Heritage of Cyador

III

Just after first light on fiveday, Lerial rides south from Ensenla, accompanied by half a squad from Eighth Company. While the river road is not paved until it is within five kays of the city of Cigoerne, it has been traveled so much over the past ten years, with sand added periodically, that the mixed sand and clay is packed hard. Duke Kiedron had also insisted that the road be set on the highest relatively level surfaces and that all bridges be wide enough for a least a wagon and a horse side by side.

Even making good speed, Lerial does not catch sight of the city until the second glass of the afternoon, when he reaches the north side of the rise that holds, on its southern end, the Hall of Healing, where he had spent so many days learning what he could from his aunt. The reddish sandstone building, surrounded by its sandstone walls, looks no different to him, but to the west of the hall stretches a good half kay’s worth of smaller dwellings that over the past five years have crept northward from the boulevard that links the hall with the palace. Every time that Lerial returns to the city, he is surprised at the additional growth.

As he and the lancers ride past the Hall of Healing, heading south on the paved avenue that runs along the river toward the Mirror Lancer headquarters, Lerial wonders if he should stop briefly, then shakes his head. He will certainly see Emerya at the palace later that afternoon … and the dispatch conveyed urgency.

South of the hall, but north of the River Square, are the factorages of the larger merchanters in Cigoerne. Not only are they busier than he recalls, but he could swear that there are more factorages, and that some new ones have been built, taking the place of smaller factorages or perhaps crafters’ shops.

There is also a new, longer stone pier south of the two piers that had projected from the stone levee walls protecting the city for almost as long as Lerial could remember-and all three piers have rivercraft of various sorts tied there. There are no Lancer sailing craft, either. At that, he frowns … and looks farther south along the river, but the buildings flanking the avenue block his view. Extending his order-senses, he discovers another pier, several hundred yards north of the Mirror Lancer headquarters compound. So much trading that they had to add a pier for the river patrols?

Before long, he and the rankers near headquarters. Even from the River Avenue, Lerial can see the white-edged black draping on the headquarters’ gateposts. Who died? It cannot be Jhalet, unless it happened in the last day, and that would be unlikely. Nor would it be anyone from his family … again, unless it has happened in the last few glasses. Majer Chaen? Lerial hopes not, but then, he wouldn’t like it to be any of those whose names have passed through his thoughts.

He rides more slowly up the stone causeway toward the gates, trying to think over who it might have been.

“Welcome to headquarters, Captain, oh … excuse me, ser, Overcaptain,” calls out the ranker posted on the east side of the headquarters compound gate.

“Thank you.” Lerial gestures at the white-edged black drape on each of the gateposts. “Not Commander Jhalet?””

“No, ser. Not him. It was the majer … I mean Commander Altyrn. We heard late last night.”

The ranker’s clearly regretful words go through Lerial like a lance of ice. Altyrn? The majer … the man who has made all that you have done possible. The man who taught you blade skills, who worked you until you understood what work truly was … and who gave you the sabre you still carry … telling you that he was restoring your own heritage …

“Ser…?”

Lerial manages to rein up the gelding, but cannot speak for a moment. “I’m sorry. I had no idea…”

“No one did, ser.”

“Do you know…?”

“No, ser. Commander Jhalet might.”

“Thank you.” Lerial rides directly to the hexagonal stone headquarters building, still trying to grapple with the idea of Altyrn’s death. The majer-that was always the way Lerial thought of him-had been anything but young. Lerial had never known his actual age, but he’d been close to the age of his Grandmere Mairena. Another thought strikes him. Could that be why you’re being recalled to Cigoerne? No, that couldn’t be, not when headquarters had only heard of the majer’s death late the night before.

Outside the headquarters building, he reins up, then turns to Dhoraat, the First Squad leader. “Have the horses watered and rested, but don’t unsaddle them until you hear from me. We may be quartering here or at the palace. I won’t know until I talk to the commander.” Assuming he’s here … but he should be … with Altyrn’s death, especially. Even as he thinks those thoughts, Lerial knows that they make little logical sense.

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial dismounts and hands the gelding’s reins to the nearest ranker, then walks into headquarters, taking off his lancer’s visor cap and tucking it under his arm as he crosses the anteroom.

The young ranker at the duty desk snaps to his feet. “Ser! The commander said you’re to go right in.”

“Thank you.” Lerial steps around the desk and pushes the door, already slightly ajar, open, enters the study, and closes it behind himself.

Jhalet rises easily from behind the table desk. Lerial again notices how, over the past five years, the commander’s once jet-black hair has gained more and more strands of silver white, and his face has hardened somewhat, but he smiles pleasantly enough. “You made good time, Overcaptain.”

“We left at first light. Your dispatch suggested urgency.” Before Jhalet can reply, Lerial goes on. “Majer Altyrn? Do you know…?”

Jhalet shakes his head. “We got word from the palace lancers last night.” He gestures toward the chairs in front of the desk, then seats himself. “All we know is that he died at his villa.”

“If his death isn’t the reason I’ve been recalled…” Lerial seats himself, if slightly forward on the straight-backed armless chair. “Your dispatch did stress urgency.”

“That’s because your father the duke believes we face an urgent situation. I would prefer not to say more, but let him explain. He has requested that we both join him at the palace as soon as possible after you arrived.”

“I did not have my mount unsaddled, nor those of the rankers who accompanied me. We can leave as soon as you wish.”

“There is a mount standing by … and a half squad to accompany me back.” Jhalet offers a wry smile. “I have no doubt that you and your men will be quartered at the palace. We can leave now.” The commander rises.

Lerial is grateful not to sit longer and does so as well. “Before we go … how are matters in the southeast?”

“At Sudstrym Post? With the Heldyans?” Jhalet smiles. “Very quiet since midfall. Even the Meroweyan traders report fewer encounters with raiders or overzealous tariff inspectors.”

Lerial nods, but given the way Jhalet has spoken, his words do not totally reassure Lerial, except that they mean that Lephi has not been in any great danger … so far. Lerial also knows that can change almost in moments, even for an heir of Cyador who is of the Magi’i.

Jhalet slips on his Lancer riding jacket and picks up his visor cap, and he and Lerial leave the study. In less than a tenth of a glass they and a full squad of rankers-the ten from Eighth Company and ten from headquarters-are riding northwest on the paved boulevard that connects the Lancer compound with the Square of the Magi’i and the walled ducal palace that stands on the west side of the square. Half a glass later, they ride through the palace gates, also draped in white-edged black mourning cloth, and then to the north courtyard and the entrance in the middle of the north wing.

As they dismount, a comparatively small and wiry undercaptain steps forward. “Welcome back, ser. And congratulations.”

The man looks familiar, black-haired, brown-eyed, with a swarthy complexion and deeply tanned skin, but it takes Lerial a moment to place him. “Kusyl! What are you doing here?”

“The Lancers out west had enough of me.” Kusyl grins. “Commander said I deserved a pleasant tour heading up a new company here. These days, half of what I do is work with the newer men, bring them up to the level of the others.”

Lerial wonders just how many new companies are being formed.

“Now that I’ve got the whole company working well”-Kusyl shrugs-“the commander will send us to one of the border problem areas.” He grins again. “Might even be Ensenla.”

“That would be fine with me. Did you have any trouble with Duke Casseon?”

“Not a sign of his armsmen. They’ve left handling the grassland raiders to us. They just kill ’em if they enter his lands and attack his growers. Not many of them left anymore, not since they discovered that Casseon had no use for them and they had much shorter lives if they came north.”

“We need to talk, but not now. We’ve been summoned.”

“We…?” Kusyl’s eyes take in the officer behind Lerial. He smiles good-naturedly, if wryly. “Good afternoon, Commander. Might I ask how long before you’ll be needing the mounts?”

“That depends on the duke. Those who came with Lord Lerial will be quartered here. The others will return with me.”

“Yes, ser.”

Once Lerial and Jhalet are past the Lancer guards and walking down the corridor toward the duke’s main-floor study, the commander laughs softly. “He’s even better for this post than I thought.”

“He’s good in the field, too. Very good.”

“He’ll be promoted to captain next season.” Jhalet shakes his head. “And then I’ll likely hear from Magus Apollyn, indirectly of course, about the degradation of the proud heritage of the Mirror Lancers.”

“Magus Apollyn?” Then Lerial remembers. “Veraan’s father. Is he still angry about that?”

“Still? He was never just angry. He was furious about Veraan’s dismissal, and his fury likely hasn’t ever abated. Veraan’s really the one in charge of Myrapol House now. They say he’s quite effective as a merchanter … even worked out an arrangement with a big merchanting house in Swartheld. Alaphyn, or Alapyrt, something like that.”

Lerial nods, deciding against saying more, although his own recollections of Veraan are anything but pleasant, and those date back to well before the incident when Veraan tried to use an unblunted blade in sparring against Captain Woelyt-although Woelyt had still been an undercaptain then. Jhalet had cashiered Veraan. But then, Veraan’s slimy enough to succeed as a trader … for a while, anyway.

The guard outside the study sees the two coming and raps on the door, announcing, “Lord Lerial and Commander Jhalet, ser.” Then, presumably in response to Duke Kiedron, he opens the door and steps back, then closes it behind them.

Kiedron is standing by the widow that looks into the central palace courtyard, but faces the study door. “Lerial … Commander.” He smiles warmly, but only for a moment, then gestures to the small circular conference table at one end of the study.

Lerial looks at his father. Kiedron’s dark brown hair is thinning on top. Elsewhere, especially on the sides, where it is remains thick, the brown is shot with gray, when a year earlier there had been no sign of either. There are dark circles under his eyes. His broad shoulders seem to slump just a touch, and for the first time the duke looks his age, and that is surprising for Lerial, because, until now, Kiedron has looked younger than the years he has lived.

Just to make sure that something is not terribly wrong, as Lerial moves toward the table he immediately extends his order-senses, although he knows his mother and his aunt, as healers, surely would have noticed something amiss. There is no sign of rampant body chaos or illness, only the feeling of slightly weaker order that creeps up on all people as they age.

Has he changed that much? Or did you always just see him as strong and vital, almost indestructible? Lerial seats himself as the other two do, then waits for either Jhalet or his father to speak.

“You summoned us, ser,” Jhalet says quietly.

“I did.” Kiedron looks to his son. “I asked Commander Jhalet not to talk about this with anyone until we talked over matters. Duke Khesyn is moving armsmen to Vyada…”

Vyada … just across the river and south of Luba. Lerial nods and waits for his father to continue.

“… and he has already gathered a number of flatboats there.”

“Might I ask how you came to know this, ser?”

“Both indirectly and directly. The formal and direct notice came from Atroyan himself, or at least in a dispatch purportedly signed and sealed by him…”

Lerial doesn’t like the slight emphasis on the word “purportedly.”

“… but the information appears to be accurate from what various traders have reported and from other sources. The dispatch from Atroyan suggests that it might be to our benefit to send a force to Luba for joint friendly maneuvers.” Kiedron smiles pleasantly, although Lerial can sense from the chaos-order flows around him that he is not so composed as he appears.

“Do you think Atroyan is ill,” asks Lerial, “and that someone, such as Rhamuel, is using his seal to obtain the assistance that Atroyan would never request? Or is this a ploy to trap and destroy at least several companies of our lancers?”

“Those are good questions,” replies the duke. “We know that Khesyn is sending armsmen to Vyada. We don’t know why. The dispatch from Swartheld came by a fast sail-galley.”

“That means that whoever dispatched it did so with the approval of someone high in Atroyan’s counsels,” suggests Jhalet.

“There is also the fact that the Afritans have abandoned their Ensenla post and withdrawn all the Afritan Guards stationed there,” Lerial points out.

“That strikes me as offering no risk at all to Atroyan,” Jhalet points out. “He knows we won’t invade.”

“If he is threatened by Khesyn, that would be the first place from which he would withdraw the Afritan Guards,” Kiedron replies. “He knows that we know that. So that offers no evidence as to whether his dispatch is genuine or a ploy and trap.” He looks to Lerial.

“I think someone in Swartheld is very concerned, and I would suspect it is not the duke.”

Jhalet turns his eyes on Lerial but does not speak.

“Why do you say that?” asks Kiedron.

“Because when we know that Arms-Commander Rhamuel has been in command of the Afritan Guards, they have not attacked us. Only when he has not been in command have we been attacked. They have taunted us time and time again on the northern border but always retreated before we could come close to attacking. That would seem to me, at least from the perspective of a captain who only patrolled the border, that Rhamuel has been having the Guards act as aggressively as possible without provoking an actual fight. That means that Atroyan is the one who wants to attack, and that he has been restrained by his brother. They built a new post in old Ensenla … but they’ve pulled out? That, just in my opinion, suggests great need for those troops, but I have my doubts that even Rhamuel could pull them unless the need is very great or Atroyan is indisposed … if not both.”

“That may be,” replies Jhalet. “If it is, what happens if you dispatch a force, and Atroyan recovers and declares that we are invading Afrit? Or someone else takes power?”

“We would have to dispatch that force in such a way and under such a commander that it would be unwise for the Afritans to attack, regardless of who controls Swartheld.” Kiedron looks to his son.

Lerial understands immediately. “What forces would you wish I take? And what gifts will you proffer?”

“You are one of the heirs…” Jhalet draws out the words.

“My father is strong and healthy, and so is my brother, and I am not the principal heir.”

“There is also the fact that Lerial speaks perfect Hamorian, and any officer who is assigned to this duty must be able to understand it well enough to know what is not being said.” Kiedron holds up his hand to forestall any more discussion. “Commander, I would like you to come up with a plan for how the Mirror Lancers could support a force moving north along the river to Luba. I would also like to hear any reservations you might have, and the reasons for those reservations. Likewise, of any advantages such a plan might create. Lerial and I will discuss the other matters such an evolution might affect. We will meet tomorrow morning at eighth glass.”

Jhalet inclines his head. “Yes, ser.”

“Tomorrow morning, at eighth glass,” says Kiedron firmly. Then he stands.

Lerial and Jhalet immediately rise.

Once the commander leaves the study, Kiedron turns to Lerial. “Your mother and the girls would like to see you, but there is something else you need to attend to.”

“Ser?”

“I assume you heard about Majer Altyrn.”

“Yes, ser. I wanted to know more, but Commander Jhalet couldn’t tell me.”

“Maeroja is here. She brought the news. She is waiting for you in the small south salon.”

Lerial understands. His mother has never fully approved of Altyrn’s consort, and his father has given Maeroja the use of the salon as far from her as possible … and the one about which Xeranya cannot complain.

“She has indicated she wishes to speak to you first. I’m certain she’ll tell you what you need to know,” adds Kiedron. “All of us, including Maeroja, will be having refreshments in the main salon at fifth glass.”

“Did she come alone?”

“Captain Shastan sent half a squad of lancers as her escort. None of the majer’s daughters accompanied her.” Kiedron glances toward the door.

“Yes, ser.” Lerial nods and then leaves the study. As he walks along the main front corridor toward the south wing of the palace, he wonders exactly why Maeroja wishes to see him … and why she does not wish to speak of the majer to anyone before Lerial.

He pauses outside the closed door to the small salon, then opens it and steps inside, easing the door closed before he moves forward.

Maeroja rises immediately from the dark green velvet armchair in which she has been sitting, setting aside a folder. From what Lerial sees and senses, she looks no older than the last time he saw her, almost five years earlier when he returned from Verdheln, and just as striking. Her hair remains a shining jet black, her skin lightly tanned, and her blue eyes intense and penetrating … but upon closer scrutiny when he steps toward her, he can see that her eyes are slightly bloodshot and that there are dark circles under them. Her smile remains warm, but … there is sadness in it as well. She wears a pale blue blouse, with a dark blue vest and trousers, and a mourning scarf of white-bordered black.

“Lady,” Lerial offers gently.

“You do persist, don’t you?” she murmurs softly.

“You were, are, and always will be a lady,” he replies with a smile. “Grant me the wisdom to see that.”

“You’ve grown … even more.”

“I would hope so. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be following the majer’s teachings.” He gestures. “Please sit down. The last days have to have been tiring for you.”

“And not for you? There’s still road dust on your boots.”

“I did ride in this afternoon, but I had to meet with Father and Commander Jhalet. Father didn’t tell me you were here until after the meeting.”

“He and … Altyrn … always had their priorities.”

As do you. Lerial inclines his head momentarily, then picks up one of the straight-backed chairs, sets it on the carpet directly facing Maeroja, and after she reseats herself sits down. “I didn’t hear until I rode into Lancer headquarters. I asked about the mourning drape, and the gate guards told me, but no one could tell me more than that.”

“He wanted it that way. I owed him that … and much more than I could ever repay.”

“I think not, Lady. You gave him love and respect that no one else could have done.” Especially given your past, a very illustrious past that you have kept well shrouded.

Maeroja opens her mouth as if to protest, then smiles softly, ironically. “I won’t insult you by protesting … but he deserved that.”

“He deserved more than that.”

“We don’t often get what we deserve, especially those who are very good … or very evil.”

“No … we don’t. That was something I learned from him, among many other lessons.”

“Unlike most, you did learn. He was proud of you, you know?”

“I wanted him to think well of me and what I did, Lady … and the way in which I did what had to be done. I don’t think he always totally approved, but I tried to stay within the scope of what he taught.” Lerial isn’t about to point out Altyrn’s often utter ruthlessness in his quest to assure the future of what he believed to be the best of the heritage of Cyador, especially since Maeroja must already know that.

“He knew that.” Maeroja leans forward, reaches for the folder she had been reading, and extracts a sealed sheet. “He wrote this some time ago, last harvest…”

“Was he ailing then?”

Maeroja shakes her head. “He was never ailing. He came to bed, very tired. He held me, and then went to sleep.” Her voice catches, and she swallows. “I think he knew. I told you once, you might recall…”

“That he had a sense, a certainty about some things. I remember.”

“You would.” Maeroja’s smile is gentle, but sad. “He told me what was in the letter, but I did not read it. It is for you, and you alone. He said you would understand.”

Lerial takes the letter. On the outside is his name, written in a precise but slightly ornate script. He looks up. “I would read it now, with you here.”

“If you read it to yourself…”

Lerial nods. After a moment, he breaks the seal and begins to read.

Dear Lerial-

There is a time for all things, and a way to end them. It is fitting that, since the beginning of my life was never quiet, the ending will be. What you will and must do is also fitting. What I task you with, and it is a task and not a request, is to assure that the heirs of the Malachite Throne do not perish, that they do not stoop to petty bargains for a peace that will not last, and that their heritage will shine on when the City of Light is long forgotten. This does not mean you are to re-create Cyad or Cyador. That time is past. It does mean that what was best of that time should live on through you and what you do.

Lerial lowers the letter slightly. Why me? Why not Lephi? What did he know that he never said?

… You will likely not understand fully the burden I have placed on you for some time to come, much as you may think you have. Then I could be deceiving myself. That becomes easier, even necessary, when one has great hopes for another.

If one chooses power over good, then that power will fail in time, as it did in Cyador. If one chooses good over power, then evil will triumph because there will not be strength to oppose it. Finally, it is not good to be merciful, if that mercy will doom others in even greater numbers. All this, you know. Knowing what to do, regardless of what others including sages say, is not the most difficult task. Doing what needs to be done for good to survive is far harder. Good only needs to survive, not triumph.

Those words strike Lerial-Good only needs to survive, not triumph. Then he looks at Maeroja and nods.

Before he can continue, she speaks. “Your expressions when you read the letter … Some of them were like his. You are more alike than you know.”

Once Lerial would have protested that, and certainly he still would likely have rejected that observation from anyone but Maeroja.

… As for the blade you bear, I am fairly sure that it belonged to one of the great ones, possibly even Lorn himself, although I cannot be certain. I am absolutely certain that it is and should be yours. Call this the certainty of an ancient Lancer.

Use it to balance good and power.

At the bottom, there is a single ornate “A.” At that moment, Lerial realizes that he has never seen the majer’s handwriting before … and most likely never will again.

After a long moment, he refolds the letter and slips it inside his riding jacket. “Thank you.”

“I only did what he asked.”

“You have always done more than that, I think.” As he did for you.

Another silence follows before he asks, “How are Rojana and the girls?” As the words leave his lips, he realizes the meaning of the way he has inquired, and he blocks a self-amused smile.

“All three are fine. Rojana can handle Kinaar quite well in my absence … if not quite so well as she thinks. She has taken over the brewery and is expanding production.”

“Because she detests the shimmersilk worms and will do anything else?”

“There is some truth to that.”

Lerial does let himself smile. “She is quite a young woman.”

“She is.”

“One other thing…” Lerial pauses.

“Yes?” The hint of a smile appears at the corners of her mouth.

“Father said you would be joining us for refreshments and dinner at fifth glass. I would be greatly disappointed if you were not there. So, I think-”

“You don’t have to say it. I understand, and you’re right.”

“I know it may not be easy…”

Her laugh is soft, short … and bitter.

“I will see you then?”

“You will.”

Lerial rises and inclines his head. “Thank you … again.”

“You’re more than welcome.” Her words are warm, anything but perfunctory.

After leaving the small salon, and wanting to be alone, he walks back to his own chambers, rooms he has not occupied in more than a season, and for less than two eightdays over the past several years. There, he rereads the letter.

Use it to balance good and power. Good only needs to survive, not triumph. Lerial thinks he understands what the majer was suggesting, but he decides not to pursue that line of thought. Not yet. One of the other lessons he has learned from the majer is that matters are often not what they first seem, and when one has a chance to wait and reflect, it is often better. But then, sometimes you don’t get that choice.

At a fifth before fifth glass, he makes his way down to the main salon. Emerya and the two girls are the only ones there.

Ryalah runs to him and throws her arms around his waist. “You’re here!”

Lerial realizes, belatedly, that she has indeed grown … and so has Amaira, who now stands almost as tall as her mother. “I am indeed.”

“How long?” Ryalah releases him and steps back.

“I don’t know … but not too long.” Lerial looks to Amaira. “You’re looking very good.”

“Thank you, Uncle Lerial.” Amaira’s smile is still shy and sweet, although Lerial can sense a certain strength in the flow of order and chaos around her, and a definite darkening of the order she holds, suggesting that, like her mother, she will be a strong healer. He can also see that her black hair holds hints of a reddish tinge, something he does not recall, either with her or anyone else.

Last, he turns to Emerya, whose hair is now close to entirely silver, a shade not unbecoming to her. “It’s always good to see you.” He steps toward her and adds in a lower voice, “We need to talk later.”

She nods. “Your mother will be here, but only when your father arrives.”

“I wouldn’t have expected it otherwise. You’ve told the girls we’ll be having company at dinner?”

“I did. I told them that Maeroja’s consort had just died, and that they need to be very kind because he was a special man, and she loved him very much.” Emerya smiles, although the smile is for her daughter and niece.

“Isn’t she special, too?” asks Ryalah.

Behind the younger girl, Amaira nods.

“She is,” replies Lerial.

The palace bells are striking fifth glass when Maeroja enters the salon, the mourning scarf draped more widely across her shoulders.

Even before she has taken three steps into the chamber, Kiedron and Xeranya follow her.

“I’m so glad you could join us,” offers Xeranya as Maeroja turns to face the couple.

“I do so appreciate your courtesy and kindness,” replies Maeroja.

Lerial translates those words to mean his mother’s courtesy and his father’s kindness.

“We could do no less for you, given all that you have done for Lerial and all the majer did for me,” replies Kiedron.

Lerial senses that his father’s voice has almost caught. That surprises him, but he adds, “I cannot say how much I appreciate how at home you both made me feel.”

“What will you have?” asks Kiedron, stepping toward the refreshments table.

“The lager, if you please.”

“I’d be more than pleased,” replies the duke cheerfully.

Lerial turns to his mother.

“The white wine, thank you.”

As Lerial moves to the refreshments table, Emerya eases over to Maeroja and begins to speak. “It’s been years since we’ve talked, and I was hoping we’d have a chance…”

The interplay confirms to Lerial that dinner will be polite, punctuated by the attempts of Emerya, his father, and himself to bring warmth to the formality that will continue to be exuded by his mother.