Cyador’s Heirs (27 page)

After less than a quarter glass, Chaen steps back, then lowers his wand. “You’ve trained with more than wands, haven’t you?”

“Blunted blades and padded armor,” Lerial admits.

Chaen turns to the majer. “I’d like to see what he can do with a blade and not a wand.”

Phortyn nods, almost grudgingly, Lerial feels, then walks away. Chaen motions for Lerial to enter the armory.

Lerial is glad for the respite as he dons the padded armor and selects a blunted sabre from among those hung on one wall of the armory. Chaen is noticeably stronger than either Graessyr or Majer Altyrn, although Lerial questions whether Chaen’s actual technique is as good as the older majer’s. Then, strength is a form of technique as well, since a stronger man can wear down one with less strength and stamina, assuming that the technique of the stronger fighter is not significantly worse.

Majer Phortyn is nowhere to be seen when Lerial takes the circle again against the captain. For the first few engagements, Lerial feels hard-pressed, as though he is barely avoiding being struck or being maneuvered into ever more dangerous positions, but he slowly begins to gain an awareness, a sense of knowing, and then, for several moments, perhaps longer, Lerial has the absolute sense of knowing where the captain’s blade is going to be … and for those moments, he is able to slip, deflect, or parry, and even attack once and score a solid but not overpowering strike on Chaen’s breastplate.

The captain dances back. “Would have been better with a side cut there.”

Lerial nods. “I can see that, ser, but I didn’t know how to get there from the parry.”

“Oh…” Chaen shakes his head. “For a time there, I forgot you haven’t been at this that long. Let me show you how to go from either a block or parry into a side cut that won’t expose you.”

Lerial concentrates as the captain demonstrates and then walks Lerial through the moves. It takes several times before Lerial feels he knows what to do … and he hopes he can remember when the next opportunity arises.

After that, Chaen steps back and walks over to Majer Phortyn, who has reappeared.

“Well?”

“He’s better than most juniors. He even pressed me once or twice. He’s right, though. He needs more experience against different people. He was a bit awkward with me to begin with, but once he saw what I was doing, he got better quickly.”

Phortyn frowns, if momentarily.

“If he can be here early every morning,” Chaen goes on, “we can work him in with the officers. It would be good for them as well.”

The majer turns to Lerial. “Can you be here at seventh glass every morning? Every morning but eightday mornings?”

“Yes, ser.” One way or another, Lerial
will
work that out.

“Then we’ll see you at seventh glass tomorrow.”

“Yes, ser.”

The majer turns and walks several yards away from the sparring circle, beckoning for the captain to join him. Lerial waits, uncertain of what to do, not wanting to turn his back on the officers and knowing he should not interrupt their conversation. He listens, as well as he can, low as their voices are.

“… could be a problem … want to take that on…”

“… wish more of them were like that…”

“… least knows what he has to prove … most don’t…” Phortyn says more before he turns and walks back toward the headquarters building, but Lerial cannot catch the words.

Even so, that grudging and limited approval from the majer is encouraging, in the sense that he is willing to look, if skeptically, at what Lerial can and will do.

Chaen walks back toward Lerial, then halts. “Might I ask why you did this yourself, Lord Lerial?”

“Because I fear that I may be needed sooner than expected, and because my father may not return from the north that soon. If I waited, that time would be lost, and perhaps some of the skills I have learned so far, if they are not reinforced.”

Chaen offers a faint smile. “I hope you are wrong. Even if you are, more training and experience cannot hurt.”

The two walk back toward the armory, Lerial hoping that he has not stepped too far out of line, but feeling that he is doing what is right … and necessary.

XXVII

When he returns to the palace, Lerial simply tells his mother and his aunt, and Undercaptain Woelyt, that he is supposed to continue the training begun by Majer Altyrn by learning more about arms at Lancer headquarters. While Emerya hides a faint smile, she says nothing. His mother merely says, “Doing what your father arranged is for the best.”

Undercaptain Woelyt nods approvingly, especially after Lerial tells him that Captain Chaen is in charge of his sparring and training. “Good man. Strong as an ox with a blade. You hold your own against him, and no one will beat you down just on strength.”

On sevenday, Lerial spars first against Chaen—with blunted blades and padded armor, and then against Veraan, a young undercaptain, “young” meaning likely only a few years older than Lerial himself. Lerial discovers that what Altyrn and Chaen had earlier observed is indeed true because it is quickly clear that Lerial is far better than the young officer. He also understands Chaen’s reasoning about the two pairings. The first is to show the other officers that Lerial is good enough to go against the senior captain, and the second is to show the junior officers that Lerial is already above them … and that his working with more experienced officers is not a result of favoritism, but skill.

While he does not spar on eightday, he is at Lancer headquarters before seventh glass on oneday, twoday, threeday, and fourday, and he spends more than a glass in padded armor working against various officers. Then he returns to the palace and studies the handful of tactics books from his father’s small study, as well as the maps of the areas around the lands held by his father. He does write as gracious a letter as he can to Majer Altyrn, thanking him for his hospitality and all the instruction provided, and arranges for it to be dispatched.

In his sparring, one thing does not change immediately. For the first few moments, even for a fraction of a glass, of each session with an officer with whom Lerial has not sparred, he feels awkward and has to be especially alert and careful, although by the end of his session on fourday morning, he is beginning to feel as though the awkwardness and uneasiness is not lasting as long as it once did.

Because his presence at Lancer headquarters rests on both his position and a certain sufferance by Majer Phortyn, Lerial makes a continuing effort to be polite and deferential to all the Lancer officers, without being obsequious or fawning. He does make a practice of taking a second set of greens with him to headquarters and washing up in the officers’ quarters after his sessions, because he is invariably soaked and smelly when he finishes.

On fourday, this is especially necessary, because he has promised to meet Emerya at the Hall of Healing after he has finished his sessions at Lancer headquarters and to spend the day at the Hall.

He is just finishing donning clean and dry greens when Lauxyn, one of the older undercaptains, appears. He is the only undercaptain, besides Veraan, whom Chaen has allowed to spar with Lerial, perhaps because Lauxyn is clearly more experienced, and most likely a former squad leader recently promoted to undercaptain because of his skills.

“Might I ask why you work so hard, ser?”

Sensing honest curiosity, rather than scheming or some other chaos, Lerial decides to answer, if cautiously. “I don’t ever wish to be a burden on any Lancers.” He grins ruefully. “At least not any burden that I can possibly avoid. Being as good as I can with a blade and learning as much as I can might just help.”

“They say the Duke is good with a blade.”

“He is. That’s another reason.”

Lauxyn nods politely. “How long will you be doing this? Do you know?”

“At least until my father returns from the north. After that, he’ll decide. He wanted me to improve my training in his absence.” That is somewhere between a guess and a fabrication, but it is certainly not impossible, given his father’s expectations.

“You could ride some patrols now.”

“I hope I’ve learned enough for that, but that’s for my father and Majer Phortyn to decide.”

Lauxyn offers a brief smile. “You should be ready when they decide.” He slips away, leaving Lerial alone in the small chamber.

After Lauxyn leaves, Lerial straps on his sabre, then dons his unmarked Lancer visor cap and stuffs his damp training greens into the kit bag, before making his way to the stable and his waiting escort, again headed by Jhubyl, who alternates with Fhanyd, the other junior squad leader in the company assigned to the palace.

In moments, the five riders are outside the headquarters’ gates and following the river boulevard north toward the Hall of Healing.

“You’re sure you don’t mind riding around with me?” asks Lerial.

“No, ser. It beats the duties at the Palace. Besides, that’s part of what we’re there for. It’s more interesting than checking guard posts … or making sure the younger rankers aren’t messing with the kitchen girls … on duty, that is.”

As they ride through the River Square—almost due east of the palace—Lerial glances at the river piers … and frowns. There is not a single flatboat tied up there. And the only sailing craft are two used by the Lancers on their patrols. He cannot remember a time when he has seen the piers so empty.

Because the harvests were so poor in the south? Or could the Heldyans have blocked the river at Amaershyn? Or just coincidence?

Much as it could be, Lerial has trouble believing it is coincidental.
But it could be.

North of the River Square are the factorages of the larger merchanters in Cigoerne. Even they look less busy than he recalls. Is it that he remembers just the busier times? He looks toward Jhubyl. “Are things here quieter than usual?”

“It’d be hard to say, ser, but I can’t say I’ve often seen the river piers so empty.”

“That’s what I thought, but I wondered if it was my imagination.”

“Be mine, too, then, ser.”

“I know the Heldyans blocked the river at Amaershyn some years back. Do you think they could have tried that again?”

“I wouldn’t know, ser. The captain didn’t mention anything this morning, and there wasn’t any watertalk like that at headquarters.”

Still … Lerial wonders.

When they reach the Hall and rein up outside the stable, Jhubyl asks, “You’re sure you don’t want us to stay?”

“Thank you, but I’ll ride back with my aunt and her escorts.”

“Yes, ser.”

Jhubyl and the rankers do wait until Lerial has seen his mount stabled and walks into the Hall of Healing before they turn and ride westward toward the palace.

Lerial makes his way to the first door inside the Hall and enters.

The older woman in pale green, perhaps the same one who had been sitting behind the table-desk the previous time he had been in the Hall, looks up. “Lord Lerial, Lady Emerya requested that you join her in the receiving room.”

“Thank you.” Lerial smiles and turns, making his way along the long corridor to the south end of the building and the receiving room.

He is about to enter the receiving area when Emerya steps out. “Good. You’re here.”

“Why did you want me to come today?” asks Lerial.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d come every day after your sessions with the Lancers. We’re shorthanded here. We had to send the men who are healers north to help your father’s wounded. We’ll see what you can do—or help me do—today. If you can do what I think you can, you can treat lesser wounds by yourself before long.”

“Father’s wounded? And you didn’t tell me?”

“He’s not wounded. He sent word to your mother yesterday. A large group of raiders attacked Penecca. He and his Lancers drove them out. A company of Afritan armsmen attacked. They claimed that Penecca belonged to Duke Atroyan. Your father and his men killed a great many of them, and the rest fled, but many Lancers were wounded. Your father fears that there will be more Afritan attacks.”

“I didn’t think men could be healers.” Lerial knows that’s not strictly so, but he finds he’s slightly irritated, especially at not having been told what has happened in the north.

“That’s not so, and you know it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about Father?”

“Your mother asked me not to last night.”

“She didn’t say anything this morning.” That’s not exactly fair, Lerial also knows, because he left before his mother had come down for breakfast.
But someone should have told you.

“Lerial…”

“Someone should have told me.”

“You’ll have to take that up with your mother.” Emerya looks at Lerial. “We need to get to work. Come with me.”

Lerial follows her from the receiving room back to the entry room, where Emerya insists Lerial leave his sabre, and then to a room with a woman lying on a pallet. She is young, perhaps not even as old as Lerial, and her bulging abdomen and the pain in her face indicates why she is there. The fact that most poor women give birth at home suggests that she is in some sort of danger … or that the unborn child is.

“What can you tell me?” murmurs Emerya.

Lerial does his best to sense the order patterns around the young woman. He swallows.

“That’s what I thought. But what do you sense?”

“The child is weak, and there’s all sorts of chaos around her stomach … her abdomen … like she’s been beaten…”

“She has, but that’s just part of the problem. Can you strengthen the order of the child? Just a tiny bit … too much could kill her.”

“Her?”

“You’ll learn to sense the difference. I need to help the mother.”

“I can do that.”

While Emerya and a midwife help the girl, Lerial stands back slightly and eases tiny flows of order into the child, as directed by Emerya.

More than a glass later, a baby girl rests in the arms of her mother.

Emerya turns to Lerial. “Thank you.”

“You could have done what I did.”

She shakes her head. “Not at the same time. There was chaos all around the birth canal. I had to keep that from her and from the child.”