L. Modesitt: Scion of Cyador

Lorn opens the door to the small upper-floor balcony, checking to see that the spring weather remains warm in the late afternoon. With a nod, he closes the door and turns to take in the main room of Ryalth’s quarters-the low ebony table, the straight-backed black oak armchair that is Ryalth’s favorite, the settee opposite it, and on the other side of the room, the green ceramic brick privacy screen that protects the main door from the inside. To his right is the alcove that contains the circular eating table and two armless chairs. To his left is the narrow archway to the bedchamber, and beyond that, the small bathing chamber.

He smiles as he looks at the portrait of Ryalth as a young girl. In it, she wears a high-necked green tunic, and a thin golden chain. The floor of the main room displays ancient blue wool carpet with a border of interlocked ropes, surrounding a woven image of a blue-hulled trading ship under full sail, the ill-fated ship once owned by Ryalth’s merchanter father, and the one on which her parents had perished.

“Are you ready?” calls the redheaded lady who is his consort, as well as the head of the newly ascendant trading house-Ryalor House. Lorn sometimes still has trouble believing that she has incorporated his name into that of the trading concern she has established, even if he had helped her in the years before they were consorted.

“Yes. I was checking to see that it was still warm out.” He crosses the room and steps into the bedchamber. There, he adjusts his sabre and the collar emblems on the new Mirror Lancer uniform that Ryalth had arranged to have waiting for him when he had returned from his previous duty station. His efforts in battling the Accursed Forest had destroyed all but one of his Mirror Lancer uniforms, and that one he had worn on the firewagon trip back to Cyad.

“Is it?”

“It’s very pleasant.” He smiles at her as he steps away from the narrow mirror set on a stand against the bedchamber wall. “Still…I almost wish that we were not going to my parents’ for dinner again. I don’t have that many days left before I have to leave for Biehl.”

“They were charming the night before last.” Ryalth eases past Lorn and before the mirror, touching her short red hair with the silver-backed and tortoiseshell comb. “And they don’t keep us late. They do understand.”

“That was because it was only them and Jerial. Vernt and his consort-to-be, and Ciesrt and Myryan will be there tonight.” He steps forward and puts his arms around her waist, then kisses the back of her neck. “You smell so good.”

“I’m glad you think so.” For a moment, she leans her cheek against his. “You don’t mind being here? In my quarters?”

“They’re our quarters, and you are my consort, and I like being here with you.”

“My rooms are so…modest, compared to your parents’ dwelling.”

“Nothing is modest when you’re there.”

“Such flattery.”

“Not flattery. Truth,” he insists.

“Truth is in the mind of the speaker,” she counters. “The mirror reflects what is, and the image is of modest quarters.”

Lorn laughs. “Are you ready?”

“It is not going to rain, is it, O magely one?”

“No…I checked, remember? It will be warm this evening. And I’m not that much of a magus.”

“More than you admit.”

Lorn does not answer, but hugs her and kisses her neck again.

“I like walking with you, knowing you can wear your uniform.”

“Some may still think you my mistress,” Lorn teases.

“Not if I wear the blue-and-green cloak.”

Lorn laughs. “You can wear green, if you wish, now that we are consorted. Could not I wear blue, without subterfuge?”

“You could, but I like the cream-and-green better.”

Lorn recalls a question he has failed to ask. “And how would the honored Bluoyal, the Merchanter Advisor, feel about a lancer wearing blue?”

“You didn’t worry about that for years.” She smiles. “Why now?”

“Because no one knew who we were.” Lorn pauses. “What of Bluoyal? When Eileyt speaks of him, his mouth puckers, as with a sour fruit. Eileyt is usually so careful. Since he is the senior enumerator of Ryalor House, that is good. But he didn’t conceal his distaste of Bluoyal to me, not at all.”

“You are my consort,” Ryalth points out.

“What of Bluoyal?” Lorn asks again.

“Bluoyal…I try to avoid him.”

“Is he like Shevelt?” Lorn’s eyes harden as he recalls the Yuryan Clan heir he had removed years earlier because of the man’s attempts to use his position to force himself on Ryalth.

“No.” She shakes her head. “No. Bluoyal is effective at telling the Emperor the problems the merchanters face, but he wishes all to pay him great homage for that effectiveness. He also was one of those who brokered the means for Liataphi’s daughter to consort with Veljan.”

“Oh…so, in a way, Veljan owes his position to Bluoyal and the Magi’i?”

“With some, that pearapple was hard to swallow.”

“He has not bothered you?”

Ryalth smiles. “Save for collecting our-Ryalor’s-scorth, no.”

“A twentieth part of your revenues?”

She shakes her head. “It is called that, but it is but one part in fifty of the revenues after expenses.” She drapes a light cotton cloak over her shoulders, blue with a green-and-cream border. “Best we go. I would not have your parents looking askance at me for delaying their son.”