Magi'i of Cyador

IV

IN THE BLESSING and warmth of chaos, in the prosperity which it engenders, and for the preservation of all the best of our heritage, whether of elthage, altage, or merage, let us give thanks for what we receive.” The silver-haired man at the north end of the table lifts his head and smiles.

The family is seated around the dining table on the covered upper balcony, from where they can look downhill and south directly at the harbor-and to the west and slightly uphill at the Palace of Eternal Light. Although the sun has set, the sky remains the purple that precedes night, and the white stone piers of the harbor glitter above the darkness of the Great Western Ocean. The Palace gleams a shimmering white-both from the white sunstone from which it was constructed all too many years before and from the innumerable lamps which bathe its endless corridors and vaulting halls in continuous light.

The dining table around which the family sits is lit but dimly by two lamps set in gleaming cupridium brackets, each affixed to a pillar, the two closest to each end of the table. None of those seated appear to be affected by the dimness. The mahogany-haired Nyryah, who sits at the end of the table opposite the silver-haired Kien’elth, lifts a silver tray that holds both dark bread and sun-nut bread and tenders itto the sandy-haired young man on her left. “Go ahead, Vernt.”

“Ah … thank you.”

“And don’t take all the sun-nut bread,” suggests Myryan from where she sits across from the still-lanky Vernt. “We like it, too.”

“There’s plenty there, children,” suggests Nyryah, “and there’s another loaf in the kitchen.”

Vernt grins and takes one slice of each bread, then passes the tray to Lorn, who takes only a single slice of dark bread before passing the tray to his father. Kien’elth, like his younger son, takes one slice of each, and hands the tray to Jerial, dark-haired, and the eldest child. She, like Lorn, takes but a slice of dark bread, and smiles across at Lorn as she hands the tray to Myryan, also black-haired, and the youngest of the four siblings. Myryan takes a single slice of sun-nut bread and returns the tray to her mother.

The fowl casserole that had been set before Kien’elth makes a circuit of the table, but all helpings are so similar in size that they would have to have been weighed for an outsider to determine which is the largest-or the smallest. After the casserole comes the dish of buttered and nutted beans.

When Myryan sets down the serving spoon for the beans, all six begin to eat, silently for a moment, until each has had at least one mouthful of something.

“You were a little late, dear,” suggests Nyryah.

“We had to chaos-charge a second complement of firewagons,” replies Kien’elth. “The two new companies of Mirror Lancers are being sent along the Great Eastern Highway tomorrow. The barbarians of the northeast have tried to attack the cuprite mines. While they were thrown back across the Hills of Endless Grass, the Emperor has determined that the lancers of the northeast shall be more greatly reinforced to carry the message to the barbarians that they may be reminded of the futility of such attacks.”

Myryan smiles.

“You find that amusing?” asks Vernt.

“The name’s amusing,” she admits. “Nothing’s endless, not even the Rational Stars. So how can grass be endless?”

“The barbarians are endless,” says Vernt. “Every year there are more of them.”

“More doesn’t mean endless.”

“And they’re just as stupid every year. Tens of scores of them try to cross the border, and most of them die.” Vernt looks at his father. “There must have been more than usual if you had to do more chaos-charging.”

“I was told that the lancers have it well in hand,” answers his sire.

“And they will push the barbarians back across the not-so-endless Grass Hills,” Myryan says, “no matter what the barbarians call the grass.”

“I do believe we’ve heard this before,” suggests Kien’elth politely. “We decided the name was a barbarian affectation.” He clears his throat, then takes another mouthful of the fowl casserole, nodding as he tastes it.

“We just ought to take over all of Candar-the western half, anyway,” says Vernt. “That way, we wouldn’t have to worry about the smelly barbarians.”

“The chaos-towers can’t be moved,” Lorn points out. “That’s why Emperor-”

“Lorn,” interjects Kien’elth quickly. “Not at dinner.”

“Yes, ser.”

“We don’t need to move the towers,” continues Vernt, seemingly oblivious to his father’s warning to Lorn. “The barbarians’ iron blades are so soft that a cupridium blade cuts through any of their weapons.” The younger son snorts. “We don’t need firewagons and highways to conquer them.”

“No-but would you want to live in a mud-brick hut or a tent?” Kien’elth laughs. “You wouldn’t get cooking like this, or cities like Cyad or Fyrad or Summerdock.”

“We’ve heard this discussion before, too,” interjects Jerial. “Cyador already has more land than we’ll ever need, and so do the barbarians. They don’t attack from need, but from perversity. They want to take what we’ve built, becausethey’re too lazy and too stupid to make things for themselves.”

“They do not have chaos-towers, nor could they fabricate them if they wanted to,” says her father gently.

“They don’t have to live like swine,” counters Vernt. “You can smell them from kays away.”

“They weren’t born with your advantages,” Kien’elth points out.

“We’ve sent teachers out to the north and east.” Vent’s voice rises. “And those that weren’t killed had to kill the barbarians to escape with their lives ….”

“Maybe they don’t want to learn,” suggests Jerial, with a hint of a laugh in her voice. “They don’t like books as much as you do.”

Lorn quietly finishes his casserole, and, while the others are looking at Vernt and Jerial, and while his mother has slipped away from the table to bring the dessert platter, he slips a slice of sun-nut bread from the tray and onto his platter. He eats it in precise motions before finally speaking. “They still think we took their land.”

“We didn’t take anything, did we?” asks Myryan. “I thought most of Cyador was the Accursed Forest before the founders came, and it killed either the barbarians or us whenever it could. They didn’t live here. They couldn’t have lived here.” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t make sense. We’re not using land that they ever could have farmed or herded on. I agree with Jerial. They’re just lazy.”

“They are what they are,” replies Kien’elth, “and we aren’t going to change that. We can only deal with our own lives.” He clears his throat. “Lorn … have you ever met Aleyar? She’s Lector Liataphi’s next-to-youngest daughter?”

“He’s met them all.” Vernt chortles.

Lorn manages not to flush. “She is blonde, I believe, and quite well spoken.”

“I told you so,” Vernt hisses.

“Father …” Jerial begins.

Kien’elth turns to his eldest daughter. “Liataphi has no sons. I am not asking Lorn to consort with her. I am askingif he would at least talk to the young lady. There’s no harm in seeing if he likes an eligible young woman.”

“ … and it would be kind,” Myryan says with a sad smile.

“Because her older sister Syreal ran off with that merchanter, and that means that unless she consorts with a Magi’i she’ll lose her standing in the Magi’i?” asks Jerial.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” counters Myryan. “We’re lucky. We have brothers who are carrying on as Magi’i. Aleyar isn’t, and she’s sweet.”

“You know her?” asks Nyryah.

“I like her,” replies Myryan. “She’s too gentle to be consorted to a lancer or a merchanter.” She looks at Lorn. “And she is pretty.”

Lorn shifts his weight in his chair almost imperceptibly, then smiles. “I’ll make a point of talking to her.”

“That’s all I ask,” Kien’elth says, as he turns and smiles at Myryan. “Lector Kharl’elth said that the only young lady his son ever talked about was you.”

“Ciesrt?” Myryan’s expression reverts to one of polite interest.

Lorn glances from her to their father, who in turn watches the wavy-haired Myryan closely.

“Ciesrt’elth,” corrects Kien’elth. “You know him, Lorn.”

“He’s in my student group,” concedes Lorn.

“He works hard,” adds Vernt. “Lector Hyrist’elth says he wishes all the students worked as hard.”

Across from Lorn, Myryan’s face tightens ever so slightly.

“He’s pretty serious,” Lorn adds.

“These are serious times,” Kien’elth begins, clearing his throat in the way that Lorn knows a long pontification is about to begin.

“It sounds like a good time for sweets.” Nyryah sets the wide white-glazed platter in the center of the table, then reseats herself. “Baked pearapple creamed tarts.” She smiles at her consort. “You can talk about serious times after dessert, dear.”

Kien’elth laughs. “Undermined at my own table.”

“A good dessert doesn’t wait,” counters Nyryah, “and ifyou do, you won’t have any tarts with this bunch drooling over them.”

Myryan and Vernt laugh. Lorn and Jerial nod minutely at each other, but the corners of Lom’s mouth turn up ever so slightly as he glances at the warm smile his mother has bestowed upon their father.

“Outstanding!” Kien’elth beams as he takes the first tart. “The barbarians and the serious folk have nothing like this.”

“They might.” Vernt frowns, as if in thought, then adds, “But they probably don’t.”

“You can’t even argue just on one side, Vernt,” says Jerial after a mouthful of her tart. “Maybe you should become a counselor. That’s what they do-they argue both sides of everything.”

“What about something like being the Hand of the Emperor?” asks Myryan guilelessly.

“Myryan,” cautions Nyryah. “One doesn’t talk about the Hand.”

“Especially since no one knows who he is,” adds Jerial dryly. “That’s not wise.”

Kien’elth, his mouth filled with the creamy tart, shakes his head and finally swallows. “Argumentative counselors get sent as envoys to the barbarian lands. Besides, no Magi’i should stoop to being a counselor. Mostly, they mediate between merchanters.”

Amused smiles fill the faces around the table, smiles followed by silence as they enjoy the tarts.

“There are a few tarts left,” offers Nyryah when all have finished, glancing toward Lorn, “and since you didn’t have as much of the sun-nut bread …” She looks at Vernt, on whose face a frown appears and quickly vanishes, “and since you look positively starved, Vernt …”

Myryan raises her eyebrows.

“ … and you’re still growing, youngest daughter,” Nyryah smiles at Myryan and concludes, “there are enough extra tarts for each of you.”

“The last thing I need is another tart,” observes Jerial,glancing down at her slender waist. “I should not have had the one.”

“You could eat three every night, and it would scarce show,” counters her mother, “but I know how you feel.”

Kien’elth glances at his consort. Nyryah raises her eyebrows, and he closes his mouth quietly.

Lorn eats a second tart, deftly, with motions that are neither hasty nor dawdling, yet leave no crumbs upon his fingers or his mouth. “Excellent. You must tell Elthya.” He smiles at his mother. “If I don’t first.”

“You’ll not only tell her, Lorn, you’ll charm her out of a third,” says Jerial.

“A fourth,” suggests Myryan. “I’d wager a silver he had one this afternoon when they were cooling.” Her warm smile turns toward Lorn.

He shrugs. “It might be.”

His sisters laugh. Even Vernt, seated beside Myryan, smiles. So does Nyryah, although the mahogany-haired woman’s smile is more knowingly ironic.

As the family rises and as Elthya and the shorter serving girl step forward out of the shadows to clear the table, Kien’elth beckons to Lorn. “I’d like to talk with you for a few moments, Lorn.”

“Yes, ser.” Lorn, slightly taller and slightly broader across the chest than his father or his younger brother, follows Kien’elth along the outside upper arched portico until they reach the open door of the study.

The study is lit by the pair of oil lamps at each end of the pale oak table-desk. Their silvered mantels-and their separation-cast an even glow across the room so that the shadows are faint against the warmth of the blond wood panels that comprise the walls and the amber leather of the volumes set in the bookcase that is built into the wall beside the desk. The scents of frysya and baked pearapples linger in the room, reminding Lorn of the glazed tarts that had followed dinner.

Kien’elth turns and stands between his desk, empty except for the lamps, and the stand that holds the shimmering white cupridium pen that is yet another mark of his position as amagus. The polished white oak case that holds his chaos glass rests on the small octagonal table to the right of the desk proper.

Lorn’s eyes pass over the glass, though he has often felt its power when his father has employed it to observe him from afar.

After a moment of silence, the magus turns to his dark-haired son. “I spoke with Lector Hyrist’elth.”

Lorn nods, waits for his father to continue.

“He is not displeased with your studies, Lorn, but he is not pleased, either. He and I both feel that while you learn all that comes before you, and more, you learn because it is easier for you to learn than to oppose us.” Kien’elth smiles. “I have seen you on the korfal field. There, you are unfettered, almost joyous. I would wish you to show such joy in learning and in studies.”

“I learn everything that I can, ser,” Lorn replies carefully, knowing he must choose his words with care, for his father can sense any hint of untruth-as can anyone within the family-and Lorn does not wish to have his father use his chaos glass to follow him continually, though he can sense when Kien’elth-or any of the Magi’i-seek him with a glass. Most of his actions are innocent enough, but there is little sense in provoking his father into deeper inquiries. “It is true that, presently, learning for me is not so joyous, but I will persevere until, I hope, it is such.”

“All Cyador rests on the Magi’i,” says the older man. “Without the chaos towers, the firewagons would not run, and neither lancers nor foot nor crops could be carried to where they must go. The barges could not run the Great Canal. Without the chaos chisels, the stone for the roads would have to be quarried by hand, and it would take years to pave but a kay of road. The Great Eastern Highway alone … Without chaos glasses, we could not see the storms or the larger barbarian forces, …”

Lorn listens politely as his father continues.

“ … and that is why it is a great honor and a worthy duty to become a magus, and a goal for which you should strive.”

“I understand that, father.”

“Lorn … you nod politely, and you apply yourself diligently enough, and you have mastered the art of chaos transfer, indeed more than mastered it, and you have even learned the basics of healing from Jerial, though that be more of a serving art than a magely one, and you have, I know, the skill to truthread, and that is something but a handful ever fully master.”

“Is that not what I am required to do, ser?”

“You are capable of more, far more. You have the talent to become one of the great mages. But that requires more than talent.” Kien’elth looks squarely at his oldest son. “I would hope that you would see such.” He shrugs. “I have told Lector Hyrist’elth that, if you do not show great love of your studies, I will seek an officership for you with the Mirror Lancers. You possess the skills to direct the lances of an entire company already, and perhaps the time on the frontiers would rekindle your love of chaos.”

Lorn continues to meet his sire’s searching study. “I will do my best for the year ahead, ser, but I can promise only diligence and hard work.”

“That I know you will provide, Lorn.” Kien’elth shakes his head slowly. “But each one of the Magi’i must possess the very fire of chaos within himself or the chaos with which he works will consume him as surely as a firelance will consume whatever its fire strikes. If you cannot find such passion, no matter how great your skill, you would be better as an officer of the Mirror Lancers than as the highest of the Magi’i.” His lined face and silver hair do not hide the sadness within him as he beholds his eldest son.

“I understand, father. I will do what I can do.”

Kien’elth nods. “I know.”

Lorn cannot disguise the frown as he closes the polished wooden door behind him and steps from the study into the open pillared corridor that rings the upper levels of the house. As he had sensed, Jerial waits in the shadows. Lorn turns to his older sister.

“How is Father?” asks Jerial. “He was quiet at dinner, andyou’re frowning. It must have been a serious discussion.”

“It was. We discussed how, without the Magi’i, the Great Eastern Highway-and the Great North Highway-would still be under construction,” Lorn finishes with a smile, “since even the North Highway’s length is four hundred and ninety three kays. We also talked about how I should build a new chaos tower when I finish my studies.”

“Lorn. someday you’re going to have to be serious.”

“I am serious.” The dark-haired young man smiles at his older sister. “I’m always serious.” The smile fades. “Too serious in my studies for father. He wishes that I approach them as a lover.”

“Well. Jerial grins, “you’ve already had enough experience there, brother dear. Surely. surely …”

Lorn laughs. “Ah … if I could.”

Jerial smiles, then slips away.

After a moment, Lorn shrugs and takes the outside steps down into the rear garden, past the fruit trees and the grape arbor. He pauses by the rear gate, in the shielded darkness, and concentrates on his adaptation of chaos transfer.

Hssst! A small firebolt arcs from his fingers onto the white stone, splashing like liquid flame, rearing up a good two spans into the gloom.

Lorn quickly steps on the twig that has caught fire and stamps out the small fire with his heavy white boots. “Careful …” He glances around, but there are no sounds beyond the murmurs that drift from the servants’ quarters beyond the garden. He should have used even less chaos.

After a last look at the house, he leaves by the rear gate, and walks down the paved and spotless alley to the lower street, above which tower the three levels of the family dwelling.

Lorn strides along the Road of Perpetual Light, eastward, away from the taverns frequented by the higher-ranking lancers and the cider-houses that cater to the students. The cylar trees overhanging the white-paved street whisper in the night breeze, and the autumn perfume of the purple arymids fills the cool air.

Lorn senses red-dark chaos … or trouble, and wonders what it might be. His eyes note little distinction between twilight and night as he strides purposefully eastward, almost welcoming the reddish-whiteness that he nears-after the talk with his father.

A couple walks toward him, nearly in the white and sparkling center of the wide walkway flanking the road, and Lorn can see from shimmering blue attire that both are from the merchanters. The man is slender, and his attention is upon the red-haired woman he escorts. Chaos lurks behind them, in the hulking figure that follows, apparently unseen in the shadowed darkness of the trees.

Lorn eases onto the same side of the road as the skulker who moves toward the couple, but the student magus is too late as the heavy and tall man leaps and strikes the male merchanter, with a blunt club or some such. The man collapses in a heap, and the woman turns to flee, but the attacker grabs her arm.

“Halthor! Let go of me!” she screams. “Help! The Patrol!”

The man called Halthor drops the club to muffle her screams with his oversized hand.

Lorn steps out of the shadows, then ducks and picks up the truncheon as Halthor releases the woman. Lorn moves as if he had seen the large fist coming and steps under the giant’s arms, bringing the short wooden truncheon into the vee of the man’s ribs. Something cracks. The giant gasps, standing there immobile.

Lorn’s eyes glitter gold for but an instant as he speaks. “I believe that all would be best if you jumped off the southernmost pier in the harbor and inhaled as much water as you can.”

The taller man shivers, then turns, breathing laboriously, and begins to walk westward along the Road of Perpetual Light, ignoring the fallen trader, the woman merchanter, and Lorn.

Despite the sudden knife-like headache that has shivered through his skull, Lorn lowers the truncheon and turns towardthe woman in shimmering blue, his voice filled with concern. “Are you all right?”

“Ah … I think so. Yes.” She does not quite shiver, as she bends toward the fallen man.

Through slightly blurred vision, Lorn sees that she is a redhead, and lightly freckled, with creamy skin, and a full figure under the shimmering blue tunic.

“What did you do?” she asks. “He … just turned away and left.”

“Just offered an opinion ….” Lorn’s laugh sounds easy. “He won’t be bothering anyone soon.” The warm and friendly smile appears as he also steps toward the fallen junior trader. “We need to attend to your friend.”

The male trader squints, rolls to his knees, glances up at the redhead, then at Lorn. “What did you do to Halthor? He’d like as kill you, student magus or not.” He slowly rises to his feet, but he shivers and staggers.

Lorn extends a hand. “As I told your lady friend, I offered my opinion to the fellow, that he take himself elsewhere.”

“He’s never heeded anyone’s advice before.” The trader groans as he straightens up. “Cracked in my skull.”

“This … young man,” says the woman, “offered it rather persuasively. Halthor was almost doubled over. He has a cracked rib or two, perhaps.”

The male trader lowers his head and holds it in both hands. “My head’s splitting.”

“I’m sure it only feels that way,” says the woman.

Lorn’s fingers brush the man’s skull.

“That’s better,” admits the wounded trader.

Somehow the slight healing Lorn can offer the trader also lessens his own headache, if marginally.

“Are you a healer, young ser?” asks the woman.

“Me?” Lorn shakes his head ingenuously. “I’ve picked up some from my older sister, who is, but I’m afraid I’m poor in comparison to her.” He looks eastward, along the white stones of the road, past two couples who are strolling in a leisurely fashion down the cross-street toward the pavilions that wait on the beach front park. “I think you do need tolie down before long. Are your … quarters far from here?”

“No. Just two streets up.” The trader takes a step and pales, then takes another.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Alyet?” asks the woman.

“For two streets … yes.”

Lorn takes the man’s arm once more. “Just lean on me.”

“And me.” The woman takes his other arm, and the three walk slowly eastward until they reach an archway on the uphill side of the way.

“There …” mumbles Alyet. “There.”

The woman and Lorn guide the trader up three steps and toward a darkened doorway to the left. She fumbles a shining brass key from Alyet’s belt wallet and unlocks the door.

Once inside, they cross a small sitting room that holds but a small table with two chairs, and a low settee under the high window. A sleeping chamber barely big enough for the bed and a chest lies through a narrow archway.

They help Alyet lower himself onto the bed that is draped with a dark blue coverlet.

“Are you sure he’ll be all right?” asks the woman.

“He has some bad bruises, and a lump on his skull, but nothing’s broken, I think,” Lorn ventures, “and his head will ache for days.”

“Ryalth … be careful … sorry … don’t think I can see you home,” Alyet apologizes.

“I’ll make sure she’s safe,” Lorn promises. “Don’t you worry.”

Ryalth raises her well-formed but narrow eyebrows. She does not protest as they leave Alyet’s quarters.

Once they are back on the Road of Eternal Light, standing beneath the arch of curved white stone-merely alabaster, and not sunstone-Lorn turns to Ryalth, “We should decide what we should do tonight.”

Her eyebrows arch. “I do not know you, ser, and you appear to be a student.”

“I am indeed a student, but that’s all the more reason for you not to worry. Besides, you scarcely need to end the evening on such an upsetting note.” Lorn takes the young woman’s hand and smiles winningly.