Magi'i of Cyador

XV

LORN STANDS BESIDE the immaculate white oak desk-table in his own chambers, glancing out through the glass window at the cold mist that has replaced the earlier rain. He will be leaving in the morning for Kynstaar, and his promise to Myryan remains unfulfilled. He purses his lips as he looks toward the rain he does not see.

The problem with Ciesrt is not the student magus himself, who is about to become a fourth level adept, but his sire, Kharl’elth, the Second Magus and Senior Lector. Consorting Myryan to Ciesrt is advantageous to both families. The talent for handling chaos runs strongly in Kien’elth’s children, evenin Vernt, if slightly less powerfully, and any children that Myryan might bear will have a far better chance of holding the talent than those of anyone else that Ciesrt might take as consort. The alliance will also benefit Vernt, and both parents-even Lorn. The one person it will not benefit is the sensitive Myryan.

Lorn frowns. With the little time he has remaining, so far as he can determine, he has limited choices. To remove Ciesrt’s father or to persuade his own father to act otherwise. Can he justify murdering a man because his sister Myryan is unhappy with her proposed consort? Yet Lorn has promised to do something.

He has to do something.

For a few moments more, he watches the misting rain. Then he turns quickly and walks out of his chamber, leaving the door open. He makes his way up the stone steps to the uppermost level of the house, pausing briefly in the open air of the covered portico to look through the late twilight toward the harbor, mostly obscured in mist and rain, with the evening beacons not yet lit for late-arriving ships.

Finally he approaches the study door, closed-and knocks. The brief chill that is in the mind and that betokens screeing crosses him.

“You can come in, Lorn.”

Lorn steps into the warmth of the study and closes the white oak door behind him. His father looks up from behind the wide desk, but does not stand. The two look at each other for a time.

Lorn waits, the bare hint of a smile on his lips, an expression that is one of his most somber.

“It’s too late for last chances, you know,” Kien’elth says mildly. “I warned you for almost two years about your lack of enthusiasm.”

“I know. You did what you could. That wasn’t why I wanted to talk to you. It’s nothing about me.”

Kien’elth raises his fine white eyebrows, then fingers his chin. “Lorn, pardon me if I appear somewhat … skeptical … but many of your exploits have not exactly borne thestamp of altruism. I felt your mercantile ventures were, shall we say, useful for your education and understanding of how Cyad operates, and you did maintain yourself with a certain dignity and were not involved in anything too sordid.” The older man clears his throat. “What did you have in mind?”

“I’m worried about Myryan, ser.” Lorn wasn’t sure how else he could put it. “She’s more sensitive than most people realize. That’s why she’s a good healer, of course.”

“You don’t think she should be a healer?”

“She should be a healer. I’m not sure she should be a consort,” Lorn says slowly, deciding against elaborating immediately.

“Lorn …” Kien’elth draws out his son’s name, as he always has when he disagrees with Lom-or anyone else.

Lorn steels himself to wait, knowing that his father always draws things out to make an adversary more uncomfortable and to force revelation or haste.

Kien’elth looks directly at his son, as if to press for more explanation. Lorn resists the impulse and continues to wait.

A wry smile crosses Kien’elth’s face, and he finally speaks. “Your mother was a most sensitive healer, but she has managed to be both consort and healer.”

“Yes, ser.” Lorn nods. “But much of her ability to be both has rested upon you, ser.”

Kien’elth laughs. “You’d use my own vanity against me, Lorn. Or anything else, I suppose.”

“Vanity or not, ser, it’s true.”

“I can tell you believe that-mostly.” Kien’elth leans back slightly in his chair and steeples his fingers, not looking quite directly at his son.

Lorn waits, noting absently that the pattering of the rain on the roof has returned. Or perhaps the pattering is sleet, since the sound is harder than that of rain droplets. He cannot tell, because both windows are shuttered.

“Tell me, Lorn … are you opposed to Myryan’s becoming a consort of Ciesrt-or of anyone?”

Lorn offers a frown. “I think that Myryan is not ready to be consorted to anyone. I also think that being consorted tosomeone like Ciesrt would harm her. I don’t think she could continue her best as a healer, and …” He shrugs in trying to convey without saying exactly those words that being a consort might have extremely detrimental consequences for his younger sister.

“No one is ready for being consorted. I wasn’t; your mother wasn’t; you won’t be; and Myryan’s no exception.” Kien’elth’s words carry a sense of finality, as if the argument is over.

“Myryan’s different.” Lorn’s tone is stronger than he intended.

“You believe that. You really do.” Kien’elth shakes his head, and his sun-gold eyes somehow darken. “All you young people think that you’re different, that we were never young, not the way you are, that we never felt what you feel, that we can’t possibly understand what you’re going through.” Kien’elth snorts. “I’d wager that every generation has felt that way about its parents.”

“I’m not suggesting that, ser. Not at all. I’m suggesting that, out of the four of us, Myryan is different. Jerial will handle anything that comes to her, and so will Vernt. I hope that I can. At the very least, Myryan needs more time to learn who she is. And she needs a consort who is as considerate as you have been to mother.” Lorn fears he has said too much, but what he has already said has made little impression.

The pattering on the roof rises to a violent drumming, then abruptly dies away, and a gust of cold air sweeps into the room through the closed shutters, indicating that perhaps one of the windows is not completely tight.

“You would judge such?”

“No, ser. I would offer my thoughts and my understandings to you. I offer them in part because I will not be here after tomorrow, and I do fear for and care for my sister. Were I not leaving, I would not speak.”

“Such caring does you credit, Lorn, but do you not think that I also care for the well-being of my daughter? Do you not think that I see her sensitivity? That I wish to see herprotected in times that are likely to be turbulent and changing? That I can only offer her that protection through a consort who is strong and well-placed?”

Lorn almost responds, then checks his tongue, and nods. “I have never questioned your concerns for us. Or your efforts to help us as you can. Any decision about consorting Myryan will be yours, and I know you love her dearly. So do I. I would only see the best for her, ser, and I have offered my concerns to you, knowing you will do as you must.”

Kien’elth shakes his head slowly. “Still … you surprise me, Lorn. There are times when I wonder if you were ever a child.”

Again, Lorn waits for his father to continue.

“You remind me more of Toziel’elth’alt’mer than anyone in our family, with layers upon layers hidden behind your eyes.” Kien’elth straightens. “I hope so, because you will need all that devious honesty, and more, in the years ahead. Now … I will think upon what you have said. That is all I will promise.”

Lorn bows his head. “Thank you, ser.”

“If that is all …?” Kien’elth rises.

“That’s all, ser. Thank you for hearing me.”

“I’d be a poor father if I didn’t listen, Lorn.” Kien’elth clears his throat again before he adds. “I’ll think about your words, but we don’t always have the choices others think we do. Try to remember that.”

“Yes, ser.” Lorn bows again before he leaves the study.

Outside, he looks out through the darkness, seeing the fragments of white on the neighboring roofs, white tatters that are all that remain of the brief hail that has pelted Cyad. Night has replaced twilight, and the harbor is marked only by the pier beacons, while the Palace of Light beams through the mist that enshrouds Cyad.

Lorn walks down the steps and then enters his own room.

Myryan sits at the straight chair turned away from his desk.

“Myryan …”

“You were talking to father about me, weren’t you?” She stands quickly to face him. “Weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

A faint smile crosses her face, and she half-consciously pushes back strands of curly black hair. “You upset him. I could feel it. He upset you, didn’t he?”

“Some. I don’t think he understands, and … that bothers me.”

Abruptly, she lurches forward and hugs him-tightly. “Thank you … don’t know if … but … thank you.”

As he holds Myryan, Lorn’s eyes burn, for he fears that his effort may have been too little.