Modesitt,L.E. - Recluce 01 - The Magi' i of Cyador

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Magi'i of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.

Edited by David G. Hartwell

Jacket art by Darrell K. Sweet

Jacket design by Carol Russo Design

A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010

Tor® Books on the World Wide Web: http://www.tor.com

From Inner Cover:

L. E. Modesitt, Jr., is one of the standard names in fantasy entering the new decade, and his

most famous series is the Saga of Recluce. Each novel fills in pieces of the history of this land

where Chaos and Order strive to maintain a magical balance.

Magi'i of Cyador marks the beginning of a new tale from deep within the rich depths of the

history of Recluce. This is the story of Lorn, a talented boy born into a family of Magi'i. A

fastidious student of remarkable talent, Lorn lacks the single most coveted attribute required of

a Magus of Cyador: unquestionable loyalty. Lorn is too independent for his own good.

So Lorn is forced to become a lancer officer, and he's sent to the frontier to fight off the

all-too-frequent barbarian raids-a career that comes with a fifty percent mortality rate. His

enemies don't expect him to survive....

Lorn is a fresh, new character who will enrich one of the most important fantasy series of the

decade: the Saga of Recluce.

Robert Edward Janes In memoriam, for the dreams he had.

CHARACTERS

Kien - Magus, Senior Lector, "Fourth Magus"

Lorn - Son of the Magus Kien

Vernt - Younger son of Kien

Jerial - Eldest child and daughter of Kien

Myryan - Youngest child and daughter of Kien

Nyryah - Consort of Kien

Toziel'elth'alt'mer - Emperor of Cyador

Ryenyel - Consort-Empress of Cyador

MAGI'I

Chyenfel - First Magus and High Lector

Kharl - Second Magus and Senior Lector

Liataphi - Third Magus and Senior Lector

Abram - Senior Lector

Ciesrt - Student/Magus

Jysnet - Lector

Hyrist - Senior Lector

Rustyl - Student/Magus

Tyrsal - Student/Magus

LANCERS

Rynst - Majer-Commander, Mirror Lancers

Luss - Captain-Commander, Mirror Lancers

Allyrn - Student/Lancer Undercaptain

Brevyl - Sub-Majer [commanding at Isahl]

Dettaur - Student/Lancer Officer

Eghyr - Captain

Helkar - Captain

Jostyn - Captain

Juist - Undercaptain

Kyl - Undercaptain

Maran - Majer [Patrol Commander, Geliendra]

Meylyd - Commander [Geliendra]

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Thiataphi - Commander [Syadtar]

OTHERS

Bluoyal - Merchanter Advisor to the Emperor

Dustyn - Factor in spirits [Jakaafra]

Eileyt - Enumerator

Fuyol - Head, Yuryan Clan

Ryalth - Woman merchanter

Shevelt - Merchanter heir [Yuryan Clan]

Veljan - Merchanter [Yuryan Clan]

Part I - Lorn'elth, Cyad

I

The man wears white trousers and a white tunic, belted with white leather and secured with a

glistening white metallic buckle. His boots are white, including the thick leather soles, and his

hands are encased in white gloves. The only items of color upon his body are the pair of gold star-

bursts-one on each of the short square collars of his tunic.

A dark-haired boy wearing shimmering gray trousers and a short-sleeved shirt of the same

shimmering fabric holds the man's left hand. Both walk along a corridor. The floors, walls, and

ceiling are all of white granite, except for one window of a glass-like substance so dark it

appears nearly black. The black window is on the man's right, exactly halfway between the two

metal doors, each also of shimmering white metal.

When the pair reaches the window, the man halts, bends, and lifts the boy, holding him so that

their heads are almost even with each other. The man inclines his head toward the dark expanse of

glass. "There. There is the First Tower."

The dark-haired youth, his amber eyes shielded by the ancient dark glass, stares at the

glittering trapezoid of light beyond the wall. The dark transparency filters out all that lies

beyond the wall except for the blistering light that is the Tower.

"One day," says the man, "one day, Lorn'elth... you and your brother will be Magi'i of the

Rational Stars. One day, you will direct the workings of Towers of Light to harness the power of

chaos and to continue to bring peace and prosperity to Cyad and to all of Cyador."

Abruptly, the boy shivers, then stiffens, though his eyes do not leave the chaos light of the

Tower.

"To be of the Magi'i-it is a long and difficult struggle." The man smiles at his son, and even

his sun-golden eyes smile. "But as you grow older, you will see that it is worth the effort, for

nothing compares to the glory that is Cyad, and the peace and the grace of her people."

The magus slowly lowers Lorn'elth to the polished white stone floor and takes his son's hand

once more. They continue along the corridor to the second door, where the father raises his hand.

A flicker of golden energy flashes from a point just beyond his gloves to the door. Then he slides

the door into its recess-to his left. The two enter the second corridor, and the magus closes the

door behind them.

Another window awaits them midway down the second white stone corridor.

At this window, the man again lifts his son, speaking softly as he does. "You will be the ones

who will transfer the pure chaos energy from the towers to the fireships, to the firewagons, and

to the firelances of Cyador. You will ensure that the fair city remains so, and that her people

bless the Emperor and the Magi'i of the Rational Stars."

Serious-eyed, the boy watches through the darkened glass-not so dark as that in the first

corridor-as the six-wheeled firewagon rolls silently into the shimmering enclosure that flanks the

chamber holding the mighty tower. Figures scurry and remove the square cells from the rear of the

vehicle, replacing them with other cells that almost glitter. Then the firewagon rolls out, and

another rolls in and halts.

"This is the heart of Cyad, and Cyador, and it can be yours, Lorn'elth." The father lowers his

son once more. "It will be yours."

The two return as they came, their heavy boots whispering but slightly on the hard stone of the

corridor.

II

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Rising above the bay and the Great Western Ocean to the south are puffy white clouds, clouds not

dark enough to forecast rain at any time soon, nor high enough to block the sun that casts its mid-

day autumn light upon the playing field that had been carved from the hillside generations

earlier. There on the field, with a gentle sea-breeze cooling them, a score of students alternate

jerky bursts of speed with sudden stops, their polished wooden mallets glistening as they jockey

for position on the reddish surface. All wear white trousers and undertunics, but the undertunics

bear green collars and green borders upon the sleeves.

"Lorn!" calls one student as the polished wooden oval skitters from his mallet toward another

youth.

"Thanks!" With his dark-brown hair and wiry frame, Lorn is neither the largest nor the smallest

on the playing field, but he streaks past a defender, his mallet almost lazily precise as it

strikes the oval that is weighted unevenly. Lorn slips one way, and the oval flashes the other

way, yet both Lorn and the oval meet at full speed beyond the defender as Lorn sprints inward and

toward the trapezoidal frame in the middle of the circular field of play. His eyes take in the

last defender and the smaller redheaded player dashing toward the goal. Lorn smiles and flicks his

wrist, calling, "Tyrsal, it's yours!"

Lorn's mallet strikes the oval, and it skitters over the packed clay toward Tyrsal.

The small and redheaded Tyrsal darts around the taller and more muscular young defender and

swings his mallet. The oval spins, but lifts off the clay and accelerates toward the trapezoidal

goal. When it strikes to one side of the goal frame, it veers sideways and skids into the net of

the opening.

"Goal!" The redhead jumps up in glee. "I got by you, Dett!"

"That's the last time, Tyrsal!" The tall and heavily muscled blond student drops his mallet and

tackles the redhead, whose polished wooden mallet skids across the smooth red clay as both

students lurch toward the ground.

Despite Tyrsal's struggles, Dett handily dumps the smaller youth onto the clay and raises an

arm as if to strike Tyrsal.

"Bruggage! Bruggage!" Four other youths jump on top of the two who struggle.

The dark-haired Lorn is the second to slam into the pile, but the first to put his shoulder and

then his elbow into the midsection of the larger Dett.

"...oooffff..."

Dett struggles to take his hands away from the squirming Tyrsal, to fend off the hidden attack

on himself.

A low voice whispers in the muscular boy's ear, "Don't do it again, Dett. Ever."

"Says who?" The bully gets his knees under him and one hand on the clay and starts to elbow his

way clear, unsure of who has spoken to him.

Snap... snap!

The other students fall away from the larger figure, who bellows, then staggers upright holding

an injured hand, coddling two fingers that have already begun to swell. "Barbarians! Sheep-loving

swill-drinkers!" Dett turns toward the students who had piled on. "Cowards! You just wait...

You'll see."

"Dett... hurt his hand."

"...couldn't happen to a better fellow..."

"...bullied enough... deserved it..."

"...careful... get you..."

Even before he rises, neither the first nor the last, Lorn slips the polished pair of wooden

rods back inside his belt. After he stands, he limps slightly as he walks toward the mallet he

abandoned, bending gracefully and scooping it up left-handed.

Tyrsal, the last to scramble up, quickly extinguishes a grin and avoids looking at the injured

Dett.

"That's it! Over here!" orders the schoolyard proctor, a tallish man with a pointed goatee and

wavy black hair that stands away from his head. "All of you. You know the rules! Bruggages are

forbidden!"

The score of students slouch toward the proctor and the columns of the low white stone building

behind him. None move to brush away the smears of reddish clay upon their student garments, nor

lift their eyes to the shimmering white of the Palace that stands farther to the south and which

dominates the gradual slope rising from the harbor, nor even to the white structures that lie

uphill of the school, the dwellings of the senior Magi'i and Mirror Lancer commanders.

"Line up! All of you."

Lorn somehow materializes in the second rank, nearly in the middle, the expression on his face

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one of mild concern.

"What happened? How did Dettaur'alt's hand get injured?" demands the proctor. His eyes travel

the youths, picking out a stocky student. "Allyrn'alt? You always know."

"Ser... Dett fell on Tyrsal, and everyone tripped in the bruggage. When we got untangled, Dett

was holding his hand. I guess he fell on it." Allyrn'alt's face is carefully blank.

"Tyrsal'elth?"

"I made the goal, and I jumped around. I must have bumped into Dett, ser. We all got tangled in

the bruggage. Maybe Dett's hand got kicked by someone's boot." The small redhead looks

apologetically at the proctor.

"Ciesrt'elth?"

"No, ser. I wasn't even in the bruggage, ser."

"...never is..." murmurs someone.

"Quiet!" The proctor turns to another. "Shalk'mer?"

"Ser... I got tangled up, but I didn't see anything." The square-faced merchant's son looks

directly at the proctor.

"Lorn'elth? You wouldn't know... of course, you wouldn't." The proctor shakes his head. "You

never see anything."

"I'm sorry, ser." Lorn looks contritely at the proctor.

"All of you, except Dettaur'alt, get back to your studies." The proctor sighs and motions for

the muscular injured student to follow him toward the healer's room.

Before he turns to follow the proctor, Dett's eyes rake over the other students, but each in

turn meets his eyes openly, without flinching.

III

Cyador is a paradox, one wrapped in an enigma, and offered as a riddle to the world it dominates

by its sheer force of being. No land, no ruler, can contest the might of Cyador, yet its people

look no different from other folk, except by their raiment and their deportment.

The Towers of Chaos descended from the Rational Stars, yet they serve those upon the land and

water, those who can but observe the distant chaos of those stars, yet who can bring such chaos

upon their foes.

For does the White Empire not have the fireships of war that can destroy all other vessels? Yet

the trade vessels that dock at Cyad and Fyrad and Summerdock are carried there by sails, and not

by the power of chaos. Do not the firewagons roll endlessly across the finest of granite roads

that link all of the Empire together, carrying passengers and cargoes smoothly and speedily? Yet

even within mighty Cyad, are not the white streets of the great city filled, not with firewagons,

but carts and carriages pulled by horses, by men on horseback and women on foot?

Does not the Emperor, Protector of the Steps to Paradise, Ruler of the Towers of Chaos, command

the firelances before which quail the barbarians of the north and east? Yet those firelances are

borne by lancers who ride the same horses as do the barbarians, and those lancers also bear

blades, even if such blades are of white cupridium, against which the poor iron of Candar cannot

stand.

Do not the towers of chaos send forth light so bright that it must be shielded by solid stone?

Yet the Palace of Eternal Light is lit by the diffuse chaos of the sun and the lesser chaos of oil

lamps.

Is not the Emperor himself a figure of might and majesty? Yet all in power fear that an emperor

may again arise who is truly mighty, like the one who is seldom mentioned by the high in Cyad.

Maintaining this paradox, this enigma that is Cyad, that is the task of the Magi'i, and the

duty of every magus who has ever lived and ever will live, now and forevermore....

Paradox of Empire

Bern'elth, Magus First

Cyad, 157 A.F.

IV

In the blessing and warmth of chaos, in the prosperity which it engenders, and for the

preservation of all the best of our heritage, whether of elthage, altage, or merage, let us give

thanks for what we receive." The silver-haired man at the north end of the table lifts his head

and smiles.

The family is seated around the dining table on the covered upper balcony, from where they can

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look downhill and south directly at the harbor-and to the west and slightly uphill at the Palace

of Eternal Light. Although the sun has set, the sky remains the purple that precedes night, and

the white stone piers of the harbor glitter above the darkness of the Great Western Ocean. The

Palace gleams a shimmering white-both from the white sunstone from which it was constructed all

too many years before and from the innumerable lamps which bathe its endless corridors and

vaulting halls in continuous light.

The dining table around which the family sits is lit but dimly by two lamps set in gleaming

cupridium brackets, each affixed to a pillar, the two closest to each end of the table. None of

those seated appear to be affected by the dimness. The mahogany-haired Nyryah, who sits at the end

of the table opposite the silver-haired Kien'elth, lifts a silver tray that holds both dark bread

and sun-nut bread and tenders it to the sandy-haired young man on her left. "Go ahead, Vernt."

"Ah... thank you."

"And don't take all the sun-nut bread," suggests Myryan from where she sits across from the

still-lanky Vernt. "We like it, too."

"There's plenty there, children," suggests Nyryah, "and there's another loaf in the kitchen."

Vernt grins and takes one slice of each bread, then passes the tray to Lorn, who takes only a

single slice of dark bread before passing the tray to his father. Kien'elth, like his younger son,

takes one slice of each, and hands the tray to Jerial, dark-haired, and the eldest child. She,

like Lorn, takes but a slice of dark bread, and smiles across at Lorn as she hands the tray to

Myryan, also black-haired, and the youngest of the four siblings. Myryan takes a single slice of

sun-nut bread and returns the tray to her mother.

The fowl casserole that had been set before Kien'elth makes a circuit of the table, but all

helpings are so similar in size that they would have to have been weighed for an outsider to

determine which is the largest-or the smallest. After the casserole comes the dish of buttered and

nutted beans.

When Myryan sets down the serving spoon for the beans, all six begin to eat, silently for a

moment, until each has had at least one mouthful of something.

"You were a little late, dear," suggests Nyryah.

"We had to chaos-charge a second complement of firewagons," replies Kien'elth. "The two new

companies of Mirror Lancers are being sent along the Great Eastern Highway tomorrow. The

barbarians of the northeast have tried to attack the cuprite mines. While they were thrown back

across the Hills of Endless Grass, the Emperor has determined that the lancers of the northeast

shall be more greatly reinforced to carry the message to the barbarians that they may be reminded

of the futility of such attacks."

Myryan smiles.

"You find that amusing?" asks Vernt.

"The name's amusing," she admits. "Nothing's endless, not even the Rational Stars. So how can

grass be endless?"

"The barbarians are endless," says Vernt. "Every year there are more of them."

"More doesn't mean endless."

"And they're just as stupid every year. Tens of scores of them try to cross the border, and

most of them die." Vernt looks at his father. "There must have been more than usual if you had to

do more chaos-charging."

"I was told that the lancers have it well in hand," answers his sire.

"And they will push the barbarians back across the not-so-endless Grass Hills," Myryan says,

"no matter what the barbarians call the grass."

"I do believe we've heard this before," suggests Kien'elth politely. "We decided the name was a

barbarian affectation." He clears his throat, then takes another mouthful of the fowl casserole,

nodding as he tastes it.

"We just ought to take over all of Candar-the western half, anyway," says Vernt. "That way, we

wouldn't have to worry about the smelly barbarians."

"The chaos-towers can't be moved," Lorn points out. "That's why Emperor-"

"Lorn," interjects Kien'elth quickly. "Not at dinner."

"Yes, ser."

"We don't need to move the towers," continues Vernt, seemingly oblivious to his father's

warning to Lorn. "The barbarians' iron blades are so soft that a cupridium blade cuts through any

of their weapons." The younger son snorts. "We don't need firewagons and highways to conquer

them."

"No-but would you want to live in a mud-brick hut or a tent?" Kien'elth laughs. "You wouldn't

get cooking like this, or cities like Cyad or Fyrad or Summerdock."

"We've heard this discussion before, too," interjects Jerial. "Cyador already has more land

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than we'll ever need, and so do the barbarians. They don't attack from need, but from perversity.

They want to take what we've built, because they're too lazy and too stupid to make things for

themselves."

"They do not have chaos-towers, nor could they fabricate them if they wanted to," says her

father gently.

"They don't have to live like swine," counters Vernt. "You can smell them from kays away."

"They weren't born with your advantages," Kien'elth points out.

"We've sent teachers out to the north and east." Vernt's voice rises. "And those that weren't

killed had to kill the barbarians to escape with their lives...."

"Maybe they don't want to learn," suggests Jerial, with a hint of a laugh in her voice. "They

don't like books as much as you do."

Lorn quietly finishes his casserole, and, while the others are looking at Vernt and Jerial, and

while his mother has slipped away from the table to bring the dessert platter, he slips a slice of

sun-nut bread from the tray and onto his platter. He eats it in precise motions before finally

speaking. "They still think we took their land."

"We didn't take anything, did we?" asks Myryan. "I thought most of Cyador was the Accursed

Forest before the founders came, and it killed either the barbarians or us whenever it could. They

didn't live here. They couldn't have lived here." She shakes her head. "It doesn't make sense.

We're not using land that they ever could have farmed or herded on. I agree with Jerial. They're

just lazy."

"They are what they are," replies Kien'elth, "and we aren't going to change that. We can only

deal with our own lives." He clears his throat. "Lorn... have you ever met Aleyar? She's Lector

Liataphi's next-to-youngest daughter?"

"He's met them all." Vernt chortles.

Lorn manages not to flush. "She is blonde, I believe, and quite well spoken."

"I told you so," Vernt hisses.

"Father..." Jerial begins.

Kien'elth turns to his eldest daughter. "Liataphi has no sons. I am not asking Lorn to consort

with her. I am asking if he would at least talk to the young lady. There's no harm in seeing if he

likes an eligible young woman."

"...and it would be kind," Myryan says with a sad smile.

"Because her older sister Syreal ran off with that merchanter, and that means that unless she

consorts with a Magi'i she'll lose her standing in the Magi'i?" asks Jerial.

"It's true, isn't it?" counters Myryan. "We're lucky. We have brothers who are carrying on as

Magi'i. Aleyar isn't, and she's sweet."

"You know her?" asks Nyryah.

"I like her," replies Myryan. "She's too gentle to be consorted to a lancer or a merchanter."

She looks at Lorn. "And she is pretty."

Lorn shifts his weight in his chair almost imperceptibly, then smiles. "I'll make a point of

talking to her."

"That's all I ask," Kien'elth says, as he turns and smiles at Myryan. "Lector Kharl'elth said

that the only young lady his son ever talked about was you."

"Ciesrt?" Myryan's expression reverts to one of polite interest.

Lorn glances from her to their father, who in turn watches the wavy-haired Myryan closely.

"Ciesrt'elth," corrects Kien'elth. "You know him, Lorn."

"He's in my student group," concedes Lorn.

"He works hard," adds Vernt. "Lector Hyrist'elth says he wishes all the students worked as

hard."

Across from Lorn, Myryan's face tightens ever so slightly.

"He's pretty serious," Lorn adds.

"These are serious times," Kien'elth begins, clearing his throat in the way that Lorn knows a

long pontification is about to begin.

"It sounds like a good time for sweets." Nyryah sets the wide white-glazed platter in the

center of the table, then re-seats herself. "Baked pearapple creamed tarts." She smiles at her

consort. "You can talk about serious times after dessert, dear."

Kien'elth laughs. "Undermined at my own table."

"A good dessert doesn't wait," counters Nyryah, "and if you do, you won't have any tarts with

this bunch drooling over them."

Myryan and Vernt laugh. Lorn and Jerial nod minutely at each other, but the corners of Lorn's

mouth turn up ever so slightly as he glances at the warm smile his mother has bestowed upon their

father.

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"Outstanding!" Kien'elth beams as he takes the first tart. "The barbarians and the serious folk

have nothing like this."

"They might." Vernt frowns, as if in thought, then adds, "But they probably don't."

"You can't even argue just on one side, Vernt," says Jerial after a mouthful of her tart.

"Maybe you should become a counselor. That's what they do-they argue both sides of everything."

"What about something like being the Hand of the Emperor?" asks Myryan guilelessly.

"Myryan," cautions Nyryah. "One doesn't talk about the Hand."

"Especially since no one knows who he is," adds Jerial dryly. "That's not wise."

Kien'elth, his mouth filled with the creamy tart, shakes his head and finally swallows.

"Argumentative counselors get sent as envoys to the barbarian lands. Besides, no Magi'i should

stoop to being a counselor. Mostly, they mediate between merchanters."

Amused smiles fill the faces around the table, smiles followed by silence as they enjoy the

tarts.

"There are a few tarts left," offers Nyryah when all have finished, glancing toward Lorn, "and

since you didn't have as much of the sun-nut bread..." She looks at Vernt, on whose face a frown

appears and quickly vanishes, "and since you look positively starved, Vernt..."

Myryan raises her eyebrows.

"...and you're still growing, youngest daughter," Nyryah smiles at Myryan and concludes, "there

are enough extra tarts for each of you."

"The last thing I need is another tart," observes Jerial, glancing down at her slender waist.

"I should not have had the one."

"You could eat three every night, and it would scarce show," counters her mother, "but I know

how you feel."

Kien'elth glances at his consort. Nyryah raises her eyebrows, and he closes his mouth quietly.

Lorn eats a second tart, deftly, with motions that are neither hasty nor dawdling, yet leave no

crumbs upon his fingers or his mouth. "Excellent. You must tell Elthya." He smiles at his mother.

"If I don't first."

"You'll not only tell her, Lorn, you'll charm her out of a third," says Jerial.

"A fourth," suggests Myryan. "I'd wager a silver he had one this afternoon when they were

cooling." Her warm smile turns toward Lorn.

He shrugs. "It might be."

His sisters laugh. Even Vernt, seated beside Myryan, smiles. So does Nyryah, although the

mahogany-haired woman's smile is more knowingly ironic.

As the family rises and as Elthya and the shorter serving girl step forward out of the shadows

to clear the table, Kien'elth beckons to Lorn. "I'd like to talk with you for a few moments,

Lorn."

"Yes, ser." Lorn, slightly taller and slightly broader across the chest than his father or his

younger brother, follows Kien'elth along the outside upper arched portico until they reach the

open door of the study.

The study is lit by the pair of oil lamps at each end of the pale oak table-desk. Their

silvered mantels-and their separation-cast an even glow across the room so that the shadows are

faint against the warmth of the blond wood panels that comprise the walls and the amber leather of

the volumes set in the bookcase that is built into the wall beside the desk. The scents of frysya

and baked pearapples linger in the room, reminding Lorn of the glazed tarts that had followed

dinner.

Kien'elth turns and stands between his desk, empty except for the lamps, and the stand that

holds the shimmering white cupridium pen that is yet another mark of his position as a magus. The

polished white oak case that holds his chaos glass rests on the small octagonal table to the right

of the desk proper.

Lorn's eyes pass over the glass, though he has often felt its power when his father has

employed it to observe him from afar.

After a moment of silence, the magus turns to his dark-haired son. "I spoke with Lector

Hyrist'elth."

Lorn nods, waits for his father to continue.

"He is not displeased with your studies, Lorn, but he is not pleased, either. He and I both

feel that while you learn all that comes before you, and more, you learn because it is easier for

you to learn than to oppose us." Kien'elth smiles. "I have seen you on the korfal field. There,

you are unfettered, almost joyous. I would wish you to show such joy in learning and in studies."

"I learn everything that I can, ser," Lorn replies carefully, knowing he must choose his words

with care, for his father can sense any hint of untruth-as can anyone within the family-and Lorn

does not wish to have his father use his chaos glass to follow him continually, though he can

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sense when Kien'elth-or any of the Magi'i-seek him with a glass. Most of his actions are innocent

enough, but there is little sense in provoking his father into deeper inquiries. "It is true that,

presently, learning for me is not so joyous, but I will persevere until, I hope, it is such."

"All Cyador rests on the Magi'i," says the older man. "Without the chaos towers, the firewagons

would not run, and neither lancers nor foot nor crops could be carried to where they must go. The

barges could not run the Great Canal. Without the chaos chisels, the stone for the roads would

have to be quarried by hand, and it would take years to pave but a kay of road. The Great Eastern

Highway alone... Without chaos glasses, we could not see the storms or the larger barbarian

forces,..."

Lorn listens politely as his father continues.

"...and that is why it is a great honor and a worthy duty to become a magus, and a goal for

which you should strive."

"I understand that, father."

"Lorn... you nod politely, and you apply yourself diligently enough, and you have mastered the

art of chaos transfer, indeed more than mastered it, and you have even learned the basics of

healing from Jerial, though that be more of a serving art than a magely one, and you have, I know,

the skill to truthread, and that is something but a handful ever fully master."

"Is that not what I am required to do, ser?"

"You are capable of more, far more. You have the talent to become one of the great mages. But

that requires more than talent." Kien'elth looks squarely at his oldest son. "I would hope that

you would see such." He shrugs. "I have told Lector Hyrist'elth that, if you do not show great

love of your studies, I will seek an officership for you with the Mirror Lancers. You possess the

skills to direct the lances of an entire company already, and perhaps the time on the frontiers

would rekindle your love of chaos."

Lorn continues to meet his sire's searching study. "I will do my best for the year ahead, ser,

but I can promise only diligence and hard work."

"That I know you will provide, Lorn." Kien'elth shakes his head slowly. "But each one of the

Magi'i must possess the very fire of chaos within himself or the chaos with which he works will

consume him as surely as a firelance will consume whatever its fire strikes. If you cannot find

such passion, no matter how great your skill, you would be better as an officer of the Mirror

Lancers than as the highest of the Magi'i." His lined face and silver and hair do not hide the

sadness within him as he beholds his eldest son.

"I understand, father. I will do what I can do." Kien'elth nods. "I know."

Lorn cannot disguise the frown as he closes the polished wooden door behind him and steps from

the study into the open pillared corridor that rings the upper levels of the house. As he had

sensed, Jerial waits in the shadows. Lorn turns to his older sister.

"How is Father?" asks Jerial. "He was quiet at dinner, and you're frowning. It must have been a

serious discussion."

"It was. We discussed how, without the Magi'i, the Great Eastern Highway-and the Great North

Highway-would still be under construction," Lorn finishes with a smile, "since even the North

Highway's length is four hundred and ninety three kays. We also talked about how I should build a

new chaos tower when I finish my studies."

"Lorn... someday you're going to have to be serious."

"I am serious." The dark-haired young man smiles at his older sister. "I'm always serious." The

smile fades. "Too serious in my studies for father. He wishes that I approach them as a lover."

"Well..." Jerial grins, "you've already had enough experience there, brother dear. Surely...

surely..."

Lorn laughs. "Ah... if I could."

Jerial smiles, then slips away.

After a moment, Lorn shrugs and takes the outside steps down into the rear garden, past the

fruit trees and the grape arbor. He pauses by the rear gate, in the shielded darkness, and

concentrates on his adaptation of chaos transfer.

Hssst! A small firebolt arcs from his fingers onto the white stone, splashing like liquid

flame, rearing up a good two spans into the gloom.

Lorn quickly steps on the twig that has caught fire and stamps out the small fire with his

heavy white boots. "Careful..." He glances around, but there are no sounds beyond the murmurs that

drift from the servants' quarters beyond the garden. He should have used even less chaos.

After a last look at the house, he leaves by the rear gate, and walks down the paved and

spotless alley to the lower street, above which tower the three levels of the family dwelling.

Lorn strides along the Road of Perpetual Light, eastward, away from the taverns frequented by

the higher-ranking lancers and the cider-houses that cater to the students. The cylar trees

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overhanging the white-paved street whisper in the night breeze, and the autumn perfume of the

purple arymids fills the cool air.

Lorn senses red-dark chaos... or trouble, and wonders what it might be. His eyes note little

distinction between twilight and night as he strides purposefully eastward, almost welcoming the

reddish-whiteness that he nears-after the talk with his father.

A couple walks toward him, nearly in the white and sparkling center of the wide walkway

flanking the road, and Lorn can see from shimmering blue attire that both are from the

merchanters. The man is slender, and his attention is upon the red-haired woman he escorts. Chaos

lurks behind them, in the hulking figure that follows, apparently unseen in the shadowed darkness

of the trees.

Lorn eases onto the same side of the road as the skulker who moves toward the couple, but the

student magus is too late as the heavy and tall man leaps and strikes the male merchanter, with a

blunt club or some such. The man collapses in a heap, and the woman turns to flee, but the

attacker grabs her arm.

"Halthor! Let go of me!" she screams. "Help! The Patrol!"

The man called Halthor drops the club to muffle her screams with his oversized hand.

Lorn steps out of the shadows, then ducks and picks up the truncheon as Halthor releases the

woman. Lorn moves as if he had seen the large fist coming and steps under the giant's arms,

bringing the short wooden truncheon into the vee of the man's ribs. Something cracks. The giant

gasps, standing there immobile.

Lorn's eyes glitter gold for but an instant as he speaks. "I believe that all would be best if

you jumped off the southernmost pier in the harbor and inhaled as much water as you can."

The taller man shivers, then turns, breathing laboriously, and begins to walk westward along

the Road of Perpetual Light, ignoring the fallen trader, the woman merchanter, and Lorn.

Despite the sudden knife-like headache that has shivered through his skull, Lorn lowers the

truncheon and turns toward the woman in shimmering blue, his voice filled with concern. "Are you

all right?"

"Ah... I think so. Yes." She does not quite shiver, as she bends toward the fallen man.

Through slightly blurred vision, Lorn sees that she is a redhead, and lightly freckled, with

creamy skin, and a full figure under the shimmering blue tunic.

"What did you do?" she asks. "He... just turned away and left."

"Just offered an opinion...." Lorn's laugh sounds easy. "He won't be bothering anyone soon."

The warm and friendly smile appears as he also steps toward the fallen junior trader. "We need to

attend to your friend."

The male trader squints, rolls to his knees, glances up at the redhead, then at Lorn. "What did

you do to Halthor? He'd like as kill you, student magus or not." He slowly rises to his feet, but

he shivers and staggers.

Lorn extends a hand. "As I told your lady friend, I offered my opinion to the fellow, that he

take himself elsewhere."

"He's never heeded anyone's advice before." The trader groans as he straightens up. "Cracked in

my skull."

"This... young man," says the woman, "offered it rather persuasively. Halthor was almost

doubled over. He has a cracked rib or two, perhaps."

The male trader lowers his head and holds it in both hands. "My head's splitting."

"I'm sure it only feels that way," says the woman.

Lorn's fingers brush the man's skull.

"That's better," admits the wounded trader.

Somehow the slight healing Lorn can offer the trader also lessens his own headache, if

marginally.

"Are you a healer, young ser?" asks the woman.

"Me?" Lorn shakes his head ingenuously. "I've picked up some from my older sister, who is, but

I'm afraid I'm poor in comparison to her." He looks eastward, along the white stones of the road,

past two couples who are strolling in a leisurely fashion down the cross-street toward the

pavilions that wait on the beach front park. "I think you do need to lie down before long. Are

your... quarters far from here?"

"No. Just two streets up." The trader takes a step and pales, then takes another.

"Are you sure you're all right, Alyet?" asks the woman.

"For two streets... yes."

Lorn takes the man's arm once more. "Just lean on me."

"And me." The woman takes his other arm, and the three walk slowly eastward until they reach an

archway on the uphill side of the way.

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"There..." mumbles Alyet. "There."

The woman and Lorn guide the trader up three steps and toward a darkened doorway to the left.

She fumbles a shining brass key from Alyet's belt wallet and unlocks the door.

Once inside, they cross a small sitting room that holds but a small table with two chairs, and

a low settee under the high window. A sleeping chamber barely big enough for the bed and a chest

lies through a narrow archway.

They help Alyet lower himself onto the bed that is draped with a dark blue coverlet.

"Are you sure he'll be all right?" asks the woman.

"He has some bad bruises, and a lump on his skull, but nothing's broken, I think," Lorn

ventures, "and his head will ache for days."

"Ryalth... be careful... sorry... don't think I can see you home," Alyet apologizes.

"I'll make sure she's safe,;" Lorn promises. "Don't you worry."

Ryalth raises her well-formed but narrow eyebrows. She does not protest as they leave Alyet's

quarters.

Once they are back on the Road of Eternal Light, standing beneath the arch of curved white

stone-merely alabaster, and not sunstone-Lorn turns to Ryalth, "We should decide what we should do

tonight."

Her eyebrows arch. "I do not know you, ser, and you appear to be a student."

"I am indeed a student, but that's all the more reason for you not to worry. Besides, you

scarcely need to end the evening on such an upsetting note." Lorn takes the young woman's hand and

smiles winningly.

V

Cool winter sunlight angles through the high windows and strikes the age- and chaos-whitened

granite walls well above the heads of the five figures in the discussion room, illuminating the

space with an indirectly intense light. Four student Magi'i sit on straight-backed chairs facing

the Lector who stands before them in shimmering white tunic, trousers, belt, and boots.

Lorn wonders, not for the first time, whether the Lector's smallclothes shimmer as well, even

though he knows his father's do not-but somehow, a Lector who monitors his studies is more

forbidding.

Ciesrt'elth shifts his weight in his chair, and it creaks. Lector Abram'elth ignores the sound

and looks across the group of four with eyes that glow golden, as do the eyes of many of the

senior Magi'i. "The time has come for you to once again observe a chaos tower, this time in light

of the knowledge that you have acquired and with all your senses, and not just your eyes. You will

be escorted in pairs. Ciesrt'elth and Rustyl'elth will be first. Tyrsal'elth and Lorn'elth will be

the second group. You two in the second group will wait here."

After the other three leave and the golden oak door closes, Tyrsal glances at Lorn. "Why would

it look different now? The tower, I mean?"

"We've seen one before, and we've seen the drawings. It probably looks the same, just like the

drawings, except it would have to glow with chaos. It is a chaos tower. That's probably what the

Lector wants to know-whether we can sense the chaos." Lorn smiles and laughs gently.

"Maybe it doesn't look like that at all with chaos senses. Maybe we just thought we saw a tower

before."

"What would be the point of deceiving us about that? It would just be a waste of time."

"They say that none of the halls in the Palace of Eternal Light are actually the way people

draw them," Tyrsal counters. "And that they change them all the time."

"That's different. Anyone can request an audience with the Emperor or his Voice or his

Advisors. They don't know who might be coming in, and I suppose the Emperor cannot trust-anyone.

Except the Hand, and that's because no one knows who he is. The senior and more talented Magi'i

could use a chaos glass to scree the Palace. That's why they have lancers and firelances behind

the screens throughout the Palace. Here... the only ones who see the towers are the Magi'i, and

the older students."

"Have you... a chaos glass?" Tyrsal stumbles over his words.

"Hardly. If my father didn't discipline me for that, the Lectors certainly would, and I'm not

sure father wouldn't be worse."

"Ah..." Tyrsal swallows, then quickly asks, "What about the workings of the fireships and the

firewagons. They're all sealed, and anyone besides a magus who opens them gets chaos-fried."

"Exactly," suggests Lorn.

"I suppose you're right," Tyrsal concedes.

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Modesitt, L.E. - Recluce 01 - The Magi' i of Cyador

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