Scion of Cyador

CXVIII

The two women-one a trader and one a healer-sit across the dinner table from each other. Beside the trader sits a Mirror Lancer officer in his working uniform of cream-and-green. The trader wears shimmercloth blue, and holds an infant dressed in a green shirt in her lap. The healer wears green, and pushes a lock of curly black hair off her forehead. The gentle scent of erhenflower emanates from her.

Lorn looks across the dinner table at his younger sister. “We’re glad you could come this time.”

“So am I. Ciesrt doesn’t like to come to family things unless Vernt’s there.” Myryan shrugs. “But Ciesrt’s in Summerdock for an eightday or so.”

“What’s he doing there?” asks Lorn.

“Something to do with reclaiming the chaos-storage cells on the fireships-the ones whose towers failed. Some can be used on the firewagons, and some for firelances, I guess.” Myryan takes a last bite of the glazed fowl. “I shouldn’t have eaten so much.”

“You brought the squash and lentils,” Ryalth said. “We don’t get vegetables like you grow. Neither of us has time to garden, and Pheryk and Grehty came too late this year to plant one. Pheryk says he knows just where he’ll put the garden next year.” She smiles. “That’s next year.”

“We haven’t asked, and you haven’t said,” Lorn says, “but how is Ciesrt?”

“As always.” Myryan takes a long swallow of the Alafraan.

“What’s the matter?” Lorn asks gently.

“Nothing…or nothing you can do anything about.” The black-haired healer shakes her head. Her fingers twine around the stem of the goblet.

“Is it Ciesrt?” asks Ryalth. “Something we should know?”

“It’s not Ciesrt. It’s his father.” Myryan looks to Ryalth, and then at the softly babbling Kerial in her lap. “He’s so sweet.”

“Tonight,” Lorn says with a laugh. “Tonight, he’s sweet.”

“The other day Lorn had to walk him in circles for forever. I was so worn-out that when Lorn saw me, I just snapped at him.” Ryalth smiles. “He took Kerial and sent me upstairs for a bath and a nap.”

“I’m still amazed.” Myryan smiles, if but momentarily. “I never thought of Lorn as a father.”

“Neither did I,” Lorn admits.

“What about Kharl?” asks Ryalth gently.

“He’s pushing Ciesrt. He wants us to have a child. He’s talking about having me see some other healer besides Jerial.”

Lorn manages not to frown.

Myryan turns to him. “You know something about this, don’t you? And you didn’t tell me…”

“No…I didn’t know a thing, but I have to wonder.” Lorn purses his lips.

Both women look at him and wait.

“Kharl is the Second Magus. There’s no great respect or affection between him and the other high lectors. Everyone knows that.”

Myryan nods.

“It’s also common knowledge in the Mirror Lancer Court that Kharl has been courting the Captain-Commander of Mirror Lancers.”

“But…old as Chyenfel is…he is still strong, and he keeps chaos at bay,” Myryan says.

“Exactly,” Lorn says. “Who is not keeping chaos at bay, or will not be able to for long?”

Myryan and Ryalth look at each other, then at Lorn.

Lorn waits. He does not want to offer any suggestion, because he wants to see if the connection is logical.

“Rynst is old…” says Myryan.

“He looks older than he is. He will outlive Chyenfel,” Lorn says.

“Vyanat’mer is the youngest of the advisors to the Emperor,” Ryalth says.

Myryan’s hand goes to her mouth. “You aren’t serious…a Magi’i…the Malachite Throne…the lancers…oh…that’s why you mentioned Luss.”

“I don’t know that,” Lorn says. “But you had mentioned that they had been pushing for a child before. And you are the daughter of the most respected magus of the generation.”

“If Myryan has a child, then there are two generations of heirs…is that what you’re suggesting?” asks Ryalth.

“I don’t know. They just could want grandchildren…”

“Ciesrt’s older sister consorted with Zubyl almost two years ago, and she’s finally expecting in midwinter.” Myryan snorts. “They haven’t said so much as a word about it. Kharl hasn’t, anyway.”

Lorn takes a small sip of the Alafraan. His guts are churning.

“This upsets you, doesn’t it?” asks his sister.

“Yes. Not as much as it’s upsetting you, though.” He offers a crooked smile. “I was just guessing.”

“No one wagers against your guesses,” Myryan says. “Not if they know you, and I’ve known you too long.” She pauses. “I still can’t believe it. How could he possibly think…? And Ciesrt, he’s never said a word. Not a word.”

“Would he know?” asks Ryalth.

A bitter smile crosses Myryan’s face. “He wouldn’t even think of it. He hopes he’ll make lector someday. He’s knows he’s not as bright as his father, and in that way, he’d do whatever he could to please Kharl.” She looks at Lorn. “Whatever made you think of that?”

He shrugs helplessly. “I couldn’t say. The pieces were there, and…” He shrugs again.

“Do you want a child?” asks Ryalth.

“No…” Myryan shakes her head slowly. “Not like this…not…I can accept being a consort. I can support Ciesrt, and make him happy. I’m not strong enough, not like Jerial. I couldn’t take having everyone look at me, and judge me, or say no one wanted me…” She swallows. “I’ll be all right. Really…I will be.”

Ryalth reaches across the table with her one free hand and places it on Myryan’s. “We’re here. You can stay here…”

“Everyone would know.”

“Healers are respected elsewhere,” Ryalth says. “I could get you passage anywhere in Candar-even find you a patron in some ports.”

Myryan shakes her head once more. “I’ll be fine. Sometimes…I just pity myself too much. I have a consort who wants me, and he’s gentle, and kind in his own way. I have a house and a garden. I’m respected as a healer. I’ve never had to make my own way, the way you have, Ryalth. Or fight people like Lorn has.” She swallows. “I’ll be fine.”

“You can stay here tonight,” Ryalth says.

“I’ll do that, but that’s all. Tomorrow…I’ll be fine. It’s just…Who could I tell? Jerial’s so strong. She doesn’t understand. Mother understood…I miss her so much. I wish I could talk to her.” Twin streaks of tears ooze down her cheeks. “I miss her…”

“I miss them both,” Lorn says.

“Gaaaa….” Kerial says, softly, a chubby hand extending toward the sobbing healer.

“She would have understood…she would have…” Myryan blots her eyes with a shimmercloth handkerchief.

Lorn and Ryalth exchange a brief glance.

“I’ll be fine,” Myryan says, more emphatically, wiping away the last trace of tears. “I just need a cry now and then. I didn’t expect…not here, but I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll stay here tonight,” Ryalth says, and her words are not a question.

“In the morning,” Lorn adds, “you can talk to Pheryk about where he ought to put the garden. Neither Ryalth nor I would have the faintest idea.”

“I can do that.” Myryan offers a faint smile. “Thank you for listening…both of you.”

“What is family for?” says Lorn.

“You’ve always been there, Lorn. I remember that. No one else knew…except Mother. And you went to Father when he was mad at you for other things, and you gave me time.” She shakes her head. “Sometimes, I wish I were the one giving.”

“You do. Healers give all the time.” Lorn grins. “And you give things like fruits and vegetables we couldn’t get elsewhere.”

“I mean…big things, like you and Father have done,” replies the healer.

“Right now, all I do is read reports and go to meetings and write reports on them to the Majer-Commander. That’s not very big.”

Myryan looks at him, her eyes unwavering. “You know what I mean. You’re sweet, dear brother, but please don’t humor me.”

“The vegetables were to cheer you up,” he replies, “but I meant it about the healing.”

Myryan laughs, and there is but a slight edge to the sound. “You’re still the big brother.”

“I always will be.” He gives an exaggerated and sheepish shrug. “For better or worse-mostly worse, I fear.”

“You two…” Ryalth’s tone is half scolding, half mock-exasperation. “If you keep this up, Kerial will get cranky, and I won’t get to eat any pearapple tarts because I’ll be putting him to bed, and Lorn….”

“…will eat them all,” finishes Myryan.

“What can I say?” asks Lorn.

“Not too much,” suggests Ryalth, gesturing toward Kysia, who has peered out from the archway from the kitchen. “If we could have the tarts?”

“Right away, Lady.”

“I’ll never live down the tarts,” Lorn complains.

“Never,” Myryan agrees.

Lorn only hopes that Myryan is as fine as she says she is, even as he knows she is not, and as he knows he does not know how to resolve her problem, not as quickly as it needs to be resolved.