“What?”
“Too much order, even in healing, is worse than too much chaos.”
“Is there any doubt of that?” Lorn says with a laugh.
“Ah….” Myryan draws the word out with exaggerated slowness, “but do you know why?”
Ryalth frowns, her blue eyes flicking between her consort and his sister.
“I don’t see where you’re going,” Lorn admits.
“Order’s greatest cruelty is that it denies chaos,” Myryan declares, her eyes glowing even brighter. “I see that now.”
Lorn nods slowly, trying to make sense out of all the words, and find the meaning behind them. “Why do you say that?” he temporizes, trying to draw her out.
“Lorn…perfect order is perfect memory. Would you truly wish to remember every unkindness done to you, every cruelty you dispensed? Would you wish to live in a world where every chamber is perfect, yet without heat? Where fire does not exist…because it changes, and order denies change? Where children are never born, and no one dies? Where each person is unchanging…?”
Lorn finds himself shivering at the image.
“The kindness of time is that it passes…” Myryan murmurs. Then she smiles abruptly. “I didn’t come here to mope about things. I came because I like to be around you two.” She smiles at Kerial, and the boy tries to lurch from Ryalth’s lap.
Ryalth stands and carries her son to his aunt.
“He’s so good,” the healer says, taking the Kerial into her arms. “And he feels so good to hold.”
“Most of the time,” Lorn suggests, “unless he’s wet.”
“We should probably begin dinner,” Ryalth ventures, “or it will get overcooked, and I do not care much for overcooked fowl. Also, Kerial is being good, and how long that will last…”
Lorn laughs.
As the three enter the dining area, Kysia appears and takes Kerial.
The three sit, and Ayleha begins to bring in the serving platters, starting with a gold-rimmed blue platter holding slices of fowl covered in a golden cream sauce.
“When I’m here, everything is so elegant,” Myryan says.
“You deserve elegance,” Lorn says, laughing and adding, “and so do we, but we only get it when we have company.”
“Elegance and grown-up company,” Ryalth adds, passing the tray to Lorn, who takes but one slice of sun-nut bread, before holding it for Myryan.
“You have been busy lately,” Myryan says. “Even Ciesrt is talking about how effective your demonstrations of the firelances have been. Are you the one who developed those drills?”
“They’re just variations on what I’ve used in the field,” Lorn says, holding the platter to allow Myryan to take several slices of the sauce-covered chicken. “No drill really shows what it’s like.”
“We were at Kharl’s several nights ago, and Ciesrt suggested that perhaps some of the Magi’i should put on a display.” Myryan laughs, if with a note of sadness. “Kharl was not amused. He said that the use of chaos was for what needed to be done to preserve Cyad, not to provide entertainment for outland traders and ignorant…folk.”
“He said ‘ignorant merchanters,’ I would wager,” Ryalth responds.
“He did. I sometimes forget how sharp you two are…until I come here. I think that’s another reason why Ciesrt feels uncomfortable with our family. Everyone sees things he doesn’t, and he has trouble accepting that.” She shrugs. “Then, Kharl sees what Ciesrt doesn’t, and I suppose Ciesrt doesn’t wish to be someplace else that reminds him of that.”
“I’m sorry for him,” Ryalth says. “I felt that way at first, I think, but your father and mother helped so much.”
“I miss them,” Myryan says simply.
“We all do.”
For a time, the three eat, near-silently.
Lorn takes the last sip of the Alafraan in his goblet. “I think this is even better than usual. What do you think?” He inclines his head to Myryan.
“Brother dear, how would I know? Your wine is the only one I drink, and I can take little enough of that.”
“It is good,” Ryalth says. “Is there anything left in your garden?”
“After last eightday’s frost?” Myryan shakes her head. “Just some of the root vegetables, the late carrots, potatoes…I did get all the rest of the pearapples pickled or stewed.”
“Stewed pearapples…waste of a good fruit,” Lorn grumbles.
“Letting them rot on the tree or the ground is the waste.”
Ayleha appears, silently as always, and begins to clear away the dishes.
“How much did you put up?” Ryalth asks.
“I don’t know. It seemed like scores and scores of jars. But they’ll all be gone before midwinter, I’d guess.”
As the serving woman places a dish of egg custard before her, Ryalth smiles. “I might actually finish a dinner by myself.” She frowns. “That’s really not fair to Kerial. He deserves a more regular schedule, but I never know when I can leave Ryalor House or when I’ll be late.”
“Or when I will be,” Lorn adds.
“Part of that is because you both want to spent time with him and each other,” Myryan suggests.
“Until this year, we haven’t spent that much time together,” Lorn agrees.
“It has been good to see him every night.” Ryalth smiles.
“Sometimes, it amazes me,” the healer says. “You two belong together, and I’ve heard the story so many times, yet it doesn’t quite seem real.”
Lorn and Ryalth share a glance.
“That’s what I mean. Neither of you are Magi’i, yet you know so much about each other.”
“Names are not everything,” Lorn observes, taking a last mouthful of the egg custard and adding, “That was good.”
“Almost as good as pearapple tarts?” asks Myryan, with an innocent-looking smile.
“It was very good,” Lorn grins back, “better than anything except the best of pearapple tarts.”
Myryan tries to cover a yawn.
“Are you getting enough rest?” asks Lorn.
“Always the big brother. It’s been a long day. I spent the morning in the garden and then went to the infirmary.”
“I have a carriage waiting to take you home. Pheryk will go with you,” Lorn says.
“I can make my own way,” Myryan insists.
“I am sure you can,” Ryalth says, “but Lorn and I would feel better if you accepted the offer.”
“Besides,” Lorn adds with a laugh, “you’d waste my coins. I’ve already paid for the carriage.”
“I would not do that. Not to either of you.” Myryan smiles the extra-bright smile once more. “It has been a long day, and I will not insist.”
The three rise and make their way out of the dining area and then to the foyer off the veranda.
“You have to come more often,” Ryalth says, opening the door.
“With or without Ciesrt,” Lorn adds. “We like to see you.”
“I like to see you two,” Myryan replies.
The three walk out to the iron gate, the area lit by a single lamp Pheryk had obviously hung and lit sometime during dinner.
Myryan smiles a last time before entering the carriage.
Pheryk nods to Lorn and Ryalth. “Be back shortly, ser, Lady.”
Once the sound of the carriage dies away, Lorn closes the iron gate and locks it, then looks at the redhead beside him.
She looks back at him. “There’s something wrong.”
“There’s a lot wrong,” Lorn says. “But there’s no flux chaos around her, and no excessive order.”
They walk slowly through the cold darkness, past the still fountain.
“You think she and Ciesrt are having problems?” asks Ryalth.
“I don’t know. I was truth-reading her. There are things she doesn’t want me to know. That, I could sense, but they center on Kharl, I feel. There’s just…a sadness…around her when she mentions Ciesrt. I don’t feel I could use the glass…” Lorn shakes his head.