Cyador’s Heirs (28 page)

When they leave that chamber, they find that a woman perhaps ten years younger than Emerya stands out in the corridor. She wears faded brown, and her head scarf is worn and has fallen away from her face and across her shoulders. Her face is damp. With her is a grizzled man.

“You should not be here,” Emerya says quietly to the man. “This part of the Hall is for those who need healing.”

“How is she?” pleads the woman. “My Irnina?”

“She will be well. She has a daughter.”

“A daughter?” growls the man, whose skin is darker than Emerya’s and Lerial’s, but much lighter than that of most Hamorians. “She should not have … she has brought dishonor upon my house!”

“Why?” asks Lerial politely. “Because she bore a child?”

“Because she is not consorted and the child is a girl. Unwanted boys are worth something.” He turns away and marches toward the south entrance to the Hall.

“But how is my Irnina?” asks the woman.

“Her body will heal from the beating,” replies Emerya. “Her daughter will be healthy.”

“Let her stay here, I beg you, Lady Healer.”

“She can stay for a few days.”

“Thank you…”

Lerial eases back while Emerya talks to the girl’s mother. His eyes turn to follow the older man, but he has already left the Hall.

For the remainder of the day, Lerial does what his aunt directs. He even cleans a workman’s wound and stitches it closed, if under Emerya’s close watch, and helps her set a broken arm.

Slightly past fourth glass, Lerial washes up for the fourth or fifth time since he entered the Hall and then reclaims his sabre, and joins his aunt and her Lancer escorts outside the small stable by the north wall. The sky is clear, but a cool wind blows out of the southeast as they mount up and then ride out through the gates toward the Palace. Lerial rides beside Emerya.

“There weren’t that many people who needed healing today,” he says.

“Some days are like that. Some days the receiving room is filled, and the sick and injured spill out into the Hall and outside the south entry.” Emerya pauses, then asks, “What did you think of the father of that woman who had the little girl?”

Lerial can sense that the question is more than casual. “He didn’t seem to think women are worth much. Especially girls. A lot of Hamorians don’t, it seems … at least from what I’ve heard.”

“Did you like Maeroja?”

Lerial frowns. What does Maeroja have to do with Hamorian men valuing women? He guesses. “She left Heldya because she felt unvalued? Is that why she consorted the majer?”

“Not a bad guess,” says Emerya dryly. “She’s somehow related to the Duke of Heldya, and Maeroja is not her birth name. She’s never said what it was, and I’d guess she never will. She was rowing a small boat across the Swarth River, and several flatboats with Heldyan armsmen were chasing her. Majer Altyrn used the firecannon on the
Kerial
to destroy two of the boats. That was the last time the cannon was used.…”

There is something more behind those words, but Lerial cannot say what and loses some of what his aunt is saying.

“… turned part of the river to steam. Altyrn and his Lancers rescued her, and he insisted that she change into a Lancer uniform. Then he used a firelance on her clothes and the boat and had it beached on the west side of the Swarth, farther downstream, later that night.”

“Why were they chasing her?”

“One of the Duke’s close friends tried to take advantage of her. She gutted him with his own blade and fled. So did her sister. The mob killed her sister … after … Maeroja hid for days before she found a boat that wasn’t closely watched … but there was a reward for her return.”

“All Hamorians are like that? About women?”

“Most of them. Not all, but most. We didn’t wear head scarves in Cyador, you know? Oh … Cyad wasn’t perfect for women, either. Your grandfather gave in to the demands that women be put in their place. He was the one who insisted on the gilded chains for women who weren’t healers.”

“He was?” This is something that Lerial has not heard.

“Mother—your grandmere—collected all the chains from every woman on the
Kerial
and had them melted down. The gold helped pay for the lands that are now Cigoerne.”

Lerial is more than a little confused—not about women being less valued, or valued little, but as to why Emerya has brought up the matter.

“You’re wondering why I’m telling you all this?”

“Yes,” he admits.

“Lephi is like your grandfather, and your father. I don’t wish to see Amaira or Ryalah, or their daughters or granddaughters, treated the way women were in the last days of Cyad or in the way the Hamorians treat them.”

“Or the way that man did.”

Emerya nods.

“What do you think I can do?”

“Far more than you think you can right now. I don’t expect anything from you now. I just want you to think about it.”

“I will,” he promises, knowing that he owes her that, and possibly much more.

His aunt does not offer another word on the ride back to the palace.

Once they arrive, Lerial dismounts, then grooms the gelding and sees to his feed and water before leaving the stable. He is headed toward his chambers to wash up before going to the north courtyard for refreshments when Saltaryn steps out of a doorway.

“Lord Lerial.”

“Magus Saltaryn.”

“I understand you have been back in Cigoerne for almost an eightday, and yet I have not seen you.”

“I’ve been busy with arms training at Lancer headquarters … and studying tactics and maps as well.”

Saltaryn looks to say something, then shakes his head. “Perhaps that’s for the best.” He smiles, almost sadly. “Best of fortune, Lord Lerial.”

For all of his acquiescence, Saltaryn does not sound exactly pleased, but Lerial merely says, “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

Saltaryn steps aside, and Lerial continues to his chambers.

XXVIII

Lerial is about to leave the officers’ quarters at Lancer headquarters on sixday, after changing into clean greens, when his fingers touch the silken pouch—and the lodestone—he still carries. Why, he isn’t certain, except that Rojana had intimated that it was important. Yet while he can sense the faintest flow of order and chaos around it, it is comparatively faint, and he wonders how that might help with handling order. And where did Rojana find it? He pushes away his thoughts on why she has given it to him and slips the pouch and lodestone into his jacket when he hears voices outside.

He thinks he recognizes Lauxyn as one of the two speakers, but not the other man’s voice. He stops and listens, but the voices fade, and he can sense the two men moving away. He eases to the doorway, but sees neither. He feels that they have walked around the corner, and he makes his way to the edge of the building and halts, listening.

“… don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Those words are Lauxyn’s. That, Lerial can tell.

“You and Chaen … sucking up to the Duke’s son…”

Lerial
has
to know who is accusing Lauxyn and the captain. He feels that whoever the other man is, he has to be an undercaptain, from the tone of voice and the words used. It’s likely that neither man will be looking down, and that the unknown officer might not see if Lerial peers around the corner well below eye height. So he squats and slowly looks, knowing that a sudden movement is more likely to catch someone’s eye.

The second officer is Undercaptain Veraan, and his concentration is on Lauxyn.

Lerial moves back and continues to listen. He wishes he could use order to conceal himself, the way some of the great Magi’i were said to be able to do, so that he could move closer, but he cannot. So he remains behind the corner, catching fragments of what passes between the two undercaptains.

“… don’t think the captain would appreciate your views on that.”

“I’ll deny it … and my family will back me up…”

Lerial wonders from what family Veraan comes. Perhaps someone at the Palace will know. He stiffens as he senses the two moving, but they are moving away from him. He waits until they have moved well away from the quarters before he begins to walk toward the stables. He does not look back.

Over the past few days, he has been able to sense a certain sliminess about Veraan and wonders if that happened to be one of the reasons Chaen had chosen the slender blond undercaptain as an example when Lerial had first begun to practice with the headquarters’ Lancers.

Again, he rides from Lancer headquarters to the healing hall, where he spends the remainder of the day. Emerya was right. This time, unlike on fourday and fiveday, there are many more people needing healers. He ends up dealing with small injuries that have been neglected and worsened, such as animal bites that have turned bad—but not too bad—and a thorn wound that has filled with pus, and before he realizes it, it is past fourth glass and Emerya is informing him that it is time to leave.

He washes up one last time, then makes his way to the stable, where he mounts the gelding and joins his aunt and her escort for the ride back to the palace. For a time, he rides beside her without speaking, glancing toward the heavy clouds to the south and wondering if they are harbingers of the usual winter rain.

“Your stitches are better,” Emerya informs him, “and your use of order is more measured.”

“Thank you.” He pauses, then asks, “What happened to the young woman … you know, the one—”

“Whose father thought his granddaughter was worthless? Her mother and an aunt took her away last night. That’s what Elnora told me this morning. They said she would be going to live with relatives. They didn’t say where.”

“What about the child’s father?”

“That may be the problem,” replies Emerya. “They wouldn’t speak about that.”

“You don’t think…?”

“In healing, you’ll see the best and worst of people, more so than in fighting and battles … although your father might disagree with me. But then, there are many things about which we don’t agree. How was your morning?”

“I’m getting better with the sabre. It’s helpful to spar against different officers. There is one thing, though…” Lerial turns in the saddle and looks at his aunt.

“Yes?”

“There’s an undercaptain at headquarters that I overheard talking about how important his family is. His name is Veraan. I wasn’t about to ask him who his parents are, but I wondered if you might know.”

Emerya smiles. “It’s good you didn’t ask, but I don’t know everyone of either elthage or altage background here in Cigoerne, not anymore. Oh … I might know the parents, if you knew their name, but their children?” She shakes her head.

“I can ask Woelyt if he knows.”

“That might be best … if asked casually.”

Lerial doesn’t bridle at her suggestion, not in the way he would have, he realizes, if either Lephi or his father had uttered the same words.

Once they reach the Palace courtyard, and the stables, Lerial takes care of the gelding first and then sets out to find Undercaptain Woelyt, but he doesn’t have to look far, because Woelyt is walking toward the stable.

“Good afternoon, ser.”

“Good afternoon, Lerial. How is your sparring coming?”

“Well enough, I think. I learn a little more every day.”

“Your father will be pleased with your diligence.”

“No. He’ll expect that. He’d be displeased if I weren’t diligent.”

Woelyt laughs, if gently. “I can understand that.”

“I’ve run across several undercaptains you might know. One is Lauxyn. He seems good with a sabre.”

“He is. He’s like me. We came up through the ranks.”

“Then there’s a younger undercaptain … Versaan … Veraan … I only sparred with him once.”

“Oh … Veraan. He’s pretty junior.”

“He was talking about his family…” Lerial lets the words just drift, not quite finishing the sentence.

“He’s the type. His father’s a magus, Apollyn, I think. Doesn’t matter who your father is. If you’re not good with a blade, you’ll still end up dead.” Woelyt tilts his head. “How did you do against him?”

“Captain Chaen said he was overmatched against me.”

Woelyt cannot quite hide a satisfied smile. “Then you must be doing well.”

“The time with Majer Altyrn helped a lot.”

“I’m sure it did. I never got a chance to serve under him.” Woelyt shakes his head almost regretfully. “Those that did say that he was a fine officer.”

Lerial smiles as he replies, “He still is. He’s very practical, and I think he and Captain Graessyr talk often.”

“Good for Graessyr. Smart, too.” Woelyt smiles. “Maybe we should spar when you have some time.”

“We should.” With a parting smile, Lerial heads for the Palace proper.

By the time he arranges for his soiled greens to be washed and finally reaches the courtyard, his mother is sitting at one of the tables sipping white wine and talking with Emerya. Ryalah and Amaira are at another table, intent on their pegboard. Lerial pours himself a glass of pale lager, perhaps two-thirds full, and takes a seat at his mother’s table, to her left.

“You took a while,” observes Emerya.

“I had to…” Lerial stops as he sees Ryalah marching toward them, her face intent. “What is it?”

“Amaira said you can’t go on patrols. She said you’re too little.”

“I need more training,” replies Lerial. “Father will decide when I’m ready.”

“I don’t see why Lerial can’t go on a patrol with Father. He went on a patrol with the majer.” Ryalah looks to her mother.

“That was different,” says Lerial. “It wasn’t really a patrol.”

“You fought raiders,” insists Ryalah.

“Lerial could go with the majer because the majer isn’t Father,” replies Xeranya. “He has to know more to go on real patrols, and he can’t go with Father, because he’s second in line to the throne…”

Lerial is struck by his mother’s reference to the throne, especially since there is no throne in the palace and since there’s no possibility of his father or Lephi ever returning to Candar to rule a Cyador that no longer is.

“… and if anything happened to both of them, and that can happen in fights, then only Lephi would be left.”