Magi'i of Cyador

LIX

LORN LIFTS THE two green bags that contain his clean uniforms, laundered by the ever-unseen Kysia, and the ancient Brystan sabre that holds a shimmering cupridium finish and an edge that is every bit as sharp as the. lancer sabre in the scabbard clipped to his green web belt. He has tested the Brystan weapon, and it feels better than his own sabre-except both are his.

He takes a last look around the chambers, checking to see that he has not forgotten anything, and then turns. With a wry headshake, he steps into the gray light outside his door and starts toward the formal stairs. He does not get far, because his parents appear from their chamber at the end of the corridor. Both wear heavy white woolen robes-lined with the finest Hamorian cotton, he knows.

“I know you don’t like good-byes,” his mother offers, “but it will be more than a year before you get back to Cyad.” She steps forward to hug him.

“Two, at least,” Lorn admits, lowering the kit bags and returning the embrace. He can feel the wetness on her cheeks, and he swallows. “I will be back.”

“We know, dear.” Nyryah gives him one more embrace before stepping back.

Kien’elth grasps Lorn’s forearm with both hands. “It was good to see you, and to see how much you’ve changed in four years.” He smiles. “I didn’t think it would turn out thisway, but you’ve done well, and I think you’re happier doing what you do.”

Even Vernt appears, standing behind his parents, although. he is fully clad in the shimmercloth of a third-level adept. “Take care, Lorn.”

“I will do that, but you be careful as well.” Lorn steps forward and claps Vernt’s forearm, adding in a lower voice, “The Quarter is just as unforgiving as the Accursed Forest.” He can sense the frown that their father does not express, but he does not explain his words to either his brother or his father, who already understands what he has said, nor his reasons for voicing what they know without his advice.

Finally, he steps back, glancing around.

“You saw Myryan last night … didn’t you?” asks Nyryah.

“I did.”

“Jerial asked if she could be the one to see you off downstairs,” Nyryah adds.

“We could all do that,” insists Kien. “She shouldn’t …”

“She asked it as a favor, and she never asks, dear.” Nyryah looks blandly at her consort. “We should let her have that small favor.”

“If Lorn doesn’t think ill of us.” Kien half-chuckles.

“That’s fine. It doesn’t matter where,” Lorn replies, even as he wonders why Jerial has made such a request.

After another hug from his mother and handclasps from Vernt and his father, Lorn finally walks down the marble stairs, to find that Jerial, as the others have said, waits alone by the front door. Her face is composed, almost drawn, and her eyes flicker to the empty stairs behind Lorn..

“I didn’t want to leave without … but … I didn’t want to intrude ….” He sets down the green bags once more.

“I know you have to go.” Jerial hugs him-a long and warm embrace, warmer than any Lorn can recall since childhood. Then she steps back and lifts something wrapped in cream shimmercloth-matching the fabric of the dress uniform he wears. She slips it into his hands. The object is roughly two and a half spans square and hard. Lorn can feel the polished wood beneath the cloth.

“It was father’s,” Jerial murmurs. “He thought he misplaced it several years ago. I knew you would need it sooner or later. It would be better if you didn’t use it until you return to duty-away from Cyad. Vernt has no use for it; he has his own, and he’ll never master it the way you will … the way you should … if you’d like to return to Cyad someday.” Her smile is somehow both professional and warm-and disturbing. “If they hadn’t let me see you off alone … you’d still have it.”

Lorn bows ever so slightly, understanding. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much.”

“Everyone has told you to be careful.” Her eyes are bright, but the unshed tears do not streak her cheeks. “I will, too, but … believe in yourself, Lorn.”

Still holding the screeing glass, he hugs her once more before stepping back, then quickly slipping the glass into the left hand bag, the one without the Brystan sabre.

“And I arranged a carriage for you. The driver is waiting. You don’t need to start a journey to the Accursed Forest by carting those across Cyad on foot.” She raises her dark eyebrows. “That’s a lesson, younger brother. Save yourself for what you alone can do.”

“Yes, elder sister.”

They both smile.

Lorn lifts the bags and steps around the privacy screens, then walks down the steps to the waiting carriage.

“Firewagon portico, ser?” asks the driver.

“The one near the harbor,” Lorn confirms as he slides the kit bags into the carriage.

“Yes, ser.”

As the carriage begins to roll westward toward the harbor and the hint of filmy fog that irregularly shrouds the piers, Lorn turns and watches the house, but his mental images are of Myryan, who had cried the afternoon before when he had stopped to say that goodbye … and of a red-haired trader and the tears she-and he-had shed the night before.

His lips tighten, and his eyes harden.