Lerial looks at the trees more closely, then realizes that there are two types. As they ride closer, he recognizes one kind, but not the other. Finally, he turns in the saddle. “Ser … I can see the apricot trees … but I don’t recognize the other.”
Kiedron’s laugh is almost kindly. “You wouldn’t. Those are young olive trees. It’s likely to be another ten years before those bear sufficient fruit.”
“But…?”
“Who would plant trees that take more than twenty years to mature? And why? Your grandmother. Olives are good to eat, and the oil is useful in many ways. It makes a bright lamp flame also.”
“Then these are your lands?”
Kiedron nods. “Someone has to plant for the future, and not just the present. You and Lephi and your children will benefit.”
As his father talks, Lerial realizes the tables set on the stone pavement must be drying tables for the apricots. “Is this where the apricots you sell to the Heldyan traders come from?”
“From here and from some lands near Narthyl.” Kiedron gestures ahead. “There’s the Lancer post.”
Past the dwellings and well past the fruit barns, on the south end of the rise at the right side of the road and facing the stream, is the outpost. Barely visible above a wall—likely mud brick covered with a white clay plaster—is a long structure with a single set of gates. The walls around the building and its courtyard look to be less than fifty yards on a side.
Lerial understands, now, what his father had meant when he’d said little about the town of Brehaal. That fills him with foreboding, since Teilyn is another half day’s ride and even farther from Cigoerne.
Teilyn
IX
Well before noon on twoday, Lerial’s legs and buttocks ache, even though they did not leave Brehaal until well after seventh glass, and his back twinges now and then, but he isn’t about to say anything. More time passes before he can make out the line of hills ahead that must be the Wooded Ridges. Directly before him, on his right, are fields with rows of some sort of green plants that are no more than waist-high. Cots are scattered here and there.
The column slows as they approach a narrow stone bridge, waiting for a horse-drawn cart to cross. When Lerial rides onto the short bridge, he looks down to see that it crosses an empty irrigation channel, although the mud at the bottom is still damp. He glances to his left, where a heavy wooden watergate, set in crude mortar and stone and similar to many they have passed on their journey, blocks the flow from the Lynaar. The channel continues for only fifty yards to the west, where it splits at a diversion gate that, in one position, sends the water to the northwest and in the other to the southwest, both heading toward orchards. Between the two orchards, which look to contain apricot trees, is another, one of olive trees, but no ditch leads to the olive orchard.
“There’s no water going to the olives,” he observes.
“They get enough from seepage,” replies Kiedron. “The trees won’t grow that fast, nor yield nearly so much when they mature, but there’s only so much water. For any lands away from the Swarth, water is a problem. You’ll learn more about that, I’m sure, from Majer Altyrn. Listen to him, because it’s something you’ll need to know.”
Know about water? Still, Lerial doesn’t question his father, because Kiedron, for all that he has upset Lerial, has never knowingly lied to him. That, Lerial could have sensed.
Barely visible beyond the fields ahead is Teilyn, which appears to have close to a hundred houses or other structures. To the west are more fields, and beyond them, sparse grasslands.
Lerial stifles a yawn. He’d not slept well the night before, even though he’d had a small sleeping chamber to himself—a chamber barely big enough for the narrow pallet bunk and a stool, with pegs on the wall. After seeing that his father and Undercaptain Helkhar occupied similar spaces and that the Lancers slept in crowded bunk rooms, he’d felt comparatively fortunate … and the pallet hadn’t been that hard. He just hadn’t slept well.
“How are you doing?” asks Kiedron.
“A little stiff, but fine.”
“Good. You’ll get over that.”
“Where is the majer’s … villa?” Lerial has to think for a moment about what his father had called the majer’s dwelling.
“It’s on the lower slopes south of town, not far beyond most of the other houses, a bit more than a kay out.”
“Will you stay with the majer or start back … or are you riding somewhere else?” asks Lerial.
“There’s an actual Lancer outpost, a real one, at Teilyn,” replies Kiedron. “It’s also south of town, about halfway to Majer Altyrn’s place. It’s the base for the regular patrols along the foot of the Wooded Ridges. The officers’ quarters there are adequate, and I wouldn’t want to impose on the majer’s hospitality.”
Lerial is surprised at the concern in his father’s voice, especially since he’s seldom heard it, especially about people outside the family. “Will you ride any patrols?”
“Not unless the post captain reports something strange. I need to get back to Cigoerne before the Heldyans get more restless.”
“Are they going to be a problem?”
“They’re always a problem,” replies Kiedron dryly. “That’s why Duke Atroyan’s father let us purchase the lands around Cigoerne. This year might be worse.”
“I hope not, ser.”
“When others depend on you, Lerial, you can’t rely on hope. Not if you want to carry on the heritage of Cyador.”
Lerial nods, wondering why so often his father’s words seemed designed to keep him from talking. Instead, he concentrates on the buildings as they ride into Teilyn.
The houses in Teilyn are largely constructed of brick, some of mud brick covered with a white coating that, in many cases, bears a pinkish tan tint, and some fewer and larger ones of fired brick of a rusty color. None of them are more than a story high, and all appear to have tile roofs. Lerial keeps looking at the dwellings and then to the Wooded Ridges, then back to the dwellings. Finally, he asks, “Why are the houses all of brick?”
“With all those trees so close?” Kiedron laughs softly. “For several reasons. First, the ground up on the ridges is rough and the undergrowth is thick and often thorny. It’s hard to get logs down. Second, the trees are a mix of all sorts, but most of the wood is soft. Third, brick houses are cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter. Fourth, the clay here is very good and easy to get to.”
There is a modest square located to the west of the road, which has become the main street, if the only paved street in the town, unlike all the streets in Cigoerne, and on its edge are a small inn, a chandlery, and several small shops. Farther south of the square, Lerial sees a blacksmith shop. In far less than half a glass, they are riding away from Teilyn through more fields, orchards, and scattered cots, but the road has begun to rise, so gradually that Lerial does not even realize it, until he glances back north.
Ahead are the walls of the outpost, and it is at least twice the size of the way station post at Brehaal. Even from a hundred yards away, the gate guards are obvious, although the heavy wooden gates are open and swung back. There is also a single narrow lookout tower rising another two yards above the middle of the north wall. Lerial smiles when he sees the awning above the lookout. But it makes sense, especially in summer.
As they ride closer to the outpost, he sees that, farther south, between the trees on the tall hills that comprise the Wooded Ridges, at irregular intervals, jagged spurs of red rocks jut up. Around the base of the rocky spurs the vegetation appears sparse, but elsewhere the mixed forest appears thick and almost impenetrable.
Once they have ridden past the outpost, Kiedron points south and west of the road. “There’s the majer’s villa.”
Lerial can only see a low structure barely rising above the orchards north of it, but before long, the outriders turn their mounts through a pair of yellow brick posts and onto the packed clay lane, smoother than the slightly rutted main ro
ad. The lane runs some three hundred yards to the villa, a two-story squarish structure perhaps forty yards on a side situated on the slightest of rises facing the river. On each side of the lane is a meadow of sorts, with grass perhaps calf-high, as if it had been grazed, but not recently.
When they are within a hundred yards of the villa, Lerial can see that there is no portico, only a brick-paved square some fifty yards on a side before the east entry, while the lane splits, one branch leading to the square and the other angling to the northwest and the outbuildings. Unlike the majority of houses in Teilyn, the majer’s villa is built of the yellow-tinged rusty fired brick, as are the outbuildings. All have roofs of the same reddish yellow tile as the buildings in Teilyn.
A slender man with iron-gray hair stands waiting in the afternoon shade just in front of the entry door.
“Ride forward with me,” orders Kiedron quietly.
Lerial does, and the two rein up some four yards short of the man, who wears a plain white tunic, if in the style of the Mirror Lancers, and matching trousers. His black boots are shined, and he smiles at Kiedron.
“Welcome, Lord Kiedron. I see you got here without any problems.”
“Thank you. We did indeed. I must say that you’re looking well, Majer.”
“Working hard will do that.” The majer looks from Kiedron to his son. “Welcome to Kinaar, Lord Lerial.”
“Lerial … please, ser.”
Altyrn smiles. “So be it. Welcome, Lerial. I daresay you will find life here very different from that Cigoerne. In some ways, at least. I will walk around to the stables with you.” He looks to Kiedron. “You will stay for dinner?”
“Dinner, I won’t refuse, but I need to meet with Captain Graessyr before that.”
“In two glasses, then?”
“I’ll be here.” Kiedron looks to Lerial. “I’ll leave you in Majer Altyrn’s most capable hands and will see you at dinner.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Good.” Kiedron smiles, then inclines his head, and turns his mount back toward the waiting squad.
Lerial watches his father until he and the squad are well on the way back to the river road, then turns to the majer, who has not said a word. “I’m sorry, ser.”
Altyrn smiles, an expression that is both enigmatic and sad, all at once, before saying, “I understand.” He points toward the lane leading around the north end of the villa. “This way.” Then he walks beside the gelding as Lerial eases him forward. “The first building on the right is the quarters for the unattached men who work here. The second is the stable. The third is the barn, and the fourth holds quarters for the unattached women. There’s a line of cots on the south side for the couples and families who work here. The other buildings to the west are the livestock sheds.”
Lerial does his best to try to recall exactly what the majer has said, then asks, “What sort of livestock? Father didn’t tell me much.”
“He always has been closemouthed. That’s a good trait for a ruler, not quite so good for a parent, I’ve discovered.”
Lerial glances at the walls of the villa, noting that while there are numerous first-level windows, they are all narrow and tall—too narrow for anyone to squeeze through. “He gives short answers to questions, too.”
The majer nods. “That’s a habit hard to break.”
The area between the outbuildings on the north side of the villa and the villa itself is also brick paved, and there is a simple fountain midway between the villa and the stable, where water flows from a spout into a circular basin. Lerial assumes that there must be some piping somewhere that drains the excess so that the fountain does not flood the paved area that strikes him almost as a courtyard without walls.
Lerial dismounts outside the stable, then leads the gelding inside, following the majer, who steps through the wide stable door and points.
“The third stall on the right is yours. You have to groom your mount … you do know how to do that, don’t you?”
“Yes, ser. Father insisted on that.” If not that often. Lerial pauses, surprised that the stable has a brick-paved floor. The only other stable he has seen with such a floor is the one serving the palace, not that he has been in more than a handful of stables. “I only have a travel brush.”
“There are brushes in the tack room. You’re also responsible for feeding your mount and cleaning the stall every day. I’d suggest first thing in the morning and late in the afternoon or early evening, but that’s up to you. The soiled straw and offage go into the old cart on the side of the stable. The shovel, the pitchfork, and an old broom are on the peg racks over there. Put them back clean whenever you aren’t using them.”
“Yes, ser.” Lerial hasn’t had to clean a stall, but he has watched the palace stable boys do just that.
“The feed barrels are in the storeroom beside the tack room, but you’ll have to carry water from the outside fountain. When you finish unsaddling and dealing with your mount, we’ll get your kit to your room, and then I’ll show you around.”
Somehow Lerial finds that the whole process of unsaddling the gelding, racking the saddle and blanket, and grooming the gelding takes longer than he recalls. He does remember to check the gelding’s hooves, but he sees no stones or cracks, and the shoes look sound. He makes his way to the fountain through the late-afternoon heat that feels hotter than it probably is because there is no breeze at all. He half fills the bucket from the stall, then frowns and pours a little out. The gelding will be thirsty, but he is not that hot, because the pace from Brehaal had been deliberate. Still …
He carries the water bucket back to the stable and watches as the gelding drinks. Then he finds a grain barrel and half fills the feed bucket in the stall. By then, his undertunic is soaked, and sweat pours off his forehead
Finally, he closes the wooden stall half door, lifts his kit bag, and walks from the stable toward the courtyard fountain, where the majer has appeared, as if he had known when Lerial would finish.
“Maeroja and the girls will likely be in the courtyard, enjoying the cool.” Altyrn looks at Lerial. “You could use that as well.”
“It’s hotter here than in Cigoerne, and there’s no breeze today.”
“There usually is, but it’s been drier and calmer this summer. We’ve had to use more water from the Lynaar. That was one reason why I wanted these lands, and your grandmother and father were kind enough to grant them.”
“I don’t see any ditches…”
“I put them underground, and they leave the river farther uphill. That way there’s pressure for the fountains and the water’s cleaner.”
Lerial hadn’t thought about either, but he nods.
The north entry to the villa is just a simple recessed arch with a single ironbound door, but as Altryn opens it Lerial can see that the wood is thick, and the back is also ironbound with a double set of brackets for bars. Once they are inside, the majer immediately closes the door.
“We leave the shutters closed and don’t dally with the doors until it’s late in the evening and it’s cooler outside.”
While Lerial would not have called the wide corridor especially cold, the air is definitely cooler inside the villa.
“Most of the dayrooms are down on the ground level—the library, the winter dining room, my study, Maeroja’s study. There are root cellars and storage areas below. The kitchen is on the west end…”
Lerial listens.
The corridor is not that long, no more than ten yards before they walk through an open door and into a center square courtyard. A roof that extends some four yards from the villa runs all the way around the courtyard, creating a covered terrace that surrounds the center fountain, which contains four sprays, each one situated so that it geysers into the air opposite the middle of each wall. A walk runs from each spray to the terrace, and between the four walks are four small gardens. The one that is to Lerial’s immediate right, as he follows Altyrn to the left, appears to contain miniature fruit trees.
&nb
sp; “Maeroja is quite the gardener … and quite the grower. I just listen to her.”
Lerial is certain that is something his father would never have said. “How did you meet her?”
“Did you mean to ask if she happens to be local?” Altyrn’s voice is dry.
Lerial is so taken aback that he blurts out, “I never even thought of that.”
Abruptly, Altyrn laughs. “Good for you.” Then he glances toward the woman and the three girls who stand waiting for them just around the corner of the courtyard. He shakes his head. “The girls actually put on dresses. I haven’t seen them that fancied up in eightdays.”
Since Lerial’s sister and cousin are younger, and since his mother and aunt are healers, he can’t recall, offhand, seeing many dresses around the palace in Cigoerne.
The majer stops short of his family. “Lerial, might I present my wife, Maeroja, and my daughters, Rojana, Tyrna, and Aylana?”
Lerial sets down his kit and inclines his head. “I’m honored to meet all of you, and I do appreciate your kindness in allowing me to be here.” Even though he suspects that the majer may not have had that much choice, his father would not have imposed if the majer had not been at least somewhat willing.
“We’re the ones who are honored,” replies Maeroja.
As Lerial looks at Maeroja, she seems to be only a few years older than he is, but he has to doubt that, since the tallest girl is less than half a head shorter than he is, suggesting she is close to his age. Maeroja is also, he realizes, rather striking, with jet-black hair, a slightly tanned skin, and penetrating blue eyes. Her smile is warm, but … unsettling, almost ironic, he thinks. He almost stammers, but manages to respond. “Not … from what I see. I’m the one most honored.”
Cyador’s Heirs Page 8
