Cyador’s Heirs

LXXXIV

Lerial wakes at dawn on threeday, largely because his stomach is empty and growling. He does wash thoroughly and shave, then dons a set of clean greens that have not been worn in a season. He is about to leave his chamber, when someone begins to pound on his door.

“Lerial!”

He cannot contain a smile as he recognizes Ryalah’s voice. He hurries to the door, unbolts it, and opens it-only to step back several paces as his sister throws her arms and around his waist with such force that retreating is the only way to keep his balance. “You’re back! You’re back!”

“I’m back.” Lerial gently disentangles himself, noticing that Ryalah is barefoot and still in her nightdress.

“No one told me. Except Nurse, and she said I couldn’t wake you. So I waited until I heard you.”

“The only one awake when I got here last night was Father, and he told me not to wake anyone.” That is untrue, but Lerial doesn’t want to get into more complicated explanations, including the fact that, if he had awakened Ryalah, it would have been glasses later before she would have gone back to sleep.

“That wasn’t fair.”

Lerial reaches down and scoops her up, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly. “I’m just glad you’re well.”

“I’ve been well for eightdays. Aunt Emerya says I’m fine.”

“That’s so good. I worried about you.”

“We all worried about you.”

As much as Ryalah squirms in Lerial’s arms, he sets her down. “I’m just fine.”

“Will you stay here now?”

“For a while.” Not all that long, Lerial knows, not so long as he remains an undercaptain in the Lancers … and while Afrit and Heldya threaten the Cigoerne’s borders.

“That’s good,” Ryalah declares emphatically.

“You’d better get dressed, now,” Lerial says. “You wouldn’t want Mother seeing you barefoot and in nightclothes.”

“Must I?”

“If you want to have any breakfast.”

“All right.” There is a hint of a pout as Ryalah turns and heads for her room.

Lerial steps out into the hall and watches. His sister keeps turning her head and looking over her shoulder, but once he is certain she is in her room, he quickly makes his way down to the Palace breakfast room.

He is the first there, and has only had a few mouthfuls of honest egg toast with sweet berry syrup when his mother appears and marches to the other side of the table. She looks at him. “You didn’t think that I worried about you? You couldn’t even stop for a few moments to let me know you were safe?”

You knew she’d be upset. You knew. “It was late, and you left word you were not to be disturbed-”

“With you off in the west and no word from you in almost a season-”

“There was no way to send word, Mother…”

“You’re the son of the Duke, and there was no way?”

“We were fighting the Meroweyans…”

“The Verdyn were fighting them. That is what your father said.”

Lerial holds back a sigh. He understands why his father has not told her everything … and why he made Lerial promise not to reveal details. She has always been overprotective-especially of Lephi-and can worry herself sick. “We didn’t have any men to spare, and they certainly didn’t. Most of their archers were even women.”

“Women in battle as archers.” Xeranya gives the tiniest shake of her head, and not a single strand of blond hair moves. “Barbaric.”

“But obviously necessary,” adds Emerya from the door to the breakfast room. “Welcome back.” Behind her are Ryalah and Amaira.

Ryalah grins at her brother.

“Thank you. I have to eat and leave. I need to make my report to Majer Phortyn.”

“Aren’t you the fortunate one.”

Lerial gulps down three more mouthfuls, some lager, and bolts for the stable.

“… and now you’re leaving…”

“He is a Lancer officer who has to report.” Emerya’s voice is soothing and reasonable in Lerial’s ears as he slips from the breakfast room

He hurries through saddling the mare, but it is almost half a glass later before he, Khersett, and Lavoyt are riding along the avenue toward Lancer headquarters. With them are two rankers from Woelyt’s second squad to accompany him back from headquarters. As he rides he thinks about Phortyn … and what he should do about the majer. Everything is so suggestive, but there’s no real proof. He considers the points-Phortyn’s excessive secrecy about Lerial and Altyrn’s mission, the assignment of Dechund to Tirminya and the events that followed, not to mention the punitive transfer of Seivyr to Tirminya in the first place, the recent assignment of Seivyr to Narthyl, the last-moment reassignment of Woelyt’s company to the northern border, and Veraan’s assignment to the Palace, Phortyn’s dinners with influential Magi’i … some of whom are less than esteemed for their integrity, not to mention the impressions he has gotten from more than a few people. Lerial doesn’t like what he sees, but then there’s been a lot he hasn’t cared for in the last season or so.

What if…? What if you’re right? Then what should you do?

One thing Lerial has learned, just from observing Altyrn, is that “unfortunate” events should appear when no one else is around and without any apparent motive. Still … how … especially with order …

Abruptly, he understands what he can do. He creates a pattern, one that he links to the iron beneath the cupridium of his sabre. It takes him several attempts before he can do what he has in mind. He can sense that the pattern, with order on the inside, as in a cloud, will attract chaos. He also knows that, as with all the iron-linked patterns, it will not last more than two glasses, three at the most. He releases the pattern and straightens in the saddle. If he has judged correctly, the next time he uses the pattern it will do what he intends for it to accomplish … if he needs it.

Should you do it? That is the question that will be determined … shortly or later. The gate guards make no comments as the five ride in. Lerial thanks the two headquarters Mirror Lancers, leaves the mare with the duty ostler, arranges for his gelding to be saddled, and walks quickly to the hexagonal headquarters building.

The squad leader at the desk outside the majer’s study looks up. “Ser … the majer said you were to go in as soon as you arrived.”

“Thank you.” Lerial slips the large envelope from his jacket, then walks to the study door, opens it and enters, closing it behind him.

Majer Phortyn looks up from behind the desk. “You’re not terribly late this morning, Undercaptain.”

Lerial steps forward. “Here is Majer Altyrn’s report, ser.”

Phortyn nods brusquely, but says nothing as he breaks the seal. His gray eyes are like flint as Lerial takes a seat across the desk from him. Then he lowers the sheaf of papers. “It is customary to send reports through the chain of command.”

“That was not possible. Both Majer Altyrn and your superior ordered me to deliver the report personally to both you and the Duke as soon as possible. You were not at headquarters when I arrived last night. I understand you were dining away from headquarters.”

“I do have to eat, at least upon occasion.”

Lerial can sense that something about his remark has stirred the majer’s flow of order and chaos. He represses any expression and says, “I’m certain that you’re much in demand, ser, with the position you hold, and that must leave you little time to yourself. But, given the nature of the report, and my orders, I obviously could not leave it.”

Lerial concentrates on sensing Phortyn, and there is a definite reaction to Lerial’s words, although the majer’s tone is level as he says, “I can see that placed you in a difficult position. Still…”

Lerial does not reply, only nodding in agreement.

“Do you intend to remain while I read the report?”

“I had thought to, ser. That way, if you wished more information, I might be able to supply it. If you wish me to leave, of course…” Lerial starts to rise.

“Never mind. You’re here.” Phortyn offers a smile. “There’s little sense in sending you off and then calling you back.”

Although Lerial watches as the majer reads the report, Phortyn’s posture and countenance offer little clue to his thoughts. The order-chaos flows around him are a better indication, and their flow becomes more agitated when Phortyn is reading the last page.

Finally, the majer looks up. “Rather remarkable, but then, it does show that Duke Casseon’s forces are not what they could be.” After a slight pause, he goes on. “You apparently performed credibly. I would have expected no less, given the intensive training provided by Majer Altyrn, but it is good to know that he has not lost his touch in training, both yours and that of the Verdyn. It always was his strongest point.”

Phortyn leans back just slightly, and Lerial catches a glint of golden green at his belt, above the scabbard that holds the majer’s belt knife. Golden green … in the hilt of a belt knife? A fire emerald … from a man who has been a Lancer his entire life and had nothing when he joined … and has no consort from whom he could have obtained something that valuable?

Lerial manages to nod politely, even as he uses his order-senses to verify that the fire emerald is indeed set in the hilt of a belt knife. “Yes, ser. Everyone, I’ve observed, has their strengths … and everyone their weaknesses.”

“The higher one rises,” the majer says evenly, “the more people seek out one’s weaknesses … particularly if they are young and apparently untried.”

“I’ve observed that as well, ser. Do you have any questions about the report?”

“Not at the moment, Undercaptain. I may after I consider the report. How many companies is Majer Altyrn planning to train? Do you know?”

“He had talked about beginning with another six or so to bring the Verdyn Lancers up to a full ten companies.”

“Once he has done that, perhaps we should dispatch a senior officer to relieve him and take command. Submajer Jhalet … or one of the senior overcaptains.”

“The majer thought that was likely. He had mentioned only remaining another season or so.”

“Wise man.” Phortyn smiles brightly. “I will not keep you. I’m certain your family would like to see more of you before your father and I decide on your next posting.”

Phortyn has said enough. Lerial reaches out with his order-senses and creates the pattern he had adapted from those used in creating clouds and lightnings-except this pattern is quite small and links securely to the iron in the major’s belt knife, with the fire emerald in its ornate hilt, the only place where a Lancer officer might wear such without much attention … unless one has seen a fire emerald and knows its worth.

Lerial stands. “Thank you, ser. I appreciate everything, especially your advice.” He nods slightly.

“You’re more than welcome.” The majer rises, his jacket sliding over the knife hilt.

He frowns, as if to say something, then shakes his head. “Until later.”

“Yes, ser.” Lerial is careful to close the study door firmly behind himself.

Then he makes his way to the stable where the two rankers are waiting.

“We’re headed back to the Palace now.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial mounts quickly and guides the gelding through the courtyard, followed by the rankers. He does not look back as he rides through the gates and turns northwest on the boulevard that leads back to the Palace.

It is a good half glass before noon when Lerial finishes unsaddling and briefly grooming the gelding, then makes his way through the warmest morning he has felt in more than two seasons back to the Palace, looking for his mother. He would prefer Emerya, but he has no doubts that she is at the healing hall.

He finds Xeranya in the salon.

“So you have time for your poor mother now.”

Lerial represses a sigh, wondering why she sounds more bitter than he recalls. Or did you just not see it? “I had to report to Majer Phortyn. Father insisted that I do so first thing this morning. As soon as I did that, I rode straight back here and came to find you.”

Xeranya actually smiles. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been so worried. I’ve worried about all of you. I thought you were the safest out there in the west while Lephi was in the south fighting Heldyan invaders.” Her words are unsteady, as if she is almost on the brink of tears.

Lerial just looks at his mother, sensing that she truly feels that. He doesn’t shake his head. “Like Lephi, I went where Father sent me. I did all that he asked.”

“It’s all so terrible. I thought … once Cigoerne was strong … that the fighting would stop. It never does.”

“It hasn’t, but we’ve lost very few here in Cigoerne. Thousands of people died in Verdheln under the Meroweyan attacks.”

“I can’t worry about them. I can only worry about Lephi … and you, of course, Lerial.”

Lerial has the feeling that her last words are an afterthought, but he nods, then goes on, knowing that his words will have little impact for the moment, but feeling they need to be said.

“All those who died or suffered had dreams, too, and many of them were young men just like Lephi, or me. Too many of them died. Because they fought and died, Casseon will not attempt another attack on Cigoerne. The people of Verdyn are part of Cigoerne, and they will fight to the death against Merowey … or anyone else, so long as Father allows them their own way of life. There are likely over a thousand more Lancers in training there now.”

“I’m just glad you’re safe, and I want to see Lephi safe, too.”

“Once Duke Khesyn hears about what happened in Verdheln, we may see fewer attacks from Heldya.”

“I would hope so.”

Lerial smiles. “It’s quite pleasant in the courtyard. We could enjoy the spring air. Would you join me?”

Xeranya smiles in return.

After spending a good glass with his mother, Lerial repairs to his chambers and changes into an old set of greens and, after finding Woelyt, works out in the Lancers’ courtyard with some of Woelyt’s junior rankers. He can only hope, at best, that his efforts will work, and, at worst, that, whether they do or not, there will be no signs of what he has done. By half past the third glass of the afternoon, Lerial is sweat-soaked and calls an end to the combination of exercise and training.

Once it is clear that Lerial has finished, Woelyt approaches. “You’re even better than when you left.”

“You might call it practice under pressure.” Although most of the practice was with order-sensing and anticipation. Lerial blots his forehead.

They both look up as Emerya and a Mirror Lancer officer Lerial does not recognize immediately ride into the courtyard, followed by a full squad of Mirror Lancers. Emerya dismounts hurriedly and gestures for Lerial to join her. As he walks toward her, he recognizes the other officer as Submajer Jhalet, the second-in-command of the Mirror Lancers. He also sees a Lancer behind the submajer carrying a small strongbox, one that is anything but light, it appears.

“What-”

“Just come with us. Is your father in his study?” asks Emerya.

“He was when I came out to spar.”

“He likely still is, then. This way, Submajer,” Emerya orders, in a fashion that Lerial knows would make any Mirror Lancer obey.

Kiedron is indeed in his study. “What’s happened that all of you have descended on me?”

“Majer Phortyn died, ser,” announces Jhalet. “He left headquarters for a bite to eat at the mess, and then went to his quarters. He did not return for his afternoon meeting with me. The duty officer and I went to summon him, but he did not answer the bell. We had to break the door. He was in his armchair, as if he just dozed off … but he didn’t wake up. Sometimes … sometimes, people aren’t dead when they look like they are. So I summoned the head of healing at the Hall.”

“He died in his sleep … or his nap. His heart may have been failing. It might be why he felt tired and sat down to rest,” Emerya says. “There’s no trace of poison or chaos. In fact, there was less sign of chaos in his body than in most cases.”

“You’re certain?” asks Kiedron.

“Absolutely.”

Lerial refrains from nodding, maintaining an interested expression.

“There was one thing, though,” adds Jhelat. “That is another reason why I am here.”

“Oh?”

Jhalet gestures, and the Mirror Lancer steps forward and gently sets the small but heavy ironbound chest on the desk.

“When I was checking his quarters, just in case matters were not as they seemed,” Emerya said, “I could sense some highly ordered iron. There was a strongbox hidden in his armoire. The lock was ordered iron. We brought it here, unopened. We also brought the key pouch we found.”

Kiedron frowns.

“If there’s something of value there,” the dark-haired Jhalet adds, “we didn’t think it should be left, although I did post guards.” He extends the small leather pouch. “We thought it might be best if you were the one…”

Kiedron takes the pouch and extracts a leather spring ring on which are three keys, all similar. The lock opens to the second key.

“Let me, ser,” suggests Jhalet. “Just in case.” He takes out his belt knife, one with an ornate carved hilt, possibly mother-of-pearl, Lerial notes. Then he uses the tip to lift the lid of the chest, standing as far back as he can.

In the ironbound box are hundreds, if not thousands, of golds.

For several moments, none of the three speaks.

“It must be an inheritance or a gift he kept secret.” Kiedron looks to Jhelat. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, ser. It must be.”

Kiedron frowns. “He has no children, does he? I know he never took a consort … but…”

“None that anyone knows of.”

“Then it would be appropriate if the golds were held and a set amount given to the widows of Mirror Lancers killed in service, would it not?” suggests the Duke. “As a tribute to the majer’s service?”

“Yes, ser,” agrees Jhalet.

Lerial looks at the other keys, wondering what chests they might open and where they are. Will we ever know? He has his doubts.

“You will make arrangements for him,” says Kiedron to the submajer, “and let us know?”

“Yes, ser. Will you take custody of the chest?”

“I think not. It belongs to the Mirror Lancers. Have the golds counted by you and two other trusted officers and kept in the Lancer strong room with a separate ledger for each disbursement. Say … ten golds for an officer’s widow, or young children, if his wife is dead, and five for a ranker.”

“Yes, ser. Very good, ser.”

“That should include Squad Leader Juist, who died in Verdheln,” adds Lerial.

Kiedron frowns slightly, then nods.

When Jhalet and the Lancer have left, with the strongbox, Kiedron turns to Emerya.

“What do you really think?”

“There’s no doubt. His heart stopped. There are no signs of poison, and the mess said that he only had some bread and cheese. If he’d been poisoned at breakfast, he would have died either much sooner or much later.”

“Good.” Kiedron shakes his head. “I mean, it’s good that it’s clear he wasn’t poisoned. Will you make certain that the other healers know that as well … quietly, of course.”

“Of course.”

“We’ll need a new commander. I’d rather not recall Altyrn.” He turns to Lerial. “What do you think?”

“I’d agree. He wouldn’t decline the post, but you wouldn’t be doing him or his family any favors, and you’d still have to find someone to succeed him before too long.”

“Is he ill?”

“No … but,” Lerial answers in a wry tone, “he might be before long if he had to take command again.”

“Then we’ll confirm Jhalet as his successor and watch closely.” Kiedron turns to Emerya. “Is there anything else?”

“No.”

“Then…”

Lerial and Emerya exchange glances.

“I’ll leave you in comparative peace,” says Emerya.

Lerial follows Emerya from the study and down the hallway away from the guard before speaking. “You never trusted him, did you?”

“No. You didn’t either, did you?”

Lerial smiles sadly. “No … but I never had enough proof to go to Father about it.”

“Well … the way things turned out, you were right.” Emerya offers an enigmatic smile.

“Let’s just say that we were fortunate this time.”

“We were.” Emerya glances toward the courtyard. “I need to get back to the healing hall. There have been far too many injuries today. You need to talk to your father a bit more, I suspect.”

“I’m just going to tell him what few things I know that led to my suspicions … and why I couldn’t bring them to him without more proof.”

“He’ll appreciate your discretion, I’m certain.”

Lerial watches as she strides toward the courtyard, then he walks back into the study, closing the door behind him.

Kiedron stands between the end of the desk and the window, looking out into the courtyard, where Xeranya is sitting in the shade, reading something. The cover is silvered green.

Lerial nods to himself and waits.

Kiedron turns. “You had something else to say?”

“Yes, ser. I’ve worried about Majer Phortyn for some time. I don’t think I told you, but only a handful of Mirror Lancer officers even knew that Majer Altyrn and I’d gone, and none of them except Captain Graessyr and Undercaptain Shastan at Teilyn post knew that we were going to Verdheln.”

Kiedron frowns. “That’s true, but what does that have to do…?”

“Then there was the business of the Afritan archer who tried to kill Altyrn in Tirminya.” Lerial goes on to explain finishing up with, “… and when I got back here to the Palace, I found out that Woelyt had been reassigned to the north and Seivyr to Sudstrym or a new post that is taking the brunt of Heldyan attacks, and no other than Veraan would be taking over the Palace garrison-when Phortyn has been courting Veraan’s father Apollyn, and also Scarthyn. By the way, before I forget, I’d suggest that you ask Submajer Jhalet to replace Veraan with a more seasoned undercaptain, someone like Lauxyn or Haentur. Anyway, I left the majer feeling very uneasy, especially when I saw that he was wearing a belt knife with an ornate hilt that held a fire emerald. I kept thinking that you’d said that someone had likely told Casseon about our mission there. Why else would he have sent so many armsmen? Then there is the problem with that chest … and the other keys.”

“The other keys concern me as well,” admits Kiedron, “but there are times to look and not to look. If other chests turn up, well and good. If not…” He shakes his head.

Lerial shrugs. “Maybe I should have told you sooner, but … I’ve never run across anything like this … and I wanted to sleep on it.”

Kiedron nods thoughtfully. “I can see that.” He offers a wry smile. “The Rational Stars were looking out for us.”

“It’s good they were.” And we won’t mention that they had a little help. Not ever.