“You took a while,” observes Emerya.
“I had to…” Lerial stops as he sees Ryalah marching toward them, her face intent. “What is it?”
“Amaira said you can’t go on patrols. She said you’re too little.”
“I need more training,” replies Lerial. “Father will decide when I’m ready.”
“I don’t see why Lerial can’t go on a patrol with Father. He went on a patrol with the majer.” Ryalah looks to her mother.
“That was different,” says Lerial. “It wasn’t really a patrol.”
“You fought raiders,” insists Ryalah.
“Lerial could go with the majer because the majer isn’t Father,” replies Xeranya. “He has to know more to go on real patrols, and he can’t go with Father, because he’s second in line to the throne…”
Lerial is struck by his mother’s reference to the throne, especially since there is no throne in the palace and since there’s no possibility of his father or Lephi ever returning to Candar to rule a Cyador that no longer is.
“… and if anything happened to both of them, and that can happen in fights, then only Lephi would be left.”
“I suppose that wouldn’t be good,” offers Ryalah.
“Dukes and their heirs should never be fighting in the same places, and preferably not even at the same times,” says Xeranya. “There must always be an heir. Now … you and Amaira can play at your table or up in your playroom.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Lerial can sense that behind Ryalah’s acquiescence is a certain anger. As his sister walks back to rejoin her cousin, he looks to his aunt inquiringly.
“She’s getting to that age where many things are becoming a question of what she sees as fairness,” Emerya says quietly.
“She’ll have to learn that life isn’t always fair,” replies Lerial’s mother. “It’s something we all learn, sooner or later. It costs more the older you are when you learn.”
“It’s not fair!” Those words come from Ryalah as she glares across the small table at her cousin.
Emerya and Xeranya exchange glances. Then Emerya smiles ruefully and rises. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
Rather than follow the argument between the girls, Lerial looks to his mother … and sees a white oblong shape on the table. “Is that a letter from Father?”
“It is.”
“How is he doing?”
“He’s well.”
“What does he say about the raiders?”
“There are raiders, but they have run them off.”
“And the Afritan armsmen?”
Xeranya hands the missive to Lerial. “You can read it for yourself.”
Lerial feels he is supposed to refuse the offer, but he does not. Instead, he accepts the letter and begins to read.
My dear—
It appears we will be patrolling the northern borders for several more eightdays.
The Lancers have done well, but it may be well into winter before I can return.
There have been fewer raiders over the last eightday, but there are Afritan patrols just north of Penecca almost every day. It is as if they will wait until we leave before coming south and destroying the town. This is something we cannot allow, particularly now. So we must stay and wait. There are also some Heldyan armsmen across the river who watch us both. That is another reason why we must remain for now.
I am glad to hear that Lerial is training with the Lancers. That will do him good. It will prepare him better for the time when he must ride patrols, and that time may be sooner than either of us might have wished.
The closing is “All my affection.”
Somehow, that is so like his father. Lerial does not shake his head, but returns the letter to his mother. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You should know.”
More is implied in those words, but Lerial does not pursue the implications. He understands all too well why his father and several companies of Lancers must remain in the north, especially given that Penecca is only some fifty kays north of Cigoerne. He is saved from the continuation of an awkward silence by the return of Emerya, who now pours herself a glass of lager and sits down at the table, but not in the space between Xeranya and Lerial.
Emerya takes a last look at the small table and two very quiet girls, then lifts her glass and takes a deep draft. When she finishes, she glances at Xeranya, then Lerial, offering an inquiring look.
Lerial offers a smile and says, “Mother, I ran across the name of a magus today. He’s the father of an undercaptain by the name of Veraan. The father’s name is Apollyn. I wondered if you knew either.”
“I don’t know the son, but I’m not surprised he’s a Lancer officer. Apollyn always did have an excessively high opinion of himself. He wanted to be the tutor here at the Palace. Does the young man take after his father?”
“I don’t know. He does say his family is important. What’s Apollyn like?”
“He thinks he is important. He claims that his lineage dates back to a first magus in the time of Lorn. Chaaryn … or maybe it was Chyenfel. He barely was accepted as a magus, but he consorted with Myra—she was healer from a merchanter family. Very intelligent and perceptive woman … enough that she brought all the jewels she could find on the Kerial. She even had a number of fire emeralds.”
“Like the one in the ring you got from Grandmere?” Lerial has only seen the ring a few times, but he recalls its brilliance and its unmistakable golden-green glint … and the fact that there are so few that even a small one is worth more than a hundred golds, and the one in the ring is anything but small.
“Yes. Your grandmere didn’t discover that until later. She used those to set up a merchanting factorage—”
“Myrapol House?” asks Emerya. “Is she the one?”
“She was the one,” replies Xeranya. “She died of a strange flux several years ago. We couldn’t save her. Apollyn had a new consort in less than a season—much younger, and far less perceptive.”
Lerial nods. “I’d say that Veraan takes after his father.”
“Then avoid him if you can. I always have thought his father was a serpent, for all of his warm voice and superficially charming ways. Perhaps more charming than, say, Polidur or Scarthyn, who are almost as venomous.”
While his mother has often hinted at her dislikes … and made inferences, Lerial has seldom heard such a quietly scathing judgment of a magus, or anyone, from her. He wonders what else she is not saying. “Is there anything else I should know?”
“I believe that’s enough, dear.”
As Lerial senses his aunt’s suppressed amusement, Xeranya turns to Emerya. “I’m glad I’ve provided you with some amusement, Emerya.”
“You have. It has been a very long day. Lerial was most helpful.”
“I’m glad of that. Perhaps we could discuss other matters. Do you think we’ll have rain this evening? There are clouds in the south.”
Emerya shakes her head. “It doesn’t feel like it to me. What do you think?”
“I fear you’re right. That will make it easier for Kiedron in dealing with the Afritans, but matters will be worse by spring…”
Lerial listens.
XXIX
Another two eightdays pass, and, while there are several more letters to Lerial’s mother from his father, there are none to Lerial. There is one from Lephi to Xeranya as well, but all it says is that there are some raiders in the south, but not many, and most flee at the sight of the Lancers. The predictions of his mother and his aunt also prove to be true, for, while the clouds of winter roll across Cigoerne, they do not offer the heavy rains that have characterized the early winter eightdays in past years.
Lerial is not certain exactly when it happens, but by sometime late on the first sixday of winter, he has become fully aware of where his opponent’s blade will be—before it’s there, and he has finally reached the point where he can actually do something with that knowledge … and he has not only th
e technique, but the strength—except when it comes to brute force against Captain Chaen … and then he must find ways to exploit technique. He is still weaker than he would prefer on attacks, but almost never can any of the Lancers with whom he has sparred at headquarters penetrate his defenses, largely because, he suspects, he can discern their attacks almost before they develop.
As Lerial is taking off the padded armor outside the armory, Captain Chaen appears. “You’ve improved measurably over the last three eightdays, Lord Lerial. I’d say that you could hold your own against most now, certainly on defense … although it’s better not to be defending.”
“Am I good enough that Lancers wouldn’t worry about that?”
Chaen smiles. “Any Lancer would worry about you, your brother, or your father, but not because you can’t handle a blade.”
“I wouldn’t be as able to do so without your instruction, ser.”
Chaen shakes his head. “Majer Altyrn’s instruction. I just provided enough different officers so that you could learn how to handle different approaches.”
“You showed me things I didn’t know,” Lerial points out.
“I’ll accept that I helped a little,” the captain replies. “You don’t really need more work…”
“But I need to keep in practice, just like your officers, ser.”
“Fair enough.” Chaen smiles. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, ser.” After the captain leaves, Lerial makes his way to the officers’ quarters to wash up and change.
When he is finished, he walks back toward the stable. He has planned to ride, as usual, to the Hall of Healing, but when he nears the stable, he sees that there are five rankers with Squad Leader Fhanyd, rather than four.
“Ser,” says Fhanyd deferentially, “Lady Xeranya sent a messenger to inform you that she would appreciate your presence at the Palace.”
Has something gone wrong? Father? Lephi? Afritan forces riding toward Cigoerne? Lerial pauses slightly to collect himself, then asks, “Did she say why?”
“No, ser.” Fhanyd adds after a moment. “It might have to do with your brother’s return.”
“Is he all right?”
“He looked to be fine, ser,” says one of the rankers, presumably the one who had brought the message.
Lerial mounts, then turns to Fhanyd. “If you would send one of the men to the Hall of Healing to inform the Lady Emerya that I’ve been summoned to the Palace … and that it’s unlikely I’ll be able to be at the Hall this afternoon?”
“Yes, ser.” The squad leader turns in the saddle. “Rykkar, ride to the Hall of Healing and give a message to the Lady Emerya that Lord Lerial has been summoned to the Palace and that it is unlikely he will be able to be at the healing hall this afternoon.” Fhanyd turns back to Lerial. “Is there anything else, ser?”
“No, thank you.” Not since I don’t really know why I’ve been summoned.
On the ride back to the Palace, Lerial says little, composing himself for what he fears will be a quiet ordeal of sorts, since he suspects he is being summoned to a small private welcome home for his brother, given that the Lancer messenger had said Lephi appeared well.
He doubts that Emerya has been summoned, but he could be wrong. Not that you feel you are.
He also doesn’t like the idea that his father is still fighting Afritans, while Lephi is safe … because if anything happens to Father … There’s nothing he can do about that possibility, nothing at all.
When he reaches the palace courtyard, Lerial follows his usual pattern of unsaddling and grooming the gelding before he walks to the Palace … and turns over his soiled and damp uniforms to one of the maids. Lephi and his mother can just wait a little longer.
He finds his mother and Lephi seated in her salon, with a fire in the hearth, although the Palace does not seem that chill. Lephi has a crystal goblet half filled with red wine resting on the side table beside him. Lerial also notes that he not only wears the uniform of a Lancer officer, but that it is complete with the insignia of an undercaptain.
Both turn to look at him.
“Welcome home!” Lerial makes sure that his greeting is said warmly. There’s no point in angering his mother.
Xeranya looks up from her chair with a worried expression. “I wondered what was keeping you, Lerial. I did think that Emerya could do without you for one afternoon so that you could welcome your brother home from patrol.”
“I came directly.” Lerial offers a pleasant smile as he turns to his brother, who remains seated. “You’re looking well. Doing patrols must suit you.”
“You look good as well,” returns Lephi. “All that extra training must have some benefits. But I suppose you need that to balance the effects of healing.”
“It works out.” Lerial turns to the sideboard, hoping for some lager, but there are only pitchers for wine. He doesn’t really feel like wine, but knows that he is expected to take either the red or the white. He pours less than half a goblet of the white, as the less objectionable of the two vintages, then seats himself on the settee between the armchairs occupied by his mother and brother. Once seated, he lifts the goblet. “To your safe return.”
“Thank you,” replies Lephi. “I really wasn’t in any danger.”
“Any patrol could be dangerous. That’s something that Majer Altyrn pointed out.”
“He must be very old now,” says Lephi, after a sip of his wine.
“One wouldn’t know it from all that he does. He still handles a wand well.”
“That’s not the same as a blade.”
Lerial refrains from pointing out that the wands Altyrn used to show him moves were actually heavier than real sabres. “No, they aren’t, but they do take effort.” He smiles again. “Tell me about your patrols … well … what you haven’t already told Mother.”
“I haven’t said much. We were waiting for you.”
“I appreciate that. I came as soon as I knew.” Even if I didn’t gallop back in joy.
“Well … as I was telling Mother, patrols aren’t quite like what people imagine. There’s lots of riding, and most of the time very little happens.” Lephi looks guilelessly at Lerial and then continues. “In time, you’ll find that out … I mean, whenever you start riding patrols.”
“I’m sure I will … whenever that is.” Lerial takes the smallest sip of the wine, which reminds him of vinegar, and offers an attentive expression.
“Anyway … we ended up almost three days ride south of Narthyl…”
Lerial continues to smile, knowing he is facing a long afternoon.
XXX
Lerial does not see Lephi on sevenday morning, not that he expects to, as early as he leaves for Lancer headquarters. When he returns from the Hall of Healing that afternoon, after riding through a cold south wind that promises either snow or icy rain, he finds Lephi in the main salon, wearing the dress uniform of a Mirror Lancer and talking with their mother. Lephi does not rise when Lerial enters..
“You’re going somewhere?” asks Lerial.
“In a while. There’s a reception at the villa of First Magus Tyrsalyn. His daughter is pretty enough, but some of her friends are stunning. You should come,” suggests Lephi.
“I wasn’t invited.”
“Who’s going to deny the son of the Duke, even the younger son?”
“Even so … I think I’ll pass.”
“You’re worried about being too young?” Lephi shakes his head. “Some of the girls will be younger than you are.”
“You could go,” says Xeranya in a tone that conveys the opposite of her words.
“He could if he wanted. No one will care if he comes with me,” Lephi replies.
Exactly! No one will care, except for the wrong reasons. “I think I’ll pass. It’s been a long week.”
“All that bladework tiring you out, brother?”
“Healing is tiring as well.”
“Healing?” Lephi raises his eyebrows.
“Yes, healing,
” says Emerya firmly.
Lerial has sensed her arrival, but has said nothing.
Even Xeranya nods at Emerya’s words.
“I suppose a lot falls on you, being the most accomplished healer,” Lephi says graciously, not quite pointedly avoiding acknowledging his mother’s nod.
“It often does.” Emerya moves to the sideboard and pours herself a glass of lager.
Lerial takes the opportunity to do the same, then seats himself on the settee beside his aunt.
“Lerial … you never did say how you were coming along with blades,” says Lephi.
“Better,” replies Lerial.
“That’s good. You needed a lot of improvement.” He smiles. “We could spar sometime, and I could show you what I’ve learned.”
“Well…” Lerial pauses, then goes on, trying to be noncommittal enough, even slightly reluctant enough, that Lephi will insist because he sees a certain weakness in Lerial, “that might be good. Most days, though…”
“You don’t spar with the Lancers on eightday. They never do.”
“That’s true. We could spar tomorrow.”
“Excellent! I look forward to it.” Lephi sets his glass of wine, still more than half full, on the table beside him, and rises. “I must be going before long.” He looks to Lerial. “You’re sure you don’t want to come?”
“Not this time.” Lerial smiles politely, with a touch of warmth. “Perhaps when I’m recognized in my own right, as you are.” He can sense that Emerya blocks revealing something, almost as if a black haze surrounds her for a moment.
As soon as Lephi leaves, Xeranya looks to Emerya. “What was it that upset you?”
Emerya smiles and shakes her head. “I almost laughed, and that would have upset Lephi … unnecessarily.” She looks at Lerial. “Do you really think you’ll ever be recognized in your own right?”
Cyador’s Heirs Page 23
