Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I’m finding that everyone here is most perceptive and intelligent, and that matters are far more complicated than they seemed when I was a field commander,” Lorn answers with total truthfulness.

  Luss laughs once, not quite harshly. “Do not let the apparent complexity deceive you. In the end, there is often but one choice.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  With a nod as much to himself as Lorn, Luss turns and walks back toward the steps and begins to walk up to the fifth floor.

  “He must think you’ve done something right, ser,” says Fayrken.

  “I’d never met him before I came here, and I’ve only talked with him once-that was very short. I’ve taken notes at perhaps a handful of meetings where he spoke,” Lorn replies.

  “He once told a commander that he’d best fall on his sabre while he had enough brains left to complete the job.”

  Lorn raises his eyebrows.

  “Yes, ser. I heard it myself.”

  “I’d better be quite careful.” Lorn already knows that.

  “You are, ser. I can tell that from how you write.”

  “How come you aren’t an officer?” Lorn asks. “You’re brighter than many captains.”

  Fayrken shakes his head. “My da was a weaver in Summerdock. Barely learned my letters, but I didn’t want to be a weaver. So I became a lancer. Then I saw that I’d die one day somewhere in the Grass Hills if I didn’t get to be a squad leader. So I buttered up one of the older fellows and got him to help me with my letters. After I made junior squad leader, almost lost my leg in a Jeranyi raid, and while I was healing, I was a clerk in at the headquarters in Syadtar. Commander Ryuk brought me here, five years ago.” Fayrken grins. “Now… ser… if I got myself to be an undercaptain, now… where would I find myself?”

  Lorn grins back. “Probably in Inividra or Pemedra or Isahl.”

  “I need but another few years for a pension, if a short-coin one, and I’ve a consort and two young boys.”

  “In your boots, I’d do the same,” Lorn says. “There’s not much point in traveling the same ground twice, first as a ranker and then as an officer.”

  “Ser?”

  “Yes, Fayrken?”

  “Is it true that you are the first officer in ten generations to invade Jerans?”

  “I don’t know about the ten generations… but the first in many.”

  “Some say… you’ve killed more barbarians by yourself than some whole squads…”

  Lorn frowns slightly, then tilts his head before answering. “I’ve had the fortune-or misfortune-to be in more battles and fights than almost all officers near my age and rank. When you fight more, if you survive, you’ll kill more of your enemy. I’m not sure that killing measures much more than surviving.” He straightens and shrugs. “I’ve tried to do what I thought was right. Looking back, I’m sure it wasn’t in some cases. But if you don’t decide quickly, you don’t get a chance to think it over later.” For some reason the image of a young woman in an enumerator’s bedchamber flashes through his mind-another quick decision, perhaps good for him, but hardly for her, and yet at that moment, had Lorn had any real choice? He offers a lopsided smile. “I’m sorry… that’s a long answer to a short question.”

  Fayrken nods. “Best I get on with the copying. Majer Hrenk will not stay in Fyrad forever.”

  “Thank you.” Lorn turns back toward his study, and the strategic plan he has yet to complete.

  XCVIX

  The bell on the iron gate rings, and Lorn hurries forward from the veranda, down the green marble walk to and around the fountain, and past the privacy hedge to open the gate.

  “An iron gate, Lorn?” Tyrsal stands there in the whites of a magus with a petite blonde woman dressed in a shimmering green tunic and trousers. She is no taller than Lorn’s shoulder.

  “Ryalth thought it might be useful. Please come in.” Lorn steps back and pulls the gate wide. “She’s waiting on the veranda.”

  After the couple steps around the tightly-grown conifer privacy hedge, Lorn relocks the iron gate, and follows them up the green marble walk to the veranda, where Ryalth waits.

  “This is Aleyar,” Tyrsal announces, almost embarrassed, grinning slightly at Lorn as he rejoins them.

  Lorn manages not to raise his eyebrows, recalling how, years before, Tyrsal had said that the blonde and poised young healer standing on the veranda was too young-and then, she probably had been.

  “You are amused?” asks Aleyar with a gentle voice.

  “I am indeed, but for reasons you would not find unpleasant, Lady Healer,” Lorn says.

  “I can sense that. I look forward to hearing them.”

  Tyrsal flushes. So does Lorn.

  Ryalth and Aleyar exchange glances, and amused smiles.

  Aleyar glances at Tyrsal and begins to laugh. “I think I’ll enjoy this far more than I’d thought.”

  “Oh…” Lorn says. “This is Ryalth, my far better self.”

  Ryalth shakes her head. “Perhaps we could sit out here for a bit and have something to drink,” she suggests, gesturing toward the wooden-framed settee and the two armchairs. “We have some early redberry juice and some Alafraan, and amber ale.”

  The red-haired Tyrsal glances at Aleyar.

  “The redberry, if you please.” Aleyar seats herself in one of the two armchairs.

  “The ale,” Tyrsal says, taking the other chair.

  “I’ll get the drinks,” Ryalth says before Lorn speaks. “You want ale, don’t you? I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “Yes, thank you.” After a moment, Lorn settles onto the settee.

  “As I told you, Lorn is my oldest and dearest friend,” Tyrsal tells Aleyar. “He made my life easier when we were in school, and it cost him dearly later. He could have been a first-level adept if he’d been able to stay in the Magi’i.”

  “We both survived,” Lorn replies mildly.

  Aleyar casts a quizzical look at Tyrsal and then at Lorn. “You both agree that is the truth.” She shakes her head.

  “Tyrsal is being kind,” Lorn says.

  “I think not,” Aleyar replies.

  “Here is the redberry.” Ryalth reappears with a tray on which are four glass beakers, two of redberry and two of ale. She extends the tray to Aleyar, who takes one of the redberry beakers, and then to Tyrsal.

  Lorn takes the other ale, and Ryalth sets the tray on the small table beside the settee, where she seats herself, before taking the last beaker.

  “How did you two meet?” Ryalth asks as she looks at Aleyar.

  “Because of Lorn, actually,” Tyrsal says. “In a way. I saw her at the infirmary when Lorn didn’t answer my scrolls and I’d gone to see Jerial to see if his duty station had been changed again.”

  “I didn’t know you’d written.” Lorn shifts his weight on the settee. “You never said.”

  “Well, after all the other problems Dett caused, I didn’t see much point in making you any angrier at him.” Tyrsal takes a sip of ale. “That day, Aleyar was talking to Jerial. So I waited until she left to talk to your sister.” He grins. “I did ask Jerial who she was, but I didn’t do anything for several eightdays.”

  “Almost a season.” Aleyar laughs.

  “But I didn’t forget.”

  “No… you asked everyone who might know me about me, though.”

  Tyrsal flushes. “Anyway… I finally asked her father for permission to call on her. He was very kind and said I could.” The red-haired magus shrugs. “That’s how it happened.”

  “How did you meet Lorn?” Aleyar asks, her gaze on Ryalth.

  Ryalth smiles mischievously. “It happened a long time ago. He was a student, and I was a very junior trader. He was walking, looking for a willing woman, when a man attacked me and the trader I was with. Lorn saved us both, and me from a truly deplorable fate. Somehow, we found we belonged together, and he defied his father to make me his consort. That was many years later, of course.”

  “Except,” Lorn add
s, “my father had such a high opinion of Ryalth that he forced me to defy him for her because he feared I wouldn’t value her enough otherwise.”

  A faint flush suffuses Ryalth’s face and neck.

  “You didn’t tell me that,” Tyrsal says.

  “I didn’t find that out until after we were consorted,” Lorn admits.

  “A love match, across backgrounds.” Aleyar holds her beaker of redberry, then takes another tiny sip. “You were fortunate that your parents saw her worth.”

  “Didn’t that happen with your sister?” asks Lorn.

  “You mean Syreal?” Aleyar nods. “It did. I can’t say I understand exactly how. Veljan is the sweetest man. He is a good trader, and he’d do anything for her, but Syreal is so bright. Compared to her, he’s a sweet dumb ox, but he adores her, and she’s happy. She really is. It’s for the best for everyone. That became clear after Fuyol’s death. Shevelt was a lizard of a man, and the clan owes a debt to whoever killed him. The entire Yuryan Clan loves Veljan, because he is honest and does the right thing. He’s so honest by nature, and Syreal tells him what to do… and if she doesn’t know, she asks Father.” Aleyar laughs. “Between the three of them, the Clan has prospered greatly, and what’s funny is that all of them know it, and so does most of Cyad-and everyone’s still pleased.”

  “It makes sense,” Lorn says. “Veljan is honest. That means he won’t do anything he feels is wrong. Your father is shrewd, and he will give the best advice for his daughter and her consort, and Syreal loves Veljan and won’t accept any advice that would hurt him. And everyone else understands that, which means that they can trust Veljan to be honorable, and they all know why.”

  “That is rare indeed in Cyad,” Ryalth says dryly.

  “Father is honest, too,” Aleyar points out. “That’s why he was a friend of your father, Lorn.”

  “And why he keeps his distance from the Second Magus?” Lorn probes.

  Aleyar looks down at her half-full beaker of redberry.

  “I know,” Lorn says quickly. “Kharl’elth is the father of Myryan’s consort, but he is known to be less than straightforward.”

  “That is a most polite way of putting it,” Tyrsal says quickly. “And the less said the better, if you please.”

  “I am sorry,” Lorn apologizes. “I did not mean to offend.”

  Ryalth rises. “I think this is a good time to go inside for dinner. I just saw Kysia hovering in the archway.”

  Tyrsal and Lorn also stand, quickly, and the four make their way to the table in the dining area where Lorn stands waiting on one side of the table, across from Ryalth, and then seats Aleyar to his right, while Tyrsal-after seating Ryalth-sits to her left.

  Kysia and Ayleha appear with platters and serving bowls and then two baskets of bread, followed by a silver tray on which there are slices of sun-nut bread.

  “Sun-nut bread, I see. Your family always served that,” Tyrsal says.

  “The emburhka recipe comes from Lorn’s family,” Ryalth replies.

  “I thought I recognized the aroma,” Tyrsal says as he takes the serving bowl that Ryalth hands to him.

  “The wine is Alafraan,” Lorn says. “Would you like some?”

  “Just half, please,” answers the blonde healer. “I like it, but much wine does not like me.”

  “That’s true of many healers,” Lorn says as he pours the requested amount into her goblet. “Myryan never has more than a goblet, and usually only half.” He fills the other three goblets three-quarters full, then sets the bottle down and offers the emburhka to Aleyar.

  She takes the dish, and then asks, smiling almost mischievously, “Will you tell me why you were so amused when Tyrsal introduced me?” ;. Lorn glances at Tyrsal, who flushes once more.

  “Go ahead, Lorn.” A wry smile crosses the lips of the redheaded magus. “Try to be kind to me.”

  “It goes back many years, before I left the Quarter of the Magi’i,” Lorn begins slowly. “It really begins with me, on the night I met Ryalth, as I recall.”

  Ryalth raises her eyebrows. “I have not heard this.”

  “My father was talking about the need for suitable consorts, and he asked if I had ever taken the trouble to talk to you.” He inclines his head to Aleyar. “He made some comment like, ‘It would not harm you to talk to her to see if you would like her.’ I thought that I might, except later that evening I met Ryalth and that changed everything.”

  “Good thing for me that you did,” Tyrsal says, smiling at Aleyar.

  The blonde healer returns the smile, warmly.

  “But…” Lorn draws out the word, grinning at Tyrsal, “I remembered what my father had said, and several years later, I mentioned your name to my dear friend, and he made some comment to the effect that while you were sweet, beautiful, and charming-looking, he worried much about presenting himself to the great Third Magus.” Lorn inclines his head to Tyrsal. “I’m glad he decided to anyway.”

  “So am I,” replies Aleyar. “Even if it did take him a season to get his courage up.”

  “Prudence, that’s all,” mumbles Tyrsal, flushing once more, and partly hiding behind the goblet of Alafraan that he holds.

  “You didn’t need that much prudence with Father,” the healer says gently. “He likes you.”

  “I didn’t know that he would,” Tyrsal points out. “I don’t come from a long line of Magi’i, like Lorn or Rustyl.”

  Aleyar shivers, if slightly.

  Ryalth glances at Lorn, then says gently, “You don’t seem that fond of Rustyl.”

  “He called several times… before Tyrsal. I put him off. Father let me, thank the Rational Stars,” Aleyar says. “His eyes and heart are cold, and he’s even colder deep within.” Her eyes go to Lorn. “You… and Tyrsal… both of you have a warmth inside.”

  Lorn nods. “Tyrsal is warmer, I think.”

  “It would appear that way,” Aleyar admits, “but you hide what you are well, as well as any of the senior Magi’i.” She looks at Ryalth. “He’s warmer than he will admit, is he not?”

  “Yes,” replies the red-haired trader, with a smile. “I thought so from the first, but it took years to find it so.”

  “And he is terrible to his foes,” Aleyar adds. “A healer can see that as well.”

  Lorn shrugs and offers a lopsided smile. “You both have seen through me.”

  After setting down her goblet, Aleyar laughs, softly but warmly. “No one sees through you, Lorn. We can judge you by what we do not sense.”

  “

  “Enough… enough,” protests Tyrsal. “You’ll have the two of us apart like a pair of roosters for stewing.”

  “Definitely roosters,” Ryalth says.

  Lorn barely manages not to choke on the mouthful of emburhka he is swallowing.

  “I won’t pursue it.” Aleyar turns to Ryalth. “What is it like, being a lady trader? Syreal has told me about some of it, but do you think people treat you differently because you’re a lady?”

  Ryalth gives the slightest of shrugs. “At first, it was difficult.” Her face hardens. “I learned a great deal.” A brief smile flits across her face. “Some of it from Lorn. I don’t think he understands how much, or about what.”

  Lorn understands-now. He manages to keep an interested smile on his face.

  Tyrsal glances from Ryalth to Lorn. He swallows.

  Aleyar nods. “Now they all accept you, even defer to you. That’s what Syreal says. There was talk of your name being put forward as a possible Merchanter Advisor.”

  “That would have been a gesture. Some gestures are useful. That would have served no useful purpose,” Ryalth replies, passing the basket of still-warm bread to Tyrsal.

  “She sounds like someone else I know,” Tyrsal says with a laugh, taking the bread, and glancing at Lorn before turning his attention back to Ryalth. “How is trading these days?”

  “It’s getting harder,” Ryalth admits. “Not because of Kerial, but because of the tariffs. We saw another o
ne-gold increase at the turn of summer.” She glances at her consort. “From what Lorn tells me, I fear that there will be more.”

  “Syreal says the same thing,” Aleyar says.

  “Why?” asks Tyrsal. “Just because we’ve lost a few fireships?”

  “It’s not just the loss of the fireships, but the failure of the chaos-towers,” Lorn says. “Without firelances, it will take more lancers to hold back the barbarians, and more lancers-”

  “I see,” Tyrsal interrupts. “I’m slow, but not stupid. More lancers cost more golds, with their horses and blades and stipends. More horse teams will be needed on the roads, and that will make transport slower and more costly… It affects everything.”

  “Unless the Magi’i can find another way to use chaos, perhaps the natural chaos of the world,” Lorn suggests.

  “Some have been working on that. Most Magi’i aren’t that strong,” Tyrsal points out.

  “Or…” Lorn says slowly, “unless there is some way to use natural chaos with machines of some sort.” He glances at Tyrsal. “Is anyone working on something like that?”

  “I wouldn’t know that. I’m a very lowly second-level adept.”

  “You could be a first-level,” Aleyar says. “You’re good enough. You will be soon.”

  “I’m not sure I want to work that hard,” Tyrsal parries.

  “You worry too much,” counters the blonde healer. “Father thinks you’re better than many of the Firsts.”

  “There’s much to worry about in Cyad these days.” Tyrsal makes a vague gesture.

  “Does anyone want more of the emburhka?” asks Ryalth.

  “No… I’m full,” Lorn admits.

  “Except for the pearapple tarts?”

  He laughs. “Except for the pearapple tarts.”

  Ryalth gestures, and Kysia and Ayleha appear to remove the platters and serving dishes.

  Lorn pours a half-goblet more wine for Ryalth and Tyrsal.

  Tyrsal frowns. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”

  “Oh?”

  “There were rumors… about your father…” Tyrsal suggests.