Scion of Cyador

Lorn’alt, Cyad Sub-Majer, Mirror Lancers
LXXXII

Lorn shifts his weight on the hard seat of the firewagon, his eyes going out the window as the vehicle rumbles downhill along the smooth stones of the granite way that will pass west of the Palace of Eternal Light. Outside, a light warm mist filters out of gray clouds, leaving a shimmering sheen over the white granite and sunstone buildings and streets of Cyad. The trees are full-leaved, and the green-and-white awnings are spread.

Lorn smiles as he beholds each facet of the City of Eternal Light as the firewagon carries him past the upper merchanters’ quarter, as the Palace of Eternal Light appears, and as he can see the blue-gray waters of the harbor. For all its intrigue and problems, Cyad is truly a city of light and one of hope for the world. He finally leans back from the window.

Inside the firewagon, on the right side of the compartment, is a round-faced magus, at least a second-level adept, for he wears the lightning emblem on the breast of his tunic. The magus is older, with gray at his temples and the hint of the sungold eyes that distinguishes many of those Magi’i who work heavily with chaos. His eyes and chaos-senses have lighted upon Lorn occasionally, and more than once in the past hundred kays of the journey has puzzlement crossed his face.

The sole other occupant of the front compartment is a silver-haired merchanter who continues to sleep quietly in the corner opposite Lorn’s, directly across from the magus. Abruptly, he sits up-when the firewagon begins to slow as it approaches its final stop at the harbor portico. After a moment, he looks around, then out into the mist, nodding as he catches sight of the larger merchanter mansions on the hill. He turns to his travel companions. “Majer, Magus…I wish you both well.” His eyes twinkle as he looks at Lorn. “You will find much has changed, Majer.”

“I imagine it has,” Lorn responds, wondering exactly how much the merchanter knows, for the man has scarcely spoken to him since they boarded at Chulbyn the day before, and Lorn has only given his name and his previous duty station.

“The essentials of Cyad change but little,” replies the magus.

There is the slightest of lurches as the firewagon brakes to a complete stop under the portico.

“They will change more than even the Magi’i can know, honored ser,” suggests the older merchanter. “My best to you both.” With a sprightliness that belies his appearance, the merchanter is the first to leave the firewagon.

Although Lorn reaches for his sabre immediately, he waits for the older magus to depart the firewagon before he extracts his bags from under the seat and slips out into the warm moist air of Cyad. Once outside on the platform portico, he sets down the bags and clips his sabre to his green web belt before looking toward the carriage-hire lane across the narrow way from him. Since there are several carriages, he lifts his bags and crosses to the first, addressing the driver. “The Traders’ Plaza.”

“Yes, ser.”

The driver leans back and opens the carriage door for Lorn, who sets the two duffels that hold his gear-and his chaos-glass and Ryalth’s book-on the floor of the covered carriage. The carriage feels confined and stuffy, yet damp, and Lorn is glad when the short ride ends and he can step out into the misty warmth outside the Traders’ Plaza, where he tenders three coppers, before making his way across the outside Plaza toward the clan side.

Once again, he has no idea of what to expect, except that Ryalor House is on the uppermost level. Figures in shimmercloth blue glance at him, then glance away at the sight of the cream-and-green Mirror Lancer uniform.

“…don’t see many senior lancers here…”

“…family, probably…”

Family indeed. Lorn smiles as he walks up the steps-wider and older than those on the clanless side of the Plaza, with depressions in the center of the granite risers. On the uppermost level he finds the doorway with the Ryalor House emblem above it-the inverted triangle with the intertwined R and L-and steps through the open doors of ancient and polished golden oak.

He does not even quite make three steps into the open space inside the door before Eileyt has two junior enumerators taking his bags and ushering him toward the private study-or office, as Ryalth calls it-that is his consort’s. As he walks toward the rear corner, he can see that Ryalor House now occupies several rooms.

“She’s here, Majer, and told us to be watching for you,” Eileyt says. “She has been for several days.”

“I see.” Lorn laughs gently. From the reception he is getting, he has the impression that Ryalth has been most forceful.

Ryalth stands in the open door of her office, in her blue tunic and trousers, her hair shorter, but with a wide and warm smile on her face. As Lorn nears, she steps back into the office, and Lorn finds himself standing before her, his bags being deposited beside him. Then the door is closed, and Lorn is not sure who holds whom, only that they do.

“You’re back,” she finally says, leaning away enough to speak, but leaving her arms around him.

“I’m back. It’s so good to hold you.”

“It’s good to hold you.” She glances sideways at him. “You’re worried.”

He nods. “I’m not sure I should be here. I’m supposed to report to the Majer-Commander as soon as I arrive. But it’s been so long.”

“The Majer-Commander can spare us these few moments.”

Lorn agrees, and they embrace again.

After a time, Lorn glances around, then sees the small high-sided bed in the corner.

“He’s sleeping,” Ryalth says. “I’m glad you looked.”

He puts his arms back around her. “I’ve looked so many nights.”

“I know. I could feel it. That’s why…how…I knew you were all right and that you cared when there weren’t any scrolls.”

“There were,” Lorn says. “Dettaur intercepted them all, and all yours to me.”

“Jerial never liked him. Neither did your mother.”

“I never got the scrolls about that, either,” Lorn says.

Ryalth shakes her head. “Why would he do that?”

“Some people are like that. He’s always wanted to bully people, and I’ve stopped him several times.”

Ryalth frowns. “But if you got no scrolls…”

“Your last scroll, the only one I received after the first two seasons ago…it said something about the family problems…and the glass…it came up blank.”

“I’m sorry. Jerial wrote, too, and I think Myryan did.”

“I never got them.”

“Do you have to go? Right away?”

“I can’t stay too long. I probably should have gone straight to the Mirror Lancer Court, but…” Lorn shrugs, then grins. “It has been so long, and I love you, and I’ve missed you.” He also has wanted to at least see Ryalth before he sees the Majer-Commander, for he knows not what lies ahead. “And I’ve never seen Kerial, either.”

Ryalth takes his hand and leads him toward the small bed. “He’s beautiful.”

Lorn looks down at Kerial, his skin fair and clear, his fine hair reddish. After a moment, as if aware he is being studied, the infant opens his eyes, already amber, and gazes back, lifting a chubby hand as if to touch Lorn’s face. Lorn bends and brushes the boy’s cheeks with his lips.

“I’m glad you came here first. It’s the first time you have.”

“You’re the most important one. Both of you.”

“I’m glad.” She touches his cheek. “Will you come back here?”

“As soon as I can.” He draws her close for a last embrace. “As soon as I can.”

It remains a while before Lorn finally reclaims his bags, straightens his uniform, and steps back out into the main space of Ryalor House.

“…doesn’t look so dangerous…”

Eileyt’s laugh is loud enough for Lorn to recognize. “You don’t think her consort would be dangerous?”

As Lorn manages to cross to the outer double doors, he can sense the silence of recognition behind his back. At the doors he looks back. He and Ryalth smile at each other. After a long moment, he turns once more and carries his bags toward the stairs. He hopes he can find a carriage to the Lancers’ Tower. While he knows where the building is, he realizes that he has never been inside the structure. Nor has he ever met either of the men whose names are so familiar.