Cyador’s Heirs

XXIII

In the dimness well before dawn on fiveday, Lerial begins to dress, thinking over the events since he arrived at Kinaar more than two seasons ago. He also worries about Rojana, who had not appeared at dinner the night before. He does not believe he has led her on, and he has been careful never to suggest that there should be anything between them. Yet he is aware, if only through watching and listening, that hearts do not always listen to words or prohibitions.

He pauses. Is that the difference? He shakes his head. He has certainly not listened to prohibitions in other areas, and that is why he was sent to Kinaar. The fact that he has listened to the warnings and words of Maeroja and Altyrn about their daughter suggests that his feelings about her are not that deep in his heart … and yet … he cares, and does not want her hurt. Much as you care for Ryalah … or Amaira? With a certain physical attraction added in, he admits to himself.

After pulling on his boots, he stands and walks to the bedside table. From there, he picks up the black silk pouch and fingers the oblong lodestone within through the silk. It is not quite a perfect oblong, but when he studied it the night before, it appeared that it had not been cut or ground, and that it had been formed naturally, however such stones occurred. By the workings of order and chaos within the earth? He smiles and slips the pouch into the inside pocket of his Lancer riding jacket, then straps on the sword belt and sabre.

He takes a last look around the chamber, picks up the kit bag, and leaves the room, for possibly the last time in his life.

Altyrn is already in the stable, saddling his mount by the light of a single dim lamp, when Lerial arrives.

“Good morning, ser,” Lerial offers.

“It is morning, and they seem to come earlier with each year … or maybe the nights are just shorter.”

Only a thin glow barely illuminates the eastern horizon when the two lead their horses out of the stable and mount. Lerial glances toward the villa. Just away from the lamp set on a bronze bracket by the north door stand Maeroja and the three girls. All are fully dressed. He guides the gelding toward the four and reins up short of Maeroja.

“I cannot thank you enough.” Lerial means every word. “For everything.”

“We enjoyed having you here, especially the girls,” replies Maeroja. “You are always welcome here.”

“Always,” adds Rojana.

Lerial senses something behind that single word, and he can see that her eyes are bright. They may even be red, but even with the lamplight illuminating her face at an angle, he cannot be certain. “Thank you. And thank you for your gift. It means more than you know.” Even if I cannot accept it in quite the way you meant it. Or the way I think you meant.

Rojana continues to look at him, and the obvious hurt tears at him.

“Please come back.” Aylana’s voice is not quite plaintive.

“That’s up to the Duke, but I will if I can. I don’t think it will be soon, though.” Lerial doesn’t know what else to say, but manages. “All of you … please take care.”

“We will,” promises Maeroja.

As he and the majer ride down the lane toward the main road, Lerial can sense eyes on his back. At least, that’s the way it feels.

He does not speak again until they have nearly reached the road. “I have to thank you again, ser. I don’t know that I could have learned so much anywhere else.”

“Given who you are,” replies Altyrn, “you likely couldn’t. That is why your father sent you here.”

Lerial still isn’t certain he wants to give his father that much credit. “My father … or my mother?”

“It was your father’s choice. I’d be most surprised if your mother and aunt weren’t the ones who suggested it. But…” Altyrn pauses for several moments. “… even if it happened to be their suggestion, your father had the wisdom to accept it and carry it out. That’s one of the most valuable traits a leader can have-to see the wisdom of good suggestions made by others and to accept them and carry them out.”

Lerial has to admit that the majer has a point. A very good one, whether you like it or not.

“You made quite an impression on the girls,” observes Altyrn after several moments of silence, “especially Rojana.”

“I’m sorry. I tried not to-”

“You were a perfect gentleman, Lerial, and that just made you that much more attractive to her. I couldn’t have asked for a better first infatuation for her.”

Lerial isn’t so sure that Rojana’s feelings are merely infatuation. “I think I hurt her”-You know you did-“and I didn’t mean to, but I didn’t know how not to hurt her in some way or another.”

“You were gentle. That’s all you can be when something like that happens.”

“You’re not too upset?” Lerial has to know.

“I’m upset that she’s hurting. Any father would be. But that’s not your fault. As you said, you didn’t lead her on, and you didn’t take advantage of her. You might be the one for her, but she’s not the one for you. No matter whom you consort, you’ll cause her grief and pain. The Stars know I’ve caused Maeroja more pain than I ever intended.”

“I’m sorry about what happened in the south valley-”

Altyrn waves off Lerial’s words. “She was worried. Pain is different. In time, you’ll understand. I hope you do. Most leaders and rulers do … if they’re good at leading.”

Lerial worries about the majer’s words about pain, especially given how much Lerial had ached in the first eightdays at Kinaar. Altyrn is clearly talking about something far greater.

“You don’t have to worry about that yet,” adds the majer.

“Is there anything else?”

Altyrn laughs. “Be a little late now, wouldn’t it?”

“I can try,” responds Lerial lightly.

In the dimness, Lerial feels as much as sees the good-natured headshake that is the majer’s response.

Just before they reach the post gates, Lerial turns in the saddle. “Ser … I want to thank you again.”

“You’re more than welcome. I hope whatever you’ve learned will stand you in good stead.”

“I’m sure it will, ser.”

The half squad of Lancers accompanying the dispatch rider-and Lerial-are mounting up when Lerial and Altyrn ride through the post gates. At the head of the column of riders, two abreast, stands Captain Graessyr, beside another mounted Lancer, an older and slightly grizzled man with the insignia of a squad leader. The squad leader’s complexion is even darker than Amaira’s, suggesting he comes from a local Hamorian background.

Lerial reins up short of the two, as does Altyrn.

Graessyr looks at Lerial, nods, then turns to the older squad leader. “Lerial … this is Squad Leader Eshlyn.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Squad Leader. I appreciate your escorting me back to Cigoerne.”

“We appreciate having you ride with us, ser.”

Lerial notes the Hamorian accent in the squad leader’s words, but just replies, “I hope you don’t mind if I learn what I can from you on the way.”

Eshlyn grins. “Don’t know that it’s much, but you’re welcome to try.”

Lerial couldn’t help but grin. He likes the squad leader immediately, more on feeling, but, usually his feelings are correct. And now you’re heading back to where no one thought they were.

“Don’t hesitate to tell him if it’s a stupid question, either,” says Altyrn cheerfully.

“I won’t. You know me, Majer.” Eshlyn turns to Lerial. “You ready, ser?”

“I’m ready.”

“Let’s head out!”

Lerial offers a last smile to Altyrn, then turns the gelding to come alongside the squad leader.

XXIV

Because Lerial does not wish to seem too forward, he is mostly quiet during the first few glasses after leaving Teilyn, asking an occasional question about the area through which they are passing or about riding formations or other Lancer matters.

Perhaps a glass before midday, the squad leader says, his voice even, “Captain Graessyr said you and the majer ran into some raiders.”

“We did. I don’t think he expected them so soon after harvest.”

“One of the men who went with you said you wanted to fight.”

Lerial is stunned, but manages to offer a rueful laugh. “Not exactly. I didn’t want them to fight, and I wasn’t looking to … but…” He shrugs. “If I said we shouldn’t fight, all Hamor would know in eightdays that the Duke’s son avoided a fight with a bunch of raiders. That wouldn’t be good for my father, and it wouldn’t be good for the Lancers.”

“Killed one of them, didn’t you?”

“Two-maybe three of them-got past the Lancers, and one charged me. I managed to slip his blade and slash his throat. That was all. All the other Lancers took care of the other raiders, except the ones that the majer got with his bow and the one he killed when they charged.”

“You healed Hualsh. Said he wouldn’t have made it without you. Most healers don’t carry sabres.”

“I can heal a little,” Lerial admits, “but I can also use a sabre.”

“That’s what Chaarn said. Ser … do you mind if I ask whether you plan to ride patrols like your brother does?”

Lerial gets the feeling that Eshlyn’s question is anything but casual. “I don’t mind. I’d always thought I’d ride patrols. Nothing’s changed that. As for riding the way my brother does, I can’t answer that because I don’t know anything about how he rides a patrol. I still have a lot to learn. That’s one reason why I’ve asked some of the things I have.”

Eshlyn nods. “What did you think of the raiders?”

“They must be desperate to ride so far into Cigoerne. The ones we saw, their bodies, anyway, they looked like they hadn’t been eating all that well. Are they always like that?”

“Sometimes. More the last few years, it seems.”

“You’ve been in the Lancers for a long time, it seems. What do you think about those raiders being so far north?”

“Not so long. Seven, eight years. Think the same as you, ser. Trouble. Folks who go raiding when the harvest is barely in … means they don’t have enough food for the winter. Or they’ve had a flux, and they need women. Or someone’s taken over their lands. Any way you look, it’s trouble.”

“What about the Heldyans?”

Eshlyn snorts. “Raiders with uniforms. The ones across the river, anyway. Duke Khesyn just sends out his troublemakers to keep us busy. Offers a half a gold for every Lancer they kill.”

“Half a gold? Why?”

“Must have his reasons. Majer Altyrn said it was to keep Cigoerne from getting too strong.”

Why would Khesyn care? Heldya is more than five hundred kays east of Cigoerne and close to eight hundred from Swartheld. “How often do they cross the river?”

“Three, four times a season. Try to watch for small patrols. Easier to kill a Lancer if we’re outnumbered.” Eshlyn offers a sly smile. “At times, we run a half squad on the river road. When they’re looking. Keep a company hidden. Works pretty well if we don’t do it much.”

“Your idea?”

“No. Majer thought that up. Submajer Jhalet told us to keep doing it. Heldyans still don’t get it.”

“That’s why you don’t think the ones across the river are their best armsmen.”

Eshlyn nods.

Lerial takes out his water bottle and has a swallow of the lager from Kinaar, then replaces it in its holder.

After several moments, Eshlyn asks, “That’s not a new sabre, is it?”

“It’s new to me … well, in the past season. It came from Cyad, though.”

“I thought so. It’s cupridium, but it looks heavier, and that’s an old, old design.”

“The majer had me sparring with heavier blades.”

“The captain says you’re better with it than most new undercaptains.”

“So does the majer. He also said that’s not good enough. From just what I saw in the south valley, he’s right.”

Eshlyn actually laughs, if softly. “I’m not sure anything’s good enough for the majer. That’s why the Lancers are what they are.”

Lerial can definitely see that, and from Eshlyn’s questions, Lerial gets a definite feel that, much as he hates to admit it, his father was right to send him to Kinaar, especially since it’s clear that Eshlyn, and probably most Lancers, aren’t likely to blindly follow him or Lephi, whether or not they’re the Duke’s sons. “I take it he’s the reason why Afrit and Heldya haven’t taken over Cigoerne.”

“As much as anyone is … excepting that Duke Kiedron knew to back the majer all the way.”

Lerial can’t say much to that … and doesn’t. Since Eshlyn isn’t inclined to say more, another glass goes by without much passing between the two.

Finally, Lerial asks, “How did you come to be a Lancer … if I might ask?”

“Simple enough. My da was a goat herder, south of Ensenla, little place called Penecca. Just north of the border between Afrit and Cigoerne. Was then, anyway. Now Penecca’s part of Cigoerne. That’s another story. I had three older brothers. Herd wasn’t big enough all for us. So I was looking. One day a bunch of Afritan armsmen rode through headed south. They took a third of the goats. Butchered some right there, and ate ’em for supper. Took the rest with them. Two eightdays later, they’re riding back. A lot less of them. Some were wounded. They took a couple more goats. I snuck up to their camp and listened. Didn’t hear that much, except that they’d tried something, and they’d got whipped by some Lancers.” Eshlyn grins. “Knew I wanted to be part of anything that’d pay back Duke Atroyan. Walked all the way to Cigoerne. Guards at the gate to the old Lancer post wanted to turn me away. Submajer Jhalet-he was a fresh captain then-he said anyone who walked eighty kays to join the Lancers ought to be given a chance. The majer agreed. Here I am.”

“I’m glad you are.” Lerial nods. He isn’t certain he would have had that determination, not walking eighty kays into an unknown land.

He’s worried enough about returning to Cigoerne.