Scion of Cyador

LXXXVII

It is nearly late midmorning when Kysia comes to the top of the stairs and announces, “Lady, ser…the carriage is here.”

“Thank you,” Lorn calls, clipping the Brystan sabre in place.

“I’ll carry Kerial. You don’t have that many uniforms left,” Ryalth says.

“Again,” notes Lorn. “I’ll need to have some more tailored.”

“Very stylishly.”

“No…not too stylishly.”

After a moment, Ryalth nods. “Well-fitted, but not dandyish.” She slips Kerial, who wears a cream-colored tunic above green trousers that look baggy, into the crook of her left arm.

Then the two descend to the main floor of the dwelling that still amazes Lorn in its deceptive size and luxury. Outside, the sun shines brightly, although there is a slight haze that lightens the green-blue sky.

The carriage that waits outside the iron gate is older, although the polished golden-oak and spruce of the closed body have been kept oiled and clean.

As Lorn and Ryalth step outside the iron gate, Lorn looks at the gray-haired coachman. “The Road of Perpetual Light, at the crossing of the Tenth Way.” He opens the carriage door and extends an arm to help Ryalth inside.

“Yes, ser.” The coachman smiles. “Handsome young-’un, there.”

“Thank you,” Ryalth says as she steps up and inside the carriage.

“You be needing me all day?” asks the coachman.

“Most of it, I’d think,” Lorn replies. “You’ll be paid for the whole day.”

“Thank you, ser.”

With a nod, Lorn follows Ryalth into the coach and closes the door.

As the carriage passes the Fourth Harbor Way East, Lorn can sense the chill of a chaos-glass, and he looks at Ryalth. Her lips quirk.

“Did Kysia find a messenger to send to Jerial?”

“Of course. Otherwise Jerial might have been at the infirmary, but she’s not. She’s packing up her things.”

Lorn winces. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

“She’ll be fine, dear,” Ryalth says. “Unlike some.”

He forces himself not to take a deep breath when the unseen chill of the chaos-glass passes.

Ryalth raises her eyebrows.

“I don’t know.” He answers the unspoken question. “A magus, but…” He shrugs. “It could be any first-level adept.”

“There will be more,” Ryalth says, patting Kerial on the back.

“I fear so-now that I am back in Cyad.”

When the coach pulls up outside the dwelling that had been Lorn’s parents’, he steps out quickly, holding the door and offering a hand to Ryalth.

“You can wait in the shade here,” Lorn tells the coachman. “And there’s water in the lower garden there.”

The driver nods.

“I don’t know how long we’ll be.”

“We’ll be here, ser.”

Lorn and Ryalth walk toward the door, but before they have even started up the steps, Jerial opens the door and steps beyond the privacy screen. Lorn’s older sister is clad in a deep black, and there are circles around her eyes.

Lorn steps forward and hugs her.

“I’d hoped it would be you.” She steps back and gestures. “Come on in. Things are messy…I’m packing.”

Lorn holds back a frown and waits for Ryalth to carry Kerial past the tiled privacy screen, then nods to Jerial, and follows the women into the house.

“Kerial just keeps getting bigger,” Jerial notes as she closes the door.

As they walk up to the second level, Lorn looks at Jerial. “I’m sorry. I was never told. I didn’t get any scrolls from you or Ryalth.”

Jerial nods. “I feared that when I didn’t hear, and when I realized that Dettaur was at Assyadt. I could feel it when you looked for Ryalth when we were together.”

The three take seats in the sitting room.

“Gaaaa…” Kerial announces, waving a chubby fist. “Gaaaa!” He lurches in Ryalth’s arms toward the dark-haired healer.

“He’s being social,” Jerial says with a smile.

“He knows his aunt,” Ryalth counters.

“He’s like his father.” Jerial grins at her brother. “Or like you were before you met Ryalth.”

“Thank you for the last phrase,” Lorn says.

Kerial lurches once more, and Ryalth stands and carries her son to Jerial, who takes him easily.

“You’re getting to be such a big boy,” Jerial coos at the infant.

“About Father…Mother?” Lorn asks. “How long has it been?”

“Father died on twoday of the third eightday of winter. Mother did not last three eightdays beyond. I don’t think she wanted to…and she had spent so much energy keeping him alive.”

“I’m sorry…you know I didn’t know.”

“What could you have done?” Jerial shakes her head. “I think I’m angriest that Dettaur took your scrolls to Father. At the end…Father would reread the older ones, and he would talk to me about when we were young.”

“How was he…at the end?” Lorn ventures.

“The same as always, except weaker. He was still sometimes saying the usual platitudes, except that they weren’t for him-and sometimes the unexpected. He told Vernt that there would come a time when Vernt would need your help, and that Vernt had better not tilt his nose too far back to see it.”

“He said that?”

Jerial laughs. “And he told me that there was life beyond Cyad, and not to forget it when the time came. He didn’t say much to Myryan that way, except to enjoy her garden, ‘for gardens are worlds.’”

Lorn swallows, fearing his father’s foresight. “You said you were packing…”

“The house is actually Vernt’s, you know, but he suffers me to live here for the moment, although his consort will probably change that.” Jerial laughs. “They’ve already moved into the master bedchamber, and brought in one of the servants from her family, now that she’s expecting.”

Lorn raises his eyebrows.

“You met her. Vernt’s consort.”

“I know. Mycela-she’s the daughter of Lector Abram’elth. One of the last scrolls I got from Father said she was expecting this summer.”

“She is. She does dote on Vernt, but the cream and simpering can get heavy at times, especially now that she’s already planning the child’s entire life.”

Lorn glances at Ryalth.

“I already told Jerial she was welcome to stay with us,” Ryalth says.

“A merchanter I know has consented to let me live in his dwelling,” Jerial says, with a faint smile.

“Someone who once was a dissolute gambler?” Lorn asks, almost idly.

“Exactly. It’s an arrangement of convenience.”

Ryalth nods.

Lorn turns to his consort. “I don’t suppose that Ryalor House made those arrangements?”

Ryalth smiles brightly. “How could I have done otherwise?”

Lorn shakes his head, then looks at his sister. “You’ll be close to us?”

“Only about three blocks to the northwest. It’s a small place. It used to be a carriage house.” Jerial smiles. “That way, at times, I can take care of Kerial.”

“You two…” Lorn shakes his head, then glances toward his consort.

Kerial has begun to windmill his arms, and Jerial glances at Ryalth.

“He’s hungry, I think,” Ryalth says.

Jerial stands and carries the boy to his mother, and Ryalth takes him, then unfastens several buttons on her tunic and eases her son to her breast. “He is hungry-again.”

“Father left some things for you,” Jerial looks at her brother. “Vernt got most everything to do with the Magi’i, but there are several stacks of books for you…and some papers he gave to me that he asked that you read as soon as you returned to Cyad.”

“We can send some of the warehouse workers from Ryalor House with Lorn to get the books later in the eightday,” Ryalth suggests, shifting Kerial slightly as he feeds.

“Don’t make it too long…and I need to get that box for you, while I’m thinking about it.” Jerial rises. “I’ll be right back.”

After Jerial takes the stairs, lightly and quickly, Lorn glances at Ryalth. “She seems to be all right.”

“She is.” The lady trader studies her son fondly. “You are a little piglet.” She looks up. “I’ll wager you were, too.”

Lorn shrugs helplessly. “I don’t recall.”

“I’ve heard about you and the pearapple tarts.”

“I was older then.”

“And probably more restrained,” the red-haired woman counters.

Lorn is still laughing as Jerial comes back down the stairs from the fourth level. The carved wooden box that Jerial carries had rested on one of the lower shelves in his father’s study, Lorn recalls, although he has never seen the box open. It is perhaps a third the size of a lancer footchest, and made of a dark and shimmering wood, inlaid with spirals of intertwined shimmering white cupridium and green lacquered cupridium.

“The box was Grandfather’s, Father said.” Jerial extends the box. “It’s filled with papers, and there’s a folded and sealed letter to you there.”

Lorn swallows and takes the box.

“Oh…and Vernt has made the arrangements with the registry to have the shares of the bond transferred to you and to me and Myryan.”

Lorn frowns.

“Father and Mother had set aside enough in golds,” Jerial explains, “and some in a trading account, so that the house wouldn’t have to be sold. Vernt will even have some golds, as well as the house.” The dark-haired healer looks at her brother. “You were kind to relinquish the elder-claim.”

“I’m not even the oldest, and I couldn’t see you and Myryan suffering.”

“You think I’d suffer?” Jerial arches her eyebrows.

“Well…”

“I’m doing fine, but I thank you.”

“Whhaaaaa!” Kerial interjects as Ryalth shifts her son to her shoulder to burp him.

“Now…in a moment, you can have some more, you little piglet.”

Kerial’s burp is loud, and Lorn winces. Ryalth smiles as she lowers Kerial to her other breast.

“You’ll get used to it,” Jerial predicts.

“I’m sure I will.” Lorn looks down at the heavy box in his lap once more. “Did Father say…anything?”

Jerial shakes her head. “Just that you would understand.”

“For a while, I think he despaired of my ever understanding anything.”

“He just wanted you to think that,” suggests the dark-haired healer.

“Ryalth has said as much,” Lorn admits. “You two think alike…too much, at times, I fear.” He grins.

“Poor…poor lancer officer,” Jerial coos at her brother.

“It’s a good thing you’re my older sister,” Lorn mock-grumps, “and that I respect you.”

“Very good, because you still don’t know everything,” Jerial responds. “Ryalth and I have to make sure you listen to us.” She grins.

“I’m outnumbered.” Lorn looks from side to side.

“You’re overdramatizing, too, dearest,” suggests Ryalth.

Lorn shrugs.

“How long will you be free?” asks Jerial.

“I have furlough until an eightday from oneday, but I’ll be reporting directly to the Majer-Commander to work here in Cyad.”

“That’s quite an honor,” Jerial says evenly.

“A dangerous honor,” he admits. “More dangerous as the seasons turn.”

The healer nods slowly. “What else are you doing…today?”

“We also need to see Myryan,” Lorn says.

“Yes, you do.” Jerial’s words are firm.

Lorn tilts his head at the tone of her words.

“She doesn’t talk to me-not really talk-and I don’t think she’s that happy. She will talk to you.”

“We’ll go there from here.”

“I’m glad.”

Ryalth disengages Kerial. “No. No biting.” She closes her shirt and tunic before burping her son.

Jerial stands. “You two need to see Myryan, and I need to finish packing before Mycela’s simpering turns to whining.”

“She whines?”

“Most politely,” Jerial says dryly. “It’s still whining.”

Lorn stands, then helps Ryalth. The three walk down to the front door, Lorn with the ornate wooden box under his arm.

“I’m looking forward to your dinner,” Jerial says. “I’ve been eating too much of my own cooking lately.”

Lorn raises his eyebrows.

“Mycela’s cook’s and my tastes aren’t exactly the same. That’s another reason to finish the packing.” Jerial grins as she opens the door.

The coachman has the carriage door open before Lorn and Ryalth have descended the steps out to the Road of Benevolent Light.

“Out to the Twenty-third Way,” Lorn tells the coachman. “East,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn assists his consort into the coach, then follows and settles himself on the seat beside her. “Kerial is doing well.”

“We’ll see how he lasts,” Ryalth replies.

Lorn glances at her, seeing the weariness in her eyes. “You’re tired.”

“It isn’t always easy, being the mother and the lady trader, even with a bed for Kerial in my trading office. And trading now is more dangerous than ever.”

“Why now?”

“The Emperor has lost three fireships, and there were never enough to protect all the traders. Piracy is increasing, particularly in the Gulf of Candar. They say that the pirates have built a small base on Recluce.” Ryalth shrugs. “The Emperor’s Enumerators are getting stricter, and since there’s no Hand to appeal to…”

“You wrote about that. The Emperor hasn’t appointed a new Hand?”

“Not yet. There are rumors that he’s ill, as well. That means prices go up and down with the latest rumors, and that makes merchanting even harder-without the sleep I lose to my little friend here.”

“Gaaa…” Kerial says.

“Yes, you, piglet,” Ryalth replies.

The carriage slows.

“Twenty-third Way, ser and Lady!”

Lorn waits until the coach comes to a halt before opening the door and then helping his consort out. Still holding on to the box from his father, he glances up. “I don’t know how long…”

“That be fine, ser. You’re paying, and waiting is easier than traveling.”

“Thank you.” Lorn glances toward the small house.

Perhaps because of the strong midday sun, the blue tile roof of the two-story dwelling seems more vivid than when Lorn had visited Myryan before, and the green-glazed brick walls more faded. The blue-and-green-tiled outside privacy screen retains the time-faded golden lily inset in its center.

The two walk to the front entrance, and Lorn knocks once. There is no response. He knocks again.

“Hello!” he finally calls when there is no answer to his knocking.

“Lorn! Ryalth! I was out in back!” calls Myryan as she hurries from the side gate toward the couple at the front door. “In the garden.”

“Always in the garden,” Lorn says as he hugs his younger sister.

As had been the case when he had last seen Myryan, Lorn notes how frail she seems, although there is no sickness or chaos surrounding her. Even in the nondescript gray shirt and trousers she has been wearing in the garden, the slightest scent of trilia and erhenflower enfolds her. Myryan-never anything but slender-looks almost painfully thin to Lorn, despite the broad and welcoming smile and the thick and short-cut unruly black hair curling out around her face.

“Come on!” Myryan says as she opens the front door. The black-haired healer leads them through the front door and the small, tile-floored foyer into the front sitting room, with its pleasing green-tinted, off-white walls. After she flips open the three narrow and shuttered windows and gestures toward the settee upholstered in faded blue, Myryan steps to the windows, and one after the other, opens the shutters to let in the light, then waits until they sit before taking the straight-backed oak chair.

“I wrote you scrolls from Assyadt,” Lorn says, “but I found out later that Dettaur destroyed most of the scrolls I wrote or that were written to me.”

“I didn’t write much because you didn’t write back.”

“I did write. Dettaur intercepted the scrolls going both ways.”

“Dettaur? Your old schoolmate? You never liked him that much.”

“For good reasons.”

“I didn’t know him that well. Jerial despised him.”

“He wanted her to be his consort,” Lorn said.

Myryan shakes her head. “That box…”

“It was Father’s. He left it to me, with a letter.”

“Somehow…it should be yours.” She pauses. “Are you going to be in Cyad long?”

“Quite a while. I’ve been transferred to work for the Majer-Commander in the headquarters at Mirror Lancer Court. I have a little more than an eightday of furlough.”

Myryan bounds up from the chair. “Ryalth is hungry. She’s almost white. You have to have some lunch with me. It would be better later in the year, because I’d have fresh vegetables, but the spiced pearapples I put up last fall are still wonderful-”

Ryalth laughs. “Pearapples! I should have guessed.”

Almost in moments, Myryan has the table off the kitchen set with all manner of food-two sets of cheese wedges, dark and rye bread, heavy square crackers, pickled roots…and the spiced pearapples. “I got some ale, because there aren’t any juices yet-if that’s all right. And there’s never any coffee anymore.”

“Fine. Ale is fine,” Lorn reassures her.

Myryan pours three mugs full and hovers over the side of the table.

“You can sit down,” Lorn says with a laugh as he starts with the white cheese that is so scarce at the Mirror Lancer outposts and munches it with a heavy cracker, also something he has seen few of over the past years.

“Is there anything else…”

“It’s fine.”

Myryan eases onto the edge of her chair.

Ryalth slowly eats a small wedge of the yellow cheese with what Lorn suspects is a pickled turnip, a combination far too bitter for him. Kerial’s chubby figures grasp toward the cheese. “This is Mother’s food. You can have some before long.”

“Gaaa…”

“Not now. Later,” the mother tells her son.

“We’re going to dinner with Ciesrt’s parents tonight,” Myryan volunteers.

“How are they?” Lorn asks.

“They always ask when they can expect a grandchild. Lately, the questions are getting more pointed.” Myryan shakes her head. “I’m not ready for that.” She looks at Kerial. “Now…if they were all as happy as he is…I might think about it.” Abruptly, she turns to Lorn. “Kharl is quite close to the Captain-Commander of Mirror Lancers. They talk a lot. I’ve picked that up.”

“I’m sure I’m too lowly to be of concern to such well-placed men,” Lorn says with the hint of a laugh.

Myryan shakes her head. “There’s something going on. Whenever Kharl sees me coming, he smiles, and he doesn’t mean it. Sometimes, he’ll change what he’s talking about so quickly that the person he’s with looks confused.”

“Probably Magi’i things,” Lorn replies.

“Listen to your sister,” Ryalth says. “Healers can sense those things.” She looks at Myryan. “What do you think is going on?”

“I don’t know. Kharl schemes a lot. He always smiles, and he never means it, and there’s always chaos swirling around him.”

“Does Ciesrt know?” pursues Ryalth.

“Not much…he sometimes looks bewildered, and then Kharl gets this patronizing look on his face. I feel sorry for him then, but there’s not much I can do.” Myryan takes a small nibble of white cheese.

“No, you can’t,” Ryalth says gently.

“Are you sure there’s enough?” Myryan glances from Ryalth to Lorn and back again.

“There’s more than enough,” Lorn says firmly. “Enough for three times this many.” He pauses. “How’s the garden coming?”

“I already have sprouts for the beans and the melons.” Myryan smiles, tossing her head slightly. “And you’ll be here this year, so you can have fresh melons. They were really good last fall.”

“I’ll look forward to that,” Lorn promises.

“Do you know how long you’ll be in Cyad?”

“A year or more, I’d guess, but no one has said. The Majer-Commander said I’d been away from my consort and family too long, and sent me off on furlough as soon as I arrived.”

“You actually met him?” asks Myryan.

“I’ll be working for him directly,” Lorn says,

“Ciesrt said that everyone in Mirror Lancer Court is ordered to work for him, but most never see him.” The black-haired healer smiles. “He’ll be surprised.”

“Just tell him that I met the Majer-Commander. I’ll have to actually report for work before I know if what he said is what he meant. I’d look a little foolish,” Lorn points out, “if Ciesrt’s right. And he might be.”

Myryan nods. “He’ll still be impressed that you met Rynst’alt. His father is always talking about him.”

“He is?” asks Ryalth.

“Waaa…waaa…gaa!” interjects Kerial.

“They keep saying that he’s been there forever. Most senior lancer officers don’t even remember the Majer-Commander before him.”

Lorn nods. “That’s good to remember. He’s gray-haired, but he doesn’t look that old.”

Ryalth glances at Lorn, her eyes going down to the squirming child.

“Ah…I think Kerial’s getting fussy,” Lorn says.

“You don’t have to go yet, do you?”

“He won’t be much fun before long. It’s time for his afternoon nap,” Ryalth says, as she stands. “Past time.”

Lorn rises also.

“Now…you’re coming to dinner on sixday,” Ryalth turns to Myryan. “You and Ciesrt, and Ayleha will be looking after Kerial, so that we’ll have more time to talk.”

“We’ll be there. Even Ciesrt seems pleased. He’s looking forward to it.”

“Good,” say Ryalth and Lorn, nearly simultaneously.

“And,” Lorn says, “you could come over next eightday and have a midday meal with us. Or me…if Ryalth has to go back to being the merchanter.”

“I’d like that.”

“Waaa!” Kerial yells.

The two parents slip toward the door, with Myryan following. Lorn reclaims the ornate wooden box on the way out.

Myryan waves from beside the privacy screen as they enter the coach.

“She’s nervous,” Lorn says as the coach lurches forward.

“Wouldn’t you be? Her consort’s father is plotting, possibly against her brother. Her consort doesn’t understand half of what’s occurring, and both her consort’s parents are looking at her and demanding that she produce an heir.”

“I’d be very nervous.”

“She is,” Ryalth points out, rocking Kerial, and looking down at him. “We’ll be home before too long, and you’ll be in your little bed.”

Lorn glances back through the carriage window, but Myryan has vanished into the house or garden.