Cyador’s Heirs

XXII

Almost the moment Lerial finishes his last sip of the greenish berry juice at breakfast on fourday, Altyrn looks across the table at him. “No work on the lands today. You need to get ready for your journey back to Cigoerne. The regular dispatch riders leave at the hint of first light, and they ride straight through. You’ll need everything packed and ready before you turn in this evening.”

“That’s a long ride for a mount…” And longer than you’ve ever ridden at one time.

“They’ll have spare mounts at Brehaal. You’ll have to lead your gelding for the last half of the ride.” The majer rises. “Come with me. There are a few things you’ll need.”

Lerial wonders what the majer has in mind, but follows him to his study. He watches as Altyrn opens one of the small doors in the tall cabinet against the side wall and extracts something.

Then the majer turns and hands Lerial a pair of grayish green gloves that look never to have been worn. “I noticed you don’t have a good pair of riding gloves.”

“I couldn’t-”

“They’re yours. Captain Graessyr also said that you’re to keep the riding jacket. It’s cut to allow more movement in the saddle than your old jacket. Besides, the old one is too small. You’ve broadened across the shoulders.”

Lerial had wondered about that when they had set out on the ride to the south valley, but that memory had slipped his mind-until now. “You don’t think that … on the way back to Cigoerne…?”

“I doubt that seriously, but you never know where you’ll find raiders, or brigands. Also, no one thinks about things like proper blades, jackets, and gloves until after the need is obvious. Sometimes that’s too late. This way you’ll have them when you need them. And … the sabre does belong in your family.” Altyrn pauses. “I wouldn’t mention that to anyone, not for some time.”

“I won’t, ser.” If I did, Lephi would insist that it belonged to him, and Father would likely agree.

“Good … because it’s better suited to you than either your father or brother, and a blade and its wielder need to fit each other.”

Lerial knows that the majer understands his father’s abilities with a blade, but how does he understand Lephi’s? And why does the blade fit you better?

“Your brother stopped by here on the way to one of his patrols. Your father sent a note asking me to give him some pointers in bladework. I did.”

“He didn’t mention that.” Lerial now recalls Lephi’s mention of Teilyn, but he’d never mentioned the majer. That would be Lephi.

“I don’t imagine that he did. Lephi’s more like your father. You take more after your grandmeres on both sides.”

“I never knew Grandmere Althya.” Except that she perished in Cyad … and no one talks about her.

“Quite a woman she was, and an outstanding healer, I heard tell. She was a redhead, too. There was a portrait in the Palace of Light … looked quite a bit like her. Have no idea who it was, except she had to have been an Empress in the old times.”

“The old times? How could you tell?”

“It was hung in a back hall, but the painting was excellent, as was the frame.”

“Ser? What should I have asked you that I didn’t and that I need to know?”

Altyrn laughs, warmly, then shakes his head. “I didn’t expect that, but it’s a good sign.” He gestures to the circular table. “We might as well sit down.”

Lerial seats himself and waits.

Altyrn takes the seat across from Lerial and clears his throat. “You need to think about men more than weapons. Weapons are necessary, but it’s always men who use them. You need to understand what your officers and squad leaders think and know. You need to talk to them. Never be familiar, but never condescend to them. Always consider the men you work with and against. In some ways, men who are weak within themselves are the most dangerous, especially if they have taken great pains to conceal their weaknesses. Because they are weak, they tend to be ruthless when it is not necessary. They can seldom be trusted to keep their word, except when it suits them. That is, I believe, and it is only my opinion, because they know they are not trustworthy, and therefore believe no others can be trusted.” The majer offers a rueful smile. “The truth is that most men are weak in this way. The most dangerous are those with power. People say that the most dangerous man is the one with nothing to lose, but they forget that every man has his life to lose, and that is the most precious thing of all to most. Never threaten to kill a man. Decide whether to kill him or not. Then do it. If you threaten and don’t kill him, he’ll never believe you again, and you’ll always have to watch out for him, even if you put him in jail in chains.”

Lerial nods slowly. “What do you think of Duke Atroyan?”

“You cannot trust the Duke or any of his family, the Duke least of all.”

“Have you met him, ser?”

“I’ve never met him, but I’ve watched him when he has met with your father and your grandmere. He is a man who believes almost any man can be bought … and that those few who cannot need to be killed quickly and quietly.” The majer smiles again. “I’ll give you another piece of advice. You likely won’t pay it much heed, but I’d be remiss in not offering it to you.”

“Ser?”

“A woman’s beauty has nothing to do with her character or temperament. Some men claim that you can’t trust beautiful women, and you can trust those who aren’t. That’s sowshit. Some beautiful women are honest and trustworthy. Some are not. The same is true of those who are not beautiful. If you treat any woman badly, matters will get worse for you. An untrustworthy woman will become more so, and a trustworthy woman will likely become less so.” Altyrn laughs softly. “By the way, that applies to men as well.”

“Will you tell me what you know of Afrit and Swartheld that I’m not likely to know?”

“Swartheld is a port. That means you’ll find almost anything there…”

Lerial listens for almost a glass before the majer stops.

“I’ve said more than enough, and more than you’ll remember. You need to see about organizing your gear.”

“Yes, ser.”

Still thinking over his conversation with the majer, and puzzling over the matter of the ancient sabre that is now his, Lerial carries the riding gloves back to the chamber that has been his for more than two seasons. Once he climbs the steps, he sees Seltha and Maeroja coming from his chambers, Seltha carrying a large stack of his uniforms.

“You’ll have to pack most of your uniforms late this afternoon or early this evening,” Maeroja announces, adding with a smile, “There’s no way we’re sending you back with any dirty garments except those on your back.”

“I didn’t wish to cause you any trouble…”

“You haven’t. It’s a good thing it’s sunny, if a bit brisk. They all should dry.” Maeroja stops, but motions Seltha to continue toward the steps down to the main level. “I couldn’t help but notice that you don’t carry any … personal … items.”

Lerial offers an amused smile. “I’m sure you noticed that before now.”

Her smile is open and warm. “I did. Is that by choice or training?”

“Choice. The personal things that matter are those I remember.”

“You’re like my consort in that respect. That seems to be a Lancer trait. It’s rare in a healer.”

“You think I’m really a healer, don’t you?”

“You don’t have all the training you need, but … yes, you’re a healer.” Her smile turns sad, or more reflective. “People will say that healers can’t be Lancers … or they can’t kill. Or that Lancers can’t be healers. That’s nonsense. It takes more strength to heal than kill … and to see those you’ve treated die, and then try again. Any fool trained with a sharp blade can slaughter people.”

“You know more about healing than you let on.”

“I have the skills, but not the touch with order. My sister was a healer.”

The way Maeroja mentions her sister suggests that her sister is no longer alive.

“I’m sorry.”

“You see? I didn’t even have to say that I lost her. You sense more than you think you do. In the life the Rational Stars have chosen for you, you will need to take care not to reveal what you feel … especially in Cigoerne or Swartheld … or Heldya, should you be sent there.”

It is more than clear to Lerial that both the majer and his consort believe he will be sent wherever in Hamor that his father, or his brother, feel will serve their interests … and possibly those of Cigoerne … and they believe it will be soon.

“Are you from Heldya once upon a time?” Lerial has always wondered, but he realizes this may be his last chance to ask.

“In a way. I was born there. We left long before I was old enough to remember anything. I grew up near Amaershyn.”

That makes sense to Lerial, since Amaershyn is the westernmost large town-or small city-in Heldya and some hundred and fifty kays south of Cigoerne. Unfortunately, it is also a Heldyan garrison town, and was the staging point for Heldyan forces when they made attacks on the Duchy of Cigoerne. But how did she and Altyrn meet? Lerial does not recall his father sending Lancers against Amaershyn, and it is unlikely he did so in the time before Lerial was born, but not impossible, even though Amaershyn is a walled city larger than Cigoerne. But maybe it isn’t any longer. Lerial pushes away those thoughts.

“You need to get on with whatever you need to do, and I have a few things yet to do today.” Maeroja smiles, then hurries past Lerial, leaving him standing outside the door to his room, his at least for one more day.

He makes his way inside and begins to organize his things.

That doesn’t take long because, with most of his clothes being washed, he has very little left to organize. So before long, he heads back down to the courtyard, which is not quite chill and more than slightly breezy. For a time, he stands, watching the fountains, thinking that Kinaar is indeed much quieter, more peaceful than will be the palace to which he will be returning-until his father sends him off somewhere else.

“Lerial…?’

He has been so lost in his musings he has not even sensed Rojana’s approach. He turns.

“You’ll be leaving before dawn tomorrow, won’t you?”

“That’s what your father tells me.”

“Please be careful.” Rojana’s voice is low as she looks into his eyes. “Really careful.”

Lerial tries not to frown. Why is Rojana so concerned? Both her parents have made it clear by words, in the case of Maeroja, and deeds, by the majer, that there can be nothing between the two of them … and even Rojana has maintained a certain reserve around Lerial.

She hands him a small black silk pouch. “This is for you.”

As he takes the pouch, Lerial can feel a heavy oblong shape inside the smoothness of the silk. “You don’t have to…”

“Gifts aren’t gifts if you have to.”

He can’t help but smile, partly because she is so right, and partly because her voice is so like her mother’s.

“It’s a lodestone. It will help you. It’s something I feel. Tyrna, Aylana, and I wove the pouch.”

Lerial knows that lodestones fashioned into needles are used as compasses on ships, but how will a solid block of lodestone help him? Yet … he feels there is something Rojana is not telling him. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

After a moment of surprise, she nods. “One of the old books … there’s a mention of lodestones and ordering order.” She pauses, then says, “I don’t know how you could order order … but maybe you can.”

Lerial smiles. The small pouch and the lodestone certainly can’t hurt him … and maybe, just maybe, he can figure it out. “Thank you.”

Rojana looks intently at him. Her eyes are bright. “Take care. You must.” Then she turns and moves away, first walking quickly and then running.

Lerial finds that his own eyes are burning … but she has vanished from the courtyard … and what could he do, even if he ran after her?

He fingers the silk pouch and the lodestone beneath the silk … then turns and heads for the north corridor. Perhaps a long walk will help. Perhaps …