Scion of Cyador

CLXIII

Lorn’s white boots whisper on the polished sunstone and granite floors of the Palace of Eternal Light as he and Sypcal follow the two guards along the high-ceilinged and pillared corridor. To the right, between the columns, are narrow windows stretching nearly fifteen cubits from the polished floor to the buttresses that connect the columns. Outside of Palace Guards dressed in green uniforms with silver trim, the Palace seems eerily empty, and Lorn glances at Sypcal.

A faint smile crosses the face of the acting Majer-Commander as he looks back at Lorn. “Don’t ask me. I’ve been here but a handful of times, and only to the Great and Lesser Audience Halls. Like you, I’m following orders.”

Lorn laughs to himself.

The two green-clad Palace Guards lead them down a smaller corridor-ten cubits wide, and then to a set of double doors, guarded by yet another pair in green. One opens the right-hand door, and Lorn follows Sypcal into a foyer a good twenty cubits square. There are several golden-oak chairs set against the paneled walls, and a single guard in silver stands by the inner door.

The guard in silver looks at Sypcal. “Ser…the Empress has requested that you remain here until the other advisors arrive. She will see you all together. She wishes to see Majer Lorn first, alone, and she wishes that he bring the special sabre at his side.”

Lorn moistens his lips. “The special sabre”? How does the Empress know it is special?

Sypcal smiles. “Best of luck, Majer.”

“Thank you, ser.” Lorn steps through the door. He finds himself at the end of a bedchamber-one comparatively modest for what he has seen in the Palace of Light so far, perhaps thirty cubits long, and fifteen wide. The left side of the chamber is comprised of alternating panels of polished green marble and green tinted glass, that somehow seem to diminish the light pouring in from the south. Still, Lorn can see the harbor, and the two hulks that were once Dyjani trading vessels.

The high bed is wide enough for four people, and the headboard is almost plain, but of a wood that might have once been white oak, but which now bears a green stain that allows the grain to show through despite the darkness of the color. The Empress is propped up on the window side of the overlarge bed, the white counterpane folded back at her waist. She wears a plain dark-green velvet gown with long sleeves. Her hair is half mahogany, half snow-white.

“Majer…please do not delay. Step forward, if you will.” The voice is firm, and almost melodic. In her left hand is a scroll, sealed with green-and-silver wax, and wrapped with green ribbon.

As he steps forward, finally halting at the foot of the bed, just a cubit from the green-and-cream velvet coverlet, Lorn studies her and nods, almost to himself, in spite of his resolve to betray nothing until he truly knows why he has been summoned.

“Why do you nod, Majer?”

“You are a healer. The Emperor would have died years earlier, would he not?”

“It is most likely, but that concerns you not.” A faint smile creases the wrinkled face. “You are both healer and magus, lancer and merchanter. But you will not be Emperor unless you act quickly and decisively.”

“Why would I be Emperor?”

“Who else could there be now?” she counters, a wry twist to her lips. “Your actions have left very few with any ability.”

“I did not slay any for that reason,” Lorn says quietly.

“Had you, you would not be here.” She pauses, as if gathering herself together. “In a few moments, the advisors will enter, and I will to announce you as heir…you must be prepared for all manner of trial. Nothing may occur, and then it may.”

Lorn bows. What is there to say?

“What indeed?” Ryenyel pauses. “You have trusted your consort, have you not?”

“You must know I have.”

“You will need to trust her even more, for if you become Emperor, all save her will seek to flatter you and deceive you, and many will be skilled enough to deceive you with only the truth.” A small smile precedes her next words. “As you yourself have often done.”

Lorn returns her smile with a slight one of his own.

“Oh…the Palace thanks you for your efforts in saving Cyad from the depredations of Sasyk. I should have said that first, but I have little time, and it is an effort to continue to think clearly.” Ryenyel clears her throat. “Why did you have the sabre plated with cupridium so many years ago?”

“I could not say, Lady Empress, save that it seemed like a good idea, and that it has proven so over the years.”

She laughs. “If you only knew how much consternation that act created for how many people for years…” She reaches up with her right hand and tugs the bellpull.

The door behind Lorn opens, and the silver-clad guard enters and bows.

“Norgyn…are the advisors here?”

“Yes, Lady Empress.”

“Send in the guards for Majer Lorn, then…after they are here, bid the advisors enter.”

Lorn frowns, but does not move.

“You will stand at the side, Majer, between the windows there. The guards are required when any bring a weapon into the Emperor’s or Empress’s presence. They will convey another impression, which will be…useful.” She smiles. “They would be no match for you, but I trust you will not test them so.”

“Not unless necessary, Lady.”

“Good.”

A second door, one so flush to the inner paneled wall that Lorn had not noticed it, opens, and two of the regular Palace Guards in green appear. They walk around the bed and station themselves on each side of Lorn. They bear the short firelances in scabbards fastened to their silver belts.

The hidden door closes, and the door through which Lorn has entered opens. First comes a magus, broad-shouldered, tall, red-haired and green-eyed. Although Lorn has never met him, Lorn knows the magus must be Kharl, both from the resemblance to Ciesrt and from the crossed lightning-bolts on the breast of his white shimmercloth tunic.

After Kharl comes Commander Sypcal, his face expressionless, and after Sypcal comes Vyanat, who avoids looking in Lorn’s direction.

The three line up at the foot of the massive bed, looking at the Empress.

“I have summoned you, in the name and memory of Toziel.” Ryenyel lifts the beribboned scroll slightly. “He has named his heir.”

“This is not a proper audience, Lady Empress,” states the new First Magus.

“How can it not be proper? The three Advisors are present. His widow is present. There are witnesses.” Ryenyel smiles serenely. “And…as you can see…I doubt I will survive to what you might term a proper audience.”

“Might I ask why a mere majer is present, Lady?” asks Kharl, inclining his head toward Lorn.

“He was the one who saved Cyad from being turned over to flux chaos and who kept the Palace of Eternal Light inviolate, most honored First Magus. For his reward, do you not think he should be among the first to know the heir?”

Kharl bows slightly.

“Have any of you words on this before I break the seal?”

“Lady Empress,” Kharl says smoothly, “I would but say that the people of Cyad would wish to see the father figure of the Emperor…one who has known their pain and their grief…”

Ryenyel nods. “You mean that you wish to fulfill that image? Would you recall that folk outside of Cyad itself only wish to live their lives in prosperity and be left alone, and that they would prefer one who would guarantee such?”

“The two can be one,” Kharl points out, “and I am certain that the Emperor understood such…at least before his last illness.”

Ryenyel’s voice strengthens. “What does the house of a crafter in Jakaafra look like, First Magus? You have such wide experience…would you describe it to me?”

Kharl looks at the Empress as if she is mad.

“Does it not have thick and sturdy shutters-and a strong ceramic screen built so as to allow air to flow yet so none can see directly into the dwelling-with yet a second screen inside the dwelling so that any welcomed at the door can scarce see the interior?”

“That may be,” Kharl admits.

The hint of smile plays across Vyanat’s lips. Sypcal merely watches.

“Are not most houses built so?” questions Ryenyel.

“I would not attempt to guess what the common folk built or how they dwell.”

“Yet you would be their father figure?” A lilting laugh follows the words. “Come now…does not the very structure of such a dwelling tell you that those who live there wish their lives to be hidden from the Emperor, the Mirror Lancers, and the Magi’i…and your chaos-glasses?” Ryenyel turns her head to Sypcal, then back to Kharl. “Do you, First Magus…do you think it a whim or a coincidence that no streets are named in the cities beyond Cyad and Fyrad? That the common folk guard their names jealously?”

“They are as children,” Kharl offers gently. “They must be protected.”

“That they must be protected…on that we all agree, I am certain,” the Empress responds.

Lorn looks at her countenance. He is certain that far more of her hair is white than when he first entered the chamber, and there are more wrinkles and creases upon her face.

“Here is the will of the Emperor,” Ryenyel states. “Majer-Commander…I would have you break the seal and read what is written thereon.”

“As you command, Lady Empress.” Sypcal bows, and steps forward. He takes the still-sealed scroll from her and turns. He breaks the seal and slowly unrolls the short parchment. Then he reads:

I, Toziel’elth’alt’mer, Emperor of Cyador, in the fullness of time, and in the wisdom of experience, hereby declare that the heir to the Malachite Throne, the man who shall succeed me when I am gone, and my spirit returned to the Steps of Paradise, on the path to the Rational Stars, shall be Lorn’alt, Majer of the Mirror Lancers, of elthage birth, Mirror Lancer through ability, and merchanter through consortship, fulfilling all the needs and requirements of Emperor. Let it be so.

Sypcal smiles, if slightly.

“Lorn’elth’alt’mer will be the son and heir of Toziel,” Ryenyel orders.

Lorn bows his head, but his eyes watch Kharl.

“This is a travesty…Lorn is but a butcher and a pup without the ability to rule his own dwelling, let alone Cyad or Cyador.” Kharl steps away from Vyanat.

Lorn can sense the massive amount of chaos swirling up and infusing itself around Kharl. At the same time, he can sense a pit of darkness within the other, one he doubts Kharl can even sense. Lorn lifts his own shields, knowing he must strike, and strike quickly. The Brystan sabre is in his hand, and he steps away from the guards.

“Let them be!” cracks Ryenyel’s voice. “What will be, will be.”

Sypcal and Vyanat back away from Kharl, as do the two guards from Lorn.

Lorn has the Brystan sabre in a guard position even before the chaos-firebolt reaches him.

Hsssst!

With a lazy smile, Lorn uses the order of the iron blade to turn and fling the firebolt back at the First Magus…and then lets the blade follow the firebolt, its iron-cored length slashing into the older magus-and linking with that dark order within the First Magus.

Kharl opens his mouth, and suddenly his eyes widen in shock, and the font of chaos that Kharl has summoned collapses back in upon him, drawn by that well of dark order. The iron-cored blade-momentarily halted, as if in midair, slashes even deeper into Kharl. Sparkles of light flare into the air of the bedchamber.

Lorn blinks. So do the others.

When he can see again, there is little on the chamber floor-except a few cupridium items, a melted pin that had once been an emblem of crossed lightning, some buckles, and cupridium boot-nails-and a shimmering sabre.

Lorn bows to the Empress. “I beg your mercy.”

“I should beg yours, Lorn, for I see that you have mastered more than would appear.” The Empress’s words are dry. Her eyes travel to Sypcal, and then to Vyanat. “Have either of you, for yourself, or those you represent, any objections?”

“No, Lady Empress,” offers Sypcal. He turns and bows to Lorn. “Your Mightiness.”

A broad smile crosses Vyanat’s face. “If we cannot have a merchanter, we will have an Emperor whose consort has proven herself as among the best of merchanters, and all will be pleased with that.” He, too, bows to Lorn. “Your Mightiness.”

Ryenyel clears her throat, as if with difficulty. She looks at Lorn. “Before you go, and prepare to ascend the Malachite Throne…take the book here on the table-and read it well.”

Lorn steps forward toward the Empress and the table on the window side of the bed.

“There,” she says. “It is yours, to read and to pass on in your time.”

“Yes, Lady.” He picks up the volume with the green-sheened silver cover-so like the book of verse with which Ryalth had entrusted him so many years before.

“Read it well.” Ryenyel pauses and turns toward the two men at the foot of the bed. “None of you will see me again. That is as I wish it. Now…please…depart while I retain some dignity.” When Lorn and the two advisors do not move, she adds, “I do mean that. Honor that as my last request.”

The three bow and slip from the chamber, followed by the pair of guards.

Lorn realizes, absently, that he has the answer to his father’s final question, an answer he has known all along: The world is based on power. Power is simple. It is the ability to get others to do one’s will. Nothing more, nothing less-but its complexity lies in how one obtains the compliance of others.

As Lorn stands in the foyer outside the bedchamber, half pondering what he has so belatedly recognized, Sypcal steps up and hands Lorn the Brystan blade. “I trust you will not need this, but you might wish to keep it. I would that you not leave the Palace to inform your consort until your lancers can escort you.”

“I will wait,” Lorn says.

“You will find you will wait more than you ever wished, Your Mightiness,” Sypcal says, as they leave the foyer outside the bedchamber of the dying Empress.

Lorn suspects Sypcal’s words are all too true.