Magi'i of Cyador

LI

“LONG DAY?” LORN asks from the third floor landing of the formal staircase as Jerial walks slowly up one marble step after another.

“You’re still here?” Jerial smiles up at Lorn as she nears the landing. “I thought you’d be elsewhere.”

“I will be … later. What about you?”

“I’m too tired.”

Lorn studies her face, clearly fatigued and drawn. Even the order-chaos levels in her body were depressed. “What happened?”

“You didn’t hear?”

Lorn shakes his head. “I met Tyrsal, and then we sparred.”

“There was a chaos explosion on the Ocean Flame ….” Jerial slowly shakes her head. “It wasn’t that big, but it started a fire. There were many burned. I would have been home far earlier.”

“Could you save any?”

“We’ll see. I did what I could. They sent Myryan over to help, but we finally were dismissed.”

“Because to do more would have injured you?”

Jerial nods. “I’ll need a good supper and some rest.”

The calling bell rings from the lower front door.

From where they sit in chairs in the third level sitting room, Lorn and Jerial frown.

“Feels like a lancer,” she says.

“I’ll get it.” Lorn stands quickly. “You can sense that far away?”

“You could, if you worked at it.” Jerial rises and straightens the green tunic, answering his unspoken question. “Sensing takes little energy. It’s trying to re-balance the order and chaos that costs you.”

“Just stay here.” Lorn goes down the stairs quickly, reaching the privacy screen before Sylirya. “I’ll see who it is.” He steps around the inside screen, opens the door, and glances through the outer screen’s viewing slit.

The figure in the dress uniform of a lancer is Dettaur’alt, taller, broader, and harder-faced, but still with the air of a schoolyard bully.

Lorn steps from beside the screen. “Dettaur, I didn’t expect you.”

The linked silver triple bars of a sub-majer glitter on the collar of Dettaur’s cream and green uniform, and he inclines his head. “I was hoping to have a word with your sister Jerial, the distinguished healer, and to thank her.”

Lorn gestures. “She’s upstairs. Please come in.” His eyes flicker toward the harbor where thin trails of smoke still drift skyward before melding into the gray of the high clouds.

“Thank you.” Dettaur’alt bows again, before stepping into the house.

The two lancers head up the steps, Lorn trailing Dettaur ever so slightly.

When Dettaur steps into the third floor sitting room, he immediately bows to Jerial, who stands beside one of the upholstered armchairs. “Honored healer, I wished to convey my thanks for your efforts this afternoon. Several of the marine lancers may well survive solely because of your efforts, and one of them is the brother of my cousin’s consort.”

“Thank you.” She motions for the visiting lancer to sit, and does so herself.

Dettaur takes the straight-backed white oak armchair across from her. Lorn sits on the other wooden armchair, to Dettaur’s right.

“I heard that you aided many,” Dettaur continues.

“That is what healers are for, ser. To heal. I am pleased that those efforts were of benefit to you and your family.”

“Of much benefit,” Dettaur insists, “and not just to my kin.”

A faint smile plays across Lorn’s lips, then vanishes as the more senior lancer turns in the chair.

“I did not realize you were on home leave, Lorn,” Dettaur says smoothly in a deep and cultivated baritone from the back of his throat.

Lorn responds to the lie with a smile. “Even captains assigned to Isahl are privileged to get home leave every few years.” He pauses, before asking, “Are you assigned here? Or are you on leave as well?”

Dettaur frowns at Lorn’s familiar tone, and his eyes flick to the captain’s bars on the junior officer’s collar. “I’ve been fortunate enough to be promoted, and that requires a change of duty. The benefit of some leave goes with that.” A false smile appears. “And you?”

“Merely a change of duty. The promotion came a few years back.”

“We have not seen you in some time,” Jerial offers an apparently sincere smile. “There must have been a reason why you came today.”

“Actually, I came for two reasons, first, because of your efforts in the Lancer infirmary, and also because of your brother. I saw his … efforts in the exercise building, and his presence recalled your charms.”

“I must admit my sparring was an effort,” Lorn says easily. “I will be spending much of the few days remaining of my leave resharpening skills. I noted your proficiency, much improved from when we last sparred.”

“I do regret that we will not have a chance to test ourselves against each other … this time.” Dettaur smiles.

“There may be other times,” Lorn smiles.

“Will we see you again soon?” asks Jerial politely.

“Alas, lady healer,” says Dettaur, “had I not come today, reminded of your presence as I was by your brother, I could not have called at all. I leave the day after tomorrow in the morning for Assyadt as the second-in-command there.” Dettaur’s smile is directed at Lorn as much as at Jerial.

“I wish you well,” Lorn says. “Assyadt takes many attacks from the Jeranyi.”

“Fewer, once I am there,” promises Dettaur.

“I am sure you will make your presence felt,” Jerial says agreeably. “You have in so many ways.”

“For a long time,” Lorn adds.

Dettaur flushes. “For a captain, Lorn, you are …”

“Insubordinate?” Lorn shakes his head. “You have always sought what you wanted, and achieved it. That has gone on for years. It’s hardly insubordinate to note what has occurred.” Lorn’s mouth forms the slightest smile. “Unwise, perhaps, but hardly insubordinate, Majer Dettaur.”

“Unwise. I like that.” Dettaur inclines his head to Jerial, then rises. “At your pleasure, healer, I will call again, although it will be a season or more.”

“I’m sure I will be here for some time, Majer.” Jerial’ssmile is that of the professional warmth of a healer with a difficult patient. She inclines her head. “Until then.”

“I look forward to that day, honored healer.” Dettaur’s smile contains a hint of triumph, but his voice remains perfectly polished as he bows, more deeply than necessary, to Jerial.

Lorn accompanies his former schoolmate down to the front door, then steps outside with the more senior lancer.

There Dettaur inclines his head, if barely. “Your sister is polite, attractive, and talented. It would be a shame for her never to consort.”

“That is her choice.”

“Perhaps I will change her mind.”

“Perhaps you will.”

“Or yours, Captain Lorn. Geliendra is far more challenging than mere barbarians.”

“I appreciate the advice, Sub-Majer Dettaur.” Lorn bows his head respectfully.

Dettaur’s eyes glitter, but he returns the bow. “Convey my continuing regards to your sister.”

“I will indeed.”

Dettaur turns stiffly.

Lorn waits until the sub-majer has descended the steps to the Road of Perpetual Light before he re-enters the house. Then he hurries back upstairs.

“Dettaur asked me to convey his continuing regards.”

“You know what he’s suggesting, don’t you?” Jerial notes from the armchair where she has remained as Lorn returns to the sitting room.

Lorn nods. The implication is clear-that Jerial will remain of the Magi’i only so long as Kien’elth remains alive, since Lorn is the eldest male, and he is of the lancers. Unless, of course, he dies before his father does, which would make Vernt the heir.

“He insulted your skills, and yet you were rather mild.”

“I was using the sabre with my left hand, and he did not notice.” Lorn laughs. “I trust he will remain as unobservant in the future.”

“Your left hand? Why?”

“I may need it some day. In the lancers, not always do barbarians, or others, attack from where one can best defend himself.”

“How long have you been using both hands?”

“Two years perhaps.” Lorn pauses as their mother appears in the third floor foyer.

“That was young Dettaur, was it not?”

“It was,” Jerial replies.

Nyryah glances from Jerial to Lorn. “I am surprised he would call ….”

“I’m not,” Jerial says.

“You are a healer. He might hope, but you’re certainly above him. He is a lancer, after all,” suggests their mother.

“So am I,” Lorn points out.

“By necessity, not by limitation of intellect or ability.” Nyryah shakes her head. “I suppose I shouldn’t say such, but these days there’s scarcely much point in being too circumspect.”

Lorn holds in a frown, and focuses what senses he can upon his mother. Yet he can sense neither the chaos of illness nor the darkness of death-order-or even a hint of either, although there is … something about his mother … something he cannot describe or even identify.

“ … never liked that young man, even when he was in school with you, Lorn. He wasn’t on your level.”

“He’s two years older, and was a level ahead,” Lorn replies.

“There was quite some talk when he broke his fingers in a korfal game. Among the healers, I mean.” A faint twinkle flickers in Nyryah’s eyes. “No one at the school ever figured it out, but then they didn’t realize, as healers do, that the chaos of each person is as individual as eyes or the whorls on fingers. Sometimes, it lingers when men fight. A mage can change his chaos pattern, but most wouldn’t think of that.” She smiles wryly at her children. “Silly of me, I suppose, to remember something from years back.”

Again, Lorn can only nod, accepting what cannot be acknowledged,not in Cyad, not when anywhere can fall within the ambit of a chaos glass.

Below them, two flights down, the front door opens, and Kien’elth steps into the foyer. He walks up the stairs with forced and deliberate energy. His breathing is labored. The three wait for him to join them.

Like Jerial, he moves slowly, his face pale and drawn, and he is breathing heavily when he reaches the third level. “Where have you been today?” Kien’s eyes fix upon his elder son.

“I visited Tyrsal at the Quarter; we went to the little cafe off the Quarter for something to eat. Then I went over to the exercise building in the Lancers’ Quarter and spent the afternoon sparring.”

Kien nods. “I had not thought otherwise, but best I determine first.”

“The chaos explosion?”

“You knew?”

“Not until Jerial told me.” Lorn frowns. “It couldn’t have been that large. I didn’t sense anything.”

“It wasn’t large. A single cell failed in one of the fire cannons. But they were taking on oil for the lamps and other equipment, and a fragment of hot metal shredded one of the barrels.” Kien gestures vaguely toward the harbor. “You should have seen the smoke.”

“I might have, except that-” Lorn flushes “-I was worried about my sparring and thinking that I needed more practice.”

Jerial raises her eyebrows, but does not comment on the nature of his practice, instead saying, “Dettaur just left, and he happened to notice Lorn at the exercise building. After that, of course, he found out about how I had saved a distant relative of his.”

“Dettaur’alt is an honored protégé of Captain-Commander Luss’alt, Jerial, and much to be respected.”

“I was very respectful, father, and even suggested that he would be welcome in the future, when he returns on furlough.”

“Wise of you.” Kien takes a deep breath, then sits down heavily in the chair where Dettaur had been sitting.

“Are you all right, dear?” Nyryah bustles over to her consort, touching his forehead lightly, frowning. A relieved smile crosses her face.

Jerial and Lorn exchange glances, as Lorn senses the slightest transfer of something between his parents. An almost imperceptible headshake from the younger healer to her brother is caution enough for Lorn to leave well enough alone.

“I’m better,” Kien insists. “I just needed to sit down. We had to send replacement cells to the Ocean Flame, and there weren’t enough younger mages there at the moment.”

“So you pitched in as though you were twenty years younger?” Nyryah raises her eyebrows.

“What else could I do? If all the cells discharged … they could have thrown off the ship’s tower … and we’d have lost another fireship.” Kien half-throws his hands into the air. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Just as you did, dear,” suggests Nyryah. “Except you shouldn’t have charged up the stairs like a bull when you got home.”

“Women …” mutters Kien.

Lorn and Jerial both laugh. Nyryah smiles indulgently.