Cyador’s Heirs

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  Some of what the two are discussing, Lerial has heard before—many times—but not the business about the hill towns and hamlets. “Then … those raiders … the ones that attacked the majer and me … they had to be from the south and not the west.”

  “I’m sure they were,” replies Emerya. “The forest people are mostly peaceful. The fact that they’re starting to trade with us is good.”

  “Some of the factors are complaining about tariffs, again,” ventures Xeranya.

  “Kiedron has to pay the Lancers. Even Atroyan recognizes that. It’s why he’s relatively honest in remitting tariff shares. It’s less costly for the merchanters in Swartheld that way. All they care about are golds.” Emerya’s tone is between sardonic and scornful.

  “Does Atroyan recognize that … or his brother?”

  “Atroyan still listens to Rhamuel. How long that will last…” Emerya shrugs.

  Lerial cannot help but wonder how Emerya knows that, but before he can ask, his aunt looks at him with an expression that clearly suggests he should not. Much as he would like to know, he decides he will pursue that question in private with her, rather than antagonize her in front of his mother.

  “Do you think,” Lerial asks, looking to his aunt, “that Duke Khesyn will risk sending whole companies of armsmen across the river?”

  “Khesyn is usually shrewd,” replies Emerya, “but like all shrewd men, he is also capable of incredibly foolhardy acts. While I would judge he would not, it isn’t beyond possibility.”

  At that, Lerial feels a chill, for while he finds Lephi insufferable at present, he doesn’t like the idea of his brother and the Lancers facing Heldyan armsmen, especially given Lephi’s unrealistic views of his own abilities. Yet, especially with his mother present, he can’t say that, either. So he takes a swallow of his lager and nods, deciding to listen to what his mother and aunt may say before dinner.

  He also thinks that he had best find a way to learn to do a concealment … and anything else that he can do with order.

  XXXII

  When Lerial returns from the Hall of Healing late on a cloudy and cool sixday afternoon and is preparing to lead the gelding into the stable, he sees Undercaptain Woelyt standing by the stable door, apparently waiting for him.

  Why? Is there some problem with the rankers who’ve been escorting you? Or have you done something wrong?

  He stops. “Good afternoon, Undercaptain. Is there something…?”

  “Not exactly, Lord Lerial…”

  Lerial nods. “But…?”

  “I notice that you’ve not asked me to spar with you for some time,” ventures Woelyt.

  “I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant to offend you, ser,” replies Lerial. “I’ve been working with Captain Chaen at headquarters, and I really didn’t wish to impose upon you.”

  “I can understand that, Lord Lerial, but since your father will likely ask me what I think of your progress…”

  Lerial immediately understands the position in which his thoughtlessness has placed the undercaptain. “If you are free, Undercaptain, I would be more than happy to spar with you at present … as soon as I can stable my mount. I do understand, and I would not wish my thoughtlessness to reflect unfavorably upon you.”

  “If it would not be an imposition…”

  “Not at all.” And Lerial means that completely. He also realizes that his father, upon his return, will indeed most likely talk to the undercaptain. Another thing you didn’t consider. “I’ll only be a few moments. If you’d see to the wands…”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lerial unsaddles and grooms the gelding quickly, then hurries out of the stable to the courtyard exercise circle where the Lancers practice.

  Woelyt is waiting. He extends a wooden wand.

  “Thank you.” Lerial takes the wand, realizing that it feels much lighter than he recalls. Is that because he is used to a heavier blade? He runs through several moves, then nods as he takes his position.

  Woelyt does not bother with a feint, but begins with a direct thrust attack, one that Lerial parries easily, realizing almost immediately that the order flows around the undercaptain reveal his intent even before his wand moves, more so than with most of those against whom Lerial has sparred in recent eightdays. Rather than press, Lerial takes a guard position and waits for the next attack, which comes after a feint toward his shoulder. This time, Lerial slips the attack and comes in low and strikes the undercaptain on the thigh, returning to a guard position almost before Woelyt can react.

  “You’ve gotten faster…”

  “I’ve had more practice,” replies Lerial.

  For almost a half glass, the same pattern repeats itself, but Lerial is not about to call a halt to the sparring, not until Woelyt is satisfied.

  Finally the undercaptain steps back. He offers a rueful smile. “You’ve gotten so much better that it’s hard to believe.”

  Lerial smiles in return. “You’ve had to do all the duties of a Lancer officer. All I’ve had to do is concentrate on learning things.” Not all of them having to do with sabres and tactics, but learning all the same. “And I’ve had the advantage of working against a lot of different officers.”

  “It shows.” Woelyt inclines his head. “I appreciate the sparring, ser.”

  “Thank you. I do apologize for not thinking about keeping you apprised of my progress.” Lerial grins. “You did suffer through my awkward sessions and gave me a good start, and I do appreciate that.”

  “Thank you, ser.”

  By the time Lerial leaves the outer courtyard, the slight sweat he had worked up, given the winter air and the breeze, has vanished. He is already cool by the time he reaches the Palace proper and heads up to his chambers to wash up before meeting with his mother and aunt in his mother’s salon. He is still surprised at how much he has progressed with the use of the sabre. While he knew he was better, especially after sparring with Lephi, he had felt that Woelyt was better than his own brother. And perhaps he is.

  He smiles at the thought.

  After washing, as he is walking down the hall toward the staircase to the salon, he hears high voices.

  “It’s not fair! You always win, except sometimes you let me!”

  He recognizes Ryalah’s voice immediately.

  “I do not,” Amaira replies. “I win when you make mistakes. You win when I make mistakes.”

  “It’s still not fair!” Ryalah’s voice rises into a shriek.

  “Girls!”

  Lerial does not recognize the older voice, but assumes it must be that of their nurse.

  As he nears the next door, it opens, and Ryalah runs out. Tears are streaming down her face, so much so that she runs right into Lerial—or would have had, except that he reaches down and scoops her up.

  “Now … now … you almost knocked me down.”

  “Put me down!” Her small fists pound on his shoulders. “Let me go!”

  Lerial can sense the fury within her, almost like a grayish chaos. After a moment, while he continues to hold her, he tries to soothe her by creating what feels like mist of order, holding his affection for her, and letting it settle. The fists stop pounding, and heaving sobs follow.

  “She … makes … mad … not … fair … never fair…”

  He says nothing, knowing that nothing he says will matter at the moment.

  The nurse stands in the doorway, looking at him.

  Lerial can sense her fear as well. “It’s all right. She’ll be fine in a bit.”

  “… will … not!”

  “All right,” he says reasonably, “you won’t be.”

  “You’re making fun of me!”

  Lerial says nothing and keeps holding her.

  Finally. Ryalah looks at Lerial, their faces almost touching. “Please…”

  “If you’ll be good.”

  “She isn’t fair…”

  Lerial continues to wait, still holding her.

  “I’ll be good.”

  “Good.” />
  “I don’t have to like it,” Ryalah adds as Lerial sets her on her feet.

  “No, you don’t,” he agrees.

  For a moment, a look of puzzlement crosses her face. Then she smiles at him. “You’re funny.”

  “Sometimes. Not very often. It’s even harder to be funny than good.”

  Ryalah turns to the nurse. “I’ll be good.”

  As the little blond heads back into the playroom, the nurse murmurs, “Thank you, ser.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Lerial hurries down the steps and finally reaches the salon.

  “You returned to the Palace some time ago,” observes Xeranya, almost tartly, as he enters.

  “I had to spar with Undercaptain Woelyt. He hasn’t worked out with me for some time, and Father will wish to hear his judgment on my progress as well as that of Captain Chaen.” Lerial does not wish to mention the time he has spent with Ryalah and Amaira. He walks to the sideboard for a lager.

  After a moment, Xeranya nods. “Of course. Of course. It’s good that you’re realizing the impact your actions have on others … or should I say the impact the failure of your actions might have on them?”

  “We all realize that sooner or later,” adds Emerya from the settee. “Later for some of us.” A ruefully amused smile flits across her lips and face and vanishes. “How did the sparring go?”

  “The undercaptain was pleased with my progress.”

  “Excellent,” says Xeranya. “Your father has been worried about that.”

  “Some of us take longer … or at least it seems that way,” replies Lerial.

  Emerya, her head turned toward Lerial and facing away from Xeranya, lifts an eyebrow in warning.

  “Anything worth doing is worth doing well,” Xeranya continues, “and that takes time and effort.”

  “I’ve discovered that.” Lerial seats himself in the armchair nearer to Emerya, then takes a swallow of his lager. “What might we be having for dinner?”

  “A green goat curry, I think. I told the girls to finish up the meat we had.”

  Lerial thinks about commenting on green goats and decides against it.

  “I hope you told them to make it mild,” says Emerya.

  “I did.”

  “Thank you,” replies Emerya.

  Lerial is thankful as well. He takes another small swallow of lager and fixes a pleasant smile upon his face, ready to listen … although his mind is on concealments … and raiders and patrols.

  XXXIII

  Eightday morning, Lerial wakes up early, despite a gloom more like that created by a heavy overcast late in the afternoon. Yet when he opens the shutters of his chamber, there is no overcast, but there are low dark clouds moving swiftly to the south, with no sign of rain. The air is cold and gusts around him, although it is not chill enough for snow, or even for sleet or icy rain. As he stands at the open window, he finds that he is both unsettled and irritable, perhaps because, once more, this time on sevenday afternoon, after returning from the Hall of Healing, he had tried in yet another fashion to create a concealment … and had only succeeded in exhausting himself.

  He shakes his head and turns away from the window, his eyes lighting on the black silk pouch on his table-desk.

  Rojana had said an old book claimed that a lodestone could help with ordering order. What about ordering the flows of order and chaos?

  With a smile, half amused and half rueful, Lerial walks to the table-desk and eases the lodestone from the silk pouch, leaving the pouch on the wooden surface. Holding the lodestone in his left hand, he concentrates on sensing the tiny flows of order and chaos, except that the flows are not either, but a combination of each.

  He looks around for something made of iron, then sees his sabre, in his sword belt scabbard and hung on the rack beside his armoire. He moves the lodestone toward the blade, still concentrating on sensing the flow of order-chaos. The flow seems to strengthen as the lodestone nears the blade. Lerial moves it back and senses the lessening of the strength, except that is not quite right. The strength does not so much change as that the pattern shifts.

  Surely, you can do the same … can’t you?

  He moves the lodestone nearer and farther from the sabre, watching, sensing, before he tries to add what he feels is a duplication of the pattern, and he feels the lodestone pull more strongly toward the sabre.

  So you can make a small lodestone stronger? So what? Except … somehow … he feels that there must be a connection between the flow of order-chaos from the lodestone and the flow of order and chaos necessary for a concealment. But what? The fact that doubling the pattern strengthens the pull of the lodestone?

  He tries to manipulate the circular waves around each end of the lodestone, but the waves or patterns immediately reform. After a time, his head throbs slightly, and he lowers the lodestone. Then he notices that it appears brighter outside, and he walks to the window and looks out. The clouds still cover the northern sky, but there is a break to the south, and a shaft of light arrows an angle though that aperture in the clouds.

  There is … something … about that.

  Then he smiles. So obvious that you almost didn’t see it. The light shaft doesn’t spread … or not that much. That means that the light patterns travel in a straight line. The fact that an image is reflected in a mirror is another indication of that, but Lerial has not connected the two until he saw the shaft of sunlight. The lodestone bends order and chaos into a set of circles …

  He takes the lodestone once more and tries to duplicate the patterns of order-chaos, but with light as well. For a moment, only a moment, there is a pinpoint of light, at the end of the lodestone—at each end. When he sees that, he is surprised enough that he loses his concentration, and the additional brightness vanishes.

  But why brightness? His aunt said that, if he did manage a concealment, he would not be able to see. That had to be because … why? He thinks for a time. He knows he cannot see in darkness. No one can. That means light is necessary to see. Obviously! But he is missing something. Black cloth, black anything—if it’s left in the sun—gets hot. White doesn’t get as hot. The sunlight heats things. Does that mean that sunlight, or some of it, is caught by dark objects? That would mean less is caught by light ones.

  He continues to ponder. But … if his order-chaos pattern around the lodestone keeps light away, and that caused the brightness, why wasn’t there brightness when Emerya created a concealment? She had been standing in the shadows, and more light would have made an aura around her, and there hadn’t been one.

  Lerial rubs his forehead, still trying to puzzle it out.

  But your pattern was inside the lodestone pattern …

  Is that it? The shaft of sunlight went on and on until it hit something and lit it up, like sunlight lights everything. Unless it doesn’t touch it!

  He nods to himself. The trick, or skill, is to figure out how to use order flows to bend light around himself, not to contain it in the way that the lodestone bends its attractive force around its end. Somehow … he has the feeling accomplishing that is going to be far harder than figuring out what he has to do.

  Still … he has a much better idea of what is involved. And it took you a long time and much effort to become better with a blade.

  He squares his shoulders and takes a position in front of the mirror.

  XXXIV

  While the skies are overcast or cloudy on most days in Cigoerne as winter proceeds, there is only one other light rain over the next several eightdays besides the one that occurred the night of Lephi’s return, but the weather turns markedly colder. Every morning, and every afternoon, Lerial struggles with using order to create a concealment, and slowly begins to be able to hold the patterns for perhaps a tenth part of a glass. At times, however, if he does not concentrate closely, small iron objects fly toward him, or rather toward either the lodestone … or his sabre. That worries him, because spears and arrowheads are made of iron, and what good is a concealment
if holding one will attract weapons?

  He wishes his progress were better, and he has to remind himself that Emerya had told him almost a year before that using order would be far harder than merely mastering the skills of handling a sabre … and his struggles with mastering the concealment technique are yet another proof of that.

  On fourday of the third eightday of winter, there are so few injuries and illnesses that both Emerya and Lerial leave the Hall of Healing just after midday. As he rides beside his aunt, Lerial can see his breath steaming, and he is very glad for the Lancer riding jacket—and the gloves Altyrn had given him.

  Lerial, Emerya, and their Lancer escorts are still a good half kay from the Palace when Emerya straightens in the saddle and says abruptly, “Your father must be back.”

  Lerial almost asks how she knows, but then sees that the ducal banner flies above the guardhouse by the main gate to the palace grounds. “I hope that means that the fighting around Penecca is over.”

  “So do I, but it might also mean that both sides remain there, and that your father sees no point in staying, since nothing will change over the winter.”

  Lerial frowns. He has not thought of that.

  “Not all battles are won in great fights. Some are won by not fighting at all,” Emerya says.

  “How can you win by not fighting?”

  “Cigoerne today is more than two-score times as large as the lands your grandmere purchased from Duke Atroyan’s father. Not a single field was added by fighting.”

  “But the Lancers fight all the time. They fight raiders, and Afritan and Heldyan armsmen.”

  “They fight to protect those who have chosen to be part of Cigoerne. Chosen,” Emerya adds firmly.

  Lerial considers her words and then replies. “Duke Atroyan and Duke Khesyn can’t like that. Why have they let it happen?”

  “They thought the lands were not worth fighting over, but when our engineers and Magi’i made them worth more, they wanted them back.” She pauses. “You’re right, though. I fear those times are over.”