Magi'i of Cyador

LXXXV

LORN GLANCES AT the scroll on the desk in the inner study, and then at the window. Outside, a warm drizzle is falling, and a hot fog rises from the granite stones of the courtyard. It is afternoon of his stand-down day, and he has not finished all the reports that have piled up. He cannot remember when he last had a clear-eyed moment in which to write Ryalth or his family, and he still must write a request to Commander Meylyd to pay the farrier for reshoeing ten mounts.

Finally, the lancer captain picks up the scroll from Majer Maran a second time and re-reads it slowly.

… while it is true that Second Company has been forced to deal with a singular amount of activity from the Accursed Forest, that does not relieve you of the responsibility for the safety of the people of Cyad.

Lorn snorts. It is not as if he has not already been made well aware of that requirement by many souls-beginning with the Patrol Manual itself. His eyes go back to the scroll.

Commander Meylyd has received more than a dozen message scrolls begging greater efforts in containing the creatures from the Accursed Forest, and I am hereby conveying his concerns to you. All in the Mirror Lancers know the difficulties of carrying out the duties laid upon us, often without the ideal support and supplies. This necessitates long eightdays, and fortitude not required of others. Such is the life of, and the glory of, an officer of the Mirror Lancers. As are all officers in the Mirror Lancers, you are required to accomplish your duties to the fullest of your abilities. Rationales andexcuses may serve for merchanters and outlanders, but the duty of a Mirror Lancer in the service of the Emperor and of chaos is to comply, and the accomplishment of the unbelievable and the impossible must be the commonplace for us. To allow a single creature to escape from the order-death realms of the Accursed Forest is not acceptable, not when the lives and livelihoods of the people are at stake ….

Lorn sets down the scroll and looks out the window once more at the steaming mist rising from the courtyard.

What can he do? Does he have any choice? If he does not bring greater use of his personal control of chaos to the fore, he will end up discredited. If he does, he may end up dead. After a time of blankly staring at the window, he bends and reclaims the scroll, then seats himself at the desk and begins to write his reply-his short reply.

I have received your scroll reminding me most persuasively of the responsibilities and the glories of serving as an officer of the Mirror Lancers. You have made most clear what is required of me, and I hear and obey.

He lets the ink dry before he seals the scroll and summons his senior squad leader. “Olisenn?”

The heavy-set lancer opens the door and steps into the inner study. “Yes, ser?”

Lorn gestures to the scroll on the desk he is sure that Olisenn has already read. “Majer Maran has more clearly outlined our responsibilities, and I have acceded fully to the scope of duties required of us. If you would make sure this reply is sent with the next Engineer firewagon …?” Lorn extends the sealed scroll.

“Yes, ser.” The senior squad leader nods.

“And Olisenn?”

“Yes, ser?” The oily politeness of the squad leader covers a deeper contempt.

Lorn continues to smile, almost blandly, waiting several moments before he speaks. “If I recall, is not the Accursed Forest the largest concentration of order and death in all of Cyador?”

“As you say, Captain, that it is.”

“And does order not have the property of converting the power of chaos into sterile death if chaos is not used in perfection?”

“That be what the Magi’i say. Me, being but a simple lancer, I’d not be knowing.”

Lorn nods. “Majer Maran has suggested that we must make greater efforts to keep the Forest creatures from reaching the holders and their herds and flocks.” He frowns. “We may have to make some changes to ensure that forms of sterile death are restricted to the Forest, and that, somehow, we can do such without casualties. It will be a challenge, but, as Majer Maran has pointed out, that is indeed our duty.”

“We’ve not been losing many lancers, ser. That is, not so many recently.”

“True … but we’ll have to stop more of the creatures.”

“Order it as you see fit, ser, and we’ll carry it out.”

“I’m sure you will. Still … one never knows when matters change, and I wanted you to know that we have been ordered to make changes.” The captain nods politely, waiting before adding. “It’s been said that in the past, some senior squad leaders developed their own communications with the command in Geliendra. You wouldn’t know of that, would you?”

“Me, ser? That would be against the line of command, ser.”

“So you never thought of anything like that?”

“Me, ser? No, ser.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that, Olisenn.” Lorn smiles. “That’s all for now, and please make sure that scroll gets to Majer Maran.”

“That I will, ser.”

Olisenn is lying about communicating with Geliendra, notthat Lorn has expected otherwise, but now it is clear that matters will change … must change.

After checking the Patrol reports he has written once more, Lorn puts them in the foot chest and locks it, useless as that clearly is against Olisenn’s surveillance, but somewhat effective, he hopes, against Olisenn’s understanding of what Lorn knows.

Then he steps into the outer office, but Olisenn has already departed.

Lorn ponders his next steps as he walks slowly toward his personal quarters. Maran’s scroll is clearly an attempt to put Lorn in an impossible situation. Use of chaos by lancers is effectively forbidden, and now Maran has insisted that Lorn not let a single Forest creature escape. Under the current circumstances, that will run lancers and mounts into the ground, and increase casualties. Increased casualties mean fewer lancers and more likely more animals escaping.

He takes a deep breath as he enters his deep quarters. He paces in a narrow circle for a time, then takes the silver volume from its concealed resting place and begins to page through it, half-wondering if the ancient Firstborn who had written the lines contained in the imperishable pages had ever faced a Majer Maran. What sort of steps would he-or she-have taken. What provisions made?

He continues to page through the volume. Suddenly, he stops, and reads.

I have no soul,

but a nibbled kernel …

feelings dried and stored

on the shelves of self

in the deep cellar where

provisions must be made

Provisions must be made.

I made them

gleaning

those wild leftovers of

unharvest days,

hoarding hard-to-come-bys

of cold reason

against colder seasons.

Provisions must be made,

and I have made them.

Slowly, he nods. While not exactly analogous, the basic truth is there. Provisions must be made, provisions of cold reason against colder seasons. Perhaps … just perhaps … the Firstborn were not all that different, after all.

That does not comfort him, and he shivers ever so slightly as he closes the volume.