Cyador’s Heirs (33 page)

Lerial offers a quizzical frown.

“Duke Casseon forbids the use of chaos in his domains. He claims it is evil and must never be used.”

“But … both order and chaos are forces. How they are used determines what they are.”

“Not to someone like Casseon, but Casseon isn’t the problem. Not directly. His lack of control of the northern part of his lands is. Your experience with the majer is just another example.”

Emerya and Xeranya exchange glances, and Lerial senses a certain puzzlement from his mother. He also feels his father is enjoying drawing out what is coming next, as if almost challenging the two to figure out what he is about to reveal.

“To put the matter in simple terms, the elders from the hill towns north and east of Jabuti, believe they are almost a land unto themselves They have sent an actual petition requesting that I consider ruling Verdheln.”

“Verdheln?” Xeranya frowns.

“That’s what they call it. They’re even willing to provide Lancer trainees … and an advance on their tariffs, in golds, to show their sincerity. They worry greatly that they will suffer worse than have our towns, not because many of the raiders have decided to attack their towns, but because they fear Casseon will insist they open their lands and allow in all from Merowey. This troubles them. Enough that they would have me rule them.”

Lerial almost swallows. If the hill towns are the ones whose locations he has studied on Majer Altyrn’s maps, their acceptance of his father’s rule will more than double the size of the lands held by Cigoerne. In time, his father might rival Atroyan in holdings.
But not in the number of people or the wealth of those holdings.
And that might be another problem.

“Will you accept?” asks Xeranya warily.

“How can I not? The situation is getting more dangerous every year.…”

“We’re spread too thin as it is,” says Emerya. “Even if you can raise more Lancers from those towns, it will take more golds to pay them and time to train them. Who can you spare, with the Heldyans on the east and Atroyan on the north?”

Kiedron smiles. “I have asked Majer Altyrn to oversee the training of those men, and I can spare two squads to support him, but … the elders want a pledge that I will not abandon them.”

Lerial has a strong feeling about what is coming next.

Kiedron turns back to Lerial. “You can do two things at once. You can obtain more Lancer training, and you can represent me to the hill peoples. You are younger than I would prefer to be riding patrols, but accompanying Majer Altyrn would not be exactly the same. You have already shown, according to the response I received from the majer, that you can defend yourself in battle. That is important, because fighting when you can die is not the same as sparring, even with blunted blades. Your presence will assure the hill peoples of my faith in them. There are more towns hidden in and around the forests than Casseon realizes, and we will be able to use some of the Lancers we train for them in places other than defending against raiders from the south.”

“What about arms?” asks Emerya.

“I have known for years that the time would come when we would need more weapons. Every year we have arranged for more sabres to be forged than we would need. An additional fifteen or twenty blades every season seems like nothing for the smiths of Luba … and our own ironmages have also been forging.”

“How many more companies can you equip?” demands Emerya.

“Seven, perhaps eight.”

“You can’t take on Heldya or Afrit with twenty-some companies.”

Kiedron shakes his head. “No. And we may have twenty-five companies. But it’s enough to keep them from wanting to take us on. We’ll just keep building up the Lancers, and Atroyan and his merchants will be happy that we’re taking the losses.”

“Until when?” Emerya’s words are flat.

“Until they leave us alone.”

Lerial can sense the evasion behind those words, and he knows that his aunt must be able to do so as well, but Emerya only nods, if slowly.

“When do I leave for Teilyn?”

“It will take several days to complete arrangements for the wagons to take the supplies and weapons you and the majer will need. I hope to have you and the two squads on the way no later than sevenday … eightday at the latest. Oh … and I’ve asked Majer Phortyn to tell as few people as possible and only to say that you will be accompanying Majer Altyrn on a mission to train townspeople in the west.”

“I’ve been working with the Lancers every morning.”

“You can keep that up for the next day or so. After that, you’ll be busy. Oh … we’ll also need to get you some additional uniform greens and undercaptain’s insignia.”

“I’ll be an undercaptain?”

“Provisionally. Once the majer feels you can handle those duties, he will have the authority to make the rank permanent.”

“You need me to have that rank now … well before we arrive in the hill and forest towns.”

Kiedron nods. “I hope that it is otherwise, but this could be the beginning of even more troubled times.” He smiles brightly. “That’s enough for now. I want to hear what’s been happening here.”

Lerial manages a pleasant expression, but the fact that his father has said “enough for now” means there is more, and it may well not be all that pleasant.

XXXV

When Lerial makes his way down to breakfast, early as it is on fiveday, he arrives just behind his father. They are the only ones in the breakfast room besides the serving girl, who immediately leaves.

“Good morning, ser.”

“Good morning, Lerial,” replies Kiedron as he seats himself. “You’re off to practice with the Lancers after breakfast, I presume?”

“Yes, ser.” Lerial sits down at the table.

Kiedron nods and pours himself some greenberry juice.

Lerial refrains from wincing. Even the thought of greenberry makes his mouth pucker, although he had managed a green juice at Kinaar, but it had not been so sour-bitter. Instead he fills his mug with lager and takes a swallow. Flat as the warmish lager is, he finds it far better than most juices.

“You know I wrote to Majer Phortyn about your blade training and received his reply. I also talked to Undercaptain Woelyt early this morning. He was less guarded. He said that you’d become his superior with a sabre and that there was no way in which he’d wish to face you in combat.” Kiedron pauses, waiting for the serving girl to serve him egg toast and ham strips. He continues to wait until she serves Lerial and then leaves. “He also said something else, with which I was most pleased. He said that you were most courteous and thoughtful.”

“The undercaptain was most diligent in assuring I practiced before I went to Kinaar. I wouldn’t have been able to take advantage of the majer’s training without what I learned here.”

“Your aunt says that you’ve also been helping at the Hall of Healing.”

“Yes, ser. What she taught me was what helped save a Lancer when we were attacked in the south valley.” Lerial follows his father’s example and drizzles berry syrup over the egg toast.

“That’s good.” Kiedron pauses and frowns. “You may actually have the abilities of a healer, but it would be best if you continued to let the Lancers believe that you’ve learned only enough to be useful in battlefield healing.”

“Yes, ser. I’d thought that already because of what you said earlier.”

Kiedron laughs. “I should have sent you to work with the majer sooner.”

“Begging your pardon, ser, but I wouldn’t have known enough to benefit from it much sooner.”

“That’s probably true.” Kiedron takes another swallow of the greenberry juice. “It’s probably best that you keep doing what you’ve been doing until the end of sevenday. I have asked Emerya to have you help with the worst and most difficult healing that may be required.”

“Last moment experience?”

His father nods. “It may be useful. I do not know whether the hill people even have healers, but it is possible you will encounter raiders.” Kiedron smiles. “I wouldn’t have thought of sending you with the majer, except for his dispatch and Majer Phortyn’s views. It’s better that you go than Lephi, though.”

“Because it won’t take him away from patrols?”

“In a way … but it’s not what you think. Cigoerne is a small land, at least as lands in Hamor go, and everyone knows what I do and decide in days. If I send Lephi to Jabuti, too many will think I’m keeping him from danger. The danger is likely the same in either place, as you have already discovered. But I would have to send him if I did not think you were able to handle the matter.”

“But because I am younger, and you have made me an undercaptain earlier than you wished, everyone will say that you are risking your own son for Cigoerne?”

“They will not say that. They likely will not think that. They will think it is a matter of course. But if I sent Lephi…”

“They would think your sons received special treatment.”

“I see you understand.”

Lerial understands. In a way, though, it bothers him.

“It disturbs you,” Kiedron continues, clearly reading his son’s face. “It should. You should understand, though, that any ruler, especially the Duke of the smallest land in Hamor, does not rule just by force. Nor can I rule Cigoerne by tradition. Nor will Lephi be able to rule by tradition. It takes generations to rule by tradition. Tradition is not sufficient by itself, either.” He looks at Lerial. “Then what else allows a Duke to rule?”

Lerial has no idea. “Ser?”

“The people have to believe that you can rule. They do not have to agree with everything I do. They don’t even have to like me. They do have to respect me.”

“And you will lose respect if you are seen to subject their sons to danger while shielding your own?”

“How would you feel if I sheltered Lephi and sent you to fight the Afritans?”

Lerial doesn’t have to answer that question … and he knows his father knows that.

“Some rulers do not understand that, Lerial. I would not have you or Lephi fail to know the importance of respect … or what undermines that respect.”

“That is why you were leading at Penecca.”

“I try to lead carefully,” Kiedron says dryly. “There’s no point in being foolhardy, but, yes, I have to be there.”

“Mother worries.”

“She always has, but she understands. So does your aunt.”

“Understands what?” asks Emerya from the door to the breakfast room.

“The need for a ruler to be respected, especially when his power is not overwhelming.” Kiedron’s tone is dry and sardonic, yet somehow guarded.

“That’s true. Respect is essential for a ruler to be successful over time. It’s also true of anyone with power. Your Majer Phortyn is well aware of that.”

“Emerya…,” begins Kiedron, his tone cool.

“He’s well aware,” Emerya continues, seating herself and looking at Lerial. “Because he’s barely altage, he would not take a consort because the ones he wanted wouldn’t have him, and he feels he has had to earn the respect of everyone, especially after the unfortunate incident with Sypcalyn.”

“That was years ago,” says Xeranya from the breakfast room door. “Just because Sypcalyn was named after a hero in the time of Lorn didn’t make him great. Both he and Phortyn haven’t been as respectful of the Magi’i heritage as they might have been. So that broken lance didn’t make all that much difference.”

“We’ve been over that before,” Kiedron says firmly, lifting his mug and taking a swallow of juice, then several mouthfuls of egg toast and ham.

Lerial does the same, although the ham is barely warm, tough, and chewy. He feels that his father has said all is he going to say, at least while Emerya and his mother are at the table.

That proves to be true, since Kiedron finishes eating quickly and leaves. Lerial realizes he may be late and also hurries off to saddle his mount.

Once he leaves the palace, Lerial’s day is mostly like every other day, except for a brief period at the Hall of Healing when Emerya insists that he help in setting the broken bones of a mason on whom an entire trestle of bricks had fallen. One arm has broken bones protruding from the flesh.

When they finish and leave the surgery, Emerya looks to Lerial. “Thank you for the extra order. It may not be enough, you know.”

“I could sense that.”

“You should not attempt that kind of healing on the battlefield unless the battle is over, and there are no other wounded to help.”

“Because I could do nothing afterward?”

“Can you even sense order now?”

“Barely.”

“Exactly.” Emerya nods.

Lerial has to have some bread and rest for more than two-fifths of a glass before he can resume giving even limited assistance to Emerya, but there are no other serious injuries for the remainder of the day.

When he returns to the Palace, there is a tailor waiting outside his chambers, and Lerial invites him in, where the man takes measurements quickly.

“Three regular riding uniforms and one dress uniform,” he says when he finishes. “The riding uniforms will be ready by sevenday at noon. The dress uniform will take longer, of course, but your father said you would not be needing that immediately…”

“I don’t imagine that I will,” replies Lerial with a slight laugh.

He sees the tailor out and is about to close the door when he sees Emerya walking toward him. He waits.

“I’d like to talk to you before you go down to the salon for refreshments.”

“I can talk now.”

“My chambers, if you would.”

“Of course.” Lerial feels like shrugging as he walks beside Emerya. It doesn’t matter whose chambers to him. If Emerya has something to say, it doesn’t matter where she wants to say it, although he does wonder what she has in mind … and the fact that she doesn’t want to say more at the moment, even though there is no one else nearby.

Once they are alone in her sitting room, seated in the two chairs that are neither really armchairs nor plain straight-backed chairs, Emerya looks at Lerial. “There are some things you should consider while you are away from Cigoerne. Why do you think Duke Atroyan hasn’t mounted a campaign against Cigoerne?”

“Because we protect part of his borders, and we’re not a threat.”