Magi'i of Cyador

LVIII

LORN STANDS IN the afternoon shadows on the upper level portico of his parents’ dwelling, the wind from the Great Western Ocean in his face as he looks out across the harbor, taking in the scaffolds erected around the Ocean Flame, and the other fireship tied along the same pier farther seaward. From what he can tell, the two square-rigged ocean vessels on the adjacent pier are both Brystan, while the three schooners on the coastal pier are from Lydiar, Hydlen, and Gallos, if the colors of the ensigns flying from their sterns are any indication. Another vessel, with wind-billowed sails, cuts diagonally out of the southwest toward the harbor.

The wind has shifted and strengthened enough to clear out the heavy fog of the morning. Whitecaps fill the water that is as much gray as blue under the dark clouds that swirl in from the west, and the wind hints at colder weather approaching. Lorn can sense someone behind him, but he does not turn for a while.

When he does, his mother is still waiting, wearing a heavy green woollen cloak.

“I don’t go to the healing center except on twoday and fourday. A small benefit of age and experience,” she says. “I had hoped we could have some moments together before you left.”

“Would you like to go down to the sitting room?” he asks as his eyes shift to her cloak. “It would be warmer.”

“No. I like the wind. That is … if I’m properly attired.” Her fine white eyebrows arch, under short-cut hair that hasnone of the mahogany Lorn recalls remaining. “The cloak is most warm.” She walks toward the southwest corner of the portico.

Lorn follows and arranges two chairs so that they sit in a sheltered corner of the area where the family has often dined in warmer weather, the wind rustling and murmuring around them.

Nyryah arranges her cloak and fixes her eyes on her older son.

Lorn waits, knowing his mother will say what she desires as she wishes.

“I never have cared for young Dettaur,” Nyryah finally says, “even when you were but waist-high and friends with him. He was bigger, and he hit you, sometimes when he thought no one was looking, but you never cried. His mother was my best friend when we were young. She was of the Magi’i, but her father was only a third level adept, and he died very young. She foolishly accepted Pyeal, but we all can do foolish things when we’re upset.”

“You never mentioned any of that.”

“There was no reason to, not when you were young. We were more idealistic, then, I fear.” She smiles, as if recalling a memory that gives her pleasure. “It is difficult to remain young and idealistic in Cyad. It is near-impossible to reach my age and retain all one’s ideals.” She frowns. “Perhaps it is better said that it is impossible to live up to those ideals.”

“You and father have certainly tried,” Lorn says gently.

“It may be ….” She stops and shakes her head. After a moment, she readjusts the cloak. “I feel old and foolish spouting grand ideas ….”

“What?” Lorn asks gently.

Nyryah purses her lips.

Lorn waits.

“Your father would disagree. Seldom do we disagree, you know? Still …” She pauses once more before continuing. “Cyad rests on the power of the chaos towers. All lands rest on some form of power. The towers are few compared to thesize of Cyador ….” Her words trail off into the wind, yet again.

“There are a half-score fireships, each powered by a tower, and the half-score or so around the Accursed Forest, and those here in Cyad,” Lorn says. “Few for a land that stretches more than fifteen hundred kays east to west.”

“A quarter score in Cyad,” Nyryah confirms. “At the beginning. You know, Lorn, that is a very narrow base of power. A handful of men control that power. Such creates the possibility for corruption, and that is why the Magi’i remove those from their ranks who will not put the service of chaos above self. That is why none know the Hand, and all meet him in darkness, except the Emperor. It has always been a struggle.” Another quirky smile appears on her lips. “Your father reminds me of that constantly.”

“He’s reminded me,” Lorn replies. “More than infrequently.”

“There is one other thing, my son,” she says slowly. “It is something so obvious that I doubt you have considered it.”

Again, Lorn waits.

“You and Vernt, and even Myryan and Jerial, tend to look down on the lancer families, perhaps because there are three times as many lancer officers as Magi’i.” Nyryah smiles sadly. “The number of lancer officers who are majers and commanders is less than the total number of Magi’i, and neither are numerous compared to all the folk of Cyad. You were raised among both, but how many lancer or Magi’i families are there here?”

“Two hundred Magi’i families?” Lorn hazards.

“Closer to three hundred, and the same number scattered throughout all the rest of Cyador, with most in Fyrad and Summerdock. Now … how many folk are there in Cyad?”

Lorn shrugs. “The Emperor’s census is not made public. I would guess there are more than a thousand score.”

“More than twice that.” She coughs once. “Remember, a lancer officer is almost as exalted to the folk of Cyador as is a magus, even though it may not seem so among thosewith whom you were raised. Power is held by very few, and it has always been so, and, given the nature of the world, I fear it will always be so.” She shakes her head. “What if the basis of power were in something accessible to all people? Would that make governing easier and less of a temptation for the corrupt? I don’t know. I used to think so.” She smiles. “I wander. I cannot ponder that forever. You may, perchance.”

“Me? I don’t think I’m the idealist you and father are.”

“You?” A headshake follows the rueful single word question. “You have protected your idealism in a terrible way, my son. You believe those in Cyad are somehow better because the city itself is more magnificent.”

Lorn does not know how best to answer such a statement.

“People will be who they are, you know. Some you can ignore. Some you can persuade, and some you can manipulate. That is where most, even in Cyad, scratch the line in sunstone.”

Lorn nods.

“If you would do more …” Nyryah coughs, several times.

Lorn starts to rise, and she gestures for him to sit.

“Nothing of flux-chaos there,” she finally says. “You can sense that for yourself.”

He senses no flux-chaos within her, but the levels of order and chaos are far lower than he recalls. “You need more rest,” he says.

“I do my best, dear. Holding on to your rest can sometimes be harder than we think.” An enigmatic smile plays on her lips for a moment, then fades. “As I was saying, you have difficulty scratching lines. Some will attempt to do it for you. Others will act as you have.”

“Yes?”

“You will soon reach that time when only one path lies before you. We all do. Your father did. I fear that holds for Jerial already. Straying from that course brings earlier death than holding to it.” Her eyes harden. “Do you understand?”

Lorn nods slowly.

“I thought you might. Now … you have few enough eveningsleft here, and they are better spent with your friend than with us.”

“You don’t approve?”

Nyryah smiles. “You worry far too much about our approval. You must live the life you create, and you especially, unlike your brother, know far better who will aid in your creations. Your father can guide Vernt as a magus, as he could have you, but there is no one in this world of ours who knows the path you have chosen.” She shifts her weight in the chair. “I am feeling the wind, and you need to do what you must.”

Lorn stands and extends his hand for her to rise, feeling both the strength and the delicacy in her grip.

“She must be lovely, or Jerial would have made her displeasure known.”

“She is … but beyond mere beauty.”

“That is what I meant. You never did stop at appearances, Lorn.” Nyryah walks steadily along the edge of the portico.

The clouds to the southwest have begun to lower, and the wind is damper, bringing spits of moisture that herald a fuller rain to come-and the storm headache for Lorn that is so common he can almost ignore it.

After escorting his mother down to her chambers, Lorn returns to his own rooms, where, for a time, he reflects … except before long, his thoughts are circling back upon themselves. Finally, he takes out the small silver book and selects a page, reading almost under his breath.

RIPENING

Like a dusk without a cloud,

a leaf without a tree,

a shell without a sea …

the greening of the pear

slips by.

Sly tree,

you know how … where …

So could we

with reason,

to follow,

leaf by leaf by green,

each second of the season,

to hold the sun-hazed days,

and wait for pears and praise

… and wait for pears and praise.

Lorn frowns. Pears are rare in Cyad, and, once more, there is more to the words than their angular characters.

He smiles. He has no choice but to see what fruit will ripen in the years and seasons that lie before him. In the meantime, he sits on the edge of his bed and reads through the marked and ancient pages.

When late afternoon approaches, he re-dons the enumerator blues, and the waterproof and takes the rear stairs down to the rear garden gate.

“Who will aid in your creations …” he murmurs as he walks eastward along the northern walkway flanking the Road of Perpetual Light. In the continuing rain, the wind ruffles his hair and flaps the gray waterproof that covers the enumerator blues. “ … no one who knows the path you have chosen ….” While those words could have meant that no one knows his goals, which he hopes to be true, the less obvious meaning is what his mother intended.

He hopes Ryalth has returned from the Plaza, and is relieved when she opens the door. Her eyes are both deep and opaque as she looks at him. She does not speak, but motions for him to enter. Lorn does so, stepping around the interior privacy screen and keeping a pleasant smile upon his face.

Ryalth closes the door gently, firmly, then faces him, her back to the green ceramic screen. “They found Shevelt’s body last night-with a Dyljani dagger through his back. Everyone in the trading quarter was talking about it.” She studies Lorn.

“I heard that he’d angered the Dyljani ….” Lorn says carefully.

“The plaque?”

“It is safe. Do you want it back?”

“No.” Almost eye-to-eye, she looks levelly at Lorn. “You know that Tasjan denies the bad blood. Publicly, anyway. I suppose he has to. He’s the Dyljani Clan Head. Shevelt’s father Fuyol threatened to dismember all of Tasjan’s heirs.” Ryalth shakes her head. “Fuyol is as hot-tempered as his son was. Before he finished his screaming, at least four other house heads went to see him. They all suggested that such threats were unwise, and the rumor is that some of them suggested to Fuyol privately that a score of merchanters were quietly rejoicing at Shevelt’s death. They also suggested that he name Veljan as his heir. Veljan’s much more levelheaded.” The redhead looks at Lorn. “He’s more dangerous, but that is because his consort is very bright. She is the middle daughter of Liataphi.”

“The Third Magus?” Lorn’s eyebrows lift.

“Liataphi has four daughters, and no sons. One daughter died years ago. Syreal was far too young when she threatened to run off if she couldn’t consort with Veljan. There was a compromise ….” Ryalth breaks off and looks hard at him. “You knew this, didn’t you?”

“I knew that Liataphi has no sons and that he has been trying to find younger Magi’i as consorts for his daughters. I’d heard Syreal consorted with a merchanter, but I didn’t recall who that was, and I didn’t know that there was a large settlement for her.” He pauses. “It was large?”

Ryalth nods. “More than many.”

“So the Magi’i would not be displeased with Veljan.”

“One of Veljan’s and Syreal’s sons has the chaos talent and is being taught at the academy,” Ryalth notes. “There are rumors that he will be accepted as a student mage.”

“So long as Liataphi and Fuyol hold their power.”

“They will.” Ryalth steps forward and hugs Lorn. “You won’t be here that long, and you haven’t even hugged me.”

“No … I haven’t.” His arms slip around her.

“You didn’t have to do it,” she whispers in his ear. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” he murmurs back. “You would have had to handleit, and you could, but this way … you can use those skills for something else, when I’m not around.”

“I worry ….”

“I do also.” Lorn steps back and offers a crooked smile.

So does she. “We don’t have much time left, but you’ll get something hot tonight.”

They both find themselves flushing.