Scion of Cyador

LV

The snow that had fallen in the more northern valleys and plagued Lorn and Esfayl on their return ride has barely left a dusting around Inividra, and the paving stones in the courtyard are clear, with but small drifted piles of white in the corners of the walls and buildings, as the two officers rein up outside the stable at the outpost in the winter twilight.

Lorn turns to Esfayl. “Captain, remember…fighting the weather gains nothing. The storms always win.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn dismounts and leads the gelding toward the stable door, but Hasmyr the ostler has already started forward to take the white’s reins.

“Good to see you, ser, and with all your lancers and mounts,” offers the gray-bearded ostler. “Seen too many young captains lose men in the winter.” He winks at Lorn, then looks up at Esfayl. “I can take your mount, too, ser.”

“Oh, thank you,” replies the captain.

“Thank you, Hasmyr,” Lorn says as he quickly unfastens his gear from behind the saddle, as well as the spare sabre he has made it a habit to carry.

“Not being a problem, sers.”

Esfayl grins sheepishly at Lorn as the two officers step away from their mounts and the ostler. “I suppose I still think of the Mirror Lancer words about carrying on through the storms of life and the battles with the eternal forces of darkness.”

Lorn laughs. “I learned that it’s hard to fight nature when I was patrolling the Accursed Forest. It’s better when you can avoid it. With the Forest, we couldn’t, but there’s little point in it out here.”

“Ser…you didn’t say a word to Hasmyr.”

“He’s probably seen scores of captains here, and a halfscore sub-majers, I’d wager,” Lorn points out. “He likes the horses, and he doesn’t want them lost when they don’t have to be.” Lorn pauses. “I’ll see you and the others at table in a few moments.”

“Yes, ser.” Esfayl nods and bows his head. “Thank you, ser.”

As Lorn walks across the damp stones of the courtyard toward the square tower, he refrains from shaking his head. Duty…duty-as either a student magus or as a lancer, he’d never felt that blind obedience to the past or to some absolute belief was wise. Yet…why did so few see it that way?

He laughs, gently and ironically, to himself, noting that his ignoring such traditions has him walking a narrow path between two kinds of disasters, with Dettaur and, apparently, Captain-Commander Luss’alt waiting for some sort of transgression that will allow them to find an excuse to disgrace or discipline him.

His saddlebags on his shoulder, he walks past the duty sentry and into the square tower.

Nesmyl is waiting, and steps forward. “Ser, there were several dispatches and scrolls with the supply wagons. I put them all on your study desk.”

“Thank you. I’ll get to them after I eat.” Lorn shakes his head. “I think the officers are waiting for me.”

“That might be.” Nesmyl smiles. “I doubt they would wish to start when their commander has just returned from patrol.”

Lorn ducks into the study and glances at the desk, looking over the three scrolls. There are two official dispatchs, doubtless from Dettaur in Commander Ikynd’s name, and a scroll with the green seal of his father. While he is not surprised to find one from his father, he is equally surprised not to find one from Ryalth. He fingers his chin and nods. Just because he has not received such a scroll does not mean it does not exist. Her reactions to his use of the chaos-glass are proof enough for Lorn, both of her devotion and that she is more than even his father has seen.

He takes the scrolls in his free hand and slips back out of the study and up the narrow stairs, trying not to scrape the walls with saddlebags and sabres. Again…Nesmyl has made sure the stove is stoked, and that his quarters are warming. Some smoke has drifted into his quarters, for he can smell the smoky odor of peat, as though the stove had been opened and checked recently. Clearly he had not been expected to return early, but someone had seen them and hurried to refire the stove.

Lorn laughs. There are some benefits to being commander.

He leaves the three scrolls on his upper study desk-to read after dinner-and carries the gear to his bedchamber where he leaves the saddlebags on the footchest and the sabres leaning against the wall in their scabbards. He will need to clean and oil the blades later.

Leaving his winter jacket on, Lorn washes his face and hands, then hurries back down the narrow steps, out of the square tower, and across the courtyard. He is the last to reach the officers’ dining area, but then, he has no doubts that dinner was held after Nesmyl-or Emsahl or someone-had seen them coming down the road from the north.

“Good evening,” Lorn offers as he nears the end of the table at which the five other officers are standing. “Esfayl and I appreciate your waiting for us.” He seats himself quickly, and then serves himself a large helping of the mutton stew, wrinkling his nose at the heavy pepper scent, and hoping that the carrots and roots are neither too stringy nor too mushy. “At least it’s hot,” he says, nodding at Esfayl.

“Been warm here, ser,” says Cheryk. “Warm for winter, anyway.”

“It’s going to get colder.” Lorn passes the big casserole dish to Emsahl, then breaks off a chunk of the bread and passes the basket.

“When it’s cold,” Cheryk points out, “there aren’t any barbarians out. We’d be lucky if it stayed cold.”

“We’d still have to patrol,” Lorn says. “The commander and the assistant commander in Assyadt think that the barbarians will attack immediately if we don’t.”

“That’s true only in summer,” says Emsahl. “Or late spring, after they’ve done most of their planting.”

A moment of silence follows, and Lorn eats several mouthfuls, ignoring the softness of the vegetables and the toughness of the mutton.

“Ser…?” ventures Rhalyt from the end of the table, “one of the squad leaders said that you’d known Majer Dettaur for a long time.”

Cheryk and Emsahl both frown. Esfayl winces almost imperceptibly. Quytyl, his arm still bound in a light splint, looks down at the table.

“Actually, that’s true. We went to the same school, and my mother knew his. He was two years or so ahead of me.” Lorn takes a mouthful of the peppered stew, then adds, into the silence, “He was much then as he is now.”

“You will run across officers you know, Rhalyt,” Emsahl suggests. “There aren’t that many officers in the Mirror Lancers.”

Lorn nods. “I went through officer training with the captain who relieved me at Jakaafra.”

“Just wondered, ser,” says Rhalyt. “You know…with rumors…”

“Most rumors have a grain of truth in them,” Lorn observes wryly, “but sometimes it’s like a single grain of rye in a whole loaf of white.”

“Like the rumors of giant serpents along the ward-wall,” suggests Emsahl.

Lorn clears his throat.

Emsahl looks up, surprised.

“They do exist. They’re rare. We only came across one in the years I was there. But it was large, almost two cubits in breadth and close to forty in length.” Lorn laughs. “They’re not nearly so dangerous as the stun lizards or the giant cats…but seeing one was a shock.”

“Which was more dangerous?” asks Rhalyt, as if wanting to make sure the subject stays changed.

“The large stun lizards…if you’re facing only one. But the giant cats usually come in pairs or double pairs, and the night leopards in packs.” Lorn shrugs. “So…it’s hard to say.”

“How do they compare to barbarians?” asks Quytyl.

Cheryk, Emsahl, and Lorn all laugh. Quytyl flushes, and this time Rhalyt is the one to look down at the table.

After the last chuckles die away, Lorn says, “The northeast ward-wall is the only one that has casualties anywhere close to a barbarian patrol company, and they ran about half what I had at Isahl. The southwest ward-wall company lost perhaps a quarter- to a half score of lancers a year.”

“Why the northeast wall, ser?” asks Esfayl.

“No one ever gave a good answer,” Lorn replies. “Some say it was the winds, some the way the wall was designed, some the fact that it is closest to the Westhorns…” He shrugs.

Cheryk shakes his head. “You were assigned to Isahl, there, and here?”

“And Biehl,” Lorn points out.

“But those three are the toughest duty stations in each area, ser.”

“I’m just lucky.” Lorn looks at Esfayl. “You’re from Summerdock, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Does it get as hot as here in the summer?”

“No, ser. There’s always an ocean breeze…”

Lorn nods for the young captain to continue. The rest of the dinner conversation will be uneventful. He can assure that much.

After dinner, Lorn walks back across the courtyard, through a night wind that is considerably colder than earlier, and past the duty sentry at the tower. “Good evening.”

“Evening, ser.”

The lower level of the tower is dim, with but one lamp lit, and Lorn stops and turns down the wick to put it out before starting up the stairs. Although he would like to read the dispatches and scrolls, he forces himself to hang out his damp gear on the wall pegs by the stove first. Then he checks the sabres, drying and oiling them, before he returns to the study and the scrolls.

He looks at the two official dispatches, then shrugs and breaks the seal on the one that looks shorter. He unrolls it and begins to read.

…hereby inform all officers bearing commands throughout the Mirror Lancers that losses of provisions and other supplies have been reaching unacceptably high levels…strongly recommend that all commanders review the use and storage of such, and that the use of local supplies be adopted whenever possible…

The seal and signature are those of Luss’alt, Captain-Commander of the Mirror Lancers.

Lorn nods to himself as he sets the scroll aside and picks up the second one with a Mirror Lancer seal. It is addressed to him as, Commanding, Inividra.

As noted in the scroll which you are receiving from the Captain-Commander of Mirror Lancers, the handling and storage of provisions has become a problem at many isolated stations, such as Inividra. Therefore, individual commanding officers must take a greater role in assuring that such provisions are stored and used with care and are not wasted…

The commander has noted that your last request for supplies is somewhat higher than that of previous sub-majers, and has requested that you explain such.

Lorn snorts. The answer is simple. He has more men still alive than did Sub-Majer Kysken, and more men require more food.

…and request that you send a response with the next scheduled courier to Assyadt.

The signature and seal are Dettaur’s, as Lorn has known even without reading them, for Dettaur is clearly trying to establish any possible grounds for proving Lorn is less than competent. Moreover, the odds are good that, sooner or later, Lorn will be out on a patrol when some request for something comes in, and Lorn’s response will be late, thus giving Dettaur yet another example of Lorn’s unresponsiveness. Dettaur is clearly very good at setting up officers to be discredited.

The sub-majer looks out into the darkness beyond his study window and the inner shutters that he has not closed, despite the chill coming off the ancient panes of glass. He half stands and, shaking his head, closes the shutters. He reseats himself and opens his father’s scroll, reading slowly.

We trust all is well with you at Inividra. Life continues here much as it has throughout the winter, and for those of us for whom the cooler weather is not such a joy as once it was…

Although Mycela is expecting a child this summer, young Kerial is our first grandchild, and a delight he is. All of us can but hope you will be able to see him while he is still young. I can recall when you were that young, dark-haired and smiling as well, and it seems not that long ago. Life is fleeting and fragile, and we forget that when we are young and strong.

Your consort continues to amaze all, and Ryalor House prospers. Her enumerators are known both for their probity and loyalty, and in these days, after the revelations about the former Merchanter Advisor to the Emperor, those qualities are more greatly respected than in recent years. It is interesting to note that none recall or have mentioned the events that led up to the disclosures, and for that we can be grateful, although it is said that the Emperor knows far more than any but those directly involved.

Lorn frowns slightly. While he had sent a copy of his battle report to the Hand of the Emperor, with its references to Hamorian blades, he does not recall that he made any reports about the sorry state of the Emperor’s Enumerators in Biehl. Did Neabyl report more? He continues to read.

Myryan is already planning for improvements to her garden for next year. Ciesrt and Vernt continue to work together, although I understand this may not continue when Vernt is advanced to a lower first. Your brother works hard, and that has made his understanding of chaos far deeper in some ways than those who are more facile. His understanding of the fundamentals of chaos application may prove most useful to the Mirror Lancers and to you in the years ahead.

I trust you will be prepared for the spring with the barbarians and all that may ensue, and we both wish you well…

Lorn finds himself frowning once more as he looks over the scroll. The words and the script are those of his father, yet there is a hint of shakiness about the characters that he does not recall, and that bothers him. Perhaps because of that shakiness, he recalls the questions his father had given him, questions to which he has yet to find satisfactory answers.

Then…each day, he finds more questions for which he has no answers which satisfy him.

Although he is tired, and it has been all too long a day, he eases aside his father’s scroll and slips out the chaos-glass. He will allow himself a quick screeing in the glass.

He concentrates, and the silver mists form, and then part, to reveal two figures sleeping side by side in an ornate bed he recognizes only from the glass, and in the room he also has determined, but only through screeing, that is a part of newer and larger quarters for his consort. While Kerial does not move, Ryalth turns, almost as if she senses the chill of the glass, and Lorn releases the image.

For a time, he sits in the dimness, his eyes closed, massaging the back of his neck and head with his left hand, then dropping his chin against his chest to stretch tight muscles in his neck and upper back.

Finally, he stands, and twists down the lamp wick. Tomorrow promises another long day in catching up on reports from his last patrol and in composing a polite reply to Dettaur, yet one which will refute the hidden allegations, he hopes without angering his old schoolmate, at least not any more than Dettaur is already angered.