Magi'i of Cyador (2 page)

The family is seated around the dining table on the covered upper balcony, from where they can look downhill and south directly at the harbor-and to the west and slightly uphill at the Palace of Eternal Light. Although the sun has set, the sky remains the purple that precedes night, and the white stone piers of the harbor glitter above the darkness of the Great Western Ocean. The Palace gleams a shimmering white-both from the white sunstone from which it was constructed all too many years before and from the innumerable lamps which bathe its endless corridors and vaulting halls in continuous light.

The dining table around which the family sits is lit but dimly by two lamps set in gleaming cupridium brackets, each affixed to a pillar, the two closest to each end of the table. None of those seated appear to be affected by the dimness. The mahogany-haired Nyryah, who sits at the end of the table opposite the silver-haired Kien'elth, lifts a silver tray that holds both dark bread and sun-nut bread and tenders it to the sandy-haired young man on her left. "Go ahead, Vernt."

"Ah... thank you."

"And don't take all the sun-nut bread," suggests Myryan from where she sits across from the still-lanky Vernt. "We like it, too."

"There's plenty there, children," suggests Nyryah, "and there's another loaf in the kitchen."

Vernt grins and takes one slice of each bread, then passes the tray to Lorn, who takes only a single slice of dark bread before passing the tray to his father. Kien'elth, like his younger son, takes one slice of each, and hands the tray to Jerial, dark-haired, and the eldest child. She, like Lorn, takes but a slice of dark bread, and smiles across at Lorn as she hands the tray to Myryan, also black-haired, and the youngest of the four siblings. Myryan takes a single slice of sun-nut bread and returns the tray to her mother.

The fowl casserole that had been set before Kien'elth makes a circuit of the table, but all helpings are so similar in size that they would have to have been weighed for an outsider to determine which is the largest-or the smallest. After the casserole comes the dish of buttered and nutted beans.

When Myryan sets down the serving spoon for the beans, all six begin to eat, silently for a moment, until each has had at least one mouthful of something.

"You were a little late, dear," suggests Nyryah.

"We had to chaos-charge a second complement of firewagons," replies Kien'elth. "The two new companies of Mirror Lancers are being sent along the Great Eastern Highway tomorrow. The barbarians of the northeast have tried to attack the cuprite mines. While they were thrown back across the Hills of Endless Grass, the Emperor has determined that the lancers of the northeast shall be more greatly reinforced to carry the message to the barbarians that they may be reminded of the futility of such attacks."

Myryan smiles.

"You find that amusing?" asks Vernt.

"The name's amusing," she admits. "Nothing's endless, not even the Rational Stars. So how can grass be endless?"

"The barbarians are endless," says Vernt. "Every year there are more of them."

"More doesn't mean endless."

"And they're just as stupid every year. Tens of scores of them try to cross the border, and most of them die." Vernt looks at his father. "There must have been more than usual if you had to do more chaos-charging."

"I was told that the lancers have it well in hand," answers his sire.

"And they will push the barbarians back across the not-so-endless Grass Hills," Myryan says, "no matter what the barbarians call the grass."

"I do believe we've heard this before," suggests Kien'elth politely. "We decided the name was a barbarian affectation." He clears his throat, then takes another mouthful of the fowl casserole, nodding as he tastes it.

"We just ought to take over all of Candar-the western half, anyway," says Vernt. "That way, we wouldn't have to worry about the smelly barbarians."

"The chaos-towers can't be moved," Lorn points out. "That's why Emperor-"

"Lorn," interjects Kien'elth quickly. "Not at dinner."

"Yes, ser."

"We don't need to move the towers," continues Vernt, seemingly oblivious to his father's warning to Lorn. "The barbarians' iron blades are so soft that a cupridium blade cuts through any of their weapons." The younger son snorts. "We don't need firewagons and highways to conquer them."

"No-but would you want to live in a mud-brick hut or a tent?" Kien'elth laughs. "You wouldn't get cooking like this, or cities like Cyad or Fyrad or Summerdock."

"We've heard this discussion before, too," interjects Jerial. "Cyador already has more land than we'll ever need, and so do the barbarians. They don't attack from need, but from perversity. They want to take what we've built, because they're too lazy and too stupid to make things for themselves."

"They do not have chaos-towers, nor could they fabricate them if they wanted to," says her father gently.

"They don't have to live like swine," counters Vernt. "You can smell them from kays away."

"They weren't born with your advantages," Kien'elth points out.

"We've sent teachers out to the north and east." Vernt's voice rises. "And those that weren't killed had to kill the barbarians to escape with their lives...."

"Maybe they don't want to learn," suggests Jerial, with a hint of a laugh in her voice. "They don't like books as much as you do."

Lorn quietly finishes his casserole, and, while the others are looking at Vernt and Jerial, and while his mother has slipped away from the table to bring the dessert platter, he slips a slice of sun-nut bread from the tray and onto his platter. He eats it in precise motions before finally speaking. "They still think we took their land."

"We didn't take anything, did we?" asks Myryan. "I thought most of Cyador was the Accursed Forest before the founders came, and it killed either the barbarians or us whenever it could. They didn't live here. They couldn't have lived here." She shakes her head. "It doesn't make sense. We're not using land that they ever could have farmed or herded on. I agree with Jerial. They're just lazy."

"They are what they are," replies Kien'elth, "and we aren't going to change that. We can only deal with our own lives." He clears his throat. "Lorn... have you ever met Aleyar? She's Lector Liataphi's next-to-youngest daughter?"

"He's met them all." Vernt chortles.

Lorn manages not to flush. "She is blonde, I believe, and quite well spoken."

"I told you so," Vernt hisses.

"Father..." Jerial begins.

Kien'elth turns to his eldest daughter. "Liataphi has no sons. I am not asking Lorn to consort with her. I am asking if he would at least talk to the young lady. There's no harm in seeing if he likes an eligible young woman."

"...and it would be kind," Myryan says with a sad smile.

"Because her older sister Syreal ran off with that merchanter, and that means that unless she consorts with a Magi'i she'll lose her standing in the Magi'i?" asks Jerial.

"It's true, isn't it?" counters Myryan. "We're lucky. We have brothers who are carrying on as Magi'i. Aleyar isn't, and she's sweet."

"You know her?" asks Nyryah.

"I like her," replies Myryan. "She's too gentle to be consorted to a lancer or a merchanter." She looks at Lorn. "And she is pretty."

Lorn shifts his weight in his chair almost imperceptibly, then smiles. "I'll make a point of talking to her."

"That's all I ask," Kien'elth says, as he turns and smiles at Myryan. "Lector Kharl'elth said that the only young lady his son ever talked about was you."

"Ciesrt?" Myryan's expression reverts to one of polite interest.

Lorn glances from her to their father, who in turn watches the wavy-haired Myryan closely.

"Ciesrt'elth," corrects Kien'elth. "You know him, Lorn."

"He's in my student group," concedes Lorn.

"He works hard," adds Vernt. "Lector Hyrist'elth says he wishes all the students worked as hard."

Across from Lorn, Myryan's face tightens ever so slightly.

"He's pretty serious," Lorn adds.

"These are serious times," Kien'elth begins, clearing his throat in the way that Lorn knows a long pontification is about to begin.

"It sounds like a good time for sweets." Nyryah sets the wide white-glazed platter in the center of the table, then re-seats herself. "Baked pearapple creamed tarts." She smiles at her consort. "You can talk about serious times after dessert, dear."

Kien'elth laughs. "Undermined at my own table."

"A good dessert doesn't wait," counters Nyryah, "and if you do, you won't have any tarts with this bunch drooling over them."

Myryan and Vernt laugh. Lorn and Jerial nod minutely at each other, but the corners of Lorn's mouth turn up ever so slightly as he glances at the warm smile his mother has bestowed upon their father.

"Outstanding!" Kien'elth beams as he takes the first tart. "The barbarians and the serious folk have nothing like this."

"They might." Vernt frowns, as if in thought, then adds, "But they probably don't."

"You can't even argue just on one side, Vernt," says Jerial after a mouthful of her tart. "Maybe you should become a counselor. That's what they do-they argue both sides of everything."

"What about something like being the Hand of the Emperor?" asks Myryan guilelessly.

"Myryan," cautions Nyryah. "One doesn't talk about the Hand."

"Especially since no one knows who he is," adds Jerial dryly. "That's not wise."

Kien'elth, his mouth filled with the creamy tart, shakes his head and finally swallows. "Argumentative counselors get sent as envoys to the barbarian lands. Besides, no Magi'i should stoop to being a counselor. Mostly, they mediate between merchanters."

Amused smiles fill the faces around the table, smiles followed by silence as they enjoy the tarts.

"There are a few tarts left," offers Nyryah when all have finished, glancing toward Lorn, "and since you didn't have as much of the sun-nut bread..." She looks at Vernt, on whose face a frown appears and quickly vanishes, "and since you look positively starved, Vernt..."

Myryan raises her eyebrows.

"...and you're still growing, youngest daughter," Nyryah smiles at Myryan and concludes, "there are enough extra tarts for each of you."

"The last thing I need is another tart," observes Jerial, glancing down at her slender waist. "I should not have had the one."

"You could eat three every night, and it would scarce show," counters her mother, "but I know how you feel."

Kien'elth glances at his consort. Nyryah raises her eyebrows, and he closes his mouth quietly.

Lorn eats a second tart, deftly, with motions that are neither hasty nor dawdling, yet leave no crumbs upon his fingers or his mouth. "Excellent. You must tell Elthya." He smiles at his mother. "If I don't first."

"You'll not only tell her, Lorn, you'll charm her out of a third," says Jerial.

"A fourth," suggests Myryan. "I'd wager a silver he had one this afternoon when they were cooling." Her warm smile turns toward Lorn.

He shrugs. "It might be."

His sisters laugh. Even Vernt, seated beside Myryan, smiles. So does Nyryah, although the mahogany-haired woman's smile is more knowingly ironic.

As the family rises and as Elthya and the shorter serving girl step forward out of the shadows to clear the table, Kien'elth beckons to Lorn. "I'd like to talk with you for a few moments, Lorn."

"Yes, ser." Lorn, slightly taller and slightly broader across the chest than his father or his younger brother, follows Kien'elth along the outside upper arched portico until they reach the open door of the study.

The study is lit by the pair of oil lamps at each end of the pale oak table-desk. Their silvered mantels-and their separation-cast an even glow across the room so that the shadows are faint against the warmth of the blond wood panels that comprise the walls and the amber leather of the volumes set in the bookcase that is built into the wall beside the desk. The scents of frysya and baked pearapples linger in the room, reminding Lorn of the glazed tarts that had followed dinner.

Kien'elth turns and stands between his desk, empty except for the lamps, and the stand that holds the shimmering white cupridium pen that is yet another mark of his position as a magus. The polished white oak case that holds his chaos glass rests on the small octagonal table to the right of the desk proper.

Lorn's eyes pass over the glass, though he has often felt its power when his father has employed it to observe him from afar.

After a moment of silence, the magus turns to his dark-haired son. "I spoke with Lector Hyrist'elth."

Lorn nods, waits for his father to continue.

"He is not displeased with your studies, Lorn, but he is not pleased, either. He and I both feel that while you learn all that comes before you, and more, you learn because it is easier for you to learn than to oppose us." Kien'elth smiles. "I have seen you on the korfal field. There, you are unfettered, almost joyous. I would wish you to show such joy in learning and in studies."

"I learn everything that I can, ser," Lorn replies carefully, knowing he must choose his words with care, for his father can sense any hint of untruth-as can anyone within the family-and Lorn does not wish to have his father use his chaos glass to follow him continually, though he can sense when Kien'elth-or any of the Magi'i-seek him with a glass. Most of his actions are innocent enough, but there is little sense in provoking his father into deeper inquiries. "It is true that, presently, learning for me is not so joyous, but I will persevere until, I hope, it is such."

"All Cyador rests on the Magi'i," says the older man. "Without the chaos towers, the firewagons would not run, and neither lancers nor foot nor crops could be carried to where they must go. The barges could not run the Great Canal. Without the chaos chisels, the stone for the roads would have to be quarried by hand, and it would take years to pave but a kay of road. The Great Eastern Highway alone... Without chaos glasses, we could not see the storms or the larger barbarian forces,..."

Lorn listens politely as his father continues.