Lorn isn’t sure. Rustyl is far from stupid, and what appears to be a stupid maneuver must have a deeper purpose. Lorn just can’t figure out what it might be, unless it’s a blunt attempt to force Lorn to act against Rustyl. Or one designed to show utter contempt…which may be the most likely explanation of all, Lorn reflects.
The hired carriage rolls to a stop opposite the gate of sunstone sculpted into the semblance of a bower wreath. Behind and to the west of the stone flowers of the gate-wreath rises a three-story dwelling. Gate and house are just west of the corner where the Ninth Way East meets the Road of Prosperity. Liataphi’s three-story house is but two blocks from the one Lorn had grown up in-now inhabited by Vernt and Mycela.
As she steps from the carriage, Ryalth looks down at the wide blue shimmercloth trousers, the white shirt, and the green-trimmed blue vest and blue boots she wears. Then she glances at Lorn. “How do I look?”
“Wonderful.”
“You say that because you love me.”
“I love you, but you still look wonderful.” Lorn looks to the coachman. “It will doubtless be well after dark.”
“You’ve paid handsomely, ser,” replies the balding driver. “I’ll be here. Be much easier on me than driving all over Cyad.”
The two step through the gate and up the halfscore of steps to the outside privacy screen, where Lorn rings the bell.
Almost immediately, Lorn hears the door open, and the broad-shouldered Liataphi steps around the screen and bows. “Welcome. Do come in. Tyrsal and Aleyar are already up in the sitting room.” He bows again to Ryalth. “Lady trader, all have remarked upon your abilities, but none have mentioned your beauty.”
“Thank you.” Ryalth flushes slightly.
Lorn smiles.
“You are most fortunate, Lorn, to have a consort of talent and beauty.”
“I am, and even more fortunate that she was kind enough to accept me as a consort when I asked.”
“As I recall, your father was surprised. Pleasantly so, but surprised.” Liataphi nods. “We should not be talking down here. Do come along.”
As they follow the Third Magus up the circular stone staircase, Lorn murmurs, “I said that you looked wonderful.”
“You were right, but it’s pleasant to hear it from someone else.”
The redheaded Tyrsal rises from the settee as Lorn and Ryalth step through the archway. “Greetings.”
Aleyar rises and bows to Ryalth, then to Lorn. The older and white-haired woman, wearing a white-and-green shimmercloth tunic and trousers and sitting in the armchair to the right of the healer, nods pleasantly.
“This is my consort Lleya,” Liataphi says. “You know Tyrsal and Aleyar, of course.”
“We’re pleased to meet you, Lady Lleya,” offers Ryalth.
“I would appreciate it greatly if you would do away with honorifics,” Lleya says warmly. “We must deal with them all too much away from home.”
Lorn and Ryalth seat themselves on the second settee, upholstered in white and green.
“You are a healer?” Lorn asks Lleya.
“I no longer go to the infirmary, for there are others, like Aleyar and your sisters, who are far better than I.”
“She’s still good,” Aleyar affirms.
“My most loyal daughter.”
“Most accurate,” Liataphi says. “Were you a poor healer, she would have said nothing.”
“Healing takes more energy as one ages.” Lleya touches her snow-white hair. “So I work with the herbs in my garden. I do have a special kind of brinn. I’ve managed twenty generations of it, and each more powerful than the last.”
“Your astra is also good,” Aleyar adds.
“Before we have dinner, Lorn, Ryalth…there is one thing.” Tyrsal turns slightly red. “Outside of the families, you should be the first to know. Aleyar has consented to be my consort.”
“That’s wonderful,” Lorn says, feeling fully the warm smile that spreads across his face.
“I’m so glad for you two,” Ryalth adds.
Tyrsal glances at Lorn, but Lorn just smiles.
Tyrsal still flushes.
“You two!” Ryalth chides the younger men.
Lorn flushes and manages to swallow a laugh. “My apologies, my dear. And to you, Aleyar.”
“Whatever it is, you two rascals should bury it,” Lleya mock-scolds.
“If we don’t,” Lorn replies, “my lady trader is likely to bury me.”
Tyrsal laughs. “She’s the only one ever to get the better of you.”
“And I hope I’m wise enough to remember that,” Lorn counters.
“On those words, perhaps we should move to the dining area,” suggests Lleya, rising from her chair.
“Excellent idea,” seconds Liataphi.
Lorn and Ryalth sit together on one side of the table, with Aleyar and Tyrsal on the other side, and Liataphi and Lleya on each end.
“This is a mild and traditional lamb loaf in lemon citron sauce,” Lleya says, “with grass-rice and chopped quilla.”
Lorn has never been that fond of quilla, but he helps himself to the rice and quilla, as well as the lamb, and is surprised to find that however the normally oily root has been prepared, has left it merely tangy and mild and a complement to the slight bitterness of the dark grass-rice. “This is excellent.”
“Very good,” Tyrsal adds.
“If the recipe is not a family secret…?” Ryalth ventures.
“Oh…I’d be happy to share it with you,” Lleya says. “Or Aleyar can show you. She prepares it as well as I do-perhaps better.”
“As well…if I am fortunate,” says the blonde healer.
Lorn takes another chunk of the sun-nut bread, ignoring Ryalth’s knowing smile. “I cannot say how much we appreciate the invitation. After so many years of being away from Cyad, it is so good to be able to dine with friends and their family. I was always here such a short time, that we scarcely saw more than my family.”
“I was so sorry to hear about your parents,” Lleya says. “They were such good people, and both will be missed far more than most will ever know.”
“Thank you,” Lorn says. “I miss them. I was lucky to have them.” He inclines his head to Ryalth. “My lady was not so fortunate. Her parents perished in a shipwreck when she was a child.”
Lleya nods. “That is hard.”
“I wondered…” Tyrsal says, “but I didn’t wish to intrude.”
“My father was a merchanter in Fyrad,” Ryalth says. “Then I came here to live with my aunt. She died the year before I met Lorn.”
“You two have known each other for a long time, have you not?” asks Lleya. “You act that way. Or are you so well-known to each other by closeness of spirit?”
“Both,” Lorn says quickly. “I met Ryalth when I was still a student magus. It took me a time to appreciate her as fully as I now do.”
Lleya glances at Ryalth, as if asking for the redhead’s view.
Ryalth laughs, gently. “I fear it also took me much time to appreciate him. I also did not think it appropriate to encourage a magus. Or even a Mirror Lancer.”
“But he obviously persisted,” replies Lleya.
“There was no one else to compare to her. For me, there still is not,” Lorn says.
“That’s true,” Tyrsal says. “I didn’t know who she was when we were students, and later, but he never looked at anyone else.”
After a moment of silence, Lleya glances at Lorn. “Isn’t it rather strange for you to be on the personal staff of the Majer-Commander…” The older woman shakes her head. “I am afraid that did not come out the way I intended. What I meant is that you have accomplished a great deal very young, and most of those with whom you work in Mirror Lancer Court are far older. Does that not seem strange?”
“I can’t say that I’ve had the time to think of that,” Lorn says. “I knew I would probably be the youngest officer there, and the most junior, and what I do is basically make matters easier for the Majer-Commander. I take notes at meetings and follow up with the other officers to make sure that the material the Majer-Commander wants is supplied.” He shrugs. “It’s a job for a junior majer. You have to know enough to understand what he needs and wants, and be young enough not to worry about running errands.”