Magi'i of Cyador

XXXI

IN THE LATE afternoon, before dinner, Lorn sits at the corner table in the officers’ study, his fingers carefully clasping the bronze pen whose nib will bend too easily should he exert too much pressure. He dips the pen into the inkstand and continues the scroll to Ryalth, ignoring the chill in the room where the heat from the always-inadequate but long dead fire has much earlier died away.

… have not received a scroll from you lately, but I hope that is from either oversight or the lack of interest in my stilted writing, and that you are well and prospering in your trade. If you have any spare coins, a few might go to copper futures on the exchange … only a few, though.

He half-smiles, half-frowns, his eyes going to the folio of maps set by his left elbow. He should be studying those maps, for he knows his understanding of the terrain he patrols is still not instinctive-and it should be, for the time will come when he will not have the luxury of looking at a map.

He purses his lips and continues with the scroll.

… most presumptuous of a lancer to offer mercantile advice to a merchanter, but you know I have never lacked presumption.

… our patrol schedule is being increased now that spring is about to arrive in the Grass Hills … and I may be the one with little ability to write or to have my missives sent southward to you ….You would be pleased to know that I have heeded your advice about reading, and have taken care with that with which you entrusted me.

After affixing the closing and his signature, Lorn folds the letter flat, then glances around the still-empty study. With no one near, he holds the stick of green seal wax over the paper edges and focuses the slightest flare of chaos he has drawn from around him on the tip of the wax. Almost as the droplet of green wax strikes the paper, Lorn presses his seal ring to it.

“Much easier …” murmurs to himself.

He still must write Myryan, a task he always postpones because he is still unsure whether his words to his father about Ciesrt will have made any lasting impact. Since he has received but a single scroll from his younger sister, and that far too many eightdays ago, he worries.

Finally, he takes a smaller section of paper, then gently cleans the bronze nib of his pen. He looks at the blank paper, then pauses.

Chyorst-the sole overcaptain at Isahl-walks into the officers’ study, surveying the entire room before his eyes come to rest upon Lorn. The overcaptain turns towards the junior officer, deliberatively.

Lorn slips the pen and paper under the folio of maps and stands as the overcaptain walks toward him.

“Maps?” Chyorst’s eyebrows lift.

“Yes, ser. I try to match them with what I’ve patrolled and study where I may be assigned.”

Chyorst nods. “Can’t hurt. Might help so long as you remember that maps are only an incomplete representation ofwhat’s out there.” The overcaptain looks around the study once more before asking, “Have you seen Jostyn, undercaptain?”

“No, ser. Not since last night.”

“Thank you.” Without another word, the overcaptain steps away from Lorn, and then leaves the officers’ study.

Lorn waits for a time before he returns to his letters.