Cyador’s Heirs

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  When he returns to the Palace, there is a tailor waiting outside his chambers, and Lerial invites him in, where the man takes measurements quickly.

  “Three regular riding uniforms and one dress uniform,” he says when he finishes. “The riding uniforms will be ready by sevenday at noon. The dress uniform will take longer, of course, but your father said you would not be needing that immediately…”

  “I don’t imagine that I will,” replies Lerial with a slight laugh.

  He sees the tailor out and is about to close the door when he sees Emerya walking toward him. He waits.

  “I’d like to talk to you before you go down to the salon for refreshments.”

  “I can talk now.”

  “My chambers, if you would.”

  “Of course.” Lerial feels like shrugging as he walks beside Emerya. It doesn’t matter whose chambers to him. If Emerya has something to say, it doesn’t matter where she wants to say it, although he does wonder what she has in mind … and the fact that she doesn’t want to say more at the moment, even though there is no one else nearby.

  Once they are alone in her sitting room, seated in the two chairs that are neither really armchairs nor plain straight-backed chairs, Emerya looks at Lerial. “There are some things you should consider while you are away from Cigoerne. Why do you think Duke Atroyan hasn’t mounted a campaign against Cigoerne?”

  “Because we protect part of his borders, and we’re not a threat.”

  “That’s true, but it’s not the entire truth. We could kill five Afritan armsmen for every Lancer we lost and still be destroyed to the last person. Think about that.”

  Lerial nods. “But why would they want to lose so many when we are not a threat?”

  “Is an infant a threat?”

  Lerial understands that. “You mean because we only had a few hundred people when you came here, and now there are thousands?”

  “That’s part of it. The last count showed that more than forty thousand people live within the boundaries of Cigoerne, and it could be much more. Most came from Afrit, some from Merowey.” Abruptly, Emerya says, “You met the Duke’s daughter years ago. Did she have any cousins?”

  Lerial frowns. What does that have to do with Afrit not attacking Cigoerne? “She didn’t then,” he replies cautiously.

  “She doesn’t now.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “People do send letters up and down the Swarth River, Lerial. People have always written letters.” Emerya offers an enigmatic smile. “Sometimes, they’ve even written poems.”

  She stands and walks to her table-desk, where she takes out a thin volume. The binding is not leather, but something that shimmers a silver-green.

  Lerial realizes that it must be the other copy of the volume his mother had once shown him.

  “This book is older than it looks. It is almost as old as Cyad. I want to read you some lines.”

  Lerial waits, wondering of what use ancient words might be.

  His aunt the healer begins, still standing.

  “I have no soul,

  but a nibbled kernel …

  feelings dried and stored

  on the shelves of self

  in the deep cellar where

  provisions must be made.

  Provisions must be made.

  I made them

  gleaning

  those wild leftovers of

  unharvest days,

  hoarding hard-to-come-bys

  of cold reason

  against colder seasons.

  Provisions must be made,

  and I have made them.”

  There is a silence after she finishes, and Lerial wonders what he is supposed to say.

  Before he can compose his thoughts, she says, “I don’t want you to ask me what the words mean. I don’t want you to tell me what you think they mean. I just want you to think about them … and keep those thoughts to yourself.” She turns the silvery pages once more and reads briefly once more.

  “Worlds change, I’m told,

  mirror silver to heavy gold,

  and the new becomes the old,

  with the way the story’s told.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?” Lerial can’t help asking that, even though Emerya has said she won’t explain.

  “I’ve said all I’ll say. If you can’t figure it out, I can’t help you.”

  “I think I understand.” Before she can reply, he asks, “Why don’t you and Mother like Majer Phortyn?”

  “I don’t trust him. She recalls the time he was overheard saying that too many of the Magi’i were broken-down remnants of a great past.” She gestures. “You can go now. I’ll be down in a few moments.”

  Lerial rises. “I will think about the verse.”

  “Good.”

  Once Lerial is out in the second level corridor, he thinks about her admonition. If you can’t figure it out, I can’t help you. There are so many meanings behind those words … so many … And yet, his mother has once told him that she had found meaning in the words as well.

  As he walks down the hallway toward the steps, he manages not to shake his head. Somehow the business about letters … that had seemed so out of place … and the fact that his aunt knows that Kyedra, the Duke’s daughter, who must be about the age of Rojana, has no cousins.

  Then … it strikes him. Amaira! How could she have…?

  Lerial has always wondered about who Amaira’s father is … or was. He has even thought it might have be Rhamuel, the brother of the Duke of Afrit, the one whom Emerya had healed after his failed ambush on Lerial’s father, but it has never been something anyone talked about.

  But how could it have been anyone else? And how could his father or mother—or his grandmother—even have known until it was too late?

  But if Emerya is writing letters to Rhamuel … and his father knows … as he must…? And what purpose was reading the poetry meant to convey? Except that it was written by the second Emperor of Light?

  He smiles wryly. His aunt has asked him to think over the poetry while he is gone … and it is clear that there is more behind those words than he understands … and that there is a message his aunt does not wish to convey directly. Or feels that you won’t understand or appreciate it if she does?

  XXXVI

  The remainder of sixday and sevenday both pass quickly, and almost before Lerial knows it, he is saddling the gelding well before dawn on eightday morning and strapping his kit bag behind the saddle. When he leads the gelding out of the stable, he sees his mother and sister, as well as Emerya and Amaira, standing by the side entrance to the main part of the palace. He mounts and rides over to them, where he reins up.

  “Take care,” his mother offers.

  “I will.” As I can.

  “Good-bye,” says Ryalah.

  “Good-bye … and don’t get too mad at Amaira.”

  Ryalah makes a face back at him, to which Lerial grins.

  Amaira looks at him and barely murmurs, “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye … but don’t let Ryalah play too much on the fairness business.”

  His dark-haired and dark-eyed cousin smiles shyly, and then looks away.

  “Trust yourself,” are the first words from his aunt, followed by, in a lower voice, “in all things.”

  “That’s harder than it sounds.”

  She nods and then smiles.

  Lerial manages not to swallow as he turns the gelding toward the four rankers who are his escort to Lancer headquarters. The very fact that his mother and aunt are both there to see him off brings home the fact that his training mission with the majer is in fact the same as a patrol. He knows his father has said that … but when he had heard those words, they had just been words. Is that why he isn’t here? Because it would emphasize even more that there’s danger?

  Lerial decides that is most likely, but he keeps a pleasant expression on his face as he rides up to Jhubyl, the junior squad leader, “I see you drew the
early morning duty.”

  “Figured someone from the Palace Lancers ought to see you off, ser.”

  “Oh … I’ll be back. Just not for a while.”

  Once they are through the gates, Jhubyl says, “I hear you’re going out into the hill country.”

  “In that direction, with Majer Altyrn. He’s going to start training some of the hill types to be Lancers.”

  “That’s what the watertalk is. Do you think that’s because the Heldyans are up to making more trouble?”

  “Since when have either the Afritans or the Heldyans not made trouble?” Lerial counters genially, trying to avoid confirming or denying the rumor.

  Jhubyl laughs. “You sound just like Undercaptain Woelyt, ser.”

  Lerial just hopes that he can handle all aspects of being an undercaptain, especially since all too many eyes will be on how he acts and carries out his duties. Even if you are being used as a sort of replacement for Lephi. That doesn’t mean he can’t do the job better than his older brother could. Not at all.

  As he rides along the southwest boulevard toward the Lancer headquarters compound, he cannot help but think about how much his life has changed over the past two seasons. Was it all because he listened to Emerya … and that provided the initial spark for change? Or would it have happened anyway?

  He shakes his head. Change would have happened in any case, but without Emerya’s help, he wouldn’t have been nearly so well prepared … and he is anything but certain he is prepared for what will occur in the seasons ahead.

  Teilyn and Beyond

  XXXVII

  Lerial waits until the column—two squads and three wagons—is well out of Cigoerne before considering more than exchanging pleasantries and giving necessary orders to the two squad leaders. It is slightly unnerving to realize that he is officially in command, although Majer Phortyn had drawn him aside before they had departed from headquarters. The majer’s comments had been short and politely blunt.

  “Lord Lerial … or Undercaptain Lerial … you’re the only officer. That puts you in command. That means the lances stowed in the wagons are your responsibility. No one will make off with those. The paychest is another matter. Don’t keep checking it. Just make sure it’s never unguarded … or that your squad leaders do. They will if you don’t get in the way. Relay all orders through your squad leaders. I suggest doing it quietly enough that they can offer advice if you’ve not thought of anything. Before you order anything else, talk to one of the squad leaders.”

  “Yes, ser. In short, rely on them to keep me from making a fool out of myself.” And damaging Father’s position.

  “Keep that in mind, and you’ll do fine.”

  “Thank you, ser.”

  Phortyn had actually smiled when he’d stepped back.

  Now … some three kays south of Cigoerne, Lerial rides beside Juist. The senior of the two squad leaders is blond, and his weathered fair skin bears sun-scars, suggesting a Cyadoran heritage and giving Lerial an opening for finding out more about the squad leader.

  “As I’m sure is obvious,” Lerial begins, “I’m so new to the Lancers, except for training in Teilyn and headquarters, that I don’t know anything about you or your rankers. Have there been other Lancers in your family?”

  Juist laughs. “Don’t know that there’ve been other than that, among the men, that is. My da was a Lancer. He always said one of his greats, way back, had served under the great Lorn, and I was named after him. Could be a tale.” The squad leader shrugs.

  “You expected to be a Lancer from the beginning, then?”

  “Couldn’t see myself doing much else, ser. Not much for grubbing dirt or hewing timber. Don’t have the skill with my hands to be a crafter, and I’m not much for staying in one place.”

  Lerial is certain Juist has more skills than just with a sabre, but he only says, “What’s the most important thing you tell a new man, the thing that every junior officer ought to know, the thing that’s so basic that most don’t?”

  Juist looks startled. Then he laughs again, almost ruefully. “Ser…” He shakes his head before smiling. “You really want to know, ser?”

  “I suspect you feel I won’t like it, but if I don’t, I should know.”

  “I tell them that unless an undercaptain’s been a squad leader, he won’t know sowshit, and that they need to look to their squad leader.”

  That scarcely surprises Lerial, and he nods. “About how many undercaptains are like me, that have no real experience?”

  “Begging your pardon, ser, but, from what I hear, you didn’t piss in your britches when a raider charged you, and you killed the bastard. That’s more than half the undercaptains in the Lancers can say.”

  Lerial isn’t surprised at that. With only fifteen companies or so, there are likely only twenty undercaptains, thirty at the outside, and half are doubtless the sons of former officers. Then there is the fact that many patrols don’t encounter raiders, especially large numbers of raiders. “That’s true, but I didn’t have to give orders. All I had to do was defend myself.”

  “That’s good. Be better if all officers went through that before they give orders.”

  “What else should I know?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  Lerial grins. “You said every ranker should look to his squad leader. The majer told me the same, that I should look to you and Kusyl.”

  “Majer’s got some sense.” Juist smiles. “Appears you do, too.” He pauses. “Don’t know where to start.”

  “Anywhere you want. We’ve got two days before we get to Teilyn.”

  Juist is silent for a time, and Lerial wonders if he has been too direct with the weathered squad leader. Finally, the older man speaks. “Rankers don’t have to know what you have in mind. Squad leaders do. They need to know what you want done. Suggest what you think will work. See what they think…”

  Lerial listens and keeps listening.

  Sometime after midday, Lerial switches from riding with Juist to accompanying the other squad leader. In appearance, Kusyl is far different from Juist—black-haired, brown-eyed, with a swarthy complexion and deeply tanned skin. He is also smaller and wiry.

  Lerial wonders about his background, but decides not to presume, “Might I ask how you came to be a Lancer?”

  Kusyl snorts. “What else would I be, ser? Father was a Lancer … excepting he didn’t survive the mess the Accursed Forest made. Just lucky to be here. Ma was a nurse for the consort of a magus and got on the Kerial ’cause someone thought she was Magi’i, too.”

  Lerial manages not to wince and wonders what he can ask next, but doesn’t have to because Kusyl keeps talking.

  “… used to get mad about that … excepting that, as Ma said, we’d been dead if’n she hadn’t come. When I got older, I looked at what I could do … and when I heard they’d give preference to the sons of Lancers … well … turned out better for me than my da. Got a consort and two boys … good pay … and, begging your pardon, ser, your sire’s a Stars-better ruler than his sire…”

  “So I’ve heard.” Lerial makes his comment as wryly dry as he can.

  Kusyl chuckles. “Fact that he’s sending you off says a lot…”

  Such as? That Father risks himself and his sons? That’s obvious, but there’s something else about what Kusyl is saying, but Lerial can’t put his finger on it. He tries to keep that in mind as he asks another question. “What do you think most junior officers forget in dealing with squad leaders?” Lerial grins and adds, “Besides the fact that the squad leaders know more than fresh undercaptains?”

  Kusyl does laugh, if for a moment, before replying. “Everything takes longer. Everything. The more men you got, the longer it takes…”

  From that point on, the conversation follows a line similar to the one Lerial has had with Juist. There are exceptions, and one strikes Lerial as something he never would have considered.

  “No squad leader wants to worry about an officer who’s leading a charge. S
ame way, no squad leader likes an officer who’s so far behind that he’s not even there. Doesn’t mean there aren’t times when you shouldn’t lead. Means you shouldn’t do it much. Only when there’s no other way … or when you’ve lost the squad leader in the fight.”

  By midafternoon, Lerial just hopes that he can remember a fraction of what he has heard … and that he can make sure nothing happens to the paychest. He also knows he needs to keep practicing the concealment … with enough concentration that he doesn’t inadvertently draw iron toward himself.

  XXXVIII

  By late on oneday afternoon, Lerial has alternated riding with the two squad leaders over the two days it has taken to get to Teilyn, trying to draw each of them out, both to learn what he can and to learn about each of them. He has largely managed to avoid revealing many details about himself, although he is well aware that in the process of conversing with the two squad leaders he has doubtless revealed more about himself than he realizes.

  As they near Teilyn, Lerial studies the town, with its mud-brick houses and tile roofs, their white mud-plastered walls pinker than he recalls. Still … the streets are straight and the road, once they enter the town, becomes the brick-paved main street, and the side streets are also straight, if unpaved. Abruptly, it strikes him. The entire town was built—or rebuilt—under a plan, most likely the majer’s.

  How could he not have seen that before?

  Because you weren’t thinking about it.

  Interestingly enough, when they pass through Teilyn and near the Lancer post, Lerial does not notice anything new. But then, he’d been in the post scores of times. The duty gate Lancers barely nod as he and Juist lead the two squads and the wagons through and rein up outside the small headquarters building.

  Captain Graessyr stands there, waiting.

  “Two squads reporting for duty with Majer Altyrn, ser,” Lerial announces.

  “Squads accepted for duty, Undercaptain.” Then Graessyr smiles. “Didn’t think you’d be back here, did you?”

  “No. It makes sense, though.”

  “After you and the squad leaders settle the men, we should talk.”