CAPTAIN, MIRROR LANCERS
Geliendra & Vaeyal
By threeday morning, after a hard two-day ride to Syadtar, ending after sunset on twoday, Alyiakal is in a firewagon headed for Ilypsya. While he has hoped to see Healer Vayidra while he is in Syadtar, it turns out that she has been sent to Cyad, although no one at the infirmary can tell him more than that. He also wondered if he’d run across Naeyal, but he doesn’t see him at morning mess before he catches the firewagon.
Late on threeday evening, he arrives at Ilypsya Post, where he spends the night before catching another firewagon. In the end, he arrives at the Mirror Lancer post at Geliendra late on eightday afternoon. When he walks through the gates, carrying his gear, the walls and gates don’t seem as imposing as they had the first time he’d come to Geliendra. It takes him more than a glass to report his leave and transit status, to arrange for firewagon passage to Fyrad after his leave, and to obtain a room in the visiting officers’ quarters, a chamber not that different from the one he occupied in Pemedra, just, unsurprisingly, far warmer. He quickly washes up, shaves, and makes his way to the officers’ mess, where he stops and informs the mess orderly.
“Yes, ser,” replies the orderly. “Captain Riegar informed us you’d be here. Two eightdays, ser?”
“Yes. I’ll be leaving two eightdays from tomorrow morning. I might miss a few meals, since I’m visiting friends.”
“That’s not a problem, ser.”
Alyiakal makes his way to the junior officers’ table, since Geliendra has enough officers for two tables, although the senior officers’ table is only set with five places. As he nears the table, he doesn’t recognize any of the officers standing around the table, but he does see three very young men waiting at the end of the table—clearly officer candidates on their way to Kynstaar.
Or, as someone told you more than six years ago, merely candidates to be officer candidates.
There’s a separation between the ten captains and the five undercaptains, three of whom look to have been former squad leaders, and Alyiakal moves to join the captains, introducing himself: “Alyiakal, on leave and in transit to Guarstyad.”
The captain beside Alyiakal volunteers, “Talaan, Forest patrol.”
The captain across from Alyiakal, considerably older, says, “Ghrennan, Geliendra.” He frowns. “Have we met?”
“I don’t think so. I went straight from Kynstaar to Pemedra. You might have known my father, though—Majer Kyal.”
“I did, in fact. You do look a bit like him. That must be why I thought we might have met. I was sorry to hear that he died on patrol several years ago. He was a good man and an excellent officer.”
“Thank you. His death came as a shock, even though I knew it was always possible. He died right before I was commissioned.”
“Then he knew you’d be commissioned. At least he knew that.” Ghrennan pauses. “Guarstyad? They’re sending a lot of people there, I’ve heard. All of the officers have combat experience.”
“So I understand.”
“Has to be the frigging Kyphrans.”
At that moment, a tall and impressive-looking majer enters the mess, joining two overcaptains, and immediately declares, “As you were.” Then he seats himself at the senior officers’ table, and all the other officers seat themselves.
Captain Talaan asks quietly, “I heard that the Jeranyi armed a bunch of barbarians with shields and other weapons, and inflicted some severe casualties.”
“They did,” replies Alyiakal, taking a sip of the wine, far better than anything served at Pemedra.
“Were you … involved?”
Alyiakal smiles. “In a way. I commanded one of the two companies who destroyed them and fired the town. I was the junior captain. Captain Thallyr was in overall command. He might be an overcaptain by now. Solid officer.”
Ghrennan nods. “That might explain why you’re headed to Guarstyad. Do you have family around here?”
“I don’t have any living family left. I spent time growing up around here, and I thought I’d visit the family of a friend nearby. Our leaves will cross for a few days, if we’re fortunate.”
“Better reason than for some leaves,” offers Ghrennan in a bemused tone. “Never saw why some officers take leave in Cyad. Everything costs twice as much, and no one cares about junior officers. Have to be a subcommander to get much respect.”
“Or an acclaimed majer,” adds Talaan sardonically.
“Even they don’t count much in Cyad,” says a captain farther up the table.
Alyiakal serves himself firm-fleshed fish in a white sauce and a healthy helping of cheesed potatoes. The fish is clearly river trout, which Alyiakal hasn’t tasted in years. He much prefers shellfish, but any kind of fish makes a good change, especially since the food at Pemedra had been bland and monotonously repetitive, if filling.
After a time, he asks Talaan, “Forest duty, patrolling the wall?”
“The southeast wall between here and Eastpoint.”
“Does the northeast wall still have the greatest number of treefalls and Forest cats getting out?”
Talaan looks surprised. “You’ve had duty here?”
Alyiakal shakes his head. “Years ago, my father commanded Northpoint. He told me that then. I wondered if it had changed.”
“We all get breakouts of a sort. There are more in the north, but not by much.” Talaan pauses. “There’s talk about not having a majer in command in Jakaafra, just having the captains in the north report directly to the commander here in Geliendra.”
“That’s still only talk,” says Ghrennan. “Might happen, might not.”
“When there’s talk,” replies Alyiakal, “there’s either something behind it, or someone stirring up trouble. Sometimes both.”
Ghrennan chuckles. “Something to that.”
Alyiakal senses the older captain’s amusement, and a certain discomfiture from Talaan.
Before anyone else can say anything, Ghrennan clears his throat and says to Alyiakal, “How cold does it get in Pemedra? I’ve served in Assyadt and Inividra. They didn’t get much snow, and I hear Guarstyad does, even if it’s a port town.”
“Pemedra doesn’t get that much snow, but it does get what they call thundersnow. It comes over the hills in a quint or so and can drop knee-deep snow in less than a glass. Then it’s gone. I had my doubts until my company got caught in one.”
“How do you handle that?” asks Talaan.
“You gather the company tight and wait it out. The snow comes down so thick you can’t see much more than a yard.”
“Can’t say I’m sorry to have missed that,” replies Ghrennan.
After that, Alyiakal concentrates on finishing his meal.
When the majer signifies the end of the evening meal, Talaan immediately stands and then leaves with the captain with whom he’d been sitting.
Alyiakal turns to the older captain. “A pleasure meeting you.”
“You be here for a bit?”
“Two eightdays, on and off.”
“Then we’ll likely be talking again.” Ghrennan smiles warmly.
Alyiakal leaves the mess, then sees Talaan and his seatmate standing inside the outer door, talking in the dim light. After looking and noting that, for the moment, no one is watching, Alyiakal raises a concealment and moves closer to the two captains.
“What do you think of Alyiakal?” Talaan asks the other captain.
“He’s had combat experience with two different kinds of barbarians. As the son of a majer, he likely knows more than most captains his age. He also had to be recommended for Guarstyad by someone who’s evaluated combat officers.”
“You’re saying there’s more there than I saw.”
“Likely more than either of us saw. You heard his comment about talk. Most junior captains don’t think that way. That kind of officer is dangerous.” The other captain laughs softly. “That’s another reason why he came recommended. Headquarters doesn’t like dangerous officers. Don’t worry about him. If he survives Guarstyad, he’ll still be fortunate to make sub-majer.”
Alyiakal flattens himself against the wall and waits until the two leave the building and for another pair of captains to pass and depart before he drops the concealment.
Dangerous officer? For doing things as well as you can?
He shakes his head and walks toward the visiting officers’ quarters. More than anything else, at the moment he needs a good night of uninterrupted sleep.
At the morning mess on oneday, Alyiakal carefully keeps his conversation innocuous, pleasant, and short. He ends up sitting beside Ghrennan and another captain and lets them do almost all the talking. He does ask about a tailor for new uniforms.
“They’re all about the same,” replies Ghrennan. “The post tailor costs a little more, and the fit’s a little better. He also makes slightly more durable uniforms.”
“What about boots?”
“Stay with the post cobbler.”
After an entire morning occupied with various necessities, like having his dirty uniforms washed, Alyiakal takes both recommendations, first visiting the post tailor and commissioning four sets of uniforms, two of them winter uniforms, then going to the cobbler, where he orders a pair of heavier winter boots, because, between snow and flooding, having a spare pair of dry boots might be extremely useful in the seasons he will likely spend at Guarstyad.
He then makes his way to the stables, where he meets with the head ostler and arranges for a mount on twoday, given that Vaeyal is likely a two-glass ride, one way.
Since Geliendra Post itself doesn’t look to have changed much since he last explored it some six years ago, Alyiakal decides to explore the town. The front gates are slightly more imposing than those at either Pemedra or Syadtar, and the guards incline their heads as he walks past them, if only in recognition. More than a few captains are posted at Geliendra, and captain is the most common officers’ rank, since more than a few officers spend almost all their time in the Mirror Lancers as captains.
Which is fine if you start as a ranker, but not if you begin as an undercaptain.
He turns right outside the gates, in the direction of Vaeyal. The majority of the commercial establishments in the first block consist of those designed to relieve lancers, especially rankers, of their pay in some fashion. He counts three alehouses, two brothels—and has no doubt that two of the three boardinghouses also partly serve the same function—two coin lenders, and an actual bakery. By the time he walks three blocks, he sees the green and white awning of a coffee shop, which looks well-furnished and clean.
He decides to stop there. An older woman in green and white escorts him to a table for two. “Are you expecting someone, ser?”
“Just me. Coffee and the best pastry you have that doesn’t depend on the filling.”
“You sound like you appreciate quality in the basics.”
Alyiakal smiles and says, “I hope so.”
“You recently posted here?”
“I’m on leave. My great-aunt lived nearby. Well … not close. A town near Westend. I’m between postings and thought I’d visit friends.”
“I hope they’re expecting you. I’ve known officers to be … disappointed.”
“They are. The family is that of a fellow officer.”
“Better that than thinking some young woman will wait for you.” She pauses. “But you’re good-looking enough that one might. I’ll be right back with your coffee and pastry.” The server turns and walks toward the back of the shop.
Alyiakal surveys the shop, and the only other patrons. Two white-haired men at another table for two, playing Fyrr, and barely sipping their coffee, and two well-dressed women, possibly older than his server, who sit chatting over empty platters that suggest a long-finished meal of some sort.
The server returns with the coffee in the customary tall and narrow mug and a small platter holding a single pastry—composed of a thin strip of phyllo wound in a spiral from the center and then obviously baked until flaky-crisp and lightly sprinkled with small crystals of glazed pearapple syrup.
“Thank you. What do I owe you?”
“Four coppers.”
Alyiakal gives her five.
“Enjoy the spiral.”
“I’m sure I will.” After the server leaves, Alyiakal takes a sip of the dark, strong, but not bitter coffee, followed by a bite of the crispy spiral. The light, flaky, and buttery pastry almost melts in his mouth, and the pearapple-syrup crystals are sparse enough that there’s just enough sweetness.
Even before he finishes the spiral, he has the feeling he’ll likely be visiting the coffeehouse again before he leaves Geliendra.
Then again, you haven’t had much to eat except Mirror Lancer fare for the last six years. With that thought, he finishes his coffee and stands.
He might as well see what else Geliendra has to offer.
On twoday, Alyiakal wakes early, thinking about the day ahead. While he knows a fair amount about Saelora’s successes as a scrivener, an enumerator, and a junior trader, all he really knows about her is that her hair is reddish, but darker than that of Hyrsaal, and that she’s somewhat above medium height, and has brown eyes. She’s never mentioned any men besides her brother and those she has worked for, let alone a consort, but Alyiakal has never asked, either.
And you’ve never mentioned any women except working for Healer Vayidra.
Then he rises, washes, shaves, and dresses. He carefully checks his sabre, doubting that he’ll need it, but since he’ll be traveling a road between towns, there’s always a possibility of trouble. Even if it’s highly unlikely, he’d rather be prepared.
At breakfast, he sits with several captains he hasn’t met, one of whom is on his way to take command of a company at Westend. Alyiakal is pleasant, but reveals as little as possible. After breakfast, he makes his way to the stable, where he meets and then saddles his mount, an older mare, under the watchful eye of the ostler. As usual, Alyiakal spends a little time, effort, and reassuring order on the mare.
When he leads her out of the stall, the ostler nods, then says, “Looks like you know a little about horses.”
Alyiakal smiles. “I try to listen. They’ve saved my life more than once.”
“You take care of them, and they’ll take care of you.”
“They already have.”
Once mounted, Alyiakal rides out through the south gates and turns west on the main sunstone avenue, passing the green and white awning of the coffee shop. Less than a kay later, he reaches the last of the close-set houses and enters an area of small steads and smaller houses, where he sees men and women performing various harvest-related chores. The high trees bordering the steads are numerous enough that he can’t see the white walls enclosing the Great Forest, but he can certainly sense, if faintly, the patterns of order and chaos.
At that realization, he stiffens in the saddle, recalling that he hadn’t been able to do that when he was within yards of the walls. But that was when you were younger and hadn’t worked much with order and chaos. Still, he wonders if he’s grown more perceptive or if the Great Forest has grown in power.
He rides another kay, and the road forks. The left fork is sunstone, the right fork is a narrower worn gray stone road. At the fork, there is a kaystone. Below the arrow pointing to the southeast are the words SHAARN/FYRAD. Below the arrow pointing northwest is the word VAEYAL. Alyiakal turns the mare toward Vaeyal.
More than a glass later, the trees alongside the road thin out and the small steads give way to small fenced areas. Ahead he sees low houses and beyond them taller buildings.
Saelora’s directions are simple. “Take the road from Geliendra until you reach the street closest to the Great Canal. Turn right and keep going until you reach the building with Vassyl’s name on it.”
When Alyiakal reaches Canal Street, he can finally see the Great Canal, almost adjoining the whitestone tow-roads that top the levees on each side of the canal reserved for the compact firetows to pull the barges up and down the canal. Between the east tow-road and Canal Street is a waist-high stone wall, unbroken except at designated loading/unloading areas. Except for the loading docks, the west side of Canal Street is bare of structures, and all those on the east side are constructed of either stone or brick, or both.
For several moments, Alyiakal admires the Great Canal, which he has not seen since he was a boy living with his great-aunt. Then he turns the mare to the right, away from the loading station and the wagons lined up there. While there are scattered wagons and carts along Canal Street, he doesn’t see another rider. Three blocks later he sees a three-story building with a modestly large façade signboard—VASSYL, FACTOR & TRADER. Below the larger signboard is a smaller one that states: GREENBERRY SPIRITS.
Alyiakal smiles, then reins up the mare and dismounts, tying her to the sole hitching post he can find.
“Alyiakal! Or should I say ‘Captain Alyiakal’?” says a woman who can only be Saelora. She stands in the doorway to the factorage.
Saelora isn’t exactly as Alyiakal has imagined, since she’s broad-shouldered, and only a few digits shorter than Alyiakal, who is slightly taller than most Mirror Lancer officers. She might even be taller than her brother. Her mahogany-red hair frames her strong, handsome, rather than pretty, face. Deep brown eyes focus on him, and he can’t help but look straight back at her and smile.
After a moment, he realizes that she wears tailored blue trousers, with a matching blue vest—the colors and inside working garb of a Merchanter enumerator—over a cream shirt. Her smile holds the same infectious warmth as her brother’s, however, and Alyiakal can see and sense that she’s clearly pleased to see him.
“No sister would ever call a brother ‘captain,’” he replies happily, grinning as he adds, “You were the one who said I should treat you as a sister.”
She grins back. “I said ‘write me as you would a sister.’ Don’t stand on the street. Come in. Vassyl insisted that he has to meet you.” She steps back from the doorway and gestures.
“Will the mare be safe here for a bit?” he asks.
“Certainly during the day.”
“Is this also the primary place of business for Greenberry Spirits?” he asks as he approaches the door.
“For now. I’ve moved the distillery to the land with the greenberries. We needed more space. We can talk about that later.”
Alyiakal follows her inside the factorage, carefully closing the door. The small and spare front of the factorage contains a waist-high oak counter with a polished, if battered, top extending across the entire front of the factorage, except at one end. Roughly four cubits behind the counter is a brick wall with a single iron-bound door—open for the moment.
Obviously, Vassyl handles valuable goods … or Vaeyal is more dangerous than it looks.
“Vassyl! I told you he’d be here today.” Saelora walks around the counter, motioning for Alyiakal to follow.
“You don’t have to shout,” comes a raspy voice from beyond the open door.
“You wouldn’t hear me if I didn’t,” returns Saelora, stepping through the door behind the counter.
Alyiakal follows … and is almost stopped in his boots. He has expected an expansive and dusty storeroom with rows and rows of shelves and more than a little clutter. Instead, the front section of the warehouse, for, given the size, it cannot be called anything else, contains two tasteful walnut desks, one on each side, with a Merchanter-blue carpet between them. A small walnut conference table stands in the middle of the carpet, with four matching chairs around it. Behind the tastefully furnished area that functions as a study there are rows and rows of shelves, but they are constructed of time-polished oak and look spotless.
The goods on them are neatly arranged as well. Alyiakal spots two sturdy, long ladders, well back along the shelves that stretch at least thirty yards back. A polished wooden staircase leads to the space over the entry area.
The man rising from the desk on the right is almost as tall as Alyiakal, but wiry and a good twenty-five years older. His Merchanter blues are of good quality, but are not of the shimmersilk purportedly worn by Merchanters in Cyad and those elsewhere of great wealth. He offers a pleasant and friendly smile, although Alyiakal senses a certain reserve. “Always glad to meet a man who keeps his word, especially to this Lady Merchanter. Oh … and I’m Vassyl.”
“I’ve heard a great deal good about you,” replies Alyiakal. “Saelora has written me about all you’ve done for her.”
“No more than she’s done in helping me return all this to what it should be. It took years.”
“It only needed a tidy,” says Saelora.
Vassyl shakes his head. “More than that. She’s earned those blues. The bigger Merchanters are much friendlier these days. That’s because they want access to the brandy … and now she’s working on a special liqueur to go with it.”
“No,” says Saelora. “It’s because you have unique goods people want.”
“Which I couldn’t find until you came along.”
Saelora offers an amused headshake.
Alyiakal turns to her. “You didn’t mention the liqueur.”
“It’s not ready, and we’re not sure how well it will sell,” she admits.
After a long moment of silence, Vassyl speaks. “Why don’t you two go have something to eat at the coffee shop?” He looks to Alyiakal. “You can stable your horse in back in one of the empty stalls.”
“You can do that,” adds Saelora, “while I change.” She drops her eyes for a moment. “I thought you’d be later. I’ll meet you at the stalls.” She hurries toward the back of the warehouse.
“Ride to the lane two doors up and turn right,” suggests Vassyl. “Then take the first alley back down. I’ll unbar the doors.”
“Thank you. I would feel better about the mare.” Alyiakal inclines his head, then walks back through the door to the front room of the factorage and then out to the mare.
A white-haired man in well-tailored Merchanter blues turns from where he had been looking at the mare and says, “I thought that was a Mirror Lancer mount. You posted at Geliendra, Captain?”
Alyiakal shakes his head. “I’m on leave, but the mare is theirs. I’m visiting friends.”
“All sorts of folks be visiting Vassyl and the lady Merchanter these days. It’s good to see. A pleasant day to you, Captain.”
“The same to you.”
Alyiakal unties the mare and mounts, following Vassyl’s directions to the rear of the warehouse, where, true to his word, the Merchanter has the doors open. Alyiakal dismounts and leads the mare to the open end stall, reassuring her with kind words and a touch of order, before closing the stall.
Vassyl has left, and Saelora has closed and is barring the stable doors.
Alyiakal looks again at the four stalls, three of which now hold horses, the fourth of which holds hay and likely grain. Then he looks back to Saelora, now clad entirely in Merchanter blues, the tunic not that of an enumerator, but of a full trader. “You look most impressive.” He gestures toward the horses. “I take it one of these is yours?”
“The roan gelding. I needed a way to get to all my growers. He’s also strong enough that he can carry me and two kegs of the raw greenberry juice. Sometimes, I have to hire a wagon, but it’s cheaper than owning one and another horse.”
She turns and leads Alyiakal back through the spotless shelves of the warehouse and out into the counter area, where Vassyl speaks with the white-haired man Alyiakal met out front.
Alyiakal says nothing until they are on the side of the street walking north. “Do you know the white-haired man?”
“That’s Rhobett. He and Vassyl grew up as neighbors. He owns one of the canal warehouses, but his two sons do all the work now. He stops by every so often. Sometimes, he even buys something.”
“The greenberry brandy, I’d wager.”
Saelora laughs. “Of course. He doesn’t need much of anything else. He’s always pleasant, though. Mostly, he talks to Vassyl.”
Alyiakal sees the green and white awning ahead, several storefronts past the lane he’d taken to stable the mare. “I see we don’t have far to go.”
“We don’t, and the fare is good.”
Alyiakal has the feeling she isn’t saying everything, but he nods and says, “After years of mess food, almost anything is welcome.”
“You sound like Hyrsaal.”
“I suspect he feels the same way.”
When they enter the shop, only two of the half score of tables are occupied; an older woman server appears and looks questioningly at Alyiakal, and then Saelora.
“Celuisa, this is Captain Alyiakal. He’s visiting on his leave. He’s a friend of Hyrsaal’s.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” offers Alyiakal.
“At least you’re good-looking,” says Celuisa. “This way.” Once she seats the two, she turns to Saelora. “You know the fare. I’ll be back.”
Alyiakal smiles, then says, “I take it you know her. She’s not impressed with Mirror Lancers, it seems.”
“She and Mother used to be … acquaintances. In a town this small, people get to know each other. Her consort was a lancer ranker, but he was killed. So her son was accepted for possible officer training. He wasn’t as successful as you and Hyrsaal. He’s serving in Biehl.”
“It could be worse.”
“Don’t tell her that,” replies Saelora softly and dryly.
“How are the pastries?” asks Alyiakal, thinking of his visit to the coffee shop in Geliendra.
“The spirals are good if you like crispy and flaky. My favorite is the almond-custard roll.”
“That sounds decadent.” He grins. “I’ll try one.”
When Celuisa returns, Alyiakal nods to Saelora.
“Coffee and the almond-custard roll.”
“I’ll have the same,” says Alyiakal.
Celuisa nods and leaves the table.
“You look much like I thought you would,” muses Saelora, before smiling and adding, “but I pestered Hyrsaal to describe you in detail.”
“How am I different from what you pictured?”
“You’re a little taller, and your hair is true black, not just dark. Hyrsaal said your eyes were green, but not the intense green they are. Most people with green eyes have watery green eyes. Your shoulders are broader, too.”
So are yours. “Anything else?”
“My turn,” she replies. “How am I different from what you thought?”
“You’re taller. You said you were slightly above medium height.”
Saelora blushes, if but slightly. “Most men don’t like tall women.”
“Your hair is … more alive. You said it was a darker red than Hyrsaal’s. I’d say the same thing about your eyes. They’re not muddy brown, but a strong piercing brown.” Before she can press, he goes on, “I really wasn’t trying to picture you. What you wrote”—and that you kept writing—“was far more important to me.”
The return of Celuisa with the coffees and rolls saves Alyiakal from further questions about her appearance.
“That’ll be six,” says Celuisa evenly.
Alyiakal immediately comes up with seven coppers. “Thank you.”
Celuisa nods and leaves the table.
“She’ll have it all over Vaeyal that you had a young captain visiting you,” speculates Alyiakal.
“Most likely, but since everyone knows Hyrsaal’s a Mirror Lancer officer, it won’t be much of a surprise. Besides, we’re talking in midday at the coffee shop.”
“Is Vassyl a widower?” asks Alyiakal. “From the way he talked…”
“He is. Farsella and his son got the red flux around eight years ago when they visited her mother in Jaarn. Elinjya, his second child, has never been interested in the factorage or trade, and she consorted a widower with a fair amount of land and a large house outside of Shaarn.”
“How did you come to work for him?”
“I never planned it. Buurel asked me if I’d help Vassyl three years after Farsella died. She’d been the one who handled the coins and the shipping. We got on. I’m sort of the daughter Elinjya couldn’t be.”
Alyiakal notes the slight emphasis Saelora places on the word “daughter,” but only says, “It sounds like he was really distraught.”
“He was. But it’s worked out for the best. Elinjya visits him now more than she ever did and brings her two little ones. She even thanked me. She told me that I’d done what she couldn’t, and that she didn’t have to feel quite so guilty about not wanting to work at the factorage.”
“Can I ask about his son?”
Saelora shakes her head. “They were always at odds. Buurel told me that Evaant was too sloppy and never wanted to work hard. Vassyl seldom says much about him. Once in a while, he’ll say something to the effect that he was likely too hard on both of them. I don’t think so. I listen, and say something like we all have to do the best we know how, and no one is perfect.”
“That’s certainly true enough.”
“How did you come to be a Mirror Lancer? All Hyrsaal said was that your father was a majer and that he thought you lost your mother young.” She pauses, then says quietly, “I tried to let you know what I felt when Hyrsaal wrote that your father died.”
“Your letter helped … it helped more than I could let you know then. You know about how it is.”
“Not as much as you. I was so young when Father died. I just felt the emptiness in Mother.”
“You felt enough, I’m certain. I was eight … when my mother died … that emptiness still comes back at times.” Alyiakal pauses, then goes on. “You asked how I came to be a Mirror Lancer. I suppose the simple answer is I couldn’t conceive of being anything else. My father hoped I could be of the Magi’i, but my talents there aren’t suited to being more than a field healer.”
“You’re more than that.” Saelora looks directly at him. “I don’t know how much more or what, but Hyrsaal said that there was something about you. He’s usually right about people … and I feel the same way.”
Alyiakal offers an embarrassed smile, then says, “It’s dangerous for me to say much or reveal much, but I can do a bit of real healing. That scares senior Mirror Lancer officers.” Alyiakal knows there’s a certain risk in revealing even that, but most of that is in his records, and he doesn’t want to lie to Saelora.
But what you don’t reveal is deceptive as well. For now, he can only avoid outright untruths, but perhaps … in time. If not, then what he has said isn’t fatally damaging, although he is fairly certain that Saelora keeps confidences.
Her smile is amused. “You’re being careful. I understand. I also appreciate your being as truthful as you can. Hyrsaal has mentioned how certain other officers tried to make your future more difficult.”
Alyiakal is, again, thankful for Hyrsaal. After a moment, he goes on. “From what I’ve seen so far, I don’t think I’d be better suited for anything else. What about you?”
“As I wrote you, I owe so much to Buurel and Vassyl. They’re like favorite uncles. I don’t know anything else that I’d like doing better.” She pauses. “I can’t say that to Mother, but I never wanted to stay home and raise children.”
“Don’t you think she knows that by now?”
“She does, but I still couldn’t say it. It would belittle everything she’s done, and it wouldn’t come out right.”
“I can see that.” Alyiakal takes a sip of the not-quite-steaming coffee, then a bite of the almond-custard roll. “This is good. It’s definitely decadent and fit for Cyad. That’s a guess, because I’ve never been there, but all the officers hint that it’s expensive and decadent.”
“Someday, you’ll be posted there.”
“Most officers never make it,” he points out.
“You will.”
“You’re kind … and don’t tell me you’re not.”
She smiles ruefully. “How did you know I was going to say that?”
“It was a calculated guess, based on almost six years of letters.”
“What did you do? Study them?”
“I had a great deal of time in the evening.”
“Hyrsaal wrote something like that.”
And he was posted in an actual city. “Junior officers have to get used to that. Most of us, anyway.” He smiles. “Please tell me more about how you actually built a distillery from nothing.”
“It started with little things. There are so many greenberries around here, but they’re so bitter that even traitor birds and vulcrows won’t eat them. I wrote you about Hyrsaal’s idea, but even mixing the juice with pearapple juice didn’t work…”
For the next glass, Alyiakal mostly listens, prompting her with occasional questions.
Then, abruptly, she stops talking and says, “I’ve enjoyed this so much, but I have to check the distillery. There’s also a trader who sells spirits to an Austran Merchanter, and he’ll be coming by sometime after fourth glass.”
“I’d say I didn’t mean to spend so much time with you, but I’d rather not lie.” He stands. “What if I came back on fourday?” He’d rather come back on threeday, but that might be pushing it.
Saelora stands, more athletically than with studied grace. “Fourday … after second glass of the afternoon. We could have an early dinner. That way, you wouldn’t have to ride back in the dark.” She pauses, then adds, “You wouldn’t want to stay at any of the inns here, and I wouldn’t want you to.”
And you can’t really invite a strange man to stay with you and your mother … and your stipended and disabled brother.
Alyiakal leaves another copper on the table because of all the time they have spent and then walks out with Saelora. He can’t say that he escorts her, but rather that they accompany each other.
When they enter the front door of the factorage, Vassyl stands behind the counter, listening to a burly bearded man. He nods to Saelora, but continues to listen to the other man.
“… wouldn’t know a graving iron from a bower if you showed him both … doesn’t see the difference between a maul and an ax…”
“… some folks are like that,” replies Vassyl.
Saelora is the first into the study area and quietly closes the door, so that Alyiakal can no longer hear the conversation. Then she leads the way through the warehouse shelves to the stable.
Alyiakal stops short of the stall holding the mare and says, “Second glass on fourday.”
She nods. “I’m so glad you came.”
“So am I.”
She unbars the stable doors and then opens them.
Alyiakal can sense her watching him as he leads the mare from the stable and out into the alley, where he mounts. Then he looks down at her and says, “On fourday,” largely because he doesn’t know what else to say.
“I’ll be here.”
He rides back along the way from the stable and to Canal Street, then past the factorage. Saelora is not out front watching.
Why should she be? Besides, she had to close up the stable.
As he turns onto the street that will become the gray stone road back to Geliendra, he discovers, realizes, really, that while he instinctively likes Saelora, and definitely wants to see her again, he is wary of saying too much.
Is it because you’ve never been that close to an attractive woman since Adayal?
Adayal had been very clear. We have different paths. And he had sensed the absolute firmness of that statement.
Alyiakal shakes his head as he rides eastward out of Vaeyal.
On threeday, Alyiakal takes out the mare again, but only to ride around Geliendra outside the post walls in order to get a better feel of the town. Unlike Jakaafra, the only buildings within half a kay of the Forest wall are those within the post walls, but Geliendra is unquestionably a much more prosperous town than Jakaafra, if the number of large houses is any indication.
He locates the market square, but does not enter because he would have to leave his mount, and while he can sense how trustworthy most people are, he worries about others he does not meet or know about. Besides, the square isn’t that far away from the post gates.
You can come back on foot later.
Then he rides slightly west and takes a lane to get closer to the white sunstone wall that stretches northwest from Geliendra. He reins up a good hundred yards from the wall, in the shade of a tree beside the lane, and, for a time, just looks at the wall and the Great Forest towering over the white barrier. Then he uses his order/chaos senses to discover what he can discern, and is surprised to find that he can indeed sense both the power of the Great Forest and the blackness of the flows of order and the tumbling whiteness of chaos behind the walls, as well as the curtain-like mixture of order and chaos created by the wards—an almost ugly combination.
Is that why the wards work? Or for some other reason.
For a time, he attempts to locate specific patterns within the walls, those that might be stun lizards or panther-cats, or giant snakes. Some patterns are clearer than others, but with some effort he can generally pick out most of the creatures.
When he hears a cart approaching, he halts his efforts and turns the mare.
The older man leading the horse and cart looks up to Alyiakal and says pleasantly, “I’d think you’d seen enough of the walls.”
In return, Alyiakal smiles. “I grew up near the walls. I haven’t been posted here. Not yet, anyway. I’m on leave, passing through.”
The carter shakes his head.
Alyiakal rides back to the post and to the stables, where he dismounts and leads the mare back to her stall. He unsaddles and grooms her, quietly talking as he does. When he finishes and closes the stall door, he sees the head ostler walking toward him.
“How was she?” asks the ostler. “You have any trouble?”
Alyiakal shakes his head. “She’s a good mount. Very responsive. She’s in good condition. That has to be your doing.”
“Thank you, ser. We all work with all the mounts. You have a good ride?”
“I did. I rode around the town to get familiar … in case I’m ever posted here.” Alyiakal pauses. “Tomorrow, I’ll need a mount for the afternoon and early evening, but I should be back before sunset. Will that be a problem?”
“No, ser. You could take her overnight if you have a safe place to stable her.”
“I won’t need that now. I might in a few days. My friend might get back on his reposting leave, but we’ll have to see.”
“You said you’re headed to Guarstyad?”
“That’s what my orders say.”
The ostler shivers. “Too cold for me, from what I hear.”
“I’m sure I’ll find out,” replies Alyiakal pleasantly. “Thank you. Until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Yes, ser.”
The ostler turns and walks back toward the tack room.
Alyiakal moves close to the stall and glances around. When he’s sure that no one is looking, he raises a concealment and uses his senses and follows the ostler because his senses tell him that the ostler hasn’t come to talk just by happenstance.
He stops outside the open tack room door, but he can hear clearly enough.
“… went and talked to him like you asked, ser.”
To Alyiakal, that suggests that the ostler is talking to an officer, but he can only discern that the other figure is a man.
“What did he have to say?”
“He said that he’d ridden around Geliendra to get familiar with the town in case he was ever posted here.”
“Nothing else?”
“He’s waiting to meet a friend—another officer who’ll be on leave soon. That’s what he said. He said the mare was a good mount. Not much more than that.”
“You’ve seen officers come and go. What was your feeling about him?”
“He’s good with horses. They like him. That says a lot.”
“I don’t care what the horses think. What do you think?”
“I go with the horses, ser. They’re more often right than I am.”
Alyiakal can’t quite make out the officer’s quiet return, but he definitely senses the man’s unhappiness with the ostler’s views. He eases his way back to the mare’s stall, and when he’s alone, he drops the concealment and says a few more words to the mare before leaving and making his way back to the visiting officers’ quarters.
Once back in his temporary room, he ponders who at Geliendra is interested in him and why. The unnamed captain he’d met the first night? Alyiakal is certain that he had never met the man before, and the brief conversation the two captains had suggested that neither knew him prior to their meeting.
You don’t know enough. But then, junior captains never do.
He returns to thinking about Saelora. From her letters, he had the impression of intelligence and ambition, but, as with some people, she doesn’t write as well as she speaks. It’s clear that she has a talent for organizing people and things without being overbearing and offensive.
That’s a rare skill.
Later, after more thought, and not just about Saelora, Alyiakal arrives at evening mess looking for Ghrennan, but doesn’t see the older captain and finds himself sitting across from another captain roughly his age, although Alyiakal is certain that they’ve never met.
“I’m Alyiakal, on leave, before reporting to Guarstyad.”
“Jaenstyd. I’m on my way to Northpoint.”
“It’s not a bad post. Jakaafra is a decent town.”
“You’ve been posted there?”
Alyiakal shakes his head. “No. My last post was Pemedra, but my father was the commanding majer at Northpoint years ago. Where were you posted before?”
“Dellash.”
Alyiakal frowns. “I’m not familiar with Dellash, except that it’s on Esalia.” Esalia is the large island off the coast west of Summerdock.
Jaenstyd laughs. “Not many people are. It’s the only port on Esalia, and the only town of any size.”
“The post handles port security and smugglers?”
“Exactly. Not terribly exciting.”
“A friend of mine has a similar post at Summerdock. From what he’s written, his company’s had to deal with quite a few smugglers.”
“We had to deal with some smugglers, but we also had to support the Imperial enumerators. Some of the outland traders weren’t too interested in paying tariffs…”
Alyiakal mostly listens.
Then the captain beside Jaenstyd says, “Pemedra. Did you ever run across a Captain Prekius?”
“There was an Undercaptain Prekius. He was killed in an ambush by barbarian raiders before I arrived.”
“Oh … I never heard about that.”
“I’m sorry,” says Alyiakal. “I wouldn’t have known except I was his replacement. If you don’t mind, what was he like?”
“I really didn’t know him. We were at Kynstaar together. By the way, I’m Nyell. Temporary duty here.”
Alyiakal nods. Temporary duty is usually in an administrative position while an officer recovers from a wound or injury. He gingerly extends his senses, but doesn’t find any chaos or anything unusual.
“It’s not from an injury.” Nyell smiles wryly. “I was due to go to Luuval, you know, where two companies watch almost a hundred kays of coast for smugglers. Most of the town slid into the ocean after a storm in the middle of Harvest. It sort of … slumped, I heard. Most everyone in the post survived. The town wasn’t so fortunate, and headquarters hasn’t figured out what to do with the post.”
“I hadn’t heard about that,” says Alyiakal.
“How would you,” replies Nyell amiably, “you were on the other side of Cyador at one of the most isolated posts.” He pauses. “You obviously survived the barbarian raiders. Are they that bad?”
“Some are so hopeless you almost feel sorry for them, and some are both good and angry enough to inflict considerable casualties. When you’re patrolling there, you run across both. At least, I did.”
“It sounds like Prekius wasn’t so fortunate.”
“From reading the patrol report, I got the impression he hadn’t expected an ambush.”
“I heard there were more than a few things he didn’t expect,” says Nyell. “He came from a wealthy Merchanter family in Cyad.”
Jaenstyd winces.
Nyell nods. “He should have gotten smuggling duty, but…” He shrugs.
The family golds made sure he got what he wanted, at least partly.
Then Nyell says, “I overheard you’re on leave before you go to Guarstyad. Back here to see old friends?”
“Actually, to see a newer friend and his family. He and I went through Kynstaar together. Quarters at his family are cramped, though. So I’ve been riding there. I’ve been impressed by the mounts and stables here.”
“I imagine they have to be good, handling all the Forest patrols.”
“I haven’t met the officer in charge, only the ostlers.”
“Oh … that’s Captain Warbaan. He’s an older captain. He seems solid. Doesn’t say much.”
“Sometimes, results tell you more than words,” replies Alyiakal, fixing Warbaan’s name in his mind.
“Results always tell you more,” agrees Nyell.
For the short time remaining before the senior officer stands to signify the meal is over, the three captains trade agreed-upon generalities.
When Alyiakal walks back to the visiting officers’ quarters, he can’t help thinking about the meal, and who was and wasn’t in the mess and at Geliendra. So far he has not seen any officer he met or can remember from six years earlier, but Nyell’s question about Prekius suggests the officer corps is small enough that in any gathering there’s a good chance some of those present know others or of them. That understanding doesn’t tell him why Warbaan, most likely, but not definitely, is interested in him.
The greatest Magi’i of the First and the late Emperor of Light all cautioned that the Great Forest must remain inviolate, not for its sake, but for the sake of Cyador. The amount of order and chaos held within those walls, if unleashed, could remove most of Cyador from existence in less than a glass, if not in moments. The walls and wards represent no more than a truce between the Great Forest and the Magi’i of the First. Should any organized force of Cyador attack or encroach upon the Great Forest, that truce is voided, and the Forest will no longer be bound. In a similar fashion, if Cyador can no longer maintain the walls and wards, the truce is also voided.
The use of magery against any aspect of the Great Forest within the walls is absolutely forbidden, and the penalty for such efforts is death because such efforts hazard all that is and will be Cyador …
For these reasons, the Mirror Lancer patrols of the walls are as much to keep those of Cyador from despoiling the Forest as to keep any creatures who escape from the Forest from harming the people of Cyador …
Some individuals live within the warded walls, but they are creatures of the Forest. Should they emerge, they should be first encouraged to return from whence they came and only if they refuse should they be destroyed, as with other creatures of the Great Forest …
Fragment, Mirror Lancer Archives
Zaenth’alt, Captain-Commander
Cyad, 45 A.F.
On fourday afternoon, Alyiakal leaves the post stables at Geliendra roughly a quint after first glass. While he talks briefly with the head ostler before saddling the mare and leading her out of the stable, he doesn’t see any officers in or around the stables, which is understandable in early afternoon. Mounted patrols depart early and usually return late, and officers inspect early in the day and check again late in the afternoon.
Usually, anyway.
He wears his lighter riding jacket because, by the time he’d returned from Vaeyal on twoday evening, he’d definitely felt chilled by the damp early-Autumn breeze, and he suspects he’ll be at least a little later. He does wonder what Saelora has in mind for the early dinner.
Not only what, but where, since she mentioned it being crowded at her mother’s house.
As he nears the south gates of the post, he sees a firewagon coming through, and a firewagon inside a post is something he’s never encountered before, although it suggests to him that the firewagon carries someone of import, possibly at least a commander from Mirror Lancer headquarters. He eases the mare to the side of the sunstone pavement and waits for the firewagon to pass.
As it does, he senses a significant amount of chaos surrounding someone in the forward passenger compartment. That puzzles Alyiakal, because from what Vayidra had told him, any mage who carries that much chaos around his body without shielding himself is likely to have a very short life—and Alyiakal can detect only a comparatively minimal amount of order amid all the chaos.
The firewagon does not stop or even slow, and Alyiakal can only assume his shields have kept the mage from sensing that Alyiakal has some abilities of the Magi’i. Or that the mage’s order/chaos senses are so blinded by all that free chaos that he can’t sense at any great distance. Or possibly, he simply isn’t paying attention.
While Alyiakal would like to know which might be the reason, he’s happy to go unnoticed. After the firewagon passes him and heads toward the headquarters building, he eases the mare forward and toward the gates.
He slows the mare as he approaches the closest guard and asks, “Do you know who that was?”
The guard glances up. “No, ser. We were told a commander and one of the high Magi’i were coming this eightday. No one gave names.”
“Thank you. I wondered. I’ve never seen a firewagon enter a post before.”
“Me, neither, ser.”
Alyiakal continues to wonder if, by high Magi’i, the one in the firewagon might be the Third Magus, simply because he can’t imagine the First or Second Magus coming all the way from Cyad to visit a Mirror Lancer post, even one as important as Geliendra.
Except the First of the Magi’i designed the chaos towers and wards.
He shakes his head and turns the mare onto the street that leads to the road west out of Geliendra.
As he rides, his thoughts go back to the firewagon and the near encounter with a powerful magus. After being posted to Pemedra, he’s now on his way to Guarstyad. Syadtar or Pemedra didn’t have mages, and, given the situation at Guarstyad, he doubts that there will be any there, either.
Did Majer Klaavyl try to make sure that you weren’t stationed near mages? Or Tygael? Or is all that coincidental because they tried to give you another posting where you have a chance to establish a solid record of accomplishment?
While it could be coincidental, Alyiakal isn’t a great believer in coincidences. He also wonders, not for the first time, why Majer Klaavyl was ordered to Cyad so abruptly, with no replacement selected.
Over the next glass, he encounters several wagons, one of which is high-sided and covered, and requires a four-horse team. The side of the wagon proclaims, in plain letters, FYRAD TRANSPORT. While there is an armed guard seated beside the teamster, there aren’t any mounted guards escorting the wagon. He eases the mare to one side of the sunstone-paved road twice for Mirror Lancer dispatch riders, one pair headed to Geliendra and one pair headed away and most likely to Fyrad. Once on the road to Vaeyal, he encounters only two carts until the town is almost in sight, when he passes several women pushing empty handcarts and heading away from the town, suggesting that they’d brought produce to sell at the market square and have been successful.
When he reaches Canal Street, he sees several barges moored at the unloading area, and a handful of wagons being either loaded or offloaded, perhaps both. He turns the mare toward Vassyl’s factorage. When he reaches it, as he starts to dismount, Saelora appears in the doorway wearing full Merchanter blues.
“Just ride around to the stable. I’ll meet you there.” She smiles, then steps back inside the factorage and closes the door.
When Alyiakal reaches the rear of the factorage, he finds Saelora waiting for him, mounted upon the roan gelding. The stable doors are closed.
“We have to ride somewhere for dinner?” he asks with a smile.
“If you don’t mind,” she replies. “It’s not that far.”
“Which way?”
“North on Canal Street.”
“You lead the way.”
Once on Canal Street, where they ride almost abreast, with Saelora slightly in the lead, Alyiakal has the definite feeling that more than a few eyes turn to them, but almost immediately lose interest. For a moment, he wonders why, but then laughs.
“Something amusing?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. A number of people have been looking at us, and then they lost interest.”
“Of course. You’re in uniform, wearing your visor cap. I’m the only woman who can wear Merchanter blues, but when they see your uniform, they think I’m riding with my brother.”
“You haven’t told me where we’re going.”
“I thought you’d like to see the distillery before we eat.”
Alyiakal can sense that she’s not telling him everything, but there’s no feeling of chaos, which suggests she wants to surprise him. So, as they ride past the coffee shop, he says, “I’d like that.”
“We’ll turn left in two blocks.”
The street on which they turn is also stone-paved, but older than Canal Street and the main road to Geliendra.
“This is the old road, but it ends about three kays out.”
“Old road? But it ends?”
“About thirty years ago a whole section of it collapsed into a sinkhole,” explains Saelora. “The Mirror Engineers investigated. They said there was no point in trying to rebuild it because it would happen again. They were right in a way. It’s become a swampy lake that’s slowly getting bigger on the east end. The west end is rocky and solid. You’ll see.”
Alyiakal studies the buildings and houses along the old road, which look older than those along the Vaeyal road. After riding about half a kay, Alyiakal sees only small houses on modest plots flanking the road, and grass grows between the stones near the edges of the paving. The ground and the road begin a gradual rise.
Ahead on the left are two brick buildings. The nearer one is long and narrow and looks to be two stories high. The long side parallels the road and is only three or four yards from the road. The second is a dwelling with an attached stable.
“The long building is the distillery?”
“It is. We’re going to ride almost to the end of the road first, though.”
Almost? The road seems to level off at the top of the rise several hundred yards ahead. Alyiakal says nothing, and the two keep riding, first past the distillery, then past the house, where he notices smoke coming from the chimney, although the day isn’t all that cool.
As the mare carries Alyiakal to the top of the rise, he realizes that, first, there are no more trees ahead, and second, a pile of stones blocks the road. The mare lifts her head, and he can sense her unease. Then he sees that, beyond the stones, the ground slopes unevenly down to what Saelora accurately described as a swampy lake. He reins up and looks to his right. The ground to the east of the small house slopes more gradually, but unevenly, and almost everything is covered in greenberry bushes, which extend to just short of the swampy water and at least two hundred yards to the north.
“So these are your personal greenberry fields?”
“They are.”
“You obtained the land at a much lower price because it’s not much good for anything else?”
Saelora nods. “I can use bruised pearapples for the syrup as well. If we’re careful.”
Alyiakal shakes his head. “I can see why Vassyl backed your selection as a Merchanter.”
“Now, we need to go and have dinner at the house. It’s not finished, not the way I want, but I’m sure you’ll understand.”
“You’re cooking as well?”
Saelora offers a sheepish grin. “No. I’m…” She pauses. “I’m an awful cook. No one in the family will eat anything I fix. I wanted you to have a good home-prepared meal, and I wanted us to have some quiet time together. Laetilla minds the distillery, and she’s an excellent cook. It’s a benefit for both of us.” She turns the roan gelding and starts back.
Alyiakal rides beside her. “How did you get the distillery building built so quickly?”
“I already had some older masons working on it when I first wrote you. The distillery walls are built of old brick they knew where to get. The roof is of whatever slate I could get cheaply.”
“How did you get masons—”
“Vaeyal is an old town. There are more masons than work.”
Some of them doubtless wanted to help an attractive and ambitious young woman—or their consorts wanted them to.
“Has your mother seen all this?” Alyiakal gestures toward the distillery and then the small house. “Or Karola?”
“Hardly. Mother is appalled that I’d even consider living close to the angel-cursed swamp. She knows I have the distillery here. A distillery close to a swamp makes sense to her. Karola wouldn’t be impressed with a building that looks like it was built of leftovers and a small run-down house.”
As they near the house, Alyiakal sees that the shutters and iron-bound front door look sturdy, and paving stones cover the area in front of the stable with a walk from the stable to the front door and to the road. Then he glances back at the distillery building and sees that the space between the loading doors and the road is also paved. “I see you found a use for the paving stones that I assume came from the end of the road.”
“It seemed like a good idea.” Saelora reins up in front of the stable and dismounts.
Alyiakal does as well. Before he leads the mare into the space that is half stable and half barn and attached to the house, Alyiakal notices that the heavy timbers of the stable doors look recently replaced, although the wood is certainly not recently milled. The heavy bars and slot timbers would make breaking in close to impossible.
“Take the second stall,” calls Saelora from inside the stable.
“Thank you.” Alyiakal leads the mare to the indicated stall in the very neat and well-swept barn. “I can tell this is definitely your stable.”
“There’s more to do, but that will have to wait.”
By the time Alyiakal has the mare in the stall and the door closed, Saelora stands beside a narrow door into the house.
“We’ll go in this way. I hope you don’t mind coming through the kitchen.”
Alyiakal thinks about saying that such an entry is usual for family—and decides against it. He follows her into the kitchen, which, although scrubbed and clean, definitely looks old and worn. A small graying woman standing beside an old iron box stove turns.
“Laetilla, this is Captain Alyiakal.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Alyiakal replies warmly. “I understand you’ve been a great help to Saelora.”
Laetilla inclines her head. “She’s been a great boon to me, ser.”
Alyiakal can sense the total honesty behind those words and wonders how bad life had been for the older woman.
“Laetilla’s too modest,” says Saelora. “She’s made everything so much easier. Without her, some things wouldn’t have been possible.”
“It’s good, but rare,” replies Alyiakal, “when matters work out that way.”
“I’ll let you know when dinner is ready,” says Laetilla to Saelora.
“Thank you.” Saelora leads the way into the front room, sparsely furnished with two wooden armchairs, softened by matching blue cushions. A low table sits between them, and there is no other furniture. Again, the room is worn, but clean. She takes the chair closest to the door into the kitchen.
Alyiakal settles into the other chair.
“As you can see,” says Saelora, “the house needs a great deal more work, but the roof and walls are sound. I haven’t really changed much. This front parlor is the same, and so is the kitchen. I turned the bedroom behind the kitchen into a dining room by adding a table and chairs and an old sideboard. That way the kitchen has space. The main bedroom is the same, and the other bedroom is part study … or will be. Right now, it’s empty. About all that’s in my bedroom are a bedstead, two small tables, an old chest, and a stool.”
Alyiakal nods. “Are the heavy doors and shutters for her or you or both?”
“Both. They seemed wise. Laetilla has quarters at one end of the distillery. She prefers it that way. Those doors and shutters are even stronger. She’s from Fyrad. Her consort leaves something to be desired, especially if he spends too much time at the alehouse. Once their son joined the Naval Marines, she left him and came here.”
“Why here?”
“Because she knew no one here. Neither does her consort. She was working at the Vaeyal Inn, making almost nothing. I could pay her more, and I really needed someone most of the time to work at the distillery.”
“So she gets paid more and has a clean and safe place to live, and you have someone dependable to handle the distillery … and occasionally cook.” After a moment, Alyiakal adds, “You amaze me with all you’ve done in the last six years.”
“Not quite six,” she protests.
“All I’ve done is to learn about horses and how to ride them and listen to them, how to kill raiders effectively while not getting killed, and a bit about how to heal people who aren’t too badly injured.”
“How about leading lancers so that they don’t get killed either?” she asks gently.
“The ones who died under my command might disagree with you on that.”
“Hyrsaal wagered that your company more than held its own and had fewer casualties. He told me to ask you if that was so.”
Alyiakal isn’t quite certain how much to say. “I don’t know”—not for certain—“about how effectively I dealt with raiders as company officer. I was told that I had the fewest casualties.”
Saelora offers an amused smile. “Did anyone complain about your not being effective enough? Ever?”
“No,” admits Alyiakal sheepishly.
“So, you were at least as effective as other captains, and possibly more. And you had fewer casualties. That says you’re very effective. Or am I missing something?”
“I don’t think you miss much,” replies Alyiakal wryly.
“She does not,” says Laetilla from the kitchen doorway. “Dinner is ready.”
“Then we should eat.” Saelora stands.
So does Alyiakal, following Saelora into the narrow hallway and then into the dining room, which contains only what Saelora has mentioned. Except that a Merchanter-blue tablecloth covers the table, lit by a three-taper candelabrum in the middle. The two places are set across from each other in the middle of the table, with silver cutlery and utensils and two blue-tinted crystal wineglasses. A single white porcelain platter edged in blue is at each place setting.
Saelora takes her seat even before Alyiakal has a chance to seat her.
“It’s a simple dinner—roasted game hens with a wine and herb glaze, rice and raisins with a thicker version of the glaze, and green beans with crushed nuts in butter.”
Alyiakal manages not to burst into laughter as he sits down. “You may call it simple, but it’s the most elegant meal I’ve had in more than six years.” More elegant than I’ve ever had.
Saelora lifts her wineglass. “To a good dinner and better conversation.”
Alyiakal lifts his glass in return. “To the most excellent Merchanter Lady I’ve ever known and likely ever will.”
Saelora blushes. “You don’t know that.”
“The first half is absolutely true. I’d still wager on the second.”
“Don’t say more until you taste the wine … and the dinner.”
He takes a sip of the pale, almost colorless, gold wine. “This is excellent.” He would have said that it was the best he’s ever had, but that means little because he knows, from what other officers have said, that he’s never tasted a really outstanding vintage.
“It’s a good wine. The dinner should be better.”
Alyiakal still waits until she begins before he samples his game hen. “This is not only elegant. It’s the best fowl I’ve ever tasted.” The rice is equally good, and after tasting the green beans, Alyiakal wonders if he’ll ever again be able to swallow the spring beans such as those grown around Pemedra.
He eats slowly, enjoying each mouthful. After more than a few mouthfuls, he stops and says, “If anyone let Laetilla go, they weren’t very smart.”
“Those at the inn never asked if she could cook.”
Alyiakal almost shakes his head, then says, “Her skill would be wasted there.”
“That’s what she thought.”
“I can’t tell you how much this dinner … everything means to me.”
“Alyiakal … your letters have meant more than you know. You deserve a few good things in life.”
“I suspect you do as well.”
“People have helped me. You wrote me and encouraged me. Buurel helped me, and so did Vassyl. Laetilla has helped me, too.”
“You helped them as well.”
Saelora laughs softly. “Just enjoy the rest of your meal.”
Alyiakal does, even if he does offer more than a few additional compliments, which Saelora deserves.
When he finishes the last morsel of rice, he says, “Thank you … again. It was all wonderful.”
“You’re not done. We do have a modest dessert. A special tart.”
Catching a touch of amusement in Saelora’s voice, Alyiakal asks warily, “What kind of tart?”
“We’ll let you decide for yourself.”
Laetilla appears and removes the platters, then refills the wineglasses. She leaves the dining room and returns with two smaller plates. In the middle of each is clearly a tart, with pearapple slices embedded in a greenish glaze. She smiles and leaves.
Alyiakal looks at the tart and grins. “I have a strong suspicion…”
“Just try it.”
“I will if you will.”
She smiles in return and cuts a section of the tart, then slips it into her mouth.
Alyiakal does the same. The taste isn’t the cloying sweetness of ripe pearapple syrup, nor is it bitter, but there’s a sharpness that somehow makes the pearapple intense without it being sweet. The second bite is even better, and before he knows it, there are only a few crumbs and smears of glaze on the plate.
He looks across the table. Saelora’s plate is equally bare. “That … it’s dessert magery. How? Baking the greenberry brandy into the glaze?”
“It’s more than that, but mostly.” Her smile fades a bit. “It’s too good and different for Vaeyal, Laetilla says.”
“She might be right.” Alyiakal straightens in his chair. “This has been the most wonderful meal.”
“You said that before.” Her tone is warm, and so are her eyes.
“I meant it both times.” Despite what Saelora has said about his letters, Alyiakal can’t help but wonder why she has gone to such lengths. Finally, he says, “I don’t know how to say this. You’ve been wonderful…” He can immediately feel apprehension. “No. I’m not going to disappoint you. I wouldn’t want to hurt you in any way. I’m overwhelmed. You’ve been so open, and this dinner … everything. I feel like I don’t deserve it.”
“You do. For six years, you’ve written. Every season, you’ve been in danger in some way. You’ve written. You’ve been encouraging—”
“So have you. When there was no one there, your letters were there—”
“Exactly.” Saelora smiles warmly again. “So were yours, and you’ve never asked for anything.”
“Neither did you.”
“I’m not asking now, either. This evening … the coming days … are what they will be. I don’t know what comes next, and neither do you. I do know some things. I can’t cook, and I don’t want to learn. I do know I want to be a successful Merchanter with her own Merchanting house. I don’t even know if I want to be consorted. I don’t know if I want children. I certainly don’t want them anytime soon. I do know that I want to be close to you in some way … always.”
Alyiakal swallows, and finds his eyes are burning. “I know less than you, in most ways.”
“I know that, too. The very strictness and dangers you face mean that there’s much you haven’t thought about or felt. You couldn’t. You need to now. When you’re not in danger. It wouldn’t be right or fair if you don’t. I can’t do that to you, and I won’t let either of us do it to me.”
“So … day by day?”
She smiles softly.
“Tomorrow or sixday?”
“What do you think?”
“Tomorrow. Then we’ll see.”
“Third glass of the afternoon, then.” She stands. “You need to leave. I don’t want you on the road late.”
Alyiakal stands as well. “I don’t want to be on the road late.” But then, I don’t want to be on the road at all right now. He steps around the table and takes her hand, then lifts and kisses it. “This … all this … was special. No one … has ever…”
“You deserve special.”
“So do you.”
She smiles broadly, but with a hint of the impish. “Who said it wasn’t special for me, too?”
Alyiakal sleeps well on fourday evening, but wakes early on fiveday, thoughts circling through his head. In some ways Saelora is exactly like her letters, but in others, she turned out to be much more than he realized.
Far more ambitious, and definitely far more able … and with an understated but very good sense of humor.
Saelora is also incredibly different from Adayal, the only other woman he has known closely. Alyiakal also realizes, after a moment, that while he has much to learn about Saelora, after almost six years of corresponding, he knows far more about her than he does about Adayal.
So why do you still think about Adayal? He smiles wryly. As if you don’t know.
Since he’s awake, and unlikely to go back to sleep, Alyiakal gets up and makes ready to go to the officers’ mess for breakfast.
When he enters the mess, he sees Ghrennan, and the older captain is already seated with officers Alyiakal has seen before, but never met. Alyiakal ends up sitting across from Nyell and beside another captain, who gives his name as Dhenaal.
“We didn’t see you last night,” offers Nyell.
“I was visiting friends in Vaeyal. I didn’t get back until after dinner.”
“If you got fed, you likely did better than here,” says Dhenaal.
“I have to say it was a very good dinner.” Alyiakal doesn’t want to talk dinner or Saelora, or mislead the other officers, so he immediately goes on, “As I was leaving the post yesterday, I saw a firewagon coming in. I’ve never seen a firewagon enter any Mirror Lancer post.”
“It doesn’t happen often,” replies Dhenaal. “Subcommander Zaentyl appeared briefly at evening mess to announce that the Third Magus and a senior commander from headquarters are visiting Geliendra as part of an inspection of the chaos towers and the wards confining the Great Forest. I’m more than happy they’re doing it.”
“I can’t imagine why,” says Nyell dryly.
“Have you had any major treefalls or large numbers of Forest creatures?” asks Alyiakal.
“Hardly a patrol goes by when we don’t see something, but in the last year we’ve only had one large trunk come down. There were at least three cats, and one stun lizard. We were fortunate to lose only one man. Another had his thoughts so scrambled he couldn’t think straight for almost an eightday.”
Alyiakal offers an appropriate wince.
“I’m happy you’re handling that,” says Nyell. “I’d rather deal with smugglers and barbarians and weapons I can see.”
After that, the conversation covers handling smugglers and barbarian raiders, which is fine with Alyiakal.
As Alyiakal gets up from the table, an overcaptain approaches and gestures, “Captain Nyell, Captain Alyiakal, Subcommander Zaentyl would appreciate seeing you both in his study. It will only take a moment, but he likes to be familiar with all the officers at the post, even those here only for short periods.” The overcaptain turns, clearly expecting the two captains to follow him from the mess to the post headquarters building.
From the chaos flows around the overcaptain, Alyiakal knows that the senior officer has not conveyed everything. The fact that the summons included Nyell suggests that Alyiakal isn’t being singled out. But he still worries. Knowing that there is a powerful magus on the post, he also checks and strengthens his outer camouflage shield.
After they enter the post headquarters, the overcaptain stops in what has to be the anteroom to the subcommander’s study and turns. “He’ll see each of you individually. Captain Nyell, you go in first.”
Even before the overcaptain speaks, Alyiakal can sense the strong flows of chaos behind the closed door. He’s known for years that, sooner or later, he’d have to face the Magi’i, and he’s not exactly looking forward to it, but he can only hope that his shields will suffice to conceal the full extent of his abilities, especially since he doubts they’re a match for the Third Magus.
Nyell enters the study, and the overcaptain closes the door before turning to Alyiakal and saying, “These meetings are usually short.”
Alyiakal senses nothing being withheld or evaded and nods.
“You’re headed for Guarstyad?”
“I’ll be leaving for Fyrad on the oneday after the next.”
“You couldn’t take all your home leave?”
Alyiakal shakes his head. “Not if I wanted to accept the posting.”
“Sometimes it happens that way. More than sometimes, if you want to advance.”
“I’ve seen that, ser.”
Neither says more until Nyell opens the door and steps out into the anteroom.
“Captain Alyiakal.” The overcaptain gestures.
Alyiakal steps into the study, closing the door after he enters. He finds himself facing three men standing beside the polished goldenwood desk that is Subcommander Zaentyl’s. Beside the subcommander stands a commander, and beside him a lean man in the white tunic and trousers of the Magi’i with a cloud of unseen chaos surrounding him and with the crossed lightning bolts on his collar—the sign of a high magus.
Alyiakal thinks the commander is familiar, but he is far more concerned about the high magus.
“Captain Alyiakal,” says Zaentyl, “I’d like you to meet Commander Dahlvor and Third Magus Verinaar. They’re here to inspect the operation of the chaos towers, and since I wanted to meet you, I thought it might be useful for you to meet them.”
“I’m honored, ser.” Alyiakal inclines his head respectfully.
“You’re on home leave before assuming a post at Guarstyad?”
“Yes, ser.”
“You must have considerable combat experience then.”
“Three years at Pemedra, ser.”
“Were you involved in the successful expedition against the Jeranyi barbarians in the West Branch valley?” asks Dahlvor.
“Yes, ser, but there were two companies. Captain Thallyr—he might be an overcaptain now—was in overall command.”
“I imagine,” continues Dahlvor, “your company was also deeply involved?”
“Yes, ser, but not quite so much as First Company.”
“There was also an expedition dealing with Cerlyn?”
“Yes, ser. That was my company.”
“Just your company?”
“Yes, ser.”
“That explains your posting.” Dahlvor inclines his head to the Third Magus.
“Captain Alyiakal,” says Verinaar, “you hold more order than most officers.”
“I’ve been told that, Highest. That was why I was given additional training in field healing.”
“Has that training proved useful?” asks Dahlvor.
“I believe so, ser, although my use of that training has been limited to times after fighting.”
“As it should be.” The commander frowns. “You look familiar but I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“There are two possibilities, ser. My father was Majer Kyal, who commanded at Inividra and Assyadt. I’m said to resemble him somewhat. I was also commissioned at Kynstaar standing next to your son Vordahl, when you spoke to all the new undercaptains.”
Dahlvor smiles wryly. “Both possibilities are correct. I did meet your father briefly.” He turns to Verinaar. “My apologies, Highest.”
The Third Magus smiles pleasantly, although Alyiakal can sense the expression is practiced and does not reveal a certain irritation with the Mirror Lancer commander. Then Verinaar addresses Alyiakal again. “When we arrived at Geliendra after midday yesterday, we passed a mounted officer. Were you that officer?”
“I left to visit the family of a fellow officer somewhat after first glass yesterday afternoon when I saw a firewagon coming and moved aside. If you were in that firewagon, then I was that officer.”
“Excellent,” declares Verinaar, in a tone of satisfaction as he looks to Subcommander Zaentyl. “Captain Alyiakal is close to having the capabilities of a healer. He’s probably done some healing without knowing it. It’s rare in men, but not unheard of. You’re fortunate to have him.”
Zaentyl nods, and Alyiakal can sense that, in some fashion, the subcommander is pleased.
Because that explains to him why you’re being posted to Guarstyad? Or for some other reason?
Alyiakal waits, not knowing what to expect, hoping that his shields are sufficient to hide the full scope of his abilities.
Commander Dahlvor smiles. “A pleasure to meet you, Captain. I wish you well in Guarstyad.”
“Thank you, ser.” Alyiakal again inclines his head.
“We won’t take any more of your time,” adds Zaentyl.
“By your leave, sers, Highest?”
“Enjoy your time here,” says Dahlvor.
Alyiakal turns and leaves the study. He is careful to close the door behind himself as he steps into the anteroom.
“That’s all, Captain,” says the overcaptain.
“Thank you, ser.”
Alyiakal doesn’t take a deep breath until he is out of the headquarters building. While he thinks his shields may have hidden his abilities, there’s also the possibility that the Third Magus is so much more powerful that he finds Alyiakal’s abilities almost beneath notice.
That is the most likely possibility.
Since there’s nothing he can do about it, he keeps walking toward the post gates because he wants to go through the market square to see if he can find something appropriate and special for Saelora. After walking five long blocks, under the warm Autumn sun, he’s glad he didn’t wear the light riding jacket, although he will need it for the return ride from Vaeyal. When he passes the green and white awning of a coffee shop, he smiles. Two blocks later, he reaches the market square, where he immediately notices two patrollers in green strolling along the edges of the square.
Alyiakal stands back for several moments, trying to determine if different sections of the square hold different goods or whether everything is mixed up, the way it had been in Jakaafra. He thinks he sees mostly produce to his right, and because he isn’t interested in that he heads toward the tables and carts set up on the left.
Not knowing where to begin, he starts down a row of tables presided over by older women. As he looks closely, he sees they all are selling lacework of some sort or another, all of which seem intricate, many of which catch his eye, but he doubts that Saelora would be enthralled by lace. Some tables hold only rings, and others have pendants and necklaces of silver and gold, and still others bracelets and pins. By the time Alyiakal has looked at everything, he’s overwhelmed and ready to leave.
He doesn’t, but instead moves to where several vendors sell scarves in a variety of colors. The vendor at one small cart even has an array of shimmersilk scarves, in shades of green, red, yellow, and blue, but not Merchanter blue.
“I imagine these are not inexpensive,” he says.
The gray-haired woman seller smiles. “Shimmersilk is costly because it takes tens of glasses to harvest the fibres and spin the thread. Its cost means that it’s a gift of love or care. You shouldn’t purchase shimmersilk on price, but because of a desire to please someone.”
Thinking of the single blue shimmersilk scarf that had been his mother’s, Alyiakal can see that. For a moment, his eyes burn, but he says, “You make a good point, but I’ve heard that the wealthiest of Merchanters in Cyad often wear shimmersilk.”
“They do so to please themselves,” the seller replies dryly. “That only shows their contempt of others.”
“How much do these run?” He manages a smile and adds, “So I’ll know how much to save for when there’s someone who deserves it.”
“The smallest are several silvers. The large shawls can cost as much as a gold. Those I don’t sell in the square.”
Alyiakal inclines his head. “Thank you.”
As he leaves the shimmersilk vendor, he marvels, not necessarily favorably, at those who would clothe themselves in shimmersilk.
From the square, he walks down an adjoining street as far as an alley that appears empty, then takes several steps into the shaded side of the alley before looking around. He sees no one near, although he can sense people in the building he stands beside. Then he lifts a concealment around himself and slowly makes his way back to the market square. The inadvertent meeting with the Third Magus has made it more than clear that he needs to stretch his abilities considerably.
As he nears the square, he sees a figure strolling along the edge of the square and realizes that it’s likely one of the patrollers he has seen earlier. He decides to follow the other, if several steps back. After a score of steps, the patroller stops. So does Alyiakal.
The patroller half turns and mutters something.
Alyiakal waits silently, but keeps sensing the area around him, knowing that someone could walk right into him.
Then the patroller continues his rounds.
Alyiakal lets the distance between the two of them increase by another yard or so, but the patroller does not stop again until he nears another figure, one Alyiakal suspects is the other patroller.
“See anything strange?” asks the patroller Alyiakal has followed.
“Can’t say I have. Unless you count the Mirror Lancer officer who was looking at jewelry and silks. Why?”
“I had the feeling someone was following me. But there wasn’t anyone close.”
“You had too much ale last night. Sometimes that’ll leave strange feelings.”
“Maybe for you. I can’t afford to drink like that. Let me know if you feel anything strange.”
“Why not?” says the other with a laugh.
Then the two resume their patrolling.
Alyiakal steps away from the square, deciding that trying to navigate through the square under a concealment might not be the best idea. He does hold the concealment until he returns to the post and slips into a corner of the stables where no one is around. From there he makes his way to his temporary quarters, where he sits in the wooden straight-backed chair and considers other exercises he should try.
The most obvious is to gather order and chaos within a shield so that the power cannot be easily discerned.
But that will require holding three shields at once. He smiles wryly. If that’s what it requires, that’s what you have to do. You might as well start trying now.
He begins by gathering a small amount of order and chaos, the chaos within a thin coating of order, and then creates a shield around both. After perhaps a third of a quint, he drops the shield and gathers additional order and chaos. Creating the larger and tighter shield is more of an effort, and in little more than half a quint, sharp needles of pain jab at his skull. He releases the third shield, and then gradually lets the chaos bleed away. His head still aches.
Since he has time before he needs to leave for Vaeyal, he makes his way to the officers’ mess.
The mess orderly immediately approaches. “Can I get a few biscuits and a little ale?”
“Yes, ser. On the small table in the corner.”
The ale and biscuits definitely help, and Alyiakal makes a mental note that, on future patrols, he needs an additional supply of both.
He’s about to leave the mess when Ghrennan appears, heading for the table with obviously the same thought.
“Oh, I thought you were out visiting friends.”
“I’m about to leave. It’s a bit of a ride, and I thought a few biscuits and a bit of ale might be a good idea.”
“Any lancer who’s ridden patrols learns that lesson early.” Ghrennan chuckles, then says, “Quite something to have the Third Magus here.”
“I saw the firewagon coming into the post and didn’t know what it meant at the time.”
“You weren’t the only one. Must be more than routine to get a high magus here.”
“I’d guess so, but they’re not about to tell junior captains.”
“Or old senior captains,” replies Ghrennan. “Young Talaan said the other day that you must have done something special to be assigned to Guarstyad.”
“I haven’t done any more than’s expected of any captain dealing with barbarian raiders. The thing that might be different is that I’m a qualified field healer.”
Ghrennan frowns, but nods. “Might be. I was thinking more about arms and tactics. How do you do with that?”
Alyiakal wonders how much to say. Too little is as bad as too much. “For what it’s worth, I was the best at Kynstaar with both blades and firelances.”
“You one of those who only sparred with the best of the officers?”
Alyiakal nods. “I got a lot of bruises that way.”
Ghrennan laughs. “All that makes more sense.” Then he shakes his head. “Talaan’ll be fortunate to survive to even be considered for overcaptain.”
That might also be said of any captain going to Guarstyad right now. “I wouldn’t know. I do know that judging others when you know nothing about them is unwise … and often dangerous, one way or another.”
“That it is.” Ghrennan smiles. “Won’t keep you from your friends.”
“I’m sure I’ll see you before I leave. I appreciate your thoughts and kindness.”
After Alyiakal leaves the mess, he is more than certain that Ghrennan didn’t happen to be headed to the mess. At the same time, Alyiakal hadn’t sensed anything other than curiosity and openness. He hopes he has answered the older captain’s questions in the best way possible, and he also appreciates the other’s assessment of Talaan.
After returning to his room for his light riding jacket, Alyiakal heads for the stable. Once there, he confirms his use of the mare for the afternoon, saddles her, and leads her out of the stable, where he mounts. He doesn’t see any officers on the way to the front gates of the post, not that he expects to in early afternoon.
The ride to Vaeyal is uneventful, although he sees a few more riders, wagons, and carts than he has on his last two trips. Once he turns onto Canal Street he checks the unloading area. While a barge is moored there, it appears fully loaded, and since there are no wagons at the loading docks, Alyiakal surmises that the barge is waiting for a firetow.
He knows he is arriving early and intends to hitch the mare in front of the factorage and walk inside to announce his arrival, but he only gets as far as dismounting before Saelora appears at the factorage door, wearing Merchanter full blues.
“I’ll meet you in back.”
Alyiakal smiles. “I’ll be there.”
By the time he reaches the stable doors, Saelora is mounted and waiting and the doors are closed, and he asks, “Where are we going?”
Saelora smiles sweetly, but Alyiakal senses something behind her smile, which is confirmed by her next words. “Into combat … and an early dinner.”
He considers her words, then asks, “Your mother’s house or Karola’s?”
She laughs, if with a touch of harshness. “Mother’s. It takes almost half a glass to get to Karola and Faadyr’s house. Well … maybe not that long, but it feels that way.”
Alyiakal decides against asking for an explanation. “Has your mother been asking about me, or is this a preemptive attack?”
Saelora turns the roan gelding north and replies, “She’s been asking about you for years. I’ve told her that I wrote you because Hyrsaal suggested it and because I liked getting your letters. She would have heard you were here before long. So, I suggested it might be good to have an officer who was Hyrsaal’s friend for dinner.”
Once again, as he eases the mare alongside her, Alyiakal senses the truth of her words, but also something more. “And you didn’t want to create the impression that you’re hiding something.”
“I don’t like deliberately hiding anything.”
He grins. “What about just not revealing? What haven’t you told me?”
“Quite a lot. Where should I start?”
The absolute truth of that reply silences Alyiakal for a moment. He finally says, “Wherever you like.”
“Mother was fine with writing you at first. Then she asked if we intended to be consorted. I told her what I’ve told you. Then she said I was leading you on.”
“You weren’t,” replies Alyiakal. “I worried that I was leading you on.”
“You didn’t.” She turns the roan north on Canal Street, and Alyiakal and the mare stay with her. “We’re heading north on Canal Street, past the old road to the distillery. Quite a way past.” When Alyiakal doesn’t say anything, she adds, “You made it clear that you weren’t thinking about consorting.”
“I didn’t write anything like that.”
“You didn’t. You didn’t mention or hint about consorting in any way. The only time you mentioned consorting was when you said you were glad about Hyrsaal and Catriana.”
“I was, and I still am.” Alyiakal pauses. “How did he meet her? She lives in Fyrad, and that’s not exactly the next town.”
“She grew up here. She hated it. Her older sister met a young man from Fyrad who accompanied a shipment of goods. One thing led to another, and they consorted. A year later, the sister had problems after childbirth, and Catriana said she’d help. She went and helped her sister through two children. We all knew she had no intention of returning, especially after she got that inheritance from her great-aunt Ilsyen.” Saelora smiles. “Catriana was the only girl who got anything. That might have been because Ilsyen always wanted to leave Vaeyal and couldn’t. That’s a guess on my part.”
“What about you?”
“For me, it’s not where I live. It’s what I do.”
“I can see that. Right now, being here has given you the chance to do what you value doing.”
“I like the way you said that,” Saelora replies. “You didn’t say ‘enjoy.’ You said ‘value.’”
“You’ve made it very clear that what you do and how you do it are important.” Possibly more important than being consorted or where you live.
“Isn’t that true for you … and most men? Why shouldn’t it be true for me?”
“It should be. That’s one of the things I admire about you.”
They ride for another block before Alyiakal asks, “What should I know about your mother?”
“You never asked before.” She offers an amused smile.
“I wasn’t going to meet her before, and I didn’t know I would need recon before going into combat.”
“It really won’t be that bad. I was teasing you a bit.”
But not entirely.
“I think, deep in her heart, she wishes she could do what I’m doing.”
“She’s very organized, then?”
“Oh, yes. In that, we’re alike.”
“That suggests that you’re not in other ways.”
“We’re not. I’d rather not say more. It might be better for you to meet her before hearing who I think she is.”
“Will your older brother be there?”
“He should be, although he might not be, or he and Charissa might be.”
“Charissa?” Alyiakal had never heard that name before.
“She’s the youngest daughter of Traybett. He’s Rhobett’s younger brother. Charissa likes Gaaran, and he dotes on her. She won’t get anything much from her family, because her father’s the younger brother, and a match with a stipended Mirror Lancer captain is better than any other possible consort in Vaeyal.”
“And consorting with Gaaran maintains her … position?”
“Exactly. In time Gaaran will inherit the house. He’s mentioned building a smaller house for Mother on the land behind the house. She might like that. I’m not sure Charissa would.”
Alyiakal nods, although he has a much better idea why Saelora is fixing the small house next to the distillery, something he’s reminded of as they ride past the road leading to the distillery and house.
As they continue north, Alyiakal notices that the buildings containing tradesmen and shops have given way to small neat dwellings. “We’re getting to the better part of town.”
“We are … if you mean the part where people have a few more golds.”
“You phrased that more accurately than I did,” Alyiakal concedes.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As it was meant.”
“Mother’s house is on the next corner.”
Alyiakal straightens as he looks ahead. The house isn’t a mansion, not that he’d seen many, but it is a good-sized, two-story brick structure, with a pale gray slate roof and sturdy shutters painted gray. As they ride closer, Alyiakal also sees a barn capable of holding at least four horses and a carriage.
“Does your mother have a carriage?”
Saelora shakes her head. “Only a one-horse chaise.”
While Saelora let slip the fact that her father had been a Mirror Lancer majer, she has never written anything about his death. Given the size of the house, Alyiakal wonders if he’d consorted Saelora’s mother near the end of his service and retired with a healthy stipend. “Was your father … a bit older than your mother?”
“More than a bit. Almost twenty years. He died right after Gaaran received his commission. He was … cautious … with his golds.”
“Like a daughter I know.”
She smiles. “It runs in both sides of the family.” She turns the roan down the stone way to the barn.
Alyiakal lets her lead the way.
They haven’t quite reached the stable doors when a flame-haired lean man limps quickly toward the barn. While the man has boots at the end of his trousers, Alyiakal can see that he has a wooden leg of some sort.
That has to be Gaaran. Alyiakal catches sight of a full-figured but muscular blond woman standing at the top of the low steps leading down from the roofed wraparound porch. And Charissa.
After opening the stable doors, Gaaran looks up to Saelora. “You said he’d be on time.” Then he turns to Alyiakal. “I’m Gaaran, as if you haven’t guessed.”
“Alyiakal … as I’m sure you already know.” Alyiakal dismounts and leads the mare into the barn, every bit as swept and clean as the stables at the rear of Vassyl’s factorage.
“The end stall is for your mount,” says Gaaran.
“Thank you. You don’t mind if I unsaddle her?”
“I’d hope you would.”
Dealing with the mare doesn’t take that long, and Gaaran waits for Saelora and Alyiakal.
As the three walk toward the house, Gaaran says, “Hyrsaal wrote that you’re quietly impressive. I can see what he meant.”
“Hyrsaal’s impressive in his own right,” replies Alyiakal.
Gaaran chuckles. “Hyrsaal’s not quietly anything.”
“Have you heard anything lately? His last letter to me said that he didn’t know his next posting.”
“He has orders to Lhaarat. At least it’s not Isahl.”
Or Inividra.
Gaaran pauses, then says, “Saelora told me you were at Pemedra. I understand two companies from there … were sent…”
Abruptly, Alyiakal recalls that Gaaran had been wounded while serving at Isahl, and he finishes Gaaran’s sentence. “To deal with the Jeranyi-supplied barbarians? That’s right. I was in command of the fourth company. We didn’t leave much.”
“Good!”
Saelora looks to Alyiakal. “You didn’t mention that.”
“I thought I did. I wrote you about the West Branch valley barbarians who had shields and other Jeranyi weapons.” Alyiakal pauses. “I might not have mentioned that we were sent because of the casualties suffered at Isahl.” He turns to Gaaran. “That was more than two years after you were there.”
“They were trouble then. The subcommander at Syadtar didn’t believe what we reported.”
“Was that Subcommander Munnyr?”
“It was. He was a manipulative idiot. I understand why some idiots get promoted when better officers don’t, but I still don’t like it.”
“That makes sense,” replies Alyiakal. “Somehow Munnyr got Mirror Lancer headquarters to order companies from Pemedra to attack the West Branch valley. We were told that we could attack from the east and that would provide greater surprise.”
“That sounds like Munnyr,” says Gaaran. “Get someone else to take the casualties.” He pauses. “How bad was it for you?”
“Out of the two companies, we lost five men and had three wounded.”
“What about your company?” Gaaran presses.
“We lost one mount and had one man wounded, but we fought a smaller band of raiders. Just over a score.”
“You’re too honest, Alyiakal,” declares Gaaran as they reach the porch steps. He gestures to the blond woman standing in the shade at the top of the steps. “Charissa, this is Alyiakal. You’ve heard a little about him.”
Charissa steps back as the three come up the steps to the porch. Her smile is pleasant and honest. “Only a little.” She glances to Saelora. “I can see why you might not want to share him.”
“I suspect she was being cautious,” says Alyiakal quickly. “We hadn’t ever met until twoday.”
“But you’ve been writing each other for years,” replies Gaaran.
“She might have wanted to see if the man presented by my letters was the same man in person,” suggests Alyiakal.
“You’re all guessing why I did what I did,” declares Saelora with a wry sharpness. “You might ask me.”
“Why did you hide everything about Alyiakal?” asks Gaaran, trying to keep from grinning.
“Because, just because,” replies Saelora. “Or maybe, because I wanted to keep you all guessing.”
“Guessing about what?” asks the woman stepping out of the house, who has to be Saelora and Gaaran’s mother.
Alyiakal studies her. She is shorter and more slender than Saelora, more like Hyrsaal and Gaaran, but with graying flame-red hair, and has a critical but amused expression on her face as she looks back at Alyiakal, who says, “I’m Alyiakal, as you obviously know, and I’m pleased to meet you.”
“After all these years, it’s good to put a face to the name. I’m Marenda, and the mother of the rowdy one and the recluse.” Then she turns to Saelora. “You were right. Handsome is as handsome does, and he couldn’t be other than handsome.”
Alyiakal is far from sure, even sensing Marenda, that her words are exactly a compliment.
“We might as well all go into the parlor and have some refreshments,” continues Marenda. “That way I might even get in a few words.” With that, she turns and steps into the house, leaving the door ajar.
Gaaran and Saelora exchange sardonically amused glances, as he gestures, and Saelora moves toward the door. In turn, Alyiakal motions for Charissa to follow Saelora, before following the two women. Gaaran acts as rear guard and closes the door.
The parlor is spacious, but not overlarge, with two matching settees upholstered in a green too dark to be termed Imperial, and four matching armchairs upholstered in the same shade of green.
Marenda has already claimed one of the armchairs.
Alyiakal takes a seat on one of the settees beside Saelora. He can smell the odor of something being roasted. Fowl of some sort, he thinks.
After everyone seats themselves, Marenda looks to Gaaran. “If you wouldn’t mind dealing with the refreshments.” Her words are not a question.
“We have ale, a white Alafraan wine, and redberry,” says Gaaran. “The greenberry brandy is better after a meal.”
“You know my preference,” declares Marenda.
“The white Alafraan, please,” says Charissa.
“The same,” says Saelora.
“I’ll also try the Alafraan,” adds Alyiakal.
As Gaaran leaves the parlor, Marenda says conversationally, “We did have a good red wine—Fhynyco—I believe, but it’s not always easy to come by.”
“Any good wines are hard to come by at the Mirror Lancer border posts,” replies Alyiakal, “but I imagine Gaaran has made that point.”
“Often,” replies Marenda tersely.
“I don’t know much about wines,” says Alyiakal. “What others have a good reputation?”
For a moment, no one speaks. Finally, Charissa says, “My father and uncle both speak highly of Cillaryn. It’s a red wine. I’ve seldom tasted it. It comes from the hills north of Ruzor.”
“A Kyphran wine, then?” asks Saelora.
Charissa nods.
At that moment, Gaaran returns with a tray on which are a beaker of ale and four glasses of Alafraan. He presents the beaker to his mother first, then serves Charissa, Saelora, and Alyiakal, setting the tray on a side table and taking the last glass for himself, after which he sits in the armchair beside the settee across from his mother where Charissa has settled. He lifts his glass. “A toast to our guest, who has survived the barbarian raiders of the northeast.”
After everyone sips their drinks, Alyiakal says, “Thank you all. I’m very glad to be here, but it wouldn’t have happened if Hyrsaal hadn’t gone out of his way to befriend me years ago. I hope he returns home before I leave for Guarstyad.”
“Any of us will be fortunate to see him,” replies Marenda. “He’ll likely spend most of his time in Fyrad.”
“As he should,” replies Gaaran cheerfully. “Catriana is his consort-to-be.”
“Ah, yes,” replies Marenda, “I forgot.” She turns to Alyiakal. “No one’s ever mentioned your mother.”
“She died when I was eight,” replies Alyiakal evenly. “When I couldn’t accompany my father, I stayed with my great-aunt. She died before I went to Kynstaar.”
“What was she like?” asks Saelora.
“She was very kind.” Alyiakal smiles wryly. “She also insisted that I read a lot and practice my calculations.”
“Good for her … and you,” declares Marenda.
“It was good for me,” Alyiakal agrees.
“She sounds like my aunt Rhenna,” volunteers Charissa. “She’s always asking if I’m still reading.”
Alyiakal looks to Saelora.
“We don’t have any aunts,” she replies, “not by birth. Our uncles both live in Wendingway.”
Alyiakal has heard of the town and knows it’s on the west side of the Great Canal not all that far from Westend, but not exactly where.
The conversation for the next quint or so centers on the various familial relations, but when that topic comes to a silent end, and an older-looking serving woman appears in the archway to the front hall, Marenda says, “Our early dinner is ready. We don’t want Captain Alyiakal riding back to his post in the dark.”
“You have to ride back this evening?” asks Charissa.
“I arranged to bring the mare back tonight,” replies Alyiakal. “I can’t afford to do otherwise.”
“No … you can’t,” agrees Gaaran.
Charissa offers a puzzled frown.
“Officers who don’t keep their word don’t get promoted, especially junior captains,” explains Gaaran.
“For a little thing like that?” Charissa asks.
“For quite a few little things like that,” answers Alyiakal.
“You’ll find, Charissa,” says Marenda coolly, “that so-called little things often count for more than those that most people think are important.” Then she stands and walks from the parlor across the center hallway to the dining room, where she stands beside the chair at the head of the table until everyone follows her.
Marenda gestures to the place at her right, and says to Alyiakal, “If you would,” then to the place at her left, adding, “Gaaran.”
Saelora takes the seat beside Alyiakal, and Charissa the one beside Gaaran.
Alyiakal notices that the serving woman has already filled the wineglasses at the table, with what looks to be the Alafraan white, and in moments she serves Marenda, then Alyiakal and Gaaran, ending up with Saelora. As Alyiakal has suspected from what he had smelled entering the house, the meat is sliced fowl with a white sauce, cheesed lace potatoes, with sliced baked quilla. There is also a large basket of dark bread.
Alyiakal waits until Marenda begins before he samples the fowl and the white sauce, which has a nutty but agreeably buttery taste. The potatoes are excellent, and the lime-basted quilla is acceptable, although he’d never choose the bitter cactus strips.
“What will you be doing at Guarstyad, Captain Alyiakal?” asks Marenda.
“Whatever duties I’m assigned. There’s a possibility of having to deal with Kyphran raiders.”
“By deal with,” replies Marenda, “I assume you mean killing?”
“Since Cyador, at present, is not invading other lands, any dealings we have with the Kyphrans will be if they’re invading Cyador. In that case, some of them will likely be killed.”
“Are you good at that?” asks Marenda.
“As good as I have to be. I’d prefer that the Kyphrans remain in Kyphros.”
“Have you actually killed people?” presses Marenda.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“I don’t keep track of things like that.”
“Surely, you must have some idea.”
“Fourth Company likely killed over threescore raiders under my command. I personally accounted for a number of deaths. Other company officers would likely have similar raider casualties.”
“You look so polite and well-mannered,” observes Marenda.
“I try to be so, unless I’m facing armed attacks with lethal weapons,” replies Alyiakal with a cheerful smile. He can sense a certain malice or spitefulness, but he has no idea of the reasons behind Marenda’s feelings. For Saelora’s sake, especially, he intends to remain calm and controlled.
“My late consort would approve.” Marenda’s tone is that of sardonic amusement. “I’ve always found it, shall I say, amazing that he—and you—can do what you have done and remain so … civilized in other settings.”
“That’s what’s required of a Mirror Lancer officer. It may be why so few make it through training and get promoted to higher ranks.”
“Exactly!” interjects Gaaran. “Now that you’ve established that all the men in the family, and Alyiakal, are polite trained killers, I believe it’s time to move on to another subject, Mother.”
“Of course, dear.” Marenda turns to Saelora. “How are the renovations coming on your swamp-side abode-to-be?”
“The roof and window repairs are done. The doors and shutters have been replaced, and there’s now a stove in the kitchen. Laetilla’s quarters in the distillery are finished. Everything’s clean. The more elegant refurbishing will be done bit by bit.”
“Do you really want to live there?” asks Charissa.
“I like having my own house and being a successful Merchanter,” replies Saelora. “That property allows me to do both.”
“It is rather close to the angel-cursed swamp,” says Marenda, “but that has the advantage of discouraging unwanted visitors. Only those who wish to see you will take the old road.”
“It strikes me,” Alyiakal offers, “that the solid pavement of the old road will prove to be a great advantage, given how much it can rain here.”
“Most people judge on image, rather than practicality,” replies Marenda.
“You’re right,” says Alyiakal, “but they only judge what they see. They’ll never see the distillery. They’ll see the long-standing and reputable factorage of Vassyl and Greenberry Spirits.”
Gaaran smothers a smile that Marenda does not—or chooses not—to see.
“I do believe it is time for dessert,” declares Marenda.
The serving woman clears the plates away, and then serves each person a small square of paper-thin baked pastry sheets soaked in honey with crushed thin layers of nuts seasoned with a mixture of spices Alyiakal cannot identify. He finds it good, if a touch too sweet for his taste, but neither he nor anyone else leaves even pastry flakes.
“Everything was excellent,” Alyiakal says as he looks directly at Marenda. “I do appreciate both the invitation and the fare.”
“Thank you. I did so want to meet you.” Marenda eases back her chair and stands.
Alyiakal does the same. “And I you.” If not for the usual reasons. “But I really should be going.”
“It’s not a short ride,” says Gaaran.
“I do hope you’re staying, dear,” declares Marenda, looking at Saelora, standing beside Alyiakal.
“I need to check the distillery. Alyiakal can escort me there. It’s on his way,” declares Saelora. “With him, I’m quite sure I’ll be safe. Besides, it’s still light out.”
“I’ll see you both off,” says Gaaran.
Charissa eases closer to Marenda. “You never did finish telling me that story. The one about how you decided on this house.”
“I suppose I should,” says Marenda casually, before saying to Alyiakal, “It was refreshing to meet you.” Her eyes go to Saelora. “Do be careful.” Those words are almost emotionless.
“Of course,” replies Saelora.
Once Gaaran, Saelora, and Alyiakal are out of the house and walking to the stable, Gaaran smiles and says to Saelora, “I know you didn’t intend it that way, but thank you both.”
“Give my best to Charissa,” replies Saelora. “As I’ve said before, she’s much nicer than Mother deserves. Have you decided on a date yet?”
“The eightday after yearturn.”
“That will give me time to finish more of the house and move the rest of my things. Not that I’ve ever had that many.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Charissa doesn’t need another woman in the house,” says Saelora firmly. “What made Charissa finally agree?”
“Your success as a Merchanter.”
Saelora nods thoughtfully.
Alyiakal can see that, since Saelora’s success means that Gaaran will have no obligation or need to offer any assistance to his still-unconsorted younger sister. Not only that, but a successful woman Merchanter in the extended family in a town as small as Vaeyal is bound to be perceived in a largely favorable way.
Besides polite but honest farewells, neither Alyiakal nor Saelora say anything until they are mounted and well away from the house, heading south on Canal Street.
“I like Gaaran,” says Alyiakal quietly. “Otherwise, it’s been an interesting afternoon and dinner.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” replies Saelora ironically. “I thought you handled Mother quite well.”
“I had a great deal of practice growing up.” After a moment, he asks, “How do you think the dinner went?” He smiles wryly. “Preemptively, that is?”
“About as well as could be expected. You’re handsome, intelligent, and capable. If, from her point of view, worse comes to worst, no one will look down on her if we consorted. If we don’t, then she can simply say that you are a friend of Hyrsaal’s who visited on your way to your next posting.”
“And from your point of view?”
“Things haven’t changed, and that’s good. We need to know more about each other.” She smiles warmly. “Whatever happens, I’m glad you came.”
“So am I.” Alyiakal pauses, then asks, “Tomorrow or sevenday?”
“Tomorrow isn’t good for me. There are several traders and factors coming by, and I don’t know when, only that they promised they’d be here. What about third glass on sevenday?”
“Third glass on sevenday it is.”
At the morning mess on sixday, Alyiakal ends up sitting in pleasant conversation with Ghrennan, Nyell, and Dhenaal. About the only thing interesting he learns is that Commander Dahlvor and the Third Magus have not yet left Geliendra, which means that Alyiakal needs to be careful.
After breakfast, Alyiakal returns to his room, where he dons his light riding jacket because there’s a cool wind out of the northeast. Then he makes his way to the south gates out of the post and walks a good half kay west before he reaches the west wall of the post. He continues for several long blocks before turning north toward the Great Forest. While he has to walk several kays farther than if he’d used the north gates, he doesn’t want any Mirror Lancers, especially officers, observing him walking straight from the post to the wall, and with the Third Magus still around, using a concealment while inside the post walls wouldn’t be a good idea.
The farther north he walks, the smaller and less well-kept the various dwellings he passes are, but that makes a certain sense, given that some Forest creatures do occasionally cross the wall. After almost a kay and a half, he leaves the scattered ragtag dwellings behind and enters an area of small plots and fields, divided by a mixture of fences and hedgerows. He continues north until he nears the wall, where he stops under a tree and studies what lies before him.
Farther to the northwest, woodlots and larger fields parallel the Forest and the white sunstone wall that stretches for ninety-nine kays. The ground between the sunstone road and the wall that it parallels is bare earth, blackened in places by firelances used on shoots or plants or aimed at Forest creatures. At the moment, he sees no lancers on the road, and certainly no wagons or carts, given that few growers would risk themselves or their horses or donkeys to the possibility of an attack.
Alyiakal extends his senses to the wall only about a hundred yards away. Since he can neither see nor sense anyone, he raises a concealment and begins to walk through the calf-high grass that stretches to the edge of the road.
He has almost reached the road when he hears hoofs on the sunstone and senses a pair of dispatch riders coming from the northwest, possibly from Westend. Alyiakal halts and waits. The riders pass within ten yards, but don’t slow. Once they are well past, Alyiakal crosses the road at a deliberate pace. He’s not about to run. While he may be concealed, any puffs of dust or tracks he may leave are not.
He continues until he stands a yard or so away from the base of the wall, realizing that it has been more than six years since he has been this close to the Great Forest. He feels the looming power of order and chaos beyond the wall, and the comparatively thin curtain of separate flows of order and chaos that run from ward to ward, flows created by the chaos towers located at thirty-three-kay intervals. For whatever reason, the power of the Great Forest has a greater depth, one that overshadows the power flowing from the chaos towers.
He cannot sense any person or large animals near him outside the wall, and while he can sense patterns on the other side of the wall, the wards distort his perceptions. Finally, he decides to climb the wall. He finds it easier than he recalls.
You’re older and stronger in more ways than one.
Once he sits on the top of the wall, his perceptions of the forces within the wall are clear and precise, but interpreting those patterns without sight is difficult. Still, he cannot afford to drop the concealment. The last thing he needs is a report of a Mirror Lancer sitting on the top of the wall—especially with the Third Magus still at Geliendra.
For perhaps half a quint, he attempts to make sense out of the patterns below and around him inside the wall. He perceives an open space below and to his left, and he eases himself down. As soon as his head is below the top of the wall he drops the concealment and finds that he is above packed earth, suggesting that a large creature might have created it for resting or ambushing other creatures.
As his boots hit the ground, he glances around in the dim light filtering through the leaves and branches, but sees no sign of such a creature. The taller trees stretch well over a hundred yards above him and the comparatively smaller trees of the understory.
A flow of unheard noise carried by a blast of chaos strikes his shields and melts away. While the power shivers him, it only momentarily affects him, and he turns in the direction of the blast. A stun lizard, perhaps as long as a horse, and a third as tall, waits beside the trunk of a massive tree.
Just a young one.
A massive overwhelming power, neither chaos nor order, but partaking of both and something else beyond, encircles Alyiakal, and he has an impression of a question, possibly an inquiry as to why he has entered the Forest.
He attempts to create the feeling of wonder and curiosity.
Out of nowhere, an enormous serpent appears, its open mouth big enough to engulf Alyiakal. He decides instantly that responding with chaos would not only anger the serpent and/or the power behind it, but also be futile. Instead, he strengthens his shields and anchors them to the order he feels somewhere beneath his boots.
The serpent vanishes, replaced by an equally large stun lizard, which confirms Alyiakal’s impression that the creatures are a creation of the Forest, a form of illusion, but illusions with great power.
Power great enough to destroy you if you didn’t have shields.
Abruptly, he switches his outer shield to the one he’d used years before, when he’d sought out Adayal … or to one as close as he can recall.
Even so, another flow of unheard noise carried by an even larger blast of chaos washes over Alyiakal. Both shields hold, against a blast from a stun lizard much larger than the first one and against the second blast that follows.
Alyiakal forces himself not to strike back.
An image appears, before Alyiakal or in his mind, he cannot tell which. The feel of reality is strong enough that, for all practical purposes, the image is real. Tall, dark-leaved trees stretch as far as the eye can see, yet beneath those trees, Alyiakal senses an understory of more trees, and beneath this are all sorts of creatures—giant black panther-cats, stun lizards, bears with long curved claws living in the trees, medium-sized cougars, great serpents, water lizards with enormous teeth. The trees stretch for kays and kays, with no signs of roads or dwellings or structures.
Then, flashes of brilliant light fill the blue-green sky, and giant white metal spears plunge toward the Forest, their tips pointed skyward, the ends burning with white chaos-fire, fire that burns away trees, leaving vast patches of dark ash.
A shimmering figure in white appears at the edge of a burned patch. The figure stands next to something resembling a firewagon. Chaos flows in ordered streams from the sun to the shimmering figure, building around him. Great flying lizards dive at the shimmering figure, but chaos-fires from his fingers burn them from the sky. Stun lizards throw chaos noise at the figure, but his fires sear them out of existence, and the blackened area grows and grows.
Another image appears—a healthy forest surrounded by white walls—and that image settles between the burned edge of the Forest and the towering figure in shimmering white. The fires disappear from the fingers of the figure in white, and white walls appear around a smaller forest.
Alyiakal swallows. This has to be the Great Forest’s vision or memory of opposing the powers of the First.
Another image appears, this one of a time when the white walls sag and the trees begin to grow beyond the walls and to cover them.
Then, that image vanishes, and there is a sense of quiet anticipation.
Alyiakal struggles to create a simple illusion of himself sadly climbing the wall and leaving the Great Forest.
He waits.
Another image forms, showing him standing in the Forest beside a pool. Two tawny cougars approach. The Alyiakal image turns toward the wall, and the cougars follow close behind him as he walks to the wall, climbs it, and then descends. As the image of Alyiakal walks away from the wall, it lifts its arms, and fires flow from its hands. Then the image fades.
Alyiakal smiles, nervously. “Thank you.” He tries to project that feeling, then slowly turns to the wall. Climbing it the second time is much harder, but as he reaches the top, he looks back. Two tawny cougars stand beneath the wall, as if they had escorted him to it.
Alyiakal inclines his head in respect, then raises a concealment before he climbs onto the top of the wall and then down.
He has to walk slowly, carrying a concealment, as he crosses the sunstone road, because his legs feel unsteady. When he reaches a hedgerow shielding him from any direct view, he releases the concealment, and his jaw drops as he realizes it is midafternoon.
That long?
He shakes his head, slowly. No wonder he feels exhausted. He looks down at his jacket and uniform. Both are mussed, not stained, but his uniform feels sweaty, as if he’s run a good kay—or farther.
More than a few thoughts circle through his head, which aches with a dull throbbing pain he hadn’t even realized he had.
The images projected by the Great Forest had been so real, including the amount of power demonstrated by the magus of the First. The representation of ordered chaos flowing from the sun to the magus intrigued him, as if it augmented his power.
Enough power to force the Great Forest into submission … or an agreement?
But the last images had bothered Alyiakal. They suggest that, when Cyador can no longer maintain the wall, the Great Forest will return and reclaim its place.
And the two tawny cougars? Two had been present years ago when Adayal had sent him away. Did the Great Forest know that, too? And the fires from his hands, or from the fingers of the image of himself.
Does that mean you can throw order and chaos? Or that you should use it anywhere but in the Great Forest? Or that you’re somehow linked to that great magus of the First?
Those questions circle through his thoughts as he walks, putting one foot in front of the other, heading back to his temporary quarters. As he nears the post gates, he swallows, then remembers he needs to change his outer shield back to create the impression of a Mirror Lancer officer with slightly higher order abilities than most. If the Third Magus remains at the post, the Forest-mirroring shield would scream who Alyiakal really is and where he has been.
Despite his tiredness, Alyiakal finds the shift surprisingly easy, and that puzzles him, too.
When Alyiakal returns to his room, he stretches out on the narrow bed to rest, but immediately falls asleep and doesn’t wake for almost two glasses. He has to hurry to wash up and get to the evening mess on time, where Dhenaal and Nyell both gesture for Alyiakal to join them.
No one says much until they’ve served themselves—river trout fried in a nut batter along with fried quilla, of which Alyiakal takes only a small portion, and buttered brown rice.
“You out visiting friends today?” asks Nyell.
Alyiakal shakes his head. “I spent most of the day walking around.” He smiles wryly. “I came back in midafternoon and fell asleep.”
“You get back late last night?” asks Nyell.
“Not that late, but it takes almost two glasses each way. That’s one reason why I’m not visiting every day.”
“Is she pretty?” asks Dhenaal. “You wouldn’t be traveling that often if a woman weren’t involved.”
“She’s a handsome woman,” replies Alyiakal. “I never met her until now, but she started writing me when I was at Kynstaar. She’s impressive. She’s a Merchanter.” He takes another mouthful of the trout, which is better than passable, followed by the quilla, which is not, then some of the brown rice.
“From a Merchanter family?” asks Nyell.
“No. She earned it on her own.”
“That is impressive, even if it’s easier around here than in Cyad,” says Nyell. “You serious about her?”
“I’m serious about getting to know her better.”
“How much better?” asks Dhenaal with a grin.
“Not that way,” replies Alyiakal, adding, “Both her brothers are also Mirror Lancer officers. They’re very protective.”
“Ah … I can see why you’re being careful,” says Nyell.
“Did the Third Magus ever leave?” asks Alyiakal.
“He and the commander left around midmorning. Subcommander Zaentyl looked a bit relieved after that.” Nyell offers an amused smile. “I can see why. If I were in command, I’d be worried, too, if a headquarters commander and the Third Magus showed up at my post.”
“I wonder if there’s been trouble with the wall wards,” says Alyiakal.
“Not that I know of,” replies Dhenaal.
“One of the dispatch riders said he saw tracks coming from the wall this afternoon, but no one saw anyone,” says Nyell.
“Boot tracks or animal tracks?” asks Dhenaal.
“Boot tracks. The tracks went straight to the road, but there weren’t traces beyond the road.”
“Someone or something coming out of the Accursed Forest? Can’t say I like that at all,” declares Dhenaal.
“I wonder how the First ever managed to wall up the Forest,” offers Alyiakal. “You see all those creatures…” He shakes his head.
“They could do things that none of the Magi’i today could come close to doing,” says Nyell. “Of course, the Magi’i won’t admit it, and it’s not wise to even hint at.”
“They must have been incredibly powerful,” replies Alyiakal, thinking about the clarity of the Great Forest’s images.
“We could use some of that power now,” Dhenaal declares. “Sometimes, it takes three firelances to take down one of the big cats.”
As Dhenaal speaks, Alyiakal realizes, almost absently, that behind the older captain’s words are a healthy respect and tempered fear … and that his own awareness of what others feel is somehow sharper than it has been. Because of what happened in the Forest. After a moment of silence, Alyiakal says, “I’ve heard that there are giant serpents as well.”
“How would anyone know?” asks Dhenaal. “I don’t see how a serpent could climb the wall.”
“It could if one of those giant trees fell across the wall,” Alyiakal points out.
Dhenaal frowns, then nods. “I could see that—the same way most of the big cats get out. I think I’d still worry more about them. They’re fast.”
“In your position,” says Nyell, “I’d worry about everything connected to the Accursed Forest. Nothing good comes out of there.”
While Alyiakal could dispute that, saying that there are good aspects to the Great Forest isn’t something he can do, not as a Mirror Lancer.
“You lived near the Forest for a time, didn’t you?” Dhenaal asks Alyiakal. “What’s your feeling about it?”
Alyiakal smiles wryly. “Let’s say I wouldn’t get in an all-out battle with the Forest and any of its creatures. The best you can do is survive, and sometimes that’s what Mirror Lancers have to do.”
Dhenaal nods. “You’re right about that. There are always more creatures. Even the First couldn’t destroy the Forest. The best they could do was to confine it.”
Nyell frowns, then nods. “I wouldn’t have thought of it that way.”
Alyiakal finishes the brown rice and the trout, but not all the quilla.
A little later, as he leaves the mess building and starts to walk toward the temporary officers’ quarters, he immediately senses the presence of the Great Forest—and even the flows of order and chaos—a feeling he has only felt in the past when he was far closer to the walls.
Because you entered the Forest?
He shakes his head. It has to be because he did not attempt to fight the Great Forest, but merely held his ground and accepted the Forest for what it is.
He smiles, an expression somehow both wry and sad.
Alyiakal’s dreams are vivid, yet when he wakes early on sevenday morning, he cannot remember most of the details. The one absolutely clear image is walking away from the Great Forest with order-and-chaos bolts somehow radiating from him.
First the Forest plants that image and now it’s in your dreams. Should you try to see if you can do more than merely gather order and chaos?
He sits up slowly, thinking, wondering if the Forest had been suggesting … or foreseeing.
Then he shakes his head. It might be a good idea to see if you can even do something like that, or you’ll always wonder.
Then he realizes that he definitely feels rested, and he stands, begins to ready himself for the day.
Breakfast is much like other breakfasts at the mess, where both the fare and the conversations are bland.
He spends more than a glass at the tailor’s shop, trying on his new uniforms and then paying for them. Most, but not all, of the cost comes from the uniform allowance granted to all officers when they are posted to a new duty station after at least two years in their previous post. After that, he makes his way to the cobbler’s shop, where he tries on his new boots, after which he carries the uniforms and boots back to his quarters.
He thinks about going back to the market square, but decides against it. He still has no idea what sort of gift would be most appropriate for Saelora, and he does have an eightday in which to decide.
He debates whether he should try throwing or projecting order and chaos, but immediately decides against attempting anything within the post.
At a quint before the first glass of the afternoon, he rides the mare out through the south gates of the post. This time, he decides to see if he can use his order/chaos senses to discern where the old road from Vaeyal joins the current stone road.
More than a glass later, some four kays past where the roads to Fyrad and Vaeyal diverge, Alyiakal concentrates on the left side of the gray stone road, looking for traces of the older road. He rides another two kays, laughing quietly when he reaches what he’d thought was a lane leading off to several steads. The lane is unpaved. That doesn’t surprise Alyiakal because the road builders would likely have used the paving stones on the newer road. This hadn’t occurred in Vaeyal because it would have taken too much effort to cart the stones all the way to the new road, especially since it also would have meant removing a paved street in the town.
Or perhaps the locals here may have used the stones for other purposes.
Alyiakal still senses an underlying order beneath the packed earth, an order he doubts he could have perceived days earlier, and he wonders what else has changed in his order/chaos abilities … and why.
Just because you stood up to the Great Forest … or because doing so opened up your perceptions and abilities more?
He is still mulling over those possibilities when he reaches Vaeyal and nears the Great Canal, where the sunstone blocks, reinforced with order and chaos, comprising the walls and tow-ways seem strangely out of place, a balance of order and chaos that is, paradoxically, somehow out of balance.
The feeling is strong enough that, for a moment, Alyiakal himself feels unbalanced, but with a deep breath and a little concentration, he regains his equilibrium and guides the mare north on Canal Street.
As on fiveday, Saelora appears at the front door of the factorage as he nears it.
“In back again?” he asks.
“For now,” she replies before reentering the factorage and closing the door. Alyiakal continues riding up Canal Street to the next lane, where he turns. When he reaches the factorage, Saelora stands beside the open stable doors in her Merchanter blues. As he reins up, he asks, “We’re not going anywhere?”
“Not immediately, but I thought we’d eat at my house.”
“Excellent,” he says cheerfully as he dismounts.
“You don’t want to go to Mother’s?” Her smile holds a hint of mischief.
“The fare at your house is better, and we don’t have to spar for it.” He leads the mare into the open stall. After he settles the mare, steps out of the stall, and closes the door, Saelora says, “Gaaran stopped by this morning. He likes you. So does Charissa.”
“And your mother?”
Saelora lifts her eyebrows, clearly asking why he worries about Marenda.
“I don’t want to be the cause of any disruption.”
Saelora laughs softly. “You worded that so politely and carefully. What have you been doing since I last saw you?”
“Among other things, eating with other officers, and trying on and paying for new uniforms. My old ones are a bit worn. What I’m wearing is one of the few remaining in decent condition. Next time, I’ll wear one of the new ones.”
“Other things?”
“I’ll tell you over dinner.”
“Is that to make certain I feed you?”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but if that’s what it takes…”
Saelora shakes her head, then moves toward the stable doors.
Alyiakal takes the door she doesn’t, and then slides the bar into place. “Where are we going now?”
“To see Vassyl. He asked if he could talk to you.”
“We can do that.” Especially since he’s been so good to you. Alyiakal follows Saelora through the organized and clean shelves of the warehouse section to the part that looks more like a study.
Vassyl immediately stands and gestures to the small circular table. “We can all sit here. It’s easier that way.”
As he seats himself, Alyiakal says, “Saelora says you’d like to talk.”
“No,” replies Vassyl with an amused smile. “I’d like you to talk. I’m only a factor and a trader. I haven’t been all that far from Vaeyal. Fyrad’s the farthest I’ve been, so I like to talk to people who’ve been places I haven’t. Would you mind telling me about Pemedra? And about who lives around there and what their lives are like?”
“I’m afraid that it won’t be that interesting, but I’ll be happy to tell you what I know and what I saw.”
For almost a glass, prompted by Vassyl’s questions, Alyiakal conveys his observations about the post, what the Mirror Lancers ate and did, the local steads, the barbarians, the weather, and the way the Cerlynese deal with traders who don’t follow their dictates.
When Alyiakal finishes, he says, “I don’t know what else there is to tell. Except for the barbarians, the raiders, and the weather, there’s not that much else of great interest.”
“You’re very observant,” replies the factor, “especially about copper and how it’s traded.”
“I’m not a trader, but I don’t like the idea of Cyadoran traders buying copper, then going to Jeranyi smiths who forge polished copper or brass shields that they then supply to barbarian raiders.” Alyiakal offers a sardonic smile. “I also don’t like the idea that any officer who mentions that in Cyad is endangering his future or possibly his life.”
“You’re telling me,” replies Vassyl.
“You’re not a trader in Cyad, and you’re honest. And trustworthy.”
“How do you know that? Except for today, we’ve only talked briefly a few times.”
“I just know,” declares Alyiakal.
“Hyrsaal told me years ago that Alyiakal was never wrong about his judgment of people,” adds Saelora.
“I’ve been wrong about what people might do,” replies Alyiakal.
“But not about what kind of people they are. You understood Mother in moments.”
Alyiakal almost replies that seeing Marenda’s character wasn’t that hard, but decides against it.
Before he can say something else, Saelora adds, “And don’t say that you’re fortunate or something like that.”
“Well, you’re right,” says Alyiakal.
“She usually is,” adds Vassyl.
“Is there anything else you’d like to know?” Alyiakal turns to Vassyl. “Besides Pemedra?”
“I have a small favor to ask. You’re being posted to Guarstyad. I’ve heard rumors about a spice, some kind of underground mushroom, that they harvest there from the roots of certain trees. They only trade with certain important Merchanters from Fyrad … but not Cyad. If you hear anything about it, if you’d convey that to Saelora, I’d appreciate it.”
“I can do that. I’ll have to mention you knew about traders going to Guarstyad, or something like that. Is there anything else?”
“You lived close to the Accursed Forest before you were a Mirror Lancer, Saelora told me. What are your impressions about the Forest? Have they changed?”
“Impressions change as we learn. I always thought that the Great Forest held a great deal of power. The only change in my feelings is that it’s more powerful than I realized.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I can’t say.” Not without revealing more than I should. “It’s a feeling.”
“Sometimes, feelings are more accurate than reasoned thought,” observes Vassyl.
“But it helps to know when that’s so,” replies Alyiakal sardonically, “and when people won’t accept feelings as a reason.”
“I imagine that’s often the case for lancer officers.”
“Usually is more like it.” Then Alyiakal smiles and adds, “Except when we’re out on patrol.” Before either Saelora or Vassyl can say more, he asks, “Why are you interested in my feelings about the Great Forest?”
“It was here before we were. Everyone accepts that it will remain behind the walls and nothing will change. I look for things that people think won’t change, but could.”
“I have the feeling that the Forest isn’t about to change anytime soon.”
“Why do you say that so confidently?” asks Vassyl.
“Because the Third Magus was at Geliendra yesterday and the day before, presumably to check the wall wards. After that he left quietly. That suggests to me that he found nothing amiss. There would have been an undercurrent of feelings and unrest if he had been worried.”
Vassyl frowns, then fingers his chin. After a moment, he says, “I can see that.” Then he smiles broadly and stands. “I’ve kept you long enough. You two need to enjoy the rest of the day.”
Saelora is on her feet as quickly as Vassyl, but Alyiakal isn’t far behind, and she leads the way through the warehouse to the stable. When they get there, he notices immediately that her roan is already saddled.
“Are we headed to your house and the distillery, or do you need to go somewhere else first?”
“We don’t, but thank you for asking.”
“Do you need me to lead the roan out front so you can bar the stable?”
“No. We can close the doors. Vassyl will be along shortly to bar them.”
Before long the two are riding north on Canal Street, which doesn’t seem as busy as it had on fiveday, but then, it is sevenday, and more than a few people try not to work late or even in the afternoon on sevenday.
“You’re a bit like a magus, aren’t you?” asks Saelora quietly.
“Why do you say that?”
“They picked you for field healing. Reading between the lines of your letters, I’d say fewer of the wounded in your company died from wounds. Don’t tell me that you were fortunate, either.”
“The training helped. What I learned from Healer Vayidra in Syadtar did as well. I wrote you about her.”
“You did. I have to say I’m glad she’s much, much older.”
“I never thought of her that way. I had too much to learn.”
“And you did. You’re more than a field healer, Alyiakal.”
“At least a bit more,” he concedes. “Why do you think so?”
“You’re very practical and capable. Yet you talk about feelings as if they’re so real that you can touch them. That means, to you, they are.”
Alyiakal manages a soft laugh. “You are a very dangerous woman, Saelora, but I imagine all good Merchanters are.”
“So are all good Mirror Lancer officers. I have no doubt that you’re good in a quietly effective fashion.”
“Several senior officers have mentioned that. They’ve also hinted that it’s a disadvantage.”
“Of course it is. When you’re really good at something, it seems effortless to others. They don’t realize how much skill and effort is involved.”
“Like building a spirits-trading business and a distillery?”
Apparently to avoid comment on that, Saelora says, “We turn east on the old road ahead.”
“You don’t like to talk about your success, do you?” Alyiakal makes it a question.
“I try to let the brandy speak for itself. Anything resembling boasting by a woman doesn’t set well with many men … or most women.”
“Vassyl praises what you do.”
“He and Buurel are about the only ones besides you.” Saelora turns the roan onto the old east road, and Alyiakal does the same with the mare.
He suspects there are others who think highly of Saelora, but since she’s obviously worried about saying much about what she’s done, he says, “Vassyl mentioned a special liqueur. How is that coming?”
“Laetilla and I are still working on it. It needs to be a bit sweeter, I think. We have a couple of different versions at the house.”
“And some of the greenberry brandy?”
“Of course.” She pauses, then asks, “Is my company so wearing that you need brandy to bear it?”
Alyiakal can hear the teasing tone, but says mournfully, “I think you’re being hard on me.”
She doesn’t laugh, but there’s a hint of a smile.
“I’d like at least a sip of the greenberry brandy. I’d like to be able to recommend it, but I’d be deceptive if I’ve never tasted it.”
“There’s some. It’s only been aged a year or so. It’s drinkable, but we’re trying to age most of it longer. We’re behind on that because it took longer to find a cooper who would make enough barrels.”
When they reach the barn, they settle both horses quickly and enter the house through the door from the attached barn to the kitchen.
Laetilla immediately turns and smiles. “It won’t be that long.”
“We’re not going anywhere else.” Saelora leads the way to the front parlor, where she takes one of the armchairs.
Alyiakal takes the other. Since Saelora doesn’t say anything, he asks, “Is there anything about me that you haven’t already deduced and would like to know?”
“I have a thought or two, but I’m curious. Were there any boys or girls your age in Jakaafra?”
Alyiakal debates how much he should reveal at the moment, then says, “I lived at the post in the commander’s quarters. I was the only young person there.” He pauses. “As you’ve guessed, I do have a little ability with magery. I don’t talk about it or show it because lancer officers aren’t supposed to have or use those abilities, unless they become Mirror Engineers. I had some instruction from a mage in Jakaafra. My father hoped I could become a magus, but the mage felt my abilities were based too much in order, and unsuited to being a Mirror Engineer. I got the field-healing training because the mage testing the officer candidates at Kynstaar noticed that I had higher level of order than usual. They’re a bit higher than he thought because I learned to shield them. Healer Vayidra later helped me with that as well.” Alyiakal holds up a hand. “I’m getting to the girls, or girl.”
Saelora grins. “I knew there had to be someone. Go on.”
Alyiakal decides not to ask how she knows that and says, “I was walking the road beside the Forest wall one evening—”
“You walked there all alone?”
“I did carry a sabre.”
Saelora shakes her head.
“Anyway, I saw a black panther that somehow wasn’t quite that…” Alyiakal recounts meeting Adayal, how he found out she was also Triamon’s student, and his efforts to find her name. “I thought Adayal must be near my age, but she was actually at least several years older, and she taught me about the Great Forest. This all happened the Summer before I went to Kynstaar. The last time I saw her, she told me she was at least half a part of the Great Forest, and that I was meant for a different life, and destined for great things she couldn’t and wouldn’t share.” He shrugs. “Until you, she was the only girl or woman in my life. But she would have been miserable consorted to a Mirror Lancer. As powerful as the Forest is, that’s not who I am. So we both would have suffered.”
“You’re both fortunate to have realized that.”
Alyiakal offers a wry smile. “Give her the credit. I didn’t realize it until I was posted to Pemedra. Actually, until I’d been in Pemedra quite a while, and started to really think about the way people live—or have to live.”
“You never tried to write her?”
“I couldn’t, not directly anyway. She lived in the Great Forest, and the magus who taught us both disappeared when I was at Kynstaar. My father wrote me a letter, carefully impersonal, not mentioning that Triamon had taught me, about the disappearance of a local mage.”
“A warning, you think?”
Alyiakal nods. “No doubt of that. Triamon taught me skills I wasn’t supposed to know.”
This time, she is the one to shake her head. “The more you wrote, the more I knew you were different.”
“I didn’t want to deceive you, but most letters to lancer officers are secretly opened and read. At least, many of mine have been. So, until I could talk to you in person … and I didn’t want to say much until I knew you a little better.”
“You’re taking a risk in telling me, aren’t you?”
“It’s a risk only if you tell anyone else. I trust you. Even if we’re only friends. Even if we weren’t friends, you wouldn’t break that trust.” He pauses. “Am I wrong?”
In the muted light of the small parlor, he can see the hint of tears. “I hope I haven’t upset you.”
She shakes her head, then swallows. “No one … no one has given me what you have.”
“No one’s ever done what you have,” he replies quietly. “I can’t tell you how I’ve looked forward to your letters.”
She manages a shaky smile. “I look for yours.”
“Then we need to keep writing, although I understand there may be delays to and from Guarstyad during the Winter. The only way to get there is by ship once the passes are snowed in, and sometimes the seas are too rough.” He stops speaking as he senses Laetilla coming into the parlor.
“Dinner is ready.”
“Thank you, Laetilla,” says Saelora as she stands.
Alyiakal admires the athletic grace in her movements, then stands as well and follows her into the small dining room, where the three lit candles in the candelabrum supplement the late-afternoon sun.
They both sit, and Alyiakal looks at his wineglass and his plate.
“The wine is Alafraan, the same as last time. The dinner is baked chopped lamb combined with various spices and other savories, rice and raisins, and roasted turnips.”
“And the glaze or sauce?” he asks.
“It’s special. We hope you like it.”
Alyiakal offers an amused smile, suspecting he knows at least one element of the sauce, but he waits for Saelora to begin. Once she takes a bite, so does he. A small bite, so that, if he detests what he is tasting, he can suppress any physical reaction. Except he doesn’t have to. The chopped lamb morsels are tender, with a hint of mint. The glaze adds a touch of a sweet yet sharp, but muted, “greenness” that he cannot describe in any other way and gives the rice and raisins a piquancy that makes Alyiakal want another bite. It also helps with the turnips.
“This is magnificent.” Except for the turnips, but they were even edible. “You could sell that glaze or sauce as well.”
Saelora beams. “Laetilla and I came up with the sauce. We’d thought about selling it, but some of the spices are expensive.”
“Put it in smaller bottles. Give one bottle to each of the larger traders, and then sell additional bottles for a hefty price.” Alyiakal frowns. “Maybe you should make a few bottles and see how they age before you put any of it up for sale. Wine and distilled spirits age mostly predictably. Something like the sauce … that might be different, and it might not age well at all.”
“We’d thought about that.”
Alyiakal nods and happily returns to enjoying a tasty and very special dinner. He leaves not a morsel or the smallest trace of the glaze sauce on his plate.
“I can see that you didn’t like the dinner at all.” Saelora smiles broadly.
He looks at her equally empty plate. “Neither did you.”
“I may be a terrible cook, but I do like food, especially good food. I’m fortunate that Laetilla enjoys cooking more than eating.”
“Cooking for you … and for the captain,” adds Laetilla from the doorway. “May I take the plates?”
“Please,” says Saelora.
As Laetilla leaves the small dining room with the plates, Saelora stands. Alyiakal pushes back his chair and starts to get up.
“Please sit down. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Alyiakal eases his chair forward. He senses faint amusement from Saelora, but no strong adverse emotions.
Shortly, if more than a few moments later, Saelora returns with Laetilla. Saelora carries two bottles, and Laetilla two wineglasses and two smaller glasses, which she sets at Saelora’s place before leaving the dining room.
“The smaller glasses?” asks Alyiakal.
“Cordial or liqueur glasses. We didn’t plan a dessert. You said you wanted to taste the greenberry brandy, and Vassyl mentioned the liqueur…” Saelora reseats herself and fills the wineglasses only about a third full, before handing one to Alyiakal. “This is the brandy. See what you think.”
Alyiakal lifts the wineglass and sips the clear, greenish-tinted liquid. There’s both a smoothness and a sharp edge to the brandy, and that small sip goes down his throat easily and warmly. The taste resembles the glaze, but is more direct. He tastes the familiar underlying hint of pearapple, and something completely different, which has to be the greenberry.
“What you’re drinking is the oldest brandy we have. It’s barely two years old, and we don’t have much of it. We’re trying to balance what we sell with what we’d like to age longer, because the taste gets smoother over time.”
“This tastes smooth to me. Much smoother—and a lot stronger—than most of the wine lancer officers get.”
“We’ll never be able to make large volumes of the brandy. That’s why Vassyl thinks we ought to age most of it longer, so that it’s of higher quality and we can sell it for more.”
“I’m no Merchanter, but that makes sense to me.”
Alyiakal takes another sip of the brandy, deciding that it is too strong for him, especially after the wine he had with dinner, and sets the glass aside. He watches as Saelora fills the cordial glasses half full and extends one to him.
They both sip, and she looks to him inquisitively.
“The liqueur has the same basic taste as the brandy, but I taste other subtle flavors beyond the greenberry and the hint of pearapple. I couldn’t tell you what those flavors are, only that they’re present.”
“You’re tasting more than the few others who’ve had it.”
“I’d wager they wanted more.”
“They did, but not necessarily for the subtle flavors,” she replies wryly. “Outland traders are known for liking strong spirits.”
“So are some lancer officers.”
“You’re not one of them.”
“No, I’m not.” For one thing, Alyiakal has never been fond of spirits stronger than wine or ale, and he’s never wanted to lose control of his thoughts or tongue. “How did you come to that conclusion?”
“Hyrsaal said you never overindulged, but I also got that impression from the way you write your letters.”
“Have you heard from him lately?”
“No, but he’s supposed to be here next sixday or sevenday.”
“Did Gaaran say any more about your mother?”
“You mean, did she say anything more about you?”
“Or about you, for setting up the dinner at her house.”
“She never says much about me. I’m not feminine enough.”
“You’re very feminine, and not simpering or manipulative, and I like that.”
“You’re kind.”
“No, I like you the way you are. I think you’ve always been like that.”
Saelora frowns.
“You don’t think so?”
“I think I was less determined and more self-centered before Father died. I never realized how much warmth and light he brought into the house. Not until he was gone. He wasn’t boisterous or loud—just quietly warm and cheerful.”
“And he loved and warmed your mother?”
Saelora nods. “No one else can.”
“I’d guess she won’t warm to anyone else, not because you and Gaaran aren’t warm people.” I can see why Gaaran wants her close, but in separate quarters.
Alyiakal glances to the single window and takes in the late-afternoon light.
Saelora follows his gaze. “You need to go soon.”
“Unhappily … yes. What are you doing tomorrow?”
Saelora smiles. “Tomorrow is eightday, remember?”
“I could come earlier.”
“You could.” She pauses. “I’d thought about inviting Karola and Faadyr for a midday dinner.”
“At your house, I take it?”
“Faadyr and Mother are cordial at best.”
“Because Karola consorted him without your mother’s approval?”
“She thought a smallholder was beneath Karola.”
Alyiakal isn’t about to comment directly on that, instead saying, “Karola obviously disagreed or didn’t care.”
“Both. Besides that, Faadyr holds more lands than most holders. They’re productive lands, too.”
“So he’s fairly well off?”
“More than fairly, I’d judge. But he’s quiet about it.”
“I’d be happy to meet them, if it won’t be too much work for you.”
“It won’t be for me, and I’m paying Laetilla extra for the dinner.”
Alyiakal refrains from pointing out that Saelora seems exceedingly sure that everyone would agree to the dinner and says, “When should I arrive?”
“Noon would be good. That way we could eat at first glass.”
“I can manage that.”
“You can manage anything you put your mind and skills to.”
“Not everything.” And definitely not dealing with a magus of the highest level.
“Most things, I’d wager.”
“There are some I’d rather not try.”
“Those are the ones we usually have to face, sooner or later.” She offers a resigned smile and stands. “We need to get you on your way.”
There are only a handful of officers at the mess on eightday morning, one of whom is Ghrennan. He and Alyiakal talk cheerfully about matters of no immediate consequence. After finishing breakfast, Alyiakal dons his light riding jacket, because the air is definitely cooler than usual for early in Autumn, and he strolls around the post to familiarize himself with where everything is. Then he goes to the stable, talks to the duty ostler, and leaves riding the same mare as before.
Once he is on the old stone road to Vaeyal, he glances around. He can’t see anyone nearby, and the occasional trees bordering the road will shield him from anyone seeing what he is about to attempt.
First, he gathers a small amount of free chaos, keeping it within a web of order, and then he throws the chaos as far as he can ahead of him—and, especially, the mare—slightly to the left.
The chaos strikes the paving stones some twenty yards in front of the mare and flares into a pillar less than a yard high, before dissipating, leaving a circular patch of polished stone. The mare doesn’t even break stride. Then again, Alyiakal wouldn’t have expected anything less since lancer mounts are accustomed to firelances.
On the second try, Alyiakal uses less free chaos, and a bit more order to increase the range, but the chaos burst lands only a little farther away than the first.
For the next quint, as he rides, he continues to experiment, but by the time his head begins to ache, he has still extended the range of his small chaos bolts to only forty yards, less than the range of a firelance.
You definitely need more work and more practice.
His headache slowly subsides and is almost gone when he reaches Canal Street at nearly two quints before noon. He continues on and reins up before Saelora’s stable more than a quint before noon. Since the stable doors are unbarred, he opens them and leads the mare inside, settling her in the same stall he’s used before. He closes the stable doors and is about to knock on the kitchen door when Saelora opens it.
“I thought you might be early. I’m glad you are.” She steps back so that he can enter, and adds, “Try not to peek at what Laetilla’s doing. It’s always better if dinner’s a bit of a surprise.”
Alyiakal avoids looking either at Laetilla or at what’s on the stove and the worktable, as he follows Saelora into the parlor.
Saelora does not sit in one of the armchairs, but turns to him. “I’d hoped to have a settee by now, but it’s taking longer than I’d hoped. We’ll have to go to the dining room and have a drink there, while Laetilla finishes up with dinner.”
“Can I help?”
She shakes her head.
“No matter how well you plan, when you depend on others … well … sometimes they’re not as disciplined as you are, or something happens that they can’t control.”
Saelora merely nods.
She has kept glancing to the parlor window, Alyiakal notes, and abruptly she says, “Here come Karola and Faadyr.” She turns, walks to the front door, and opens it.
Alyiakal follows, and they both watch as Faadyr guides the single-horse chaise up to the front of the stable, where he and Karola alight, and then tie the horse to the sturdy hitching post. The chaise appears solid and well-made, but displays no ornamentation at all, a statement of prosperity without presumption of position as full holder or a Merchanter.
Alyiakal takes in both Karola and Faadyr as they walk toward the front door.
Except for her cheerful and open smile as she sees her sister, Karola looks the way her mother, Marenda, might have in her youth, with the flame-red hair and slender build, but her midsection is broader—and Alyiakal realizes from the separate pattern of order and chaos that she is with child.
At first glance, Faadyr doesn’t look like a smallholder, not with his lanky, wiry build, but his brown jacket and trousers are of fine polished cotton, as is his cream shirt. He looks to be a few years older than Alyiakal. He also smiles as he sees Saelora. “We’re here and on time.”
“As if Karola would let you be late,” replies Saelora, from where she stands in the doorway, with Alyiakal beside her.
“As if I’d ever want to be late when we’re coming to see you.”
Alyiakal can hear Faadyr’s slight emphasis on the word “you,” but he keeps the smile he feels to himself.
Karola’s eyes turn to Alyiakal. “It’s good to see you. I’ve heard so much.” She smiles again and says to Saelora, “You were right.”
“Dare I ask what you were right about?” Alyiakal asks Saelora.
“Wise man,” says Faadyr as he follows his consort to the front door. “You’ll notice he didn’t ask what, not directly.”
The two sisters exchange glances.
After a moment, Saelora says, “That you’re five cubits tall and made of stone.”
“I’m not that hard,” replies Alyiakal in mock protest, understanding that, if Saelora wants to tell him what she really said, it will be later. Possibly much later.
“Do come in to my all-too-humble abode,” says Saelora, stepping back inside.
Alyiakal steps to the side to allow the couple to enter.
Faadyr looks around the sparsely furnished parlor and nods, approvingly, then says to Saelora, “You’ve done the important things first. Windows, doors, shutters … and the distillery building looks solid. Karola told me, but it’s good to see.”
“And the kitchen,” adds Karola.
“Because I did those first,” says Saelora, “we have to go into the dining room to sit down.”
This time the table is set for four. As before, each place setting holds a single white porcelain platter edged in blue, set off by the Merchanter-blue tablecloth, the silver cutlery and utensils, and four blue-tinted crystal wineglasses. Given that it is midday, the tapers in the candelabrum remain unlit.
Alyiakal senses Faadyr and Karola’s slight surprise, and that Saelora speaks quickly.
“I’ll sit at this end, and Alyiakal will be at the other end, with you two across from each other. The porcelainware and wineglasses came from Vassyl as a housewarming gift. He had a score of place settings and dinner cutlery from his old house on the north end of town, and he said he’d never use it, and Elinjya can’t.”
Faadyr frowns for a moment, then nods. “You’re effectively his Merchanter heir.”
“That’s almost exactly what he said. He did add that he wanted me to use them to my advantage.” Saelora comes up with an impish smile. “He didn’t specify what advantage.” She gestures to the chairs and immediately seats herself.
Alyiakal understands. Saelora is a Merchanter, not a woman subservient to any man.
Laetilla appears and fills each wineglass exactly half full, then leaves the dining room.
Alyiakal immediately lifts his wineglass. “To the Lady Merchanter who made this dinner possible.”
Saelora flushes slightly, but nods as everyone drinks, and then lifts her glass. “And to the Mirror Lancer captain who encouraged me from the first.”
After that, there is a moment of silence before Karola looks to Alyiakal and asks, “You’ll be here for another eightday?”
“I have to leave for Fyrad an eightday from tomorrow morning.” Alyiakal briefly explains his itinerary and duty station.
Karola shivers. “It has to be cold at the foot of the Westhorns.”
“I’m told it can be quite chill. But Hyrsaal’s going to Lhaarat, and that’s also at the foot of the Westhorns, and it’s farther north.”
“He didn’t mention that,” says Karola. “Is it dangerous?”
“It’s not supposed to be as dangerous as the northern and northeastern border posts,” replies Alyiakal, “and there aren’t any good passes between Cyador and Kyphros. But there are always brigands in the hills beyond the borders.” He turns to Faadyr. “I’ve heard your name more than a few times, but not enough for me to know much.” He grins. “Except that Karola was most interested in you.”
“I was always most interested in her as well.” The smallholder blushes. “I’ve been fortunate in inheriting some land and more fortunate in obtaining additional parcels.”
“Fortunate,” snorts Karola. “He’s taken worn-out and overused lands, and made them bloom again.”
“Over time,” adds Faadyr.
For the next two quints or so, the conversation is mostly about lands and planting, for which Alyiakal is grateful, and then Laetilla serves the midday dinner and says, “This is a dish popular in Hamor. I’ve always liked it, and I trust you will, also.”
“Thank you so much,” says Saelora. “I’m sure we will.”
Alyiakal looks at his plate. Thin strips of braised fowl breast laid on a bed of sticky rice. After waiting for Saelora, he cuts a morsel and tastes it. The meat is tender, moist, and piquant—with a touch of smokiness and a hint of pearapple sweetness. The rice carries the same flavors, with a hint of crunchiness.
“This is really special.” Karola looks to Alyiakal. “We wouldn’t be here having this if you weren’t here. We’re so glad we could meet you.”
“I wouldn’t be here if Saelora hadn’t written a lonely officer candidate almost six years ago,” Alyiakal says quietly but warmly.
“And if you hadn’t replied with such wonderful letters,” answers Saelora.
Alyiakal wants to protest that his letters weren’t that wonderful. “We both did what we could.”
From her end of the table, Saelora offers a mischievous smile.
He smiles back.
“Do you think you’ll be able to come back here anytime soon?” asks Karola.
“I won’t get home leave for at least another two years, maybe three.”
“That’s awful.”
That’s one reason why your father didn’t get consorted until he finished his obligation and was stipended out. “We all know that’s the way it is.”
“Letters are such a poor substitute,” presses Karola cheerfully.
“Alyiakal can’t change the way the Mirror Lancers function, dear,” says Faadyr patiently. “Just like I can’t change the rhythm of the seasons.”
“But…”
“He can’t, and I can’t.” Faadyr’s tone is gentle, but firm.
The rest of the dinner conversation deals with comparisons of various foods, a few questions about Mirror Lancer duties and postings, and assorted recollections of past events.
Two cheerful glasses later, Faadyr and Karola leave.
Saelora takes a deep breath and sinks into one of the parlor armchairs.
“A bit of a strain?” asks Alyiakal dryly, sensing the tension leaving Saelora.
“She’s sweet, and I love her, but…”
“She believes she can arrange the world the way she thinks it should be?”
“It’s more that she’s arranged her life to suit her, and why can’t I do the same.”
“Faadyr seems kind and caring. Is he?” Alyiakal thinks that the smallholder is from what he’s perceived, but he knows that differing circumstances can bring out less desirable characteristics and behavior in people.
“He’s not only prosperous, but he’s a dear man, better than Mother could have hoped, and all Mother can think of is that he’s a smallholder.”
“Even though Karola will have a better and happier life with him than with men of supposedly higher position?”
“She will. In time, Faadyr will be even better off than most of them. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s recognized as a holder.” Saelora smiles sardonically. “Even if it might be after Mother’s gone.”
For several long moments, neither speaks.
“You’re the quiet one, aren’t you?” asks Alyiakal. “That’s why your mother referred to you as the recluse.”
“Mother’s always wanted to make a personal impression on people. I’m happier doing things that are meaningful.”
Alyiakal nods. “Even in your choice of whom to write. You do things because they feel right. For you, what’s meaningful in a constructive way is what feels right.”
She frowns. “Can something destructive be really meaningful?”
“Unhappily … yes. If I’m reading history correctly, Emperor Kieffal, the previous Emperor of Light, wanted to expand Cyador’s rule beyond the Grass Hills. That’s why he built Pemedra. Before he could take further steps, he had an untimely accident. Many suspect it wasn’t an accident. Whether it was or not, the accident was destructive and meaningful because it affected trade and borders, not to mention who profited and how from the trade of copper mined in Cerlyn.”
“You never wrote about that.”
“A senior officer suggested quite strongly that junior officers should not speak of it. Putting it in a letter that might be read by someone other than you wouldn’t have been wise.”
“I can see that. It doesn’t speak well of—”
“Any number of people in power in the Triad.”
“Triad?”
“The higher levels of the Mirror Lancers, the Magi’i, and the Merchanters.”
“I don’t think I’d want to be a Merchanter in Cyad.”
Alyiakal laughs softly. “You might not like it, but you’d do well because you focus on what’s meaningful.” He pauses, then asks, “Do you know if your father was ever posted anywhere close to Guarstyad?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“I thought it might be useful to study maps of the area.”
She shakes her head with a rueful expression. “Do you always think about duty?”
“Not always. I’ve been here an eightday, and it’s the first time I thought about maps when I’ve been with you.”
“The first time you thought about them or the first time you asked?”
“Both.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Saelora sits up straighter in the armchair. “You should be on your way.” She stands. “I need to get something. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Alyiakal still stands, but does not attempt to follow her toward the rear of the small house, much as he would like to.
She returns almost immediately and hands him a heavy cloth bag with an amused smile. “You did ask for this.”
“Greenberry brandy?” he asks.
“Three bottles, each wrapped in cloth.”
“I’ll save them for where and when they’ll do some good.” He pauses, then asks, “Tomorrow?”
Saelora shakes her head. “There’s too much to do on oneday and twoday.”
“Third afternoon glass on threeday?” he suggests.
“I’d like that.” Then she guides him toward the kitchen and the stable. “Third glass on threeday.”
“I’ll be here.”
Once he finishes breakfast on oneday morning and the officers stand to leave, Alyiakal decides to follow Ghrennan and Nyell under a concealment. He has to duck into an unused side hall to raise the concealment, and by the time he catches up, the other two captains are outside, walking toward headquarters.
“… definitely has to be a woman he’s visiting in the area. Likely not in Geliendra, either.”
“He can’t be sleeping with her, or not at night,” replies Nyell. “He gets back too early in the evening, usually around sundown. What do you really think of him?”
“He’s young for his rank. Means he went through the whole three years at Kynstaar. Overheard the subcommander say Alyiakal was one of the top undercaptains. It also means,” says Ghrennan, “that Alyiakal isn’t the boasting type. There’s more to him. I can’t figure out what.”
“He wouldn’t be posted to Guarstyad if there weren’t,” replies Nyell with a sound that could be either laugh or snort. “He sounds perfect for dealing with the Kyphrans. A good company officer who’s excellent with weapons, mounts, and men and too junior to be able to use his accomplishments for his own benefit.”
“Most of the company officers being sent to Guarstyad are like that,” says Ghrennan cynically. “Only the best, and sometimes the most fortunate, survive such duty unscathed.”
As the two reach the low steps to the headquarters building, Alyiakal halts and waits until both enter before turning and making his way toward the southern gates, where, in a niche where the walls meet the massive gatepost, he removes the concealment before heading out into the small city of Geliendra.
He walks quickly past the establishments catering to rankers and then turns south at the next cross street, which contains a variety of shops. Since he hasn’t seen anything in the market square that strikes him as a suitable gift for Saelora, he hopes the shops will offer more variety—except he discovers that most of them are not open yet. He smiles wryly and keeps walking, taking his time and window-shopping for an idea of what each sells. Two blocks farther south, he sees a silversmith’s shop, and the next block a goldsmith’s, with iron gratings across the windows, as well as a shop that sells all types of cloth, and possibly scarves. When he reaches the point where the shops give way to modest houses, he retraces his steps and then makes his way to the coffee shop he had visited the previous oneday.
The shop holds a handful of older men, two of whom look at Alyiakal and immediately lose interest.
The blond woman who greets him is young, certainly several years younger than Alyiakal, and offers him a wide, warm smile that includes her eyes. “Just you, Captain?”
“Just me.”
She guides him to a table beside one of the numerous small windows. “Do you know what you want?”
“Coffee and one of those flaky spirals.”
“That’s a good choice.”
He smiles pleasantly and asks, “Is there anything better?”
“For this early in the day, I’d say not. You wouldn’t be on leave, would you?”
“How did you guess?” Alyiakal’s tone of voice is wry.
“You’re a captain, and not one of the old captains. Younger captains on duty aren’t usually free to go to coffeehouses this time of day.”
“You obviously know about the Mirror Lancers. Anyone in your family serve?”
She shakes her head. “We’re all involved with the coffeehouse. Everyone who works here is family. We’re very good at listening.” She follows those words with an amused expression that’s not quite a smile. “Let me get your coffee and spiral.”
In moments, she returns with a tall narrow mug and a small plate holding the flaky pastry. “Here you are. That will be three.”
Alyiakal hands her four coppers. “A quick question before you go. I was thinking to do some shopping … a thank-you gift for the family I’m visiting. Besides the shops east and south of here, are there other good shops nearby?”
“Those are good. So are the ones two blocks west and south of the market square.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Alyiakal takes his time with the coffee and the pastry, then makes his way to the shops beginning to open near the market square. The only places that interest him are a bookstore, because he has never seen many, and the coppersmith’s shop, where he sees nothing that he feels might be appropriate for Saelora. So he returns to the street he visited earlier.
He decides to enter the cloth shop, but most of what is offered consists of bolts of various fabrics, except shimmersilk. There is a small display of shimmersilk scarves, but the colors are limited to a deep red, pink, forest green, and lavender. The older male shopkeeper watches Alyiakal with a skepticism that’s definitely not concealed, and Alyiakal leaves without speaking.
His next stop is at the silversmith’s shop. Alyiakal is immediately taken by a small silver bird perched on a silver limb, then smiles as he realizes it is a miniature of a traitor bird, and even the bird’s posture captures its mischief and calculation. He turns to the older woman behind the counter. “A display piece?”
“Good for you, Captain. Most men your age don’t see that.”
“The artistry is excellent, but you know that.”
“I’ll pass that on to Geillant.”
“Has anyone tried to buy it?”
She smiles sardonically. “The only use it would have would be as an elegant insult, and it could be traced far too easily.”
Unless someone bought it now and saved it for years.
“Would you sell it?”
“We’ll sell almost anything at the right price.”
“Hypothetically … how much?”
“Four silvers.”
Almost half a gold … but … “I’ll have to think about it.” Alyiakal immediately senses the polite skepticism behind the woman’s pleasant expression. “Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome, ser.”
Alyiakal knows he’ll be back, assuming that what he purchases for Saelora doesn’t exhaust his funds, but she comes before his whim. But is it a whim … or a calculated purpose for a time yet to come?
His next stop is the shop of the goldsmith. The iron gratings have been folded back, but as he sees when he walks inside, far more is on display than he has expected. A muscular middle-aged man stands behind the small display case.
“Good morning, Captain.”
“Good morning.” Alyiakal’s eyes go to the display case.
“You looking for jewelry with green stones? Some pieces here with malachite, green garnet, or tourmaline.”
“I was actually looking for something with blue stones.”
“Over here, ser. That ring is sapphire. Most expensive, ser. The bracelet here is lapis.”
Alyiakal nods, but the lapis doesn’t speak to him.
“And there’s this…”
“I take it that the gold of the setting is worth more than the stone?” asks Alyiakal.
“That’s the problem with blue stones, Captain. You’ve got sapphire, and anything with a good stone, even a very small stone, will be over a gold. The other blue stones, well, they can be pretty, but pretty’s not enough for those with golds to spare.”
Alyiakal listens, but a bracelet in the corner of the case catches his eye, a circlet of silvery gold with brighter blue stones, not quite as intense as the sapphires, but with a definite crystalline depth. “What about that bracelet?”
“It’s too big for most women’s wrists. It was a special piece. His consort didn’t like it. Sent it back from Fyrad. The stones are blue zargun, and the bracelet proper is electrum.”
“How much would it be?”
“Ser … blue zargun is…”
“Usually worn only by Merchanters or their consorts?”
“Ah … yes, ser. You understand that there is no prohibition, but a woman not of the Merchanters might be … uncomfortable.”
Alyiakal nods. “I understand. How much is the bracelet?”
“Almost a gold.”
“How about four silvers?”
The goldsmith shakes his head. “Not for that.”
Alyiakal feels that he won’t have to pay a gold, but he can’t tell how far the other will go down. “Five then.”
“Not less than seven.”
“How about six and five.”
“For you, ser, I’ll take that.”
“For your peace of mind, it is for someone whom no one could fault for wearing it.”
Alyiakal senses a certain relief from the goldsmith, possibly because he won’t have to rework the bracelet or because he can claim it went to a Merchanter. Or maybe both.
For a few additional coppers, Alyiakal purchases a small black wooden box to hold the bracelet, and the goldsmith throws in a soft woolen cloth to wrap around it.
Then Alyiakal walks back to the silversmith’s.
The older woman looks up in surprise as she sees him enter the shop.
“What about three silvers for the bird?”
She turns and looks toward the rear of the shop.
An amused voice calls out, “Three and two. Final.”
Alyiakal counts out the coins, then accepts the miniature traitor bird, which fits neatly in the wooden box with the bracelet, for which he’s grateful.
He smiles as he walks back toward the post with his two successful purchases, one of which he hopes will brighten Saelora’s days, and the other of which he has no idea of when or where it may be useful, only that, somehow, it will be.
Alyiakal wakes to find himself in an enclosed space, reminding him of a firewagon, except that he can sense that the contained chaos that powers the conveyance is far more compressed, and far deadlier. His limbs move, and he opens the vehicle’s odd door and steps out.
Less than fifty yards away, a handful of men, and some women, in odd greenish uniforms, are building a whitestone wall.
Alyiakal turns to see a lanky man, flushed and angry, walking toward him.
“It’s a waste of power and people! A total waste. Just because you say there’s an agreement. An agreement with a stupid forest. If you won’t call it off, I will … one way or another.”
“You won’t,” Alyiakal finds himself saying. “Without the agreement, in days, we’ll have nothing.”
“Since you won’t listen to reason—” The other man lifts a wand of some sort, and bluish chaos flares toward Alyiakal.
It never strikes. Alyiakal wields a tight, compressed white knife of chaos that cuts through the blue fire and the man who tried to kill him. In an instant, the attacker is less than ashes. The power so casually wielded staggers Alyiakal, even as he struggles to understand and capture the structure and essence of that tightly coiled chaos.
Coiled chaos?
With that single question, the Forest, the wall, and the conveyance all vanish, and Alyiakal discovers he is standing beside his bed in but his smallclothes.
That had to be the same magus who bound the Forest.
Alyiakal shudders at the recollection of the power the man wielded.
But why are you remembering his acts? Because he was linked to the Great Forest? Am I?
Before he forgets, Alyiakal concentrates on pressing chaos into a tight coil, bound in order, tighter and tighter … focusing a line of it on the stone floor.
Hssst!
Heat flares from the cubit-long slit in the stone, and Alyiakal steps back, swallowing.
But you did it!
He forces himself to do it again. And yet again, fearful that he will not remember in the morning.
When he finally lies down again, exhausted, he can only hope that he will recall what the dream—or vision—has taught him.
When he finally wakes on twoday morning, yawning and wondering if he had dreamed the part about using chaos, he immediately looks at the floor.
The clean-cut slits in the stone are still there.
Then he tries to gather and coil chaos … and does, but at the cost of a dull throbbing in his skull, and he lets the chaos dissipate—mostly, binding a bit to his inner shield to strengthen it, before realizing, belatedly, that he’d never done that before, nor known how.
He shivers and looks at the slits once more.
No one will enter his quarters until he leaves, and whatever ranker who’s later assigned to clean the quarters will be mystified.
The throbbing in his skull doesn’t go away until he’s eaten a large breakfast, another reminder that working with order and chaos has a price.
After leaving the mess, Alyiakal sees no point in exploring Geliendra further and thinks any immediate exercises with order and chaos are likely not the best idea. Instead, he decides to find maps of the area around Guarstyad.
His first thought is to ask the senior squad leader serving as Subcommander Zaentyl’s clerk, but when he reaches the headquarters building and asks, the response is disappointing.
“Maps of Guarstyad? No, ser. We have maps of all of this part of Cyador, but they only go so far as the foot of the Westhorns.”
“Do you know of anyone who might?”
“I couldn’t say, ser.”
“Thank you.”
Alyiakal smiles pleasantly and then makes his way out of the headquarters building, thinking. While the Mirror Engineers might have some maps of the harbor area around Guarstyad, such maps would be available only in Fyrad. Then he recalls the small bookshop near the market square.
It can’t hurt to ask. Besides, the bookseller might know where else to find maps. If not, you might have time to see if you can get maps in Fyrad.
Glancing up at the gathering clouds, Alyiakal realizes that he is actually sensing the flows of order and chaos, flows strong enough that there will be a thundershower before long, but not as powerful as a thundersnow. He lengthens his stride as he walks out of the southern gates and turns west.
The name of the shop turns out to be Books and Rarities, and when Alyiakal stops outside the narrow door, it is smaller than he remembered, little more than four yards across the front, although he suspects it is likely far deeper. He also notes the large glass windows across the front, placed too high for anyone to peer in or to look out and fixed so as not to be opened, and he wonders at their purpose.
He opens the heavy door, and a bell chimes. It chimes again as he steps into the shop and closes the door.
“Be right there!” calls out a raspy voice cheerfully.
Alyiakal glances around. Books line the walls on both sides of the shop, and the shelves extend from about a third of a yard above the stone floor to roughly three yards high, but the shelves extend only some four yards back from the door to an interior wall, in the middle of which is a heavy door. In the area between the shelves are a bench against the front wall and two wooden chairs on each side of a small oblong table.
Abruptly, Alyiakal recognizes the purpose of the high windows: to provide enough light so that potential purchasers can read the books—or as much as the seller will allow.
The door to the back part of the shop opens after a moment and a broad-shouldered and muscular gray-haired man a good cubit shorter than Alyiakal steps through the doorway, closing the door behind him.
“A Mirror Lancer captain. I can’t say I’ve seen many lancers looking for books. Fewer even for rarities. How might I help you, ser?”
“I hope what I’m looking for isn’t a rarity,” says Alyiakal. “I’d like maps of Cyador east of Fyrad, including Guarstyad and the coastal area of Kyphros east of Guarstyad, if you have any.”
“Maps … almost a rarity in their own way. I don’t see many of them. They’re rare, but they’re not expensive.”
“Rare, but inexpensive?” asks Alyiakal, since in his experience most things that are rare are not inexpensive.
“The best maps are almost never sold. They’re too valuable. Those that are old, maybe outdated, aren’t as useful, and almost no one wants them.”
“Do you have any of either?”
The proprietor frowns. “I used to have an old atlas of Candar. I don’t remember selling it. From what I recall, there’s not that much detail about Cyador except for the larger ports and harbors. Maybe more on the area around Lydiar. Let me see if I can find it, and anything else like it.” He looks to Alyiakal. “It might take a bit.”
“That’s fine. I have the time.”
“On leave?”
Alyiakal nods.
“You can look at the shelves and see if there’s anything else that catches your eye.”
The proprietor retreats back through the door in the middle of the wall, and Alyiakal heads for the bookshelves. The first section he approaches deals with various aspects of raising crops, livestock, managing orchards, methods of irrigation. Then he sees several books on anatomy, one of which he leafs through, but puts it aside when he realizes that he can sense more than what the book tells him. The next section contains material on ships and sailing, but nothing on fireships, although Alyiakal would have been surprised to find that knowledge anywhere except in a library held close by the Mirror Engineers.
The roll of thunder and the patter, then the splatter, of rain on the high windows cause him to look up, and, at that moment, the door to the back section of the shop opens, and the proprietor emerges with a single volume in his hand. “Didn’t take as long as I thought. I didn’t see anything else about Guarstyad, but I didn’t have to go through everything to find this.”
Alyiakal judges the volume to be roughly a half cubit high and a cubit wide, considerably larger than most books. The dark leather binding is worn and scratched, even gouged in places on the spine. As large as the atlas appears to be, he fears the maps will be too small to be of much use.
Anticipating Alyiakal’s fears, the proprietor sets the atlas on the table and opens it, then carefully unfolds what appears to be a single page into almost double its size. “Each map is close to the width of four pages.” He pauses. “Let’s see if we can find Fyrad.”
“What part of Cyador does that show?” asks Alyiakal as he steps up beside the proprietor.
“Rulyarth and the coast for about fifty kays on each side. It’s remarkably detailed for the coast, but very few inland details. On this map, anyway.”
Alyiakal senses that the bookseller is moderately intrigued, but also almost detached, as if the atlas is an interesting curio.
The bookseller turns to the back of the volume and opens another fold-out page. “Worrak, but with the old spelling. Means this was drafted more than fifty years ago. Likely out of date in other ways.” He carefully refolds the page and then goes to the front of the volume. “Ah … here we are. Closer, anyway. This map is centered on Luuval. Definitely dated there. Not much left of the town, I hear.”
“Luuval’s about a hundred kays west of Guarstyad, isn’t it?”
“A bit more, I think.” The bookseller turns to an adjoining page. “Here we are—Guarstyad. Map’s pretty much like I recall. Harbor’s detailed, even some good rendering of the lower Westhorns and the coasts on each side. Inland—except for the mountains—not so much.” He steps back to allow Alyiakal a better look.
Alyiakal steps forward and studies the map. The details are mostly as the bookseller has described, but the maps do show a road from Guarstyad winding through what has to be a mountain pass to Luuval, or what’s left of the town, and eventually to Fyrad, and another pass through the eastern part of the Westhorns to the high plains of Kyphros. “I see what you mean.” He steps back and turns to the bookseller. “Is the atlas for sale?”
“Everything’s for sale at the right price.” The bookseller smiles, but his expression and the feelings behind it are more of amusement than greed.
“The problem with that,” replies Alyiakal, “is that I don’t know what the right price might be … or if I could afford to pay what it’s worth.”
The proprietor laughs. “Some say that a book is only worth what people will pay. This atlas is worth a great deal more than anyone is likely to pay. It’s also worthless if it’s not being used. I have the feeling you have a use for it. Is that so?”
“I do. I’m being posted there.”
“Then you can have it for a silver and five.”
“I’d like to have the atlas, and I can afford that,” says Alyiakal, although he’s beginning to worry about coins, having laid out more than a gold in the past two days, and that wasn’t counting what he paid for new uniforms and boots.
“Then it’s a deal.”
Alyiakal extracts the coins and hands them over. “Thank you.”
The bookseller takes them, carefully folds the open map back into the volume, and hands the atlas to Alyiakal. “I have the feeling you’ll get more worth from it than most, Captain.”
“I hope so.” Alyiakal smiles. “I do appreciate it.” He pauses then asks, “How did you become a bookseller?”
“By accident and opportunity. How did you come to be a lancer officer?”
“Family tradition, and a feeling that I should be.”
“Do you still feel that way?”
“More than ever.” Alyiakal offers a wry smile. “Even if I can’t tell you why.”
The bookseller nods thoughtfully. “That is why I sell books. I wish you well in Guarstyad.”
“Thank you.” Alyiakal gestures toward the windows and the rain that is still coming down. “Would you mind if I sat at the table and read until the rain lets up? I’d rather not risk the chance of getting the atlas wet.”
“Be my guest. I’ll be in back. If you happen to see anything else that catches your eye, pound on the door.”
“I’ll do that.”
For the next glass or so, Alyiakal studies the atlas, looking at each map, then returning to the map of the Guarstyad area. As the bookseller has said, only the major geographic features of the interior of Candar are shown, with several exceptions, such as the area around Lydiar and the interior of Suthya.
When the rain stops, Alyiakal knocks on the inside door and says, “I’m leaving now. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Captain. Best of fortune in Guarstyad.”
As Alyiakal heads back to the post, he silently thanks the bookseller.
On twoday afternoon and after breakfast on threeday morning, Alyiakal studies the maps in the Candar atlas, comparing them to his own maps, but the atlas maps of the area south and east of Jera, including the northern borders of Cyador, have little more inland detail than the rivers and the general outlines of the Grass Hills.
Well before first glass on threeday he is riding out of Geliendra, wearing his sabre, not that he expects trouble, but he prefers to be prepared, although he knows he can also rely on order/chaos bolts to some greater extent than before. He also carries a water bottle filled with ale and a handful of trail biscuits, as well as the black wooden box, which holds only the bracelet.
When he can, after he turns off the main road onto the way to Vaeyal, he resumes working on the control and power of his order/chaos bolts, and he soon discovers that what he learned in the dream—or vision—allows him to project chaos in a straight line as far as a firelance.
He also discovers that he needs the ale and the biscuits, all of both, but his head does not ache, despite the greater power he uses, either because of the extra nourishment or his slowly improving control, or possibly both.
He also can’t help thinking about the vision. Was it something the Great Forest observed and somehow passed on to him? While he has no doubts about the Forest’s powers, it’s definitely unclear why it has chosen to help him develop his abilities.
For its own interests, most likely, but are those interests for the best of Cyador?
Yet, for his own survival, Alyiakal would be foolish to turn his back on what he has learned. Still …
He shakes his head.
As before, after Alyiakal enters Vaeyal and nears the Great Canal, he sees barges moored at the unloading areas and wagons at the docks, although he can’t discern what is being unloaded. What he can discern, even more clearly, is the feeling of contrasting senses of balance. While the order-and-chaos-reinforced sunstone blocks that comprise the walls and tow-ways of the Great Canal seem solidly balanced, as a whole the Great Canal feels out of balance with what lies beneath and around it, although those depths seem balanced as well.
Contrasting powers out of balance? That’s something to keep in mind, although he has no idea what he can or should try to do about it. His immediate thought is to leave the matter well enough alone. At the very least until you have far better understanding and control of your abilities.
Alyiakal turns the mare north on Canal Street, but because Saelora isn’t waiting when he reaches the factorage, he hitches the mare in front and walks into the empty front area.
“Saelora? Vassyl?”
In moments, Saelora appears. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I have a few unexpected details to deal with. There are problems with invoices from one of the traders. I hope you don’t mind.”
“You need to do what you need to do. Can I stable the mare in back and wait, or take a walk so I don’t distract you?”
“I’ll unbar the doors.” She offers a wry smile. “I might get finished faster if you aren’t around.”
“Then I’ll put the mare in a stall and walk up the street.”
“Thank you for understanding.”
Alyiakal leaves the factorage, unties the mare, mounts, and rides around to the back of the factorage. After taking care of the mare, and securing the doors, he walks through the warehouse area into the section with the conference table, at which Saelora is seated with stacks of paper on both sides. The box is already tucked inside his riding jacket.
“A glass or so?” he asks.
“A quint less than that.”
“I’ll see you then.”
When Alyiakal leaves the factorage, instead of walking up or down Canal Street, he crosses it and makes his way to the tow-road at the edge of the Great Canal. There he stops and watches, using his order/chaos senses, as a firetow slowly pulls a barge north, taking in the wooden crates stacked high in the well deck, as well as several score amphorae, most likely from Hamor and containing oils of various kinds. Four guards with bored expressions scan the sides of the canal.
When Alyiakal senses nothing out of the ordinary on the barge, he concentrates on the firetow. At first, he can discern only a mass of concentrated chaos, more chaos than he’s ever sensed in such a small area, but further study reveals that order confines the central mass of chaos, but an order more concentrated than any he’s ever sensed before. It feels a shade darker and somehow deeper.
He puzzles over what he has sensed well after the firetow and barge have continued northward past Vaeyal. Are firewagons the same? He suspects they are, but since he hasn’t studied one since his encounter with the Great Forest, that has to remain a surmise until he does.
After a bit more thought, he returns to Canal Street and walks north. He’s a few yards past the cross street he took to reach the rear of the factorage when, behind him, he senses a figure stepping out of a building.
Then the figure calls out, “Captain, a moment, if you would.”
Alyiakal turns to see the white-haired Rhobett approaching, accompanied by another man who has left the same building. The second man’s face looks similar to Rhobett’s, and Alyiakal surmises that he is Rhobett’s younger brother. “What can I do for you, sers?”
Rhobett grins and says to the other, “I told you he was polite.” Then he addresses Alyiakal. “Captain, I’d like you to meet my brother Traybett.”
Alyiakal inclines his head. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
“And I, you,” replies Traybett. “I understand you’re familiar with the brothers of Saelora’mer.”
“I’m more familiar with Hyrsaal. He and I went through Kynstaar together. I have met Gaaran.”
“Might I ask your opinion of the older brother?”
“I’ve only spent a few glasses with him, and with your daughter Charissa, just once, but my impression is favorable. It’s also clear to me that he is extraordinarily fond of your daughter.”
“You’ve also met his mother?” asks Traybett.
“She was kind enough to invite me to dinner. She has a strong personality, but she seems to look on your daughter favorably.” Possibly more favorably than her own daughters.
“There are always considerations when a widowed mother has daughters,” says Traybett cautiously.
“From what little I’ve seen,” replies Alyiakal, “both daughters like Charissa. Karola doesn’t live that close, and Saelora’mer has spoken most favorably of Charissa. As I’m sure that you both know, Saelora is not given to deception.”
Both men offer smiles, but Alyiakal can sense a hint of embarrassment from both.
“You understand,” says Rhobett, “that we value your observations because you’re likely to have fewer … established feelings about people.”
“I thought that might be why you asked.”
Rhobett inclines his head. “We appreciate your forthrightness, Captain, and your taking the time to talk with us. We hope the remainder of your leave is pleasant, and we wish you well in your next posting.”
“Thank you,” replies Alyiakal. “I can see why Saelora has spoken favorably of both of you.” Even if your approach was rather rude.
After the two brothers reenter the building, Alyiakal continues north on Canal Street, past the coffee shop, keeping his eyes open to see if there might be a bookshop along the way, although he hadn’t noticed one before, but then, his attention had been largely on Saelora.
He takes his time and makes his way slightly past the road to Saelora’s house and distillery and then back. While he passes a tinsmith’s, a coppersmith’s, a dry goods store, several fabric shops, a tiny cobbler’s shop, a large and busy cooperage, and a pottery shop, as well as three inns, two of which are likely partly brothels, he sees no goldsmith’s and no bookshops, not that he would have expected either in Vaeyal.
When he reenters the factorage, Vassyl stands at the front counter, talking to a young bearded man in well-worn brown garb.
Vassyl motions Alyiakal to the door to the back. “She’s expecting you.”
“Thank you.”
Alyiakal hears only “… don’t see many lancer officers here…” before he closes the door.
The conference table is empty of papers, and Saelora stands and turns from her desk. “It didn’t take as long as I feared,” she says.
“I’m glad.”
“Did you see anything interesting?”
“A barge and a firetow, several inns whose appearance confirmed your statements about them, and I had a brief conversation with Rhobett and Traybett, who hailed me.”
“About Gaaran?”
“They wanted my opinion, about him and your mother. I expressed favor and support for Gaaran, and said that your mother seemed most receptive to Charissa, as did Gaaran’s sisters. Those are my honest feelings, and I hope I’m not mistaken.”
“Your comments certainly can’t hurt, even if accosting you was uncalled for.” After a brief hesitation, Saelora adds, “You asked about maps. Gaaran came by the factorage on oneday. I asked him if he’d look into whether there were any maps of Guarstyad at the house. He looked through the study and came by this morning. There weren’t any maps that showed Guarstyad, but there were some of the area between Biehl and Jera.”
“Do you think I could borrow them and possibly use the conference table to copy them? Tomorrow or on fiveday?”
“I don’t see any problem with that … but you’re going to Guarstyad. Is there a reason why you also want maps of Biehl?”
“I’ve discovered that good maps are hard to come by. Even the ones we had at Pemedra left something to be desired. I ended up making my own personal maps. Someday, I might be posted to Biehl or near there, and the maps might not be available then.”
Saelora smiles. “Making your own maps. That doesn’t surprise me.”
“They help me remember places. I can usually remember about people I’ve met or places I’ve been, but maps let you relate places you haven’t been to places that you have, and that can be very useful.”
“You’re very practical.”
“Impractical officers don’t live long, but,” Alyiakal draws out the word, “speaking of the immediate practical, do you have anything planned for the rest of the afternoon?”
“Do you?” she counters with a mischievous smile.
“Only that I’d planned to spend it with you. I don’t know enough about Vaeyal to be very creative about what we might do.”
“You’ve already discovered the extent of Vaeyal’s attractions and diversions.”
“But I have yet to know all of yours.” Alyiakal grimaces and blushes. “I think what I just said could be taken in ways I didn’t intend.”
Saelora laughs. “That’s the first time I’ve seen you flustered. As for diversions, there aren’t any. We’re going to go to my small house and have dinner and talk. Then you’ll ride back to Geliendra. We’ll do this a few more times before you depart for Guarstyad, and then, I hope, we’ll continue to write each other.”
“And see what happens?”
“Did you have something else in mind?”
He grins. “Not yet.”
She blushes.
“I was hoping for dinner and more time with you.”
“Then we should leave and ride to the house. Dinner and conversation are what I planned.” Saelora stands.
“Then we’re in agreement.”
By the time the two ready their horses, ride to Saelora’s house, stall the mare and the gelding, and get settled in the front parlor, almost two quints have passed.
Alyiakal leans forward in his chair and says, “You’ve written me for years. Now that I’m here, you’ve arranged your schedule to see me. You’ve fed me better fare than I’ve ever had, and I’ve enjoyed being with you incredibly.” He holds up a hand to forestall any objections. “I’m not going to press you on anything, but I do want to express my thanks in more than words.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” He eases out the black wooden box and hands it to her. “This is just a token of my appreciation.”
“I can’t—”
“I’m asking nothing, except that we keep talking and writing. You’ve expended coins and effort to make me welcome. The past eightday has been the most enjoyable of my life. Compared to that, what’s in the box is a mere token. So please open it.”
Alyiakal watches and senses her feelings as she lifts the top of the box, then eases the bracelet from the cloth in which it is wrapped.
“It’s gorgeous!” Saelora’s eyes widen, before she turns to him and says, “A mere token?”
Alyiakal smiles ruefully. “How about a heartfelt token? It’s not sapphire and gold. It’s electrum and blue zargun.”
She smiles, with a warmth Alyiakal can easily see, but her words contain wry amusement. “Just electrum and blue zargun? Some Merchanter consorts never get something like this.”
“You’re not a Merchanter consort. You’re a Merchanter. Wear it as a statement of who you are.” Not as a statement of to whom you belong.
Saelora’s eyes are bright, but she says only, “I will. Thank you.” She swallows. “And thank you for giving it to me before dinner.”
Alyiakal raises his eyebrows. “Do I have to worry about dinner?”
Saelora’s laugh is half amusement, half relief. “No. Laetilla’s still cooking. You only have to worry if I’m cooking.”
“Why don’t you try it on?”
She looks down at the bracelet. “Most bracelets…”
“Try it.”
Carefully, she eases it onto her left wrist. “It’s perfect.” Her voice is a mixture of pleasure and relief.
“I’m glad. I’d thought it would fit, but I still worried.” He adds, “It goes well with your blues, but then that was the idea. I wanted you to have something that conveyed the right sense.”
“That I’m successful, but not pretentious?”
“That was my thought.”
“I like your thoughts.” She turns as Laetilla appears in the doorway from the kitchen.
“Dinner is ready.”
Saelora stands, extending her arm slightly toward Laetilla to display the bracelet, then says, with a hint of amusement in her voice, “The bracelet is a token of appreciation from Captain Alyiakal.”
“Good. He should appreciate you. It’s also beautiful, but it should be.”
Alyiakal is already on his feet and replies, “You’re right.”
“Since we’re all agreed on that,” Saelora says, “we should have dinner.”
“And pleasant and intriguing conversation,” replies Alyiakal.
“How could it not be?” Saelora gestures toward the small dining room.
Alyiakal smiles and joins her as she walks from the parlor.
The early dinner and conversation on threeday are both to Alyiakal’s satisfaction, and to Saelora’s, so far as Alyiakal can determine. Fourday he spends in Geliendra, but he leaves for Vaeyal on fiveday a good glass before noon, because Saelora has agreed that he can arrive earlier, so long as he spends the time copying the maps of the Biehl area. On the ride, as he can, he practices with order/chaos, working on narrow and short blasts, so that he can be more effective with less use of order or chaos.
Copying the various maps takes longer and is more tedious than he expected, but that turns out for the best. The various meetings that Saelora and Vassyl have last much longer than the two Merchanters have expected, and while they meet, Alyiakal ends up doing much of the copying on the front counter of the factorage. In the end, Saelora and Alyiakal eat at the coffee shop very late in the afternoon before he rides back to Geliendra.
Since Hyrsaal arrives on sixday, Alyiakal and Saelora decide it would be best if Alyiakal did not return to Vaeyal until the second afternoon glass on sevenday.
When he reaches the factorage on sevenday, Saelora does not come to the door. Alyiakal ties the mare outside and enters.
Vassyl immediately comes to the front counter. “Saelora asked me to tell you that everyone will be meeting at her mother’s house, and you’re expected to join them. Her brother—the one you served with—arrived yesterday afternoon, and he’s looking forward to seeing you.”
“Thank you for letting me know, and for all you’ve done for her.”
The factor shakes his head. “She’s done more for me than I’ll ever be able to reciprocate.”
“I know that feeling,” replies Alyiakal, adding, “at least for now.”
“She’s not ready for more right now.”
“I know. Neither am I. Even if I were, it wouldn’t be right, or fair, to her.” For more than a few reasons.
“You’d better not keep her waiting.” Vassyl smiles. “Besides, I don’t want her thinking I delayed you.”
“She’d never think that, but I appreciate the thought.” Alyiakal inclines his head, then turns and leaves the factorage.
In little more than half a quint, he is riding up to the stable, where both Saelora and Hyrsaal come out to greet him. Saelora wears her full Merchanter blues, rather than just the vest and trousers.
“I could tell it was you from a block away,” calls out Hyrsaal. “Not many ride as well as you.”
“I’m fortunate with the mounts I’m given.”
Hyrsaal laughs boisterously. “That’s what you say about everything.”
“You work every bit as hard.” Alyiakal reins up outside the stable and dismounts.
“Enough!” declares Saelora emphatically, but humorously. “You’re both fortunate and hardworking, and I’m happy that you’re both here.”
“How is Catriana?” asks Alyiakal as he follows Saelora into the stable and leads the mare to the open stall.
“According to the letter waiting here for me, she’s fine. I’m just sorry you won’t be able to meet her.”
“I might have a chance,” replies Alyiakal. “I’m leaving for Fyrad on oneday. How long I’ll be there depends on when a fireship or another ship leaves for Guarstyad.” He finishes with the mare and closes the stall door.
“I promised Mother I’d stay here through twoday. I won’t get to Fyrad until late on threeday at the earliest. We’ll have to see.”
Alyiakal doubts that he’ll see Hyrsaal or Catriana in Fyrad, but he nods.
The three start back toward the house, with Saelora between the two captains.
Alyiakal notices that Saelora is wearing the electrum and blue zargun bracelet and smiles briefly.
“Mother has afternoon refreshments set up,” Saelora says quietly to Alyiakal, “since she insisted on a late dinner to accommodate the family.”
“That’s very thoughtful,” replies Alyiakal.
“Not really,” says Hyrsaal wryly. “We had to insist.”
“You didn’t have to. Seeing you both is refreshing enough.”
“You’re kind,” retorts Saelora, “but Mother can be difficult, as we all know.”
“By the way,” says Hyrsaal, “before I left Summerdock, an overcaptain came by. Draakyr, I think.”
“I told him to look you up. He was the senior captain at Pemedra, and he was promoted to overcaptain about the time I left. Good solid officer. He taught me a lot.”
“He said you were the best junior captain he’d seen in years.”
“Don’t say he was just being complimentary,” declares Saelora before Alyiakal can respond.
Hyrsaal laughs. “She has you figured out.”
“How are things going with Gaaran and Charissa?” asks Alyiakal.
“Apparently, her father and her uncle liked what you said,” replies Saelora. “Everyone has agreed to the consorting. Mother even likes the idea of having her own cottage.”
“She didn’t put it quite that way,” says Hyrsaal. “Her words were more, ‘Saelora shouldn’t be the only woman in the family to have a cottage where she can do as she pleases.’”
Alyiakal represses a wince as he follows Saelora up onto the side porch. “Your mother does have a way with words.”
“That’s one way of putting it.” Hyrsaal opens the door to the parlor, where Marenda, Gaaran, and Charissa sit waiting.
“Karola and Faadyr won’t be here until around fourth glass,” says Saelora before Alyiakal can ask, although he didn’t have that thought in mind until Saelora spoke.
“As you can see,” announces Hyrsaal cheerfully, “Alyiakal is here.”
“Yes, dear,” says Marenda—too sweetly, Alyiakal can tell—“we can all see that.”
Gaaran immediately stands, using the straight-backed chair as an aid, and says to Alyiakal, “It’s good to see you again. I understand you went through a bit of an interrogation the other day.”
“More like a pleasant inquiry.”
“With Uncle Rhobett, I doubt it,” says Charissa dryly.
“They’re just looking out for you,” replies Alyiakal as he takes one of the straight-backed chairs. “That was my impression, anyway. That is one of the advantages of having family.” He hesitates slightly, then adds, “And sometimes, I understand, one of the disadvantages.”
“You understand?” asks Marenda before saying, “That’s right. You’re the only one left in your family.”
Alyiakal senses that Marenda isn’t surprised, even though her tone suggests it. “That can happen when your father and mother are only children and your mother dies young and your father is a lancer officer who dies on duty.”
“Oh. I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” says Charissa, with a sympathy she actually feels.
“You couldn’t have known, but that’s one of the reasons why Hyrsaal and Saelora are as close to family as I have. They were both very supportive when my father died, and I can’t say how much I appreciated it.”
“Since I’m on my feet,” says Gaaran, “can I offer you something to drink?”
“If you have any of that Alafraan?”
“We do, indeed. I’ll be right back.”
“It must have slipped my mind,” says Marenda, looking at Alyiakal, “but when are you leaving for Guarstyad?”
“Early on oneday morning, I’ll be taking a firewagon to Fyrad. From there I’ll take the next available ship to Guarstyad.”
“That’s sometimes a rough voyage,” says Gaaran, returning with a wineglass that he hands to Alyiakal before reseating himself on the settee beside Charissa.
“So I’ve been told.” Alyiakal raises the wineglass, looks directly at Marenda and then Gaaran. “I’d like to thank you both for letting me borrow those maps so that I could copy them. I appreciate it very much. As I told Saelora, sometimes, even in the Mirror Lancers, the maps aren’t the best, and, if I’m ever posted to Biehl, the copies of those maps will be most useful. In fact, whether I am posted there or not, they’ll be helpful.”
“You’re welcome,” replies Marenda. “I’m glad someone else can make use of them.”
“That’s Alyiakal for you,” says Hyrsaal cheerfully, “always thinking ahead.”
“And acting,” adds Saelora. “Thinking ahead isn’t that useful unless you do something about it.”
“So says the woman who took her brother’s suggestion and worked hard to create a profitable enterprise and to become, if I understand correctly,” says Alyiakal, “the only Lady Merchanter in Vaeyal in her own right.”
“It is a definite distinction,” agrees Marenda.
Suggesting you’d rather have her consorted unhappily to a wealthy holder than happily establishing and building her own Merchanting house. Alyiakal only smiles pleasantly and nods, then turns to Hyrsaal. “How much home leave are you taking?”
“Two eightdays. That way, I’ll have six eightdays after the coming posting, and Catriana and I won’t have to rush anything involved with consorting.” Hyrsaal grins and adds, “I know. That doesn’t sound much like me, but the Mirror Lancers have made me more patient, and by then Catriana and I will have more saved.”
“Your father felt the same way.”
Alyiakal has the feeling that Marenda isn’t necessarily approving, but it might be that she likes the idea, but not the person for whom Hyrsaal is saving. He looks to Charissa. “What about you two?”
“Father accepted Gaaran’s proposal, but we haven’t agreed on a date. It will likely have to be after yearturn with all the details.”
Alyiakal nods, recalling that Gaaran had mentioned a specific date earlier.
“The angels designed details,” says Gaaran sardonically.
“Or at least, the First would like to have us think so,” replies Hyrsaal. “Sometimes, I think Mirror Lancer headquarters could have taught the angels a bit about unnecessary details.”
“Especially in dealing with smugglers?” asks Alyiakal.
“And a few other matters, but … let’s not talk about that now.” Hyrsaal turns to Saelora. “How are you coming with the distillery and the greenberry brandy?”
“We’re doing well. We’re holding back on selling all of it so that we can age more.”
Saelora expands on what Alyiakal knows, and adds more about the various traders and houses expressing interest, and about the future possibility of other products that might come from the distillery.
When she finishes, Hyrsaal says, “You’ve done more with that than I ever could have, and done it better.”
“You could have done it as well,” says Marenda, “if you’d shown any real interest in being anything besides a Mirror Lancer officer.”
“It’s rather difficult to do something well,” offers Alyiakal, “if you don’t like it or you don’t think it’s important.”
Gaaran immediately says, “That’s why so many sons of senior officers don’t do well at Kynstaar. A handful do really well. Most fail or barely get their commissions.”
Hyrsaal looks to Alyiakal, then says, “If you’ll excuse us, I need some time with Alyiakal to get his thoughts on dealing with barbarians. We don’t have much time. We’ll be out on the porch.”
As Hyrsaal finishes, Alyiakal stands and follows his friend onto the porch, toward the front of the house, well away from the side door.
When Hyrsaal stops, Alyiakal smiles. “Do you want to start with Saelora or the barbarians?”
“Saelora. She’s the most important. She says that, right now, there’s nothing physical between you two.”
“I’ve kissed her hand. I wouldn’t say that there’s nothing physical. We simply haven’t expressed anything physical.”
“That bracelet you gave her?”
“For all she’s meant to me. It’s not a consorting gift.”
“She said the same, but I wanted to know—”
“If we both saw it that way?” asks Alyiakal. “She said she’s not sure what she wants, or if she even wants to consort anyone, let alone think about children. I’m not about to coerce her or press the issue. It will be some time, possibly years, before I can see her again, and that would be cruel and unfair to both of us. I have enjoyed being with her—incredibly—and I’m going to miss her more than I realized.”
Hyrsaal shakes his head. “She’s fortunate it’s you.”
“I’m fortunate she’s who she is.” He pauses, then asks, “Has your mother said anything about the bracelet?”
“Saelora’s worn it at least ever since I got home. Mother hasn’t said a word, not to me, anyway. I never mentioned it to Gaaran, and I doubt he’s even noticed. I saw Charissa eyeing it when she came in this afternoon, but I doubt she’ll say anything to Gaaran until later. She wants everything to go smoothly, and so does he.”
Alyiakal nods.
“What about the barbarians?” asks Hyrsaal.
“The biggest problem is that the Cerlynese and the Jeranyi manipulate them into attacking us. I suspect there’s much more behind it.” Alyiakal details his own experiences, and relates what he’s observed about tactics and weapons. Then he adds, “I don’t think the Cerlynese will be involved with the mountain raiders you’ll be facing, but since the Kyphrans are moving to attack Guarstyad, it’s possible that they might use the mountain people in the same ways against Lhaarat, equip them with better weapons, shields, that sort of thing.”
When Alyiakal finishes, Hyrsaal nods. “You’ve thought this out, as usual, and I appreciate it.”
“I’m sure you know this, but talk to the squad leaders, as many as you can, and listen at mess.”
“You always listen, and I’ve tried to follow that example.” Hyrsaal shakes his head. “Listening is harder for me.”
“It’s harder for everyone, except maybe Saelora. Your mother calls her the recluse. Has it always been that way?”
“She’s the youngest, so that might be part of it. It just might be her.” Hyrsaal gestures toward the house. “We should rejoin the others.” He laughs softly. “You’re a brave man, Alyiakal, to come here a second time.”
“How else would I get to see you?” Alyiakal won’t mention the fact that he’s not about to avoid Marenda, not when avoidance might reflect badly on Saelora.
“I appreciate that.” Hyrsaal turns toward the door.
Alyiakal follows.
As soon as the two captains return and seat themselves, Marenda asks, “Are you quite sure you’re finished?”
“Alyiakal has valuable information, which I trust,” replies Hyrsaal.
“Trustworthy and honest information is hard to come by,” adds Gaaran.
“What did we miss?” asks Hyrsaal.
“Nothing involving Mirror Lancers,” replies Marenda pleasantly.
“We were wondering when Faadyr and Karola might arrive,” says Saelora, “and whether Karola would bring any late-harvest vegetables, as she did the last time.”
Hyrsaal turns to Alyiakal. “Speaking of food and vegetables, how was the fare at Pemedra?”
“We did well with meat. Everything else was less satisfactory. They brewed the ale using wildgrass seed. Spring beans were the vegetable at most meals.”
Gaaran nods, and Hyrsaal winces.
For the next glass the conversation centers mainly on food.
Abruptly, Marenda smiles and says to Alyiakal, “I’m so glad that you came to see Hyrsaal before you have to leave for Guarstyad. I do hope we’ll see you on your next leave, but we’ll have to begin to get ready for dinner.”
Alyiakal senses the surprise from almost everyone in the parlor, but he manages a smile as he stands. “I appreciate your hospitality. As for when I might return, I won’t speculate. We all know how unpredictable the life of a lancer officer can be.”
“I’ll walk out with you.” Saelora stands. “I’m sure I won’t be missed in preparing dinner.”
Alyiakal turns to Hyrsaal, who looks uncomfortable, and who, Alyiakal senses, definitely is also upset. “We’ll see if our schedules match in Fyrad.”
“I’ll check at the post, once I get there. If not, take care.”
“I will.”
Alyiakal addresses Gaaran and Charissa. “It was good to meet you both. I wish you well, especially over the next season.” Then he walks from the parlor, accompanied by Saelora.
Neither speaks until they are off the porch.
“I didn’t expect that from Mother.” Saelora’s voice is low and hard, and Alyiakal can also sense her fury. “Not so quickly and blatantly, anyway. I did tell Hyrsaal she might try something like that. I also told him not to say anything if she did. He’s having enough trouble with Mother.”
“Over Catriana?”
“More over the fact that Catriana lives in Fyrad and that Mother can’t influence her.”
Alyiakal can certainly see that. “She doesn’t much care for me.”
“She doesn’t care much for anyone who shows me favor, or more favor than she receives. She avoids speaking to Vassyl and Buurel as much as she can.”
When they reach the stable, Alyiakal stops and asks, “When can I see you tomorrow—alone, at least for a bit?”
“If you don’t mind coming early, I’ll be at my house until noon. As I told you earlier, Mother’s planning a big family dinner.”
“That’s why I asked,” says Alyiakal gently. “What about three glasses before noon?”
“But you’ll have to get up early—”
“Getting up early isn’t exactly unknown to lancer officers,” he says warmly, but dryly.
“Then I’ll see you then.” She smiles. “I’ll also tell Hyrsaal you’ll be there, but that I’ll need time with you. He’ll understand.”
“I’m sure he will.” Alyiakal enters the stall and leads the mare outside.
“Alyiakal,” Saelora says gently. “Thank you. You handled yourself so well.”
“I didn’t want to put you or Hyrsaal in an uncomfortable position. It would have made matters worse.”
“I saw that. Most men wouldn’t.” She takes his free hand in hers and squeezes it. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“You will.” Rather than kissing her cheek, which he’d prefer, he squeezes her hand in return before letting go, and then mounting the mare. “Tomorrow morning.”
He can sense her eyes on him as he rides away and turns south on Canal Street. He can’t help thinking about families and how complicated matters can get. Mother was never like Marenda and never would have been. He shakes his head.
On eightday morning, Alyiakal rises early. After washing, shaving, and dressing, he stops by the mess, where he grabs several biscuits and fills a water bottle with ale before heading to the stable. It’s early enough that there are few carts or horses on the streets of Geliendra or on the road to Fyrad, although he sees the early firewagon heading toward the post, most likely one on the same schedule as he’ll be taking the next morning.
Even the Great Canal seems quiet as he rides into Vaeyal, but then, it is eightday.
Alyiakal doesn’t quite make it to the stable doors before Saelora steps out of the house with a broad smile.
“I thought you might be early.”
“I didn’t want to be late,” Alyiakal admits. “Not for you, especially not for you.” He dismounts.
“I’m glad you added the last few words,” she replies impishly. “You don’t like being late for anyone, including Mother.”
“That’s my lancer upbringing.”
“Hyrsaal’s already here. He walked over.”
“He doesn’t have a horse?”
“He arranged for the firewagon to stop on the other side of the canal. They’ll do that for officers. They’ll pick him up when he goes to Fyrad. It saves the Mirror Lancers silvers and it saves him time.”
“Trust your brother to find that out. I’ll have to keep it in mind.”
“The stall is open.”
Alyiakal gets the hint and leads the mare into the stable, where he puts her into the stall and then follows Saelora into and through the kitchen to the front parlor, where Hyrsaal stands next to one of the dining room chairs, clearly moved in anticipation of Alyiakal’s arrival.
“I’m sorry about yesterday, and Mother. Saelora said you understood.”
Alyiakal hears Hyrsaal’s unease and immediately answers, “I hoped you’d understand that I wasn’t being curt with you. I didn’t see any point in arguing or disrupting what your mother planned. It was clear, even before you got to Vaeyal, that she wasn’t happy about your spending so little time here. Saelora said she’d tell you—”
“She did. Both of you have been far more understanding than Mother.”
Your mother doesn’t want to be understanding. She wants you to put her above Catriana. “She hasn’t seen you in years.” Alyiakal’s words are gentle.
“That’s why I came to Vaeyal first. Arranging it took some doing because it’s extra travel.”
“I even told Mother that,” explains Saelora, “so Hyrsaal wouldn’t have to.”
“It didn’t mollify her?” asks Alyiakal.
“Not much,” says Hyrsaal. “Enough about Mother.” He gestures to the chairs. “You told me all about the barbarians and the Cerlynese behavior and tactics. What about you?” Before Alyiakal can respond, Hyrsaal looks to Saelora and says, “I won’t take all his time, not even most of it.”
“I told you a bit about Draakyr. I did my best to follow his guidance.” Alyiakal continues for a little more than a quint, mentioning his suspicion that he’d been assigned the patrol beyond the Grass Hills so that Tygael could recommend him for a posting like Guarstyad.
“That makes sense,” replies Hyrsaal. “They’re trying to establish how good you are so that the political commanders in Cyad have to pay attention to you.”
“What about you?”
“I avoided making any major mistakes, although I almost protested the majer canceling a patrol, except I realized it was because the smugglers were associated with a well-known Merchanter clan in Cyad. At least, I think they were.”
“The majer is about to be stipended?” asks Alyiakal.
“His last day was the day before I left. He received quite a number of farewell gifts, and many, I suspect, that few know about.”
“How can they get away with that?” asks Saelora.
“Because some of the Merchanters have ties to the Magi’i. Mirror Lancer port commanders who have been too … enthusiastic in pursuing certain smugglers have been known to suffer unfortunate accidents.”
“So the tacit operating plan is to watch outland ships, from Hamor, Austra, Nordla, or from other parts of Candar, rather than Cyadoran ships.”
“It wasn’t that blatant,” says Hyrsaal, “but something like that.”
“So those with power and influence could smuggle, but not outlanders or smaller Cyadoran traders?” asks Saelora.
Hyrsaal nods.
“What about the other officers?” Saelora’s voice is even.
“There’s no way to prove anything,” says Hyrsaal. “The priority is to begin with foreign shipping. We seldom dealt with Cyadoran shipping. If you aren’t patrolling where the smugglers are, you won’t find them. If you disobey orders and don’t find smugglers, you’ll be discharged at the end of your current posting. If you disobey orders and find smugglers, you’ll be flagged as insubordinate and either suffer an accident, be posted to dead-end duty, or, if you’re good in combat, you’ll spend the rest of your career on the borders and possibly make overcaptain or sub-majer, if you survive.”
Saelora winces.
“Of course,” says Hyrsaal humorously, “if Alyiakal can make it to being a senior commander or even Majer-Commander of the Mirror Lancers, he might be able to change things.”
Alyiakal shakes his head. “Dream on.”
Hyrsaal stands. “I’ve taken enough of your time.” He looks to Alyiakal. “Be careful in Guarstyad.” Then he says to Saelora, “I’ll see you later.”
Both Alyiakal and Saelora stand.
After a parting smile, Hyrsaal leaves the small house. Both Alyiakal and Saelora watch from the open doorway until he is well beyond the distillery.
Then she closes the door and turns to him. “He was furious with Mother, but he didn’t say anything. I’d be surprised if he ever comes back to Vaeyal to see her again.”
“I don’t want him mad at her because of me.”
“That’s only a part of it. She’s been quietly cutting about Catriana as well. Even Charissa was uncomfortable.”
“She’s pushing everyone away from her. Doesn’t she see that?”
Saelora shakes her head. “She thinks that we’re all turning away from her when we just want to lead our own lives. One of the reasons I wanted her to meet you is because you’re part of my life. You will be, as far as I’m concerned, no matter what happens. You saw how she reacted.”
“It doesn’t seem likely that any of you can change that.” Seeking to change the subject, he says, “The bracelet looks good with Merchanter blues. I’d hoped it would, but I never really had a chance to see for certain.”
“It does. Vassyl says that you have excellent taste. One of the things I love about it isn’t the bracelet itself. It’s that you chose something that suits me, as I am.” She pauses. “You didn’t give me a delicate bauble that I could only wear to a dinner party of the kind I’ll likely never attend.”
“It would look good there as well, but I’m selfish,” Alyiakal admits. “I wanted something you could wear anywhere.” And hopefully think of me occasionally.
“And I can. That means so much. Too many men pick gifts to show who they are. You didn’t.”
Thank the Rational Stars! “I tried.”
“You more than tried.” She gestures toward the dining room. “Laetilla picked up some pastries from the coffee shop this morning—for us and for you. As early as you had to get up, I doubt you had time to eat much. There’s also some decent ale.”
“You’re right. Pastries would be wonderful.”
The two walk to the dining room. Alyiakal smiles as he sees a platter filled with both spirals and almond-custard rolls, at least four of each.
“I’m hungry, too,” she says. “I … I wasn’t earlier.”
“You weren’t?”
“I worried. Mother … everything…”
“I said I’d be here.”
“You did, and you are. And I am hungry.” Saelora seats herself at one of the set places, with an empty plate and mug.
Alyiakal sits across from her, deciding that she looks striking. Not pretty, but striking. He half stands to pour ale into her mug and then his before reseating himself.
Saelora takes a healthy bite out of her almond-custard roll, while Alyiakal begins with a crunchy spiral. Neither speaks for a time.
Finally, he says, “You were hungry.”
“After you got here.”
“Thank you. This is so thoughtful, and I was very hungry.” He picks up a second spiral. “I still am.” After several more mouthfuls and some ale, he asks, “Where should I write you?”
“After what you’ve seen on your visit?” Her momentary smile is sardonic. Then she hands him a card across the table. “I wrote out both the factorage address and this one. I’d prefer that your letters come here, but they’ll take a day or two longer. So…”
“I write you at the factorage if it’s something urgent.”
She nods. “Tomorrow morning, Hyrsaal will help me move the rest of my things here. I’d planned to do it before long, but not so soon. After yesterday though…” She shakes her head again.
Alyiakal looks at the card, studies the address, and finally puts it in his belt wallet. He takes another swallow of ale. “Did this come from the distillery, too?”
“Light, no! It came from Faadyr and Karola. One of his tenants brews the best ale in Vaeyal. They keep me supplied.”
For the next glass or so, they simply talk, exchanging stories of their childhood.
In time, they make their way to the stable, where Alyiakal leads the mare out and ties her to the post by the stable door. Then, he leans toward Saelora and brushes her cheek with his lips—only to find her arms fiercely around him.
He reciprocates, murmuring, “I didn’t know…”
For a time, they hold each other. Then Saelora eases back, although her hands take his. “I don’t know where we’re going, or where I am, but I couldn’t let you leave with just a brotherly kiss. You mean too much for that.”
“I had to leave that to you,” he says quietly.
“She taught you well.”
“How—”
Saelora puts a finger to his lips. “I’ve seen and heard enough to know how most young men act. I also felt how you wanted me, but never insisted or pressed. Since she was the only one for you, she had to be the one.”
“You don’t mind? I’ve worried about that, and whether I should have told you.”
She smiles. “You’ve written for almost six years. When you first saw me, you looked into my eyes—not elsewhere. If I’d been attracted to someone else when I was younger, I would have told you. I don’t like secrets between people who care for each other.” She grins momentarily. “Besides, you would have known. You sense what people feel. That’s probably because you’re a mage and a healer.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Not to most people, I’d think. After years of reading and rereading your letters, I’ve watched you closely with others this past eightday.” Her voice lowers. “I have to say that worries me a little.”
Alyiakal tries to keep his voice reassuring yet cheerful as he says, “I can’t tell what you’re thinking.”
“That’s probably for the best at the moment.” Her hands tighten around his. “I wish we had more time, but you need to go now.”
“In a moment.” Alyiakal wraps his arms around her tightly, then kisses her gently, but not too long, and then just holds her.
He can feel the tears, and not all of them are hers.
In time, they separate, and he mounts the mare. “I’ll write as soon as I can after I get to Guarstyad. I don’t know how long it will take for letters to get to you.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Stick close to Hyrsaal this afternoon.”
“I won’t be anywhere else.” Her smile is wry.
As he turns the mare away from Saelora, Alyiakal knows that the ride back to Geliendra will be long, but not nearly so long as the afternoon facing Saelora.
Once Alyiakal returns to Geliendra, he spends the remainder of eightday organizing and packing his uniforms and gear, except for the time he spends at the evening mess, which is lightly attended. After the morning mess on oneday, he lugs his gear to the front gates of the post, where he waits for the firewagon to Fyrad.
As Alyiakal stands waiting, another captain approaches, a Mirror Engineer from his collar insignia, and Alyiakal says, “Good morning.”
The older captain replies, “The same to you. I’m Taeland. From your gear, you’re heading for a new post. Fyrad?”
“Alyiakal. I’m headed to Fyrad to catch a ship to my new post in Guarstyad.”
“Aren’t you the fortunate one.”
“What about you?”
“Posted at Fyrad. General maintenance. I had a temporary assignment here for the last eightday.”
“Was that the result of the visit of the Third Magus here?”
Taeland frowns.
“I happened to be here when he came, and I was introduced to him. When a senior commander and the Third Magus show up at Geliendra, and then there’s a Mirror Engineer on temporary duty … I thought there might be a connection.”
“Might I ask how…?”
“Subcommander Zaentyl had all the officers at the post introduced. I was staying here on leave so I could visit friends. For some reason, the Third Magus wanted to meet everyone.”
“That seems odd.”
“To me as well, but comparatively junior captains don’t ask why.”
Taeland chuckles. “Wise of you.”
“Your temporary duty?” prompts Alyiakal.
“Oh, nothing to do with whatever the Third Magus was here for. The sixday before last, all the wards in a one-kay stretch of the wall failed. It might have been somewhat earlier, but late on that sixday a number of tawny cougars were seen outside the walls. The local Mirror Engineers discovered the failure, but couldn’t find any physical reason for it. There weren’t any breaks in the conduits or the wall itself. The wards just burned out.”
The sixday before last? “I’m only a company officer, but that seems strange to me.”
“Subcommander Zaentyl thought so as well.”
“Are wards your specialty?” asks Alyiakal.
“Chaos-flow systems, really, but the wards rely on maintaining flows.”
“What was the problem, then?”
Taeland shakes his head ruefully. “It wasn’t with our systems. There was an order/chaos overload of some sort, most likely inside the Accursed Forest close to the walls. They’ve happened before, but it’s been years.” Abruptly, he looks past Alyiakal. “Here comes the firewagon.”
Unlike on Alyiakal’s previous firewagon journeys, he and Taeland are the only officers, and have the front section to themselves.
Once inside, with their gear stowed, Taeland says, “If you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long eightday.” He stretches out on the forward, rear-facing, seats, leaving the rear, forward-facing, seats to Alyiakal, who isn’t particularly sleepy.
The firewagon follows the whitestone road that Alyiakal had been using to get partway to Vaeyal, but then takes the left fork until it reaches and crosses the Great Canal, where it turns south along the road that is actually part of the west side of the canal and that runs south to Fyrad. The northern part of the road parallels the canal to its end north of Westend, where it turns northwest to Ilypsya, which was doubtless the way Hyrsaal had gotten to Vaeyal.
Alyiakal senses a certain amount of excess order and chaos surrounding Taeland, but the Mirror Engineer seems almost unaware of it and certainly doesn’t seem to have any shields or separation of order and chaos. Out of caution, Alyiakal waits until Taeland has dropped off into a doze before he lets his senses study the firewagon.
As he has previously surmised, the firewagon operates in the same fashion as the firetows of the Great Canal, with the order/chaos flows turning a device linked to the rear wheels. He’d expected the device to be bigger than those in the firetows, but realizes that the loads pulled by the firetows are far greater than those conveyed by the firewagons. But then, the firewagons travel much faster.
A trade-off between speed and load.
His next thoughts turn to the Great Forest. He’d certainly felt the power of the Forest when it had been directed at him, but he’d had no idea that the confrontation, if that was what it had been, had been strong enough to burn out all the wards in a kay of the wall.
But what else could it have been?
As he sits in the firewagon heading toward Fyrad, he again feels that there is too much about magery that he does not know but that he needs to work on however he can.
After turning off the whitestone road, essentially part of the Great Canal, and traveling perhaps a hundred yards west on another whitestone avenue, the firewagon comes to a stop just before noon on twoday outside the gates of the Mirror Engineer post at Fyrad. At least, Alyiakal presumes that is where he is, especially with the engineer’s words.
“Here we are. It’s good to be back. The Great Forest … it’s unsettling.”
“I’ve never been here before. Where do I go from here?” Alyiakal asks Taeland as a Mirror Lancer guard opens the firewagon door.
“I’ll show you.” The Mirror Engineer steps out of the firewagon, waits for Alyiakal to disembark, and then points to a low tower several hundred yards beyond the gates. “The port headquarters and operations center. They can tell you—”
“Ser … are you Captain Alyiakal?” asks someone.
Alyiakal turns to see a squad leader standing beside a small horse-drawn cart. “I am.”
“We’re here to take you to the Kief.”
“The Kief?”
“The Kief. The captain’s waiting on you. We’ll handle your orders when we get to the ship.”
Alyiakal turns back to the Mirror Engineer. “A pleasure meeting you, Taeland. I’m sorry I have to rush off.”
“I certainly won’t keep you. Best of fortune.”
By the time Taeland has said those few words, the squad leader has carried Alyiakal’s two duffels and placed them in the cart, resumed his place in the second row of seats, behind the teamster, and gestured to the space next to him.
Alyiakal immediately climbs up beside him. “I’m sorry to be a little slow. I just spent a day and a half in a firewagon.”
“I was told that, ser. The captain’s worried about the weather and wants to cast off as soon as possible.”
The gate guards nod to Alyiakal as the cart passes, but don’t appear terribly interested.
“What can you tell me about the fireship?” Alyiakal asks the squad leader.
“It’s one of the older fireships. That doesn’t mean much, though. They’re rebuilt every thirty years, except for the chaos-flow mechanism. That’s sealed.”
“They’re never opened?” asks Alyiakal.
“No, ser. I heard a magus and an engineer talk about that. Magus said that if they ever opened one of them, it would never work again. Said the First discovered that.”
Alyiakal finds that hard to believe, but decides not to question it, since the squad leader clearly believes what he has said. “How long will the voyage to Guarstyad take?”
“Two days, usually. Sometimes three or four, depending on the weather.”
Once inside the Mirror Lancer post, Alyiakal tries to take in everything. The stone tower containing headquarters and operations looks out on the harbor, which contains a half score or so of piers, all extending westward from the peninsula that juts out into the waters of the Great Western Ocean. A paved causeway runs from east of the tower along the west edge of the peninsula and connects the piers.
From what Alyiakal can see, there are only three or four ships moored at the piers.
“The Kief is at the end of the next-to-last pier, ser,” offers the squad leader.
“Thank you.”
As the cart nears, Alyiakal studies the white ship, somewhat less than a hundred yards in length with the main deck a little over three yards above the waterline. There are two turrets, one forward, one aft, each containing a single large firecannon, with two lighter firecannon on each side. Belatedly, Alyiakal realizes that the ship is built of iron.
Of course. Only iron could resist the chaos that powers the screws and the firecannon.
When the cart stops at the foot of the gangway leading up to the main deck, the squad leader takes one of the duffels and Alyiakal the other, and the two climb the gangway.
An older Mirror Engineer, an undercaptain by his insignia, is waiting. “Captain Alyiakal?”
“The same.” Alyiakal presents the envelope containing his orders and his seal ring.
“Thank you, ser. If you and the squad leader would wait here. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
While Alyiakal waits, he can see that, around him, the ship’s crew has become more active.
From somewhere, he hears the order, “Single up! Stand by to cast off!”
Then the undercaptain returns. “Captain, if you’d sign here, and in the same place on the second copy as well. This acknowledges that you’ve boarded the Kief. It will go to the port commander. We’ll add the endorsement to your orders shortly.”
Alyiakal quickly reads the sheet, the formal language of which boils down to what the undercaptain has said, and signs both copies.
Then the undercaptain hands one sheet to the squad leader, who takes it, then nods, and says, “Permission to leave the ship.”
“Granted, and thank you.”
“Our pleasure, ser.” The squad leader turns to Alyiakal. “Best of fortune, ser.”
“Thank you.”
The squad leader turns and heads down the gangway.
The moment he is on the pier, three sailors pull the gangway aboard and swing it into a long narrow locker.
“Cast off all lines!”
Alyiakal feels the iron deck vibrate beneath his boots as the Kief begins to move away from the whitestone pier.
“If you’d come with me, I’ll show you your quarters and give you a quick tour. I had one of the crew take your gear to your stateroom. I’m Sublieutenant Naartyn, by the way. The officer in command of every fireship is the captain. You’ll be called Lieutenant Alyiakal while on board. It’s the naval equivalent of your rank.”
While Alyiakal recalled that, once reminded, it was still a surprise.
“The Kief can carry sixty naval marines on the lower decks, or if we’re transporting Mirror Lancers, sixty lancers. Those compartments are separate from the crew spaces. Ship’s officers’ staterooms are forward on the deck below the main deck, and there are two staterooms for marine or lancer officers. You’ll have one to yourself, because you’re the only Mirror Lancer officer, and we don’t have any naval marines aboard. We’re carrying thirty Mirror Lancers. You and they are the last of the post complement at Guarstyad.” Naartyn turns and walks aft until he comes to a hatchway. “This is the easiest way below. I’ll take you to the wardroom first.”
Wardroom? Then Alyiakal recalls that is the naval equivalent of the officers’ mess.
A quint later, Alyiakal has at least a basic understanding of the fireship’s layout, and he returns to the main deck.
The ship has begun to pitch slightly as it makes its way through the low waves, and Alyiakal looks aft. The Kief is well clear of the harbor, heading south-southeast, perhaps three kays offshore, so that the port tower looks almost minuscule, and the cold wind off gray-green waters chills his hands and exposed face, despite the cloudless but hazy green-blue sky.
He walks toward the stern, trying to see if he can sense any order/chaos flows, but he has to strain even to locate them. For a moment, he wonders why, then abruptly shakes his head, thinking about all the layers of iron between him and the order/chaos device that powers the ship, not to mention that the power chambers are well below the waterline and that the water would absorb any free chaos escaping the ship, although the chances of that are slim, given all the iron in the ship.
He stops and looks at the aft turret, an iron box, three yards on a side. He faintly senses the chaos contained in the turret, but that chaos, he knows, has to be replenished by the power source below after each blast from the firecannon.
After a time, he makes his way to his stateroom, a chamber anything but stately, that is two and a half yards long, and two yards wide, with two bunks, one over the other on one side, and two small fold-down desks, one on each side of the short wall. There is only one chair, but that may be because he is the only officer using the stateroom.
He extracts the atlas of Candar from his gear, folds down one of the desktops, sets the atlas on it, and opens the atlas to the page featuring the area around Guarstyad. He can’t seem to concentrate, however, and he puts the atlas away and stretches out on the narrow bed, with his feet almost touching one bulkhead and his head close to the other.
He wakes to a rap on the door.
“Evening mess,” says a voice.
Alyiakal struggles up and makes his way to the wardroom, an oblong space three yards wide and roughly five long, with a narrow table in the middle covered by a green cloth and seven chairs to each side and one at the head.
“Permission to join?” Alyiakal asks the senior officer at the head of the table, with the collar insignia equivalent to a majer, suggesting he is the executive officer, because Naartyn had mentioned that all fireship captains were the equivalent of Mirror Lancer subcommanders. Although Alyiakal has already talked to the wardroom section leader, he’d been instructed to make that request the first time he entered for a meal.
“Granted, Lieutenant.”
Alyiakal takes a place in the middle of the table that will be his until he leaves the Kief.
The executive officer says, “For those of you who don’t know, Lieutenant Alyiakal is headed to Guarstyad to take command of one of the Mirror Lancer companies there. He spent three years fighting barbarians on the northern borders at his previous post. Welcome, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, ser.”
Two other officers slip into the wardroom and seat themselves, and the executive officer lifts his wineglass. Then a single steward serves each officer a plate containing lamb chops, boiled sliced potatoes, and carrots, all glazed with a kind of wine reduction.
“Have you ever been on a fireship before?” asks the lieutenant to Alyiakal’s right.
“I’ve never been on any ship before.”
“You might like it, unless you’re the type to get seasick.”
“I’ll have to see.”
“What was your last post?” asks an officer across the table.
“Pemedra. It’s north of Syadtar. It’s the post closest to Cerlyn.”
For the remainder of the meal, finished with a dessert of oversweet pearapple tarts that remind Alyiakal of Saelora, the conversation is largely about posts and ports.
Alyiakal is more than glad to retreat to his stateroom, hoping he can get a good night’s sleep.