Cyador’s Heirs (14 page)

“It does sound tedious … but so is digging ditches.”

Rojana sets a spadeful of dirt from the bottom of the ditch on the edge, lays down her shovel, and uses the wooden template gauge to check the depth and width of the trench. “It’s outside, and it doesn’t smell as much. I don’t mind teasing the silk strands out of the cocoons. That’s tedious, but you can see where everything’s going.”

“You remember your father’s question to me? Has he ever asked you questions like that?”

She laughs. “All the time. He’s asked questions from the time any of us could talk.”

“And?”

She shrugs. “Sometimes I agree with what he wants us to think about. Sometimes I don’t. He doesn’t seem to care whether I agree. He gets angry if I don’t think about why I feel the way I do.” She pauses. “Sometimes, I even think he wants me to disagree with what he’s hinting.”

“What does your mother think about it?”

“She asks questions, too. Not as often. Hers are nastier.”

Nastier?
Somehow, Lerial doesn’t think of Maeroja as nasty.

Rojana looks at Lerial. “She’s not nasty. The questions are.”

“Such as?”

She shakes her head. “They’re about women things … I don’t want to talk about them. Aren’t there men things you don’t want to talk about?”

Lerial thinks for a moment, then replies, “There are, but no one’s ever asked me questions about them.”

“That’s because men don’t want to think about them.”

“And women don’t?”

“It’s not the same.” Rojana picks up her spade.

Lerial takes the hint and resumes digging.

By midafternoon, a silvery haze covers the sky, but there are no clouds, and Lerial observes, after blotting his dripping forehead with the sleeve of his work shirt, “It’s not going to cool off much tonight.”

“It never does in summer.”

“Less than usual tonight. That’s because of the silver haze. It keeps the air warmer, and there’s never any breeze”

“Why is that so?”

Lerial stops digging for a moment. “I don’t know. I asked Saltaryn, but he couldn’t tell me.”

“Who’s Saltaryn?”

“He was the magus who taught me.”

“Is he really a magus? One who can throw chaos-fire?”

“I suppose so. Anyone who is a full magus has to be able to do that.”

“Do you know that he can?”

“He could form a globe of chaos-fire on his fingertip and make it dance around or fly through the air to light a candle.”

“Have you ever tried to throw it?”

“I’m not supposed to,” Lerial replies. “I told you that.”

“You never answered my question.”

“I tried when I was younger. I couldn’t. I haven’t tried since I learned how to light a candle with chaos.”

“Why not?”

“Because Saltaryn said I shouldn’t.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“Because it would have been dangerous, I suppose.”

“But he didn’t tell you that, did he?”

“No,” Lerial admits.

“So you really don’t know if you can throw chaos-fire.”

This time, it is Lerial who resumes digging without answering.

Even so, Rojana’s question, like her father’s, lingers in his thoughts all through the afternoon … and through dinner, solid and tasty as the fowl stew is.

So, later that evening, a good glass after dinner, Lerial makes his way outside and across the paved bricks behind the villa until he is behind the stable. Then he stands there, feeling hot and sticky, even though he washed up thoroughly after returning to the villa when he finished digging for the day. Overhead, the sky is darkening into a purple overlaid with the hint of silver.

Finally, he takes a deep breath and concentrates on focusing chaos, visualizing a small ball of chaos-fire at the tip of his outstretched index finger. Then he tries to throw the fireball, both with his arm and his thoughts.

The small fireball dribbles from his hand and plops on the brick paving.

Lerial shudders. Something about the chaos-fire feels … ugly … almost unclean, and there is almost a smell, like brimstone … except he knows that the odor isn’t exactly in his nose, but more in his thoughts.
Why would it be that way?

He sighs. He supposes his effort proves that, if he practices more, he might be able to throw chaos-fire like a white wizard … but the thought of doing so troubles him … and he has the same feelings he did when he’d seen Lephi tormenting the cat with tiny fireballs. He hasn’t forgotten that Lephi was caned because he’d used chaos, not because he’d hurt the poor cat.

He turns and walks slowly back toward the villa, lost in mixed thoughts … about what Saltaryn had said about mastering chaos first, about what Emerya had implied about the need to understand the flow of order to be able to master chaos, and about Rojana’s question … and why she had pressed him. He has almost reached the north entrance to the villa, when a voice brings him up short.

“Lerial … you’re out here late.”

He looks up with a start to see Maeroja standing by the entry. “I’ve been thinking.” That is certainly true.

“Might I ask…”

“About order and chaos … about a lot of things…”

“You’re a very serious young man. You remind me of what I think Altyrn might have been years ago, when he was young before I met him. He had to learn to laugh, you know?”

Lerial still cannot imagine the majer laughing—at anything.
How could anyone think that he and I might be alike?

“He does laugh. He keeps much laughter to himself. You should laugh more, too. Life is too short not to laugh.”

As Maeroja talks, Lerial is reminded once more of the hint of an accent he does not recognize … but only a hint. “One must have something to laugh about.”

“One can laugh about anything … if you look at it from the right point of view.” She smiles. “I will not keep you.” With that, she turns and reenters the villa.

After several moments, Lerial follows, but he does not see Maeroja, although he thinks he hears her steps on the stairs to the upper level.

XIII

An eightday passes in which Lerial digs and digs, not only ditches, but holes for the small mulberry trees that have been rooted from cuttings and then transferred to the holes that he and Rojana dug. Then, over the following eightday, the slope and gradients of the ditches have to be adjusted so that just enough water reaches each tree. Some rooted cuttings do not survive, and that requires transplanting more rooted cuttings. By late summer, an orchard of knee-high mulberry trees stands where there had once been a pasture, and Lerial has calluses on his hands and muscles hardened by the kind of labor he’d never imagined. He has given up thinking about Lephi or why his father had sent him to Kinaar, at least most of the time.

Then, after breakfast on oneday, Altyrn draws him aside.

“Ser?”

“From now on,” the majer says, “you’ll work as usual in the morning. In the afternoon, we’ll start your training. You didn’t think that wouldn’t come, did you?”

“I wondered, but it didn’t seem as though what I thought mattered.”

“Self-pity isn’t terribly useful, Lerial. Very few people care if other people feel sorry for themselves. Why do you think I’ve made you work this hard? And Rojana, for that matter?”

“To show me that I’m not that special? And to make me stronger.”

“You are different, but not special. You’re of the Magi’i. You can’t escape what you are, but too many of the Magi’i have no idea what the life of those under them is like. You’ve had more than half a season of hard work, with more to come. I doubt you’ll totally forget it. I hope you won’t. It would be a pity to waste it. What you have to learn now will make what you’ve been through seem pleasant.”

Lerial doesn’t want to think about that. “Why … Rojana?” he cannot help but ask.

“Do you think you’re the only one with illusions? Hers are slightly different from yours, but she also needed to understand that you and the Magi’i are only different, not special.”

“Will she keep working in the morning as well?”

“She may be doing different tasks at times. That all depends on what is necessary, and what the lands require. Even rulers, if they wish to be successful, must understand what their lands require. This morning, you’ll both be helping with the barley harvest.”

Helping with the barley harvest doesn’t sound that bad to Lerial, and better than digging. “Yes, ser.”

Altyrn turns and beckons to Rojana, who walks to join them. “You’ll need hay rakes. You two will follow the men with the scythes and rake the cut stalks into neat piles. Try to keep the heads of the grain in each pile in the same place. I’ll show you how once we get to the field…” Altyrn goes on to explain as he leads Lerial and Rojana across the paved space behind the villa.

Lerial glances to the south, where he can just make out the hillside grapevines—the ones that supply the grapes for the raisins … and for some small amount of wine, or so the majer has said.

Altyrn stops at the small equipment building, where he steps inside and then returns with two wooden rakes. He hands one to Rojana and the other to Lerial.

Even the teeth are wood, Lerial notes.

“You’ll have to rake firmly, but gently. If you break the teeth, you’ll have to spend time in the evening cutting and carving a new rake head.” With that, Altyrn turns and continues westward.

The sound that comes from the cocoonery as they pass is like rain, although Lerial cannot imagine rain falling inside that shed, much as he has learned that the sound is that of thousands of silkworms chewing mulberry leaves. “It’s hard to believe they’re so noisy,” he murmurs to Rojana.

“Before long they’ll start spinning their cocoons. Then you won’t hear anything. It still smells.”

Rojana and Lerial follow Altyrn down a narrow lane past the north side of the new mulberry orchard, with mostly brown pasture to the right, before reaching a field of golden tan grain. Three men with scythes have begun to work, their scythes moving in unison as they walk and cut the stalks, leaving the fallen grain, still on its stalks, and stubble only a few digits high.

“If you’ll hand me your rake, Lerial…”

Lerial does.

“This is what I want from you…” Altyrn demonstrates, using a firm but gentle motion to gather the stalks sideways, so that each line of stalks ends up essentially as an unbound bundle. “Aylana, Tyrna, and I will gather these into the cart. Once everything is gathered, we’ll take the sheaves to the threshing barn. Lerial, you’ll be alternating turning the threshing drum with me and the other men, but we won’t be doing that until it’s all cut and in the barn. That will take several days.”

“How many fields have to be cut and gathered?” asks Lerial.

“Five about this size,” replies Altyn.

“That’s what it takes just to make the lager?”

“For about twenty-five people for a year, yes, with enough left to sell maybe ten barrels, except we sell it in kegs, not barrels.”

Lerial is still thinking about that long after he has begun to rake the stalks of grain into the loose sheaves or bundles. It is harder than Altyrn has made it look, far harder. His only consolation is that Rojana appears to be having the same difficulties.

“It’s harder than it looks,” he finally says.

“Father has a way of making things look easy. They aren’t.”

By midday, Lerial has discovered that barley raking is just as hard as digging, if in a different way, and there are muscles in his shoulders that ache. He is more than glad to surrender his rake to one of the women who works on the majer’s lands, and is struck by how easy she also makes the rake-gathering look.

He has to hurry to catch up to Rojana and Altyrn.

“You both can have some lager and bread and cheese before you start your afternoon lessons.”

They eat at the courtyard table not far from the fountain. Lerial appreciates the coolness brought by the spray, although there is so little breeze that the comparative cool barely reaches where they sit.

As Lerial takes a last swallow of lager, Altyrn clears his throat, then speaks. “Lerial, we’ll begin with sparring. I’d like to see what you know … and what you don’t. After that, we’ll see about your other skills with arms. Lessons after that.” He looks to his eldest daughter. “Rojana … I expect more attention in your history studies. Few women…”

“Few women have such opportunities away from Cigoerne. I know, Father.”

“You know, you say, daughter, but how can things change if women like you do not know both the good and the evils of the past.” Abruptly, Altyrn addresses Lerial. “Why did an Empress never rule Cyador? Cyador, not Cigoerne.”

“Ah … there were always male heirs.”

“There were not. Both Alyiakal and Lorn had no imperial blood. Not that we know, anyway. There may have been others whose blood was not as it was supposed to be. That’s not something we’ll ever know.” Altyrn pauses. “Why were there no Empresses who ruled? Did your magus tutor not address that question?”

“Ah … no, ser. Custom?” Lorn ventures.

“Custom, indeed. We have women who are ironmages. Why are none of them called magus? They have the same talents as a magus, and some are more skilled in handling chaos than many men who are Magi’i. Your own grandsire had almost no ability as a magus, yet he was considered of the Magi’i.”

“Another custom, ser?”

“Why such a custom?” Altyrn looks back to Rojana. “And why did the Emperor Lephi decree that women who were not ironmages should wear either chains or the wristbands of a healer?”

“He did that?” Lerial blurts out the question unthinkingly.

“He did indeed. Can either of you think why all that might be so?”

“Men didn’t want women to have power,” declares Rojana. “Is that it?”

“We don’t know. We’ll never know.” Altyrn smiles, an expression ironic, yet warm. “So why are questions like that important … if we can’t ever know?”

Lerial looks to Rojana. She offers an enigmatic smile, one that instantly recalls to him that her mother has the same expression. The enigmatic similarity so disconcerts him that, for a moment, he forgets the majer’s question.

“You have no thoughts on that?” presses Altyrn. “Either of you?”