Cyador’s Heirs

XLIV

Less than two glasses after the Lancers set out on sixday morning, they reach a point where the trail makes a wide turn from its previous heading of west-southwest to a definite southwest direction, straight toward the Wooded Ridges, except that Lerial suspects that they are far west of where the Wooded Ridges end. How can you tell? The forest on the hills extends for over a hundred kays.

Another glass passes before Altyrn gestures. “See those posts? That’s where the forest road begins.”

Lerial looks at the two timber posts close to a half kay ahead, one on each side of the dirt track, and a good kay from the trees that begin halfway up the slope to the low ridge before them. “That’s the forest road?”

“That’s the end of it. That’s where Verdheln begins.”

“And what we’ve ridden across for the last four days belongs to Duke Casseon?”

“Some of the forest people think those lands belong to your father. He certainly has more claim to them than Casseon.”

“Because the Lancers occasionally patrol them, and Casseon’s men don’t?”

“That’s the main reason. The other is that Casseon’s armsmen would have to cross their lands to reach the north valley.”

As Lerial nears the posts, he notes that the road beyond is not all that much to speak of, except it is wide enough for a wagon and a mount abreast, unlike the track that they have followed for the last three days, which barely accommodates two mounts side by side.

Once the column passes the posts, Altyrn calls a halt and summons Kusyl forward so that Lerial, the two squad leaders, and the majer form a loose mounted circle.

“We’re now within the borders of the lands claimed by the forest people,” Altyrn begins. “As I told you last night, they don’t attack without provocation. They have a guardpost at the edge of the forest. Undercaptain Lerial and I will lead the way until they agree to let us enter the forest.”

“Ser, begging your pardon…,” ventures Juist.

“We’ll be quite safe so long as we don’t behave discourteously. You’ll see.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial can sense that both squad leaders have their doubts.

Altyrn clears his throat, then continues. “Apfhel lies about ten kays ahead. The road follows the top of the ridge line and will turn in a more westerly direction once we’re inside the forest. The clearance between the road and the forest is only a matter of a few yards. Kusyl, if you’d convey that to the teamsters.”

“Yes, ser.”

Once Altyrn and Lerial resume riding up the sloping road toward the woods, Lerial studies what looks to be a largely unbroken stretch of forest, yet there are also thin trails of smoke rising in places, suggesting dwellings with chimneys. The trees at the edge of the forest appear to be relatively evenly spaced, but their trunks are so close together that it would difficult for a man to slip between them and impossible for a horse, especially with the thick bushes that fill the spaces. Extending from the trees is an area of grass still partly green and considerably longer than that on the plains the Lancers have been crossing.

Lerial sees why this is so when he is within a hundred yards of the forest. There is a low stone retaining wall some twenty yards in front of the trees, with the only break in the trees where the road passes through them, and there the retaining wall angles back parallel to the road. The wall is not merely constructed of local stones stacked roughly on top of each other, but of roughly cut chunks fitted carefully together, although the exposed sides of the stones are not rough-dressed, but either smoothed by time and nature or surfaces created when a larger stone was broken or cut. Why would the grass above the wall be greener…? Even as he thinks that, he recalls the ditches he and Rojana had dug the previous summer and he turns to the majer.

“Do the forest people line the uphill side of the wall with clay or something?”

For a moment, Altyrn looks taken aback, before he says, “Why do you ask that?”

“The grass above the wall is longer and greener. Water runs downhill, but-”

“They must do something like that. I never considered it.”

That statement surprises Lerial, because he can’t imagine the majer not considering almost everything, especially since the way Altyrn has phrased his answer suggests that he has seen the wall and the grass before. Still … “You’ve been here before? Or did you know about the posts from scouts or from other roads?”

“All three.”

Lerial glances to his right and to his left, but the low wall, showing less than a yard between the lower ground and the grass growing over the upper edge of the top course of stones, extends as far as he can see in either direction. “The forest people must have been working on the walls for a long time.” After a moment, he adds, “And there must be more of them than most people think.”

Altyrn looks as if he might speak, then closes his mouth and nods.

Lerial can sense the majer’s surprise, and that bothers him. Why should the majer be surprised at his observation of the obvious?

“What else can you tell about the forest people from that?” Altyrn asks as they ride toward the road gap in the wall.

“Only that that there are more people in the woods,” Lerial confesses. “It just struck me when I saw the wall, I suppose, because of the difference in the grass, and I asked how that could be … well … and the rest made sense.”

“I’d have to admit,” Altyrn says slowly, “that I’ve seen that wall before, and others, and what you said didn’t occur to me. I’ve always felt that there are more towns and people hidden here than either Atroyan or Casseon knows. Then, perhaps Casseon does know.”

“And he’s indicated that he wants more tariffs from them?”

“I have my doubts that he’s collected much in the way of tariffs before now. It may be that he feels cheated and has plans for collecting them. Or the elders here fear that may be the case soon. We’ll find out before long.”

As they near the road gap in the wall, two men dressed in brown appear from out of the trees. Neither bears arms, but their garb is identical, as if a casual uniform of some type. One is gray-haired, the other much younger, perhaps only a year or two older than Lerial.

Altyrn and Lerial rein up, and the majer raises his hand to signal the same to the Lancers behind them.

“What brings you to Verdheln?” asks the older man in Hamorian with an accent that Lerial has not heard before, one similar to that of Afritan Hamorian, but softer.

“The request of the elders,” replies Altyrn. “They sent a petition to Duke Kiedron for him to provide Lancers to train other Lancers chosen by the elders. Would you like to see the petition and a copy of his response?”

“If you have it, ser, that would be helpful.”

Altyrn lifts the dispatch pouch, opens it, extracts two documents, and leans forward to extend them to the older man.

The border guard takes them and looks them over, then returns them to the majer.

“You are the majer named in the Duke’s missive?”

“I am.”

“Who is the other officer with you?”

“I’m Lerial, the younger son of Duke Kiedron. He sent me as a token of his good faith.”

“You wear the uniform of a Lancer.”

“All sons of the Duke serve as Lancers,” replies Lerial. “He would have it no other way.” Lerial tries to use a hint of order to emphasize the truth of his words.

The younger man takes a step back and murmurs, “He holds the black, not the white. But … it must be.”

“I can raise some chaos, if you’d prefer,” Lerial says quietly.

“That will not be necessary,” replies the older man. “I will be your guide to Verdheln. Wait a moment until I return.” He turns and walks back into the gap in the trees through which the road passes.

Several moments pass, and then perhaps a tenth of a glass. Lerial begins to worry, although he senses nothing out of the ordinary. But then, wouldn’t harmful intent be ordinary for those who are evil? He realizes that he has never considered that possibility, and he looks to the majer.

“They expected us, but they couldn’t have known when we’d arrive. He’s likely saddling his horse.”

“He is indeed, ser,” replies the younger guard.

“Is this your normal post?” asks Lerial.

“We all spend time serving, either on the borders or doing other things,” replies the young man. “That’s before we take up our life-work. For some, working the borders is life-work. Not for most.”

“And you?”

“I will be a woodworker.”

“You have fine woodwork here, I have seen,” adds Altyrn.

The young man does not reply, but steps back as the older man rides forward on a gray gelding.

“I am Yulyn, a wayguide for outlanders and those who need my services.” He inclines his head. “We three can ride abreast. I will answer what questions I can.” He turns the gray.

Altyrn rides up on Yulyn’s left, and, after a moment, Lerial moves up on Altyrn’s left. As they ride forward Lerial sees two lines of dressed stone crossing the road, with a deep groove or channel between them. The groove is just back from the thick line of trees, and there are two long structures even with the stone, one on each side of the road.

“Are those where the road gates are stored?” Lerial asks.

“Yes. We seldom need them, but they are there in case of such need,” replies Yulyn.

The forest behind the gates remains thick and dense on both sides of the road, a mixture of trees and thornbushes, and, contrary to what Altyrn has said, that forest comes right to the edge of the road. That is, it does for almost a hundred yards, after which there is another set of structures holding road gates. Beyond that are grass and bushes bordering the road’s shoulder, cut to roughly knee height … or perhaps, thinks Lerial, they were cut shorter and allowed to grow higher. The cut area is only about five yards from the shoulder to the tree line, and the trees are spaced farther apart than Lerial would have guessed from what they have just passed through. It is all too clear that the trees have been grown along the edge of the forest to provide a natural barrier. How many raiders or poachers would want to try to go through a barrier of that length and difficulty?

“Are the trees that thick all the way around the lands of the forest people?” Lerial asks.

“I would not know that, ser. The woods are that thick wherever roads lead into or out of Verdheln.”

More likely that they extend only for a few kays … except the stone wall had to be more than five kays in each direction.

Lerial does not ask another question, not then, but studies what he sees. Before long they come to narrow fields that are separated from the next set of fields by a section of forest as wide as the trees. Each section is higher than the next, in a series of terraces, and there is a narrow ditch at the base of each terrace. Each terrace slopes just slightly downhill, so slightly that it is barely perceptible.

For the next two glasses, Yulyn leads them along the road, which, although of packed clay, is largely free of ruts and mud. It is also level and cuts through low hills. Lerial wonders at the effort necessary to dig out such places. They pass narrow clearings, some holding fields and others pastures or meadows, and in places they even pass orchards, although with the leaves largely the gray of winter, it is difficult for Lerial to determine some of the trees, although he does see some apricots, but no olive trees. He also sees people everywhere, if only as individuals or in small groups, and few look in their direction for more than a moment or two, perhaps because they see the wayguide, or perhaps because they are confident that raiders or poachers are unlikely to enter Verdheln. Those whom Lerial sees look little different from other Hamorians, although they do appear somewhat better clad than the fieldworkers Lerial has seen in Cigoerne.

“We are nearing Apfhel,” Yulyn announces.

Less than a fifth of a glass later, the woods end abruptly-except they don’t, Lerial realizes. Rather they are thinned, leaving narrow ways on which stand modest timber dwellings with plank siding and wooden shake roofs. The chimneys are stoutly built of rough-cut stone. While each lane and the houses situated on it are surrounded by trees, there are no trees close to any house, which seems paradoxical to Lerial, after seeing how the trees are everywhere.

“We’ll be heading to the council building,” says Yulyn.

They continue riding along the road, which has become the main way through Apfhel, and after passing perhaps ten sets of alternating side lanes and trees, they come to a cross street, stone paved, but barely wide enough for two wagons abreast.

“To the right,” says the guide.

Lerial and Altyrn turn with Yulyn.

The paved street is lined with single-story shops of various sorts. As they ride past, Lerial sees a shop that resembles a chandlery, set beside another that displays various types of cloth. There is also an inn, with stone walls, and Lerial realizes that all the other shops are of timber-except for the smithy farther along on the right side, which is also of stone, and set apart from the others. Ahead, Lerial can see a stone structure that looks to be octagonal, set in the middle of an octagonal green. The green is raised and bordered by a wall, its top course of stones only about a cubit above the pavement of the street that surrounds it. The hitching rails that flank the beginning of the entry walk are polished wood set in sturdy posts.

Yulyn reins up. “One of the elders will be waiting inside.”

Altyrn nods to Lerial and then dismounts and ties his horse to the rail. Lerial follows his example, and the two take the walk to the entry. The door lever is not of metal, but polished wood, and the door opens easily.

A young woman stands from behind a well-crafted table-desk set in the center of a modest anteroom. “You must be the leaders of the Lancers from Cigoerne. The elder is expecting you. He is in there.” Her accent is similar to that of the guide, although Lerial doubts either would call their intonation an accent. She points to a door to her left.

“Thank you.”

Both the majer and Lerial nod to her. Lerial can sense neither chaos nor danger as he follows, but his hand is still near the hilt of his sabre.

Inside the small chamber are a circular table of polished dark wood and four armless wooden chairs. Standing beside one is a silver-haired man in green, whose long-sleeved tunic is trimmed in brown. “I am Elder Moensyn. Welcome to Apfhel.” He looks to the majer. “You are?”

“Majer Altyrn, of the Mirror Lancers. This is Undercaptain Lerial, the younger son of Duke Kiedron.”

Moensyn nods, then addresses Lerial. “You are truly just an undercaptain?”

“A very new undercaptain, Elder Moensyn. I have barely finished training.” In the larger sense, Lerial believes, that is true.

“Does your older brother command a group of Lancers?”

“No. He has only been riding patrols for a year. He is assigned to a company in the southeast of Cigoerne.”

“You have no other siblings?”

“A sister only. She is six … seven now.” As he corrects himself, he realizes he has missed Ryalah’s birthday. He also realizes that Moensyn must be an ordermaster from the flow of darkness around the elder.

Moensyn frowns just slightly. “As the son of the Duke, with his heritage, are you not of the Magi’i?”

“I am. My talents lie more in order, though.” Lerial knows he is not telling Moensyn any more than the elder can sense.

“Yet you are effective with a sabre?”

“Enough to defend himself most effectively,” interjects Altyrn smoothly.

Lerial can sense a veiled feeling of exasperation on the majer’s part.

“You must pardon me, Majer,” says the elder, “but it is my task to ascertain you are those you purport to be.”

“That may be,” replies Lerial, “but as an ordermaster, you should now know that.”

Moensyn looks taken aback, if but for a moment, before he replies. “I do. I apologize for any inadvertent offense I may have created.”

“What exactly do you expect of us?” asks Altyrn.

“Here in Apfhel, we expect nothing. We will provide lodging and food for the night and morning, and tomorrow Yulyn will guide you on your way to Verdell. The High Council will tell you where you are needed. You will be staying at the travelers’ hostel just beyond the western end of town.” Moensyn smiles. “The other elders and I would hope that you two would join us at the Copse Inn for dinner. It’s the inn you passed on the main street.”

“We would be delighted,” replied Altyrn. “Once we have seen our men settled.”

“Of course. Perhaps in two glasses, or somewhat earlier?”

“Between a glass and a half and two glasses, I would judge,” replies the majer. “If there are no difficulties.”

“There should be none, but we will wait on you.”

“Thank you.”

Moensyn inclines his head, and the two Lancers nod in reply, then leave the council building, nodding in turn to the blonde who stands as they pass. Lerial does note that she is extremely attractive … as he has been warned.

As they ride toward the west side of Apfhel, Lerial is definitely puzzled. The town is orderly and clearly prosperous, and certainly nothing like anything he had expected. With all the prosperity and with what appear to be solid defenses and border guards, why are the elders requesting aid from his father?

Less than a half kay from where they turned off the paved street and onto the main road west, Lerial sees a small, single-storied stone building that isn’t a shop or a dwelling, set, again in an octagonal green. The structure is long and narrow with a tower at one end that holds a pair of spires. Yet the spires are very different. One is shimmering silver, and the other a warm bronze. The silver spire is straight, narrow, and several cubits higher than the bronze spire, which appears as if wide rounded coils had twisted around each other and narrowed as they rose in a most even fashion to a rounded nub at the top, while the tip of the silver spire is almost like a mirror lance. Or what a mirror lance must have looked like, muses Lerial, since he has never seen one.

He shifts his weight in the saddle and points, asking Altyrn in a low voice. “What’s that?”

“I think it’s the local temple of Kaorda-the mighty god and goddess of order and chaos.”

“The god and goddess have the same name?”

“No. Kaorda has two attributes,” replies the majer. “As I understand it, there is the orderly male side and the chaotic female side. According to the Kaordists, half of Kaorda’s face is male, and of unsurpassed and rare beauty and composure. The other half is female, but of a dark beauty that shows chaotic and demented passion.”

“Some would say that it is the purity of unchecked passion,” interjects Yulyn, looking back at them.

“Are there any statues of the god … goddess?” asks Lerial, wondering how such a visage might appear.

“Oh, no,” replies the guide. “Trying to create an image of Kaorda would be blasphemy.”

“Blasphemy?” Lerial almost laughs, except he can sense just how serious Yulyn is. Making a statue would be … blasphemy? Trying to show what their deity is would diminish it? Ironmages and builders in Cyad often made models to see what something looked like or whether it would work. Saltaryn had been quite clear about that. Either a god exists, or he or she doesn’t. If a god doesn’t exist, what harm could a statue do? And if the god of the Kaordists does exist, how could a graven image diminish what exists? “What would happen if a stonecutter or a wood carver tried to make such a statue?”

“They would not. Not in the lands of the Verd.” Yulyn’s voice is firm.

Lerial wonders how the Kaordists express their belief, but he can sense that pushing his questions further is unwise. “Thank you for explaining.”

“You are welcome.”

A tenth of a glass later, Yulyn turns south off the main road and down a smooth packed clay lane that leads into an open space that holds several long timber buildings, all of one story, as well as a stable as long as one of the buildings. The guide reins up at the end of the nearest building, which resembles a barracks of some sort.

“This is the hostel. It is yours for the evening. There are several cooks and provisions, and you can request what can be prepared from those. I will meet you here in the morning, at sunrise.”

“Thank you,” replies Altyrn.

As the guide turns his mount and then rides back toward the main road past the column of Lancers, Lerial wonders if his questions have upset Yulyn-although he has discerned none of the usual signs of anger shown by the order and chaos flows around the man. Or is Yulyn always that abrupt? There is also another question.

Lerial turns to Altyrn. “This travelers’ hostel is more than large enough for two squads of Lancers. Are there that many who travel here?”

“I would not have thought so,” admits Altern, “but the forest people are said to be most practical.”

It takes nearly a glass for Altyrn and Lerial to make arrangements with the cooks and to settle the men. The hostel buildings are indeed like barracks, although there are several small individual chambers, and Lerial takes one, and Altyrn another, but the accommodations are far better than any the Lancers have had since leaving Teilyn.

More than a glass and a half later, Altyrn and Lerial, accompanied by four Lancers, ride back into the center of Apfhel and rein up outside the Copse Inn. They leave their mounts with the Lancers and enter the inn.

A slender older woman with silver and blond hair steps forward as Altyrn and Lerial step into the small entry hall. “The elders are in the small dining chamber. If you would follow me?” She pauses. “I noticed you have escorts. We will feed them as well.”

“Thank you.”

“We thank you for coming.”

The majer nods in reply.

Lerial does not frown, but wonders at the concern her words have not expressed.

The woman steps down the wooden-walled hallway, a space neither narrow nor especially wide, to the first door on the right, where she stops and gestures. Lerial follows Altyrn into the chamber where four people are standing there and apparently talking turn. Elder Moensyn is accompanied by three other elders-one man and two women, all standing near the front of the chamber. One of the women is silver haired, while the other man and woman are both younger, perhaps fifteen years older than Lerial at most.

“Welcome. This is Elder Sherita,” says Moensyn, nodding first to the silver-haired woman, then to the black-haired man, “and Elder Chevaen, and Elder Dalya.” Dalya is the younger strawberry-blond woman. “We should be seated. You have ridden long days, I am certain.”

“You might say so,” replies Altyrn genially, “but the quarters at the hostel are excellent. I would not have thought so many travelers or traders would come from the north and east.”

“Oh … they do not. The hostel also houses those who are learning service in the woods many times during the year. We are fortunate that only a few are here at present. That is also why your wayguide has requested you depart early tomorrow. There are no other hostels large enough for your forces between Apfhel and Verdell.”

Lerial can sense the truth of that, but from the maps he has studied, Verdheln extends much farther to the south. Why is the major town so far north when Verdheln is a part of Merowey?

The table in the small dining chamber is round. Lerial finds himself seated between Chevaen and Dalya, and across from Altyrn, who is seated between Moensyn and Sherita. You’re between the two younger elders, and Altyrn is between the two older ones. Lerial doubts that pattern bears any resemblance to coincidence. At each place is a wide platter of golden brown. For a moment, Lerial thinks it might be polished wood, but then sees that it is crockery, or perhaps something between crockery and porcelain. There is also a slender mug of the same substance.

Once everyone is seated, Moensyn clears his throat and speaks again. “We are honored to host Majer Altyrn, the most renowned Lancer of Cigoerne, and Undercaptain Lerial, who is also the son of Duke Kiedron. They have come with their men to assist us with certain concerns of the High Elders.”

How does he know Altyrn is the most renowned Lancer? Lerial wonders. From Altyrn’s past visits? Or was there something in the documents Altyrn showed him?

Moensyn gestures to the pitchers on the table. “We can offer you greenberry juice or melomel. The greenberry pitchers have a green stripe.”

“We do not have lager or ale,” adds Chevaen, “but the melomel is similar to a slightly sweet golden lager, I am told, although I have not tasted a golden lager, I must admit.”

Lerial is not certain he wishes either, but decides on the melomel, as the lesser of evils, and starts to reach for the pitcher, but Dalya is quicker, and fills his mug.

“That’s a good choice,” she says. “At least for me, it is. The greenberry’s too tart.” She looks to Chevaen. “Some prefer it that way.”

“Just be thankful Moensyn didn’t offer leshak,” comments Chevaen. Leshak?

At his expression, Dalya explains. “Leshak is made from greenberries and white grapes, and you don’t want to drink much if you want to be able to do much of anything at all … even if it is sweet and doesn’t taste that strong. Sweet can be powerful.” Her last words were edged, but Lerial does not feel that they are aimed at him.

He takes a sip of the melomel and finds it sweeter than any lager he has tasted, but not overpoweringly so, although he doubts that it has the thirst-quenching ability of a good pale or amber lager. “Are there only four elders in Apfhel, or are you four just those dining with us?”

“There are only four elders in any hamlet or town in Verdheln,” declares Chevaen.

“Four seems like a strange number,” ventures Lerial.

“It makes perfect sense.” Chevaen smiles broadly. “If the council, of elders, that is, cannot decide by three to one, it’s not a good idea.”

“That still doesn’t make it a good idea,” adds Dalya quietly. “It just makes it a popular bad idea.” She looks directly at Lerial. “Might I ask how long you have been a Lancer?”

He finds her gaze, especially with her gold-green eyes, more than a little disconcerting, but he smiles in return. “Not that long. I trained with arms for almost a year before my father and Majer Phortyn decided I was ready to be an undercaptain.” Lerial knows he is stretching the truth in one way and understating it in another, since his studies have been to prepare him as well, and they have gone on for years.

“Have you used your sabre in a real fight?” asks Dalya.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“You’re young to have wounded or killed a man.” Her words contain sadness.

“It wasn’t my choice.” Not if you wanted to live … and hold your head high. Before either can reply to that, he quickly says, “I must confess that I had no idea about how well planned and organized Verdheln seems to be.”

“Moderately well planned,” replies Chevaen with a slightly twisted smile. “Not nearly so well organized.”

“The way the trees form a living barrier near the road, and the raised stone wall that is sealed to keep water in … That would seem…” Lerial leaves his sentence unfinished.

“Tradition and custom,” says Dalya. “Those are custom. We live with and by the trees and in harmony, as we can, with the land.”

“You wear blades at your side,” Chevaen adds. “Here, weapons are knives and staves.”

“And bows for hunting,” adds Dalya.

At that moment, two servers appear with platters, which they set in the center part of the table, spaced equally around it.

“The main dish is huuras. That’s ghanos marinated in spices, then grilled and served with a mild cream sauce that’s seasoned with just a touch of honey-burhka sauce. The tubers are baked and covered with the same sauce, and the bread is a kind of acorn loaf.”

For a moment, Lerial struggles to remember what a ghano is, then recalls that it is essentially an overgrown ground squirrel. With that thought, he just hopes the sauces are good.

For a time, as everyone serves themselves, there is little conversation, and Lerial takes small bites of everything. The acorn bread has a taste of bitterness. The ghanos strips, at least presented as they have been, are close enough to fowl that the slightly gamey taste is not off-putting to Lerial. The tubers are bland, but with the sauce make the best part of the meal.

Lerial addresses his next statement to Chevaen. “Verdheln looks like a well-established land, for all your demurral about the lack of organization, so organized that I must wonder what assistance we and the Lancers can provide.”

“That is up to the elders of the High Council to say,” replies Chevaen, in a tone that is not quite sneering.

Lerial takes several more bites before saying, “We passed a Kaordist temple on the way to the hostel. Perhaps I am mistaken, but I had heard that the people of Verdheln accepted the reality of both order and chaos, while Duke Casseon has forbidden any use of chaos to his people.”

Chevaen nods. “That is so.”

Dalya looks as though she might say something, pauses, and finally speaks. “We accept the reality of chaos and the fire that it can bring, but fire is deadly to the trees near our dwellings.”

Near our dwellings? Lerial frowns, if inadvertently. “Is it not dangerous to trees everywhere?”

From across the table Sherita laughs. “Fire thins the underbrush and keeps the forests healthy. We let the fires burn away from our hamlets and towns, but we prefer not to thin them in the same fashion.”

“I have heard it said that Duke Casseon has chaos mages among his armsmen,” Lerial says. “Do you know aught of that?” He tries to keep his tone guileless.

“His armsmen have burned hamlets south of the Verd,” admits Moensyn from across the table. “I have heard word that suggests the burning was not from torches … but that is likely a matter better addressed to the High Council.”

Lerial is getting an idea of why they are in Verdheln.

“Perhaps it should be,” adds Sherita, in a tone that essentially negates any possibility of further information along those lines.

Lerial has the definite feeling that any more questions along those lines will merely upset the elders, although he is puzzled by one matter, and one which he can bring up, while seeming to agree with Sherita. “I’ve never heard of councils of elders, but, begging your pardons, and hoping I am not offending, none of you seem that ancient.”

Dalya laughs, then turns to Moensyn. “Would you care to explain?”

“The term ‘elder’ refers to those who are respected and productive members of each community,” Moensyn says. “Also, no one can be an elder without having served the community without recompense for at least two years at some time in his or her life.”

“How does a community define what is productive or what is service?” asks Altyrn, surprisingly to Lerial.

“Service is what benefits all members of a community, not just a few,” replies Moensyn. “Things like building or smoothing the roads, building repairing the forest walls, planting trees where they are needed, digging wells, or maintaining the water or waste channels…”

“Most people choose to do service when they are young,” adds Chevaen, “and there are other forms of service as well.” He offers a sidelong glance at Dalya, who ignores it.

“And productive?” presses Altyrn.

“Productive is anything that adds, overall, to the community,” replies Dalya.

“That’s … rather general,” observes Altyrn.

“Life is rather general,” returns Sherita dryly.

Lerial can sense that the elders all seem in agreement, despite Chevaen’s apparent snide reference aimed at Dalya.

Moensyn gestures. Although Lerial sees no one besides those in the dining chamber, the servers return and remove the dishes before each person, placing in front of each a small plate, in the center of which is something that vaguely resembles a small mounded pastry.

“Honey nut-cakes,” explains Sherita in reply to Lerial’s quizzical glance.

Although Lerial is definitely fond of honey, he takes a small first bite … and is relieved that the confectionery, infused with honey, almost melts in his mouth. While there is a layer of crushed nuts, there is definitely a flour of some sort, but it is unlike any he has tasted, and he wonders if it is a nut flour. Or what kind of nut flour.

After all have finished the honey nut-cakes, Moensyn coughs, then says, “We would not keep you … knowing you have a long ride ahead of you tomorrow.”

Altyrn smiles in return. “That is true. We do appreciate your hospitality and kindness and your telling us more about Verdheln.”

“It is the least we could do,” replies Sherita. “You needed to know more about the Verd.”

There is a definite note of truth in her words that strikes Lerial, almost as if she wished to say more … and could or would not.

“We are thankful.” Altyrn begins to stand and glances at Lerial.

“We are indeed,” adds Lerial as he also rises.

“We wish you well on your journey to Verdyn,” replies Moensyn, standing in turn.

“Thank you.”

Lerial follows Altyrn through the inn and past the silver and blond woman, who nods politely, and out to the narrow covered front porch. In moments, the Lancers appear, mounted and leading the mounts for Lerial and the majer.

“Were you fed?” Altyrn asks the lead ranker.

“Yes, ser. Best fare we’ve had since we left Cigoerne.”

“Good.” Altyrn mounts and waits for Lerial to do the same before he says, “We need to talk once we get back to the quarters.”

“Yes, ser.”

On the ride back west to the hostel, Lerial does his best to extend his senses, feeling for any sort of danger, but he can sense nothing. Nor is anything amiss when they reach their temporary quarters.

Once Altyrn shuts the door to his small chamber, he turns to Lerial. “What did you think of the elders?”

“They’re mostly honest. They know more than they’re telling us … and they’re worried.”

“About us?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so … but I’m not sure.”

“They’re more than polite,” rejoins Altyrn. “It’s not just that they have to be, either.” He pauses, then adds, “I was doubtful when the one elder said that weapons were staves and knives, and said bows were just for hunting, but I’m beginning to think he was telling the truth.”

“You think the forest people have relied on their trees and the distance from the large cities and towns of Afrit and Merowey to defend themselves?”

“That … and I’m thinking that all the raiders from the south may not be raiding Cigoerne just because of bad harvests. What if the harvests are so poor that Casseon is taking more to feed the people of the cities?”

“And driving the raiders north? Or do you think he’s looking to loot the granaries or the supplies of the Verd?”

“I don’t think they have granaries as we know them. Did you see any true flour? But they do have ample food. Does anything else strike you?”

“The roads. They’re level, and they cut through hill. They don’t seem to have that many people for all that roadwork and stonework.”

“They don’t. Remember what I told you about cammabark? They drill holes in the ground and then fill them with the dried bark. Then they take a string or a strip of cloth treated with a solution that has some cammabark, and they light it and take cover. The explosion removes rocks and dirt.” Altyrn shakes his head. “It’s very dangerous, but they’re very very careful … about that … about everything.”

While the two talk for another half glass, when Lerial leaves, he feels that they have not uncovered any insights they had not already made by the time they had left the inn.