I have received your scroll reminding me most persuasively of the responsibilities and the glories of serving as an officer of the Mirror Lancers. You have made most clear what is required of me, and I hear and obey.
He lets the ink dry before he seals the scroll and summons his senior squad leader. “Olisenn?”
The heavy-set lancer opens the door and steps into the inner study. “Yes, ser?”
Lorn gestures to the scroll on the desk he is sure that Olisenn has already read. “Majer Maran has more clearly outlined our responsibilities, and I have acceded fully to the scope of duties required of us. If you would make sure this reply is sent with the next Engineer firewagon …?” Lorn extends the sealed scroll.
“Yes, ser.” The senior squad leader nods.
“And Olisenn?”
“Yes, ser?” The oily politeness of the squad leader covers a deeper contempt.
Lorn continues to smile, almost blandly, waiting several moments before he speaks. “If I recall, is not the Accursed Forest the largest concentration of order and death in all of Cyador?”
“As you say, Captain, that it is.”
“And does order not have the property of converting the power of chaos into sterile death if chaos is not used in perfection?”
“That be what the Magi’i say. Me, being but a simple lancer, I’d not be knowing.”
Lorn nods. “Majer Maran has suggested that we must make greater efforts to keep the Forest creatures from reaching the holders and their herds and flocks.” He frowns. “We may have to make some changes to ensure that forms of sterile death are restricted to the Forest, and that, somehow, we can do such without casualties. It will be a challenge, but, as Majer Maran has pointed out, that is indeed our duty.”
“We’ve not been losing many lancers, ser. That is, not so many recently.”
“True … but we’ll have to stop more of the creatures.”
“Order it as you see fit, ser, and we’ll carry it out.”
“I’m sure you will. Still … one never knows when matters change, and I wanted you to know that we have been ordered to make changes.” The captain nods politely, waiting before adding. “It’s been said that in the past, some senior squad leaders developed their own communications with the command in Geliendra. You wouldn’t know of that, would you?”
“Me, ser? That would be against the line of command, ser.”
“So you never thought of anything like that?”
“Me, ser? No, ser.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Olisenn.” Lorn smiles. “That’s all for now, and please make sure that scroll gets to Majer Maran.”
“That I will, ser.”
Olisenn is lying about communicating with Geliendra, notthat Lorn has expected otherwise, but now it is clear that matters will change … must change.
After checking the Patrol reports he has written once more, Lorn puts them in the foot chest and locks it, useless as that clearly is against Olisenn’s surveillance, but somewhat effective, he hopes, against Olisenn’s understanding of what Lorn knows.
Then he steps into the outer office, but Olisenn has already departed.
Lorn ponders his next steps as he walks slowly toward his personal quarters. Maran’s scroll is clearly an attempt to put Lorn in an impossible situation. Use of chaos by lancers is effectively forbidden, and now Maran has insisted that Lorn not let a single Forest creature escape. Under the current circumstances, that will run lancers and mounts into the ground, and increase casualties. Increased casualties mean fewer lancers and more likely more animals escaping.
He takes a deep breath as he enters his deep quarters. He paces in a narrow circle for a time, then takes the silver volume from its concealed resting place and begins to page through it, half-wondering if the ancient Firstborn who had written the lines contained in the imperishable pages had ever faced a Majer Maran. What sort of steps would he-or she-have taken. What provisions made?
He continues to page through the volume. Suddenly, he stops, and reads.
I have no soul,
but a nibbled kernel …
feelings dried and stored
on the shelves of self
in the deep cellar where
provisions must be made
Provisions must be made.
I made them
gleaning
those wild leftovers of
unharvest days,
hoarding hard-to-come-bys
of cold reason
against colder seasons.
Provisions must be made,
and I have made them.
Slowly, he nods. While not exactly analogous, the basic truth is there. Provisions must be made, provisions of cold reason against colder seasons. Perhaps … just perhaps … the Firstborn were not all that different, after all.
That does not comfort him, and he shivers ever so slightly as he closes the volume.
LXXXVI
“PROVISIONS MUST BE made …” The antiquated words run through Lorn’s thoughts as he rides the white gelding slowly to the southeast, this time patrolling the perimeter road with Kusyl and the second squad. He feels as though his neck and back get twice as stiff when he rides with the first squad, and it is a tremendous effort not to watch Olisenn all the time.
Yet he has nothing that he would actually call proof against the heavy-set squad leader, only the knowledge that the man is communicating with Majer Maran and lying about it, only the growing contempt the senior squad leader has for Lorn. And Olisenn’s contempt does not seem based in fact, for all the other officers, and even Kusyl, have acknowledged in some fashion that Second Company has handled far more ward-wall breaches than has been common, and with far fewer casualties for all the dangers involved.
No … Lorn had not done as well as he should have at the beginning. This he acknowledges, at least to himself, but no one offered assistance, and he had had to learn on his own.He also had to learn, that, as part of its efforts to strike against Cyador, the Accursed Forest always seemed to have its wild creatures attack the lancers before making their escapes. Or was that because they do not attack until they somehow know the Lancers and the Engineers are going to destroy each particular fallen tree? Which of those may be true, Lorn still does not know, only that the pattern has held for the time he has directed Second Company.
He puts his weight on the stirrups for a moment, lifting himself off the saddle, then looks to his right at the toospread, line-abreast formation. Are he and the lancers being asked to hold back the Accursed Forest with no real hope of success in the years ahead? Just to purchase years or seasons for Cyador?
He laughs to himself. Nothing lasts forever. That he already knows. Some time, the ward-wall will fail. Even if the project Ciesrt had mentioned works and another way-whatever it may be-is found to restrain the Accursed Forest from reclaiming all of eastern Cyador, in time that, too, will fail. Is that why duty becomes important?
With a headshake, he smiles. Some men seek power, like Maran, because life ends. Others, like his father and Myryan, seek meaning. But the world is the same for both, and makes no effort to accommodate either.
His eyes survey the whitened granite of the ward-wall-stretching endlessly to the horizon, or so it seems, without a break, without a stream, without a river. Lorn straightens. He wants to shake himself-not that the observation would change anything-but he should have noticed. In all of Cyador, even in the Grass Hills, is there a diamond-shaped area ninety-nine kays on a side without a watercourse leaving or entering it? One with trees and high vegetation? One with flat lands immediately around it, which turn into rolling hills and plains within two kays?