Cyador’s Heirs

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  Altyrn is seated behind his table-desk, but rises immediately and walks to the circular table. Spread there is a large map. Beside it are several sheets of paper which appear to contain smaller maps. The majer gestures. “These are the best maps we have of the lands to the south and west of Teilyn. Learn everything you can before dinner.”

  Lerial frowns, thinking about all the details a map can hold.

  “When you command Lancers, and it’s likely you will at some time, you may not even have maps. If you do, you will have little time to study them, and you won’t take them on a patrol or into a skirmish with raiders. They’re too valuable to risk losing. At times, the details on them may have been discovered and paid for with blood.” After a slight pause, Altyrn adds, “I’ll be back in a while.”

  Lerial seats himself at the table. He begins by looking at each of the maps briefly. The large map is one of all of Cigoerne and only shows Cigoerne and the towns, but not the smaller hamlets. The hills and woods are outlined, but not in any detail. The smaller ones show the streams and hills around various towns, some of which Lerial has never heard. He concentrates on the map that shows the lands around Teilyn, making an effort to mentally picture where each is in relation to Teilyn and the Lynaar River, even if it is little more than a stream. Then he attempts to picture the Wooded Ridges, which have a shape almost like an “L” with the lower shorter part running north–south, beginning less than two kays south of Kinaar, and with the longer leg running west for well over a hundred kays, perhaps as far as two.

  Hearing footsteps in the hallway and sensing someone approaching, Lerial looks up, but Rojana enters the study, not Altyrn.

  “Oh! I thought Father was here.”

  Despite the surprise in her voice, Lerial feels she is not all that disconcerted at seeing him rather than her father, but that she was looking for Lerial. “He just left. He didn’t say where he was going.”

  Lerial hears what he thinks are another set of boots, but far lighter. Aylana?

  He discovers how mistaken he is when Maeroja enters the study. She looks to her daughter. “I wondered where you were.”

  As the two stand there, just inside the study, Lerial glances from one to the other, realizing that Rojana is slightly taller than her mother.

  When did that happen?

  He also sees that she is every bit as striking as her mother, perhaps more so because of the gray eyes she has inherited from her father.

  “I was heading to the courtyard … I heard someone here…” Rojana breaks off her words.

  “And you wondered if it might be Lerial. It is, and your father has set him a long afternoon of studying. Your interrupting won’t help him.” Maeroja smiles.

  Lerial senses a knowing sadness behind the smile, but he says, “I have all afternoon.”

  “What my consort has set you to do will likely take longer than you have.” Maeroja once more looks to her daughter. “You can tell him whatever you have in mind at dinner.” After the slightest pause, she adds softly, “Or afterwards.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Rojana turns to Lerial. “Until dinner.” For a moment, she smiles as she adds, “Father will ask you where the steepest hills are.”

  “And where the soft and swampy ground is likely to be,” adds Maeroja as she glances toward the study door.

  Rojana follows the unspoken command and leaves the study, followed by her mother, who gently closes the door behind herself.

  The steepest hills? How is he supposed to discover that from the maps? Lerial shakes his head, then begins to inspect the smaller maps. After a time, how long he cannot say, he discovers two maps that look to be more crudely drawn that have many thin lines on them, and little else but the names of towns and hamlets. There is something …

  He looks at another map of the same area, which, although larger, covers a greater area. Finally, he understands, he thinks, all because he knows that there is a bluff overlooking the river north of Cigoerne. The approach from the north is too steep, and that same bluff on one of the roughly drawn maps has many tiny lines so close together that they almost merge. That would suggest that the closer the narrow lines are to each other, the steeper the slope.

  He finds himself nodding at the ingenious way the majer has used—for the less finely drawn maps must be his—to indicate hills and valleys … except the two maps that show that only cover the area to the south and west of Teilyn. How is he supposed to determine steepness from the other maps?

  From where the hamlets are? Where rivers and streams are shown, there the land will be lower, he knows, because water always seeks the lowest level. He does discover that high points in the hills are marked on one map, at least in places, with a circled “X,” but only on that one map. Then there is the problem of determining distance between places, because only the large map has a legend explaining how many kays are represented by a digit.

  Less than a glass before dinner, Altyrn returns, stepping into the study and closing the door behind him. He carries a long object wrapped in oiled cloth, which he sets on his table-desk before turning to Lerial. “Before I ask you about the maps, what can you tell me about them?”

  “Distance is different on each one. Only one indicates the scale, but I estimated on the others. Two of the small maps show the steepness of the land. They look as though you drew them…” Lerial goes on to explain what he thinks he has discovered. When he finishes, he just stands beside the table and waits.

  An expression that might be puzzlement crosses the majer’s face, then vanishes. “You have not studied maps before?”

  “No, ser. I’ve looked at some in the palace library, but no one has taught me anything or explained them. I gained the impression that such studies were beyond my years.”

  “You’ve figured out more in an afternoon than some junior officers know after their first tour. Still … there are a few things I just might be able to teach you.” A wry smile appears on the majer’s face. “There is a system for indicating more about those circles that you referred to as the topmost point of a hill or mountain. If the circle is open, there are few trees. If there is an ‘X’ in the middle, that means the area is both rocky and wooded. If a single line, it is heavily wooded … lightly crosshatched areas are swampy…”

  Even after Altyrn’s explanations, Lerial feels satisfied, as much as because the majer also appears pleased with what Lerial has ascertained.

  “We should join the others on the terrace,” the majer finally says. “Tonight’s dinner will be the best either of us is likely to have for several days. You will need to pack your gear tonight, because we’ll leave right after sunrise tomorrow. Just one set of spare greens and a riding jacket and gloves. There is one other thing you’ll need that you didn’t bring.”

  “Ser?”

  Altyrn walks to the desk and unwraps the oiled cloth from what it protects, then extends it to Lerial, who gapes for a moment at the leather sword belt and scabbard, and the sabre within the scabbard.

  “This is yours now. You’ll need it from now on. You shouldn’t ride anywhere without it, and it’s probably best you wear it if you’re on foot outside of any place you don’t know is absolutely safe.”

  Lerial takes the sword belt. “Thank you … I can’t tell you…”

  “You already have.” Altyrn smiles. “You can leave it here for now. Just pick it up before you go to bed.”

  “Yes, ser!” Lerial looks over the leatherwork more closely. While the workmanship is excellent, it is also clear that the belt has been worn. He eases the sabre from the scabbard. His mouth opens. He has never seen a blade such as the one he holds.

  “It’s good steel covered with order-forged cupridium. It may be the only such blade in the world now. How old it is, I don’t know, but I’ve tested the temper. It’s better than anything forged today. The belt and scabbard—and the grip—are much newer. It was in the armory of the Palace of Light. We took every weapon we could to the Kerial, and when I found that one … I must confess I
took it personally. But I feel that it should be restored to your family through you.”

  Lerial senses the faintest emphasis on the last two words. “I will do my best—”

  “I have no doubt of that. Just do it well enough that you can pass it on.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Now … let’s have a drink before dinner.”

  Lerial walks from the study and along the corridor beside Altyrn, pleased, but still puzzled by the gift of the sabre.

  As they enter the courtyard, Lerial sees that Maeroja and the girls are already seated at the table where the family sits before dinner, although the table has been moved away from the fountains.

  “In another few eightdays, we’ll likely be having drinks before dinner in the salon on the cooler evenings,” Altyrn muses. “We’re enough south of Cigoerne that it gets a bit more chill in autumn and winter.” He smiles as he adds, “We need to use the hearths more often.”

  “They say the Duke of Afrit’s palace in Swartheld doesn’t even have hearths.”

  “I wouldn’t know. Your father might … or your aunt.”

  Lerial conceals a frown. Has Emerya been a guest in Swartheld? No one has ever mentioned that.

  “She was the healer who accompanied the Duke’s brother back after he was wounded in the last full-scale border fight years ago.”

  “I knew she healed him when no one thought he would survive. I didn’t know about her going to Swartheld.”

  “Your father didn’t like it, but it was important that Rhamuel survived in health. If he hadn’t, peace with Afrit wouldn’t have been possible.” Altyrn laughs softly and ruefully. “It’s always a mixed blessing when the brother of the ruler gets too closely involved in battles. Of course, Rhamuel underestimated just how good the Mirror Lancers were. But after he lost most of his force, he and his senior officers managed to get the point across to his brother that leaving Cigoerne alone was preferable to losing more armsmen, especially when the Heldyans took the opportunity to raid the Afritan towns across the river and north of Luba.” The majer smiles at his consort before he seats himself at the table. “Good evening, dear.”

  “Good evening. I see you’re filling Lerial in on the past.”

  “Some of it, anyway.”

  Lerial takes a seat beside Maeroja. “I knew about the last battle. I never heard much about what happened afterward.” He pours himself a glass of the dark lager and takes a small swallow.

  “The usual,” replies Altyrn. “No one was happy. The Afritan traders had hoped to take over Cigoerne, and they couldn’t. The Heldyans wanted to take over Afritan lands to the east, and the peace allowed Duke Atroyan to send all his forces there, and the Heldyans actually lost lands and towns to Afrit. That made Huisyl—he was Duke of Heldya then—mad at us, and that is why his son still sends armsmen and raiders to plague us.”

  “You two can talk of all this tomorrow.”

  Although Maeroja’s words are soft, Lerial senses the iron behind them, but manages to conceal his smile of amusement.

  “That might be best,” acknowledges the majer. “How is the weaving coming?”

  “As always … slowly, but we will have more shimmersilk this year. The girls made the difference, I think…”

  Before long, Maeroja rises, as does the majer, and everyone follows them into the dining chamber. Dinner is roast suckling pig, with cheese-lace potatoes, and beans. The conversation stays firmly on what is happening around the estate, the weather, and concerns about water, since there has been little rain over harvest—good for harvesting, but not so good for the next crop year.

  In the pleasant gloom following dinner, Lerial and Rojana sit at a small courtyard table well away from the fountains, whose cooling mists are largely unnecessary in early fall.

  “You will be leaving before long,” she says.

  “Have your parents said anything?”

  She shakes her head, a gesture he senses through the order flows more than he sees in the dim light. “Father is working you hard. He is trying to teach you everything you can learn as quickly as possible. He would not do that were your time here not drawing to an end.”

  Lerial can sense that she has not said all that she might. “Time has passed so quickly.”

  “It has.”

  The silence draws out between them.

  “I will miss you,” she says softly.

  “I’ll miss you,” he says, realizing with surprise that he means the words.

  “It’s better this way.”

  Lerial realizes what she is really saying … and why Altyrn and Maeroja have minimized the time they have spent together. “Better? I wonder. Does anyone know what is better for someone else?”

  “Mother says that you are meant for greater deeds than anyone knows.”

  “She does?” Great deeds … from a second son shuffled off away from Cigoerne?

  “Father says never to doubt what she says will be.”

  Lerial wants to ask what these “greater deeds” will be, but decides that he does not want to know … not enough to ask.

  “That is another reason they have kept you occupied every moment … and me as well.”

  “I had thought as much.” If only lately. But he doesn’t have to admit that … and his own slowness in seeing it.

  “Father would be proud of you.”

  Would be? “He would be … if what?”

  Rojana looks flustered for a moment. “He is … he won’t tell you that. I overheard him saying that you worked far harder than your father did.”

  “He trained my father?” This is something that Lerial has never heard.

  “Oh, yes. He didn’t tell you?”

  “No. Father just said that your father was the most senior officer in the Mirror Lancers and that he accompanied my grandmother and father and aunt to Hamor on the Kerial.” Actually, as he speaks, Lerial realizes that the person who told him that had been his grandmother, not his father.

  “He started teaching your father arms on the ship. He did tell me that.”

  “Did he say anything else about that?”

  Rojana shakes her head.

  “What do you learn in your studies?” Lerial asks, although he already has some idea from what she has said on the occasions they had worked together when he had first come to Kinaar … and from what Altyrn has mentioned in passing.

  “Mother teaches me accounts and how to keep a proper ledger, and how to estimate costs for the season ahead. Father is teaching me how to use a knife and a blade … not the same way you do … and I’m learning history and mathematics, and writing and rhetoric…”

  “Your mother keeps the accounts?”

  “Father says she’s far better at it than he is.”

  Lerial can see how that might be.

  “I’m trying to learn about the laws of Cyador, too. Father found an old book somewhere. It has all the laws. He says that the time may come when we’ll need better laws, and someone needs to know what the old laws said.”

  That does surprise Lerial.

  “Mother says that women need men to make the laws because they won’t obey them otherwise, but that women need to persuade men as to what the laws should say.”

  “Rojana,” Maeroja calls gently. “It’s time for bed. Lerial and your father have a long day ahead of them tomorrow.”

  Lerial stands immediately, but Rojana rises more slowly, her eyes fixed on him.

  “You will be careful?” she says, her words both a question and a gentle command.

  “As much as I can be.”

  “Good.”

  The two walk across the courtyard to where Maeroja stands.

  Maeroja looks at Rojana. “It’s time for bed. I need a moment with Lerial.”

  Her eyes wide in the dim light, Rojana looks at Lerial. “Good night, Lerial.” Her voice is steady, but her eyes glisten.

  “Good night, Rojana.”

  Rojana inclines her head to her mother, then turns and walks toward the vill
a entrance and the steps beyond to the upper level.

  “You understand, I hope,” Maeroja says.

  “That she’s fond of me? Yes.”

  “It’s best that you leave it that way, Lerial.”

  Why? After a moment, he decides to ask just that. “Why do you put it that way?”

  “She’s my daughter. You’re the Duke’s son. You will consort whomever your parents choose … or, if matters worsen, whomever you must. Rojana cannot help you. Encouraging her affection will only hurt her.”

  Lerial nods slowly … as he recalls a time when he sat in the palace courtyard with the daughter of the Duke of Afrit. Was it planned that long ago?

  “You do see.”

  “I see. I don’t have to like it.”

  “I’m glad you don’t … and, in time, you will also be glad. In time.” After the briefest pause, she adds, “Good night, Lerial,” her voice almost an older echo of her daughter’s. Then, she too turns.

  For a time, Lerial stands alone in the courtyard, before he turns toward the majer’s study to reclaim his sabre.

  Much later, as he lies in his bed, eyes wide open, wondering what the morrow will bring, Lerial’s thoughts drift back to what Rojana had said … and what his father had not. Yet, if the majer had trained his father, and his father has sent Lerial to Kinaar, that must mean that his father thinks highly of the majer … and that Lerial is worth that training. And the ancient sabre suggests that the majer believes that as well. But why has his father never said anything? Why does it seem as though nothing Lerial has done is enough? And what great deeds could he possibly accomplish? Cigoerne is a small duchy compared to Afrit, and especially to Heldya or Merowey.

  For all that he wonders and ponders, Lerial can find no answers before he drifts off to sleep.

  XVIII

  The sun is barely above the low rolling hills to the east of the Lynaar when Lerial and Altyrn ride down the lane to the main road. Altyrn wears a worn Lancer riding jacket, along with Lancer greens, without insignia, as well as a Lancer cap, also without insignia, although Lerial can see the brighter green of fabric once covered by insignia.