Scion of Cyador

XCV

Lorn’s rapier seems to flicker, weaving a wall between him and Tyrsal, as the shorter redhead dances away from the young majer.

“Enough!” Tyrsal jumps back, not lowering his blade for several moments.

Lorn lowers his practice rapier immediately, glancing toward the pair of older majers who continue to practice at the far side of the hall.

Tyrsal also lowers his practice blade and wipes his forehead with the back of the sleeve of his padded practice tunic. “There’s no point to this. Even with you blindfolded and left-handed, I’d still get skewered. You can sense where you are better than most first-level adepts.”

“Me? No.” Lorn shakes his head.

“I’m not blind, my friend,” says the second-level adept wearily. “You had your eyes closed on that last round. You were relying on your chaos-senses, not your eyes.”

“I can’t hide that from you, I see.” Lorn grins.

“Most wouldn’t notice-except maybe Rustyl or the three top Magi’i. They wouldn’t expect it from a senior lancer.”

“I’m not that senior.”

Tyrsal sighs, loudly. “Lorn, I can count. There are perhaps a score-and-a-quarter outposts across Cyador that require majers. There are less than a half score that require commanders outside of Cyad.”

“How do you know that?”

“All I had to do was list all the places where lancers go, and see roughly how big they are.” Tyrsal shrugs. “Then I asked a few questions and listened. I might be off by a bit, but that’s not my point. From what I can tell, there are less than threescore Mirror Lancer officers who are majers and commanders. There could be less than that. That makes you a senior officer, like a first-level adept in the Magi’i.”

“So why don’t I feel so senior?” asks Lorn with a laugh. “I’m like the wood panels on the wall. Everyone knows they’re there, but no one pays much attention.”

“That’s because,” Tyrsal says, half-dramatically, “you’ve been able to act before, without having to persuade everyone. If you figured out how to fight the Accursed Forest better, everyone was happy…”

Lorn can recall a few officers who were not, but he continues to listen.

“…and when you found out how to stop the Jeranyi raids, you only had to kill Dett, who deserved it years before, anyway, to get the Majer-Commander to listen. But you were doing what you were ordered to do-if in a different way. Now…you assist someone who makes the decisions, and no one asks for your advice, and no one gives you any real actions to take.” The redheaded magus laughs. “So you ask me to spar and take it out on me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Tyrsal shifts his weight as he walks toward the rack that holds the practice weapons. “I’m going to have bruises on my bruises. That’s what I get for sparring with a professional.” He grins. “You’d do better against other lancers.”

Lorn shakes his head. “You’re better than most of them.”

After racking his practice blade, Tyrsal looks long at Lorn. “You’re honestly telling the truth. You are.” He shakes his head. “No wonder so many fear you.”

In turn, Lorn racks his blade and pauses. “You’re good with truth-reading, aren’t you?”

The redheaded magus nods, then grins almost boyishly. “Why?”

Lorn shakes his head, mimicking Tyrsal’s abrupt gesture. “No wonder they keep you away from the senior Magi’i.” He grins in return.

“I’d tell you to go home to your consort, except that it’s the middle of the day, and we both have to get back to work.”

“I’d tell you the same, except you don’t have a consort.”

Tyrsal looks down.

“Don’t tell me there is someone?” Lorn grins again. “After all those years of telling me you’d never find anyone?”

“Perchance…I don’t know.”

“Do I know her?” Lorn waits.

“You know of her…but don’t ask. If it works, you’ll be the second to know.”

“After your mother?”

“I have to tell her first.” Tyrsal smiles boyishly once more.

Lorn nods, asking, “Do you want to bring her to dinner next sixday? The only one who I might ask is Jerial, and she won’t say anything.”

Tyrsal frowns, then smiles. “Why not?”

“I’ll check on the day with Ryalth. I might have to move it one day or so.” Lorn frowns to himself. “Best I let you know tomorrow.”

“That’s fine.” Tyrsal blots his forehead. “If we want to get anything to eat…we’d better hurry.”

“According to the outside board, there’s a stew at the Kettle.”

“It’s better than going hungry…”

“But not much?” asks Lorn as he follows Tyrsal toward the washroom.

“Not much at all.” Tyrsal laughs.