Cyador’s Heirs

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  Lerial recalls that … but only after her reminder.

  “Anyway … that’s why you can’t show your father … or Lephi. He takes after Kiedron in that respect.”

  That was something Lerial does not know, and already he has a glimmering of an idea as to why Emerya may be able to help him.

  “I’m going to show you something, but you’ll have to watch, with your thoughts, the way you do when you sense chaos. Look at the back of my hand.”

  Lerial does so. For a moment, he can see or sense nothing. Then … there is a black fuzziness.

  “That’s what gathering order looks like. Try to feel what I’m doing.”

  Sensing what Emerya is doing is far harder than merely observing the result of what she has done, and in moments Lerial can feel the sweat beading on his forehead. “You see why I said this would take time and work?”

  “I do.”

  “You can stop now.” Emerya waits a moment, as if to allow Lerial to gather his thoughts and recover, then says, “A good healer only uses order when necessary. For small and shallow wounds that can be cleaned well and quickly, it’s better to do that. Clear strong spirits are generally best, but garlic juice will also do, but that can be painful and may require holding the injured man when you apply either spirits or garlic. Then bind the wound and watch. If there is a dull red that strengthens you can apply free order … but there is great danger in that, because trying to draw too much free order will take it from you … and can kill you. That is why healers are trained slowly and carefully, so that they have experience in knowing how much order is needed and how much they can spare. You are not to attempt any healing except with me or another trained healer watching. Do you understand?”

  Lerial nods.

  “For the next eightday, I want you to watch people the way you just watched me. You’re to sense what you can about the order and the chaos in them or around them. You’re to do that without actually looking at them. Most times you won’t sense more than a white fuzziness or a vague black fuzziness. If you sense more than that, don’t say anything to them, but tell me each evening. You’re to come and meet with me for a bit every night that you can for the next eightday. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, ser.” The honorific slips out before Lerial can catch it.

  Emerya does not correct him, but only says, “That’s all for tonight. Go and get some sleep. That will help all those bruises. Also, I wouldn’t spar with Lephi tomorrow.”

  “I won’t.” Lerial pauses, then adds, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Emerya smiles.

  As Lerial leaves and walks back toward his own small sleeping chamber, he realizes that he had sensed—or had the feeling—that Emerya has more than one reason for not wanting him to spar with Lephi on threeday.

  II

  The next morning at breakfast, Lerial concentrates on trying to see either order or chaos patterns in others, beginning with his mother, who has just enough chaos in her system that he senses her as a dark, dark gray—as opposed to his father and Lephi, who, while not a brilliant white, seem to be an off-white. Ryalah and Amaira are close to pure black, as is Emerya, although Ryalah is slightly darker than either her cousin or her aunt. In making his observations, Lerial is especially careful not to look in his aunt’s direction. For the next five days, Lerial follows his aunt’s instructions as well as he can, reporting to her every evening, when he learns a bit more at each meeting about healing.

  On oneday morning, he makes his way into the study off the southern courtyard to meet with Saltaryn, the magus in charge of his instruction in not only reading, writing, mathematics, and rhetoric, but in the understanding and use of chaos and order. Saltaryn stands beside the circular table. He is sandy haired and perhaps twenty-six or twenty-seven. Like all Magi’i he wears white with the crossed lightnings on the breast of his summer tunic.

  “Good morning, ser,” offers Lerial, as he always does.

  “Good morning, Lerial.” Saltaryn does not smile, but asks, “What have you been doing over the past eightday?”

  “Ser? I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. I’ve done the same things every day as I always do … except I haven’t sparred with Lephi this eightday. I was too bruised to do that for several days, and he’s been riding on a patrol the past few.”

  “Hmmm … Oh, well. These things happen.”

  “What things, might I ask, ser?”

  “You’re manifesting more order than chaos, and that’s … not … usual for one of the Magi’i … unless you’re an order magus or an iron magus. Noerant hasn’t been instructing you, has he?”

  “Magus Noerant, ser? No, ser. I scarcely even ever see him.”

  “Well … let’s get on with your lessons.” Saltaryn gestures toward the table, then seats himself.

  Lerial sits across from the magus and waits.

  Saltaryn takes the candle in the brass holder and sets it between them. “Watch the candle, and tell me what you see.” He concentrates, and the wick flares into flame.

  Lerial can sense the flash of red-white chaos, as well as the thinnest edging of chaos.

  “Well?” asks the white wizard.

  “You lit the wick with chaos.”

  “Just with chaos?”

  “Almost entirely. I think … I think there was a tiny bit of order directing the chaos.”

  “Of course. Without direction, chaos is formless. But the less order you can use, the stronger the chaos.”

  “Doesn’t it take more order to control greater amounts of chaos?” asks Lerial.

  “It does, but the way a magus handles that order makes a difference. Some require much more order.” Saltaryn concentrates, and the candle flame flares and vanishes.

  Lerial manages not to frown, surprised that the white wizard has used more chaos to extinguish the flame than it took to light it.

  “I want you to try to light the candle,” Saltaryn says.

  “How?”

  “Try to imitate what I did. Focus a tiny bit of chaos at the tip of the candlewick.”

  Lerial has his doubts, but if Saltaryn can do that, it can be done … and Lephi must have done it as well, since his brother can manage some small bolts of chaos.

  By the time he leaves the study, Lerial is exhausted. His entire body is covered with sweat, and his undertunic is soaked. But he has managed to light the candle, time after time.

  Lighting a candle isn’t the same as throwing firebolts. But it is a start.

  Since Lephi is not around, Lerial has to practice with someone else, and that ends up being Undercaptain Woelyt—and Woelyt is better than Lephi … and not at all sympathetic. By the time Lerial reaches Emerya’s quarters after dinner, his entire body aches once more.

  “You’ve been sparring today?” asks Emerya when she leaves the bedchamber and closes the door.

  “Not with Lephi. Undercaptain Woelyt.”

  His aunt shakes her head. “And working with chaos?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Because there are chaos fragments swirling around and through you.” She shakes her head once more. “You can do it that way, but if you keep it up you’ll be dead long before you’re even my age.”

  “Father isn’t dead. Neither are you.”

  “Healers don’t handle chaos, and I don’t deal with order that way either, since it shortens one’s life, if not as much as with chaos. Your father doesn’t have the strength you and Lephi have. That comes from your mother.”

  “Father can throw firebolts, more than Lephi can.”

  “Not that many, and not for that long, and he can do it better than Lephi right now because he has better control. Lephi will be stronger when he’s older.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “What have you been doing for the past days? Haven’t you seen?”

  Lerial frowns.

  “Have you observed your father and Lephi together? Which one glows whiter?”

  “Lephi. I thought tha
t was because he’s younger.”

  “That’s partly true, but not as much as people think. The ability to handle chaos and order requires a certain skill. Some people have more than others, and it tends to be passed from parents to children. Your grandsire wouldn’t have been considered as a magus if he hadn’t been Emperor. He had that little ability as a magus. Your grandmother would have been a strong healer if she’d been born to the poorest tradesman or crafter in Cyad.”

  “That doesn’t solve anything. Lephi—”

  “I am trying to help you. Complaining and whining won’t help.”

  “What am I supposed to do? I’m of the Magi’i,” replies Lerial, a touch of bitterness in his words. “I’m supposed to be a white wizard who can handle a blade with the best.”

  “You could be a stronger gray magus and still handle a blade. You just can’t do it the same way Lephi and your father do. Can you observe the Lancers sparring without being seen?”

  “I can’t do concealments yet, and I didn’t know there were gray Magi’i.”

  “They have never been many. Most ended up as Mirror Lancer officers. Lorn was likely one. These days, no one is likely to say anything, especially since you’re not the eldest. I didn’t mean you should try a concealment. I just want you to watch some of them spar. Try to sense how order and chaos move around them. You should see a pattern.”

  “What sort of pattern?”

  Emerya shakes her head, then picks up a small cloth bag tied tightly at the top with twine. She tosses it to Lerial. He catches it without thinking. It is filled with sand.

  “Toss it back.”

  Lerial does so.

  “Close your eyes. Go ahead. Close them. Now try to catch the bag.”

  The bag bounces off his hands. He opens his eyes, then bends and scoops the bag off the woven grass carpet, dyed in green and white, before straightening up.

  “Concentrate on me, not the bag. Keep your eyes closed and toss the bag back to me,” orders Emerya.

  Lerial closes his eyes and lofts the bag back toward where she had been.

  “Lerial! I moved. Keep trying to sense where I am.”

  At the end of close to half a glass Lerial is again soaked in sweat … but by then he has a good feel for where the bag will be—and where Emerya is—by the way order flows around her.

  “How will this help?”

  “Do you need light to see what I’m doing?”

  “Oh…”

  “If you can sense where someone is when the light is bad…”

  Lerial nods.

  “That’s not the only reason, but you aren’t good enough yet for the second one to be obvious. You’ll have to trust me on that.”

  Lerial smiles. “I can do that.” For you.

  “Now … there’s something else you need to think about. Chaos comes in different shades of red,” explains Emerya. “Tomorrow…” She shakes her head. “No … tomorrow won’t work. Nor threeday. On fourday, you’ll come to the Hall of Healing after your lessons. I’ll arrange that with Saltaryn and your mother. While you’re there, you can see some of the differing shades of chaos. Order isn’t quite the same.”

  “It’s all black, but…” Lerial frowns. “Aren’t there different shades? In some people, it’s like the black is deeper, even though it feels like there’s no difference in the color.”

  “How do you know that?” asked his aunt. “I’ve never mentioned that.”

  “Ryalah is a brighter black than Amaira. I thought that was because she was younger.”

  This time, Emerya is the one to frown. “You definitely need more training in order and chaos, especially in order. That might be a problem.” After a moment, she adds, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention that to anyone quite yet.”

  “I won’t. Will you tell me when I can talk about it?”

  “I will.” Emerya smiles. “Go and get a good night’s sleep. You need it.”

  After he leaves his aunt’s rooms, Lerial realizes that Emerya has never responded directly to his observation about Amaira not showing as deep a sense of order blackness as did Ryalah. Because her father wasn’t of the Magi’i? Or for some other reason? And why was she disturbed about your being able to feel different degrees of order blackness?

  He shakes his head, thinking about how complicated things are getting just because he’d told his aunt about his troubles in sparring with Lephi. Or would they have gotten complicated anyway?

  III

  On fourday, after breakfast, but well before midmorning, Lerial stands outside the stables off the north courtyard of the palace, holding the reins of the brown gelding that has been his mount for the past five years, despite Lephi’s scarcely veiled suggestions that a stallion might be more appropriate. He wears the pale green summer trousers and tunic that are worn by either Lancer or healer trainees, not that there are many men who are healers. He has picked a spot where he and the gelding can stand in the narrow shadows that are shrinking moment by moment as he waits for Emerya.

  For an instant, he does not recognize the rider who approaches, followed by two Lancer guards, because Emerya is wearing a filmy but largely opaque head scarf that hides her red-streaked, silver-white hair. He immediately mounts and urges the gelding to move up beside his aunt, who is riding a mare, if one nearly as large as Lerial’s gelding.

  “I’m glad you’re ready,” Emerya says. “Your father had a few questions I had to answer before I left.”

  “About me coming with you?”

  “He didn’t know about that until I told him. When I said it was necessary for you to get better control of your abilities and that I’d talked to Magus Saltaryn, he just nodded. No … there were other matters we discussed. If you want to know what they are, you’ll have to ask him.”

  Lerial manages not to frown, since Emerya has to know that he isn’t about to ask his father about anything unless Kiedron brings up the subject first. But then, that’s why she said it that way, rather than just saying she wouldn’t tell you.

  The courtyard gates are open, and guarded but by a pair of Lancers, both to the eye not that much older than Lerial. Neither gives Emerya, Lerial, or the two Lancer guards more than a passing glance.

  Once on the main square in front of the palace, Emerya turns her mare to the left toward the boulevard leading northeast. On the right is the Ministry—the building that holds the high minister, and the tariff inspectors and the well-guarded treasury on the lower level. As he rides past the two-story structure, Lerial looks ahead. While he knows that the Hall of Healing is on a low rise overlooking the river piers, and has even ridden past it more than a few times, he has never been inside the sandstone walls, let alone into the Hall itself.

  “What are you going to do today?” he asks.

  “What I always do every day. I try to heal people. What you will do is to observe closely and say nothing until I ask you a question or give you permission to speak. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Good. I don’t want to have to remind you when others are around.”

  Lerial can understand that, and he wouldn’t want to be corrected in front of others, especially healers. He is always happy to be out of the palace, and he begins to study both sides of the boulevard.

  Although his parents and Emerya have all assured him that, as cities go, Cigoerne is small, it does not seem that small to Lerial. The palace is located on a flattened ridge almost two kays west of the Swarth River, with the Square of the Magi’i directly before it on the east side. East of the square, beyond the walls around the Ministry, stretching somewhat to the north and south, are larger dwellings, all of two stories, and all with center courtyards and fountains. These house the families of the Magi’i and those of the more senior Lancer officers, those whose rank is overcaptain and higher. As a practical matter, only the majer and the submajers, past and present, have dwellings anywhere close to the square, not that there are even a handful of them.

  Even farther eas
t and extending north and south as well are the dwellings of the merchanters. Even closer to the river, and lower, if not low enough to worry about the infrequent floods of the Swarth River, are the houses and shops of the crafters. Just behind the river piers are the structures housing the warehouses and factorages of the merchanters, as well as the shops of various tradesmen.

  Lerial remains silent for a time as they ride down the boulevard, which leads directly to the Hall of Healing, just as the boulevard that angles southeast from the square leads to the headquarters of the Lancers, also located on a low rise above the river, with piers for the Lancer river patrol craft below the rise. Finally, he asks, “You never really answered my question about why the Hall of Healing is so far from the palace.”

  Emerya laughs softly. “You asked that years ago. You couldn’t have been more than ten. Do you recall every question you asked when you were told you needed to be older to understand?”

  Lerial smiles at the good-humored tone in her voice. “Probably not … but I remember the ones I thought were important.”

  “Sometimes those are the best to remember, but not always. Sometimes, the questions we forget to ask are the ones that are the most important.”

  Lerial has to think about that for a moment, then realizes that Emerya has still not answered his question. “Why is the Hall of Healing—”

  “Who needs healing the most?”

  “Everyone needs healers at times.”

  “What happens if you need a healer? Or your father? How many healers are there in the palace?”

  “Oh … the poorer people don’t have that many healers, and the Hall is closer to them?” Lerial pauses. “Then why didn’t you tell me that then?”

  “I did. You said that there had to be another reason.”

  Lerial doesn’t remember that, but he can sense that there is no evasion in his aunt’s reply. “Then there must have been.”

  “There is. There are several. Would you care to think what they might be?”