Scion of Cyador

CXXX

Six people sit around the long table that could easily hold twice that number. The three men all wear the white shimmercloth of the Magi’i, and two of the women wear white tunics and trousers, trimmed in pale green. The third woman-the one with curly black hair-wears the green of a healer.

The light cast from the shimmering cupridium reflectors of the wall lamps blankets the formal dining room with a warm glow, and turns the white linen into a pale gold. The golden-oak backs of the carved dining chairs are sculpted into smoothly interlocking arcs, none quite forming a complete circle.

The older magus who sits at the head of the table is the only one of the three with the crossed lightning bolts glimmering on the breast of his shimmercloth tunic. The others wear but a single such lightning bolt. After taking another small sip of the maroon Fhynyco, the older magus turns his eyes to the healer who sits to his left.

“Your brother Vernt…he is most dedicated to the Magi’i.”

“He always has been,” replies Myryan.

“And your older sister?” asks Kharl’elth politely.

“She remains a healer. As you know, she has found healing to be her calling.”

“Without a consort, alas.”

“There is a need for some healers who remain without consort.” Myryan smiles politely, lifting her glass of redberry, but barely sipping any of the juice.

Kharl inclines his head to the thin-faced healer. “Your ability to assist the…lower…healers, and your aid to the officers of the Mirror Lancers, are most remarkable, Myryan. And your actions have bestowed much honor upon your consort and this house.”

Myryan bows her head. “What little I do but is but a trifle in the light that already shines forth from this house.”

“Modest, she is, as well.” Kharl turns his eyes from Myryan to the tall and broad-shouldered Ciesrt. “Yet she is talented in healing, and in teaching her craft, and from a most distinguished lineage, and with a garden with which few compare.”

Myryan lowers her eyes.

“She is most remarkable as a consort.” Ciesrt beams. “In so very many ways. I look forward to coming home each day.”

“And you are most fortunate, my son,” adds the white-haired woman who sits at the end of the table opposite Kharl. “Remember that in years to come.”

Myryan covers her mouth and swallows quietly, her eyes remaining downcast.

In the dimness of the dining room, and against the distant lightning of the fall storm over the harbor, the vague unseen luminescence of chaos perceived by four of those around the table, and with the flickering of the lamps in wall sconces, none remark upon the faint and also unseen mist of darkness that lifts away from Kharl.

Nor do any note the sudden pallor that crosses Myryan’s face. The healer takes a slow sip of wine, and steadies herself beneath the level of the table with her left hand-the one that had been resting in her lap. Her eyes remain demurely downcast, not meeting those around the table for some time.

When she does raise her head, ever so slightly, an enigmatic smile plays across her lips momentarily.