Cyador’s Heirs

XXXV

When Lerial makes his way down to breakfast, early as it is on fiveday, he arrives just behind his father. They are the only ones in the breakfast room besides the serving girl, who immediately leaves.

“Good morning, ser.”

“Good morning, Lerial,” replies Kiedron as he seats himself. “You’re off to practice with the Lancers after breakfast, I presume?”

“Yes, ser.” Lerial sits down at the table.

Kiedron nods and pours himself some greenberry juice.

Lerial refrains from wincing. Even the thought of greenberry makes his mouth pucker, although he had managed a green juice at Kinaar, but it had not been so sour-bitter. Instead he fills his mug with lager and takes a swallow. Flat as the warmish lager is, he finds it far better than most juices.

“You know I wrote to Majer Phortyn about your blade training and received his reply. I also talked to Undercaptain Woelyt early this morning. He was less guarded. He said that you’d become his superior with a sabre and that there was no way in which he’d wish to face you in combat.” Kiedron pauses, waiting for the serving girl to serve him egg toast and ham strips. He continues to wait until she serves Lerial and then leaves. “He also said something else, with which I was most pleased. He said that you were most courteous and thoughtful.”

“The undercaptain was most diligent in assuring I practiced before I went to Kinaar. I wouldn’t have been able to take advantage of the majer’s training without what I learned here.”

“Your aunt says that you’ve also been helping at the Hall of Healing.”

“Yes, ser. What she taught me was what helped save a Lancer when we were attacked in the south valley.” Lerial follows his father’s example and drizzles berry syrup over the egg toast.

“That’s good.” Kiedron pauses and frowns. “You may actually have the abilities of a healer, but it would be best if you continued to let the Lancers believe that you’ve learned only enough to be useful in battlefield healing.”

“Yes, ser. I’d thought that already because of what you said earlier.”

Kiedron laughs. “I should have sent you to work with the majer sooner.”

“Begging your pardon, ser, but I wouldn’t have known enough to benefit from it much sooner.”

“That’s probably true.” Kiedron takes another swallow of the greenberry juice. “It’s probably best that you keep doing what you’ve been doing until the end of sevenday. I have asked Emerya to have you help with the worst and most difficult healing that may be required.”

“Last moment experience?”

His father nods. “It may be useful. I do not know whether the hill people even have healers, but it is possible you will encounter raiders.” Kiedron smiles. “I wouldn’t have thought of sending you with the majer, except for his dispatch and Majer Phortyn’s views. It’s better that you go than Lephi, though.”

“Because it won’t take him away from patrols?”

“In a way … but it’s not what you think. Cigoerne is a small land, at least as lands in Hamor go, and everyone knows what I do and decide in days. If I send Lephi to Jabuti, too many will think I’m keeping him from danger. The danger is likely the same in either place, as you have already discovered. But I would have to send him if I did not think you were able to handle the matter.”

“But because I am younger, and you have made me an undercaptain earlier than you wished, everyone will say that you are risking your own son for Cigoerne?”

“They will not say that. They likely will not think that. They will think it is a matter of course. But if I sent Lephi…”

“They would think your sons received special treatment.”

“I see you understand.”

Lerial understands. In a way, though, it bothers him.

“It disturbs you,” Kiedron continues, clearly reading his son’s face. “It should. You should understand, though, that any ruler, especially the Duke of the smallest land in Hamor, does not rule just by force. Nor can I rule Cigoerne by tradition. Nor will Lephi be able to rule by tradition. It takes generations to rule by tradition. Tradition is not sufficient by itself, either.” He looks at Lerial. “Then what else allows a Duke to rule?”

Lerial has no idea. “Ser?”

“The people have to believe that you can rule. They do not have to agree with everything I do. They don’t even have to like me. They do have to respect me.”

“And you will lose respect if you are seen to subject their sons to danger while shielding your own?”

“How would you feel if I sheltered Lephi and sent you to fight the Afritans?”

Lerial doesn’t have to answer that question … and he knows his father knows that.

“Some rulers do not understand that, Lerial. I would not have you or Lephi fail to know the importance of respect … or what undermines that respect.”

“That is why you were leading at Penecca.”

“I try to lead carefully,” Kiedron says dryly. “There’s no point in being foolhardy, but, yes, I have to be there.”

“Mother worries.”

“She always has, but she understands. So does your aunt.”

“Understands what?” asks Emerya from the door to the breakfast room.

“The need for a ruler to be respected, especially when his power is not overwhelming.” Kiedron’s tone is dry and sardonic, yet somehow guarded.

“That’s true. Respect is essential for a ruler to be successful over time. It’s also true of anyone with power. Your Majer Phortyn is well aware of that.”

“Emerya…,” begins Kiedron, his tone cool.

“He’s well aware,” Emerya continues, seating herself and looking at Lerial. “Because he’s barely altage, he would not take a consort because the ones he wanted wouldn’t have him, and he feels he has had to earn the respect of everyone, especially after the unfortunate incident with Sypcalyn.”

“That was years ago,” says Xeranya from the breakfast room door. “Just because Sypcalyn was named after a hero in the time of Lorn didn’t make him great. Both he and Phortyn haven’t been as respectful of the Magi’i heritage as they might have been. So that broken lance didn’t make all that much difference.”

“We’ve been over that before,” Kiedron says firmly, lifting his mug and taking a swallow of juice, then several mouthfuls of egg toast and ham.

Lerial does the same, although the ham is barely warm, tough, and chewy. He feels that his father has said all is he going to say, at least while Emerya and his mother are at the table.

That proves to be true, since Kiedron finishes eating quickly and leaves. Lerial realizes he may be late and also hurries off to saddle his mount.

Once he leaves the palace, Lerial’s day is mostly like every other day, except for a brief period at the Hall of Healing when Emerya insists that he help in setting the broken bones of a mason on whom an entire trestle of bricks had fallen. One arm has broken bones protruding from the flesh.

When they finish and leave the surgery, Emerya looks to Lerial. “Thank you for the extra order. It may not be enough, you know.”

“I could sense that.”

“You should not attempt that kind of healing on the battlefield unless the battle is over, and there are no other wounded to help.”

“Because I could do nothing afterward?”

“Can you even sense order now?”

“Barely.”

“Exactly.” Emerya nods.

Lerial has to have some bread and rest for more than two-fifths of a glass before he can resume giving even limited assistance to Emerya, but there are no other serious injuries for the remainder of the day.

When he returns to the Palace, there is a tailor waiting outside his chambers, and Lerial invites him in, where the man takes measurements quickly.

“Three regular riding uniforms and one dress uniform,” he says when he finishes. “The riding uniforms will be ready by sevenday at noon. The dress uniform will take longer, of course, but your father said you would not be needing that immediately…”

“I don’t imagine that I will,” replies Lerial with a slight laugh.

He sees the tailor out and is about to close the door when he sees Emerya walking toward him. He waits.

“I’d like to talk to you before you go down to the salon for refreshments.”

“I can talk now.”

“My chambers, if you would.”

“Of course.” Lerial feels like shrugging as he walks beside Emerya. It doesn’t matter whose chambers to him. If Emerya has something to say, it doesn’t matter where she wants to say it, although he does wonder what she has in mind … and the fact that she doesn’t want to say more at the moment, even though there is no one else nearby.

Once they are alone in her sitting room, seated in the two chairs that are neither really armchairs nor plain straight-backed chairs, Emerya looks at Lerial. “There are some things you should consider while you are away from Cigoerne. Why do you think Duke Atroyan hasn’t mounted a campaign against Cigoerne?”

“Because we protect part of his borders, and we’re not a threat.”

“That’s true, but it’s not the entire truth. We could kill five Afritan armsmen for every Lancer we lost and still be destroyed to the last person. Think about that.”

Lerial nods. “But why would they want to lose so many when we are not a threat?”

“Is an infant a threat?”

Lerial understands that. “You mean because we only had a few hundred people when you came here, and now there are thousands?”

“That’s part of it. The last count showed that more than forty thousand people live within the boundaries of Cigoerne, and it could be much more. Most came from Afrit, some from Merowey.” Abruptly, Emerya says, “You met the Duke’s daughter years ago. Did she have any cousins?”

Lerial frowns. What does that have to do with Afrit not attacking Cigoerne? “She didn’t then,” he replies cautiously.

“She doesn’t now.”

“How do you know that?”

“People do send letters up and down the Swarth River, Lerial. People have always written letters.” Emerya offers an enigmatic smile. “Sometimes, they’ve even written poems.”

She stands and walks to her table-desk, where she takes out a thin volume. The binding is not leather, but something that shimmers a silver-green.

Lerial realizes that it must be the other copy of the volume his mother had once shown him.

“This book is older than it looks. It is almost as old as Cyad. I want to read you some lines.”

Lerial waits, wondering of what use ancient words might be.

His aunt the healer begins, still standing.

“I have no soul,

but a nibbled kernel …

feelings dried and stored

on the shelves of self

in the deep cellar where

provisions must be made.

Provisions must be made.

I made them

gleaning

those wild leftovers of

unharvest days,

hoarding hard-to-come-bys

of cold reason

against colder seasons.

Provisions must be made,

and I have made them.”

There is a silence after she finishes, and Lerial wonders what he is supposed to say.

Before he can compose his thoughts, she says, “I don’t want you to ask me what the words mean. I don’t want you to tell me what you think they mean. I just want you to think about them … and keep those thoughts to yourself.” She turns the silvery pages once more and reads briefly once more.

“Worlds change, I’m told,

mirror silver to heavy gold,

and the new becomes the old,

with the way the story’s told.”

“What are you trying to tell me?” Lerial can’t help asking that, even though Emerya has said she won’t explain.

“I’ve said all I’ll say. If you can’t figure it out, I can’t help you.”

“I think I understand.” Before she can reply, he asks, “Why don’t you and Mother like Majer Phortyn?”

“I don’t trust him. She recalls the time he was overheard saying that too many of the Magi’i were broken-down remnants of a great past.” She gestures. “You can go now. I’ll be down in a few moments.”

Lerial rises. “I will think about the verse.”

“Good.”

Once Lerial is out in the second level corridor, he thinks about her admonition. If you can’t figure it out, I can’t help you. There are so many meanings behind those words … so many … And yet, his mother has once told him that she had found meaning in the words as well.

As he walks down the hallway toward the steps, he manages not to shake his head. Somehow the business about letters … that had seemed so out of place … and the fact that his aunt knows that Kyedra, the Duke’s daughter, who must be about the age of Rojana, has no cousins.

Then … it strikes him. Amaira! How could she have…?

Lerial has always wondered about who Amaira’s father is … or was. He has even thought it might have be Rhamuel, the brother of the Duke of Afrit, the one whom Emerya had healed after his failed ambush on Lerial’s father, but it has never been something anyone talked about.

But how could it have been anyone else? And how could his father or mother-or his grandmother-even have known until it was too late?

But if Emerya is writing letters to Rhamuel … and his father knows … as he must…? And what purpose was reading the poetry meant to convey? Except that it was written by the second Emperor of Light?

He smiles wryly. His aunt has asked him to think over the poetry while he is gone … and it is clear that there is more behind those words than he understands … and that there is a message his aunt does not wish to convey directly. Or feels that you won’t understand or appreciate it if she does?