Cyador’s Heirs (13 page)

His eyes burn for a moment.

Then he attacks the dirt and grass once more.

XI

On fourday morning, Lerial is even sorer than he had been on threeday, and his hands are red and almost raw in places. His face feels warm, but it is not red, and he applies the ointment Maeroja had supplied to him. When he reaches the breakfast room, he sees that the majer’s consort is seated, as are the girls, but the majer is not there.

“He’ll be here in a few moments,” says Maeroja. “He had to give some instructions to the field crew.” Before Lerial can seat himself at the breakfast table, she says, “Let me see your hands.”

Lerial shows her the backs of his hands, even as he realizes that there is the faintest hint of something different in her voice, almost an accent, a way of speaking that he has not heard or, if he has, does not recall.

“The palms, please.” There is a certain knowing irony in her voice.

He turns his hands over.

“You won’t be able to use them for days if you don’t do something about them.” Maeroja looks to Tyrna. “Go get the ointment.”

The middle daughter slips from her chair and scuttles out through the door to the kitchen.

“You’ll also need some gloves for a time, until your hands toughen. I’ll put on the anointment after you eat. Its smell isn’t perfume, but it does work.”

“Thank you.” Lerial slides into his chair and looks at his empty platter, then realizes that everyone’s is empty. Although his mug does contain the green juice, he decides not to drink because it’s clear that no one else has. Just as he is wondering how long they will wait for the majer, Altyrn steps into the breakfast room and seats himself. Tyrna is right behind her father, a jar in her hand, which she delivers to her mother before reseating herself.

“Did everyone sleep well last night?”

The girls nod. Maeroja smiles. Lerial nods belatedly. He had slept well, but that was because he’d been so exhausted that the early evening warmth in his room hadn’t kept him from falling asleep—a warmth that might well have in Cigoerne.

“Lerial’s going to need gloves today,” Maeroja says, her voice matter-of-fact, “and anointment.”

“I’ll get him gloves after breakfast.”

Once Altyrn lifts his mug, a server quickly dishes out breakfast, and the girls begin to eat. So does Lerial.

“What was the trouble?” Maeroja asks.

“Naaryt is worried about the axle on the cart. I told him to only use half loads of clay. I’d like to get the ditching done before we get any rain. That way the clay can set. What about the cocoonery?”

“Another few days before the worms start hatching. I’ve made arrangements with Zierna if we need more leaves. I’d rather not use the red mulberry leaves, but we can always do what we did last year.”

“I’d feed the worms on the southeast section with the leaves from the reds. There’s something about that part of the tables that the worms don’t do as well there.”

“The heat … even using an awning in front of the wall, it’s hotter there.”

Altyrn nods. “It’s always something.” He continues eating, methodically alternating bites of egg toast and porridge.

As soon as Lerial finishes eating, Maeroja says, “Let’s get that anointment on your hands.”

Whatever the substance is that she works into the skin of palms and fingers, it smells faintly of something unpleasantly wild as well as something similar to pine, if more acrid.

“Now,” she says as she finishes, “don’t touch anything for a bit.” She smiles at Rojana. “You open the doors until you get to the field today.”

“Yes, Mother.” Rojana grins.

Lerial can’t help blushing slightly, and he hopes no one notices.

Before long, Lerial and Rojana follow Altyrn out of the villa.

There, the majer stops abruptly. “Just wait here. I need to get those gloves for you, Lerial.” He hurries back inside the villa.

“Father won’t be long,” says Rojana. “He never is. Mother says that he’s always been in a hurry.”

As the two of them stand by the west entrance to the villa, two older women walk by some five yards away, talking to each other. One glances in Lerial’s direction, if briefly. They are conversing in Hamorian, and Lerial strains to catch what they are saying.

“… a cousin or nephew of the majer from Cigoerne…”

“… trouble with his family, most likely…”

“… he worked hard yesterday…”

“… see how he does today … and tomorrow…”

Although Lerial strains to hear more, the two women continue walking across the courtyard and toward the cocoonery, their words becoming indistinct and unintelligible.

Rojana looks at Lerial curiously. “You speak Hamorian?”

“Of course. Why?”

“I wouldn’t have thought…”

“My grandmother insisted. Both my brother and I do.”

“Does Father know?”

“I thought…” Lerial shakes his head. “I don’t know. I never mentioned it. I thought most … younger people whose parents came from Cyador had their children speak both tongues.”

Rojana shook her head. “Father says many of the Lancer families won’t teach their children Hamorian.”

“He would know.” Lerial frowns. “I can’t say that I think that’s a good idea.”

“Not speaking Hamorian is a terrible idea.”

Lerial refrains from grinning at her quiet vehemence.

At that moment, the majer steps out of the west door to the villa and walks toward the two.

“I think this pair will fit.” Altyrn extends two gloves of heavy leather, with patches of a darker leather at the base of the palms. “You can get them as dirty as you need to, but don’t get them wet. Wet gloves are hard on hands.”

“Yes, ser.” Lerial eases on one glove, then the other. They’re slightly large, but not noticeably so. “Thank you.”

“There’s one other thing, Father.” Rojana looks at Lerial.

“Ser … I don’t know if my father mentioned it … but I do speak Hamorian.”

“He did not,” replies Altyrn in heavily accented Hamorian. “How well do you speak it?”

“I’m told that I speak it like any other young Hamorian, ser,” Lerial answers in Hamorian, “but I couldn’t say if that’s true or not.”

Rojana grins.

Altyrn shakes his head. “It’s true enough, wouldn’t you say, Rojana?”

“It’s more than true. He has the northern accent, though.”

“You were taught by someone from Swartheld?”

“Yes, ser.”
Several people, but all from the north of Afrit.

“Obviously arranged by your grandmother, as you said. She had reasons for everything, and seldom were they wrong. Now … let’s get your spades from the equipment shed. Just do as well as you two did yesterday, and we’ll make good progress.”

“Yes, ser.”

Once Altyrn has handed them the spades and the wooden gauge that Rojana takes, the two walk toward the field with the uncompleted ditching.

When they reach where they halted digging the afternoon before, Lerial grins and asks, “You want me to do all the heavy digging again?”

“Unless you want us to take longer to finish,” rejoins Rojana sweetly.

Lerial sighs, loudly and for effect.

“You don’t do that well.”

“Sighing, you mean?”

“What else would I mean?”

He shakes his head and starts to dig through a clump of tough and wiry grass.

Almost half a glass passes before Rojana pauses and asks, “Was your grandmother as fearsome as they say?”

“I never thought so. She was determined, and what she said was usually what happened.”
At least until a few days before she died.
“How did your parents meet?”

“I don’t know,” Rojana confesses. “I’ve asked Mother, but she just said that it was something that was meant to happen.”

“But she’s not from around Cigoerne or from around here. She doesn’t look like anyone I’ve ever seen.” Lerial realizes that what he’s said isn’t coming out the way he intended. “I mean … she’s beautiful…”
That’s not any better.
He flushes. “Nothing I’m saying is coming out right. But do you…?”

“I understand. She is pretty. I’m glad I look more like her. She comes from Heldya, but that’s all I know.”

“You don’t know your grandparents, then?”

Rojana shook her head, then lifted another spadeful of dirt from the bottom of the trench. “Father’s parents had already died when he came to Hamor, and neither of them talk about Mother’s. What about you? Besides your grandfather who was Emperor?”

“I told you about my grandmother. My mother’s parents died after they came to Cigoerne. That was the year when so many died of the flux.”

“Your mother’s a healer. Why couldn’t she do something?”

“She had the flux herself, and she was with child. My aunt was in Narthyl, tending to all the Lancers that had been wounded in the first big attack by the Heldyans.” After a moment, Lerial added, “There aren’t that many healers, just like there aren’t that many Magi’i who are strong mages … or white wizards.”

“Can you throw chaos, the way they say the white wizards can?”

Lerial shakes his head, then considers. “I can light a candle or a lamp with chaos. I’ve never tried more. My tutor said I shouldn’t try without a magus nearby.”

“Could you be a healer?”

“Men aren’t healers.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Could you be …
“My aunt said I might … well … she didn’t actually say that, but she showed me some of the things that healers can do.”

“Why couldn’t you heal your hands, then?”

“Can you lift your boots when you’re standing and your feet are in them? Healing’s sort of the same thing. A healer uses her own strength to use order against the chaos that grows in wounds or in the body when it has a flux. Using your own strength to try to heal your own injuries would weaken you in other places in your body.”
Or something like that.
Lerial
thought
he’d remembered what Emerya had told him.

“Oh … that makes sense.” After a moment, Rojana adds, “There aren’t any real healers here in Teilyn.”

“There aren’t?” That surprises Lerial, but as he thinks it over, he realizes it shouldn’t. There are only a handful of good healers in the city of Cigoerne, and it’s far bigger than Teilyn.

“The Magi’i don’t like to live away from Cigoerne. That’s what Father says.”

“… and most healers are from the Magi’i,” concludes Lerial. “That doesn’t mean that there can’t be healers and Magi’i born from parents who aren’t Magi’i. Alyiakal’s father was a Mirror Lancer.”

“Who’s Alyiakal?”

“He was one of the great Emperors of Cyador. Some of the great healers didn’t even have altage parents. That’s what my aunt says.”

“I’ll bet they all consorted Mirror Lancers or men who were Magi’i.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s true.”

“How do you know that?”

“How do you know it’s not?”

Lerial starts to retort, then stops. After several moments, he finally says, “You’re right. I don’t know that it’s not true.”

Rojana grins.

“We’d better get back to digging.” Lerial shifts his grip on the shovel.

Shortly after midday, Altyrn calls them to a meal under one of the olive trees in an adjoining orchard, if bread and cheese washed down with juice for Rojana and lager for Lerial count as a meal. The three sit in the shade as they finish their fare.

“You two have been working hard,” says the majer.

“It’s the only way we’ll get done, ser,” replies Lerial.

“That’s true … but it’s dangerous to look at things that way. People who just want to get done with whatever they’re doing often don’t do a good job. You two are working hard and well. That’s good.”

“Thank you, ser.” Lerial is embarrassed to say that, but not to acknowledge the compliment would be discourteous.

“Why is digging an irrigation ditch well a good thing?” This time, Altyrn looks to his daughter.

“Doing anything well is better than doing it badly.”

Altyrn laughs. “Those are my words coming back to me. Why is doing something well worth it, even if the work is unrecognized or if time will undo it?”

Rojana glances at Lerial, but does not speak.

“Lerial?” prods the majer.

“I think that it’s important. I don’t have the words to explain it.”

“You might try.”

“Ser … I…” Lerial shrugs helplessly.

“You need to think about it. I’ll give you a hint. What remains of Cyad, once the mightiest city in the world?”

“Nothing,” rejoins Rojana.

“Exactly. Think about it.” Altyrn rises. “Time to get back to work.”

Throughout the afternoon, at least occasionally, Lerial considers Altyrn’s question. If all work, even the greatest works, are doomed to fall and be forgotten, why does it matter for him—or anyone—to do a good job, especially of digging a ditch?

He feels as though the answer to that question should be obvious, and yet, he cannot come up with a response that satisfies him.

XII

For Lerial, fiveday isn’t much different from fourday, and neither is sixday, just more digging, followed by more digging. Lerial finds that his hands, with the help of Maeroja’s anointment and the heavy gloves, are both recovering and toughening, and his pale skin has actually tanned somewhat, with the help of the ointment. He still has no answer to Altyrn’s question, and certainly not one with which he is personally satisfied, but the majer does not ask or even remind him of the question.

Why is doing something well important when in the end nothing is left?
Those weren’t Altyrn’s words, but his question had amounted to the same thing.
But did they?

Much as Lerial pushes the question away, it keeps coming back into his thoughts, as do other thoughts, such as why the majer even asked the question.

“Have you had to dig this much before?” Lerial finally asks Rojana sometime before midday on sixday, setting down his shovel for a moment.

“No. Father insists that we must know how to do everything on the lands.” Her face turns sober. “I told him that I didn’t want to work in the cocoonery. It’s boring and tedious work, and everyone there … they’re all women, and all you do is make sure that the worms aren’t too cold or too hot and cut leaves and make sure that there are plenty of leaves in close to each one. If any die, you have to make sure they are dead and lift them out and clean up where they were.”