“And why he keeps his distance from the Second Magus?” Lorn probes.
Aleyar looks down at her half-full beaker of redberry.
“I know,” Lorn says quickly. “Kharl’elth is the father of Myryan’s consort, but he is known to be less than straightforward.”
“That is a most polite way of putting it,” Tyrsal says quickly. “And the less said the better, if you please.”
“I am sorry,” Lorn apologizes. “I did not mean to offend.”
Ryalth rises. “I think this is a good time to go inside for dinner. I just saw Kysia hovering in the archway.”
Tyrsal and Lorn also stand, quickly, and the four make their way to the table in the dining area where Lorn stands waiting on one side of the table, across from Ryalth, and then seats Aleyar to his right, while Tyrsal-after seating Ryalth-sits to her left.
Kysia and Ayleha appear with platters and serving bowls and then two baskets of bread, followed by a silver tray on which there are slices of sun-nut bread.
“Sun-nut bread, I see. Your family always served that,” Tyrsal says.
“The emburhka recipe comes from Lorn’s family,” Ryalth replies.
“I thought I recognized the aroma,” Tyrsal says as he takes the serving bowl that Ryalth hands to him.
“The wine is Alafraan,” Lorn says. “Would you like some?”
“Just half, please,” answers the blonde healer. “I like it, but much wine does not like me.”
“That’s true of many healers,” Lorn says as he pours the requested amount into her goblet. “Myryan never has more than a goblet, and usually only half.” He fills the other three goblets three-quarters full, then sets the bottle down and offers the emburhka to Aleyar.
She takes the dish, and then asks, smiling almost mischievously, “Will you tell me why you were so amused when Tyrsal introduced me?”
Lorn glances at Tyrsal, who flushes once more.
“Go ahead, Lorn.” A wry smile crosses the lips of the redheaded magus. “Try to be kind to me.”
“It goes back many years, before I left the Quarter of the Magi’i,” Lorn begins slowly. “It really begins with me, on the night I met Ryalth, as I recall.”
Ryalth raises her eyebrows. “I have not heard this.”
“My father was talking about the need for suitable consorts, and he asked if I had ever taken the trouble to talk to you.” He inclines his head to Aleyar. “He made some comment like, ‘It would not harm you to talk to her to see if you would like her.’ I thought that I might, except later that evening I met Ryalth and that changed everything.”
“Good thing for me that you did,” Tyrsal says, smiling at Aleyar.
The blonde healer returns the smile, warmly.
“But…” Lorn draws out the word, grinning at Tyrsal, “I remembered what my father had said, and several years later, I mentioned your name to my dear friend, and he made some comment to the effect that while you were sweet, beautiful, and charming-looking, he worried much about presenting himself to the great Third Magus.” Lorn inclines his head to Tyrsal. “I’m glad he decided to anyway.”
“So am I,” replies Aleyar. “Even if it did take him a season to get his courage up.”
“Prudence, that’s all,” mumbles Tyrsal, flushing once more, and partly hiding behind the goblet of Alafraan that he holds.
“You didn’t need that much prudence with Father,” the healer says gently. “He likes you.”
“I didn’t know that he would,” Tyrsal points out. “I don’t come from a long line of Magi’i, like Lorn or Rustyl.”
Aleyar shivers, if slightly.
Ryalth glances at Lorn, then says gently, “You don’t seem that fond of Rustyl.”
“He called several times…before Tyrsal. I put him off. Father let me, thank the Rational Stars,” Aleyar says. “His eyes and heart are cold, and he’s even colder deep within.” Her eyes go to Lorn. “You…and Tyrsal…both of you have a warmth inside.”
Lorn nods. “Tyrsal is warmer, I think.”
“It would appear that way,” Aleyar admits, “but you hide what you are well, as well as any of the senior Magi’i.” She looks at Ryalth. “He’s warmer than he will admit, is he not?”
“Yes,” replies the red-haired trader, with a smile. “I thought so from the first, but it took years to find it so.”
“And he is terrible to his foes,” Aleyar adds. “A healer can see that as well.”
Lorn shrugs and offers a lopsided smile. “You both have seen through me.”
After setting down her goblet, Aleyar laughs, softly but warmly. “No one sees through you, Lorn. We can judge you by what we do not sense.”
“Enough…enough,” protests Tyrsal. “You’ll have the two of us apart like a pair of roosters for stewing.”
“Definitely roosters,” Ryalth says.
Lorn barely manages not to choke on the mouthful of emburhka he is swallowing.
“I won’t pursue it.” Aleyar turns to Ryalth. “What is it like, being a lady trader? Syreal has told me about some of it, but do you think people treat you differently because you’re a lady?”
Ryalth gives the slightest of shrugs. “At first, it was difficult.” Her face hardens. “I learned a great deal.” A brief smile flits across her face. “Some of it from Lorn. I don’t think he understands how much, or about what.”
Lorn understands-now. He manages to keep an interested smile on his face.
Tyrsal glances from Ryalth to Lorn. He swallows.
Aleyar nods. “Now they all accept you, even defer to you. That’s what Syreal says. There was talk of your name being put forward as a possible Merchanter Advisor.”
“That would have been a gesture. Some gestures are useful. That would have served no useful purpose,” Ryalth replies, passing the basket of still-warm bread to Tyrsal.
“She sounds like someone else I know,” Tyrsal says with a laugh, taking the bread, and glancing at Lorn before turning his attention back to Ryalth. “How is trading these days?”
“It’s getting harder,” Ryalth admits. “Not because of Kerial, but because of the tariffs. We saw another one-gold increase at the turn of summer.” She glances at her consort. “From what Lorn tells me, I fear that there will be more.”
“Syreal says the same thing,” Aleyar says.
“Why?” asks Tyrsal. “Just because we’ve lost a few fireships?”
“It’s not just the loss of the fireships, but the failure of the chaos-towers,” Lorn says. “Without firelances, it will take more lancers to hold back the barbarians, and more lancers-”
“I see,” Tyrsal interrupts. “I’m slow, but not stupid. More lancers cost more golds, with their horses and blades and stipends. More horse teams will be needed on the roads, and that will make transport slower and more costly…It affects everything.”
“Unless the Magi’i can find another way to use chaos, perhaps the natural chaos of the world,” Lorn suggests.
“Some have been working on that. Most Magi’i aren’t that strong,” Tyrsal points out.
“Or…” Lorn says slowly, “unless there is some way to use natural chaos with machines of some sort.” He glances at Tyrsal. “Is anyone working on something like that?”
“I wouldn’t know that. I’m a very lowly second-level adept.”
“You could be a first-level,” Aleyar says. “You’re good enough. You will be soon.”
“I’m not sure I want to work that hard,” Tyrsal parries.
“You worry too much,” counters the blonde healer. “Father thinks you’re better than many of the Firsts.”
“There’s much to worry about in Cyad these days.” Tyrsal makes a vague gesture.
“Does anyone want more of the emburhka?” asks Ryalth.
“No…I’m full,” Lorn admits.
“Except for the pearapple tarts?”
He laughs. “Except for the pearapple tarts.”
Ryalth gestures, and Kysia and Ayleha appear to remove the platters and serving dishes.
Lorn pours a half-goblet more wine for Ryalth and Tyrsal.
Tyrsal frowns. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“Oh?”
“There were rumors…about your father…” Tyrsal suggests.
“I heard them,” Lorn says. “That he was the Hand of the Emperor. He never told me anything like that, and there wasn’t a thing in his papers or his letters that mentioned it, even indirectly.” He shrugs. “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t, but I’d guess that the Emperor would be the only one who could say, and he’s said nothing. Not that I know, anyway.”