For a long moment he waits, before trying to call forth a second image, and then a third. He still obtains but a silver blankness in trying to call up images of either parent-and a faint throbbing in his skull and dampness across his brow.
Finally, he releases the glass, shaking his head. He replaces the glass in its wooden case, and the case in the bag. From the other bag, he pulls forth the green-tinged and silver-covered volume that he has carried for so long across Cyador-and even across Jerans.
He opens the book, reading and paging slowly, seeking a verse, one that somehow seems right for the night, right for a journey whose end could be indeed anything. A verse that he might read in a new way, one that offers that melancholy insight of the ancient writer. There is a short verse, vaguely comforting, and he smiles.
Virtues of old hold fast.
Morning’s blaze cannot last;
and rose petals soon part.
Not so a steadfast heart.
“ ‘Not so a steadfast heart…’” Lorn murmurs. But how difficult it is to maintain a steadfast heart in a world where chaos reigns and the only thing steadfast seems the dark order of death.
He continues to turn the pages until he finds a poem he must have read, but does not recall.
Lorn shakes his head. The ancient writer had few illusions about Cyad, about men and women, or about himself-and yet, whoever he had been, he had persevered in the hope that what he strove for in building and strengthening Cyad would prove greater than he had been. Can Lorn attempt less?
He closes the book, replaces it in the bag.
In time…in time, he will sleep.
Lorn’alt, Cyad Sub-Majer, Mirror Lancers
LXXXII
Lorn shifts his weight on the hard seat of the firewagon, his eyes going out the window as the vehicle rumbles downhill along the smooth stones of the granite way that will pass west of the Palace of Eternal Light. Outside, a light warm mist filters out of gray clouds, leaving a shimmering sheen over the white granite and sunstone buildings and streets of Cyad. The trees are full-leaved, and the green-and-white awnings are spread.
Lorn smiles as he beholds each facet of the City of Eternal Light as the firewagon carries him past the upper merchanters’ quarter, as the Palace of Eternal Light appears, and as he can see the blue-gray waters of the harbor. For all its intrigue and problems, Cyad is truly a city of light and one of hope for the world. He finally leans back from the window.
Inside the firewagon, on the right side of the compartment, is a round-faced magus, at least a second-level adept, for he wears the lightning emblem on the breast of his tunic. The magus is older, with gray at his temples and the hint of the sungold eyes that distinguishes many of those Magi’i who work heavily with chaos. His eyes and chaos-senses have lighted upon Lorn occasionally, and more than once in the past hundred kays of the journey has puzzlement crossed his face.
The sole other occupant of the front compartment is a silver-haired merchanter who continues to sleep quietly in the corner opposite Lorn’s, directly across from the magus. Abruptly, he sits up-when the firewagon begins to slow as it approaches its final stop at the harbor portico. After a moment, he looks around, then out into the mist, nodding as he catches sight of the larger merchanter mansions on the hill. He turns to his travel companions. “Majer, Magus…I wish you both well.” His eyes twinkle as he looks at Lorn. “You will find much has changed, Majer.”
“I imagine it has,” Lorn responds, wondering exactly how much the merchanter knows, for the man has scarcely spoken to him since they boarded at Chulbyn the day before, and Lorn has only given his name and his previous duty station.
“The essentials of Cyad change but little,” replies the magus.
There is the slightest of lurches as the firewagon brakes to a complete stop under the portico.
“They will change more than even the Magi’i can know, honored ser,” suggests the older merchanter. “My best to you both.” With a sprightliness that belies his appearance, the merchanter is the first to leave the firewagon.
Although Lorn reaches for his sabre immediately, he waits for the older magus to depart the firewagon before he extracts his bags from under the seat and slips out into the warm moist air of Cyad. Once outside on the platform portico, he sets down the bags and clips his sabre to his green web belt before looking toward the carriage-hire lane across the narrow way from him. Since there are several carriages, he lifts his bags and crosses to the first, addressing the driver. “The Traders’ Plaza.”
“Yes, ser.”
The driver leans back and opens the carriage door for Lorn, who sets the two duffels that hold his gear-and his chaos-glass and Ryalth’s book-on the floor of the covered carriage. The carriage feels confined and stuffy, yet damp, and Lorn is glad when the short ride ends and he can step out into the misty warmth outside the Traders’ Plaza, where he tenders three coppers, before making his way across the outside Plaza toward the clan side.
Once again, he has no idea of what to expect, except that Ryalor House is on the uppermost level. Figures in shimmercloth blue glance at him, then glance away at the sight of the cream-and-green Mirror Lancer uniform.
“…don’t see many senior lancers here…”
“…family, probably…”
Family indeed. Lorn smiles as he walks up the steps-wider and older than those on the clanless side of the Plaza, with depressions in the center of the granite risers. On the uppermost level he finds the doorway with the Ryalor House emblem above it-the inverted triangle with the intertwined R and L-and steps through the open doors of ancient and polished golden oak.
He does not even quite make three steps into the open space inside the door before Eileyt has two junior enumerators taking his bags and ushering him toward the private study-or office, as Ryalth calls it-that is his consort’s. As he walks toward the rear corner, he can see that Ryalor House now occupies several rooms.
“She’s here, Majer, and told us to be watching for you,” Eileyt says. “She has been for several days.”
“I see.” Lorn laughs gently. From the reception he is getting, he has the impression that Ryalth has been most forceful.
Ryalth stands in the open door of her office, in her blue tunic and trousers, her hair shorter, but with a wide and warm smile on her face. As Lorn nears, she steps back into the office, and Lorn finds himself standing before her, his bags being deposited beside him. Then the door is closed, and Lorn is not sure who holds whom, only that they do.