Heritage of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Atroyan is not as Lerial remembers him. The one time Lerial had seen the duke had been in Cigoerne when Lerial was a child. Then Atroyan had seemed tall and lean, with dark brown hair and eyes. The man who sits on the throne-like chair, wearing black trousers and a gold and crimson jacket over a white shirt, has dark gray hair with but a few streaks of brown. His brown eyes are sunken, and his shoulders are stooped. His smile is warm, and his eyes light up as he looks over his visitor.

  “Lerial … such a change from the last time, except for the unruly red hair. You look every bit the officer my brother has portrayed.” Even Atroyan’s voice is slightly raspy.

  Was it that way when he came to Cigoerne? Although Lerial cannot be absolutely certain, he recalls Atroyan’s voice then being more like Rhamuel’s, warm and full. “I would hope so, ser, since I have served as such for the last six years.”

  Atroyan does not laugh, but does smile, almost tentatively, then nods almost brusquely. “Rather effectively, I hear. This last time, I understand, most effectively against the hordes raised by that mongrel Khesyn.”

  “We did the best we could, ser, as did Subcommander Ascaar and Subcommander Drusyn and their officers and men.”

  “So I heard. So I heard. And that is good. Very good.” After a long pause, Atroyan asks, “Your family is well, I trust?”

  “The last I heard, all were well, but that was almost half a season ago.”

  “Does your father still command the Lancers?”

  “He remains in overall command, ser. He has left most of the daily patrolling that he once did to Lephi and me.”

  “Wise man. Fortunate man, too.” A brighter smile crosses the duke’s face, although his right eye twitches several times. “I should formally welcome you to Afrit and Swartheld … and I do. We must talk more in a less formal setting. You’ll have refreshments and then dinner with the family tonight, I would hope.”

  “I’d be honored and delighted, ser.”

  “Excellent! Excellent. Half past fifth glass in the family salon.” Atroyan nods once more. “I will see you then.”

  “Thank you, ser. I look forward to that.” Lerial inclines his head politely once more. He does not intend to back out of the chamber, but neither does he wish to immediately turn his back on the duke. He compromises by taking two steps backward, inclining his head once more, and then turning and walking to the door—which opens as he nears it, suggesting that the outer door guard, or someone, has been watching.

  Since it is just after fourth glass, Lerial has more than a little time, and not that much to do, before he is expected at the duke’s family salon … wherever that may be. Once the receiving room door is closed, he turns to his escort. “If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate a tour of the palace, not anywhere private, just so that I have a general idea where most places are that I might have to be.”

  “Ah … yes, ser.”

  “I’m supposed to meet the duke at the family salon later. Could you take us there, or reasonably close?”

  “Yes, ser. As I can, ser.”

  The one area it is clear he will not tour is the southeastern section of the fourth level, which is blocked off with heavy barrels. Lerial approaches the stacked barrels, all of which appear to be recently coopered, so recently that there is still an odd woody odor, something like a cross between cork and cinnamon. But the wood of neither tree is suitable for making barrels.

  Maybe that’s incense to mute the smells of the ongoing work. Beyond the barrels, stacked two deep, he sees two palace guards, and beyond them a carpenter working on a crown molding.

  Lerial nods and turns away, following his guide.

  Just walking around the third and fourth levels of the palace takes more than a glass, but Lerial has a far better idea of the layout of the massive palace. The duke’s family quarters appear to comprise essentially the southern half of the “east palace’s” fourth level. Beyond that, Lerial gains the impression that a great many chambers, just on the two upper levels, are essentially empty or at best, used only occasionally, and in places there is a certain odor of mustiness. Even so, the time it takes just to walk around two levels emphasizes just how large the palace is. Certainly, all the chambers on all three levels of his father’s palace in Cigoerne would easily fit just within one of the upper levels of Swartheld palace.

  By the time he approaches the family salon, a few moments before the appointed time, Lerial has spent more than enough time walking along corridors seemingly populated only by a palace guard or two or a servant hurrying one way or another.

  He enters the family salon, past yet another guard, through a recessed archway. As soon as he steps into the chamber, he can see that it is far more cheerful than what else he has seen of the palace. The walls are plaster painted the palest shade of rose, and the far end has a set of double glass-paned doors that open onto a terrace facing the bay. There is a large oval carpet with a design of interwoven foliage and flowers in shades of rose and soft brown. Where the carpet does not cover the floor, the wood is also a polished light brown, as is the wood from which the furniture is made. All the chairs and settees are upholstered in rose, and there are two sideboards, on which are crystal goblets and beakers, and a number of crystal pitchers as well, with what appear to be red and white wines, as well as light and dark lager.

  “Lord Lerial, welcome.” The greeting comes from the single person in the room, a slender woman with blond hair carrying a tint of rose, rather than the strawberry Mesphaes had mentioned. She does not wear a head scarf, but then, the palace is her home. Her eyes are a surprising black. Despite the fact that she must be at least the age of his mother, Lerial can see no hint of gray in her hair.

  “Lady Haesychya … Thank you.” Lerial inclines his head. “And please, no ‘Lord.’”

  “Then … no ‘Lady,’ either.”

  “As you wish,” Lerial replies as warmly and gently as he can.

  “Having heard of your exploits, I had forgotten how young you are. I suspect Kyedra has as well.”

  Not wanting to address that, since any response he can immediately think of would be unsuitable, Lerial merely smiles and says, “I had not expected to find you here alone.”

  “Oh … I’m not. Kyedra and Natroyor are out on the terrace. Atroyan will be here shortly. He’s always had difficulty in arriving on time for family affairs, even for refreshments or dinner.” She turns as a young woman steps through the open terrace doors. “Here comes Kyedra.”

  Lerial inclines his head in greeting, taking in the young woman with the black hair and eyes, and the slightly olive skin. She is a digit or two shorter than her mother, but with slightly larger bones, Lerial thinks, making her somewhat more muscular, if still trim. Her nose is straight, if slightly stronger than he recalls, as is her chin, but her skin is clear and unblemished. Her face is a gentle oval, and she is pleasant to look at, if not a raving beauty. But neither are you the handsomest fellow to ride into town.

  “You might remember Lerial from your time in Cigoerne.”

  At that comment, Kyedra smiles, if slightly ruefully, but the expression transforms her face almost into radiance. “I must say I don’t recall much except your kindness … and, well, your hair. I wasn’t all that happy.”

  “You did get a bit tart when I didn’t describe my grandmere to your satisfaction.” Lerial grins.

  Kyedra drops her eyes. “I hoped you wouldn’t remember that.”

  “That’s all right. I avoided answering some of your questions.”

  “Not exactly. You just didn’t finish some sentences.”

  Lerial laughs. “That’s true.”

  “What, might I ask, is true?” asks Natroyor as he slips past his sister and stops, inclining his head in greeting to Lerial. The heir is actually a touch shorter than his sister, and more slightly built, with a narrower face, framed by straight dark brown hair. His eyes are a muddy brown, and there is a slight darkness under them.

  Lerial immediately tries to sense the
presence of chaos or wound chaos. He cannot, but he does gain the impression that the heir carries less order strength than he should. “That I left some sentences unfinished the last time your sister and I spoke.”

  Natroyor does smile, and the expression is nearly identical to that of his father. “Welcome. I’ve heard about you. You must tell me how you’ve managed so much on the battlefield.”

  “He will,” says Haesychya quickly, “but not at the moment. We’ll not be talking of fighting and war now or at dinner.”

  “Why not?” asks Natroyor. “We’re fighting one now, and so is Cigoerne.”

  Lerial detects a certain sulkiness in the young man’s words, but that is overshadowed by the chaotic feelings from his mother, although Haesychya’s face remains almost serene, and she says nothing. Since she does not speak, Lerial does. “Because your mother expressed a preference, and I intend to honor it.”

  Natroyor looks stunned, if but for a moment.

  Before the young man can speak, Lerial turns back to Kyedra. “You never met my sister, as I recall, nor my cousin Amaira.”

  “I never had that privilege.”

  “I’m not sure it would have been a privilege to meet Ryalah then,” Lerial replies, “since she was only two. Even Amaira would only have been four.”

  “I didn’t meet your brother, either. They said he was ill with a flux.”

  “You’d never know that now,” replies Lerial. “He’s also an overcaptain in the Mirror Lancers, in charge of the post at Sudstrym.”

  “Which of you is better with a blade?” demands Natroyor.

  “The answer would likely depend on which of us you asked … but I believe we were talking about family. Have you ever accompanied your uncles on hunting trips or elsewhere?”

  “Just to Lake Reomer and a few other places. Mostly with Uncle Mykel and his friend Oestyn…”

  The mention of Oestyn’s name, whoever he may be, and the flutter of chaos from Haesychya suggests certain … aspects of Mykel’s inclinations.

  “… They say that since I’m the only heir, I must be careful. You and your bother are lucky to have each other.”

  “We still have to be careful. None of us ever commands Lancers in the same place at the same time. That includes my father.”

  “You see,” says Haesychya gently, “there are similar rules in other duchies.”

  “I’m late … again!” calls Atroyan from the archway to the salon. “Or rather, we’re late.” He gestures to Rhamuel.

  “Not terribly,” replies Haesychya. “We’ve been having a pleasant talk with Lerial.”

  “Except he won’t talk about real things,” murmurs Natroyor, in such a low voice that Lerial doubts anyone hears his words other than Kyedra and himself.

  With Natroyor’s words, Lerial cannot help but think about the times the silver mists of death have washed across him. You only think you want to hear about them.

  “He’s seen a great deal,” says Rhamuel warmly, before turning to Kyedra. “You’re more beautiful every time I see you.”

  Lerial can almost sense what Rhamuel has not said, that he wishes he could see his own daughter.

  “Uncle Rham … you’re impossible,” banters Kyedra.

  “No. Merely difficult. Unlike Lerial, who is neither impossible nor difficult … just inscrutable.”

  “Pour yourself some wine, Rham,” orders Atroyan as he fills his goblet with a generous amount of the dark red wine, before looking at Lerial. “You don’t have anything to drink.”

  “Which lager would you recommend?”

  “If you like the bitters, the dark. If you don’t, the light.”

  “Definitely the light,” suggests Rhamuel.

  Lerial moves to the sideboard and looks to Haesychya and then Kyedra. “Might I pour something for either of you?”

  “No, thank you,” replies Atroyan’s consort. “While I like either wine or lager, neither likes me.”

  “The light lager, if you would.” Kyedra smiles and adds, “Just half a beaker, please.”

  Lerial pours two half beakers of the light lager, a pale golden shade. The last thing he needs is to drink too much, especially inadvertently. He checks the beverages for chaos, but senses none, and then hands one beaker to Kyedra, waiting until she takes a sip before he does the same. He has to admit that the lager is excellent, possibly even better than that of the majer. “Excellent lager.”

  “My father would have no other,” says Natroyor proudly.

  “You have outstanding taste,” says Lerial to Atroyan, “I imagine the wines are just as superb.”

  “The Reoman red—that’s what I have—is indeed,” replies the duke. “The Halyn white … it is merely good.”

  Rhamuel makes a face. “That might be an exaggeration, on both counts. The Halyn white is as good a white as the Reoman is a red.”

  Haesychya offers the smallest of headshakes, accompanied by a fondly rueful expression that vanishes immediately.

  “What have you been telling my son?” asks Atroyan.

  “Only about family … well, really, just about my sister Ryalah and my cousin Amaira, and a bit about my older brother Lephi.”

  “Do you two look alike?” asks Haesychya.

  “Most brothers share some likeness. I suppose we do, but he got the blond hair from our mother, and I got the freckles.”

  “Is your father red-haired, then?” asks Natroyor. “It must come from somewhere.”

  “From my grandmere and my aunt. They both had red hair.”

  Natroyor looks at Rhamuel, almost dubiously.

  The arms-commander nods. “They both do … did.”

  “There were many redheads in Cyador, according to the history,” interjects Kyedra.

  “There are still quite a few in Cigoerne,” replies Lerial. Among the Magi’i, anyway.

  “What do you think Duke Khesyn will do?” asks Atroyan abruptly as he settles into one of the armchairs and motions for Lerial to take the one facing him.

  The question startles Lerial, especially after Haesychya’s insistence on not speaking about fighting and war. Maybe that’s because she knew what her consort would want to talk about. “I’m not certain anyone can say what he will do,” Lerial says cautiously as he seats himself. “At the least, I think he will continue attacks of some sort, if only raids, on both Afrit and Cigoerne.”

  Rhamuel nods as he takes an adjoining chair, while Haesychya and Kyedra share the settee.

  “You don’t think he will launch an all-out attack?”

  “Sooner or later, I think that is likely, ser.” Lerial smiles wryly. “I have no idea when sooner or later might be.” He wonders why Rhamuel has not spoken, but assumes that the brothers have already spoken about that.

  “Neither does anyone else, I fear,” responds the duke. “It makes matters less certain than a throw of the bones.” He turns to Haesychya. “What do you think, my dear?”

  “He will attack until he is stopped. That is his nature.”

  “Why do you think that, Mother?” asks Kyedra.

  The very fact that she asks the question suggests to Lerial that such matters are not normally discussed in the family salon.

  “Khesyn wants to rule all of Hamor. Afrit is the greatest bar to that. He also dislikes Cigoerne because he blames Duke Kiedron for the loss of his niece.”

  “The loss of his niece?” asks Lerial. “That is something I’ve not heard.”

  “She fled his palace years and years ago, only a short time after Cigoerne … was … established. Word reached the duke that she had taken refuge with relatives in Amaershyn, but she and her sister attempted to flee once more before his men arrived. Somehow, the sister died, but the favored niece found a boat and paddled into the river. She headed for Cigoerne. The Heldyans gave chase. The Cyadoran fireship destroyed them, and days later the duke’s men found her ruined boat and some of her garments on a mudbar.”

  Lerial manages only to nod, hoping he has concealed the shock at what H
aesychya has revealed. Was that niece Maeroja? How could it not be? Yet … will he ever know?

  “If she was so favored…?” Kyedra frowns, then goes on, “Or was it because she was perhaps too favored?”

  Rhamuel hides an amused smile.

  Haesychya’s expression turns cold for a moment. “We will not guess about such matters. What is of import is that Khesyn wishes to destroy both Duke Kiedron and your father, and all those related to either. I suggest we need not discuss that aspect of matters more.”

  “As you wish, my dear,” replies Atroyan almost affably. “I will ask Lerial his opinion of the Heldyan armsmen, however.”

  “From what I have seen,” Lerial says, “those we have fought in the south, and those who attacked Luba, are likely not the very best of his armsmen. Those who attacked Luba were better than some of those who have harassed Cigoerne, some of whom are from the nomad clans far to the south or from eastern Atla.”

  “But your father only sent three companies,” interjects Natroyor, an interjection so smooth that Lerial has no doubts it was planned, since it is not a question Atroyan would wish to ask himself.

  “It is not just the quality of armsmen that Heldya sends against us,” replies Lerial. “It is the number. The length of the west bank of the River Swarth that we must defend is almost as long as that which Afrit must defend, and we have far fewer people … and, I must admit, we are less prosperous. The Heldyans, if not intercepted immediately, lay waste to hamlets and individual dwellings and cots. Even with the companies we have posted along the river, we are often outnumbered. Fortunately, our men are better trained.”

  “As I recall,” begins Atroyan, fingering his chin as if trying to remember something, “you are what, twenty-two?”

  Lerial nods.

  “Yet you were sent out as an undercaptain more than six years ago, and you have commanded lancers since then. Is that not so?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  For just a moment, Kyedra’s mouth opens, then quickly closes.

  “How many men have you killed?” asks Natroyor.

  This interruption was clearly not planned, because the heir’s mother and father both turn toward him. Even Rhamuel frowns.