“This is the hostel. It is yours for the evening. There are several cooks and provisions, and you can request what can be prepared from those. I will meet you here in the morning, at sunrise.”
“Thank you,” replies Altyrn.
As the guide turns his mount and then rides back toward the main road past the column of Lancers, Lerial wonders if his questions have upset Yulyn—although he has discerned none of the usual signs of anger shown by the order and chaos flows around the man. Or is Yulyn always that abrupt? There is also another question.
Lerial turns to Altyrn. “This travelers’ hostel is more than large enough for two squads of Lancers. Are there that many who travel here?”
“I would not have thought so,” admits Altern, “but the forest people are said to be most practical.”
It takes nearly a glass for Altyrn and Lerial to make arrangements with the cooks and to settle the men. The hostel buildings are indeed like barracks, although there are several small individual chambers, and Lerial takes one, and Altyrn another, but the accommodations are far better than any the Lancers have had since leaving Teilyn.
More than a glass and a half later, Altyrn and Lerial, accompanied by four Lancers, ride back into the center of Apfhel and rein up outside the Copse Inn. They leave their mounts with the Lancers and enter the inn.
A slender older woman with silver and blond hair steps forward as Altyrn and Lerial step into the small entry hall. “The elders are in the small dining chamber. If you would follow me?” She pauses. “I noticed you have escorts. We will feed them as well.”
“Thank you.”
“We thank you for coming.”
The majer nods in reply.
Lerial does not frown, but wonders at the concern her words have not expressed.
The woman steps down the wooden-walled hallway, a space neither narrow nor especially wide, to the first door on the right, where she stops and gestures. Lerial follows Altyrn into the chamber where four people are standing there and apparently talking turn. Elder Moensyn is accompanied by three other elders—one man and two women, all standing near the front of the chamber. One of the women is silver haired, while the other man and woman are both younger, perhaps fifteen years older than Lerial at most.
“Welcome. This is Elder Sherita,” says Moensyn, nodding first to the silver-haired woman, then to the black-haired man, “and Elder Chevaen, and Elder Dalya.” Dalya is the younger strawberry-blond woman. “We should be seated. You have ridden long days, I am certain.”
“You might say so,” replies Altyrn genially, “but the quarters at the hostel are excellent. I would not have thought so many travelers or traders would come from the north and east.”
“Oh … they do not. The hostel also houses those who are learning service in the woods many times during the year. We are fortunate that only a few are here at present. That is also why your wayguide has requested you depart early tomorrow. There are no other hostels large enough for your forces between Apfhel and Verdell.”
Lerial can sense the truth of that, but from the maps he has studied, Verdheln extends much farther to the south. Why is the major town so far north when Verdheln is a part of Merowey?
The table in the small dining chamber is round. Lerial finds himself seated between Chevaen and Dalya, and across from Altyrn, who is seated between Moensyn and Sherita. You’re between the two younger elders, and Altyrn is between the two older ones. Lerial doubts that pattern bears any resemblance to coincidence. At each place is a wide platter of golden brown. For a moment, Lerial thinks it might be polished wood, but then sees that it is crockery, or perhaps something between crockery and porcelain. There is also a slender mug of the same substance.
Once everyone is seated, Moensyn clears his throat and speaks again. “We are honored to host Majer Altyrn, the most renowned Lancer of Cigoerne, and Undercaptain Lerial, who is also the son of Duke Kiedron. They have come with their men to assist us with certain concerns of the High Elders.”
How does he know Altyrn is the most renowned Lancer? Lerial wonders. From Altyrn’s past visits? Or was there something in the documents Altyrn showed him?
Moensyn gestures to the pitchers on the table. “We can offer you greenberry juice or melomel. The greenberry pitchers have a green stripe.”
“We do not have lager or ale,” adds Chevaen, “but the melomel is similar to a slightly sweet golden lager, I am told, although I have not tasted a golden lager, I must admit.”
Lerial is not certain he wishes either, but decides on the melomel, as the lesser of evils, and starts to reach for the pitcher, but Dalya is quicker, and fills his mug.
“That’s a good choice,” she says. “At least for me, it is. The greenberry’s too tart.” She looks to Chevaen. “Some prefer it that way.”
“Just be thankful Moensyn didn’t offer leshak,” comments Chevaen. Leshak?
At his expression, Dalya explains. “Leshak is made from greenberries and white grapes, and you don’t want to drink much if you want to be able to do much of anything at all … even if it is sweet and doesn’t taste that strong. Sweet can be powerful.” Her last words were edged, but Lerial does not feel that they are aimed at him.
He takes a sip of the melomel and finds it sweeter than any lager he has tasted, but not overpoweringly so, although he doubts that it has the thirst-quenching ability of a good pale or amber lager. “Are there only four elders in Apfhel, or are you four just those dining with us?”
“There are only four elders in any hamlet or town in Verdheln,” declares Chevaen.
“Four seems like a strange number,” ventures Lerial.
“It makes perfect sense.” Chevaen smiles broadly. “If the council, of elders, that is, cannot decide by three to one, it’s not a good idea.”
“That still doesn’t make it a good idea,” adds Dalya quietly. “It just makes it a popular bad idea.” She looks directly at Lerial. “Might I ask how long you have been a Lancer?”
He finds her gaze, especially with her gold-green eyes, more than a little disconcerting, but he smiles in return. “Not that long. I trained with arms for almost a year before my father and Majer Phortyn decided I was ready to be an undercaptain.” Lerial knows he is stretching the truth in one way and understating it in another, since his studies have been to prepare him as well, and they have gone on for years.
“Have you used your sabre in a real fight?” asks Dalya.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“You’re young to have wounded or killed a man.” Her words contain sadness.
“It wasn’t my choice.” Not if you wanted to live … and hold your head high. Before either can reply to that, he quickly says, “I must confess that I had no idea about how well planned and organized Verdheln seems to be.”
“Moderately well planned,” replies Chevaen with a slightly twisted smile. “Not nearly so well organized.”
“The way the trees form a living barrier near the road, and the raised stone wall that is sealed to keep water in … That would seem…” Lerial leaves his sentence unfinished.
“Tradition and custom,” says Dalya. “Those are custom. We live with and by the trees and in harmony, as we can, with the land.”
“You wear blades at your side,” Chevaen adds. “Here, weapons are knives and staves.”
“And bows for hunting,” adds Dalya.
At that moment, two servers appear with platters, which they set in the center part of the table, spaced equally around it.
“The main dish is huuras. That’s ghanos marinated in spices, then grilled and served with a mild cream sauce that’s seasoned with just a touch of honey-burhka sauce. The tubers are baked and covered with the same sauce, and the bread is a kind of acorn loaf.”
For a moment, Lerial struggles to remember what a ghano is, then recalls that it is essentially an overgrown ground squirrel. With that thought, he just hopes the sauces are good.
For a time, as everyone serves themselves, there is little
conversation, and Lerial takes small bites of everything. The acorn bread has a taste of bitterness. The ghanos strips, at least presented as they have been, are close enough to fowl that the slightly gamey taste is not off-putting to Lerial. The tubers are bland, but with the sauce make the best part of the meal.
Lerial addresses his next statement to Chevaen. “Verdheln looks like a well-established land, for all your demurral about the lack of organization, so organized that I must wonder what assistance we and the Lancers can provide.”
“That is up to the elders of the High Council to say,” replies Chevaen, in a tone that is not quite sneering.
Lerial takes several more bites before saying, “We passed a Kaordist temple on the way to the hostel. Perhaps I am mistaken, but I had heard that the people of Verdheln accepted the reality of both order and chaos, while Duke Casseon has forbidden any use of chaos to his people.”
Chevaen nods. “That is so.”
Dalya looks as though she might say something, pauses, and finally speaks. “We accept the reality of chaos and the fire that it can bring, but fire is deadly to the trees near our dwellings.”
Near our dwellings? Lerial frowns, if inadvertently. “Is it not dangerous to trees everywhere?”
From across the table Sherita laughs. “Fire thins the underbrush and keeps the forests healthy. We let the fires burn away from our hamlets and towns, but we prefer not to thin them in the same fashion.”
“I have heard it said that Duke Casseon has chaos mages among his armsmen,” Lerial says. “Do you know aught of that?” He tries to keep his tone guileless.
“His armsmen have burned hamlets south of the Verd,” admits Moensyn from across the table. “I have heard word that suggests the burning was not from torches … but that is likely a matter better addressed to the High Council.”
Lerial is getting an idea of why they are in Verdheln.
“Perhaps it should be,” adds Sherita, in a tone that essentially negates any possibility of further information along those lines.
Lerial has the definite feeling that any more questions along those lines will merely upset the elders, although he is puzzled by one matter, and one which he can bring up, while seeming to agree with Sherita. “I’ve never heard of councils of elders, but, begging your pardons, and hoping I am not offending, none of you seem that ancient.”
Dalya laughs, then turns to Moensyn. “Would you care to explain?”
“The term ‘elder’ refers to those who are respected and productive members of each community,” Moensyn says. “Also, no one can be an elder without having served the community without recompense for at least two years at some time in his or her life.”
“How does a community define what is productive or what is service?” asks Altyrn, surprisingly to Lerial.
“Service is what benefits all members of a community, not just a few,” replies Moensyn. “Things like building or smoothing the roads, building repairing the forest walls, planting trees where they are needed, digging wells, or maintaining the water or waste channels…”
“Most people choose to do service when they are young,” adds Chevaen, “and there are other forms of service as well.” He offers a sidelong glance at Dalya, who ignores it.
“And productive?” presses Altyrn.
“Productive is anything that adds, overall, to the community,” replies Dalya.
“That’s … rather general,” observes Altyrn.
“Life is rather general,” returns Sherita dryly.
Lerial can sense that the elders all seem in agreement, despite Chevaen’s apparent snide reference aimed at Dalya.
Moensyn gestures. Although Lerial sees no one besides those in the dining chamber, the servers return and remove the dishes before each person, placing in front of each a small plate, in the center of which is something that vaguely resembles a small mounded pastry.
“Honey nut-cakes,” explains Sherita in reply to Lerial’s quizzical glance.
Although Lerial is definitely fond of honey, he takes a small first bite … and is relieved that the confectionery, infused with honey, almost melts in his mouth. While there is a layer of crushed nuts, there is definitely a flour of some sort, but it is unlike any he has tasted, and he wonders if it is a nut flour. Or what kind of nut flour.
After all have finished the honey nut-cakes, Moensyn coughs, then says, “We would not keep you … knowing you have a long ride ahead of you tomorrow.”
Altyrn smiles in return. “That is true. We do appreciate your hospitality and kindness and your telling us more about Verdheln.”
“It is the least we could do,” replies Sherita. “You needed to know more about the Verd.”
There is a definite note of truth in her words that strikes Lerial, almost as if she wished to say more … and could or would not.
“We are thankful.” Altyrn begins to stand and glances at Lerial.
“We are indeed,” adds Lerial as he also rises.
“We wish you well on your journey to Verdyn,” replies Moensyn, standing in turn.
“Thank you.”
Lerial follows Altyrn through the inn and past the silver and blond woman, who nods politely, and out to the narrow covered front porch. In moments, the Lancers appear, mounted and leading the mounts for Lerial and the majer.
“Were you fed?” Altyrn asks the lead ranker.
“Yes, ser. Best fare we’ve had since we left Cigoerne.”
“Good.” Altyrn mounts and waits for Lerial to do the same before he says, “We need to talk once we get back to the quarters.”
“Yes, ser.”
On the ride back west to the hostel, Lerial does his best to extend his senses, feeling for any sort of danger, but he can sense nothing. Nor is anything amiss when they reach their temporary quarters.
Once Altyrn shuts the door to his small chamber, he turns to Lerial. “What did you think of the elders?”
“They’re mostly honest. They know more than they’re telling us … and they’re worried.”
“About us?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so … but I’m not sure.”
“They’re more than polite,” rejoins Altyrn. “It’s not just that they have to be, either.” He pauses, then adds, “I was doubtful when the one elder said that weapons were staves and knives, and said bows were just for hunting, but I’m beginning to think he was telling the truth.”
“You think the forest people have relied on their trees and the distance from the large cities and towns of Afrit and Merowey to defend themselves?”
“That … and I’m thinking that all the raiders from the south may not be raiding Cigoerne just because of bad harvests. What if the harvests are so poor that Casseon is taking more to feed the people of the cities?”
“And driving the raiders north? Or do you think he’s looking to loot the granaries or the supplies of the Verd?”
“I don’t think they have granaries as we know them. Did you see any true flour? But they do have ample food. Does anything else strike you?”
“The roads. They’re level, and they cut through hill. They don’t seem to have that many people for all that roadwork and stonework.”
“They don’t. Remember what I told you about cammabark? They drill holes in the ground and then fill them with the dried bark. Then they take a string or a strip of cloth treated with a solution that has some cammabark, and they light it and take cover. The explosion removes rocks and dirt.” Altyrn shakes his head. “It’s very dangerous, but they’re very very careful … about that … about everything.”
While the two talk for another half glass, when Lerial leaves, he feels that they have not uncovered any insights they had not already made by the time they had left the inn.
XLV
Just after sunrise on sevenday the Lancers ride out from the travelers’ hostel of Apfhel, on a journey that will last past sunset, according to Yulyn.
As he rides beside the wayguide, Lerial cannot help wonder abou
t the discrepancy between Casseon’s prohibition of chaos use among his people but his likely deployment of it against his enemies or those against whom he has a grudge.
All that raises another, and far more personal question. What can he do—if anything—should he encounter a magus or a white wizard using chaos-fire? He understands that some of those in the past of Cyador who were not full Magi’i, like Lorn, have faced chaos-fire and triumphed. Strong ordermasters are supposed to have been able to create order shields against chaos. Lerial is well aware that he is nowhere close to being either a magus or a full ordermage. Yet … is there anything he can do? There must be something.
Even as he surveys the forest through which they ride, a forest that seems to change little, with its mixture of evergreens and broad-leafed trees, most of whose leaves are winter-grayed, his thoughts keep coming back to the question of what sort of defenses he can develop. After riding a glass and a half, from what he can tell, since it is hard to chart the progress of the sun between the intermittent clouds and the tall trees that leave the road in shadow most of the time, they ride through a hamlet. In the entire ride from Apfhel to the unnamed hamlet, they have passed but a handful of small wagons, two other riders, both in brown, and several young men walking the road, carrying either scythes or mattocks.
Once they enter the hamlet, from what Lerial can tell, there are close to a hundred dwellings, similar, if not nearly identical, to those he has seen in Apfhel. He does not see a Kaordist temple, but perhaps it is farther from the main road than is the one in Apfhel. With the thinning of the trees come rays of sunlight, for which Lerial finds he is grateful, yet before long they are back in the shadows of the main road.
“Are all the roads in Verdheln this shadowed?” he finally asks Yulyn.
“I know of none that are not … except where they pass through the great meadows.”
“Where are the great meadows?”
“Where they always have been,” replies Yulyn with a broad grin. “We will pass through one close to sunset. There are not many in Verdheln, and most are to the west and more to the south.”
Cyador’s Heirs Page 33
