Magi'i of Cyador (26 page)

"I'm only half what's expected, then." Lorn shrugs. "I'm not terribly heroic."

"I imagine you are very effective."

"The majer said something along those lines," Lorn admits.

"Good." Jerial pauses. "I presume you will offer some observations on the barbarians and the Grass Hills at dinner."

"Yes. And how the lancers serve Cyador and the Magi'i."

"That cream might be too heavy."

Lorn keeps the smile from his lips, but not his eyes, though he could have done that as well.

Jerial laughs softly. "I forget how well you deliver the outrageous."

"It's not outrageous. The Mirror Lancers and the firelances provided by the Magi'i are all that keep the barbarians of the north from turning Cyador into a wasteland." Looking perfectly earnest, Lorn squares his shoulders.

"Well... Vernt might believe you. If you began with the firelances."

Lorn's eyes catch Jerial's.

"He wants to be like Father, Lorn." Her healer's voice carries a trace of sadness. "He does not know Father."

"I'll be very careful... and very cheerful."

"That would be best. Mother is still most observant." Lorn nods. "What about Myryan?"

"She is handling Ciesrt as well as possible. Your words to father gave her some more time."

"You're afraid it wasn't enough?" Lorn studies Jerial without seeming to do so, almost leaning back in the armless chair. "She doesn't talk to me. Not really."

"I'll see her tomorrow," he promises.

"That would be good. Mother insisted, quietly, that you not face Ciesrt as soon as you arrived."

"She is not happy with the consorting."

"Neither she nor father saw any other choices. Myryan could not follow my path." Jerial's smile is tight. "I feared that."

"You did what you could."

"I need some time to unpack." Lorn stands and stretches. "And to wash up before dinner. It was a long ride from Syadtar."

"And think?"

"That, too." He turns toward the door. "Lorn?"

"Yes."

"When you need them... there are blues for a senior enumerator in your wardrobe, under the winter waterproof. I thought your friend needed, shall we say, advancement."

"Thank you." Lorn nods to Jerial, then steps out into the open corridor, walking slowly back to a chamber that is his, and is not.

There he opens the first green bag and begins to place his uniforms in the wardrobe, alongside the enumerator blues. A faint smile curls his lips.

After the clothes are unpacked, and he has slipped the silver volume into hiding with the smallclothes, he takes out the Brystan sabre he has carried across Cyador, resharpened and worked into shape, sensing the faint order-death sense of the worked and polished iron beneath the scabbard. He has taken one liberty with the blade, a significant one, for now the tip of the blade is edged on both sides, if only for a span on the heavy-backed side. His senses tell him that much of a true point will not weaken it, and for what he has in mind, he may need to thrust with it.

He can hold the iron without burning his hands, but there is no reason to, not when Vernt or his father might sense it. He smiles. He is, after all, entitled to a souvenir of his efforts against the barbarians, although he has kept its presence hidden from all the lancers at Isahl, and will from his family. Even should his father scree the iron, Kien'elth will say nothing directly.

Once he has folded the green bags and put them in the back of the wardrobe, he pulls off his boots, and then the uniform he has worn for too many days. There is a robe on one of the wardrobe pegs, which he slips on, before heading out the door toward the bathing chamber.

Once he is washed thoroughly and shaved, he returns to his room and lies across the bed. What can he do about Myryan... and Ryalth?

He does not ponder either long, for sleep claims him.

A gentle rapping on the door frame brings him awake, and he bolts upright.

"Dinner is almost ready," Jerial says from the other side of the closed oak door. "I thought you'd like to know."

Lorn has to clear his throat before he can reply. "Thank you. I dozed off."

"I thought you might."

There is silence, and Lorn can sense that she has slipped away to let him ready himself.

After hurriedly dressing, Lorn leaves his chambers and walks down the steps to the smaller, and warmer, inner dining area on the second level, his boots silent on the marble of the steps.

Even so, one of the servants nods to him as he nears. He does not recognize the brunette with the round face and the braided brown hair. "I'm sorry. I'm Lorn. I don't believe we've met."

"Sylirya, ser. I came here a season after you left." Sylirya keeps her eyes properly downcast.

"How have you found it?"

"Your family is most kind, ser. A better home I could not have found." She moistens her lips. "I must help cook, ser...."

Lorn smiles cheerfully. "Do what you must."

He waits until she turns, then waits again as he hears his father's heavy steps on the stairs.

The magus whose hair has turned from shimmering silver to a flatter white over almost four years nods to his son. "You're still the first to the table." He looks around, then at Lorn. "Is Jerial here? You were talking to someone."

"The new servant-Sylirya."

"She's scarcely new, Lorn. It's been nearly three years for her, and for Kysia, and more than a year for Quyal-she's the new cook."

"What happened to Elthya?"

"Her mother fell ill, and when she went back to her town-I've forgotten the name-a widower she'd known when they were children asked her to be his consort." Kien spread his hands. "So we had to get a new cook. Quyal's as good as Elthya, but her cooking's different, more... western, I'd say. More spice."

The two men walk through the foyer and along the corridor to the dining area, where they stand by the door, waiting for the others.

"Too spicy?" asks Lorn.

"I did ask for a little less seasoning," his father admits.

They turn as Jerial approaches.

"Lorn was here, first, I'd wager," Jerial observes.

"Before me," their father confirms.

"Vernt should be here before long," Jerial says. "I heard him come in, but he'll wait for mother."

As she speaks, Lorn hears steps, and Vernt and his mother appear. Like his father, Vernt wears the white shimmercloth of an adept of the Magi'i, but without the lightning emblem. He has also added a short-trimmed beard, sandy-colored like his hair.

"The lancer has returned," the younger mage says. "Welcome back."

"Thank you." Lorn inclines his head. "It's good to see everyone."

"Can we eat?" Kien rolls his eyes.

"Of course, dear," responds Nyryah. "Why don't you just go in and sit down?"

Lorn follows his father. While Kien sits at the end of the table with his back to the window, Lorn takes the place to his father's right. Jerial sits beside Lorn, and Nyryah seats herself at the end opposite her consort. Vernt takes the place across from Jerial and Lorn.

Sylirya eases a large crock before Kien, setting a ladle beside it. Another woman brings in two trays of bread-sun-nut and a dark rye. "Thank you, Quyal." Nyryah nods at the second server. "What-" begins Kien.

"Dinner is a beef stew. Quyal didn't know Lorn was coming," interjects Nyryah quickly.

"None of us knew when he was coming," adds Jerial. Lorn shrugs.

"Just serve yourself, dear," suggests Lorn's mother to Kien.

"I will. I will." The older magus shakes his head.

Vernt offers the tray of nut bread to his mother, then takes two slices and sets them on his plate, before passing the tray across to Jerial.

"You look good." Vernt smiles happily at Lorn, then at the tray Jerial holds. "I still remember how you sneaked extras on the sun-nut bread. You'd pass it up to begin with, and then take three slices later."

Lorn grins easily. "Why not? You always tried to grab two right at first, and you always got caught. Now you can do it, and no one says anything."

"After all these years," Kien grumbles good-naturedly, "you two are still at it."

Jerial laughs. "They're brothers. Did you expect that to change?"

"I'm getting older. I could hope." Kien slides the crock toward Lorn, who serves Jerial and them himself, before passing it.

Vernt serves Nyryah and then himself, while Lorn pours a maroon wine for everyone.

"Careful with that Fhynyco," Kien tells Lorn. "It's better than Byrdyn."

"As good as Alafraan?"

"Alafraan? Now he's heard of wines we don't know." Kien shakes his head. "Boy goes off, and now he's a lancer who knows wines."

Both Jerial and Lorn laugh.

"I wouldn't," Lorn says, "except that one of the officers came from a vintner's family in Escadr."

"At least he admits it," adds Nyryah. "Now... start eating before it all gets cold."

Lorn needs little urging, and stew or not, the first mouthful tells him it is the best meal he has eaten since he left three years earlier.

"What is Isahl really like?" Jerial asks after Lorn has eaten several mouthfuls and half of the slice of nut bread he had slipped onto his plate.

Lorn swallows. "It's hotter in the summer, colder in the winter, and windier all the time. Outside of the outpost, there are no more than a score of families in the valley, and fewer than that in the adjoining valleys. The only trees are scrub cedars, and bushes..." Lorn's description is as accurate as he can make it. "...and everything has walls. Even the herders have sod walls around their holds."

"I wouldn't want to be there." Vernt offers a twisted smile. "It's too bad he can't tell that to some of the student mages."

"They wouldn't believe me." Lorn shrugs. "I wouldn't have believed me."

A slight chill passes over the room, and Lorn and his father exchange glances. Lorn takes another bite of stew, noting the minute nods between his mother and Jerial. Someone is using a chaos glass. To see if Lorn is indeed with family? Or to check up on Vernt or his father?

"What will you do while you're here?" asks Nyryah quickly.

"See you, visit friends, enjoy good food, and rest. All the things you can't do out in the Hills of Endless Grass."

"And then... ?" Vernt inquires.

"I'm off to my next post. In Geliendra. I've been told I'll have a company." Lorn shrugs. "In the Mirror Lancers, you find out when you get there." He takes a small swallow of the Fhynyco, stronger and smoother than Byrdyn, then helps himself to more of the stew.

"And after that?" Vernt persists. "Or do you know?"

"I could but guess." Lorn takes another bite of the stew before continuing. "If I make overcaptain, or sub-majer, I could be the second-in-command somewhere, or head a port installation... or..." He lets the words trail off.

"Seasons enough to worry about that," says Kien. "Best we enjoy the season at hand." He smiles at Lorn, and then at Nyryah.

"And you," she replies to the look of her consort, "are like your sorts, wanting to know what sweets follow?"

"There is little wrong with that," counters the older magus.

Nyryah inclines her head to Sylirya, who slips away from the table, to return with a shallow bowl that she sets before Kien. Then the serving girl slips smaller porcelain bowls, fringed in gold, before each family member before retreating to the archway where she waits.

"You will have to do with dried pearapples and sweet brown sauce," Nyryah tells Lorn.

"I can manage that." Lorn chuckles. "I never saw pearapples in Isahl, or Syadtar, either."

"What is Syadtar like?" Jerial asks. "Is it dirty with narrow streets, like a barbarian town?"

Lorn shakes his head. "It's like any other town I've seen in Cyador. Granite and sunstone buildings, clean tile roofs, wide paved streets, houses like the smaller ones here in Cyad." He shrugs. "Except for the size of the buildings and how few there are compared to Cyad, the towns I've seen all are pretty much alike. That's until you get to the grasslands and the herders' holdings out in the Grass Hills."

"I don't think I'd like that," ventures Jerial.

Lorn senses he is being watched, but as he watches, never looking overtly, he can see no one. Nor is the feeling like that of being watched in a glass, as he has felt with his father, and, occasionally, at other times- as had happened earlier at dinner. Being watched, in his parents' home? Being watched by other Magi'i, in a glass, that he can understand. But who else would care?

He reaches for the pearapples, a smile still upon his lips.

XLV

A raw winter wind whips off the Great Western Ocean and across the city of Cyad, bringing a chill that belies the bright mid-morning sun set in the cloudless green-blue sky. Wearing but his winter white uniform, trimmed in green, and white leather gloves, and without the sabre, Lorn walks quickly eastward on the walkway of the Road of Perpetual Light, stepping past the First Score Way. The carry-bag in his left hand is gray- something that could be carried by a lancer, a tradesman, or a merchanter. In it is the set of blue shimmercloth enumerator garments.

The dwelling where Jerial has directed Lorn is still farther to the east, almost out of the city. Lorn hurries, because he wishes to arrive at midmorning-when Ciesrt will be at his tasks in the Quarter of the Magi'i.

When he reaches the Twenty-Third Way, Lorn pauses, readjusting the white dress officer's cap, as he mentally reviews the description provided by Jerial and compares it to the dwellings to his right. The two-story dwelling is of green glazed brick, with a blue tile roof, set in a slight hollow between two larger dwellings, blocked partly from the cooling ocean breezes. The privacy screen is of blue and green tiles, with a time-faded inset golden lily in its center.

He steps up to the ledge on the left side of the privacy screen and pulls on the green silken cord to ring the bell.

After a long moment, he hears steps, and the viewing shutter is unslit. "Lorn!" Myryan rushes out the door and around the screen. She hugs her brother tightly and buries her head against his chest. "You're here! You came!"

He has to drop the carry-bag to return the embrace.