Lorn nods, waiting.
“Good luck.” Ciesrt offers a half-smile, then turns.
“Thank you.” Lorn watches the lanky student magus for a moment, wondering if he had indeed made a mistake in not trying to deal with Ciesrt’s father. Yet … all he had to go on were his feelings, and he didn’t think murder should be based on feelings alone. Should it?
He turns at the sound of another set of lighter steps on the white stone pavement.
The red-haired Tyrsal stops short of the bench. “I’m sorry, Lorn. I don’t understand. You were the best student.”
“It’s probably better this way.”
“Is there anything I Can do?” Tyrsal grins. “I mean, here in Cyad. If you’re careful, you can take care of yourselfbetter than I could. I still remember how you handled Dett.” The redhead frowns. “He’s probably a lancer officer now. You’d better be careful.”
“I will.” Lorn pauses. “You could stop by the house a few times and talk to my sisters. You’ve met them, haven’t you?”
“Just Myryan.”
“Jerial’s my older sister. They’re both healers, but Myryan’s got several years before she’s finished.”
“Like Kylernya, except she’s just started.”
“She’s that old?” Lorn remembers Tyrsal’s sister as barely waist-high, watching a korfal game.
Tyrsal nods. “It will be a while before she gets into real healing.” He pauses. “I’d be welcome at your house?”
“You’re a student magus in good standing.” Lorn laughs gently. “If you’re worried about it, tell Vernt that I asked you to.”
“We’ll see. I will call on them.” Tyrsal pauses. “Are you sure that’s all I can do?”
“For right now.” Lorn shrugs. “I really don’t know what to expect … but if I need anything else, I’ll let you know.” If I can.
“I’ll be here,” Tyrsal promises, before he turns away.
The lancer firewagon is late in getting to the Quarter of the Magi’i, and Lorn has been waiting on or standing beside the hard sunstone bench for most of the afternoon before the vibration of six chaos-driven wheels shivers through the pavement, and the shimmering white vehicle slows to a stop opposite the squared stone arch. Shadows from the uphill buildings that hold the chaos towers of the Magi’i cast two bars of darkness across the gleaming white lacquer of the firewagon. The curved glass of the driver’s station reflects the shadowed sunstone behind Lorn enough so that Lorn cannot see the driver of the vehicle that looms at least another six cubits above the smooth pavement.
As Lorn stands quickly, he can sense the flickers of chaos from the storage cells that are hidden behind the shining white cupridium panels at the rear of the firewagon. As quickly as the former student mage has stood, a lancer officerin a cream and green uniform is already out of the forward compartment. The two single silver bars, one on each side of his short stiff green collar, glow. The officer’s eyes take in Lorn and the canvas bag beside the bench. “You Lorn?”
“Yes, ser,” Lorn answers.
“Hop in. Rear compartment. Only three of you today. Be close to midnight before we reach Kynstaar.”
As the officer watches, Lorn opens the side door to the rear compartment, a door of white-lacquered cupridium, light, but stronger than iron.
“Put your stuff under the seat.”
“Yes, ser.” Lorn glances at the two other young men. One is clearly older and far burlier than Lorn, with a swarthy complexion and a short-trimmed black beard-one of the first beards Lorn has seen on a young man. The second is slighter and far more wiry than Lorn, with hair that is somewhere between sandy-blond and light brown. “I’m Lorn.”
“Akytol’alt,” rumbles the larger man.
“Kyl’mer,” follows the slighter figure.
“Well … I was Lorn’elth,” Lorn corrects himself as he places his bag under the curved white oak bench seat and seats himself beside Kyl and facing Akytol and the other seat, “but that will change.”
“One way or the other,” snorts Akytol.
Even before Lorn closes the door, the vehicle begins to glide away from the Quarter of the Magi’i with the thin and distinctive whine that marks all firewagons. Despite the hardness of the lightly padded seats, their curvature makes sitting tolerable, and the suspension is strong enough that the ride is almost without bumps.
Through the right window, just before the firewagon turns north, Lorn takes what may be his last look for a long time at the Palace of Light, its windows bright with the light from the innumerable lamps within its sunstone walls. Despite the gleaming whiteness and the lights, for a moment, or so it seems to Lorn, the Palace seems empty.
“Ever lifted a blade?” asks Akytol.
“I’ve had some training,” Lorn admits.
“Some? Well … better than most.” Akytol shakes his head, then leans back and closes his eyes.
Lorn turns to Kyl. “If one might ask …?”
“How did a merchanter’s son get sent off to lancer training?” Kyl shakes his head. “Another time … if you would.”
“That’s fine by me.” Lorn nods. He suspects neither of them is interested in revealing much, especially not with Akytol present.
Kyl turns his head to watch the buildings on the west side of North Avenue pass by.
In turn, Lorn watches those on the east side-and the few carts and carriages, and the scattered handfuls of people, a few in shimmercloth, but most in the green cottons of workers and crafters. Before long, Cyad lies behind them and the firewagon has turned eastward onto the Eastern Highway. The sun has dropped below the horizon, and the clear green-blue sky has begun to purple.
Lorn sees as well as senses the glow of chaos that surrounds the firewagon as it rolls through the twilight toward Kynstaar, the only sound the low rumble of the six cupridium-coated iron wheels on the whitened granite of the Great Eastern Highway. To an outsider the vehicle would indeed resemble a horseless and fire-swathed wagon or carriage.
Across from him, Akytol sits back, his eyes closed, a faint snore punctuating his sleep. Kyl glances nervously from Lorn to Akytol, and then for long periods out the tinted window. There is no sound from the front compartment and the unnamed lancer officer.
Finally, Lorn closes his own eyes. He can do nothing until he reaches Kynstaar..
Lorn’alt, Isahl Undercaptain, Mirror Lancers
XVII
LORN’ALT STANDS RIGIDLY in formal lancer whites, whitescabbarded sabre at his side, white garrison cap set squarely in place over his short brown hair. He is the fourth man in the front line of five new Mirror Lancer officers, listening to the graying but trim lancer commander standing on the podium before the score of new undercaptains ranked in the open sunstone arena-an arena nearly empty except for the officers who had trained them, who had whittled down three score possible candidates to the score who remained nearly a year later. A score had left voluntarily, and a score had died or been too severely injured to continue.
“ … you are the first line of defense against the barbarians of the north. At times, you will be all that stands between Cyador and the black order of death ….”
Standing one rank back and three junior officers to his left is Kyl’alt, and somewhere farther to the rear, surprisingly, is Akytol’alt, towering over most of the other new undercaptains. Lorn concentrates on the commander’s words, as though they were new, as though he had not already heard similar banalities all his life.
“ … never has our world had a land that offered so much to so many for so long … never has our world had a light that has shone so brightly as that raised by Cyador … and you are here to ensure that light will shine forever, and that peace and prosperity will reign endlessly. You are a Mirror Lancer officer. Never forget that! Never forget that you are here because generations of Lancer officers have stood between the dark tide of the order of death and the light and prosperity of chaos. That was their duty, and they did it well. May you carry out your duty as well.”