Cyador’s Heirs

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “Repeat and repeat,” Lerial says dryly, knowing that he is merely uttering what Altyrn has already emphasized.

  “And do it again.” Kusyl pauses. “I’d still like to know how you did that.”

  “Luck. I don’t think I’ll try it again. It was one of those ideas that seemed good at the time, and I was lucky it worked. The problem is, I realized, that an officer—or a squad leader—who’s instructing can’t afford to make obvious mistakes or look bad … and that could easily have gone wrong.” And almost did.

  “That’s true, ser.”

  “How are your squads doing in riding as a group?”

  “They all stay together, and they’ve finally managed not to hit each other with their weapons. In another eightday, I might be able to get them to use real sabres without worrying. That is, if the Meroweyans don’t attack first. Have you heard anything, ser?”

  “Not so far.” What Lerial doesn’t say, but Kusyl knows, is that it’s a good eightday for a dispatch rider from Cigoerne, and it’s still winter. “Have your scouts reported anything happening around Yakaat?”

  “They’ve seen some wagon teams and armsmen accompanying them, but there’s only a squad of armsmen staying in the town.”

  “That sounds like they’re sending tools and equipment there.”

  “Be my thought. Probably send armsmen and engineers right after spring planting … maybe before, if the weather holds, and there’s no rain.”

  “If there’s rain…” Lerial shakes his head.

  “Be a bitch either way, ser.”

  Lerial nods. Even he understands that. Enough rain to slow the Meroweyans will also slow training the recruits.

  “Begging your pardon, ser, but I’ve got another company coming up for maneuvers.”

  “Don’t let me keep you.” Lerial needs to hurry himself, if he is to get back to the drill field in time for his next two squads.

  XLIX

  At roughly a third of past eighth glass on oneday night, Lerial lowers his ancient but still shining sabre after spending a half glass practicing moves using the blade left-handed. After several days, even the simplest moves still feel unwieldy, but not so awkward as when he began. After sheathing the sabre, he raises a concealment and eases open the door to his small sleeping chamber at the north end of the barracks that does not yet hold Lancer recruits. He tries to move as quietly as possible because he doesn’t want to disturb Altyrn, who has just returned to the adjoining quarters. While the majer would not see him, he might see a door opening and closing. While Altyrn already suspects that Lerial can do concealments, Lerial does not wish to reveal any more of his slowly emerging talents than he has to … especially since he is still working on developing and strengthening them.

  That is why he is headed for the mess hall kitchen, for he needs to use one of the ovens. The kitchen is not deserted until after eighth glass, and the cooks and their helpers arrive well before fourth glass in the morning. The kitchen itself is not locked, although the storerooms holding provisions are, and Lerial has to wait in the shadows while one of the Lancer trainees patrolling the grounds passes by and out of sight.

  Once inside, with the door closed behind him, he drops the concealment and makes his way to the bank of ovens. He chooses the center oven, selects several chunks of wood, opens the door, and feeds them to the embers, waiting until they catch fire. Then he sets to work.

  He begins by forming order into a fine four-line pattern, similar to that created by the lodestone, then doubles that, and uses it to form a line of flame straight up the middle of the chimney. So far, he feels no strain, and that pleases him. That exercise has burned most of the two chunks of wood, and he goes to the wood bin, where he gets two more billets, and returns to the oven and adds them to the fire. Once they are burning, he concentrates once more, this time trying to focus on creating a twelve-line pattern—four lines of three, because multiples of three seem stronger, although he has no idea why.

  He can feel heat from everywhere as he struggles to line up the arcs around the inside of the oven and direct the “order channel” upward through the chimney. Abruptly, a massive wave of … something … builds inside the oven, and Lerial struggles with order barriers to contain it … somehow … as chaos shoots up the chimney …

  … and darkness slams into him, along with pain so intense that his entire body vibrates like a lute string plucked beyond its limits … that breaks …

  * * *

  Somewhere, later, he hears voices.

  Where are you?

  Even that thought sends a flash of pain through his eyes and skull, but he remembers that he had been trying a twelve-line pattern of order when he’d felt incredible pain … and nothing. He can feel cold stone against his cheek.

  You’re still in the kitchen? What time is it?

  He struggles into a sitting position despite the increased pounding in his skull.

  “… warm in here … lot warmer than it should be…”

  “… Gormish didn’t bank the oven properly … again…”

  “… swears he did…”

  “Likely story…”

  Because the speakers are on the other side of the long table, and carry a small single lantern, they have not yet seen Lerial. So far.

  Lerial raises a concealment, despite the pain so intense that it leaves him almost dizzy, and struggles to his feet, trying to move around the table toward the rear door, away from the two cooks, likely bakers, who have entered the kitchen.

  “Someone left the oven door open … idiots! Embers burned down to nothing.”

  “Even Gormish wouldn’t do that.”

  “Make sure they all understand. Can’t have this…”

  The two are so engaged that Lerial manages to get through the door and ease it shut behind himself without them noticing. As soon as he can get more than a few steps away from the mess hall, he drops the concealment. The dizziness subsides; the pain does not.

  His head is aching, and he can barely see as he walks through the darkness toward the north end of the barracks. He even has to concentrate on the effort to walk … all because he tried a pattern too far beyond his strength? You should have known … idiot …

  “Ser?”

  “Yes?” Lerial struggles to make out the figure of the trainee watch-stander, a figure he has neither seen nor sensed.

  “Sorry, ser … I didn’t know…”

  Lerial forces a smile. “I was walking, thinking things over. I should have let you know, but my mind was elsewhere.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Carry on.” Lerial smiles once more and resumes his progress back to his quarters such as they are. He hopes the little sleep he will get will suffice to allay the worst of the headache and the pain in his eyes.

  He does manage to slip into his quarters and collapse on his bunk without waking Altyrn … or at least the majer does not come and inquire.

  L

  By sixday, almost three eightdays since he began arms instruction with the Verdyn recruits, Lerial is still wondering whether he can teach the would-be Lancers enough to survive, and more than to survive, to prevail against the Meroweyan armsmen. He is tired, exhausted, in fact, by the end of each day, as well as hoarse. Yet he cannot complain about the recruits. They are polite. They do everything he asks … and, then, by the next session, it is almost as if they have forgotten half of what they had learned before. At least, it’s two steps forward, and only one back. And both squad leaders and Altyrn had emphasized that repetition is the way to learning skills.

  Unfortunately, that is also true of Lerial himself. That is why, tired as he is, especially after another short session practicing left-handed, he makes his way through the darkness toward the building that holds the mess hall and the adjoining kitchen. Given the incident with the recruit watch patrol on the previous oneday, he has decided that he does not need a concealment, except when he nears the mess hall. He can sense two of the recruits standing outside the nearest barracks,
in the darkness a good fifteen yards away. How far he can sense people has also increased with practice. Almost absently, he uses his order-sense to try to hear what they might be saying of interest, if anything.

  “… who’s that?”

  “… undercaptain … walks like he knows where everything is … doesn’t have to see it…”

  Lerial nods. He can definitely sense people and their words from farther away, but it has taken continual effort and practice.

  “… same way with wands, blades, too, I suppose…”

  “… and he’s the younger heir?… really scary…”

  Lerial frowns. While his ability with a sabre is better than that of many, there are others with better technique, except perhaps on defense, but that is not his technique but his order-sensing skill. Admittedly, his order-senses have improved enough that he no longer needs a lantern or a candle, even in pitch darkness, but he wouldn’t have thought of that as scary. Except that you’ve grown up among the Magi’i.

  He keeps walking toward the mess hall, but stops in the deeper shadows by the end of the barracks nearest the kitchen, where he raises a concealment. Then he crosses to the rear kitchen door, which he opens when he is certain no one is near or watching. After entering, he closes it and makes his way to the ovens, banked, but still hot. He chooses the center oven, selects several chunks of wood, opens the door, and feeds them to the coals, waiting until the wood catches fire. Then he sets to work.

  He begins by forming order into a fine five-line pattern, similar to that created by the lodestone, then doubles that, and uses it to form a line of flame straight up the middle of the chimney. Although he still has difficulty in controlling chaos, except that it is not so much difficulty as that the handling of much chaos becomes extremely painful, especially in his eyes and head, he can do so, but he has discovered that using order to channel chaos is pain-free and comparatively easy when he is dealing with smaller amounts of chaos.

  While his ability to gather free order has increased greatly, doing too much is still painful, as his experience on oneday had proven. Yet by twoday evening, the pain had vanished, and by threeday, he had been able to create a ten-line pattern, without pain or strain. It is clear that the more he stretches his abilities, the more he can do the next time—provided he doesn’t do too much, as oneday’s effort had demonstrated all too obviously.

  After warming up with the five- and ten-line patterns, he tries, if carefully, a fifteen-line pattern. He can only hold that for a moment, and he is quick to release it, before he loses control and gets hit with the backlash. Even so, he has proved, if only to himself, that he can increase his ability to channel chaos—at least, fire-chaos. Whether he can use that ability against mage-thrown chaos is another question. Yet he has seen and felt enough varieties of chaos to know that what he is doing should work. If you can work out the differences.

  After another brief creation of a fifteen-line pattern, he steps back and takes a deep breath. He can tell he has done enough for the night. Just like bladework … practice and more practice … And just like bladework, he is sore when he finishes, except the soreness is a pounding headache and a slight sense of dizziness, but not the intense dizziness that had struck him on oneday.

  This time, as he has been after his near-disaster, he is careful to bank the coals and close the oven door. He also raises a concealment before he leaves the mess hall kitchen, one that he does not release until he is in deep shadows of the nearby barracks and he can sense no one nearby. Then he slowly walks back to the north end of the barracks that holds his quarters and Altyrn’s.

  The majer steps out of his quarters, as if he had been listening for Lerial. “Working late, again?”

  “As if you don’t,” replies Lerial with a smile that he has to make an effort to present. “You’re planning for the future. I’m trying to catch up in learning what I need to know to be an effective undercaptain.”

  “A bit more than that, I think.”

  “Some, but there’s still so much to learn.”

  “The sabre instruction has been good for you.”

  “Most of it is just basics.”

  “That’s true, but you’re more comfortable with a wand or a blade. I’ve watched. So have Juist and Kusyl. None of us would want to face you now. You’re also more confident in dealing with rankers.”

  “Those are just part of what an undercaptain does.”

  “You’re right. That’s why I want you to work with Juist on maneuvers in the afternoon, starting on oneday.” Altyrn holds up his hand. “I know they’ve only had an eightday using actual sabres in their exercises, and they’re not sparring with them, but they need the maneuvers more now. We’ll have to rework the training schedule on eightday, but some of the rankers who are good with a blade can take over in running the recruits through drills. I’ve picked out three who will do it well enough.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “I’m glad to see you’re getting more sleep. You looked like sowshit on twoday, and not much better on threeday.”

  “There’s just a lot to do,” Lerial temporizes.

  “There is, but you’ll do it badly if you’re exhausted. That can get you—and your men—killed if you make a practice of it.”

  “I’m learning that, ser.”

  “I think you are.” Altyrn smiles. “Good night.”

  Lerial returns the smile. “Good night.” Then he enters his own quarters. He is so tired that he has no doubts he will sleep. Well, he hopes.

  LI

  For the first few days he is working with Juist, Lerial remains in the background, listening and observing, even though he will never carry a lance, unlike the officers of the Cyadoran Mirror Lancers.

  But those were true firelances, not just well-wrought spear-lances. He pushes away that thought and concentrates on Juist—and his commands—as the recruit squad charges forward toward a line of figures woven out of vines and branches and arranged as an opposing squad might be.

  Lerial watches and listens as Juist talks with Dueven, the Lancer ranker acting as squad leader.

  “They have to hold the line and keep an even interval. Your second rank is sagging in the middle. After a hundred yards, you’ll have a hole there. The moment they lag, you’ll have to order them to dress it up. They have to hold line and interval until it’s habit they don’t even have to think about. You should remember that.”

  “Yes, ser.” Dueven, likely only five years older than Lerial, nods.

  “You’re getting experience, Dueven. Be grateful. Do it again.”

  Lerial can sense the exasperation behind Juist’s voice, and he almost smiles, not out of malice, but because the squad leader’s emotions mirror so much what he has been feeling in conducting blade training.

  Once the practice charge through the vine figures is complete, Lerial comments, “They looked better this time.”

  “They’re better,” Juist admits. “They’re actually holding the lances right, leaning forward, and using their stirrups.” He shakes his head. “Never thought I’d see a vine dummy unhorse someone.”

  Lerial knows better than to ask whether that happened. He’s already seen two recruits knock themselves out with their own wands.

  Three glasses later, when Lerial nears the stable on his return from maneuvers training, he reins up well short of the open door as a Verdyn Lancer recruit in his undress brown uniform hurries toward him.

  “Ser! The majer would like to see you at your earliest convenience.”

  Lerial can barely resist smiling at the use of “at your earliest convenience,” a phrase that he suspects dates from the oldest military organizations, even though he had never heard it until he started training with the Mirror Lancers. “Thank you. Carry on.”

  He dismounts and turns the gelding over to one of the ostlers for unsaddling and grooming, rather than doing it himself, because, if Altyrn wants to speak with him that quickly, it’s likely to be important. He walks briskly through the chill ai
r, across the central open space to the south end of the eastern barracks. He stops before the half-open door to Altyrn’s study, a square room with a table-desk and chairs and little else. He raps on the door frame.

  Altyrn motions him to enter.

  Lerial does, closing the door and taking the chair across from the desk. He sees the majer’s bow in the corner, unstrung, but not cased, as if he had just returned from working with the archers.

  “We’ve finally gotten a dispatch from Majer Phortyn.” Altyrn’s voice is level. “It came back with the Mirror Lancers and the Verdyn who conveyed the golds to Cigoerne.”

  “Ser?”

  “Nothing much in Cigoerne has changed, and that’s not good. The Afritan armsmen are still patrolling the border just north of Penecca in force. Phortyn reports that they have at least three companies there at all times, sometimes five. There are more raids along the northern border farther to the west, and there are more Heldyan raiders crossing the Swarth and attacking the smaller hamlets to the south and east of Narthyl. I doubt they’re raiders, or even marauders, but Duke Khesyn would claim that they are … and that he is doing his best to control them.”

  “He’d also suggest that any ruler who cannot control his own lands…” Lerial doesn’t finish the sentence.

  “Of course, but only in the most veiled manner. I’d never be able to write something that indirect.”

  Lerial knows full well Altyrn could; he just wouldn’t like doing it. He also wonders how Lephi is doing with the Lancers who must deal with those raids.

  “He also reports that he’s had to promote Undercaptain Seivyr to captain,” Altyrn goes on quietly.

  “‘Had to’? That’s an odd way of putting it.”

  “He informed me that Captain Dechund came down with a nasty flux of some sort. He went out of his mind and wandered away from the post in the middle of the night. They found his body the next day.”

  “That can happen. If we’d been there, maybe…”

  “You can’t be everywhere. No one can. Seivyr will do better than Dechund, anyway.”