L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

The dwelling where Jerial has directed Lorn is still farther to the east, almost out of the city. Lorn hurries, because he wishes to arrive at mid-morning-when Ciesrt will be at his tasks in the Quarter of the Magi’i.

When he reaches the Twenty-Third Way, Lorn pauses, readjusting the white dress officer’s cap, as he mentally reviews the description provided by Jerial and compares it to the dwellings to his right. The two-story dwelling is of green glazed brick, with a blue tile roof, set in a slight hollow between two larger dwellings, blocked partly from the cooling ocean breezes. The privacy screen is of blue and green tiles, with a time-faded inset golden lily in its center.

He steps up to the ledge on the left side of the privacy screen and pulls on the green silken cord to ring the bell.

After a long moment, he hears steps, and the viewing shutter is unslit.

“Lorn!” Myryan rushes out the door and around the screen. She hugs her brother tightly and buries her head against his chest. “You’re here! You came!”

He has to drop the carry-bag to return the embrace.

After the initial exclamation and hug, almost as suddenly, Myryan steps back and looks down. “I suppose consorted healers aren’t supposed to do that.” Her smile is partly sheepish, partly something Lorn cannot identify. “But you were out fighting the barbarians, and you came back safely, and you are my brother.”

Lorn is conscious of just how thin and frail she appears, tall as she is, even in the loose-fitting healer greens. He can sense no chaos about her, no sickness … yet there is something. Around her is the faint scent of trilia and erhenflower, a combination much gentler than erhenflower alone, and not as overpoweringly sweet as trilia alone.

“You must come in.” She bends as if to pick up his bag.

“I’ve got it.” Lorn is quicker and has it in hand before she half-starts the movement.

“Same old Lorn. Do you let anyone do anything for you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Ha! Tell me when.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, but walks around the ceramic privacy screen and through the still open front door.

Lorn follows with his carry-bag.

Beyond the front door is a small tile-floored foyer scarcely four cubits square with arches leading in three directions. Myryan leads Lorn to the left, into a chamber perhaps ten cubits long and six wide. The walls have been freshly plastered and painted in a green-tinted, off-white color, and the floor tiles recently regrouted.

Three narrow and shuttered windows grace the outside front wall, their lower sills two cubits above the polished but worn green ceramic tile floor. A narrow set of shelves stands between the left end of the windows and the corner, bare except for a single sculpted sunstone statuette of a magus looking up at a single step. In the other window corner is a waist-high circular table holding an oil lamp that had once been in Myryan’s chambers. Facing the window is a settee upholstered in faded blue. To its left stands another table, of darker wood, holding a blue glass lamp. To its right, between the settee and the window table, is a straight-backed oak chair. The last piece of furniture in the room is a low padded stool set before the middle window.

Myryan steps to the windows, and one after the other, opens the shutters to let in the light. She turns and gestures around the small room. “This will have to do. We only have the one sitting room, and no portico.” She stands by the padded stool and faces the settee.

Lorn sets down the bag and takes the straight-backed white oak chair that, from its patina, is probably older than either of them.

Myryan settles onto the stool. “When did you get back?”

“Last night.” He smiles crookedly. “Jerial suggested that my arriving late in the evening at your door might not havebeen well-received. So I came this morning.” He does not mention that their parents had offered no guidance, except indirectly through Jerial.

“Jerial never cared that much for Ciesrt.” Myryan smiles wanly.

“She didn’t offer any judgments.”

“Does she need to?” Myryan’s tone of voice is wry, much like their mother’s can be.

“Jerial does things her own way,” Lorn answers.

“She always has. I don’t see that changing.”

“How are you doing?”

“I’m still working as a healer.” Her amber eyes sparkle for a moment. “And trying to turn this place into something respectable. All the walls were dark blue.”

“With large gold lilies painted on them?”

“Small faded yellow lilies. Everywhere.” Myryan laughs.

“It was the best we could do. Ciesrt didn’t want us to live with our parents, and I didn’t want to live with his. So …”

“Junior second level adepts don’t make that much.”

“You’re kind, Lorn. Third level. He says he’ll make lower second this summer when the Lectors review all the thirds.”

Lorn considers the dwelling-modest by the standards of where they grew up, but far from modest even compared to Ryalth’s quarters … assuming Ryalth has not found larger accommodations suited to the success of Ryalor House.

Myryan follows his eyes. “We had help. Kharl’elth and father … and someone else.”

“Someone else?” Lorn does frown.

Myryan shrugs, almost helplessly. “I thought it might have been you. Like the healer pin. There was a deposit made in an account at the Exchange in my name … as much as father and Kharl promised. I told Ciesrt that it came from mother’s family. He just nodded.”

Lorn could see Ciesrt nodding, accepting what he could not understand, and passing through life without considering anything beyond the Quarter of the Magi’i. “You have no idea?”

Myryan shakes her head. “I kept the golds for almost aseason, but there was never any hint of anything from anyone. Finally … well … I found the house. Tyrsal helped me, posed as a relative. We’ve only been here a season.”

“You’re happier here.”

Myryan smiles. “Much happier. I’ve done some work outside, but I can’t wait to start on the garden. The soil’s good, and I can grow some of the better herbs, I think. And Jerial commissioned a bed and armoire for us. I don’t know how she did …”

Lorn raises his eyebrows.

“Well … she didn’t have to …”

“She made you promise not to tell, right?”

Myryan nods. “You won’t, will you?”

“Chaos-light, no. What does Ciesrt think about all this?”

“He’s pleased we have our own dwelling. None of the other thirds do.”

“I’m glad you do.”

“What about you?” she asks.

“I have a little less than five eightdays before I have to leave and report to Geliendra. You’ll have time to fill me in.” He smiles. “On everything. Almost everything,” he quickly adds.

“Geliendra?” She frowns. “Be careful. The Magi’i are doing something there. I overheard Kharl … but he stopped when he saw Ciesrt and me.”

“He is the Kharl’elth, and still the Second Magus?”

“Very powerful, and he makes sure the family knows it.” Myryan’s mouth crinkles into an ironic smile. “He spends all his time in the Palace. That’s the way Ciesrt talks about it.”

“Did you hear any more about Geliendra?”

“I didn’t hear much. I wouldn’t have heard that, but I’m not that comfortable when we go there, and …” She offers an embarrassed smile this time.

“You used your chaos-order senses?”

She nods, then adds, “All I heard was something about the importance of the trial period, and the interest of the Emperor. It was at a gathering, and he was talking to anotherof the Magi’i. It wasn’t Chyenfel, but we were never introduced-I wasn’t. Kharl took Ciesrt and introduced him.” Myryan’s face hardens slightly. “Since I wasn’t introduced, I didn’t ask who he was. I wish I had.”