Cyador’s Heirs (26 page)

“She was more fortunate that he did.” Xeranya’s voice remains cool.

“She’s been good for him, and he deserves that after all he’s done,” replies Emerya.

“I can’t deny that,” replies Xeranya in a tone that belies her words. “Anyway, we’re glad you’re back safely.”

“Lephi’s out on patrol somewhere?”

“He’s in Narthyl,” affirms Xeranya. “With Overcaptain Carlyt. There were reports of some Heldyan armsmen on the west side of the river.”

“Weren’t there Meroweyan raiders near Narthyl as well? Earlier?”

“There were,” answers Emerya.

So Lephi has an overcaptain to watch out for him.
Rather than say that, Lerial merely nods and waits.

“We shouldn’t be keeping you up longer,” Xeranya says. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

“What about the girls?”

“They’re both fine,” replies Emerya.

“Good.”

“It is getting late…,” offers Xeranya.

Lerial doesn’t press or question, but stands.

So does Emerya. “I need to check on Amaira.”

“I will see you both at breakfast.” Xeranya remains seated.

Once Lerial and Emerya are out in the corridor and well away from his parents’ chambers, Lerial looks to his aunt. “She wasn’t all that pleased to see me.”

“She’s worried. Wouldn’t you be if one son just came back from a fight that wasn’t supposed to have happened, another is riding patrols where there might be Heldyan armsmen, and your consort is fighting raiders and who knows who else in the north?”

Lerial can see that, but still thinks his mother was rather cool. “Why doesn’t Mother like Maeroja?”

“She thought Altyrn should have consorted a Cyadoran. There were so few men, except for the Lancers, and most of them were rankers,” replies Emerya. “There were only a handful of officers, all junior. As the senior Lancer officer in Cigoerne, the majer should have consorted one of the Magi’i young women. That’s what Xeranya felt. She’s never forgiven him for that.”

“Why?”

“Her sister Zanobya was interested…”

“I thought she ran off with a merchanter in Swartheld.”

“She did. After Altyrn ignored her advances. She was never happy here. She missed the luxuries of Cyad.”

“We have everything…”

“Lerial … we have
nothing
compared to what we had in Cyad. The palace here is the size of a villa that a small outland merchanter in Cyad might have possessed. The Palace of Light towered into the evening, ablaze with lights. The streets were all paved with white stone, harder than a cupridium blade. The awnings were all green, all the same shade. The piers where ships from across the seas docked were of white stone. Every delicacy appeared at table…”

“You’ve never said…”

“None of us ever have. Your grandmere would have torn out our tongues. What’s past is past—that was what she always said. She told us that Cyad had once been a tiny town, and that we had to rebuild just as those from the Rational Stars had to rebuild.”

“She said all that?”

“She did. She was right. We can’t dream about a past we can never reclaim. The future is all we can change.”

Abruptly, Lerial truly understands. His aunt was born in the height of luxury and has lost more than anyone who survived the fall of Cyador. She has no consort and no hope of one. She has no real position in Cigoerne. She has only her healing and her daughter … and scandal behind Amaira’s birth, and some small security in living in a palace that is nothing compared to where she had been raised.

Emerya says nothing in the dimness of the corridor.

Lerial looks toward the steps some twenty yards ahead, and the palace guard stationed there, and then back to his aunt.

“That’s not anywhere close to a standard Lancer blade, you know?” Emerya’s voice is matter-of-fact.

“I know. But the majer said it should belong to me.”

“So it should. So it should.” She offers an enigmatic smile, then says, “You killed the raider who attacked you, didn’t you?”

“How did you know?”

“You’ll come to recognize that, and other things, if you continue developing your abilities. You’ve been healing, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She pauses, then adds, “I’d avoid Saltaryn until your father returns. You might spend time sparring with the more experienced Lancers at headquarters—using blunted blades and armor—and occasionally accompanying me to the healing hall.”

Lerial frowns.
Why is she suggesting both, when Saltaryn …
“You think I need both skills. Might I ask why?”

“You might. Those who rule and those who advise rulers must always balance contradictions in order to succeed. Usually those conflicting contradictions involve power. Learning more about healing and more about war will begin to teach you balance … and that will prove useful.”

“You haven’t advised either Lephi or Father that way.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I don’t think you have. You’ve said they’re order-blind.” After a long moment, he asks, “What do you expect of me?”

“To be the best person you can, and you can’t be that unless you develop all your skills.”

Lerial cannot argue with that … although he knows his father would oppose what Emerya is proposing … if he knew.

“Good night, Lerial.”

“Good night.” Still thinking about all the undercurrents behind the evening’s conversation, and his mother’s coolness, he makes his way toward his chamber. At least … his chamber for a while.

XXVI

Sixday morning, after breakfast, Lerial rides along the southeast boulevard toward the Lancer compound that holds the headquarters building. He is leading the bay he borrowed to complete the journey from Brehaal the afternoon before, and four Lancer rankers accompany him—the fewest he could persuade Undercaptain Woelyt to provide as an escort … and that few only because Lerial is wearing Lancer gear. Since it is almost winter, not that winter is especially cold in the north of Hamor, except for perhaps a few eightdays near the middle of the season, the sun is not all that high in the eastern sky, and Lerial is grateful for the jacket and visor cap.

As he rides, junior squad leader Jhubyl beside him, Lerial studies the houses and shops that flank the boulevard. He cannot help but think about his aunt’s words. The largely brick dwellings, with their reddish tile roofs, even those of two stories, look somehow shorter and more squat than he remembers.
But how much of what you see is colored by what Emerya said about Cyad?

Abruptly, he turns in the saddle. “Jhubyl … what other towns have you seen along the river?”

“Ser? On the Swarth? Not all that many. Naemersuh, Penecca, Saarthyn.”

Of course he wouldn’t have seen that many. Most of the towns in Cigoerne aren’t on the Swarth.
That was because it had always been too easy for the Heldyans to raid towns on the west bank of the Swarth. So most towns were on the Thylan or the Lynaar, or on smaller streams. The continual Heldyan raids were also another reason why Duke Atroyan’s sire had been willing to allow Lerial’s grandmere to purchase lands on the west bank.

“What other towns have you been through or posted in?”

“Been in Bartheld, Brehaal, Teilyn … lots of hamlets … places without names…”

“How many have brick houses like the ones in Teilyn or here in Cigoerne?”

“They all have some … excepting maybe Penecca. Not many have lots, though.”

“Have you ever seen Amaershyn?”

“Just from across the river. There are some bigger places there. Leastwise, looks that way. Hard to tell with the walls, though.”

Lerial thinks about asking what Jhubyl recalls of Cyad, but then realizes that the squad leader likely isn’t old enough to recall anything, if he even came from Cyador, and that is unlikely, given his slightly darker complexion.

As they ride up to the gates of the Lancer compound, one of the duty guards calls out, “Jhubyl! See you got caught bringing back the mount the Duke’s boy borrowed.”

Before the squad leader can answer, Lerial replies good-naturedly, “No, he got tasked with escorting the Duke’s boy who’s bringing back the mount himself.”

The duty guard, who looks younger than Lerial himself, gulps visibly and looks to Lerial. “Ah … sorry, ser.”

“It’s a fair question,” Lerial adds to the guard as he rides past, “but better asked more privately.” He smiles politely.

“Yes, ser.”

Once they’re well past the young guard, Jhubyl shakes his head and laughs softly. “He’ll think twice before wising off on duty again.”

“At least, wising off loudly,” replies Lerial. “You’ll have to lead the way to the stable. I’ve not been here before.”

“You haven’t, ser?” Jhubyl is clearly surprised.

“The only Lancer posts I’ve visited are the ones at Brehaal and Teilyn.” Lerial does not point out that he is only barely old enough at sixteen—
much closer to seventeen now
—to be considered for a beginning Lancer ranker. “I’d also like to see Majer Phortyn … or whoever’s in charge if he’s not here. Where would I find him?”

“In the headquarters building. That’s the six-sided one in the middle of the courtyard there.” Jhubyl points. “Might be better if I went with you. Begging your pardon, ser, but you look much like a green recruit.”

“That might be for the best.”

Once Lerial has turned the bay over to the duty ostler and made temporary arrangements for his gelding, he and Jhubyl walk across the courtyard from the stable to the headquarters building.

Once inside, Jhubyl steps forward, toward the older ranker who is seated behind a table-desk in the foyer, then halts. “Lord Lerial, here, just got back from Teilyn.”

The look of boredom vanishes from the ranker’s face.

“If Major Phortyn has a moment,” says Lerial politely, “I’d like to talk to him, if he’s here, or whoever’s in charge, if he’s not.”

“He’s here, ser. If you’ll let me see if he has a moment.”

“Thank you.”

The ranker knocks on the study door, then opens it, and slips inside, returning almost immediately. “Please go in, ser.”

“Thank you.” Lerial eases past the table-desk and through the open study door, closing it behind him.

Phortyn stands behind a table-desk only slightly larger than that of the ranker’s in the receiving area. He is a small and wiry man at least several digits shorter than Lerial, with the weathered face of a fair-skinned man who has seen too much sun in his life. His gray eyes are hard. “Lord Lerial. You wished to see me?”

“I did, ser.” Lerial waits.

“You’re wearing Lancer gear, I notice.”

And not all that favorably.
“That is what Majer Altyrn and Captain Graessyr suggested. I’m not wearing insignia, and I know I’m not a Lancer.”

“Then why the gear and why are you here, if I might ask?”

Lerial doesn’t care for the majer’s tone, but he smiles apologetically. “Majer Altyrn felt that my wearing Lancer gear would call less attention to me and create fewer problems for the Lancers who escorted me. I’m here because Captain Graessyr was concerned about the raiders we encountered and felt that there would be more trouble over the winter. When I returned to Cigoerne, I discovered that my father is dealing with raiders in the north, and my brother is riding patrols in the south.”

“And might I ask what that has to do with your presence?”

“It’s likely that I may be called to do something earlier than my father thought would be necessary. I’ve spent the last two seasons working with a sabre under Majer Altyrn and Captain Graessyr. They think my technique is sound, but that I need more experience against other experienced Lancers. I’d like to see if that is possible.”

Phortyn’s expression remains impassive, but Lerial can sense that the majer feels strongly. About what, Lerial cannot tell, and he again waits.

“Why now?”

“So that I can learn enough to be effective on patrols when the time comes and so that those Lancers with whom I may have to ride will be confident in my abilities and will not feel that I am a burden that detracts from their duties.”

“You’re practical. I can see that. Two seasons with Altyrn?”

“Yes, ser.”

A wintry smile crosses Phortyn’s lined face. “I suppose we should see. Because you are the Duke’s son, I’d like to see what you can do with wooden wands first. I’ll match you with Captain Chaen. He’s in charge of blade training.”

“That’s fair,” replies Lerial. “You only have my unsupported word.”
And I need you to trust my word.

“Scarcely unsupported, but no man is the best judge of his own abilities.”

Lerial does not contest that.

“Well … let’s find the captain.”

Captain Chaen is near the armory. He is also wiry, as many Lancers appear to be, but is a good head taller than Majer Phortyn. A quizzical look crosses his narrow face and vanishes almost immediately as Phortyn and Lerial approach.

“Captain … I’d like you to spar with Lord Lerial here. He’s requested the opportunity to spar with more experienced Lancers. I’d like your opinion as to whether that would be beneficial for him at present. I thought you might start with wands.”

“Yes, ser.” Chaen looks Lerial over. “You’ve had some experience?”

“I’ve spent the last two seasons training under Majer Altyrn in Teilyn.”

Another quizzical look appears and vanishes even more quickly than the first as the captain says, “Let me get a pair of wands.” He steps into the armory and returns carrying several wands. “If you’d choose one?”

Lerial immediately decides against the smallest wand, then takes the largest and hefts it, then sets it aside. There is something wrong about its balance. The third wand is acceptable, although lighter than he would ideally prefer. “This one.”

Chaen nods slightly and returns the other two wands to the armory, returning with yet another wand similar to the one Lerial has taken, if somewhat more battered. “The nearest exercise circle is over there.”

Lerial follows the captain and takes a position on the south edge, but to the west, so that neither he nor the captain would directly face the morning sun.

Chaen advances, and Lerial steps forward, concentrating, then slipping Chaen’s opening attack and countering. The captain parries the counter, and Lerial forces Chaen’s wand down, but has to retreat and slip Chaen’s counterattack—simply because the captain is stronger. Even so, Lerial manages to avoid being struck, although twice he has to move quickly and is almost hit.