Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (56 page)

“Anyone Rhamuel has trained to use a blade scarcely
needs
any help.” He smiles, but does not move until four rankers dismount and flank them. Only then does he nod toward the redstone steps.

The breeze is even stronger when they reach the stone terrace that fans out from the double doors of the main entrance. “He built this here, oriented in this direction, just for the prevailing winds, didn’t he?”

Kyedra gives Lerial a curious glance, but does not reply. Lerial does not press her.

After looking at Kyedra, the two guards open the doors, barely looking at Lerial or the rankers. Immediately beyond the doors is a circular vaulted entry hall, some fifteen yards across. The domed ceiling is an off-white, as are the walls. The floor is of interlocking white tiles, but the masonry grout is black, rather than the customary white or off-white. The hall itself has four archways, one for the entry, and each of the others opening to a wide hallway extending the length of each wing of the villa. Rising on both sides of the west archway are two curved staircases that lead to what looks to be an upper hall. The only furnishings in the entry hall are four identical sideboard cabinets of a golden wood, each one more than three yards long and curved to fit against the wall and placed equidistant from the archways flanking it. Each cabinet has a raised back, on which is carved a scene, although in the dim light, Lerial cannot make out the details.

Kyedra motions to the hall to the right, the one leading to the north wing. “Grandpapa is in his study.”

The corridor is also tiled in the black-grouted white tile, with the same off-white plaster walls. Lerial feels the breeze blowing in his face as they walk past door after door. Those few that are open reveal a library, a salon, a lady’s study, and what looks to be a children’s study.

“Is that where your mother had her lessons?”

“When she was older. I’ve had lessons there, too. Usually in the summer.”

“I imagine it’s much cooler here in the summer than in the palace.”

“Much cooler.”

Lerial guesses that the north wing is for family common spaces and studies, the west wing for entertaining, and the south wing for personal chambers.

Near the end of the corridor, Kyedra points to a half-open door on the left. “There’s the study.” She looks pointedly at the rankers behind them, then at Lerial.

“Just one inside,” Lerial murmurs. He would prefer none, but he has no real shields, and he knows he is physically still weary, if not close to exhausted.

The four rankers exchange glances before one, the broadest and oldest, steps forward. “Ser.”

Lerial nods.

Kyedra frowns, but does not voice a complaint before she eases the door open and steps inside, announcing, “I’ve brought Lord Lerial.”

Lerial and the lancer follow her. The study is not excessively large, some ten yards long and perhaps five wide, containing a wide table desk at one end, with four large cabinets against the wall behind it on each side of the large desk chair. The merchanter lies on a long leather couch set between two bookcases at the north end of the study. At each end of the couch is a small end table. Haesychya rises from a leather armchair facing the couch. The matching chair is empty, and only a pitcher and two mugs sit on the table between the armchairs. The wide windows on the west wall are open, and with the open door, there is a pleasant flow of air through the study.

Within moments of entering the study, Lerial can sense the chaos radiating from Aenslem’s gut. He can also sense chaos in the tumbler on the side table nearest Aenslem.

“What’s in the tumbler?” The words come out more sharply than Lerial intends.

“Tonic…” gasps the merchanter.

“That’s his tonic,” says Haesychya.

Lerial walks to the side table and lets his order-senses study the tumbler … and the small corked jug behind it. Both exude chaos, far stronger than he has originally sensed. He turns to Aenslem and leans down. “Pardon me, ser.” Lerial lets his fingertips brush the merchanter’s hot and damp forehead and then hover near his chest and the abdomen below. There is a definite similarity between the chaos in the tumbler and jug, and that emanating from Aenslem.

“What is it?”

“There’s something in your tonic. It’s not doing you any good.” Lerial doesn’t want to claim that Aenslem is being poisoned, although that is his surmise. It is just possible that some would-be healer has concocted some potion that is poisonous out of the best intentions.

“You’re saying he’s being poisoned?” Haesychya looks hard at Lerial.

“But … no one…” protests Aenslem, still gasping.

“I can’t say that.”
For many reasons.
“I can say that whatever is in the tumbler and jug is causing him some distress.”

“How can you tell?”

“It’s the same kind of chaos.” Lerial regrets his words immediately.
Doing things when you’re tired means you’re not as a careful as you should be.

“Besides being a field healer, you can sense chaos?” asks Haesychya.

“That’s what allows me to be a field healer,” Lerial replies.

“Then do something,” says Haesychya, in a tone that combines plea and demand.

“I’m not a full-fledged healer.”
And not anywhere close to full strength.
“I’ll do what I can.” He bends over Aenslem again, feeling chaos even in the merchanter’s breath. He extends his fingertips and says, once more, “Pardon me.” He lets the smallest amount of order flow from him, directing it to Aenslem’s lungs and stomach. Then he straightens and waits. He feels just a touch of light-headedness, but he can sense an immediate reduction in the chaos in Aenslem, suggesting most strongly that the merchanter has been poisoned, because if the problem were an illness the chaos would be far more diffuse than it is.

“Well?” asks Haesychya.

“He likely has been poisoned. I may be able to do a little more.” Lerial again bends and extends his fingertips to the base of Aenslem’s neck, willing more order into the merchanter.

As he straightens, Lerial can feel the study spin around him, and he immediately drops into the vacant leather armchair and lowers his head. He feels as though, if he moves at all, he will topple into darkness.

“What…” Haesychya glances around the study.

“He’s injured, Lady,” blurts one of the rankers by the door. “He had to be carried from his mount last night.”

Haesychya looks to Kyedra. “Did you know this?”

“He seemed all right on the ride here.”

Haesychya looks to the ranker. “Injured? How?”

“Saving us, Lady. He … he used order to shield us from chaos.”

Kyedra’s mouth opens, but she does not speak.

“Lager would help, Lady.”

“Kyedra … you stay here. I’ll get it myself.” Haesychya turns and hurries from the study, almost at a run.

Kyedra eases over to stand by Lerial. “I’m sorry … I didn’t realize.”

Even through his light-headedness and his feeling that the study is spinning around him, Lerial can hear the concern in Kyedra’s voice. Somehow … that helps, if not physically.

“Realize what, girl?” While Aenslem’s voice is raspy, it is clearly stronger, although Lerial cannot sense either order or chaos.

“That he was so weak.”

“Exhausted,” declares Aenslem. “Healing takes strength … like fighting.”

Lerial says nothing, fearing that even trying to speak will start the room spinning around him … or send him back into darkness. He can hear Aenslem and Kyedra speaking, but the words make little sense.

After time, how long he does not know, Haesychya is kneeling beside the chair, holding a goblet. “I took this from an untapped cask. That’s why it took longer. I got one that had dust on it.”

Lerial understands. He manages a faint smile before taking a small swallow of the lager. His hands are shaking so much that Haesychya helps him hold the goblet for the first swallows. He slowly drinks, and by the time he is halfway through the goblet he feels steadier. At least, the room has stopped spinning around him, and his hands are no longer shaking. He takes another swallow, realizing, rather belatedly, that careful as he had tried to be, he had used too much order.
Because your physical strength exceeded the amount of order you required from your body?
Yet another thing he needs to consider.

He takes yet another swallow from the goblet, finishing the lager, and looks up.

“Would you like some more?” Haesychya is sitting in the other chair, with a pitcher on the side table, and Kyedra has pulled a straight-backed chair over beside her mother.

“Yes, please. Perhaps some bread…”

Haesychya rises, glancing at her daughter. Kyedra immediately leaves the study.

As Haesychya refills the goblet, Lerial looks to the merchanter, whose brow is no longer damp with sweat. “Are you feeling better?”
Let’s hope so … after this.
The moment he thinks that, he feels ashamed of himself. Aenslem didn’t exactly choose to be poisoned.

“Quite a bit. Not up to myself … but much better.”

Lerial then looks to Haesychya, who has reseated herself. “No more of any tonics. Just bread and soup for the next few days … and lager. If he starts to get worse … let me know.”

“It’s a wonder … what you did…”

“No.” Lerial wants to shake his head, but stops himself. “Just fortune. Some poisons … what I could do wouldn’t have helped … but those are the kinds that are slower-acting and must be given continually in small doses.” He lifts the goblet and takes another swallow, realizing for the first time just how good the lager tastes.

“You’re an expert on poisons, too?”

“Hardly. That’s something I’ve picked up from some reading and from listening. Some plants and foods are actually like that. Not many, or we’d all have trouble.”

At that moment, Kyedra hurries back into the study, carrying two loaves of bread, one white and one dark. She stops just short of Lerial.

He takes the dark bread, breaks off a chunk, and slowly eats it. After several mouthfuls, most of the light-headedness is gone, but that might have been from the lager he’d drunk earlier. He also discovers he has regained the tiniest bit of order-sensing.
That’s hopeful.

“I’m so sorry,” Kyedra says. “I didn’t think about what healing might do. I was so worried about Grandpapa.”

“I understand,” Lerial replies, offering what he hopes is an understanding smile.

“Don’t you think you should stay here?” asks Haesychya. “You’re not in the best of health at the moment.”

“I’m not, but I need to be closer to the Mirror Lancers. I hope what I did will continue to help you,” Lerial says to Aenslem before turning and offering a wry expression to Haesychya. “You might suggest to your father that the lager you gave me will do him far better than any tonic.”

“I’m … not much for lager … more a wine man,” says Aenslem slowly, “but I’d hate to waste your effort, Lerial.”

“Then don’t,” says Haesychya, her voice so curt that she is almost snapping at her father. “Drink the lager. Otherwise you might not ever drink your wines again.”

“Women … daughters…” Aenslem offers a tired smile.

Lerial walks over to the merchanter, close enough that order-sensing is not a strain. The chaos in Aenslem’s gut is definitely weaker than before.
Considerably weaker.
He nods. “You are doing better.”

“Stay with your grandfather,” Haesychya says to her daughter, her words an iron order. “I’ll escort Lerial out.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Once Lerial and Haesychya are outside the study, escorted once more by the Lancer rankers, she asks, her voice barely above a murmur, “He’s better, isn’t he?”

“He is. There’s still some chaos there, but it seems to be fading. I’d keep him on bread you’ve seen baked and lager for a while.” Lerial does not mention the obvious again: that someone should look into whoever provided the “tonic”—or who might have adulterated it, since Aenslem had acted as though it was something he took regularly.

“You will take care of yourself, will you not?”

“As I can, Lady.”

“Please do. For all our sakes.”

“You also need to take care … after everything.” He realizes his sympathy is belated, but better later than not at all.

“You’re kind.”

There is little enough Lerial can say to that. So he nods. “Thank you.”

When he leaves Haesychya at the double doors to the villa, he is surprised that it is only twilight.
But then, it is midspring.

As he rides out through the iron gates on his way back to the palace, Lerial wonders why, among other things, if Kyedra had not known about Natroyor’s death, Haesychya never asked anything about her son.
Had Rhamuel already let her know? But it that were so, why hadn’t anyone told Kyedra?

And you thought your family kept things close!

XL

Lerial does not wake on twoday morning until full light spreads across Swartheld, although there is no direct light coming through the shutters of the senior officer’s chamber he occupies at Afritan Guard headquarters. He feels far better than when he had dropped onto the bunk the night before, although he can order-sense only out into the hallway outside his door. Still … after what had happened at Aenslem’s villa …

He wonders if Rhamuel has received any information from Ascaar, since Sammyl had not returned when Lerial had left the palace on oneday evening and there had been no dispatches from Shaelt. The lack of dispatches bothers Lerial. Ascaar isn’t the sort who would neglect to report, whether he did well … or poorly.
Unless he’s dead or severely wounded.

Lerial washes, shaves, and dresses quickly, and his stomach reminds him that he needs to eat. The two rankers outside Lerial’s door stiffen as he steps out into the hallway. He can read the question on their minds and lips. He smiles. “Yes. I’m feeling much better this morning.”
Not enough to handle much in the way of order and chaos, but enough not to fall over with minor healing.
At that thought, he wonders how Aenslem is doing, but pushes that away.
You did what you could, and likely more than you should have. Except …
He almost shakes his head, before realizing that the rankers will misinterpret the gesture. “I’m ready for something to eat.”