Lorn grins back. “Probably in Inividra or Pemedra or Isahl.”
“I need but another few years for a pension, if a short-coin one, and I’ve a consort and two young boys.”
“In your boots, I’d do the same,” Lorn says. “There’s not much point in traveling the same ground twice, first as a ranker and then as an officer.”
“Ser?”
“Yes, Fayrken?”
“Is it true that you are the first officer in ten generations to invade Jerans?”
“I don’t know about the ten generations…but the first in many.”
“Some say…you’ve killed more barbarians by yourself than some whole squads…”
Lorn frowns slightly, then tilts his head before answering. “I’ve had the fortune-or misfortune-to be in more battles and fights than almost all officers near my age and rank. When you fight more, if you survive, you’ll kill more of your enemy. I’m not sure that killing measures much more than surviving.” He straightens and shrugs. “I’ve tried to do what I thought was right. Looking back, I’m sure it wasn’t in some cases. But if you don’t decide quickly, you don’t get a chance to think it over later.” For some reason the image of a young woman in an enumerator’s bedchamber flashes through his mind-another quick decision, perhaps good for him, but hardly for her, and yet at that moment, had Lorn had any real choice? He offers a lopsided smile. “I’m sorry…that’s a long answer to a short question.”
Fayrken nods. “Best I get on with the copying. Majer Hrenk will not stay in Fyrad forever.”
“Thank you.” Lorn turns back toward his study, and the strategic plan he has yet to complete.
XCVIX
The bell on the iron gate rings, and Lorn hurries forward from the veranda, down the green marble walk to and around the fountain, and past the privacy hedge to open the gate.
“An iron gate, Lorn?” Tyrsal stands there in the whites of a magus with a petite blonde woman dressed in a shimmering green tunic and trousers. She is no taller than Lorn’s shoulder.
“Ryalth thought it might be useful. Please come in.” Lorn steps back and pulls the gate wide. “She’s waiting on the veranda.”
After the couple steps around the tightly-grown conifer privacy hedge, Lorn relocks the iron gate, and follows them up the green marble walk to the veranda, where Ryalth waits.
“This is Aleyar,” Tyrsal announces, almost embarrassed, grinning slightly at Lorn as he rejoins them.
Lorn manages not to raise his eyebrows, recalling how, years before, Tyrsal had said that the blonde and poised young healer standing on the veranda was too young-and then, she probably had been.
“You are amused?” asks Aleyar with a gentle voice.
“I am indeed, but for reasons you would not find unpleasant, Lady Healer,” Lorn says.
“I can sense that. I look forward to hearing them.”
Tyrsal flushes. So does Lorn.
Ryalth and Aleyar exchange glances, and amused smiles.
Aleyar glances at Tyrsal and begins to laugh. “I think I’ll enjoy this far more than I’d thought.”
“Oh…” Lorn says. “This is Ryalth, my far better self.”
Ryalth shakes her head. “Perhaps we could sit out here for a bit and have something to drink,” she suggests, gesturing toward the wooden-framed settee and the two armchairs. “We have some early redberry juice and some Alafraan, and amber ale.”
The red-haired Tyrsal glances at Aleyar.
“The redberry, if you please.” Aleyar seats herself in one of the two armchairs.
“The ale,” Tyrsal says, taking the other chair.
“I’ll get the drinks,” Ryalth says before Lorn speaks. “You want ale, don’t you? I’ll be back in a moment.”
“Yes, thank you.” After a moment, Lorn settles onto the settee.
“As I told you, Lorn is my oldest and dearest friend,” Tyrsal tells Aleyar. “He made my life easier when we were in school, and it cost him dearly later. He could have been a first-level adept if he’d been able to stay in the Magi’i.”
“We both survived,” Lorn replies mildly.
Aleyar casts a quizzical look at Tyrsal and then at Lorn. “You both agree that is the truth.” She shakes her head.
“Tyrsal is being kind,” Lorn says.
“I think not,” Aleyar replies.
“Here is the redberry.” Ryalth reappears with a tray on which are four glass beakers, two of redberry and two of ale. She extends the tray to Aleyar, who takes one of the redberry beakers, and then to Tyrsal.
Lorn takes the other ale, and Ryalth sets the tray on the small table beside the settee, where she seats herself, before taking the last beaker.
“How did you two meet?” Ryalth asks as she looks at Aleyar.
“Because of Lorn, actually,” Tyrsal says. “In a way. I saw her at the infirmary when Lorn didn’t answer my scrolls and I’d gone to see Jerial to see if his duty station had been changed again.”
“I didn’t know you’d written.” Lorn shifts his weight on the settee. “You never said.”
“Well, after all the other problems Dett caused, I didn’t see much point in making you any angrier at him.” Tyrsal takes a sip of ale. “That day, Aleyar was talking to Jerial. So I waited until she left to talk to your sister.” He grins. “I did ask Jerial who she was, but I didn’t do anything for several eightdays.”
“Almost a season.” Aleyar laughs.
“But I didn’t forget.”
“No…you asked everyone who might know me about me, though.”
Tyrsal flushes. “Anyway…I finally asked her father for permission to call on her. He was very kind and said I could.” The red-haired magus shrugs. “That’s how it happened.”
“How did you meet Lorn?” Aleyar asks, her gaze on Ryalth.
Ryalth smiles mischievously. “It happened a long time ago. He was a student, and I was a very junior trader. He was walking, looking for a willing woman, when a man attacked me and the trader I was with. Lorn saved us both, and me from a truly deplorable fate. Somehow, we found we belonged together, and he defied his father to make me his consort. That was many years later, of course.”
“Except,” Lorn adds, “my father had such a high opinion of Ryalth that he forced me to defy him for her because he feared I wouldn’t value her enough otherwise.”
A faint flush suffuses Ryalth’s face and neck.
“You didn’t tell me that,” Tyrsal says.
“I didn’t find that out until after we were consorted,” Lorn admits.
“A love match, across backgrounds.” Aleyar holds her beaker of redberry, then takes another tiny sip. “You were fortunate that your parents saw her worth.”
“Didn’t that happen with your sister?” asks Lorn.
“You mean Syreal?” Aleyar nods. “It did. I can’t say I understand exactly how. Veljan is the sweetest man. He is a good trader, and he’d do anything for her, but Syreal is so bright. Compared to her, he’s a sweet dumb ox, but he adores her, and she’s happy. She really is. It’s for the best for everyone. That became clear after Fuyol’s death. Shevelt was a lizard of a man, and the clan owes a debt to whoever killed him. The entire Yuryan Clan loves Veljan, because he is honest and does the right thing. He’s so honest by nature, and Syreal tells him what to do…and if she doesn’t know, she asks Father.” Aleyar laughs. “Between the three of them, the Clan has prospered greatly, and what’s funny is that all of them know it, and so does most of Cyad-and everyone’s still pleased.”
“It makes sense,” Lorn says. “Veljan is honest. That means he won’t do anything he feels is wrong. Your father is shrewd, and he will give the best advice for his daughter and her consort, and Syreal loves Veljan and won’t accept any advice that would hurt him. And everyone else understands that, which means that they can trust Veljan to be honorable, and they all know why.”
“That is rare indeed in Cyad,” Ryalth says dryly.
“Father is honest, too,” Aleyar points out. “That’s why he was a friend of your father, Lorn.”