lancer officer depends on how I do.” Lorn follows the words with a rueful smile.

Ciesrt nods, thoughtfully. “I suppose it doesn’t matter how good we are, but only how well our efforts are seen by those above us.”

Lorn conceals another frown. He hadn’t expected something like that from Ciesrt. “Someone has to decide.”

“You always wanted to be the one, Lorn,” Ciesrt adds quietly. “You’re pretty good at concealing it, but … not good enough for the Magi’i. Maybe you’ll do better with the lancers.” Ciesrt’s muddy-green eyes fix on Lorn. “Sometimes, it’s better to go with the chaos flow on more than the surface.”

Lorn nods, waiting.

“Good luck.” Ciesrt offers a half-smile, then turns.

“Thank you.” Lorn watches the lanky student magus for a moment, wondering if he had indeed made a mistake in not trying to deal with Ciesrt’s father. Yet … all he had to go on were his feelings, and he didn’t think murder should be based on feelings alone. Should it?

He turns at the sound of another set of lighter steps on the white stone pavement.

The red-haired Tyrsal stops short of the bench. “I’m sorry, Lorn. I don’t understand. You were the best student.”

“It’s probably better this way.”

“Is there anything I Can do?” Tyrsal grins. “I mean, here in Cyad. If you’re careful, you can take care of yourselfbetter than I could. I still remember how you handled Dett.” The redhead frowns. “He’s probably a lancer officer now. You’d better be careful.”

“I will.” Lorn pauses. “You could stop by the house a few times and talk to my sisters. You’ve met them, haven’t you?”

“Just Myryan.”

“Jerial’s my older sister. They’re both healers, but Myryan’s got several years before she’s finished.”

“Like Kylernya, except she’s just started.”

“She’s that old?” Lorn remembers Tyrsal’s sister as barely waist-high, watching a korfal game.

Tyrsal nods. “It will be a while before she gets into real healing.” He pauses. “I’d be welcome at your house?”

“You’re a student magus in good standing.” Lorn laughs gently. “If you’re worried about it, tell Vernt that I asked you to.”

“We’ll see. I will call on them.” Tyrsal pauses. “Are you sure that’s all I can do?”

“For right now.” Lorn shrugs. “I really don’t know what to expect … but if I need anything else, I’ll let you know.” If I can.

“I’ll be here,” Tyrsal promises, before he turns away.

The lancer firewagon is late in getting to the Quarter of the Magi’i, and Lorn has been waiting on or standing beside the hard sunstone bench for most of the afternoon before the vibration of six chaos-driven wheels shivers through the pavement, and the shimmering white vehicle slows to a stop opposite the squared stone arch. Shadows from the uphill buildings that hold the chaos towers of the Magi’i cast two bars of darkness across the gleaming white lacquer of the firewagon. The curved glass of the driver’s station reflects the shadowed sunstone behind Lorn enough so that Lorn cannot see the driver of the vehicle that looms at least another six cubits above the smooth pavement.

As Lorn stands quickly, he can sense the flickers of chaos from the storage cells that are hidden behind the shining white cupridium panels at the rear of the firewagon. As quickly as the former student mage has stood, a lancer officerin a cream and green uniform is already out of the forward compartment. The two single silver bars, one on each side of his short stiff green collar, glow. The officer’s eyes take in Lorn and the canvas bag beside the bench. “You Lorn?”

“Yes, ser,” Lorn answers.

“Hop in. Rear compartment. Only three of you today. Be close to midnight before we reach Kynstaar.”

As the officer watches, Lorn opens the side door to the rear compartment, a door of white-lacquered cupridium, light, but stronger than iron.

“Put your stuff under the seat.”

“Yes, ser.” Lorn glances at the two other young men. One is clearly older and far burlier than Lorn, with a swarthy complexion and a short-trimmed black beard-one of the first beards Lorn has seen on a young man. The second is slighter and far more wiry than Lorn, with hair that is somewhere between sandy-blond and light brown. “I’m Lorn.”

“Akytol’alt,” rumbles the larger man.

“Kyl’mer,” follows the slighter figure.

“Well … I was Lorn’elth,” Lorn corrects himself as he places his bag under the curved white oak bench seat and seats himself beside Kyl and facing Akytol and the other seat, “but that will change.”

“One way or the other,” snorts Akytol.

Even before Lorn closes the door, the vehicle begins to glide away from the Quarter of the Magi’i with the thin and distinctive whine that marks all firewagons. Despite the hardness of the lightly padded seats, their curvature makes sitting tolerable, and the suspension is strong enough that the ride is almost without bumps.

Through the right window, just before the firewagon turns north, Lorn takes what may be his last look for a long time at the Palace of Light, its windows bright with the light from the innumerable lamps within its sunstone walls. Despite the gleaming whiteness and the lights, for a moment, or so it seems to Lorn, the Palace seems empty.

“Ever lifted a blade?” asks Akytol.

“I’ve had some training,” Lorn admits.

“Some? Well … better than most.” Akytol shakes his head, then leans back and closes his eyes.

Lorn turns to Kyl. “If one might ask …?”

“How did a merchanter’s son get sent off to lancer training?” Kyl shakes his head. “Another time … if you would.”

“That’s fine by me.” Lorn nods. He suspects neither of them is interested in revealing much, especially not with Akytol present.

Kyl turns his head to watch the buildings on the west side of North Avenue pass by.

In turn, Lorn watches those on the east side-and the few carts and carriages, and the scattered handfuls of people, a few in shimmercloth, but most in the green cottons of workers and crafters. Before long, Cyad lies behind them and the firewagon has turned eastward onto the Eastern Highway. The sun has dropped below the horizon, and the clear green-blue sky has begun to purple.

Lorn sees as well as senses the glow of chaos that surrounds the firewagon as it rolls through the twilight toward Kynstaar, the only sound the low rumble of the six cupridium-coated iron wheels on the whitened granite of the Great Eastern Highway. To an outsider the vehicle would indeed resemble a horseless and fire-swathed wagon or carriage.

Across from him, Akytol sits back, his eyes closed, a faint snore punctuating his sleep. Kyl glances nervously from Lorn to Akytol, and then for long periods out the tinted window. There is no sound from the front compartment and the unnamed lancer officer.

Finally, Lorn closes his own eyes. He can do nothing until he reaches Kynstaar..