Scion of Cyador

CXLV

Lorn looks up from the glass.

Ryalth steps inside the study, carrying Kerial. “Myryan and Ciesrt should be here before long.”

“I was going to use the glass to follow Tasjan and some others before it got too late.” Lorn nods toward the blank glass before him. “Tasjan always travels with guards-his own-the ones garbed in blue. I thought that if I kept trying I might find somewhere that he doesn’t. He walks a different route to the Plaza each morning and night.”

“There is one thing I found out today,” Ryalth says. “I was going to tell you later, but I was late because of the Suthyan who arrived at Ryalor House so late…”

Lorn raises his eyebrows, waiting.

“Tasjan dines at Ayadyr often, usually on fiveday evening.” Ryalth shifts Kerial from one shoulder to the other.

“So he might not take his guards to the table?”

“I do not know,” Ryalth admits, “but when he dines with family in his dwelling there are no guards in the dining chamber-that, your glass has shown.”

Lorn nods. “We will follow him tomorrow and see…If so…” He shrugs. “I can but hope that naught else occurs in the few days it will take to see what can be done.”

Ryalth glances over her shoulder. “They should be here soon.”

Lorn looks at the blank glass. “Would you mind if I studied the glass for a few moments?”

“No.” She smiles. “If it is but for a few moments. I will check on dinner with Kysia and Ayleha.”

“A few moments,” Lorn confirms.

Even before she leaves the study, he focuses on the glass, and upon the first image.

Sasyk is in an exercise hall Lorn does not recognize, sparring with another man. Both are larger than Lorn, and both appear accomplished. There are other figures in green, sparring as well. As Lorn lets the image fade, he frowns. Sasyk is clearly trying to ensure his greensuits are welltrained with the blade, and despite the rumors, since piracy has not increased, that training bespeaks an interest in more than protecting trade.

The next image Lorn calls up is that of Tasjan, but the merchanter merely walks along a white paved street, followed by four large and muscular blue-clad guards. Tasjan looks up, and smiles, as if to tell any magus who follows him that he is aware of the scrutiny. Lorn lets the image of Tasjan fade.

At the sound of women’s voices drifting up the stairs, Lorn slides the chaos-glass into its case, and glass and case into the drawer of the table desk. Then he stands and stretches before heading down the stairs to greet his sister.

As Lorn enters the sitting room, from where she sits on the far side of Myryan, Ryalth mouths, Thank you.

“I’m sorry,” Lorn says to his sister, “I was working on something that took a bit longer than I had thought.” Lorn looks closely at Myryan. She is frail, thinner than he recalls, and yet her amber eyes glow. “I’m glad you could come tonight. Where’s Ciesrt? I thought he was coming.”

The dark-haired healer shrugs. “As I was telling Ryalth, he came back from the Quarter and told me I’d have to come alone. He’s over at his father’s. Kharl wanted to talk to him.” She sighs. “He’s been spending a great deal of time with Kharl lately. I cannot say I like it.”

Lorn looks at his sister. “Is anything the matter?” He seats himself beside Ryalth on the settee.

Myryan offers a sad smile in return. “Nothing that is any different from before, Lorn. Ciesrt is centered on himself, like most of the Magi’i, but he is kind enough, and gentle enough.”

“What about his parents?”

“I detest them.” Myryan’s words are level.

Lorn can sense near-fury, and absolute truth in the three words.

“Because of the children thing?” asks Ryalth.

“That…and because, to them, I’m an ornament. No…I’m a tool to be used. I’m a thing that is valuable because of who my parents were.”

“Doesn’t Ciesrt…?” Ryalth ventures.

“He tries…but Kharl is strong, and will have his way. Ciesrt can’t stand up to him.” A wry smile crosses her face as she brushes back unruly black curls from her forehead and looks at Ryalth. “Lorn could. Lorn stood up to Father, and to senior officers. Ciesrt isn’t that strong. I knew that. I didn’t think that his father…though…” She shakes her head. “I have decided something, though,” she adds, as if it were an afterthought.

“What?”

“Too much order, even in healing, is worse than too much chaos.”

“Is there any doubt of that?” Lorn says with a laugh.

“Ah….” Myryan draws the word out with exaggerated slowness, “but do you know why?”

Ryalth frowns, her blue eyes flicking between her consort and his sister.

“I don’t see where you’re going,” Lorn admits.

“Order’s greatest cruelty is that it denies chaos,” Myryan declares, her eyes glowing even brighter. “I see that now.”

Lorn nods slowly, trying to make sense out of all the words, and find the meaning behind them. “Why do you say that?” he temporizes, trying to draw her out.

“Lorn…perfect order is perfect memory. Would you truly wish to remember every unkindness done to you, every cruelty you dispensed? Would you wish to live in a world where every chamber is perfect, yet without heat? Where fire does not exist…because it changes, and order denies change? Where children are never born, and no one dies? Where each person is unchanging…?”

Lorn finds himself shivering at the image.

“The kindness of time is that it passes…” Myryan murmurs. Then she smiles abruptly. “I didn’t come here to mope about things. I came because I like to be around you two.” She smiles at Kerial, and the boy tries to lurch from Ryalth’s lap.

Ryalth stands and carries her son to his aunt.

“He’s so good,” the healer says, taking the Kerial into her arms. “And he feels so good to hold.”

“Most of the time,” Lorn suggests, “unless he’s wet.”

“We should probably begin dinner,” Ryalth ventures, “or it will get overcooked, and I do not care much for overcooked fowl. Also, Kerial is being good, and how long that will last…”

Lorn laughs.

As the three enter the dining area, Kysia appears and takes Kerial.

The three sit, and Ayleha begins to bring in the serving platters, starting with a gold-rimmed blue platter holding slices of fowl covered in a golden cream sauce.

“When I’m here, everything is so elegant,” Myryan says.

“You deserve elegance,” Lorn says, laughing and adding, “and so do we, but we only get it when we have company.”

“Elegance and grown-up company,” Ryalth adds, passing the tray to Lorn, who takes but one slice of sun-nut bread, before holding it for Myryan.

“You have been busy lately,” Myryan says. “Even Ciesrt is talking about how effective your demonstrations of the firelances have been. Are you the one who developed those drills?”

“They’re just variations on what I’ve used in the field,” Lorn says, holding the platter to allow Myryan to take several slices of the sauce-covered chicken. “No drill really shows what it’s like.”

“We were at Kharl’s several nights ago, and Ciesrt suggested that perhaps some of the Magi’i should put on a display.” Myryan laughs, if with a note of sadness. “Kharl was not amused. He said that the use of chaos was for what needed to be done to preserve Cyad, not to provide entertainment for outland traders and ignorant…folk.”

“He said ‘ignorant merchanters,’ I would wager,” Ryalth responds.

“He did. I sometimes forget how sharp you two are…until I come here. I think that’s another reason why Ciesrt feels uncomfortable with our family. Everyone sees things he doesn’t, and he has trouble accepting that.” She shrugs. “Then, Kharl sees what Ciesrt doesn’t, and I suppose Ciesrt doesn’t wish to be someplace else that reminds him of that.”

“I’m sorry for him,” Ryalth says. “I felt that way at first, I think, but your father and mother helped so much.”

“I miss them,” Myryan says simply.

“We all do.”

For a time, the three eat, near-silently.

Lorn takes the last sip of the Alafraan in his goblet. “I think this is even better than usual. What do you think?” He inclines his head to Myryan.

“Brother dear, how would I know? Your wine is the only one I drink, and I can take little enough of that.”

“It is good,” Ryalth says. “Is there anything left in your garden?”

“After last eightday’s frost?” Myryan shakes her head. “Just some of the root vegetables, the late carrots, potatoes…I did get all the rest of the pearapples pickled or stewed.”

“Stewed pearapples…waste of a good fruit,” Lorn grumbles.

“Letting them rot on the tree or the ground is the waste.”

Ayleha appears, silently as always, and begins to clear away the dishes.

“How much did you put up?” Ryalth asks.

“I don’t know. It seemed like scores and scores of jars. But they’ll all be gone before midwinter, I’d guess.”

As the serving woman places a dish of egg custard before her, Ryalth smiles. “I might actually finish a dinner by myself.” She frowns. “That’s really not fair to Kerial. He deserves a more regular schedule, but I never know when I can leave Ryalor House or when I’ll be late.”

“Or when I will be,” Lorn adds.

“Part of that is because you both want to spent time with him and each other,” Myryan suggests.

“Until this year, we haven’t spent that much time together,” Lorn agrees.

“It has been good to see him every night.” Ryalth smiles.

“Sometimes, it amazes me,” the healer says. “You two belong together, and I’ve heard the story so many times, yet it doesn’t quite seem real.”

Lorn and Ryalth share a glance.

“That’s what I mean. Neither of you are Magi’i, yet you know so much about each other.”

“Names are not everything,” Lorn observes, taking a last mouthful of the egg custard and adding, “That was good.”

“Almost as good as pearapple tarts?” asks Myryan, with an innocent-looking smile.

“It was very good,” Lorn grins back, “better than anything except the best of pearapple tarts.”

Myryan tries to cover a yawn.

“Are you getting enough rest?” asks Lorn.

“Always the big brother. It’s been a long day. I spent the morning in the garden and then went to the infirmary.”

“I have a carriage waiting to take you home. Pheryk will go with you,” Lorn says.

“I can make my own way,” Myryan insists.

“I am sure you can,” Ryalth says, “but Lorn and I would feel better if you accepted the offer.”

“Besides,” Lorn adds with a laugh, “you’d waste my coins. I’ve already paid for the carriage.”

“I would not do that. Not to either of you.” Myryan smiles the extra-bright smile once more. “It has been a long day, and I will not insist.”

The three rise and make their way out of the dining area and then to the foyer off the veranda.

“You have to come more often,” Ryalth says, opening the door.

“With or without Ciesrt,” Lorn adds. “We like to see you.”

“I like to see you two,” Myryan replies.

The three walk out to the iron gate, the area lit by a single lamp Pheryk had obviously hung and lit sometime during dinner.

Myryan smiles a last time before entering the carriage.

Pheryk nods to Lorn and Ryalth. “Be back shortly, ser, Lady.”

Once the sound of the carriage dies away, Lorn closes the iron gate and locks it, then looks at the redhead beside him.

She looks back at him. “There’s something wrong.”

“There’s a lot wrong,” Lorn says. “But there’s no flux chaos around her, and no excessive order.”

They walk slowly through the cold darkness, past the still fountain.

“You think she and Ciesrt are having problems?” asks Ryalth.

“I don’t know. I was truth-reading her. There are things she doesn’t want me to know. That, I could sense, but they center on Kharl, I feel. There’s just…a sadness…around her when she mentions Ciesrt. I don’t feel I could use the glass…” Lorn shakes his head.

“Even for her safety?”

“Dearest…you see how often I use the glass to follow Tasjan, and how little I discover from each attempt. Myryan would know my screeing, and how would she feel seeing me watch over her every other moment?”

“She is your sister, but I worry.”

“So do I.” Lorn opens the door from the veranda to the foyer. “So do I.”