Magi'i of Cyador

XLVIII

IN THE WARM air of the sparring room, Lorn lowers the exercise sabre, blots his forehead, and glances at the red-headed Tyrsal.

Tyrsal’s exercise tunic is dark with sweat. He lowers his own blunted exercise sabre and shakes his head. “You’re barely sweating, and I’m dying. I haven’t sparred this hard in years. Not since you left. You could have killed me three or four times.”

“Once maybe.” Lorn grins.

“And … you were doing it left-handed. Don’t think I don’t remember which side you used before.”

Lorn shrugs. “I’ve been working on it for a time.” He grins. “For three years. Against the barbarians you have to be able to use whatever hand’s free.”

“Knowing you, you did more than that. You work on everything. That’s why I never understood …” Tyrsal frowns and lets his words die away.

The two walk toward the open door, through which a cooling breeze blows, but stop perhaps ten cubits from it.

“I don’t want to get too chilled.” Tyrsal looks at Lorn.“There’s really no one to spar with any more. Even Vernt …”

“I know.” Lorn laughs. “All he thinks about is chaos transfers and the way of the Magi’i … and finding the right consort.”

“You haven’t found one,” Tyrsal points out, again blotting his forehead.

“Lancer captains aren’t supposed to consort. Not until after their second tour of duty, anyway, and preferably not until they’re overcaptains or even sub-majers. Now you …” Lorn raises his eyebrows. “What excuse do you have?”

“Me? I’m not a second-level adept with a generous stipend, and I don’t come from a prosperous old-time Magi’i family. Remember, my father was the first Magus ever in my lineage, and he was the grandson of a clanless trader.” Tyrsal rolls his eyes.

“There are Magi’i daughters who would have you. You’re talented, and good-looking, and cheerful.” Lorn pauses, and adds, “And loyal.” He grins before going on. “And don’t give me those words about poverty. You may have come from merchanters, but they were most successful ones. There are many young women who would like a young magus who would inherit what you will.”

“You have someone in mind?”

Lorn shrugs, then pulls a scrap of gray cloth from his belt to wipe the sabre before replacing it in the battered exercise room sheathe. “Not particularly. I remember my father parading names past me.” He frowns. “There was one … Aleyar, Liataphi’s daughter. Blonde, very pretty. Well-spoken, and ‘it certainly wouldn’t hurt, Lorn, that she is the daughter of the Third Magus.’”

Tyrsal laughs at Lorn’s imitation of Kien’elth’s pedantic tone. Then the red-haired mage shakes his head. “There were two, you know. Syreal is blonde and sweet. She was older. Dett’s age, at least. And she wouldn’t consort with anyone, Lorn. Not anyone her family liked …. There was something there, rumors about a merchanter … but I didn’t know what. If their father had sons, no one would care.”

“What of the other daughters? Doesn’t he have a bunch?”

“Salsyha-she’s the oldest … she consorted with a Lancer commander. His first consort died of the flux when he was the port commander in Biehl years ago. Gives him some status, but she’s got a tongue like a sabre, or so I’ve heard tell. The second daughter … she was to be consorted to a second-level adept-but she died suddenly. No one ever said why, but there were rumors that his rivals …”

“Too much influence from Liataphi?”

Tyrsal grins wryly. “You see why I’m not terribly interested in pressing a suit upon an unwilling lady?”

“What about the younger two?”

“Aleyar’s sweet like Syreal, but she’s younger than she looks, if you know what I mean. The other’s too young, nine, I think.” Tyrsal adds dryly, “Besides, being the consort of Liataphi’s daughter might do little for my desires to live a long and uneventful life.”

Lorn laughs.

“I have been looking, not urgently, you understand, for a quiet girl from a modest Magi’i family without ambitions.”

“I wish you had been more interested in Myryan.”

“I was. She wasn’t interested in me.”

“I’m sorry. I had hoped.”

“I know, Lorn. She’s not really interested in anyone. I could have, I suppose, and she would have been sweet to me, because she is ….”

“But you didn’t want a consort merely to be nice to you?” The lancer captain nods. “I understand that.”

“You know that. I don’t know as my mother does.”

“Is she pressing you?”

“She’s never said a word.” Tyrsal lifts his eyebrows and rolls his eyes.

“That’s worse.” After a pause, Lorn asks, “Are you working on that project for the chaos towers?”

“Which one?” Tyrsal snorts. “There’s one for the Accursed Forest, some sort of new way to constrain its black order, and one to try to strengthen the barriers on the fireships, and a couple of others that no one even talks about.”

“I presume you are continuing to ensure that the firelances are charged and that the firewagons cross Cyador in speed and comfort?”

“Absolutely! What else are unknown third-level adepts good for?” Tyrsal frowns. “I’d better get back. Exercise over a mid-day meal is approved, but excessive exercise …”

“Especially with a lancer?” Lorn grins.

“Who else would give me a decent workout?” The redhead walks toward the racks where the practice weapons are kept and replaces the sabre.

Lorn does the same, then turns to his friend. “Tomorrow, then?”

“Of course.”

“And you’re still coming to the house for dinner on fiveday?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

After Tyrsal leaves, Lorn walks slowly back along the Road of Perpetual Light toward his parents’ dwelling, a pleasant smile fixed upon his face, as he considers what he must yet accomplish.