Scion of Cyador

CLXII

Lorn stands before the acting Majer-Commander of the Mirror Lancers. Behind Sypcal, cold droplets of water bead on the antique panes of the study windows, droplets from the cold drizzle that blankets Cyad and the Palace of Light.

“You report that all is calm in Cyad, Majer. Can you be sure of such?” asks Sypcal, leaning forward slightly over the table desk that had been Rynst’s.

Lorn nods. “Since the street battles, I have taken the liberty of having squads ride the roads and ways, ser. They have seen no signs of others bearing arms.” Lorn does not report that he has also used his chaos-glass, if sparingly, because of the headache that has not yet fully left him, and asked Tyrsal to do the same. “The rain may aid in keeping the calm.”

“And your presence, I am certain, has a certain restraining effect.”

“They’re afraid I’ll slaughter them?” Lorn smiles mirthlessly. “I only slew those who rose against the Emperor.”

“Exactly. If they do not rise, then you will not slaughter them.” Sypcal’s smile is almost as mirthless as Lorn’s. The acting Majer-Commander remains seated behind the table desk. His red hair seems dull, although his eyes are alert as he looks at Lorn. “There is one more matter, Majer.”

“Ser?”

“Your presence has been requested at the Palace. By the Empress. Immediately.”

Lorn swallows.

“She wishes to convey her gratitude to you for saving Cyad from Sasyk. In person.” Sypcal frowns slightly. “She is less than perfectly well, I understand, but she insisted that I bring you in person.”

“Yes, ser.”

“I will meet you at the entrance shortly.”

“Yes, ser,” Lorn responds a last time. He bows, then makes his way out of the Majer-Commander’s study.