Scion of Cyador

II

Lorn opens the door to the small upper-floor balcony, checking to see that the spring weather remains warm in the late afternoon. With a nod, he closes the door and turns to take in the main room of Ryalth’s quarters-the low ebony table, the straight-backed black oak armchair that is Ryalth’s favorite, the settee opposite it, and on the other side of the room, the green ceramic brick privacy screen that protects the main door from the inside. To his right is the alcove that contains the circular eating table and two armless chairs. To his left is the narrow archway to the bedchamber, and beyond that, the small bathing chamber.

He smiles as he looks at the portrait of Ryalth as a young girl. In it, she wears a high-necked green tunic, and a thin golden chain. The floor of the main room displays ancient blue wool carpet with a border of interlocked ropes, surrounding a woven image of a blue-hulled trading ship under full sail, the ill-fated ship once owned by Ryalth’s merchanter father, and the one on which her parents had perished.

“Are you ready?” calls the redheaded lady who is his consort, as well as the head of the newly ascendant trading house-Ryalor House. Lorn sometimes still has trouble believing that she has incorporated his name into that of the trading concern she has established, even if he had helped her in the years before they were consorted.

“Yes. I was checking to see that it was still warm out.” He crosses the room and steps into the bedchamber. There, he adjusts his sabre and the collar emblems on the new Mirror Lancer uniform that Ryalth had arranged to have waiting for him when he had returned from his previous duty station. His efforts in battling the Accursed Forest had destroyed all but one of his Mirror Lancer uniforms, and that one he had worn on the firewagon trip back to Cyad.

“Is it?”

“It’s very pleasant.” He smiles at her as he steps away from the narrow mirror set on a stand against the bedchamber wall. “Still…I almost wish that we were not going to my parents’ for dinner again. I don’t have that many days left before I have to leave for Biehl.”

“They were charming the night before last.” Ryalth eases past Lorn and before the mirror, touching her short red hair with the silver-backed and tortoiseshell comb. “And they don’t keep us late. They do understand.”

“That was because it was only them and Jerial. Vernt and his consort-to-be, and Ciesrt and Myryan will be there tonight.” He steps forward and puts his arms around her waist, then kisses the back of her neck. “You smell so good.”

“I’m glad you think so.” For a moment, she leans her cheek against his. “You don’t mind being here? In my quarters?”

“They’re our quarters, and you are my consort, and I like being here with you.”

“My rooms are so…modest, compared to your parents’ dwelling.”

“Nothing is modest when you’re there.”

“Such flattery.”

“Not flattery. Truth,” he insists.

“Truth is in the mind of the speaker,” she counters. “The mirror reflects what is, and the image is of modest quarters.”

Lorn laughs. “Are you ready?”

“It is not going to rain, is it, O magely one?”

“No…I checked, remember? It will be warm this evening. And I’m not that much of a magus.”

“More than you admit.”

Lorn does not answer, but hugs her and kisses her neck again.

“I like walking with you, knowing you can wear your uniform.”

“Some may still think you my mistress,” Lorn teases.

“Not if I wear the blue-and-green cloak.”

Lorn laughs. “You can wear green, if you wish, now that we are consorted. Could not I wear blue, without subterfuge?”

“You could, but I like the cream-and-green better.”

Lorn recalls a question he has failed to ask. “And how would the honored Bluoyal, the Merchanter Advisor, feel about a lancer wearing blue?”

“You didn’t worry about that for years.” She smiles. “Why now?”

“Because no one knew who we were.” Lorn pauses. “What of Bluoyal? When Eileyt speaks of him, his mouth puckers, as with a sour fruit. Eileyt is usually so careful. Since he is the senior enumerator of Ryalor House, that is good. But he didn’t conceal his distaste of Bluoyal to me, not at all.”

“You are my consort,” Ryalth points out.

“What of Bluoyal?” Lorn asks again.

“Bluoyal…I try to avoid him.”

“Is he like Shevelt?” Lorn’s eyes harden as he recalls the Yuryan Clan heir he had removed years earlier because of the man’s attempts to use his position to force himself on Ryalth.

“No.” She shakes her head. “No. Bluoyal is effective at telling the Emperor the problems the merchanters face, but he wishes all to pay him great homage for that effectiveness. He also was one of those who brokered the means for Liataphi’s daughter to consort with Veljan.”

“Oh…so, in a way, Veljan owes his position to Bluoyal and the Magi’i?”

“With some, that pearapple was hard to swallow.”

“He has not bothered you?”

Ryalth smiles. “Save for collecting our-Ryalor’s-scorth, no.”

“A twentieth part of your revenues?”

She shakes her head. “It is called that, but it is but one part in fifty of the revenues after expenses.” She drapes a light cotton cloak over her shoulders, blue with a green-and-cream border. “Best we go. I would not have your parents looking askance at me for delaying their son.”

“They would blame me,” Lorn points out. “Not you.”

Ryalth shakes her head as she walks from the bedchamber and toward the privacy screen and the outer door. “They yet have that black angel-cursed Magi’i sense that all is their responsibility, and yours, as you are of the elthage blood. I can’t even be responsible for delaying you.”

Lorn opens his mouth, then closes it as he sees the sparkle in her eyes. “I’ll hold you responsible…but just when you are.” He opens the door for her.

“I hope so.”

Once they have descended the stairs, they walk uphill along the Thirteenth Way, and then westward on the Road of Perpetual Light, in toward the center of Cyad for the three very long blocks before they reach the dwelling where Lorn was raised.

“We’ll be first,” Lorn says.

“Because your brother will wish to exert his superior position by later arrival, as will Myryan’s consort?”

“I think Ciesrt just will wish he weren’t coming, but he doesn’t wish to offend father.”

“Not Myryan?” Ryalth lifts her eyebrows.

“Ciesrt believes consorts are appurtenances.”

“I am glad you do not believe such.”

“You would scarce let me,” he counters.

They laugh in the mild spring air, ignoring the carriages and wagons that pass along the Road of Perpetual Light. Lorn’s eyes take in the Palace of Eternal Light to the west, and all the other white granite and sunstone structures that rise in the marvel that is Cyad, the shining city, the city beside which all others pale. The words of one of the verses from the silver-covered book come to mind, the book from Ryalth’s heritage she had entrusted to him so many years before.

The city, Cyad, lost light like a star,

The dream, Cyad, guiding near and far.

He smiles to himself. Cyad is indeed a special city. Then he turns his eyes to the dwelling ahead.

Jerial meets Lorn and Ryalth at the door to Lorn’s parents’ dwelling. The healer wears a green tunic so dark it is almost black, and her black hair is cut short. “You always look so good, Ryalth.” She studies her brother. “Did I tell you I like her?”

“I believe you have. Several times.”

“You might as well go on up.” Jerial shuts the door and steps around the inside privacy screen. “Mother and I thought we would eat on the upper portico tonight. It is warm, and the breeze is gentle.”

“We’re the first?” Lorn asks.

“Except for Father and Mother.”

Lorn and Ryalth climb the three flights to the fourth and topmost level of the dwelling in which Lorn was raised.

Lorn’s mother is waiting at the uppermost landing. “You look wonderful, Ryalth. I like the cloak.”

“Thank you.” The redhead inclines her head.

“I did persuade Myryan and Ciesrt to come tonight.” Nyryah raises her eyebrows. “Ciesrt wanted to know if Vernt would be here. He was pleased to know that Vernt is bringing his consort-to-be. That’s Mycela. I do not believe you have met her.”

“I have not had that pleasure. In fact,” Lorn adds dryly, “I had not had the pleasure of knowing he intended to take a consort until the other night when you told me.”

“He has been seeing her since the turn of fall.” Nyryah turns, and the three walk toward the southwest corner of the upper level, toward the roofed but open-air area flanked with columns that adjoins the warm-weather dining area.

They have barely taken their first steps when the door to the study opens behind them, and the white-haired Kien emerges. He walks toward them with the barest hint of a shuffle. “Greetings, Lorn, Ryalth. It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen you two.”

Lorn smiles.

Ryalth laughs gently.

“You’ll have them here every moment, dear, if you aren’t careful,” cautions Nyryah.

“Not even a old magus like me could manage that,” counters Kien. “Lorn will be gone again to his station in Biehl in less than an eightday.”

The four walk slowly toward the portico dining area.

“The harbor always looks so beautiful from here,” Ryalth observes. “You have such a wonderful view.”

“We are fortunate,” answers Nyryah. “At times, I sit here in the late afternoon and watch the clouds and the ships.”

“Lorn!” Vernt appears behind them, accompanied by a blonde young woman who is laughing at something.

Lorn and Ryalth turn and step toward the two recent arrivals.

“Lorn, Ryalth, this is Mycela.” Vernt smiles at the blonde. “This is my elder brother Lorn and his consort Ryalth. As you can see, Mycela, Lorn is an overcaptain in the Mirror Lancers, one of the youngest, I would venture, and Ryalth is the head of Ryalor House, one of the newly prominent trading houses in Cyad.” Vernt smiles happily.

“How nice to meet you both.” Mycela’s smile is not quite simpering.

Lorn and Ryalth bow ever so slightly to the white-clad younger woman.

“Mycela is the daughter of Lector Abram’elth,” Vernt explains.

Jerial slips by Vernt. “Ciesrt and Myryan are on their way up. She stopped to get something from her old room.”

“You recall my sister Jerial,” Vernt says.

“You wear green,” Mycela says, wide-eyed, as she bows to Jerial.

“I am a senior healer, and without consort,” Jerial says with a shrug. “The green is more appropriate.”

“You do have such an unusual family, Vernt.” Mycela giggles slightly. “They do so many things.”

“Lorn!” calls Myryan as she appears behind Vernt, who steps back for Ciesrt and Myryan.

Ciesrt inclines his head to Vernt. “I am most glad to see you here.” He bows slightly to Vernt’s consort-to-be. “Greetings, Mycela.”

Mycela giggles momentarily. “Greetings, Ciesrt.”

“Perhaps we could sit down, now that Ciesrt and Myryan are here.” Nyryah gestures to the dining table on the covered upper balcony, set as always, and as Lorn can recall from his childhood, so that all but Nyryah can look downhill and south directly at the harbor-and to the west and slightly uphill at the Palace of Eternal Light. Twilight lingers, and the sky remains the purple maroon that is beginning to fade, but the lamps set in brackets on the columns have already been lit. In the harbor, the white stone piers glimmer above the darkness of the water and before the Great Western Ocean farther to the south. The Palace remains an edifice of shimmering white, and light beams from its windows, from the innumerable lamps within its high-ceilinged corridors and halls.

Lorn and Ryalth are to be seated across from each other at the southern end of the table, with Nyryah at the end between them, and Jerial to Lorn’s left and Ciesrt to Ryalth’s right. Vernt and Mycela flank Kien, while Myryan sits between Jerial and Vernt. Lorn nods at Ryalth. “If you don’t mind…could we change places?”

A faint smile crosses Jerial’s face, but vanishes near-instantly, as the two consorts trade seats. A blank expression appears on Mycela’s face.

As soon as Lorn takes the seat that had been Ryalth’s, silence settles on the table, and all look to the north end.

“In the blessing and warmth of chaos, in the prosperity which it engenders, let us give thanks for what we receive.” From the north end of the table, the white-haired Kien speaks clearly, then lifts his head and smiles. “It is so good of all of you to be here tonight.”

The dining table around which the nine sit is covered with a pale green linen cloth, and set with glistening white porcelain plates. Quyal-the cook-appears with a large platter that holds fowl breasts covered in a thick cream sauce, and sets it before Kien. Kysia-the head of his parents’ household, whose wages had been supplemented for years by Ryalth, secretly at first-follows a covered dish from which steam rises, and with a silver tray holding thin slices of dark sun-nut bread.

Lorn takes a sip of the wine-Alafraan-and glances at Ryalth, murmuring, “You had this sent here.”

She smiles. “It was the least I could do, after all your parents have done.”

“It was most thoughtful,” Nyryah adds.

Lorn’s lips curl into a rueful smile.

“You are not here long, are you, Lorn?” asks Ciesrt.

“No. I’m between duty assignments, and I’ll be leaving on oneday.”

“Where will you be going?” Ciesrt follows up.

“To head the port detachment in Biehl.”

“You’ll be the one in charge?” asks Mycela. “The head officer?”

“That’s what my transfer orders say.” Lorn smiles and passes the nut bread to his mother, after taking a slice for himself. “The port detachments protect trade and ensure that the tariffs are collected fairly.”

“I imagine it will provide a respite after fighting the barbarians and the Accursed Forest,” suggests Kien. “And it is somewhat closer to Cyad.”

“What of the Accursed Forest?” asks Vernt. His brow furrows. “What exactly do lancer patrols do there?”

“We ride along the walls to see that no wild creatures escape. We also maintain order and guard the Mirror Engineers while they repair any walls that the Accursed Forest has damaged.”

“The Forest damages walls?” asks the wide-eyed Mycela.

“Some of the trees that fall across the ward-walls are more than twenty cubits thick and nearly as hard as stone. They occasionally damage the wall and the wards that contain the Forest creatures.” Lorn glances at Ciesrt. “I understand that the Forest project is coming along.”

“I believe so, but that is not something that I do.” Ciesrt shrugs. “There are rumors, but your father would know far better than I.”

Vernt and Lorn glance at the oldest magus.

Kien smiles wryly. “I, too, must plead silence, except to say that there is a project, and if it works as it may, Cyad will need far fewer lancers to patrol the Accursed Forest.”

After a moment of silence, Ciesrt looks across the table at Ryalth. “Myryan has said that you are head of a trading house.”

“Ryalor House,” Ryalth confirms.

“And you are truly the head of it?” Ciesrt asks. “Did you come to that because your parents had no sons?”

“Actually, Ciesrt,” Lorn says smoothly, “she created it and built it from a clanless trading room into one that rivals many full houses. She is most skilled, and I was quite fortunate to prevail upon her to be my consort.”

“Oh.” Ciesrt frowns.

“There are not many lady merchanters who head houses, are there?” asks Myryan, her eyes twinkling.

“I know of only one other,” Ryalth admits. “She is much older.”

“Did she not inherit her position?” asks Jerial.

“I believe such, but I do not know for certain.” Ryalth’s words are cautious.

“So…Lorn is right,” Jerial says. “You’re the first woman in generations to head a trading house by your own ability, and perhaps the first to build one.”

“I have had assistance. Those who work for me are good.” Ryalth smiles. “And Lorn has been a great inspiration.”

“He usually is,” adds Kien, with a dry laugh, “even for those who have not wished such inspiration.”

“Father!” Myryan mock-protests.

Kien finishes his fowl breast before looking at his younger daughter and raising his white eyebrows. “Your brother makes an impact wherever he goes. He always has. Talk to his friends, like Tyrsal and Dettaur.”

“Where is Dettaur these days?” asks Ciesrt.

“The last we heard he was second-in-command or something at Assyadt,” Jerial answers. “He writes occasionally, but he does not write of what he does.”

“He still writes?” Lorn asks.

“He has hopes,” Jerial says.

“He must be an important officer,” offers Mycela. “If he is in charge of something, that is.”

“He approaches women like a campaign,” Jerial adds, “as if we were to be assaulted and captured. That is difficult.” She smiles at Mycela. “At least for those who are healers.”

Lorn looks across the table at Myryan. “How is the garden coming?”

“This year it’s much better. Ciesrt powdered some limestone, and Ryalth had a cartload of stable manure delivered last fall. We still have jars and crocks of things, and I’m hoping that this year will be even better.”

“She is wonderful with the garden.” Ciesrt beams. “She coaxes the best vegetables and fruits from the land. I doubt any young magus has a consort so marvelous. And she cooks so well, too, and everything in the house is so neat, and clean.”

“I will have to visit you, and learn your secrets,” Mycela says. “I would not wish Vernt to lack for anything.”

Lorn swallows and takes refuge in another sip of wine as the domestic conversation continues. Ryalth smiles at him gently, taking a sip from her own goblet as well.

“This time, we do have a proper dessert,” Nyryah announces, after all have finished what they would eat, “the special creamed pearapple tarts.” She looks at Lorn. “And there are enough for two apiece.”

Lorn feels himself flush slightly in the dim light, hoping the others will not notice, and takes a sip of the Alafraan.

Nyryah gestures, and Kysia and Quyal appear beside the table to remove the dinner platters and to place a small plate before each of the diners. Her plate, and that of Jerial, have but one tart. All the others have two.

Lorn waits for all to be served and for Ryalth and his mother to begin before he takes a bite. He nods as he swallows. “They are good.”

“You’ve always thought so.”

“I think I’d best learn the recipe for this dessert,” says Ryalth, with a laugh. “My cooking is far simpler, but…his favorite dessert…”

“Keep the cooking simple,” suggests Jerial. “You haven’t spoiled him yet. Don’t start now.”

“My own sister,” Lorn laments, offering a sad face.

“Brush the crumbs from your chin, if you wish to look truly sad,” Jerial counters.

Lorn laughs. So does Ryalth.

In time, the tarts vanish, and the conversation dies away.

Lorn nods to his mother, then his father. “I thank you both, and everyone else here for coming. I would that I could stay longer, but I have been traveling for days, and a few nights’ sleep, I fear, has not made up for the travels and a long season with the Accursed Forest.”

“It has been so good to have you and Ryalth here with everyone,” Nyryah beams. “But we will see you more, won’t we?”

“You will,” Lorn promises. “As we can.” He smiles and extends his hand to Ryalth.

The redhead stands, then bows to Nyryah, then to Kien. “Thank you both so much.”

“I’ll come down with you.” Jerial slips away from the table and follows Lorn and Ryalth down from the table.

As the three walk down the steps to the front door, Jerial says, “I’m glad you got to meet Mycela.”

“What do you think of her?” Ryalth asks quietly.

“She’s perfect for Vernt,” Jerial replies sweetly.

Lorn winces.

“I thought so, too,” agrees Ryalth.

Both women smile.

After they are well clear of Lorn’s parents’ dwelling and Jerial has closed the door, Ryalth turns to Lorn. “I like Jerial.”

“She likes you. That is most clear.”

“You noticed that all the outside consorts were placed at first on one side of the table?” Ryalth says as they walk slowly eastward through the still-warm evening.

“I did what I could,” Lorn says.

“I know.” She reaches out and squeezes his hand. “Mycela didn’t understand.”

“Neither did Ciesrt. I’m not sure Vernt did. Jerial did. She smiled when we switched places.”

“Was your mother displeased?”

“I’m not sure. There was no other way to set up the table, not by lineage, but I didn’t like it.”

“I’m glad you’re the way you are.”

Lorn squeezes her hand, and they continue eastward along the Road of Perpetual Light, back toward the quarters that have become his as well as hers.