Scion of Cyador

CIX

In the dimness of the upstairs study in the dwelling, Lorn rubs his forehead, then concentrates once more on the chaos-glass before him, trying to bring up the image of Rustyl. He smiles to himself. At least one advantage of using the glass in Cyad is that any of the upper-level adepts of the Magi’i might be suspect, and since none have felt his use of the glass, Lorn wagers that they will not know who follows them.

The silver mists appear, and then clear.

The blond figure of the first-level adept appears, in the same study where Lorn had seen him with Liataphi. Rustyl glances up from the study desk-and the glass before him-an annoyed expression on his narrow features. Even through the glass Lorn can see the hardness in the other’s deep-set eyes. Rustyl looks down at the glass, clearly concentrating.

Hoping that Rustyl cannot use his glass to see who is screeing him, Lorn quickly releases the image. Then he almost casually slides the wooden cover across the glass, so that there appears before him but a wooden box, before leaning back and massaging his forehead with his left hand, then the back of his neck. Even after several moments, there is no feeling of the chill which accompanies a glass looking at him, and he slowly releases the breath he had not quite realized he was holding.

After blotting his forehead, for the evening is warm despite the ocean breeze that helps to cool the upper level of their dwelling, Lorn takes several more deep breaths before he leans forward and returns to the chaos-glass.

He concentrates again, and the silver mists part to reveal the red-haired Commander Sypcal sitting on the edge of a bed in a modest bedchamber. Sypcal is bare-legged and wears but an undertunic. The woman to whom he is talking is gray-haired. She is propped up with pillows and wears a high-necked white cotton gown. She smiles as the commander speaks.

Lorn releases that image quickly as well, but with a more cheerful feeling.

The next image he attempts is that of Rynst, but the gray-haired commander sleeps on his back in a bed next to a figure Lorn suspects is the Majer-Commander’s consort.

The following image he calls up is that of the Captain-Commander. Luss sits alone at a table in a dwelling, with a bottle of wine before him. Lorn almost feels sorry for the man, even though he knows Luss has plotted for Lorn’s failure more than once.

At last, Lorn slides the chaos-glass into the compartment at the back of the drawer, and stands. He has learned little, as he does most nights and afternoons, but he knows more of those with whom he deals, and those insights gain more value with each passing day.

He walks down the hall to the bedchamber, remembering to slide the iron bolt in place as he steps inside.

Ryalth looks up from the bed, where Kerial nurses at her breast. “Did you discover aught?”

“Very little new. Rustyl is using his glass-almost every night, I think, but I have not sensed him seeking us, and I wonder if he is so discreet that I cannot sense him.”

Ryalth shakes her head. “He is of the Magi’i. A fallen student magus who is but a majer is no threat to a high first-level adept.”

Lorn laughs. “That could be.” He shakes his head, and his eyes go to the silver volume beside the bed. He picks it up, and flips through the pages until he finds the lines. He reads softly.

“I wonder yet about that verse,” Ryalth says softly, easing Kerial into a different position for nursing.

“I don’t even know who this Sampson was,” Lorn says, “but I feel like he must have faced what we do.”

“You are wise enough not to have simple trust, dear lancer,” Ryalth says. “Not in Cyad.” After a moment, she adds, “Even if you do want to think of Cyad as something special.”

“It is. There’s never been a city in the world like it.”

“That is true,” Ryalth concedes, “but it was created by people like any other.”

Not quite, Lorn reflects, or Cyad would not exist.

Ryalth eases Kerial to her shoulder and pats his back. He burps softly, then yawns.

Lorn smiles at his consort.

“He’s sleepy,” she says softly.

“Good,” murmurs Lorn. “Good.”

“So am I,” she says with a faint smile as she rises to slip their son into his bed. “Sleepy, I mean.”

Lorn manages not to roll his eyes. He can use the sleep.