Cyador’s Heirs (11 page)

Lerial dismounts outside the stable, then leads the gelding inside, following the majer, who steps through the wide stable door and points.

“The third stall on the right is yours. You have to groom your mount … you do know how to do that, don’t you?”

“Yes, ser. Father insisted on that.”
If not that often.
Lerial pauses, surprised that the stable has a brick-paved floor. The only other stable he has seen with such a floor is the one serving the palace, not that he has been in more than a handful of stables. “I only have a travel brush.”

“There are brushes in the tack room. You’re also responsible for feeding your mount and cleaning the stall every day. I’d suggest first thing in the morning and late in the afternoon or early evening, but that’s up to you. The soiled straw and offage go into the old cart on the side of the stable. The shovel, the pitchfork, and an old broom are on the peg racks over there. Put them back clean whenever you aren’t using them.”

“Yes, ser.” Lerial hasn’t had to clean a stall, but he has watched the palace stable boys do just that.

“The feed barrels are in the storeroom beside the tack room, but you’ll have to carry water from the outside fountain. When you finish unsaddling and dealing with your mount, we’ll get your kit to your room, and then I’ll show you around.”

Somehow Lerial finds that the whole process of unsaddling the gelding, racking the saddle and blanket, and grooming the gelding takes longer than he recalls. He does remember to check the gelding’s hooves, but he sees no stones or cracks, and the shoes look sound. He makes his way to the fountain through the late-afternoon heat that feels hotter than it probably is because there is no breeze at all. He half fills the bucket from the stall, then frowns and pours a little out. The gelding will be thirsty, but he is not that hot, because the pace from Brehaal had been deliberate. Still …

He carries the water bucket back to the stable and watches as the gelding drinks. Then he finds a grain barrel and half fills the feed bucket in the stall. By then, his undertunic is soaked, and sweat pours off his forehead

Finally, he closes the wooden stall half door, lifts his kit bag, and walks from the stable toward the courtyard fountain, where the majer has appeared, as if he had known when Lerial would finish.

“Maeroja and the girls will likely be in the courtyard, enjoying the cool.” Altyrn looks at Lerial. “You could use that as well.”

“It’s hotter here than in Cigoerne, and there’s no breeze today.”

“There usually is, but it’s been drier and calmer this summer. We’ve had to use more water from the Lynaar. That was one reason why I wanted these lands, and your grandmother and father were kind enough to grant them.”

“I don’t see any ditches…”

“I put them underground, and they leave the river farther uphill. That way there’s pressure for the fountains and the water’s cleaner.”

Lerial hadn’t thought about either, but he nods.

The north entry to the villa is just a simple recessed arch with a single ironbound door, but as Altryn opens it Lerial can see that the wood is thick, and the back is also ironbound with a double set of brackets for bars. Once they are inside, the majer immediately closes the door.

“We leave the shutters closed and don’t dally with the doors until it’s late in the evening and it’s cooler outside.”

While Lerial would not have called the wide corridor especially cold, the air is definitely cooler inside the villa.

“Most of the dayrooms are down on the ground level—the library, the winter dining room, my study, Maeroja’s study. There are root cellars and storage areas below. The kitchen is on the west end…”

Lerial listens.

The corridor is not that long, no more than ten yards before they walk through an open door and into a center square courtyard. A roof that extends some four yards from the villa runs all the way around the courtyard, creating a covered terrace that surrounds the center fountain, which contains four sprays, each one situated so that it geysers into the air opposite the middle of each wall. A walk runs from each spray to the terrace, and between the four walks are four small gardens. The one that is to Lerial’s immediate right, as he follows Altyrn to the left, appears to contain miniature fruit trees.

“Maeroja is quite the gardener … and quite the grower. I just listen to her.”

Lerial is certain that is something his father would never have said. “How did you meet her?”

“Did you mean to ask if she happens to be local?” Altyrn’s voice is dry.

Lerial is so taken aback that he blurts out, “I never even thought of that.”

Abruptly, Altyrn laughs. “Good for you.” Then he glances toward the woman and the three girls who stand waiting for them just around the corner of the courtyard. He shakes his head. “The girls actually put on dresses. I haven’t seen them that fancied up in eightdays.”

Since Lerial’s sister and cousin are younger, and since his mother and aunt are healers, he can’t recall, offhand, seeing many dresses around the palace in Cigoerne.

The majer stops short of his family. “Lerial, might I present my wife, Maeroja, and my daughters, Rojana, Tyrna, and Aylana?”

Lerial sets down his kit and inclines his head. “I’m honored to meet all of you, and I do appreciate your kindness in allowing me to be here.” Even though he suspects that the majer may not have had that much choice, his father would not have imposed if the majer had not been at least somewhat willing.

“We’re the ones who are honored,” replies Maeroja.

As Lerial looks at Maeroja, she seems to be only a few years older than he is, but he has to doubt that, since the tallest girl is less than half a head shorter than he is, suggesting she is close to his age. Maeroja is also, he realizes, rather striking, with jet-black hair, a slightly tanned skin, and penetrating blue eyes. Her smile is warm, but … unsettling, almost ironic, he thinks. He almost stammers, but manages to respond. “Not … from what I see. I’m the one most honored.”

Altyrn smiles, then says to his wife, “Lord Kiedron will be returning for dinner in little more than a glass.”

“We will be ready.” Maeroja turns her eyes on Lerial. “I thought the girls could show you to your chamber, and you might wish to wash up before rejoining us for something cool to drink before dinner.”

“I would appreciate that very much.”

“Rojana … if you would show Lerial?”

The tallest girl, who has her mother’s complexion and hair, but her father’s gray eyes, smiles. “Lord Lerial…”

“Lerial … please. I’m just a younger son.”

“This way…” Rojana turns and walks south to the corridor in the middle of the east side of the villa, then steps inside.

Lerial can see that the corridor continues to the main entrance and a circular entry hall, although the light is dim, yet Rojana does not continue toward the hall, but heads up the narrow steps, open on one side except for a railing. Lerial picks up his bag and follows her. The two other girls trail him.

At the top of the steps Rojana pauses, then walks back toward the courtyard along a hallway directly above the one below. “Everyone’s chambers overlook the courtyard. The upper balcony goes all the way around it.” She turns right at the balcony and follows it around until she stops at a door just past midway along the north side of the villa’s upper level.

“This is your chamber. It has a small washroom through the door. There are two buckets to bring up water. You can get cool water from either the outside fountain or the spout beside the fountains in the courtyard. Later we can show you the upper cistern that holds warmer water. It’s on the roof balcony. We did fill the tub and buckets for you this time. There is a drain for the waste water.”

“Where does it go?”

“The pipes take it to the ditch that serves the front meadow.”

Since Rojana does not open the door, Lerial depresses the door handle and pushes the door open. He steps inside, and she follows. Her sisters do not. The chamber is long, some seven yards, he judges, but only four wide. There are three long and narrow windows set in the north wall, about twice as wide as those on the lower level, and one on each side of the door from the balcony. The furnishings are simple and sparse—a single bed, a doorless armoire, a dresser with three drawers, a flat-topped storage chest at the foot of the bed, a narrow bedside table, and a writing table-desk and a chair. There is one wall lamp suspended from a brass arm and a lamp on the table-desk.

“This is very nice,” he says, nodding to Rojana. “Thank you.”

“There’s also a set of work trousers and a work shirt in the armoire. Papa said he hopes they’re close enough to fit you, but he didn’t want you spoiling riding clothes working with him.”

Lerial manages to stifle a rueful smile. The majer has used his daughter to deliver a tactful announcement of what awaits him. “That is thoughtful. I didn’t bring anything like that.”

“Mother thought you wouldn’t.” That comes from the youngest girl, who stands in the doorway, a serious expression on her face.

“Your mother was right,” replies Lerial.

Rojana eases back to the door. “Is there anything else you need?”

“I wouldn’t think so, but I’ll let you know if there is.”

After the three leave, Lerial closes the door, then carries his kit bag to the chest, where he places it and opens it. First, he unpacks and places his garments in either the armoire or the dresser, setting aside a clean set for dinner. Then he disrobes, washes and shaves, although that takes little time, given that his beard is still fine and uneven. Before dressing in his own garments, he does try on the work clothes. They fit, although they are a shade large.

Less than half a glass later, dressed in clean clothes, he leaves his chambers and retraces his steps back down to the courtyard.

As he nears the majer and his family, gathered around a large circular table under the terrace roof, Lerial can’t help but overhear a few words between the girls.

“… said he wouldn’t take long…”

“… because you like him…”

“Ssshh!”

Lerial keeps a straight face as he stops short of the table. “Thank you. The quarters are lovely.” “Lovely” isn’t really the right word, but “more than ample” sounds condescending, and “adequate” would be arrogant. “Perfect” would be an obvious exaggeration.

“We hope so,” replies Maeroja. “Your rooms are the same as those of Rojana, and all the chambers are similar.”

“I do appreciate them.” He turns to the majer. “And the work clothes.”

“Good. Working here can be a dirty business.” Altyrn gestures to the chair to his left, with an empty mug before it. “You can sit down.”

“Would you like lager, ale, or redberry?” asks Maeroja, gesturing to the three large pitchers in the center of the wooden table.

“Lager, please.”

“That’s the pitcher with the gold stripe.”

From that, Lerial understands that he is to pour his own … and he does so.

“How was the ride?” asks Altyrn.

“Long. I’m not used to that much time in the saddle. But it was interesting. I’ve never been this far south.”

“It’s different, and it’s not … just like most places.”

“Dear … don’t be quite so obscure,” suggests Maeroja with a gentle laugh.

“By that,” adds Altyrn, “I meant that people don’t change much in what they feel, but how they express it may be very different. That’s one way of looking at it.”

At that moment, a young man in a tan shirt and shorts emerges from the corridor leading from the main entry door. “Ser … Lord Kiedron is approaching.”

“Thank you, Rhewen.” The majer stands and looks at Maeroja and Lerial. “I’ll greet him myself.”

Since no one else moves as Altyrn leaves, Lerial remains with Maeroja and the girls, although he feels awkward doing so … but the majer’s words had been a command of sorts.

“He does have a way of making his wishes known without stating them,” Maeroja says to Lerial, her tone matter-of-fact.

“I’m gaining that impression, Lady.”

While the majer’s wife does not flush, Lerial can tell that his salutation has embarrassed her, but what else could he call her. Not to address her would be presumptuous, if not rude.

“If you must address me,” she says with a slight twist to her lips, “‘Maeroja’ might be better.”

“I did not wish to presume,” he replies gently.

“That would not be presumptuous.” She smiles softly. “I do appreciate the honor, undeserved as it is.”

After those words, Lerial is the one trying not to blush.

“How old are you?” asks the youngest girl.

“Almost sixteen,” he answers, adding, “Aylana,” as he finally recalls her name.

“You don’t look that old. You’re thin, too.”

“That’s likely one reason why I’m here. My father wants me to learn things from your father.”

“You’ll learn,” says Rojana. “Father will see to that.”

Both her sisters nod.

“Enough, girls.” But there is a trace of an amusement behind Maeroja’s words.

Lerial takes a careful swallow of the lager, darker than he would prefer, and, after swallowing it, he finds it is likely also stronger and a shade more bitter. Still … he would prefer lager to ale … and definitely to redberry. “Do you brew your own lager and ale?”

“We do, but only enough for Kinaar. The barley takes too much space for us to grow more.”

Lerial is pondering that, given that there seems to be plenty of land, when Altyrn and his father step out onto the terrace. As Kiedron approaches the terrace table, Maeroja rises, and so do Lerial and the three girls.

“It’s an honor and a pleasure to see you again, Lord Kiedron,” Maeroja offers.

“It’s my pleasure as well. It’s not often I can dine with just a family, other than my own.”

Lerial can sense the truth of his father’s words, and he cannot help but wonder how much he does not know about what has occurred involving the majer and his wife … and his father.

“It’s still our pleasure,” adds Altyrn. “You have had a long day. Perhaps we should adjourn to the dinner table?”

“That might be for the best. I will need to leave quite early tomorrow.”

The dining chamber is off the terrace, but has three sets of wide sliding doors that are open so that the chamber shares the cool of the courtyard. On colder evenings, Lerial imagines that they are closed. Altyrn seats Kiedron at the head of the table, with Maeroja to his left, then takes the place to the Duke’s right. Lerial is seated beside Maeroja, with Rojana beside her father, and the middle daughter, Tyrna, to Lerial’s right, and Aylana beside Rojana.