Cyador’s Heirs (32 page)

After a moment, Xeranya nods. “Of course. Of course. It’s good that you’re realizing the impact your actions have on others … or should I say the impact the failure of your actions might have on them?”

“We all realize that sooner or later,” adds Emerya from the settee. “Later for some of us.” A ruefully amused smile flits across her lips and face and vanishes. “How did the sparring go?”

“The undercaptain was pleased with my progress.”

“Excellent,” says Xeranya. “Your father has been worried about that.”

“Some of us take longer … or at least it seems that way,” replies Lerial.

Emerya, her head turned toward Lerial and facing away from Xeranya, lifts an eyebrow in warning.

“Anything worth doing is worth doing well,” Xeranya continues, “and that takes time and effort.”

“I’ve discovered that.” Lerial seats himself in the armchair nearer to Emerya, then takes a swallow of his lager. “What might we be having for dinner?”

“A green goat curry, I think. I told the girls to finish up the meat we had.”

Lerial thinks about commenting on green goats and decides against it.

“I hope you told them to make it mild,” says Emerya.

“I did.”

“Thank you,” replies Emerya.

Lerial is thankful as well. He takes another small swallow of lager and fixes a pleasant smile upon his face, ready to listen … although his mind is on concealments … and raiders and patrols.

XXXIII

Eightday morning, Lerial wakes up early, despite a gloom more like that created by a heavy overcast late in the afternoon. Yet when he opens the shutters of his chamber, there is no overcast, but there are low dark clouds moving swiftly to the south, with no sign of rain. The air is cold and gusts around him, although it is not chill enough for snow, or even for sleet or icy rain. As he stands at the open window, he finds that he is both unsettled and irritable, perhaps because, once more, this time on sevenday afternoon, after returning from the Hall of Healing, he had tried in yet another fashion to create a concealment … and had only succeeded in exhausting himself.

He shakes his head and turns away from the window, his eyes lighting on the black silk pouch on his table-desk.

Rojana had said an old book claimed that a lodestone could help with ordering order.
What about ordering the flows of order and chaos?

With a smile, half amused and half rueful, Lerial walks to the table-desk and eases the lodestone from the silk pouch, leaving the pouch on the wooden surface. Holding the lodestone in his left hand, he concentrates on sensing the tiny flows of order and chaos, except that the flows are not either, but a combination of each.

He looks around for something made of iron, then sees his sabre, in his sword belt scabbard and hung on the rack beside his armoire. He moves the lodestone toward the blade, still concentrating on sensing the flow of order-chaos. The flow seems to strengthen as the lodestone nears the blade. Lerial moves it back and senses the lessening of the strength, except that is not quite right. The strength does not so much change as that the pattern shifts.

Surely, you can do the same … can’t you?

He moves the lodestone nearer and farther from the sabre, watching, sensing, before he tries to add what he feels is a duplication of the pattern, and he feels the lodestone pull more strongly toward the sabre.

So you can make a small lodestone stronger? So what?
Except … somehow … he feels that there must be a connection between the flow of order-chaos from the lodestone and the flow of order and chaos necessary for a concealment.
But what?
The fact that doubling the pattern strengthens the pull of the lodestone?

He tries to manipulate the circular waves around each end of the lodestone, but the waves or patterns immediately reform. After a time, his head throbs slightly, and he lowers the lodestone. Then he notices that it appears brighter outside, and he walks to the window and looks out. The clouds still cover the northern sky, but there is a break to the south, and a shaft of light arrows an angle though that aperture in the clouds.

There is … something … about that.

Then he smiles.
So obvious that you almost didn’t see it.
The light shaft doesn’t spread … or not that much. That means that the light patterns travel in a straight line. The fact that an image is reflected in a mirror is another indication of that, but Lerial has not connected the two until he saw the shaft of sunlight. The lodestone bends order and chaos into a set of circles …

He takes the lodestone once more and tries to duplicate the patterns of order-chaos, but with light as well. For a moment, only a moment, there is a pinpoint of light, at the end of the lodestone—at each end. When he sees that, he is surprised enough that he loses his concentration, and the additional brightness vanishes.

But why brightness?
His aunt said that, if he did manage a concealment, he would not be able to see. That had to be because … why? He thinks for a time. He knows he cannot see in darkness. No one can. That means light is necessary to see.
Obviously!
But he is missing something. Black cloth, black anything—if it’s left in the sun—gets hot. White doesn’t get as hot. The sunlight heats things. Does that mean that sunlight, or some of it, is caught by dark objects? That would mean less is caught by light ones.

He continues to ponder. But … if his order-chaos pattern around the lodestone keeps light away, and that caused the brightness, why wasn’t there brightness when Emerya created a concealment? She had been standing in the shadows, and more light would have made an aura around her, and there hadn’t been one.

Lerial rubs his forehead, still trying to puzzle it out.

But your pattern was inside the lodestone pattern …

Is that it? The shaft of sunlight went on and on until it hit something and lit it up, like sunlight lights everything.
Unless it doesn’t touch it!

He nods to himself. The trick, or skill, is to figure out how to use order flows to bend light around himself, not to contain it in the way that the lodestone bends its attractive force around its end. Somehow … he has the feeling accomplishing that is going to be far harder than figuring out what he has to do.

Still … he has a much better idea of what is involved.
And it took you a long time and much effort to become better with a blade.

He squares his shoulders and takes a position in front of the mirror.

XXXIV

While the skies are overcast or cloudy on most days in Cigoerne as winter proceeds, there is only one other light rain over the next several eightdays besides the one that occurred the night of Lephi’s return, but the weather turns markedly colder. Every morning, and every afternoon, Lerial struggles with using order to create a concealment, and slowly begins to be able to hold the patterns for perhaps a tenth part of a glass. At times, however, if he does not concentrate closely, small iron objects fly toward him, or rather toward either the lodestone … or his sabre. That worries him, because spears and arrowheads are made of iron, and what good is a concealment if holding one will attract weapons?

He wishes his progress were better, and he has to remind himself that Emerya had told him almost a year before that using order would be far harder than merely mastering the skills of handling a sabre … and his struggles with mastering the concealment technique are yet another proof of that.

On fourday of the third eightday of winter, there are so few injuries and illnesses that both Emerya and Lerial leave the Hall of Healing just after midday. As he rides beside his aunt, Lerial can see his breath steaming, and he is very glad for the Lancer riding jacket—and the gloves Altyrn had given him.

Lerial, Emerya, and their Lancer escorts are still a good half kay from the Palace when Emerya straightens in the saddle and says abruptly, “Your father must be back.”

Lerial almost asks how she knows, but then sees that the ducal banner flies above the guardhouse by the main gate to the palace grounds. “I hope that means that the fighting around Penecca is over.”

“So do I, but it might also mean that both sides remain there, and that your father sees no point in staying, since nothing will change over the winter.”

Lerial frowns. He has not thought of that.

“Not all battles are won in great fights. Some are won by not fighting at all,” Emerya says.

“How can you win by not fighting?”

“Cigoerne today is more than two-score times as large as the lands your grandmere purchased from Duke Atroyan’s father. Not a single field was added by fighting.”

“But the Lancers fight all the time. They fight raiders, and Afritan and Heldyan armsmen.”

“They fight to protect those who have chosen to be part of Cigoerne. Chosen,” Emerya adds firmly.

Lerial considers her words and then replies. “Duke Atroyan and Duke Khesyn can’t like that. Why have they let it happen?”

“They thought the lands were not worth fighting over, but when our engineers and Magi’i made them worth more, they wanted them back.” She pauses. “You’re right, though. I fear those times are over.”

As they ride through the Palace gates, Lerial sees only a few signs of his father’s return—more Lancers in the outer courtyard, dealing with mounts, carrying gear into the stables and the Lancer barracks, and unloading several wagons.

Because he has made a habit of unsaddling and grooming the gelding, and because he stops to wash up somewhat, he knows he will likely be later than Emerya in arriving in the salon to greet his father, but Lerial sees no point in altering his pattern, since no one seems to care that much about his presence.

When he does reach the salon, his father is seated in one of the armchairs, with his mother at the end of settee closest to him. Emerya sits at the far end of the settee.

“Ah … Lerial, you’re finally here,” says Xeranya. “I would have thought you’d have made a greater effort to greet your father.”

“I hurried as I could, ser,” Lerial says to his father, “but I did have to see to my mount.”

“Do you always unsaddle and groom him?” asks Kiedron politely.

“Yes, ser. Well … ever since you sent me to Kinaar.”

Kiedron looks to Emerya.

She nods.

“It’s a good habit to nurture,” remarks Kiedron.

“Lerial has changed many of his habits for the better,” says Xeranya.

The way his mother utters her words suggests that there might be times when Lerial should not be a servant to even the best habits, but Lerial says, “I’m glad that you’re home and well, ser. Very glad.”
For more reasons that you know.

Lerial catches the briefest sense of surprise and amusement from Emerya, a feeling he also senses that his mother does not catch.
But she’s a healer, too, like Emerya.
Except, he realizes, and has to accept, that Emerya is the stronger … and more sensitive.
Do they go together?

“I’m very glad to be here.” Kiedron gestures to Lerial. “Go get yourself a lager, or whatever, before I tell you all about what happened … and what we face.”

Lerial moves to the sideboard and pours a glass not quite three-quarters full, then sits in the vacant armchair facing his father.

“What I did not convey is that the elders of the Afritan town of Ensenla have made overtures to me. They have been less than pleased with Duke Atroyan, particularly in the way in which his officers and armsmen have treated their young men and especially their young women…”

Lerial nods, thinking about the two healer trainees who fled to Cigoerne.

“… this has clearly reached either Arms-Commander Rhamuel or Duke Atroyan, if not both, or so many Afritan armsmen would not have been sent to our northern border from the river westward. It is also possible that the overtures have not been made truly by the elders, but by those close to Duke Atroyan as an attempt to entice me to act to expand the borders of Cigoerne. This is something that we have never done. We have only accepted those towns and lands that honestly wanted our protection. At the moment, I have no way of knowing whether these supposed overtures are a true offer or a ruse that will allow Atroyan to assert to Duke Khesyn and Duke Casseon that Cigoerne is ambitious and dangerous and that the three should unite against us.”

“Casseon may talk, but he would have to bring armsmen all the way from Nubyat, or even from Dawhut, and that’s hundreds of kays just to our southern border,” Emerya points out.

“We cannot afford to have any of them think we are too powerful or aggressive,” Kiedron replies. “Atroyan would like nothing better than to have Khesyn attack us in force. I know you believe Rhamuel thinks that is unwise, but Atroyan has ignored his brother’s advice before.”

“True,” admits Emerya. “It did not work out well, but Atroyan does not seem to learn from his mistakes.”

“People often think things are different, even when the same problem occurs again,” suggests Xeranya.

Kiedron clears this throat. “All this brings me back to you, Lerial.”

“Yes, ser?”

“I sent a letter to Majer Phortyn, inquiring about your progress.” Kiedron pauses. “He sent back a dispatch.”

Lerial waits, wondering how favorable the majer’s evaluation might be.

“He admitted that he was surprised by your initial effrontery, but also equally surprised by your level of skill, and especially pleased by your dedication to improving your skills. According to Captain Chaen, while your attacks could use some work, your defenses are excellent.” Kiedron actually smiles. “It appears your time with Majer Altyrn was worth it.”

“Yes, ser. You were absolutely right to send me there.”

“We do occasionally know what might be helpful for our children.”

Xeranya nods in agreement.

“Your presence in the south and your clear ability to get along with Majer Altyrn,” Kiedron continues, “may prove valuable in ways I had not anticipated.”

“Ser?”

“I’m getting there. In addition to the problems with Khesyn and Atroyan, the unsettled state of the lands that border Cigoerne on the south and theoretically belong to Merowey has resulted in far too many raids and raiders over the last ten years. Part of the problem is that Duke Casseon is both arrogant and does not believe as we do.”