Magi'i of Cyador

XXXVIII

LORN REMAINS STANDING before the desk-table in the square tower, the late afternoon light from the high windows cascading around him, illuminating the dust motes that hang in the air, some of which seem to glitter with minuscule pointsof chaos. His eyes watch the newly promoted Majer.

“ … you destroyed three score, but lost more than a score yourself. Then you turned back without completing the patrol.” Brevyl’s voice is flat. So are his green eyes.

“Yes, ser.”

“You could have pressed on,” the Majer observes. “Others have. That is what lancers do, if you don’t recall, Captain.”

“Yes, ser, I could have.” Lorn keeps his voice even, emotionless. “We would have lost all the wounded, and we wouldn’t have seen any raiders. If you wish, ser, we’ll return to patrol tomorrow.”

“If any of your wounded survive, Captain.” Brevyl pauses. “I liked you better when you were a polite and subservient undercaptain.” The Majer snorts. “You’re supposed to kill barbarians, Captain, not offer me reasons why you aren’t.”

“Yes, ser.”

“You’ll return the day after tomorrow. I’ll transfer a half score from Zerl’s company to yours. Not the Second. Combine both squads under Dielbyn and use them as a third squad. You can have a score of charged lances. That’s all.”

“Yes, ser.” Lorn bows. “We’ll be ready, ser.”

“And Captain …”

“Yes, ser?”

“The Majer-Commander likes lancer officers who follow orders and die. He has little use for lancer officers who impose their own priorities.”

“Yes, ser.” Lorn meets Brevyl’s eyes.

After a moment, Brevyl is the one to look away. “You may go, Captain.”

Lorn bows again. He also inclines his head slightly to Kielt, the senior squad leader and the Majer’s doorkeeper, on his way out of the tower.

He crosses the courtyard and turns northward toward the barracks.

Dubrez stands by the side of the barracks building as Lorn approaches. “Ser?”

Lorn smiles. “Tell the men they have tonight and tomorrow off. I’ll talk to Dielbyn. The Majer is restructuring theSecond as a third squad of the Fifth. That will probably be until we get another officer and some reinforcements.”

“That could be spring, ser,” ventures the senior squad leader.

“It could be. It could be in a pair of eightdays, too.” Lorn pauses. “Don’t tell the men about the Second yet.”

“No, ser. Best to let Dielbyn tell’em.” Dubrez’s smile is ironic. “Won’t hurt to have another squad, a full one.”

“No. It won’t.” Lorn glances toward the stables, where he can see several lancers still grooming mounts, then back to Dubrez. “I’m going to the infirmary. Then I’ll find Dielbyn.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn’s boots barely whisper on the hard stones of the courtyard as he walks along the north side of the barracks. He steps through the untended and time-darkened white oak door. The infirmary consists of a long bay at the north end of the barracks, with a dozen pallet bunks on each side. In more than two years, Lorn has never seen more than a half score lancers in the infirmary, and he has used his healing talents secretly and sparingly, for the energy required is great, and he does not wish that talent known. What he plans is a somewhat greater risk, but if all the wounded die, he risks even greater displeasure from the Majer.

There are three lancers laid out in the infirmary bunks, lying in the alternate bunks on the south side. Lorn’s eyes flick to the first man, almost sprawled on his back, his undertunic half ripped away from his chest. With each intermittent breath, the lancer gurgles, then shudders. His eyes are wide open, seeing nothing. The captain can sense the whitish red of chaos that envelops the man, chaos so raw and pervasive that Lorn knows the man will die within the day.

Slowly, Lorn walks past the dying man and an empty pallet to the third bed, where a stocky blond lancer is propped up with horsehair pillows, covered with a faded gray cotton cloth.

“Ser?” asks the lancer, who wears a wood and leather brace around his lower left leg.

“I wanted to see how you’re doing, Eltak.” Lorn offers a smile.

“Be all right, ser.”

“I’m sure you will be.” Lorn nods and leans forward, his fingers touching the brace. “It’s not causing a sore, is it?”

“No, ser.”

Lorn has to struggle to summon the smallest bit of dark order, so opposed to the flow of chaos, to squeeze away the clump of red chaos that lingers where the broken bones meet. He keeps smiling as he straightens. While the bone is set, and healing, and Eltak will recover, he will limp. “You’ll be riding again in a season.”

“Thought so, ser.”

Lorn nods and moves past another empty pallet to the third lancer, where he stops. An angular young man with wiry black hair lies propped up with pillows, a dressing across his right shoulder. Lorn has to search his memory for the man’s name, although the lancer is in Shofirg’s squad. After a moment, Lorn asks, “How are you feeling, Stynnet?”

“Felt better, ser, and I’d feel even better iffn they’d let me go.”

Lorn can sense the points of red chaos beneath the stitches and the dressing. While they are small, without a healer, they will grow until Stynnet will be dying like the older lancer in the first bed.

“You’re not as well as you feel, lancer,” Lorn says gently. “Close your eyes. Keep them closed until I tell you to open them.”

“Ser?” Stynnet’s forehead crinkles. His mouth opens as if to protest.

“If you want …” Lorn stops and fixes his eyes on Stynnet. “Lancer … don’t argue. Just do it.”

Stynnet swallows. “Yes, ser.” He closes his eyes.

Lorn lets the tips of the fingers of his left hand rest lightly on Stynnet’s skin just above the top edge of the dressing. Trying to call up what little he has learned from Myryan and Jerial, Lorn tries to let the black mist of order-the order-death of chaos, but a necessary one here-around the pointsof wound chaos he can sense, one point after another, until they vanish. They may return, but Stynnet’s own chaos-order balance can cope by then-Lorn hopes. He straightens and takes a slow breath, not showing the momentary dizziness that swirls around and through him.

Stynnet’s eyes are still closed.

“You can open your eyes, lancer.”

“Ser … felt funny … what did you do?”

“Just offered some good thoughts ….” Lorn feels as though his smile is lopsided. “We want you back riding.”

“Ser …?”

“Yes?” Lorn waits, a more easy smile upon his lips.

“Nothing, ser.” Stynnet does not conceal a slight frown.

“You’ll be fine, Stynnet.” Lorn nods and turns. He still has to break the news to Dielbyn about the lancers of the Second Company being attached to the Fifth. Then, he will ensure that the promised lances are indeed charged and ready-perhaps slightly more charged than Brevyl anticipates. How much of that he can do he is far from certain, and it will entail another splitting headache-in more ways than one.

Once more … he must balance what he can do with what he would choose to do. And without overtly revealing any more than he must to survive.