Cyador’s Heirs

XXVIII

Lerial is about to leave the officers’ quarters at Lancer headquarters on sixday, after changing into clean greens, when his fingers touch the silken pouch-and the lodestone-he still carries. Why, he isn’t certain, except that Rojana had intimated that it was important. Yet while he can sense the faintest flow of order and chaos around it, it is comparatively faint, and he wonders how that might help with handling order. And where did Rojana find it? He pushes away his thoughts on why she has given it to him and slips the pouch and lodestone into his jacket when he hears voices outside.

He thinks he recognizes Lauxyn as one of the two speakers, but not the other man’s voice. He stops and listens, but the voices fade, and he can sense the two men moving away. He eases to the doorway, but sees neither. He feels that they have walked around the corner, and he makes his way to the edge of the building and halts, listening.

“… don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Those words are Lauxyn’s. That, Lerial can tell.

“You and Chaen … sucking up to the Duke’s son…”

Lerial has to know who is accusing Lauxyn and the captain. He feels that whoever the other man is, he has to be an undercaptain, from the tone of voice and the words used. It’s likely that neither man will be looking down, and that the unknown officer might not see if Lerial peers around the corner well below eye height. So he squats and slowly looks, knowing that a sudden movement is more likely to catch someone’s eye.

The second officer is Undercaptain Veraan, and his concentration is on Lauxyn.

Lerial moves back and continues to listen. He wishes he could use order to conceal himself, the way some of the great Magi’i were said to be able to do, so that he could move closer, but he cannot. So he remains behind the corner, catching fragments of what passes between the two undercaptains.

“… don’t think the captain would appreciate your views on that.”

“I’ll deny it … and my family will back me up…”

Lerial wonders from what family Veraan comes. Perhaps someone at the Palace will know. He stiffens as he senses the two moving, but they are moving away from him. He waits until they have moved well away from the quarters before he begins to walk toward the stables. He does not look back.

Over the past few days, he has been able to sense a certain sliminess about Veraan and wonders if that happened to be one of the reasons Chaen had chosen the slender blond undercaptain as an example when Lerial had first begun to practice with the headquarters’ Lancers.

Again, he rides from Lancer headquarters to the healing hall, where he spends the remainder of the day. Emerya was right. This time, unlike on fourday and fiveday, there are many more people needing healers. He ends up dealing with small injuries that have been neglected and worsened, such as animal bites that have turned bad-but not too bad-and a thorn wound that has filled with pus, and before he realizes it, it is past fourth glass and Emerya is informing him that it is time to leave.

He washes up one last time, then makes his way to the stable, where he mounts the gelding and joins his aunt and her escort for the ride back to the palace. For a time, he rides beside her without speaking, glancing toward the heavy clouds to the south and wondering if they are harbingers of the usual winter rain.

“Your stitches are better,” Emerya informs him, “and your use of order is more measured.”

“Thank you.” He pauses, then asks, “What happened to the young woman … you know, the one-”

“Whose father thought his granddaughter was worthless? Her mother and an aunt took her away last night. That’s what Elnora told me this morning. They said she would be going to live with relatives. They didn’t say where.”

“What about the child’s father?”

“That may be the problem,” replies Emerya. “They wouldn’t speak about that.”

“You don’t think…?”

“In healing, you’ll see the best and worst of people, more so than in fighting and battles … although your father might disagree with me. But then, there are many things about which we don’t agree. How was your morning?”

“I’m getting better with the sabre. It’s helpful to spar against different officers. There is one thing, though…” Lerial turns in the saddle and looks at his aunt.

“Yes?”

“There’s an undercaptain at headquarters that I overheard talking about how important his family is. His name is Veraan. I wasn’t about to ask him who his parents are, but I wondered if you might know.”

Emerya smiles. “It’s good you didn’t ask, but I don’t know everyone of either elthage or altage background here in Cigoerne, not anymore. Oh … I might know the parents, if you knew their name, but their children?” She shakes her head.

“I can ask Woelyt if he knows.”

“That might be best … if asked casually.”

Lerial doesn’t bridle at her suggestion, not in the way he would have, he realizes, if either Lephi or his father had uttered the same words.

Once they reach the Palace courtyard, and the stables, Lerial takes care of the gelding first and then sets out to find Undercaptain Woelyt, but he doesn’t have to look far, because Woelyt is walking toward the stable.

“Good afternoon, ser.”

“Good afternoon, Lerial. How is your sparring coming?”

“Well enough, I think. I learn a little more every day.”

“Your father will be pleased with your diligence.”

“No. He’ll expect that. He’d be displeased if I weren’t diligent.”

Woelyt laughs, if gently. “I can understand that.”

“I’ve run across several undercaptains you might know. One is Lauxyn. He seems good with a sabre.”

“He is. He’s like me. We came up through the ranks.”

“Then there’s a younger undercaptain … Versaan … Veraan … I only sparred with him once.”

“Oh … Veraan. He’s pretty junior.”

“He was talking about his family…” Lerial lets the words just drift, not quite finishing the sentence.

“He’s the type. His father’s a magus, Apollyn, I think. Doesn’t matter who your father is. If you’re not good with a blade, you’ll still end up dead.” Woelyt tilts his head. “How did you do against him?”

“Captain Chaen said he was overmatched against me.”

Woelyt cannot quite hide a satisfied smile. “Then you must be doing well.”

“The time with Majer Altyrn helped a lot.”

“I’m sure it did. I never got a chance to serve under him.” Woelyt shakes his head almost regretfully. “Those that did say that he was a fine officer.”

Lerial smiles as he replies, “He still is. He’s very practical, and I think he and Captain Graessyr talk often.”

“Good for Graessyr. Smart, too.” Woelyt smiles. “Maybe we should spar when you have some time.”

“We should.” With a parting smile, Lerial heads for the Palace proper.

By the time he arranges for his soiled greens to be washed and finally reaches the courtyard, his mother is sitting at one of the tables sipping white wine and talking with Emerya. Ryalah and Amaira are at another table, intent on their pegboard. Lerial pours himself a glass of pale lager, perhaps two-thirds full, and takes a seat at his mother’s table, to her left.

“You took a while,” observes Emerya.

“I had to…” Lerial stops as he sees Ryalah marching toward them, her face intent. “What is it?”

“Amaira said you can’t go on patrols. She said you’re too little.”

“I need more training,” replies Lerial. “Father will decide when I’m ready.”

“I don’t see why Lerial can’t go on a patrol with Father. He went on a patrol with the majer.” Ryalah looks to her mother.

“That was different,” says Lerial. “It wasn’t really a patrol.”

“You fought raiders,” insists Ryalah.

“Lerial could go with the majer because the majer isn’t Father,” replies Xeranya. “He has to know more to go on real patrols, and he can’t go with Father, because he’s second in line to the throne…”

Lerial is struck by his mother’s reference to the throne, especially since there is no throne in the palace and since there’s no possibility of his father or Lephi ever returning to Candar to rule a Cyador that no longer is.

“… and if anything happened to both of them, and that can happen in fights, then only Lephi would be left.”

“I suppose that wouldn’t be good,” offers Ryalah.

“Dukes and their heirs should never be fighting in the same places, and preferably not even at the same times,” says Xeranya. “There must always be an heir. Now … you and Amaira can play at your table or up in your playroom.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Lerial can sense that behind Ryalah’s acquiescence is a certain anger. As his sister walks back to rejoin her cousin, he looks to his aunt inquiringly.

“She’s getting to that age where many things are becoming a question of what she sees as fairness,” Emerya says quietly.

“She’ll have to learn that life isn’t always fair,” replies Lerial’s mother. “It’s something we all learn, sooner or later. It costs more the older you are when you learn.”

“It’s not fair!” Those words come from Ryalah as she glares across the small table at her cousin.

Emerya and Xeranya exchange glances. Then Emerya smiles ruefully and rises. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Rather than follow the argument between the girls, Lerial looks to his mother … and sees a white oblong shape on the table. “Is that a letter from Father?”

“It is.”

“How is he doing?”

“He’s well.”

“What does he say about the raiders?”

“There are raiders, but they have run them off.”

“And the Afritan armsmen?”

Xeranya hands the missive to Lerial. “You can read it for yourself.”

Lerial feels he is supposed to refuse the offer, but he does not. Instead, he accepts the letter and begins to read.

My dear-

It appears we will be patrolling the northern borders for several more eightdays.

The Lancers have done well, but it may be well into winter before I can return.

There have been fewer raiders over the last eightday, but there are Afritan patrols just north of Penecca almost every day. It is as if they will wait until we leave before coming south and destroying the town. This is something we cannot allow, particularly now. So we must stay and wait. There are also some Heldyan armsmen across the river who watch us both. That is another reason why we must remain for now.

I am glad to hear that Lerial is training with the Lancers. That will do him good. It will prepare him better for the time when he must ride patrols, and that time may be sooner than either of us might have wished.

The closing is “All my affection.”

Somehow, that is so like his father. Lerial does not shake his head, but returns the letter to his mother. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You should know.”

More is implied in those words, but Lerial does not pursue the implications. He understands all too well why his father and several companies of Lancers must remain in the north, especially given that Penecca is only some fifty kays north of Cigoerne. He is saved from the continuation of an awkward silence by the return of Emerya, who now pours herself a glass of lager and sits down at the table, but not in the space between Xeranya and Lerial.

Emerya takes a last look at the small table and two very quiet girls, then lifts her glass and takes a deep draft. When she finishes, she glances at Xeranya, then Lerial, offering an inquiring look.

Lerial offers a smile and says, “Mother, I ran across the name of a magus today. He’s the father of an undercaptain by the name of Veraan. The father’s name is Apollyn. I wondered if you knew either.”

“I don’t know the son, but I’m not surprised he’s a Lancer officer. Apollyn always did have an excessively high opinion of himself. He wanted to be the tutor here at the Palace. Does the young man take after his father?”

“I don’t know. He does say his family is important. What’s Apollyn like?”

“He thinks he is important. He claims that his lineage dates back to a first magus in the time of Lorn. Chaaryn … or maybe it was Chyenfel. He barely was accepted as a magus, but he consorted with Myra-she was healer from a merchanter family. Very intelligent and perceptive woman … enough that she brought all the jewels she could find on the Kerial. She even had a number of fire emeralds.”

“Like the one in the ring you got from Grandmere?” Lerial has only seen the ring a few times, but he recalls its brilliance and its unmistakable golden-green glint … and the fact that there are so few that even a small one is worth more than a hundred golds, and the one in the ring is anything but small.

“Yes. Your grandmere didn’t discover that until later. She used those to set up a merchanting factorage-”

“Myrapol House?” asks Emerya. “Is she the one?”

“She was the one,” replies Xeranya. “She died of a strange flux several years ago. We couldn’t save her. Apollyn had a new consort in less than a season-much younger, and far less perceptive.”

Lerial nods. “I’d say that Veraan takes after his father.”

“Then avoid him if you can. I always have thought his father was a serpent, for all of his warm voice and superficially charming ways. Perhaps more charming than, say, Polidur or Scarthyn, who are almost as venomous.”

While his mother has often hinted at her dislikes … and made inferences, Lerial has seldom heard such a quietly scathing judgment of a magus, or anyone, from her. He wonders what else she is not saying. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“I believe that’s enough, dear.”

As Lerial senses his aunt’s suppressed amusement, Xeranya turns to Emerya. “I’m glad I’ve provided you with some amusement, Emerya.”

“You have. It has been a very long day. Lerial was most helpful.”

“I’m glad of that. Perhaps we could discuss other matters. Do you think we’ll have rain this evening? There are clouds in the south.”

Emerya shakes her head. “It doesn’t feel like it to me. What do you think?”

“I fear you’re right. That will make it easier for Kiedron in dealing with the Afritans, but matters will be worse by spring…”

Lerial listens.