Magi'i of Cyador

Lorn’alt, Cyad
XLIV

THE FIREWAGON PASSES between the two sets of angled whitened granite pillars that symbolically mark the northern boundary of Cyad, the City of Eternal Light and Prosperous Chaos, and at that moment those pillars are half in the late afternoon sun, half in shadow.

Lorn sits in the middle of the rear-facing seat in the first compartment. To his left is the silent Lancer majer who had boarded the firewagon in Chulbyn and who has spoken to no one. To his right is a black-haired and sharp-nosed merchanter, almost as silent as the majer. Across from Lorn sits a painfully thin young woman in the pale green of an apprentice healer, with her father by the door to her right. Her father-even more spare than his daughter-wears the unadorned white of a magus, without the lightning bolt pin of an upper level adept. The magus alternates between studying the younger men in the compartment, although his observations of Lorn are less intense, as if he has already decided Lorn is scarcely worthy of attention.

Lorn leans back, waiting until the firewagon completes its traverse of the city and arrives at the main firewagon station to the west of the Palace of Light. His thoughts are upon Ryalth and Myryan … and upon Jerial and his parents. None have seen him as a Mirror Lancer officer.

He does not look up as the chaos vehicle takes the upper Way of Far Commerce and passes the three-story sunstone residences of the merchanter clan principals, small palaces on the fourth highest hill within Cyad. Nor do his eyes lift as the firewagon, moving smoothly over the polished granite blocks that floor all thoroughfares in Cyad, glides by the exchange halls that dwarf all but the Palace of Light and the structures that comprise the Quarter of the Magi.

“You’re from Cyad, then, Captain?” asks the majer, addressingLorn for the first time on the entire journey of more than two hundred kays from Chulbyn.

“Yes, ser.”

The majer nods. “I thought so. You’ve seen it before, many times.”

In the seat facing Lorn, the magus lifts his eyebrows, and he tilts his head, as if viewing Lorn for the first time.

“Yes, ser.” Lorn nods politely to the majer, but the other officer relapses into silence.

A time later, when the firewagon slows to a stop, Lorn eases himself erect. After the driver opens the door to the front compartment, Lorn nods to the magus. “Good day, ser.”

“And to you, Captain.” The thin man turns his head and murmurs, “Carefully, Kilenya.” He slides out the open door, then turns to offer his hand to his daughter. The young healer apprentice looks neither at Lorn nor at her father as she takes a small green bag from under the seat and slips from the compartment.

The lancer majer eases his sabre from beside him, takes a single kit bag, and leaves as silently as he had entered so long before, offering a brusque nod to Lorn. In turn, the sharp-faced merchanter inclines his head to Lorn.

“Go ahead,” Lorn says with a smile. “I’ve a great deal under the seat.”

“For your courtesy.” The merchanter nods once more, and slips from the firewagon.

Lorn reclaims his sabre and clips it in place before sliding out the two bags that hold his kit. Once on the platform under the granite pillars of the portico, he takes a slow breath of sea-perfumed air, air far damper than he has felt in three long years. He steps closer to the nearest pillar and sets down his gear, waiting for the others to leave the pillared portico, watching as the provincial mage and his daughter take the first waiting carriage, and the majer the second. The merchanter talks with a white-haired enumerator, both standing by a wagon waiting on the far side of the platform, presumably for some goods that will be unloaded from the center compartment of the firewagon.

Lorn picks up his gear and crosses the narrow way to the carriage-hire lane, where he addresses the first driver of the pair of carriages remaining. “The Road of Perpetual Light, at the crossing of the Tenth Way.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn opens the carriage door and sets the two duffels that contain his kit on the floor, then adds, “Straight down to the Third Harbor Way, and then out.” He grins. “It’s faster that way.”

“Yes, ser. As you wish, ser.” The driver bobs his head nervously with each word he utters.

Lorn slides into the uncovered carriage and closes the half-door, settling back into the upholstered seat and taking another long breath of the moist air of Cyad. For a moment, he glances up at the thin white clouds that seem to hang motionless.

As the two horses pull the carriage southward, Lorn studies the harbor, the white granite piers that hold near-on a dozen vessels, more than two thirds long-haulers with stern ensigns of either Hamor or Nordla. He sees but a single white-hulled fireship and two ships with the blue of Cyadoran houses, and he wonders if one might be a ship in which Ryalor House holds an interest. He laughs softly, telling himself he has no claim on Ryalor House or its assets. None whatsoever.

Except … he shakes his head.

The chill of a chaos-glass screeing him comes over him, as it has intermittently since he went to Isahl, although this imaging is warmer. His father? The feel is similar. He shakes his head. He must work that out-and somehow reconcile his father to Ryalth.

But can he even work matters out with Ryalth? Without her suffering for his transgression of having been a student magus? Will she even consider it? And what of Myryan? Is there anything he can do to remedy her consorting with Ciesrt? Or did he have but one chance where he has already failed?

His eyes do not truly see the City of Light as the carriageconveys him toward the harbor and then eastward beneath and past the Palace of Light, for he wrestles with all the questions seething behind the composed expression upon his visage.

“Ser? This corner?” asks the coachman for hire. “Is this where you wished to be?”

Lorn straightens, glances toward the northwest corner, toward the four-story dwelling where he was raised. The house is larger than he recalls, a dwelling that would be a merchanter palace in Syadtar. “Yes.”

“Three coppers, ser. It was half the city.”

Lorn offers four, and opens the carriage half-door, easily lifting the two duffels, and instinctively managing to keep the sabre from striking anything as he alights. By the time he has carried his kit to the front and formal gate of the house, Jerial is standing on the lower steps, well before the green ceramic privacy screen that protects the main entrance overlooking the Road of Perpetual Light.

His composure shatters into a broad smile.

As his boots touch the steps beyond the gate, Jerial shakes her head. “I felt you were coming. Then I wasn’t sure. You look so … removed, so Lancer-like-I almost didn’t recognize you.” Then she smiles, and for a moment, the formal facade of healer fades. “I was hoping it wouldn’t be long after your last scroll.”

Lorn drops his kit and hugs her, amazed once more at how small she truly is, for she has always seemed so much larger.

For but an instant, she clings to him before deftly slipping out of his embrace. “You’re stronger.”

Lorn understands. “I hope so. I tried to follow what you said.” He pauses. “Where’s Myryan?”

“She is consorted … father wrote you, I know ….”

He shakes his head. “I knew. I … Myryan …” He shrugs. “What you don’t see is sometimes hard to picture.”

“She and Ciesrt have a dwelling. You can see her in the morning. She spends the afternoons at the infirmary.”

Lorn holds back the frown. He understands that message as well.

“Father used the chaos-glass, but he and mother are still waiting upstairs.”

“Decorum,” Lorn says dryly.

“Always,” responds Jerial, her tone as dry as Lorn’s has been.

Lorn picks up the duffels once more, and the two walk up the lower steps and then around the decorative tiled bricks of the privacy screen and into the lower entry. Side by side they ascend the marble steps of the formal staircase. Only the servants’ quarters are on the lower level-where breezes are rare.

Lorn’s mother-her once-mahogany hair now almost entirely white-stands at the back of the second-level entrance hall. Beside her is Lorn’s father, in shimmercloth white, the bolts of chaos glowing on the breast of his tunic.

“It’s so good to see you.” Nyryah’s smile is shy, if warm She does not move toward her son.

“It’s good to be here.” Lorn sets down his kit, steps forward, and hugs her firmly. Her embrace is firm, but without the strength he has recalled.

When Lorn steps back, Kien’elth inclines his head to his son the Mirror Lancer captain. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s good to see you, Lorn. You have grown … in more ways than one.” Kien’elth’s smile is both welcoming and strained.

“I’ve tried.” Lorn’s smile is practiced and easy. “The Mirror Lancers make you work and think.”

“Work, certainly. You have a few more muscles,” offers Nyryah.

“I’m as scrawny as ever,” Lorn protests.

“No, you’re not,” Jerial counters. “Mother would know.”

Lorn shrugs helplessly.

“I would like a few words with Lorn.” Kien’elth smiles, first at his son, and then at his elder daughter, and then his consort. “But a few words, and you may have him back.”

“I will check the dinner,” Nyryah says. “We may be able to find some tarts, or a pearapple pie.”

“Mother …” Jerial smiles despite the slight exasperation in her voice.

“Lancer captain or not, I doubt that Lorn has lost his taste for sweets … of all kinds,” Nyryah says firmly. “He does take after his father.”

Lorn can’t help but grin at his mother.

Even Kien shakes his head ruefully, if barely.

Lorn carries his bags up the second flight of stairs, leaving them in the third level foyer. He unclips the sabre and lays it across the green bags, then follows Kien’elth up the inner steps and to the study on the uppermost level. With an inner sigh, Lorn notes the slight shuffle in his father’s walk and the thinning of his white hair.

The senior magus closes the study door before making his way to the chair behind the polished white oak table-desk. He sits carefully and not-quite-heavily.

Lorn takes the chair closest to the desk, careful not to let his boots scuff the polished wood of the legs. He waits as his father studies him in the comparative dimness of the paneled study. The sun-gold eyes have lost none of the intensity Lorn recalls.

“I said you had grown in more ways than one. I think you understand to what I refer,” Kien states.

“Yes, ser.”

“It is a dangerous course. Few complete it.”

Lorn shrugs, understanding all too well why his father will not mention Lorn’s growing power and control of chaos. “I’ve followed what Myryan and Jerial have advised as well, for my health, of course.”

“They would know, but best you not mention that again, even to me.”

“Yes, ser.” Lorn forces himself to recall that he is back in the City of Light, where every statement may be truthread, and every movement caught in a screeing glass like the one which rests, covered, on his father’s desk. He frowns, as his eyes study the light amber of the wood which frames the glass.

Kien follows his eyes. “Yes, it’s only a year or so old.The old one vanished when I traveled to Fyrad last year.”

“That’s odd,” Lorn says.

“Most odd,” reflects his father. “I packed it when I left Fyrad, but when I unpacked here, it was gone.”

Lorn nods slowly. He is indeed back in Cyad.

“With no sense of it in a year, I doubt its fate will ever be known.” Kien leans forward in the chair and studies his son. “You may recall Alyiakal?”

“The lancer emperor?”

“The lancer-magus emperor. Any Mirror Lancer who has such talents may well turn Cyador over to the barbarians.”

Lorn waits.

“I’m aging, Lorn, and I am too fond of pontificating. Yet I would ask that you bear with me and not ask any questions.” At those words, Kien’elth turns in his chair so that he does not look at the lancer captain and cannot even see Lorn. “All who are of the Magi’i are bound to serve chaos, and thus limited by chaos. Those who are lancers are restricted because Cyador can but support limited companies of the Mirror Lancers with firelances. A senior lancer officer who could muster chaos would not be so bound or restricted, and both the senior commanders of the Mirror Lancers and the most senior Lectors are bound to find and assure such never become senior officers. None speak of this; none who are not first level adepts or lectors know of such.”

Lorn remains silent in the pause that follows his father’s words. Technically, Kien’elth has not addressed his son, yet he has risked much even to speak as he has.

Kien turns back to face Lorn. “Some from Cyador romanticize the freedom of the barbarians.” His white eyebrows lift. “Would you be one of those?”

“No. Once I asked myself about that freedom.” Lorn laughs harshly. “That was before I got to know them.”

Kien nods. “A man free of all restraints is a slave to chance and order. The barbarians are slaves to chance, even while they proclaim their freedom.”

“They’re dangerous, and there seem to be more of them every year,” Lorn points out.

“I suspect it has seemed that way for many generations,” Kien says. “Cyador endures, and the barbarians dash themselves in vain against the lancers.”

Lorn nods, but he recalls Jostyn and Cyllt-and others who had shattered beneath such vain dashing.

“You’ll be here for a season?”

“Five eightdays.”

“Good. We’ll get to see you.” Kien smiles. “So will a number of young women, I suspect.”

Lorn shrugs, looking appropriately sheepish.

The older man rises. “I will not keep you from your sister and your mother. Otherwise we both will hear of it.”

With a smile, Lorn stands.

“We will see you at dinner?”

“Of course. Where else could I get pearapple cream tarts?” Lorn’s smile expands into a broad grin.

Kien shakes his head as Lorn turns.

Outside the study, Lorn glances through the portico columns that ring the open sides of the upper level, his eyes checking the southwest and the harbor, though he cannot see the building that houses the Clanless Traders … and Ryalor House. After a moment, he walks slowly down to the second level, toward his own quarters, if they can truly be said to be such after his three-year absence.

In the foyer, he looks for his bags, but someone has moved them, and then continues toward the rear, slipping through the open door. His bags have been set beside the wardrobe beyond the archway to the sleeping alcove. The sabre lies across the desk. The chamber has not changed, except in the feel of disuse and the lack of small items. There are no spare coppers in the small tray in the corner of the desk, nor any paper in the open-topped white oak box beside the empty inkwell.

He glances at the bags, then offers a crooked smile to the emptiness of the room before turning and walking back toward Jerial’s door.

“It’s open. You can come in, Lorn.”

Jerial sits behind the desk. She replaces the cupridium-tippedpen in the holder and stoppers the inkwell, her slender fingers quick and deft. The piercing blue eyes turn on her brother, and both narrow and finely defined black eyebrows arch into a question.

“A warning about not repeating the mistakes of my past,” Lorn answers.

“Were they really mistakes?”

“In father’s eyes, I suspect.”

“There was more, but I won’t press.”

“Thank you.” Lorn slides into the armless chair at the corner of the table desk that could have been a match to the one in his quarters. “How are matters with you?”

“For a healer without a consort … as can be expected.” Jerial shrugs. “I’m good enough, and I can always be counted upon to be there. For that, all I receive is enormous condescension, but the pressure to be consorted isn’t as bad.” She displays a crooked smile. “I’m older now than most of the junior adepts who need consorts, and those who are left don’t wish a sharp-tongued healer.”

“Especially one with brothers such as yours?” Lorn’s tone is idle.

“Vernt is most accepted.”

“I would have thought so.”

“And a lancer who fights the barbarians is respected.”

“In short, I’m expected to die young and respectably, and Vernt will carry on.” Lorn’s tone is totally without bitterness, as though he states a fact so obvious that there is not a doubt of its veracity.

“No. You are expected to act heroically and effectively.” The eyebrows arch a second time. “Isn’t that what lancer captains do?”

“I’m only half what’s expected, then.” Lorn shrugs. “I’m not terribly heroic.”

“I imagine you are very effective.”

“The majer said something along those lines,” Lorn admits.

“Good.” Jerial pauses. “I presume you will offer some observations on the barbarians and the Grass Hills at dinner.”

“Yes. And how the lancers serve Cyador and the Magi’i.”

“That cream might be too heavy.”

Lorn keeps the smile from his lips, but not his eyes, though he could have done that as well.

Jerial laughs softly. “I forget how well you deliver the outrageous.”

“It’s not outrageous. The Mirror Lancers and the firelances provided by the Magi’i are all that keep the barbarians of the north from turning Cyador into a wasteland.” Looking perfectly earnest, Lorn squares his shoulders.

“Well … Vernt might believe you. If you began with the firelances.”

Lorn’s eyes catch Jerial’s.

“He wants to be like Father, Lorn.” Her healer’s voice carries a trace of sadness. “He does not know Father.”

“I’ll be very careful … and very cheerful.”

“That would be best. Mother is still most observant.”

Lorn nods. “What about Myryan?”

“She is handling Ciesrt as well as possible. Your words to father gave her some more time.”

“You’re afraid it wasn’t enough?” Lorn studies Jerial without seeming to do so, almost leaning back in the armless chair.

“She doesn’t talk to me. Not really.”

“I’ll see her tomorrow,” he promises.

“That would be good. Mother insisted, quietly, that you not face Ciesrt as soon as you arrived.”

“She is not happy with the consorting.”

“Neither she nor father saw any other choices. Myryan could not follow my path.” Jerial’s smile is tight.

“I feared that.”

“You did what you could.”

“I need some time to unpack.” Lorn stands and stretches. “And to wash up before dinner. It was a long ride from Syadtar.”

“And think?”

“That, too.” He turns toward the door.

“Lorn?”

“Yes.”

“When you need them … there are blues for a senior enumerator in your wardrobe, under the winter waterproof. I thought your friend needed, shall we say, advancement.”

“Thank you.” Lorn nods to Jerial, then steps out into the open corridor, walking slowly back to a chamber that is his, and is not.

There he opens the first green bag and begins to place his uniforms in the wardrobe, alongside the enumerator blues. A faint smile curls his lips.

After the clothes are unpacked, and he has slipped the silver volume into hiding with the smallclothes, he takes out the Brystan sabre he has carried across Cyador, resharpened and worked into shape, sensing the faint order-death sense of the worked and polished iron beneath the scabbard. He has taken one liberty with the blade, a significant one, for now the tip of the blade is edged on both sides, if only for a span on the heavy-backed side. His senses tell him that much of a true point will not weaken it, and for what he has in mind, he may need to thrust with it.

He can hold the iron without burning his hands, but there is no reason to, not when Vernt or his father might sense it. He smiles. He is, after all, entitled to a souvenir of his efforts against the barbarians, although he has kept its presence hidden from all the lancers at Isahl, and will from his family. Even should his father scree the iron, Kien’elth will say nothing directly.

Once he has folded the green bags and put them in the back of the wardrobe, he pulls off his boots, and then the uniform he has worn for too many days. There is a robe on one of the wardrobe pegs, which he slips on, before heading out the door toward the bathing chamber.

Once he is washed thoroughly and shaved, he returns to his room and lies across the bed. What can he do about Myryan … and Ryalth?

He does not ponder either long, for sleep claims him.

A gentle rapping on the door frame brings him awake, and he bolts upright.

“Dinner is almost ready,” Jerial says from the other side of the closed oak door. “I thought you’d like to know.”

Lorn has to clear his throat before he can reply. “Thank you. I dozed off.”

“I thought you might.”

There is silence, and Lorn can sense that she has slipped away to let him ready himself.

After hurriedly dressing, Lorn leaves his chambers and walks down the steps to the smaller, and warmer, inner dining area on the second level, his boots silent on the marble of the steps.

Even so, one of the servants nods to him as he nears. He does not recognize the brunette with the round face and the braided brown hair. “I’m sorry. I’m Lorn. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Sylirya, ser. I came here a season after you left.” Sylirya keeps her eyes properly downcast.

“How have you found it?”

“Your family is most kind, ser. A better home I could not have found.” She moistens her lips. “I must help cook, ser ….”

Lorn smiles cheerfully. “Do what you must.”

He waits until she turns, then waits again as he hears his father’s heavy steps on the stairs.

The magus whose hair has turned from shimmering silver to a flatter white over almost four years nods to his son. “You’re still the first to the table.” He looks around, then at Lorn. “Is Jerial here? You were talking to someone.”

“The new servant-Sylirya.”

“She’s scarcely new, Lorn. It’s been nearly three years for her, and for Kysia, and more than a year for Quyal-she’s the new cook.”

“What happened to Elthya?”

“Her mother fell ill, and when she went back to her town-I’ve forgotten the name-a widower she’d known when they were children asked her to be his consort.” Kienspread his hands. “So we had to get a new cook. Quyal’s as good as Elthya, but her cooking’s different, more … western, I’d say. More spice.”

The two men walk through the foyer and along the corridor to the dining area, where they stand by the door, waiting for the others.

“Too spicy?” asks Lorn.

“I did ask for a little less seasoning,” his father admits.

They turn as Jerial approaches.

“Lorn was here, first, I’d wager,” Jerial observes.

“Before me,” their father confirms.

“Vernt should be here before long,” Jerial says. “I heard him come in, but he’ll wait for mother.”

As she speaks, Lorn hears steps, and Vernt and his mother appear. Like his father, Vernt wears the white shimmercloth of an adept of the Magi’i, but without the lightning emblem. He has also added a short-trimmed beard, sandy-colored like his hair.

“The lancer has returned,” the younger mage says. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you.” Lorn inclines his head. “It’s good to see everyone.”

“Can we eat?” Kien rolls his eyes.

“Of course, dear,” responds Nyryah. “Why don’t you just go in and sit down?”

Lorn follows his father. While Kien sits at the end of the table with his back to the window, Lorn takes the place to his father’s right. Jerial sits beside Lorn, and Nyryah seats herself at the end opposite her consort. Vernt takes the place across from Jerial and Lorn.

Sylirya eases a large crock before Kien, setting a ladle beside it. Another woman brings in two trays of bread-sunnut and a dark rye.

“Thank you, Quyal.” Nyryah nods at the second server.

“What-” begins Kien.

“Dinner is a beef stew. Quyal didn’t know Lorn was coming,” interjects Nyryah quickly.

“None of us knew when he was coming,” adds Jerial.

Lorn shrugs.

“Just serve yourself, dear,” suggests Lorn’s mother to Kien.

“I will. I will.” The older magus shakes his head.

Vernt offers the tray of nut bread to his mother, then takes two slices and sets them on his plate, before passing the tray across to Jerial.

“You look good.” Vernt smiles happily at Lorn, then at the tray Jerial holds. “I still remember how you sneaked extras on the sun-nut bread. You’d pass it up to begin with, and then take three slices later.”

Lorn grins easily. “Why not? You always tried to grab two right at first, and you always got caught. Now you can do it, and no one says anything.”

“After all these years,” Kien grumbles good-naturedly, “you two are still at it.”

Jerial laughs. “They’re brothers. Did you expect that to change?”

“I’m getting older. I could hope.” Kien slides the crock toward Lorn, who serves Jerial and then himself, before passing it.

Vernt serves Nyryah and then himself, while Lorn pours a maroon wine for everyone.

“Careful with that Fhynyco,” Kien tells Lorn. “It’s better than Byrdyn.”

“As good as Alafraan?”

“Alafraan? Now he’s heard of wines we don’t know.” Kien shakes his head. “Boy goes off, and now he’s a lancer who knows wines.”

Both Jerial and Lorn laugh.

“I wouldn’t,” Lorn says, “except that one of the officers came from a vintner’s family in Escadr.”

“At least he admits it,” adds Nyryah. “Now … start eating before it all gets cold.”

Lorn needs little urging, and stew or not, the first mouthful tells him it is the best meal he has eaten since he left three years earlier.

“What is Isahl really like?” Jerial asks after Lorn has eatenseveral mouthfuls and half of the slice of nut bread he had slipped onto his plate.

Lorn swallows. “It’s hotter in the summer, colder in the winter, and windier all the time. Outside of the outpost, there are no more than a score of families in the valley, and fewer than that in the adjoining valleys. The only trees are scrub cedars, and bushes …” Lorn’s description is as accurate as he can make it. “ … and everything has walls. Even the herders have sod walls around their holds.”

“I wouldn’t want to be there.” Vernt offers a twisted smile. “It’s too bad he can’t tell that to some of the student mages.”

“They wouldn’t believe me.” Lorn shrugs. “I wouldn’t have believed me.”

A slight chill passes over the room, and Lorn and his father exchange glances. Lorn takes another bite of stew, noting the minute nods between his mother and Jerial. Someone is using a chaos glass. To see if Lorn is indeed with family? Or to check up on Vernt or his father?

“What will you do while you’re here?” asks Nyryah quickly.

“See you, visit friends, enjoy good food, and rest. All the things you can’t do out in the Hills of Endless Grass.”

“And then …?” Vernt inquires.

“I’m off to my next post. In Geliendra. I’ve been told I’ll have a company.” Lorn shrugs. “In the Mirror Lancers, you find out when you get there.” He takes a small swallow of the Fhynyco, stronger and smoother than Byrdyn, then helps himself to more of the stew.

“And after that?” Vernt persists. “Or do you know?”

“I could but guess.” Lorn takes another bite of the stew before continuing. “If I make overcaptain, or sub-majer, I could be the second-in-command somewhere, or head a port installation … or …” He lets the words trail off.

“Seasons enough to worry about that,” says Kien. “Best we enjoy the season at hand.” He smiles at Lorn, and then at Nyryah.

“And you,” she replies to the look of her consort, “are like your sons, wanting to know what sweets follow?”

“There is little wrong with that,” counters the older magus.

Nyryah inclines her head to Sylirya, who slips away from the table, to return with a shallow bowl that she sets before Kien. Then the serving girl slips smaller porcelain bowls, fringed in gold, before each family member before retreating to the archway where she waits.

“You will have to do with dried pearapples and sweet brown sauce,” Nyryah tells Lorn.

“I can manage that.” Lorn chuckles. “I never saw pearapples in Isahl, or Syadtar, either.”

“What is Syadtar like?” Jerial asks. “Is it dirty with narrow streets, like a barbarian town?”

Lorn shakes his head. “It’s like any other town I’ve seen in Cyador. Granite and sunstone buildings, clean tile roofs, wide paved streets, houses like the smaller ones here in Cyad.” He shrugs. “Except for the size of the buildings and how few there are compared to Cyad, the towns I’ve seen all are pretty much alike. That’s until you get to the grasslands and the herders’ holdings out in the Grass Hills.”

“I don’t think I’d like that,” ventures Jerial.

Lorn senses he is being watched, but as he watches, never looking overtly, he can see no one. Nor is the feeling like that of being watched in a glass, as he has felt with his father, and, occasionally, at other times-as had happened earlier at dinner. Being watched, in his parents’ home? Being watched by other Magi’i, in a glass, that he can understand. But who else would care?

He reaches for the pearapples, a smile still upon his lips.