Cyador’s Heirs (31 page)

On threeday, Lerial returns from the healing hall to find Lephi in the salon. “How was your day today?”

“He’s had quite a bit to do,” says Xeranya.

“I’ve had to make a number of arrangements. I’m heading out again on patrol. Father is dispatching me to Fourth Company. They’re posted at Sudstrym.”

Fourth Company?
Lerial frowns, then nods. “The one that patrols the river opposite Amaershyn? Are the Heldyans gathering forces there … or does Father want you to have more experience in watching them?”

Lephi shrugs. “His dispatch didn’t mention either. I’d judge he just wants me to have experience in all kinds of patrols.”

“He’ll need that,” says Xeranya, quickly adding, “So will you, Lerial, once your father starts sending you on patrols.”

“At least, you won’t have to worry about rain,” Lerial comments.

“Now you’re a weather magus, as well as a healer?” asks Lephi sardonically.

“The skies are clear. It’s cold, and there’s no wind. You don’t have to be a weather magus to see that it’s not likely to rain any time soon.” Lerial isn’t about to admit that he has tried to sense the order flows in the skies above, trying to feel what the weather might be. But then, there have been no storms since he began trying.

“Wait until it rains tomorrow, and I get soaked on the ride to Sudstrym.”

“You won’t get soaked tomorrow. As you said, I’m no weather magus. So I won’t even guess about what will happen on fourday.”

Lephi rises from the armchair and picks up his Lancer cap, then nods to Xeranya. “I’ll be late tonight, but I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Take care this evening.”

“I will.” Lephi turns to Lerial. “I’m going over to Submajer Jhalet’s. You’re welcome to come.”

“I’ll pass, thank you,” replies Lerial.

“You won’t always be able to pass, you know?”

All the more reason to do it now.
“I know. But I lack your sociability, and I wouldn’t wish it to reflect upon you.” Lerial smiles politely.

Lephi shakes his head. “You’ll never get consorted to the right kind of girl if you don’t practice.”

“There are a few other kinds of practice that are more important at the moment … as you pointed out the other morning.”

“So I did. Those are more important, particularly if you can only handle a few kinds of practicing at a time.” Lephi ignores the pointed glance from their mother.

“If I don’t see you in the morning”—
And I’ll be demon-cursed if I will
—“have a good and safe journey to Sudstrym.”

“I’m sure I will, rain or no rain.” With a nod to Lerial and a smile for his mother, Lephi leaves the salon.

There is a long moment of silence, during which Lerial walks to the sideboard and pours himself a glass of amber lager, then seats himself in a straight-backed chair, rather than the armchair Lephi had vacated. He takes a swallow of the lager.

“You haven’t been very warm toward your brother,” says Xeranya. “Especially since he is going back on patrol. He could be hurt, you know?”

“I think Lephi can take care of himself, Mother.”
He certainly thinks he can.
“Besides, it’s unlikely the Heldyans will send forces across the river when they haven’t done that in years.”

“They did once. They could again.”

“Was Majer Altyrn in charge of the force that caught them?”

“He was. He had to cross the Swarth to do it. He burned part of Amaershyn.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It was before you were born. He also destroyed several other towns.”

“Why did they cross the river?” Lerial has an idea, a vague recollection.

“They were angry that he’d turned the firecannon on their ships. They wanted to teach your father a lesson. He hadn’t been Duke long at that time.”

“And the majer ended up teaching them a lesson?”

“Duke Khesyn’s father didn’t want to lose more men attacking Cigoerne at that time. Matters have likely changed.”

“Why? Because Khesyn has learned that Father is tied up dealing with Afritan armsmen and raiders in the north?” Lerial looks up as Emerya enters the salon, readjusting her head scarf so that it is merely a scarf and not a head covering.

“That’s right,” says Lerial’s aunt. “Khesyn would be a fool not to have realized that as Cigoerne has gotten stronger, Afrit has continued to decline. If he can destroy us, then there’s no bar to his taking over Cigoerne … and in a few years, or sooner, he can march north along the river and push back Atroyan’s forces until they only hold Swartheld.”

“Father must know that.”

“He’s known it for years. That’s why he’s kept expanding the Mirror Lancers.”

Xeranya shakes her head. “I still worry about his doing it with so many outland rankers.”

“They’re more loyal than some of those born here in Cigoerne.” Emerya pours herself a lager, then moves to the armchair and seats herself. “Being a Lancer is a far better life than they’d have had as a goatherd or a raider. Besides, they tell others, and more people want to be ruled by Kiedron than Atroyan or Duke Casseon of Merowey, not that he really rules the northern part of the lands he claims. He can’t even collect tariffs. His tariff-farmers won’t enter the woods, and Casseon won’t send armsmen to collect them.”

“Some of the people to the west are already trading with our factors. But…” Xeranya frowns. “I still worry.”

“Those elders of the forest towns to the west can see how Khesyn treats those who don’t bow to his beck and call. They also see that Kiedron is the only thing that stands between Khesyn and them.” Emerya takes another sip of lager. “The southern types … they don’t understand. They just like to raid, and Casseon has never done anything about it, so long as they raid us or Heldya.”

Some of what the two are discussing, Lerial has heard before—many times—but not the business about the hill towns and hamlets. “Then … those raiders … the ones that attacked the majer and me … they had to be from the south and not the west.”

“I’m sure they were,” replies Emerya. “The forest people are mostly peaceful. The fact that they’re starting to trade with us is good.”

“Some of the factors are complaining about tariffs, again,” ventures Xeranya.

“Kiedron has to pay the Lancers. Even Atroyan recognizes that. It’s why he’s relatively honest in remitting tariff shares. It’s less costly for the merchanters in Swartheld that way. All they care about are golds.” Emerya’s tone is between sardonic and scornful.

“Does Atroyan recognize that … or his brother?”

“Atroyan still listens to Rhamuel. How long that will last…” Emerya shrugs.

Lerial cannot help but wonder how Emerya knows that, but before he can ask, his aunt looks at him with an expression that clearly suggests he should not. Much as he would like to know, he decides he will pursue that question in private with her, rather than antagonize her in front of his mother.

“Do you think,” Lerial asks, looking to his aunt, “that Duke Khesyn will risk sending whole companies of armsmen across the river?”

“Khesyn is usually shrewd,” replies Emerya, “but like all shrewd men, he is also capable of incredibly foolhardy acts. While I would judge he would not, it isn’t beyond possibility.”

At that, Lerial feels a chill, for while he finds Lephi insufferable at present, he doesn’t like the idea of his brother and the Lancers facing Heldyan armsmen, especially given Lephi’s unrealistic views of his own abilities. Yet, especially with his mother present, he can’t say that, either. So he takes a swallow of his lager and nods, deciding to listen to what his mother and aunt may say before dinner.

He also thinks that he had best find a way to learn to do a concealment … and anything else that he can do with order.

XXXII

When Lerial returns from the Hall of Healing late on a cloudy and cool sixday afternoon and is preparing to lead the gelding into the stable, he sees Undercaptain Woelyt standing by the stable door, apparently waiting for him.

Why? Is there some problem with the rankers who’ve been escorting you? Or have you done something wrong?

He stops. “Good afternoon, Undercaptain. Is there something…?”

“Not exactly, Lord Lerial…”

Lerial nods. “But…?”

“I notice that you’ve not asked me to spar with you for some time,” ventures Woelyt.

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant to offend you, ser,” replies Lerial. “I’ve been working with Captain Chaen at headquarters, and I really didn’t wish to impose upon you.”

“I can understand that, Lord Lerial, but since your father will likely ask me what I think of your progress…”

Lerial immediately understands the position in which his thoughtlessness has placed the undercaptain. “If you are free, Undercaptain, I would be more than happy to spar with you at present … as soon as I can stable my mount. I do understand, and I would not wish my thoughtlessness to reflect unfavorably upon you.”

“If it would not be an imposition…”

“Not at all.” And Lerial means that completely. He also realizes that his father, upon his return, will indeed most likely talk to the undercaptain.
Another thing you didn’t consider.
“I’ll only be a few moments. If you’d see to the wands…”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial unsaddles and grooms the gelding quickly, then hurries out of the stable to the courtyard exercise circle where the Lancers practice.

Woelyt is waiting. He extends a wooden wand.

“Thank you.” Lerial takes the wand, realizing that it feels much lighter than he recalls. Is that because he is used to a heavier blade? He runs through several moves, then nods as he takes his position.

Woelyt does not bother with a feint, but begins with a direct thrust attack, one that Lerial parries easily, realizing almost immediately that the order flows around the undercaptain reveal his intent even before his wand moves, more so than with most of those against whom Lerial has sparred in recent eightdays. Rather than press, Lerial takes a guard position and waits for the next attack, which comes after a feint toward his shoulder. This time, Lerial slips the attack and comes in low and strikes the undercaptain on the thigh, returning to a guard position almost before Woelyt can react.

“You’ve gotten faster…”

“I’ve had more practice,” replies Lerial.

For almost a half glass, the same pattern repeats itself, but Lerial is not about to call a halt to the sparring, not until Woelyt is satisfied.

Finally the undercaptain steps back. He offers a rueful smile. “You’ve gotten so much better that it’s hard to believe.”

Lerial smiles in return. “You’ve had to do all the duties of a Lancer officer. All I’ve had to do is concentrate on learning things.”
Not all of them having to do with sabres and tactics, but learning all the same.
“And I’ve had the advantage of working against a lot of different officers.”

“It shows.” Woelyt inclines his head. “I appreciate the sparring, ser.”

“Thank you. I do apologize for not thinking about keeping you apprised of my progress.” Lerial grins. “You did suffer through my awkward sessions and gave me a good start, and I do appreciate that.”

“Thank you, ser.”

By the time Lerial leaves the outer courtyard, the slight sweat he had worked up, given the winter air and the breeze, has vanished. He is already cool by the time he reaches the Palace proper and heads up to his chambers to wash up before meeting with his mother and aunt in his mother’s salon. He is still surprised at how much he has progressed with the use of the sabre. While he knew he was better, especially after sparring with Lephi, he had felt that Woelyt was better than his own brother.
And perhaps he is.

He smiles at the thought.

After washing, as he is walking down the hall toward the staircase to the salon, he hears high voices.

“It’s not fair! You always win, except sometimes you let me!”

He recognizes Ryalah’s voice immediately.

“I do not,” Amaira replies. “I win when you make mistakes. You win when I make mistakes.”

“It’s still not fair!” Ryalah’s voice rises into a shriek.

“Girls!”

Lerial does not recognize the older voice, but assumes it must be that of their nurse.

As he nears the next door, it opens, and Ryalah runs out. Tears are streaming down her face, so much so that she runs right into Lerial—or would have had, except that he reaches down and scoops her up.

“Now … now … you almost knocked me down.”

“Put me down!” Her small fists pound on his shoulders. “Let me go!”

Lerial can sense the fury within her, almost like a grayish chaos. After a moment, while he continues to hold her, he tries to soothe her by creating what feels like mist of order, holding his affection for her, and letting it settle. The fists stop pounding, and heaving sobs follow.

“She … makes … mad … not … fair … never fair…”

He says nothing, knowing that nothing he says will matter at the moment.

The nurse stands in the doorway, looking at him.

Lerial can sense her fear as well. “It’s all right. She’ll be fine in a bit.”

“… will … not!”

“All right,” he says reasonably, “you won’t be.”

“You’re making fun of me!”

Lerial says nothing and keeps holding her.

Finally. Ryalah looks at Lerial, their faces almost touching. “Please…”

“If you’ll be good.”

“She isn’t fair…”

Lerial continues to wait, still holding her.

“I’ll be good.”

“Good.”

“I don’t have to like it,” Ryalah adds as Lerial sets her on her feet.

“No, you don’t,” he agrees.

For a moment, a look of puzzlement crosses her face. Then she smiles at him. “You’re funny.”

“Sometimes. Not very often. It’s even harder to be funny than good.”

Ryalah turns to the nurse. “I’ll be good.”

As the little blond heads back into the playroom, the nurse murmurs, “Thank you, ser.”

“You’re welcome.”

Lerial hurries down the steps and finally reaches the salon.

“You returned to the Palace some time ago,” observes Xeranya, almost tartly, as he enters.

“I had to spar with Undercaptain Woelyt. He hasn’t worked out with me for some time, and Father will wish to hear his judgment on my progress as well as that of Captain Chaen.” Lerial does not wish to mention the time he has spent with Ryalah and Amaira. He walks to the sideboard for a lager.