L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

“She’s scarcely new, Lorn. It’s been nearly three years for her, and for Kysia, and more than a year for Quyal-she’s the new cook.”

“What happened to Elthya?”

“Her mother fell ill, and when she went back to her town-I’ve forgotten the name-a widower she’d known when they were children asked her to be his consort.” Kienspread his hands. “So we had to get a new cook. Quyal’s as good as Elthya, but her cooking’s different, more … western, I’d say. More spice.”

The two men walk through the foyer and along the corridor to the dining area, where they stand by the door, waiting for the others.

“Too spicy?” asks Lorn.

“I did ask for a little less seasoning,” his father admits.

They turn as Jerial approaches.

“Lorn was here, first, I’d wager,” Jerial observes.

“Before me,” their father confirms.

“Vernt should be here before long,” Jerial says. “I heard him come in, but he’ll wait for mother.”

As she speaks, Lorn hears steps, and Vernt and his mother appear. Like his father, Vernt wears the white shimmercloth of an adept of the Magi’i, but without the lightning emblem. He has also added a short-trimmed beard, sandy-colored like his hair.

“The lancer has returned,” the younger mage says. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you.” Lorn inclines his head. “It’s good to see everyone.”

“Can we eat?” Kien rolls his eyes.

“Of course, dear,” responds Nyryah. “Why don’t you just go in and sit down?”

Lorn follows his father. While Kien sits at the end of the table with his back to the window, Lorn takes the place to his father’s right. Jerial sits beside Lorn, and Nyryah seats herself at the end opposite her consort. Vernt takes the place across from Jerial and Lorn.

Sylirya eases a large crock before Kien, setting a ladle beside it. Another woman brings in two trays of bread-sunnut and a dark rye.

“Thank you, Quyal.” Nyryah nods at the second server.

“What-” begins Kien.

“Dinner is a beef stew. Quyal didn’t know Lorn was coming,” interjects Nyryah quickly.

“None of us knew when he was coming,” adds Jerial.

Lorn shrugs.

“Just serve yourself, dear,” suggests Lorn’s mother to Kien.

“I will. I will.” The older magus shakes his head.

Vernt offers the tray of nut bread to his mother, then takes two slices and sets them on his plate, before passing the tray across to Jerial.

“You look good.” Vernt smiles happily at Lorn, then at the tray Jerial holds. “I still remember how you sneaked extras on the sun-nut bread. You’d pass it up to begin with, and then take three slices later.”

Lorn grins easily. “Why not? You always tried to grab two right at first, and you always got caught. Now you can do it, and no one says anything.”

“After all these years,” Kien grumbles good-naturedly, “you two are still at it.”

Jerial laughs. “They’re brothers. Did you expect that to change?”

“I’m getting older. I could hope.” Kien slides the crock toward Lorn, who serves Jerial and then himself, before passing it.

Vernt serves Nyryah and then himself, while Lorn pours a maroon wine for everyone.

“Careful with that Fhynyco,” Kien tells Lorn. “It’s better than Byrdyn.”

“As good as Alafraan?”

“Alafraan? Now he’s heard of wines we don’t know.” Kien shakes his head. “Boy goes off, and now he’s a lancer who knows wines.”

Both Jerial and Lorn laugh.

“I wouldn’t,” Lorn says, “except that one of the officers came from a vintner’s family in Escadr.”

“At least he admits it,” adds Nyryah. “Now … start eating before it all gets cold.”

Lorn needs little urging, and stew or not, the first mouthful tells him it is the best meal he has eaten since he left three years earlier.

“What is Isahl really like?” Jerial asks after Lorn has eatenseveral mouthfuls and half of the slice of nut bread he had slipped onto his plate.

Lorn swallows. “It’s hotter in the summer, colder in the winter, and windier all the time. Outside of the outpost, there are no more than a score of families in the valley, and fewer than that in the adjoining valleys. The only trees are scrub cedars, and bushes …” Lorn’s description is as accurate as he can make it. “ … and everything has walls. Even the herders have sod walls around their holds.”

“I wouldn’t want to be there.” Vernt offers a twisted smile. “It’s too bad he can’t tell that to some of the student mages.”

“They wouldn’t believe me.” Lorn shrugs. “I wouldn’t have believed me.”

A slight chill passes over the room, and Lorn and his father exchange glances. Lorn takes another bite of stew, noting the minute nods between his mother and Jerial. Someone is using a chaos glass. To see if Lorn is indeed with family? Or to check up on Vernt or his father?

“What will you do while you’re here?” asks Nyryah quickly.

“See you, visit friends, enjoy good food, and rest. All the things you can’t do out in the Hills of Endless Grass.”

“And then …?” Vernt inquires.

“I’m off to my next post. In Geliendra. I’ve been told I’ll have a company.” Lorn shrugs. “In the Mirror Lancers, you find out when you get there.” He takes a small swallow of the Fhynyco, stronger and smoother than Byrdyn, then helps himself to more of the stew.

“And after that?” Vernt persists. “Or do you know?”

“I could but guess.” Lorn takes another bite of the stew before continuing. “If I make overcaptain, or sub-majer, I could be the second-in-command somewhere, or head a port installation … or …” He lets the words trail off.

“Seasons enough to worry about that,” says Kien. “Best we enjoy the season at hand.” He smiles at Lorn, and then at Nyryah.

“And you,” she replies to the look of her consort, “are like your sons, wanting to know what sweets follow?”

“There is little wrong with that,” counters the older magus.

Nyryah inclines her head to Sylirya, who slips away from the table, to return with a shallow bowl that she sets before Kien. Then the serving girl slips smaller porcelain bowls, fringed in gold, before each family member before retreating to the archway where she waits.

“You will have to do with dried pearapples and sweet brown sauce,” Nyryah tells Lorn.

“I can manage that.” Lorn chuckles. “I never saw pearapples in Isahl, or Syadtar, either.”

“What is Syadtar like?” Jerial asks. “Is it dirty with narrow streets, like a barbarian town?”

Lorn shakes his head. “It’s like any other town I’ve seen in Cyador. Granite and sunstone buildings, clean tile roofs, wide paved streets, houses like the smaller ones here in Cyad.” He shrugs. “Except for the size of the buildings and how few there are compared to Cyad, the towns I’ve seen all are pretty much alike. That’s until you get to the grasslands and the herders’ holdings out in the Grass Hills.”

“I don’t think I’d like that,” ventures Jerial.

Lorn senses he is being watched, but as he watches, never looking overtly, he can see no one. Nor is the feeling like that of being watched in a glass, as he has felt with his father, and, occasionally, at other times-as had happened earlier at dinner. Being watched, in his parents’ home? Being watched by other Magi’i, in a glass, that he can understand. But who else would care?

He reaches for the pearapples, a smile still upon his lips.

A RAW WINTER wind whips off the Great Western Ocean and across the city of Cyad, bringing a chill that belies the bright mid-morning sun set in the cloudless green-blue sky. Wearing but his winter white uniform, trimmed in green, and white leather gloves, and without the sabre, Lorn walksquickly eastward on the walkway of the Road of Perpetual Light, stepping past the First Score Way. The carry-bag in his left hand is gray-something that could be carried by a lancer, a tradesman, or a merchanter. In it is the set of blue shimmercloth enumerator garments.