Heritage of Cyador

XL

Lerial does not wake on twoday morning until full light spreads across Swartheld, although there is no direct light coming through the shutters of the senior officer’s chamber he occupies at Afritan Guard headquarters. He feels far better than when he had dropped onto the bunk the night before, although he can order-sense only out into the hallway outside his door. Still … after what had happened at Aenslem’s villa …

He wonders if Rhamuel has received any information from Ascaar, since Sammyl had not returned when Lerial had left the palace on oneday evening and there had been no dispatches from Shaelt. The lack of dispatches bothers Lerial. Ascaar isn’t the sort who would neglect to report, whether he did well … or poorly. Unless he’s dead or severely wounded.

Lerial washes, shaves, and dresses quickly, and his stomach reminds him that he needs to eat. The two rankers outside Lerial’s door stiffen as he steps out into the hallway. He can read the question on their minds and lips. He smiles. “Yes. I’m feeling much better this morning.” Not enough to handle much in the way of order and chaos, but enough not to fall over with minor healing. At that thought, he wonders how Aenslem is doing, but pushes that away. You did what you could, and likely more than you should have. Except … He almost shakes his head, before realizing that the rankers will misinterpret the gesture. “I’m ready for something to eat.”

Dhoraat, Kusyl, and Strauxyn are waiting at the mess. All look intently at him.

“I’m fine. Really.”

Kusyl raises his eyebrows. “Begging your pardon, ser…”

“Did I have to try to heal Aenslem? Yes. If the most powerful merchanter in Afrit died because I refused to try to save him, we’d be in almost as bad a shape as if we’d lost the last battle.” Lerial pauses. “Maybe not quite that bad, but close.” He manages a grin. “I need to eat. You can sit down and ask any questions while I do. And no, there isn’t any word on what happened at Shaelt.” Lerial takes a seat near one end of the table. “That’s why I’ll have to head out to the palace once I eat.”

Immediately, two Afritan Guard servers appear, one with a beaker and a pitcher, the other with a platter that he sets before Lerial. On the platter are two large slices of egg toast covered in berry syrup, along with ham rashers on the side, and a quarter of a ripe melon, its interior a pale shade of green, a type that Lerial has not seen. He tries not to eat too quickly, but he finishes the first piece of egg toast in about three bites, along with a deep swallow of lager.

“What about the Heldyans?” asks Kusyl.

“They may have more troopers in reserve. It’s possible they’ll try another attack. Commander Sammyl’s sent scouts out to see what’s happening in Estheld.”

“More troopers, ser?” asks Dhoraat.

“I’m guessing that Khesyn made some sort of agreement with the Tourlegyn clan leaders. That’s why so many of the Heldyan troopers fought to the death. They weren’t Heldyans, but Tourlegyns…”

In between mouthfuls, Lerial answers more questions. After he finishes, while Strauxyn readies a squad to accompany Lerial to the palace, Lerial immediately walks to the section of the barracks holding the Mirror Lancer wounded.

“Ser?” asks Kusyl. “Do you think…?”

“I’m stronger today, and I need to see to the men.” Fortunately, of the twelve wounded, Lerial finds wound chaos in only two, and in both cases, it is minor, and something with which he can deal without even feeling light-headed. He tries not to think about the three who died when he was unable to even take care of himself.

From the barracks he then walks to the headquarters building, where he seeks out Captain Dhallyn.

“What can I do for you, ser?” Dhallyn stands from behind the duty desk and smiles warmly.

“I’m curious. Do you keep records of dispatch riders … when they leave for where or when they arrive from where?”

“Yes, ser. Failure to do so would get any officer on duty in great trouble.”

“Would you mind if I looked at the records for the past few days?”

“No … why?”

“We haven’t heard anything from Shaelt.”

“I don’t recall any dispatch riders from the south, but we can check. There are two records. One at the gates, and the one here. Every morning the duty officer has to check both to make certain they agree. I can’t recall when they haven’t.” Dhallyn turns and lifts a leather-bound folder, attached to a bracket on the wall with a thin chain, then opens it. He studies it and says, “Just four riders since sixday. Three from Harbor Post, one from the palace.” He holds the book so that Lerial can read the entries … which are exactly as Dhallyn has described them.

“Thank you.”

Dhallyn frowns.

Before the captain can speak, Lerial goes on, “It struck me that there are several reasons why we haven’t heard. The first is that Subcommander Ascaar has been defeated or killed. I have my doubts about that. The second is that whatever dispatch was sent did not reach the arms-commander. That leaves open where it went astray. The only thing we can check here is whether there were any dispatch riders from the south.”

“They might have gone straight to the palace.”

Lerial smiles. “That’s where I’ll make the next inquiry.”

“They keep the dispatch record at the guardhouse at the outer gate.”

“Thank you.”

A third of a glass later, Lerial, accompanied by Second Squad from Eleventh Company, rides out from Afritan Guard headquarters toward the palace, through streets that look much as they have almost every day since he has arrived in Swartheld-with little sign that a war is ongoing.

Once at the palace, Lerial reins up opposite the small gatehouse just inside the outer gates to the palace. “I’d like to talk to the duty officer or squad leader.”

In moments, an older burly squad leader appears.

“If you don’t mind, Squad Leader, I’d like to see the book that shows the arrival and departures of couriers over the past three days.”

“Ah … ser…”

“I’m not asking what was in the dispatches, if there were any. I’m asking where they came from.” Lerial looks hard at the squad leader.

“Yes, ser. One moment, ser.” Several moments pass before the burly squad leader returns. “Ser, we’ve had eight couriers in the last three days. One came from Lake Reomer. Six came from the Harbor Post, and one from the South Post.”

“None from farther south?” Lerial decides against demanding the book, given how promptly the squad leader has responded.

“No, ser.”

“Thank you very much, Squad Leader. I appreciate such good recordkeeping. So will Commander Sammyl.”

While the squad leader looks slightly puzzled, he replies, “My pleasure, ser.”

After he rides to the stables and dismounts, two rankers accompany him into the palace and to the chambers still occupied by Rhamuel. The arms-commander is alone in the outer chamber, although two Afritan Guards are posted in the corridor outside, where Lerial’s rankers stop.

When Lerial enters, Rhamuel looks up from where he sits behind his table desk perusing a stack of papers. “You look considerably better than you did last night. I also received a note from Haesychya, informing me that her father is much improved this morning. She is more hopeful than she has been in several days.”

“I just hope there won’t be a recurrence.”

“Don’t we all. Oh … there’s also something for you, although I don’t think it’s from her.” Rhamuel holds up an envelope.

Lerial crosses the room, takes it, looking at the outside, with the near-perfect calligraphy:

Kyedra? While he has not expected anything from her, he hopes that whatever is within the envelope is favorable.

“You look like that envelope might contain poison,” says Rhamuel dryly. “What did you say to her?”

“To who?”

“It has to be Kyedra. It’s not Haesychya’s hand.”

“Not too much. I was more concerned about Aenslem. Then … well … I told you what happened.”

“Apparently not everything. Not if you’re getting a note.”

Lerial opens the envelope. Inside is a card, on the front cover of which is a stylized “K” within an oval, clearly hand-drawn most precisely. He looks at the section of the card beneath and begins to read.

Dear Lerial-

I would like to ask your forgiveness for my failure to appreciate your risking your life in order to save Grandpapa. He is much, much better this morning, and we have no doubts that would not be so had it not been for your efforts. I cannot express what that means, especially to me, and I would hope that you will indeed forgive my lack of grace and understanding.

His eyes widen as he reads the line above her signature-“With great appreciation.” What exactly does “great appreciation” mean? Does it mean anything at all, especially given that Haesychya had to have read every word? But … is that a form of manipulation? Or another way of pleading for you to keep supporting Afrit? He shakes his head. The more you learn in Afrit, the less you know. At least, that’s the way it feels.

“You look rather pensive,” observes Rhamuel.

“Kyedra offers…” Lerial breaks off his words and hands the card to Rhamuel. “I’m hard-pressed as to what it means. Is it just what it says, or more … or less?”

“You may be trying to read too much into it.”

“In Afrit? Where nothing is quite what it seems, and few indeed are to be trusted except to find ways to make more golds?”

“You judge Afrit harshly,” Rhamuel says mildly.

“I think not. Not in a land where an attempt has been made to assassinate every senior officer with any degree of competence, where at least one merchanter has betrayed both the duke and his arms-commander, and where a trusted advisor was likely involved in the plot to kill the duke and his family.” Lerial pauses. “And that is only what I know.” And not all of that, even.

“You have a point … but Kyedra is not that devious.”

Lerial sees no reason to say more on the subject of Afritan deviousness. “Have you heard from Ascaar?”

“Not directly,” replies Rhamuel dryly. “I did get a dispatch from Fhastal, and a shorter one from Mesphaes, congratulating me on my decision to leave Ascaar in Shaelt, given his handling and destruction of more than three Heldyan battalions. Even if they were largely Tourlegyn warriors.”

“Then one of his officers mislaid the dispatches,” suggests Lerial, “since it would be unlikely that could happen here.”

“Why do you say that?” says Rhamuel.

“Because I checked with the squad leader in charge of the dispatch records. There haven’t been any riders coming in from the south.” He frowns. “Ascaar wouldn’t send dispatches to the Harbor Post, but either to headquarters or the palace, and there’s no record of a courier from the south coming to either place.”

“So there aren’t any … or they went to the Harbor Post?”

“I’m inclined to think…” Lerial stops as Sammyl steps into the outer chamber, then turns and asks, “What did you discover from Commander Dhresyl?”

“I asked him about the level of troops you both faced. He said that they fought fiercely, to the death in many cases.” Sammyl frowns. “That was not the case at Luba, as I recall.”

Lerial manages to keep his mouth in place. “Were many of them Tourlegyn?”

“I asked the same question,” replies the commander. “It appears, and I say appears, because most of them were not taken captive, and many of the bodies had already been dropped into pits, but it appears that a great number were.”

“So … Khesyn is using them to solve two problems at once,” says Rhamuel. “Save many of his own troops while whittling down our forces … and reducing the future difficulties he may have with the Tourlegyns … who are known to have many offspring.”

“That might mean…” Lerial pauses, then turns back to Sammyl. “What have your scouts discovered?”

“More than ten merchanters moored or anchored off Estheld…”

“No fog or mist?”

“No. The scouts didn’t report any.”

“Good.” That means that there aren’t that many mages there … or that Khesyn wants us to think that there aren’t. “Are any of the ships readying to set sail?”

“It doesn’t appear that way. There was one more ship coming in under reefed sail, and there was another too far off shore to determine where it was headed.”

“I’d suggest posting a battalion at the tileworks … if you haven’t already.” For more than one reason.

“I’ve already dispatched Fourteenth Battalion,” Sammyl declares.

Paelwyr’s battalion? Lerial finds that interesting, possibly disturbing. But then, you’re finding everything disturbing these days. “Has anyone seen Maesoryk?”

“We haven’t been looking,” Sammyl says. “He’s either a traitor or dead.”

“Why do you think that?” asks Rhamuel.

Why is he asking that? To see Sammyl’s reaction? Lerial manages a puzzled expression.

“Because, if he weren’t, he’d be begging to see you or the duke, claiming that the Heldyans invaded his property. At the very least, he’d have sent some sort of whining letter.”

Lerial has to agree with that, and yet … given the arrogance of Afritan merchanters … who could tell for certain how they might react? “Does anyone know whether he’s still in Swartheld? Maybe you should send a company to see if he is?”

Sammyl and Rhamuel exchange glances.

“I take it that isn’t done?”

“It hasn’t been,” says Rhamuel. “Maybe this time we should.” He looks to Sammyl.

“I’ll arrange for it, ser.”

“What about the other merchanters? Have any said anything?” asks Lerial.

“Alaphyn wants to know what we intend to do to reassure all the traders that Swartheld is safe for trade,” says Rhamuel. “He sent a brief note late yesterday.”

“Anyone else?”

“Fhastal has informed me that it’s likely Khesyn has seized his countinghouses in Estheld, Dolari, and Heldya. He has suggested that I seize the countinghouse of Effram in return. There are two, one here in Swartheld and one in Shaelt. He has also suggested that I keep watch on a Cigoernean merchanting factorage in Swartheld.”

“Which one?” asks Lerial.

“Myrapol House. It has factorages in Amaershyn, Heldya, Dolari, Estheld … and Shaelt and Swartheld.” Rhamuel looks to Lerial. “What do you know about it?”

Lerial takes a deep breath, then says, “Enough to say that Myrapol bears watching.”

“It sounds like you know more than that.”

“The house was founded by the consort of a magus who survived the voyage from Cyad. She brought a great array of jewelry, which she sold surreptitiously to gain the golds to build the first factorages. Her death was suspicious. Her son was a Mirror Lancer junior officer likely involved in a plot against Duke Kiedron, but that could never be proved, although he was dismissed from the Lancers. His father is the titular head of Myrapol, but he’s the one running it now.” There was something else about Veraan, but Lerial cannot remember exactly what it was.

“The father is a magus, then?”

“He is.”

“You don’t trust him, I take it?” asks Rhamuel rhetorically.

“I don’t trust either of them.”

“Very interesting.” Abruptly, Rhamuel asks Lerial, “When will I walk again?”

“You may not. If you do, you will regain some feeling in your legs … possibly within a season. If you don’t, it’s unlikely that you will.”

Rhamuel nods, if in a manner conveying a certain resignation. “That’s what Jaermyd said as well. He also said that, without what you did, I might have had even less feeling below my waist.” He looks to Sammyl. “What are your thoughts about taking over the countinghouses of Effram?”

“Take temporary possession of them, but leave everything as it is until matters are settled, one way or another, with Heldya. If Khesyn does not restore Fhastal’s countinghouses, then turn Effram’s over to Fhastal.”

“Have you heard anything about Mykel?” Lerial isn’t quite sure why he is asking, except that the gate squad leader had mentioned a courier from Lake Reomer, which was where Mykel had been headed.

“He never reached the lake,” replies Rhamuel. “Neither did Oestyn. There’s no sign of either. I’ve sent out men to search for signs of them along the way they took.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You had nothing to do with whatever happened.”

“No … but I can be sorry for everything that has happened to you and your family.”

Rhamuel shakes his head. “You represent Cigoerne. We have not always seen eye-to-eye. Yet you and your family have supported me and mine more than most in Afrit. Sometimes … I find the world strange.” He forces a smile. “There’s not much you can do here at the palace. I’ll let you know if anything happens.”

“Then I think I’ll ride over to Aenslem’s and see how he is doing. I still worry about him.”

Rhamuel raises his eyebrows, but only says, “Haesychya will appreciate that. Aenslem might … also.”

In less than a half glass, Lerial and his squad are outside the iron gates of Aenslem’s villa. The guards look suspiciously at Lerial and the Mirror Lancer squad.

“I’m Overcaptain Lerial, and I’m also a healer. I was the one who helped Merchanter Aenslem last night. You can ask him or Lady Haesychya. We’ll wait.”

Despite what Lerial has said, he and the lancers do have to wait almost a tenth of a glass before a guard comes running back down the lane and talks quietly to the head guard. After several moments, the head guard looks up.

“I’m sorry for the delay, ser. I didn’t know. With everything that’s happened…”

“I understand. You’re doing your duty.”

The guards open just one of the iron gates and watch as Lerial and Second Squad ride through.

While Lerial hopes that Kyedra might be the one to meet him at the entrance to the villa, Haesychya is the one waiting after he dismounts and walks up the steps to the double doors. “Thank you for coming. I’m glad you did.” She gestures toward the entry hall.

Lerial accompanies her into the coolness of the villa. “How is he?”

“Much better … but…”

“But not so much as you’d like?”

“He’s still pale to my eyes.”

“He may be for several days. I’ll see.”

Haesychya smiles gently as she walks through the archway into the north corridor. “I can see you hoped to see someone else. She’s playing plaques with her grandfather. He insisted on it.”

“That’s still a fair improvement. It’s not a strain on him?”

Haesychya shakes her head. “He’s just not … maybe I worry too much.”

All Lerial can say is, “I’ll have to see.”

“How are you doing?”

“Much better. How are you doing?”

“As I can. I doubt you’re back to full strength.”

Her words tell Lerial not to say more, even indirectly, about her loss of her consort and son. “Physically … I’m much, much better. In order-chaos terms, it will take a little longer.”

As close as he is to Haesychya, Lerial can sense, even without trying, a certain sense of chaotic feeling. About her losses? Or about you? About Kyedra? His lips twist into a wry smile. That makes sense, given that he’s possibly saved her father, yet is the “wrong brother.” Then, it’s more likely she’s not even thinking about you. She’s got far greater problems and losses.

As he steps into the study behind Haesychya, Lerial sees that Aenslem is now seated in one of the leather armchairs with the side table before him. Across the table from the merchanter sits Kyedra in a straight-backed chair. Both hold plaques in their hands, and there are small piles of plaques set facedown on each side of the small table. Kyedra looks up and toward the door. Then she smiles warmly as her eyes take in Lerial. Once again, Lerial is amazed at how her smile transforms her from an attractive young woman to a beautiful one, and he can’t help but return the smile.

“I didn’t know you’d be coming again,” Kyedra says, rising from the chair.

“I thought it wise. I wasn’t at my best yesterday afternoon, and I worried that I might have missed something.”

Aenslem chuckles. “Missed something, Lord Lerial?”

Lerial hopes he is not flushing too obviously as he replies. “Even Rhamuel thought I should come.”

“That boy worries too much.”

“He worries when he should,” says Haesychya quietly. “Now you let Lerial look at you. You’re not as strong as you think you are.”

“Haven’t been for years, according to you, daughter.”

Lerial walks over beside Aenslem, all too conscious that Kyedra’s eyes are on him. He lets his order-senses range over the merchanter. While there is clearly less wound/poison chaos within the merchanter, there is still a pocket of more defined chaos lower in Aenslem’s abdomen. “There’s still something there. You’ll have to pardon me once more.” He extends his fingertips to the side of Aenslem’s throat, barely touching the skin, and directs a thin line of order down through the merchanter to the chaos.

He can feel some, if not all, of the chaos, dissipate, but he immediately stops as he senses the possibility of light-headedness.

“That feels better,” the merchanter admits.

“It’s not all gone,” Lerial says, “but that’s all I can do today. The rest of that may vanish on its own. If I can, I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

“If…?” Haesychya looks at Lerial.

“It appears that Duke Khesyn may not be done with his assaults on Afrit.”

“After all the killing … destruction…” Haesychya shakes her head. “I’m forgetting my hospitality. Let me bring you some lager.”

“That would be good,” Lerial admits.

“What have you heard about Khesyn?” demands Aenslem. “No one tells me anything.” The merchanter offers a mock glare at his granddaughter.

“Grandpapa…”

“He used Tourlegyn warriors in many of the battalions he sent against us, and it appears as though he is once more gathering more merchant vessels in Estheld. We’re likely down to the equivalent of perhaps six battalions after all the death and casualties.”

“I told Atroyan he needed warships.” Aenslem snorts.

“It’s hard to build warships without larger tariffs,” Lerial says cautiously.

“I’d pay ’em … so long as everyone else did. Maesoryk … never thought much of him … thought less of his father … he kept saying we didn’t need warships.”

“That’s interesting. The Heldyans used the pier at his tileworks to land their largest force.”

“That…” Redness suffuses Aenslem’s face, as if he is so angry he cannot express himself.

“Grandpapa!”

With Kyedra’s anguished cry, Aenslem exhales abruptly, then begins to cough. After several moments, he stops coughing and wipes spittle off his face with a large cloth. “Sorry … just … never thought much of him.” He looks at Lerial. “Did you kill the bastard?”

“No one’s been able to find him. Commander Sammyl thought he was either dead or a traitor, since he’s never appeared or sent word.”

“Death’d be too good for him.”

“Grandpapa.” This time Kyedra’s voice carries the iron of her mother’s.

“All right, Granddaughter.”

“Anyway,” Lerial adds quickly, “Sammyl’s sent out sail-galleys to scout out Estheld’s harbor. Even a few days’ respite would help. And we’ve sent a battalion to hold the tileworks pier. That would make landing easier.”

“Then they’ll sail to Baiet and march down the shore road. You couldn’t afford to send your battalions that far from Swartheld.”

That makes far too much sense.

“What will you do, then?” asks Kyedra.

“Whatever we can that’s necessary.”

Aenslem nods.

At that moment, Haesychya returns, followed by a serving girl carrying a tray with a large pitcher and four beakers, as well as a small platter of biscuits.

Lerial notices that the serving girl, rather beautiful and well formed, glances toward Aenslem, and then looks away immediately when Kyedra looks toward her.

“Everyone could use a biscuit … or two.” With the last two words Haesychya looks at Lerial.

“I wouldn’t think of not following your suggestion.” Lerial grins as he finishes speaking.

“Good idea,” says Aenslem.

Lerial does enjoy both the lager and the biscuits, and in the end, he has three, in between answering several questions about the Mirror Lancers. He does notice that, if but for a moment, Aenslem’s eyes follow the serving girl when she slips away after a gesture from Haesychya.

He has barely finished the last sip of the lager when Haesychya looks to Kyedra and says, “Why don’t you walk Lerial to the front terrace?”

Kyedra stiffens, if but for a moment, then rises and turns to Lerial.

Lerial stands and addresses Aenslem. “If I can, I’ll be here sometime tomorrow.” Then he turns to Haesychya. “Thank you for the lager and biscuits. They were excellent.”

“You’re more than welcome.” Haesychya inclines her head.

Lerial returns the gesture, then follows Kyedra from the study. He waits until they are several yards from the study door before speaking. “I got your note this morning. You were kind to write, and you have an elegant hand.”

“Mother would not have it any other way.” Kyedra does not look at Lerial. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Might I ask what you mean by that?”

“You may.” There is a long pause, although she still does not look at him. “First, I thought you were just like … my brother, in a way, except older, more polished. Stronger, of course. Then … I heard about everything you’ve done … how many have died because of that … and I couldn’t understand … you seemed to care … but all the deaths…”

Lerial waits, not quite holding his breath.

“You risked your life to protect your men, didn’t you? You could have protected yourself without almost dying. Isn’t that so?”

“How can I answer that, Lady? If I say yes to either, it sounds boastful.”

“You could say no.”

Lerial thinks he detects a hint of mischievousness in her voice. “I’d rather not lie, especially to you.”

“Most men do.”

“I’d prefer not to be most men.”

“That’s what I mean. Mother says you’re older than your years in some ways, and younger in others.”

“Definitely younger in understanding women.” Lerial offers a wry smile.

“That’s also what she said.”

She also said I was the wrong brother. “I think your mother knows a great deal, a very great deal.”

“She doesn’t know everything.”

“None of us do.” Lerial cannot help but recall how little he understood what his parents-or Majer Altyrn-knew … until after Verdheln.

“Will you come tomorrow?”

“If I can. I promised … and I don’t think your grandpapa is as well as either of us would like.”

“You’re sounding like a healer, now.”

Lerial laughs softly. “I suppose I am.”

“I like that, too.”

When they reach the double doors, Kyedra stops. After a moment, she says, “You will take care.”

“As I can, Lady … Kyedra … and thank you.” Lerial realizes he may have stepped toward too much familiarity in using her name, yet “Lady” is too formal. He offers a smile and inclines his head. “Until tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow.”

He turns and walks to where a ranker holds the reins to the gelding. He mounts and looks back to the doors where Kyedra still stands. He has the feeling that Kyedra’s eyes are on him until he rides past the hedgerow flanking the lane near the gates. Or is that just wistful thinking?

But you’re still the wrong brother.