Scion of Cyador

CIII

As he walks around the bedchamber, carrying Kerial and patting his son on the back, Lorn yawns. The sole light in the room is a single bronze lamp on the bedside table, its wick turned low enough that only a faint glow extends beyond the table.

“You don’t have to do that.” The tired-eyed mother looks up from the ornate bed, trying not to yawn. “You really don’t.”

“You’re so tired your eyes are black, and you almost fell over into the armoire,” Lorn says. “You need some rest.” He shifts Kerial higher on his shoulder and pats his son’s back again, continually and gently. “Jerial says there’s no chaos here, and I don’t sense any, but his tummy still bothers him.”

Ryalth laughs. “It’s strange to hear you talk about his tummy.”

“Children don’t have stomachs; they have tummies,” Lorn offers in a falsely arch tone. “Now turn over and go to sleep.”

“I’m tired, but I’m not sleepy.” Ryalth yawns.

Lorn shakes his head. “Not sleepy?”

“You need sleep, too. You won’t think very well tomorrow,” she counters.

“It doesn’t matter right now. I can’t do anything, except write reports on meetings.” As Kerial half cries, half whimpers, Lorn concentrates and pats his son on the back and circles in the space between the bed and the armoires. After another two circles, he looks at Ryalth.

Her eyes are still open.

“Do you have any idea how the Emperor could raise more coins from tariffs?” Lorn asks.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because it seems impossible,” Lorn replies, stifling another yawn and patting the unhappy Kerial, who continues to whimper every time his father stops walking. “No one respects our traders unless we have warships and lancers, and we need more of each, with the chaos-towers failing. That takes more coins, but if tariffs go up, there is less trade and fewer coins.”

“Lower the tariffs on trade and tariff something else-like the dwellings of the Magi’i.” Ryalth shakes her head. “That won’t work. There aren’t enough Magi’i. I’m too tired to think.”

“Just close your eyes and try to sleep. You need it more than I do.” Lorn slips toward the single lamp by the bed and turns down the wick. With his night vision, he doesn’t need the light, and Ryalth needs the darkness and the sleep.

Then he continues to walk in circles, patting Kerial and humming softly.