Cyador’s Heirs

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “You can’t order them…?” says Xeranya.

  “I’d rather not. If I do, then I’ll have to punish those who don’t. If I punish them enough that they understand, they won’t be in any condition to dig ditches … or harvest their crops.”

  “What about having some of the Mirror Lancer trainees, the rankers, that is,” suggests Emerya, “work on some of the ditches?”

  “Majer Phortyn is already assigning that duty for disciplinary punishment. That will help some, but not enough. He’s always believed in punishment tasks, rather than flogging.”

  “With his background, how could he not?” asks Emerya.

  “He’s worked hard.” Kiedron gives his sister a hard glance.

  Lerial wonders what lies behind the look, but says nothing.

  “Could some of the Magi’i help, Father?” asks Ryalah, timidly.

  Kiedron laughs, heartily. “I would that they could, little one, but using chaos to dig in the earth is tiring, and there are better uses for the Magi’i.”

  Also, reflects Lerial, earth tends to absorb chaos, so that chaos isn’t that helpful in digging through soil. In the moment of silence that follows, he turns to his father. “Why weren’t there any Magi’i in the Mirror Lancers … or in our Lancers?”

  “There were more Magi’i in Cyador. It was a far bigger land, but we still have Mirror Lancers.”

  “But we don’t have firelances or mirror shields.”

  “They’re still Mirror Lancers, and their training and tactics are better than any other troopers in Hamor or Candar … or anywhere else,” replies Kiedron. “We have over fifteen companies now to protect our people. That’s another reason why Cigoerne has grown and prospered.”

  “And because Grandmother chose where we could settle wisely?”

  “That’s true, but it doesn’t matter how well you choose if you can’t hold and defend what you have.” Kiedron’s voice is jovial, but Lerial can sense, both by the slight edge to his father’s words and by the increase in the chaos surrounding him, that Lerial’s question has annoyed him.

  “Strong Lancers are everything,” adds Lephi in a pontificating tone.

  Lerial debates contesting that, saying that Lancers cannot defend if they don’t have a strong land with crops and herds, and crafters to support them, but he decides against speaking out.

  “I understand you’ve been most diligent in your sparring,” Kiedron looks at Lerial and goes on, in an almost patronizing tone. “If you keep working you might even be their commander when Lephi is ruler of Cigoerne.”

  Lerial keeps a pleasant smile on his face. I hope that’s a long time coming. “You didn’t tell me why there are no healers—”

  “Men aren’t supposed to be healers, except maybe if they’re officers, and they can do a little healing for wounded men. Healers feel too much to be effective fighters…” Kiedron shakes his head. “Feeling pain and suffering is necessary to be a good healer, but all that feeling would keep a Lancer from being effective in battle.”

  From beside her brother, where Kiedron is not looking, Emerya gives Lerial the smallest of headshakes. Lerial represses a smile.

  “Besides,” adds Lephi, “people think healers aren’t strong, and it wouldn’t be good for us if the barbarians think our officers are weak.”

  “There’s strength, and there’s strength,” Emerya says calmly. “It takes a certain kind of strength to face wounds and fluxes and blood all over everything and to do the best you can do … and know that it might not be enough. I’ve seen Lancers able to cut down barbarians with ease pale and almost faint when they see a woman or a child who’s been badly hurt and bleeding all over everything.”

  Surprisingly, at least to Lerial, his mother nods at Emerya’s words.

  Kiedron almost frowns, Lerial thinks.

  Instead, his father declares firmly, “We need both kinds of strength.” Then he turns to Xeranya. “What might we be having for dinner?”

  Even as he understands that his father has ended any further discussion of healers, Lancers, and strength, Lerial wonders why his father has done so.

  VII

  Lerial wakes early on eightday, but does not rise immediately. Instead, he lies on top of the covers, trying to cool off, because even before dawn on the third level of the palace the air is so still and hot that it might well be an oven, but the sheet gets damper with each moment, and he sits up. He does not cool down, not when there is no breeze coming through the windows, but at least when he sits up, he gets no hotter and his sweat doesn’t soak the sheet.

  As he sits there looking toward the window, and the heat-silvered green-blue sky beyond, he cannot help but worry. Since his father had stopped Emerya’s comments about healers, Kiedron had not said a single word to Lerial, either in the courtyard or at dinner … or after. Lerial cannot remember that ever happening. Ever.

  Finally, he stands, then walks slowly to his dressing chamber, where he washes and dresses, wearing the lightest cotton undertunic and tunic that he has. Then he slips from his rooms and makes his way to the back stairs, moving as quietly as he can down to the family breakfast room. He hears nothing, suggesting that no one else is up yet, but when he steps into it, he stops short, for his father is sitting alone at the end of the table.

  Kiedron gestures, pointing to the chair beside him.

  Lerial swallows, then walks to the chair and seats himself.

  “It’s time we had a talk, Lerial.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Kiedron turns in his chair to face his son directly. “Your mother and I think that you need to spend some time away from Cigoerne.”

  “Ser? To Afrit?”

  Kiedron shakes his head. “I wouldn’t send you that far now. I mean outside the city.”

  Lerial understands the reasons why his father has never called the lands he holds anything other than Cigoerne, particularly given the uneasy relations between Cigoerne and Afrit, although, properly speaking, only the small city on the Swarth River is Cigoerne. That ambiguity can be confusing at times, but his father has declared that it is something they will have to live with for a time yet.

  “You need to see how life is away from here.”

  Lerial is still thinking about what his father has said—that he wouldn’t send Lerial that far now. That suggests he might in the future.

  “Lerial…”

  “I’m sorry, ser. I was thinking about what you said.” Before his father can say more, he adds, “I’ve seen much of the duchy, ser.”

  “There’s seeing, and there’s understanding. Tomorrow, we’ll be riding to Teilyn. You need to experience another side of life. I’ve made arrangements for you to stay with Majer Altyrn.”

  “Majer Altyrn? I thought…”

  “That he was dead? Far from it. He is older than your grandmother would be, but in good health, and he has lands and a nice dwelling, a villa, really. He has no sons, only daughters, and they’re between your age and Ryalah’s. He’s agreed to have you—they call it fostering in Afrit and Heldya—and to teach you more about arms and tactics … and about managing lands and other things.”

  Leaving the Palace … and Aunt Emerya?

  “But…” Lerial bites off what he might have said, instead just asking, “Why?”

  Kiedron takes a deep breath, one of the few times Lerial has ever seen him do so, a sign that his father is anything but pleased.

  Is that because you question him … or because you’ve really displeased him?

  “I’ll excuse that question. The fact that you asked it is reason enough, although your question is another indication of why we feel this is necessary. This is not my decision alone. I’ve talked it over with your mother and even with your aunt. All three of us agree that this will be good for you.”

  Even Emerya? Lerial can sense the truth of his father’s words. The fact that his aunt agrees with his father to send him away feels like a betrayal. Why would she agree to that? Why?

  “Lerial … it is
never good to act out of anger. Nor to learn out of anger. What one does and what one learns are colored by anger. You are of the elthage, and you would be Magi’i even if you were not my son. Using chaos with a clear mind is difficult enough. Trying to master even a modest ability with anger and rage will lead to trouble and more trouble … and most likely an early death.”

  But I’m not angry at everyone, just at Lephi … and that you don’t see how he manipulates everyone … just because he’s older and handsomer and charming when he wants to be.

  “You’re angry now. I can see that. Anger isn’t good for a magus. It isn’t good for a Mirror Lancer, and it’s even worse for a man who will give commands or orders to either. Unless you come to understand that, you won’t be very good at anything. That’s another reason why you need to be away from the palace.”

  Lerial does not reply.

  “Lerial … have you nothing to say?”

  “No, ser.” Not anything you want to hear.

  “Young man … with every moment your actions show why you need to leave. I won’t say more, except that I hope you think over why this is so.”

  “Yes, ser. I promise to think it over.” Except that I’ve thought it over more than you can imagine, and it still comes out the same way.

  “Good.” Kiedron nods toward the sideboard, where melon slices have been set out on a platter, as well as fresh bread, and some cheese. “Get yourself some breakfast. After that, pack up some of your garments. You’ll need riding gear, and work clothes and your heavy boots. Two sets of good green tunics and trousers should be more than enough. In addition to learning from Majer Altyrn, you’ll be doing the duties a son would be doing. The experience will be good for you.”

  “Yes, ser.” And you and Lephi will be happy that troublesome Lerial is out of sight and out of mind. Lerial stands, inclines his head politely, and then makes his way to the sideboard. The melon slices are pomats, juicy but small and not quite bitter, and definitely not his favorites, and the fresh bread is rye, rather than the dark sweet loaves he prefers, but the molasses has to be saved for other uses. That, he knows. There are a few slices of ham, though, and he takes one. He isn’t all that hungry anymore.

  When he turns back to the table, his father is standing by his chair.

  “I have to leave, Lerial. We need to inspect the irrigation works on the West Branch, and that will take all day. I want to get back in time for dinner, though.”

  “Lephi’s going with you?”

  “He is. Assuming you learn something in the next year or so, you’ll be doing the same when you’re his age.”

  Next year or so? Lerial tries not to swallow. Exiled for a year because you don’t like Lephi’s arrogance?

  “Believe me, son. This is for the best.”

  Best for whom? Lerial manages a nod. “I hope all goes well with the irrigation works.”

  After his father leaves the breakfast room, Lerial seats himself and looks at his platter. Belatedly, he realizes something else. It wasn’t what he’d done the evening before. His father has said he’d talked matters over with his mother, Emerya, and that he’d made arrangements with the majer. All that couldn’t have been done since yesterday. Teilyn is a two-day ride.

  They’ve been planning this for days … weeks. He looks toward the empty doorway. Could Lephi have maneuvered it all? From what Lerial had seen, that wasn’t impossible. Far from it.

  Finally, he takes one of the melon slices. It tastes bitter, but he doubts that is just the melon.

  VIII

  Lerial wakes early on oneday and immediately washes and dresses for the ride to Teilyn. Given that the town is at the foot of the Wooded Ridges, more than thirty kays away, he and his father, and their escorts, will be in their saddles a good day and a half. He has already laid out the most comfortable riding clothes he possesses. He eats quickly, alone, and hurries to the stables with the kit bag he has packed. There, he immediately saddles the brown gelding and ties the bag behind his saddle before leading his mount out into the courtyard.

  His father is mounted and talking with an undercaptain whom Lerial has not met, and a squad of Lancers is drawn up behind them. Lerial mounts and guides the gelding to within a few yards of the two men and waits. After a time, Kiedron motions for Lerial to join him, and they ride out of the palace grounds behind two Lancers. Behind them are the undercaptain and the rest of the squad. Once outside the walls, the outriders immediately turn south, past the Ministry and across the square to take the southern boulevard that will eventually become the southwest road that leads to Teilyn … and not all that much farther, at least according to the maps Lerial has studied.

  Since the sun is barely above the horizon and below the roofs of Cigoerne, Lerial cannot see it, except when they ride past the east–west streets that run toward the river. He wants to ask his father what he had been talking over with the undercaptain, who had looked rather concerned, but decides against that. Instead he asks, “Who is the undercaptain? I’ve only seen him from a distance, and I don’t recall meeting him.”

  “That’s Undercaptain Helkhar. Majer Phortyn thinks most highly of him.”

  “He seems most diligent.”

  “That he is. He is perhaps overconcerned with our safety.”

  Lerial immediately understands and keeps his voice low as he asks, “That the Duke of Cigoerne is riding so far with only one squad of Lancers?”

  Kiedron nods. “We’re well within the duchy, and having a larger escort would only reduce the number of Lancers available to deal with raiders and poachers.”

  “Are there more because of the poor harvests in Merowey and Afrit?”

  “There seem to be more. That might be the reason.”

  From his father’s tone, Lerial can tell that Kiedron has said all that he is likely to, and the last thing Lerial wants to do is upset him again. “Thank you, ser.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Lerial wonders what else might be happening, especially with Afrit, but he decides against doing so until they have ridden well away from the city. Instead he concentrates on observing the road, since he has only ridden for little more than a glass along it in the past. Perhaps three kays beyond where the city seems to end, if the end of close-set houses and the beginning of small cots on plots of land marks such a point, the road roughly follows the western side of a large stream or very small river, no more than six or seven yards across. If the maps are correct, the river is the Lynaar, and Teilyn sits north and west of where it flows out of the Wooded Ridges.

  It is well past midmorning, after two brief stops to water the mounts and take a break, before Lerial asks another question. “Might I ask what I should know about Majer Altyrn besides the fact that he was the officer in charge of the Mirror Lancers who accompanied you and Grandmother, and Aunt Emerya on the Kerial from Cyador to Cigoerne?”

  “You might. He was the most senior officer in the Mirror Lancers from the time he left Cyador until he took a stipend. Your grandmother insisted I promote him to commander before that happened. I did, but everyone still calls him Majer Altyrn.”

  “Why?”

  “That was his request, because, until recently, we never have had as many Lancers as would have been commanded by more than a majer, not back in Cyador.”

  “We have more than fifteen companies, you said. That’s close to two thousand Lancers, and that doesn’t count the trainees or those you could call up.”

  Kiedron nods. “In Cyador, five companies comprised a battalion, and a battalion was usually commanded by a submajer, but sometimes by an overcaptain. Majers often commanded entire outposts patrolling hundreds of kays, sometimes over a thousand Lancers.”

  “But wasn’t the Emperor Lorn only a majer when he ascended the Malachite Throne?” Lerial knows this to be true, but phrases it as a question.

  “That was an unusual time. He was never even the second or third in command of the Mirror Lancers. He was named the heir to the throne by the Emperor Toziel. To
ziel had no blood heirs.”

  “What about Alyiakal?”

  “He was captain-commander of the Mirror Lancers and took the throne when the previous Emperor and his entire family perished. That is why Toziel designated Lorn as heir. Cyador must always have an heir.”

  Cyador must have an heir—not always had to have an heir. That puzzles Lerial, perhaps even more than the fact that Alyiakal has never been well regarded by the Magi’i, although Saltaryn has admitted to him that some histories had suggested Alyiakal could have been a magus, but that his talents lay more on the order side, and for that reason he followed his family tradition as a Mirror Lancer. Did he have a choice? Based on what has happened to himself already, Lerial has some doubts. But Alyiakal surmounted all that and ruled Cyador.

  By a glass past midday, Lerial can see that the Lynaar is markedly narrower, showing a width of five yards, although the stream does look deeper than it was closer to the city. The fields do not stretch as far to the west as they did, and the grasses that are already beginning to brown are shorter than those to the north. Some of the land used for pasture bears the mark of having been overgrazed, as well, and that concerns Lerial, although, again, he does not make that observation to his father.

  “Where will we be stopping tonight?” asks Lerial.

  “We have another three glasses to go. Are you getting saddle sore?”

  “No, ser. I just wondered, because you hadn’t said.”

  “We’ll be stopping at Brehaal. There’s a Lancer post there. More of a way station for the dispatch riders, but there are bunks enough and officers’ quarters and a good spring. The town … well, you’ll see.”

  Some three and a half glasses later, Lerial does indeed see.

  Brehaal appears to consist of a score of dwellings, few of which he would call houses, and some of which are less than cots, scattered not quite randomly on a low flattened rise to the west of the river road. Several modestly large buildings are dug into the north side of the rise. All the buildings have lanes that join a road leading straight to the river road. Between at least two of the buildings is a smooth expanse of polished stone, and above the stone surface are what appear to be long lines of tables. Beyond the dwellings stretch short, almost scrubby trees, with ditches between them.