Cyador’s Heirs (6 page)

“There are two reasons for that. First, it’s harder for a healer to do that. Second, you can bleed away the chaos force in the body to the point where order will become too strong … and the person will die.”

Order … too strong?

“Lerial … order and chaos in the body have to balance, or at least come close to balancing. Hasn’t Saltaryn taught you anything?”

“I … I just didn’t think of it that way.”

“As a healer you always have to keep that in mind.”

Although her words are quiet, Lerial feels like wincing, but he just nods.

By midafternoon, after following Emerya through the Hall of Healing as she tends to those whose injuries have left them bedridden Lerial comes to a realization. “It seems to me that a good half of the healing you’ve done today deals with small wounds or minor injuries. Sometimes, it’s things caused by the body itself, like boils.”

“You’re right. What would have happened to that little boy, though, if we hadn’t cleaned and gotten rid of the worst of the wound chaos?”

“It would have gotten worse. He might have died.”

“It’s better to heal, Lerial, when injuries are small. It takes less effort, and a healer can do more for more people.”

“You come here most days. Are there that many…?”

“Many come here from well outside of Cigoerne. The way that little boy spoke, he was originally from the part of Merowey just to the southwest of Cigoerne.”

“Why do you heal those not from Cigoerne?”

“They could not have traveled that far. They live near here. But … even if they did not, we should let them suffer and perhaps die?”

“No … I didn’t mean that.”
Not exactly.

“Your father rules a land that is more than ten times the size it was when we came here. Every year another village, sometimes more than one, asks to become part of Cigoerne. We protect them and heal them as we can. That is what a good ruler does. The Dukes of Merowey and Afrit have been forced to recognize your father as ruler.”

“But not as their equal.”

“Not yet. That
will
come. After all, he is Cyador’s heir.”

The way Emerya says that contains a certainty that chills Lerial, even as he thinks he should be cheered by it. So he merely nods and follows her to the next ward.

By the fourth glass of the afternoon, when Lerial accompanies Emerya from the Hall, he is exhausted. His boots feel heavy, and his feet ache from being on them all day. Trying the small amount of healing that Emerya has let him do has left him without the ability to focus even the smallest bit of order.

IV

Late on fiveday morning, after his lessons with Saltaryn, Lerial watches two of the Lancers assigned to the palace guard detail sparring in the exercise yard to the west of the palace stables. He can do this without being too obvious by using a small window in the stable. After several moments, he realizes that he can sense the order and chaos flows, if as almost vague misty shapes, that would reveal their bladework in darkness.

Useful at night, but you need to be able to hold your own in full light.
Still, he has to admit that he is learning from Emerya, and what he is discovering will be useful somewhere and at some time.

When he leaves the stable a half glass later, he is about to cross the courtyard when a voice calls to him.

“Lord Lerial?”

Lerial turns to see Undercaptain Woelyt walking toward him. “Yes?”

“I happened to see you watching Forran and Ghestyn sparring, and I realized that your brother has not yet returned from his patrol.” Woelyt smiles politely.

The undercaptain is close enough that Lerial can sense he has something in mind, and Lerial has few doubts about what it is. He just waits.

“Your father suggested several sparring sessions, and we have only had one this eightday…” After a slight pause, the undercaptain goes on. “I doubt that he would be pleased with me if I did not mention the matter.”

Lerial understands all too well that Woelyt cares less about sparring than in making certain that Lerial’s lack of practice is not blamed on the undercaptain. He can hope that the undercaptain has other duties. “Perhaps now?”

“Now would be excellent, and since the wands are already there…” Woelyt smiles.

“Then we should do so.” Lerial forces a smile and walks with Woelyt toward that part of the courtyard where he has just observed the Lancer rankers sparring.

As they near the worn green tiles set in the limestone courtyard paving, one of the Lancers appears with a pair of wooden wands. “Sers.”

“Thank you, Ceaslyr,” says the undercaptain.

Lerial nods politely as he takes one of the wands, then tries to concentrate on Woelyt as the undercaptain takes a position just inside the circle. After a moment, Lerial edges forward, wand in a guard position, not only watching Woelyt, but trying to follow the order patterns as the officer feints a thrust, before coming up with a backcut.

Lerial has sensed the second movement even before Woelyt has begun it, and he manages to beat it aside.

“Good,” murmurs the undercaptain.

The single word distracts Lerial so much that he has to jump to the side to avoid Woelyt’s wand, and he staggers slightly.
Concentrate!
Lerial pivots slightly, getting his feet slightly farther apart to put himself in a more balanced position.

Even so, Lerial has to back away quickly, circling in order to recover and be able to try to hold his ground.

By the end of a quarter glass, Lerial is sweating heavily, but he realizes that Woelyt has seldom managed to touch him—except with each attack, the undercaptain is getting closer to doing so, not because Lerial cannot sense what the other is about to do, but because his arms and even his legs are getting heavy.

Finally, after another long series of passes and more effort than Lerial would like in sliding and avoiding the officer’s attacks, the undercaptain’s wand twists Lerial’s weapon out of his hand and then hits Lerial’s thigh with enough force that the youth staggers back, even though Woelyt turns the wooden wand at the last moment so that the flatted side strikes, rather than the edge.

“You’ve improved,” says the officer, lowering his blade. “I tried to pull that last strike.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” replies Lerial. “I just got too tired to slide or block it.”

“You’re young and don’t have your full strength. You also aren’t spending enough time practicing. You need to take a heavy wand and practice every move, time after time, just by yourself, without stopping until your arms and hands cannot hold the wand. Then rest … and do it again … do that for a glass every day for an eightday or two, and you’ll be surprised at the difference it makes.”

Lerial hasn’t thought about it that way, but that is what Emerya has been having him do, in her own way, in dealing with sensing order and chaos. He takes a deep breath. “Then … in a few moments, I suppose I’d better try again … if you have the time.”

Woelyt smiles warmly. “We can do two more sessions with a break in between before I’ll have to leave on my rounds.” The officer pauses. “While you’re catching your breath, let me show you another way to deflect a blade, one that doesn’t leave you so open for a counterthrust.”

“That would be good.”

“We’ll do this slowly. I’ll start as if you’ve knocked my wand up with a low counter coming up. You make a straight thrust at my gut—slowly. This is just to show you how it works…”

Woelyt goes through the motions slowly, then goes through them a second, and a third time. After that, he has Lerial try to replicate the move. It takes Lerial almost a score of attempts before Woelyt nods.

“You’ve got it well enough that, if you practice it some tonight and first thing in the morning, you might be able to work with it in sparring. Now … you should be ready for another round.”

Lerial forces a smile, trudges to the edge of the circle, and lifts his wand.

When Lerial leaves the Lancer’s exercise area, more than a half glass later, he understands three things. First, what Emerya’s exercises have given him. Second, that he doesn’t have the physical strength and endurance to take advantage of what he has learned, or, rather, not for very long. Third, even if he had more strength, that he doesn’t have the technique he needs.

From the Lancers’ outer exercise yard, Lerial makes his way into the palace and then to the north courtyard, the most private of the three, and cooler than the south courtyard, especially beside one of the fountains. He sees that his mother is seated at a table near the west fountain, and he eases toward the east one, only to find Amaira and Ryalah seated at a small table there, with several small dolls. One is a Lancer, another a healer, a third a magus, but he cannot make out the others.

“You’re all wet,” Ryalah declares.

Seated in the chair beside Lerial’s sister, Amaira says nothing, but her eyes are fixed on Lerial.

“I am. I was practicing blades with Undercaptain Woelyt. I sweated a lot.”

“Is he good?”

“He’s better than I am.”

“Is he as good as Lephi?”

“He’s better, I think.”

“Lephi says he’ll always be better than you.”

Lerial keeps the wince he feels to himself, even though he suspects both girls can sense his discomfort. “Right now, he’s bigger and has more experience. It won’t always be like that.” Lerial feels that, and he
knows
that will be true, even if he cannot explain why to himself, much less anyone else.

“He says you have too much order to be a good Lancer,” Ryalah adds.

“You do have order,” says Amaira more softly.

“Your mother says I can get much better.” Lerial laughs gently. “If your mother says so, I’m not going to argue with her.”

Amaira grins and shakes her head.

“Lerial!” calls Xeranya from the other end of the courtyard..

He turns to see her beckoning. “I’ll be right there.” Then he looks back to the girls, taking in the dolls. “You’re fortunate Father isn’t around.”

Amaira nods solemnly.

Ryalah nods as well. “We only play with them when he’s gone.”

“That’s wise.” With a smile, Lerial turns and walks toward the other fountain.

As he nears his mother, he sees her slip a thin volume under a leather folder before she turns and smiles at him. “I didn’t see you come in. Viera saw you sparring with the undercaptain. Your father will be so pleased that you’ve been diligent in that.”

Lerial hadn’t seen Viera, the oldest and only surviving family retainer who had accompanied his grandmother from the destruction of Cyad to Hamor. “I hope so.”
He’s more likely to be concerned that I haven’t practiced enough or learned enough. He’s never satisfied.
Lerial does not dare voice such thoughts. He even worries about thinking them. “What are you reading?” he asks, glancing at the leather folder and what lies under it, because he cannot make out what the volume might be.

“An old book of verse.” She slides the leather folder aside to reveal a thin volume whose cover is a shimmering silver, touched with a hint of green. “Your grandmother gave it to me. It will go to your daughter. Your aunt has the other copy. There were only two made. Hers will pass to Amaira. If you do not have daughters, your copy will pass to Ryalah.”

“Might I look at it?” Lerial isn’t all that interested in verse, but he has never seen that kind of binding, and that suggests the book is clearly old.

“Carefully.” Xeranya lifts the small volume and extends it to him. “I wouldn’t let your father know you’ve read it. You know what he thinks about verse and playacting.”

Lerial nods. “I won’t.” He won’t not just because his mother has asked, but also because she is absolutely right about the way Kiedron feels about verse.

“It is a part of your heritage, the heritage of Cyador. If you and Lephi do not carry on that heritage, who will?”

Lerial nods, then opens the cover gently, although the volume does not feel old, and turns to the first page, which holds only a title:
Meditations Upon the Land of Light.
The characters are strangely angular and hard to read. He turns the page and reads another set of lines, “
To those of the Towers, to those of the Land, and to those who endured.
” Below them are a name and a title, “
Kiedral Daloren, Vice Marshal, Anglorian Unity
.” Lerial has not read or heard of either Kiedral Daloren, whoever he might have been, or the Anglorian Unity. He has heard of the Towers.

“There really were Towers … Mirror Towers?”

“Once … yes. Your grandmother told me that Kiedral was the second Emperor of Light.”

“Who was the first?”

Xeranya shrugs and offers a wry smile. “I asked. No one knows.”

Lerial frowns and turns to the first verse.

For all those who braved dark translation’s hell

and fought the Forest bravely if not well,

may these words offer consolation’s praise

the remnant of past Anglorian days,

and hopes for Cyad’s shining, mirrored ways …

He slowly closes the book and looks to his mother. “It doesn’t make much sense.”

“Poetry usually doesn’t make sense to you when you’re young. I’m just now beginning to understand some of it. Later … you might appreciate it. In a way, I think it’s all about the founding of Cyad and Cyador and what the writer felt about starting over in a strange land, so far from the Rational Stars. Your grandmother said it gave her hope. Someday, it might help you.”

Hope … from old verses?

Xeranya extends her hand, and Lerial returns the volume.

As he walks away to wash up and change to cleaner garb, he can’t help but continue to wonder how old verses could help anyone … and him, because his mother has not mentioned Lephi, or his daughters, and she never would have omitted his older brother unintentionally.

Never.
Why would she give her copy to your daughter? And not to Lephi’s. That doesn’t make sense.
It especially doesn’t make sense because Lephi is the heir, Cyador’s heir, and his parents are both practical. Very practical.