L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

She nods, her lips quirking momentarily. “Maybe that’s why you’re a good trader.”

“I’m not a trader. You’re far better than I could ever be.”

“You can see what will change,” she corrects him. “I know what to do when you tell me what will happen.”

“We make a good team.” He smiles, happy to be walking beside her, as they pass the tinker’s cart.

“You’ve never said that before.”

“I haven’t? I’ve thought it enough.”

“There’s much you think and don’t share, Lorn.”

He cannot but catch the edge of wistfulness behind the facade of the experienced merchanter, a wistfulness he doubts most would perceive. “I’m sorry.” And he is, yet he knows that every word in many places they both frequent may carry to the wrong ears.

Ryalth points to the structure on the lower side of the Road of Benevolent Commerce, although she points upward. “I took chambers on the third level. The end stairs.”

Lorn follows her through the archway in the wall and then through the simple shared formal garden-little more than trimmed dwarf cedar, two short flower beds turned under for the winter, and time-polished stone benches placed in areas shaded by the handful of feathering conifers.

“These came vacant. They only cost three golds a season more, and the balcony is more private,” Ryalth explains, starting up the outside stone steps. “It seemed worth it. They’re larger, and the breeze is better in the summer.”

“And colder in the winter?”

“I haven’t noticed.” She smiles as she stops in front of the last door off the covered walkway on the third level.

“Better view up here,” Lorn says.

“It is.”

The key clicks in the lock, and she opens the door, waiting for Lorn to enter. He waits for her to enter. Both smile, albeit nervously.

He finally shakes his head and steps inside, past the narrow interior privacy screen. Then he turns, taking in her face and the deep blue eyes that he has recalled on so many nights.

Ryalth closes the door. She steps past the screen, andLorn’s arms go around her, but not so quickly as hers encircle him.

The key clanks on the floor. Neither reaches for it as their lips meet.

IN HIS UNDERTUNIC, Lorn sits in the small eating area by the door to the balcony, glancing over the empty plates that had earlier held a thrown-together omelet and almost fresh dark bread to take in Ryalth, her creamy freckled skin and the deep blue eyes that make even merchanter blue seem shallow by comparison, even above the bulky white cotton robe she had donned before she had made the omelet.

Lorn smiles, and Ryalth smiles back.

He sips the water from the goblet, pondering the early morning drizzle beyond the small window, wondering if it is the typical winter morning drizzle or whether it will lift as the sun rises higher into the sky.

The lady merchanter looks at the goblet Lorn holds. “I don’t buy coffee any more.”

“That’s all right. It’s too bitter for me.”

“I liked it, but you can’t get it for less than ten golds a tenth-stone.”

“That much?” Lorn’s mouth makes an “o” as he sets the goblet down.

“The blight. All the coffee bushes are dying, those that hadn’t already. They’re saying that the chaos strength of the Firstborn has faded, and that since they brought the coffee bushes, none will survive.”

“I never heard that. It could be true,” he muses, considering what he knows about the impending failure of the chaos towers.

“It is true. They’re dying.”

“No. I meant the reason.” He finds a smile still upon his lips as he looks at her once more.

“I need to get ready. I still have a trading house to run.” Ryalth’s face clouds abruptly.

“You’re worried.” Lorn pauses, then says, “And it’s not about trading today.”

Ryalth shivers. “I still don’t know why you’re here.”

“Because I met you one night when I was a student, and nothing was quite the same after that.”

She laughs, a forced sound. “You just wanted me in bed.”

“At first,” he admits. Then he grins. “And you just wanted to know what loving someone from the Magi’i was like.”

“Someone sweet,” she corrects.

He shakes his head. “I’m not sweet.”

“You are inside, and to those you love.”

“You know why I’m here,” he points out.

“You never tell me, though. That’s something I hate about the Magi’i. You-maybe not you-but most Magi’i use words as weapons, and none of you like to say anything beyond pleasantries because you’re afraid someone will weigh the truth of your words and use it against you.”

“They do,” Lorn counters. “All that bothers you, but that’s not what’s worrying you.”

“I’m fine.”

Lorn conceals a frown. He stands and walks over to her, drawing her to her feet and nuzzling her ear.

Ryalth remains stiff, unyielding.

“I’d feel better explaining this way,” he whispers. “You don’t know how closely the Magi’i watch and how they use the chaos-glasses.”

She nips his ear, slightly harder than necessary. “That’s for not telling me earlier. I knew, but I wanted you to tell me.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Will you tell me what else is bothering you?”

“I said …”

“It’s not true.”

“I would love a man who still remains Magi’i.”

“He loves you.” Lorn keeps his voice low, and his lefthand massages the tight muscles beside her right shoulder blade. “Tell me.”

“Shevelt has been pressing me … he says I really don’t have a consort,” Ryalth says quietly, letting her arms encircle him, but loosely.

“Who is he? A spoiled trader?” Lorn’s left hand continues to massage her tight shoulder muscles.

“The heir to the Yuryan Clan … shimmercloth, Hamorian cotton, spices …”

“Does he want a consort?”

Her smothered laugh is bitter.

“Come to Geliendra for my first furlough,” he says. “A year after I get there.”

Her eyebrows lift and she leans back to look at him. “Why?”

Lorn swallows, then bends to let his lips touch her left ear. “So we can be consorted there.”

“You mean it.” She shakes her head, pushing him away slightly before whispering back. “Why there?”

“Because it’s not here.”

She laughs at the dryness in his tone. “And?”

“If I’m followed here, anyone would think you’re my mistress-” Lorn stops, not really sure how to voice what he thinks.

“I’m not?” Her eyebrows arch.

“You’re far more than that.” He hurries his next murmured words. “That anyone would think you are my mistress protects you.”

She nods. “I think I understand. I don’t like it.”

“I’m trying ….”

“I know.” She tightens her embrace for a moment. “I know.”

Lorn holds her close, as she does him.

Ryalth will have to leave shortly, all too soon.

And Lorn will still have to handle Shevelt … before he leaves for Geliendra.

LORN STUDIES THE city from the fourth-level portico of his parents’ dwelling, watching the morning winter sun create shimmers that dance across the harbor and the Great Western Ocean farther to the south. Yet to Lorn’s eyes, the white city does not seem so vibrant as usual. Is it because of the winter-gray leaves … or the absence of the green and white awnings, furled for the winter … or because he sees it differently?

The air is still, cool but warming as the sun climbs.

Sensing someone approaching, he turns to see the round-faced servant-Sylirya-carrying a small basket. She inclines her head to him.