He keeps walking toward the mess hall, but stops in the deeper shadows by the end of the barracks nearest the kitchen, where he raises a concealment. Then he crosses to the rear kitchen door, which he opens when he is certain no one is near or watching. After entering, he closes it and makes his way to the ovens, banked, but still hot. He chooses the center oven, selects several chunks of wood, opens the door, and feeds them to the coals, waiting until the wood catches fire. Then he sets to work.
He begins by forming order into a fine five-line pattern, similar to that created by the lodestone, then doubles that, and uses it to form a line of flame straight up the middle of the chimney. Although he still has difficulty in controlling chaos, except that it is not so much difficulty as that the handling of much chaos becomes extremely painful, especially in his eyes and head, he can do so, but he has discovered that using order to channel chaos is pain-free and comparatively easy when he is dealing with smaller amounts of chaos.
While his ability to gather free order has increased greatly, doing too much is still painful, as his experience on oneday had proven. Yet by twoday evening, the pain had vanished, and by threeday, he had been able to create a ten-line pattern, without pain or strain. It is clear that the more he stretches his abilities, the more he can do the next time-provided he doesn’t do too much, as oneday’s effort had demonstrated all too obviously.
After warming up with the five- and ten-line patterns, he tries, if carefully, a fifteen-line pattern. He can only hold that for a moment, and he is quick to release it, before he loses control and gets hit with the backlash. Even so, he has proved, if only to himself, that he can increase his ability to channel chaos-at least, fire-chaos. Whether he can use that ability against mage-thrown chaos is another question. Yet he has seen and felt enough varieties of chaos to know that what he is doing should work. If you can work out the differences.
After another brief creation of a fifteen-line pattern, he steps back and takes a deep breath. He can tell he has done enough for the night. Just like bladework … practice and more practice … And just like bladework, he is sore when he finishes, except the soreness is a pounding headache and a slight sense of dizziness, but not the intense dizziness that had struck him on oneday.
This time, as he has been after his near-disaster, he is careful to bank the coals and close the oven door. He also raises a concealment before he leaves the mess hall kitchen, one that he does not release until he is in deep shadows of the nearby barracks and he can sense no one nearby. Then he slowly walks back to the north end of the barracks that holds his quarters and Altyrn’s.
The majer steps out of his quarters, as if he had been listening for Lerial. “Working late, again?”
“As if you don’t,” replies Lerial with a smile that he has to make an effort to present. “You’re planning for the future. I’m trying to catch up in learning what I need to know to be an effective undercaptain.”
“A bit more than that, I think.”
“Some, but there’s still so much to learn.”
“The sabre instruction has been good for you.”
“Most of it is just basics.”
“That’s true, but you’re more comfortable with a wand or a blade. I’ve watched. So have Juist and Kusyl. None of us would want to face you now. You’re also more confident in dealing with rankers.”
“Those are just part of what an undercaptain does.”
“You’re right. That’s why I want you to work with Juist on maneuvers in the afternoon, starting on oneday.” Altyrn holds up his hand. “I know they’ve only had an eightday using actual sabres in their exercises, and they’re not sparring with them, but they need the maneuvers more now. We’ll have to rework the training schedule on eightday, but some of the rankers who are good with a blade can take over in running the recruits through drills. I’ve picked out three who will do it well enough.”
“Yes, ser.”
“I’m glad to see you’re getting more sleep. You looked like sowshit on twoday, and not much better on threeday.”
“There’s just a lot to do,” Lerial temporizes.
“There is, but you’ll do it badly if you’re exhausted. That can get you-and your men-killed if you make a practice of it.”
“I’m learning that, ser.”
“I think you are.” Altyrn smiles. “Good night.”
Lerial returns the smile. “Good night.” Then he enters his own quarters. He is so tired that he has no doubts he will sleep. Well, he hopes.
LI
For the first few days he is working with Juist, Lerial remains in the background, listening and observing, even though he will never carry a lance, unlike the officers of the Cyadoran Mirror Lancers.
But those were true firelances, not just well-wrought spear-lances. He pushes away that thought and concentrates on Juist-and his commands-as the recruit squad charges forward toward a line of figures woven out of vines and branches and arranged as an opposing squad might be.
Lerial watches and listens as Juist talks with Dueven, the Lancer ranker acting as squad leader.
“They have to hold the line and keep an even interval. Your second rank is sagging in the middle. After a hundred yards, you’ll have a hole there. The moment they lag, you’ll have to order them to dress it up. They have to hold line and interval until it’s habit they don’t even have to think about. You should remember that.”
“Yes, ser.” Dueven, likely only five years older than Lerial, nods.
“You’re getting experience, Dueven. Be grateful. Do it again.”
Lerial can sense the exasperation behind Juist’s voice, and he almost smiles, not out of malice, but because the squad leader’s emotions mirror so much what he has been feeling in conducting blade training.
Once the practice charge through the vine figures is complete, Lerial comments, “They looked better this time.”
“They’re better,” Juist admits. “They’re actually holding the lances right, leaning forward, and using their stirrups.” He shakes his head. “Never thought I’d see a vine dummy unhorse someone.”
Lerial knows better than to ask whether that happened. He’s already seen two recruits knock themselves out with their own wands.
Three glasses later, when Lerial nears the stable on his return from maneuvers training, he reins up well short of the open door as a Verdyn Lancer recruit in his undress brown uniform hurries toward him.
“Ser! The majer would like to see you at your earliest convenience.”
Lerial can barely resist smiling at the use of “at your earliest convenience,” a phrase that he suspects dates from the oldest military organizations, even though he had never heard it until he started training with the Mirror Lancers. “Thank you. Carry on.”
He dismounts and turns the gelding over to one of the ostlers for unsaddling and grooming, rather than doing it himself, because, if Altyrn wants to speak with him that quickly, it’s likely to be important. He walks briskly through the chill air, across the central open space to the south end of the eastern barracks. He stops before the half-open door to Altyrn’s study, a square room with a table-desk and chairs and little else. He raps on the door frame.
Altyrn motions him to enter.
Lerial does, closing the door and taking the chair across from the desk. He sees the majer’s bow in the corner, unstrung, but not cased, as if he had just returned from working with the archers.
“We’ve finally gotten a dispatch from Majer Phortyn.” Altyrn’s voice is level. “It came back with the Mirror Lancers and the Verdyn who conveyed the golds to Cigoerne.”