Magi'i of Cyador

XLIII

THE FIREWAGON RUMBLES through the twilight toward Chulbyn, the town that exists only to serve as the station for transferring passengers and urgent freight from the firewagons plying the Great Northern Highway to those using the Great Eastern Highway. Even though the chaos cells that power the rear wheel motors are behind the second compartment, Lorn can sense the waning of the cells’ power. This trip will be the vehicle’s last, until those cells are replaced with the recharged cells periodically carried from Cyad to the replenishment waystations.

Across from him snores a thin senior enumerator, while the Stitheth merchanter sleeps quietly in the far corner of the firewagon’s forward compartment.

The firewagon lurches ever so slightly, as if the wheels had struck something, and then crushed it, before the faintly rumbling sounds of normal travel resume. For a moment, the enumerator’s snores cease. But only for a moment, Lorn reflects.

The firewagons on the Great Northern Highway are smaller than those on the Great Eastern Highway, for all that the travel distance from Cyad to Chulbyn is less than a third the distance to Syadtar. Has it always been that way? Leaning back in the seat that become harder and harder, Lorn fingers a chin getting all too stubbly.

Will Cyad seem any different? Lorn smiles. Different it will seem, but in what ways he does not know. He hopes he will be able to recognize those differences and that he can spend some time with Ryalth.

A frown replaces the smile. Has Myryan been able to deal with being Ciesrt’s consort? He takes a long and slow breath. Should he have taken matters in hand there? Will he ever know? Does he want to know?

Outside the forward compartment of the firewagon, aschaos powers the vehicle along the gleaming white pavement of the Great Northern Highway, the twilight deepens into night. Inside, the enumerator snores; the merchanter sleeps, and Lorn ponders the days ahead.