Scion of Cyador

LIX

In the glow of his quarters’ study lamp, Lorn looks over the maps yet again, checking the routes, the planned stops, the possible points of conflict-and the places that must be destroyed. He has not told any of the captains his exact plans, only that an unnamed town on the South Branch of the River Jeryna is their first goal. That much is true, for it is one of the towns where the raiders gather, and not all have yet gathered, but enough have, and so have their mounts.

Slowly, he puts the maps in the order he wishes, then rolls them up and ties them into a single bundle.

Tomorrow all six companies of Mirror Lancers will pull out of Inividra, something that has never been done before. So far as the stories and the records tell, no one has ever combined more than two companies of Mirror Lancers in making an attack, not in recent generations.

His lips curl. He may find out why that is so, but he can only do what he feels is best, for the older tactics are less and less effective, and the chaos-towers are failing. And Lorn, child of Cyad, will not stand and watch.

He laughs softly, mirthlessly. He also has no real choices, for to follow Dettaur’s instructions will mean either death or disgrace in slow increments, for Dett is most excellent in political maneuverings-far, far better than Lorn.

In the darkness, Lorn takes out the chaos-glass and sets it on the desk before him. His head still aches slightly from the use of the glass in the late afternoon, but he would see Ryalth and Kerial a last time before he casts his fate to chaos.

When the silver mists part, he watches the sleeping pair only for a few moments before he releases the image. He would not disturb their sleep.

While the chaos-glass will be in its wooden case in his saddlebags, he doubts he will have either the time or privacy to use it-but for an extended campaign he dares not leave it behind, either, not with Dettaur watching everything he does.

There is one more thing that will accompany him-Ryalth’s ancient silver-covered book. He holds the volume for a time before opening it, wondering not for the first time how her mother came to have it, and whether it means, as he believes, that she is nearly as much of a child of the Magi’i as he is. He laughs, softly, for the Magi’i will claim neither of them.

Then he pages through to see if any of the ancient verses call up echoes of what he feels, looking out at darkness and an uncertain future. He finds one, whose words strike him in a different way, as they often do, when his choices and circumstances have changed. He reads aloud, softly, to himself.

We stand in a world we did not know

reaping lives and deaths we did not sow.

Some reach for roses of another place,

a world beyond chaos in time and space.

Some raise copper blades, strangely graced,

to destroy new truths that cannot be faced.

Chaos is, as the river and the hills,

and I will live my life as chaos wills,

for Mirror Towers have fallen from the skies,

and venerated truths become but lies

when held as orders from our ill-starred past,

talismans to recall what cannot last.

To build what must be built, and raise new halls,

to guard what must be held in shining walls,

to slay the demons of unreasoning hate-

all those, and more, have come to be my fate.

Do I regret the stars that cast me here?

No more than knowing life is fragile, dear

and fleeting, or that my words die unread,

for words cannot contain what souls have said.

“ ‘Words cannot contain what souls have said…’” Lorn muses, nodding to himself.

His eyes drift back up to another phrase-“demons of unreasoning hate.” There are so many who hate so fiercely that it is beyond reason, from the barbarians to Dettaur to those Lorn does not even know. The ancient writer had said his fate was to slay such. But the other poems had revealed the man’s sensitivity-and Lorn is not unaware of the irony of slaying demons of hate. Where each demon is slain, more hate is raised, yet hate unchecked also multiplies, and love alone will not brook hatred that holds a blade.

“So you will raise a greater blade?” Yet he has searched and can find no other choices, not that are open to him, in this world, at this time, for doing what others will is death indeed. And doing what others will is not the way to save Cyad so that what it stands for will continue to shine out. He finds another page and reads the concluding stanza.

Merage, altage, elthage, all bow to thee,

from Rational unity come these three,

and neither chaos, nor the lance, nor gold

shall seize this city of the stars foretold,

for Cyad holds the fate of all this earth,

and all of soul and skill that is of worth.

So shine forth both in sun and into night

bright city of prosperity and light.

He looks into the darkness for a long time before he stands and then walks to his bedchamber where he places both the silver-covered book and the chaos-glass in the saddlebags he will carry in the morning.