Heritage of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “That’s because your father the duke believes we face an urgent situation. I would prefer not to say more, but let him explain. He has requested that we both join him at the palace as soon as possible after you arrived.”

  “I did not have my mount unsaddled, nor those of the rankers who accompanied me. We can leave as soon as you wish.”

  “There is a mount standing by … and a half squad to accompany me back.” Jhalet offers a wry smile. “I have no doubt that you and your men will be quartered at the palace. We can leave now.” The commander rises.

  Lerial is grateful not to sit longer and does so as well. “Before we go … how are matters in the southeast?”

  “At Sudstrym Post? With the Heldyans?” Jhalet smiles. “Very quiet since midfall. Even the Meroweyan traders report fewer encounters with raiders or overzealous tariff inspectors.”

  Lerial nods, but given the way Jhalet has spoken, his words do not totally reassure Lerial, except that they mean that Lephi has not been in any great danger … so far. Lerial also knows that can change almost in moments, even for an heir of Cyador who is of the Magi’i.

  Jhalet slips on his Lancer riding jacket and picks up his visor cap, and he and Lerial leave the study. In less than a tenth of a glass they and a full squad of rankers—the ten from Eighth Company and ten from headquarters—are riding northwest on the paved boulevard that connects the Lancer compound with the Square of the Magi’i and the walled ducal palace that stands on the west side of the square. Half a glass later, they ride through the palace gates, also draped in white-edged black mourning cloth, and then to the north courtyard and the entrance in the middle of the north wing.

  As they dismount, a comparatively small and wiry undercaptain steps forward. “Welcome back, ser. And congratulations.”

  The man looks familiar, black-haired, brown-eyed, with a swarthy complexion and deeply tanned skin, but it takes Lerial a moment to place him. “Kusyl! What are you doing here?”

  “The Lancers out west had enough of me.” Kusyl grins. “Commander said I deserved a pleasant tour heading up a new company here. These days, half of what I do is work with the newer men, bring them up to the level of the others.”

  Lerial wonders just how many new companies are being formed.

  “Now that I’ve got the whole company working well”—Kusyl shrugs—“the commander will send us to one of the border problem areas.” He grins again. “Might even be Ensenla.”

  “That would be fine with me. Did you have any trouble with Duke Casseon?”

  “Not a sign of his armsmen. They’ve left handling the grassland raiders to us. They just kill ’em if they enter his lands and attack his growers. Not many of them left anymore, not since they discovered that Casseon had no use for them and they had much shorter lives if they came north.”

  “We need to talk, but not now. We’ve been summoned.”

  “We…?” Kusyl’s eyes take in the officer behind Lerial. He smiles good-naturedly, if wryly. “Good afternoon, Commander. Might I ask how long before you’ll be needing the mounts?”

  “That depends on the duke. Those who came with Lord Lerial will be quartered here. The others will return with me.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Once Lerial and Jhalet are past the Lancer guards and walking down the corridor toward the duke’s main-floor study, the commander laughs softly. “He’s even better for this post than I thought.”

  “He’s good in the field, too. Very good.”

  “He’ll be promoted to captain next season.” Jhalet shakes his head. “And then I’ll likely hear from Magus Apollyn, indirectly of course, about the degradation of the proud heritage of the Mirror Lancers.”

  “Magus Apollyn?” Then Lerial remembers. “Veraan’s father. Is he still angry about that?”

  “Still? He was never just angry. He was furious about Veraan’s dismissal, and his fury likely hasn’t ever abated. Veraan’s really the one in charge of Myrapol House now. They say he’s quite effective as a merchanter … even worked out an arrangement with a big merchanting house in Swartheld. Alaphyn, or Alapyrt, something like that.”

  Lerial nods, deciding against saying more, although his own recollections of Veraan are anything but pleasant, and those date back to well before the incident when Veraan tried to use an unblunted blade in sparring against Captain Woelyt—although Woelyt had still been an undercaptain then. Jhalet had cashiered Veraan. But then, Veraan’s slimy enough to succeed as a trader … for a while, anyway.

  The guard outside the study sees the two coming and raps on the door, announcing, “Lord Lerial and Commander Jhalet, ser.” Then, presumably in response to Duke Kiedron, he opens the door and steps back, then closes it behind them.

  Kiedron is standing by the widow that looks into the central palace courtyard, but faces the study door. “Lerial … Commander.” He smiles warmly, but only for a moment, then gestures to the small circular conference table at one end of the study.

  Lerial looks at his father. Kiedron’s dark brown hair is thinning on top. Elsewhere, especially on the sides, where it is remains thick, the brown is shot with gray, when a year earlier there had been no sign of either. There are dark circles under his eyes. His broad shoulders seem to slump just a touch, and for the first time the duke looks his age, and that is surprising for Lerial, because, until now, Kiedron has looked younger than the years he has lived.

  Just to make sure that something is not terribly wrong, as Lerial moves toward the table he immediately extends his order-senses, although he knows his mother and his aunt, as healers, surely would have noticed something amiss. There is no sign of rampant body chaos or illness, only the feeling of slightly weaker order that creeps up on all people as they age.

  Has he changed that much? Or did you always just see him as strong and vital, almost indestructible? Lerial seats himself as the other two do, then waits for either Jhalet or his father to speak.

  “You summoned us, ser,” Jhalet says quietly.

  “I did.” Kiedron looks to his son. “I asked Commander Jhalet not to talk about this with anyone until we talked over matters. Duke Khesyn is moving armsmen to Vyada…”

  Vyada … just across the river and south of Luba. Lerial nods and waits for his father to continue.

  “… and he has already gathered a number of flatboats there.”

  “Might I ask how you came to know this, ser?”

  “Both indirectly and directly. The formal and direct notice came from Atroyan himself, or at least in a dispatch purportedly signed and sealed by him…”

  Lerial doesn’t like the slight emphasis on the word “purportedly.”

  “… but the information appears to be accurate from what various traders have reported and from other sources. The dispatch from Atroyan suggests that it might be to our benefit to send a force to Luba for joint friendly maneuvers.” Kiedron smiles pleasantly, although Lerial can sense from the chaos-order flows around him that he is not so composed as he appears.

  “Do you think Atroyan is ill,” asks Lerial, “and that someone, such as Rhamuel, is using his seal to obtain the assistance that Atroyan would never request? Or is this a ploy to trap and destroy at least several companies of our lancers?”

  “Those are good questions,” replies the duke. “We know that Khesyn is sending armsmen to Vyada. We don’t know why. The dispatch from Swartheld came by a fast sail-galley.”

  “That means that whoever dispatched it did so with the approval of someone high in Atroyan’s counsels,” suggests Jhalet.

  “There is also the fact that the Afritans have abandoned their Ensenla post and withdrawn all the Afritan Guards stationed there,” Lerial points out.

  “That strikes me as offering no risk at all to Atroyan,” Jhalet points out. “He knows we won’t invade.”

  “If he is threatened by Khesyn, that would be the first place from which he would withdraw the Afritan Guards,” Kiedron replies. “He knows that we know that. So that offers no evide
nce as to whether his dispatch is genuine or a ploy and trap.” He looks to Lerial.

  “I think someone in Swartheld is very concerned, and I would suspect it is not the duke.”

  Jhalet turns his eyes on Lerial but does not speak.

  “Why do you say that?” asks Kiedron.

  “Because when we know that Arms-Commander Rhamuel has been in command of the Afritan Guards, they have not attacked us. Only when he has not been in command have we been attacked. They have taunted us time and time again on the northern border but always retreated before we could come close to attacking. That would seem to me, at least from the perspective of a captain who only patrolled the border, that Rhamuel has been having the Guards act as aggressively as possible without provoking an actual fight. That means that Atroyan is the one who wants to attack, and that he has been restrained by his brother. They built a new post in old Ensenla … but they’ve pulled out? That, just in my opinion, suggests great need for those troops, but I have my doubts that even Rhamuel could pull them unless the need is very great or Atroyan is indisposed … if not both.”

  “That may be,” replies Jhalet. “If it is, what happens if you dispatch a force, and Atroyan recovers and declares that we are invading Afrit? Or someone else takes power?”

  “We would have to dispatch that force in such a way and under such a commander that it would be unwise for the Afritans to attack, regardless of who controls Swartheld.” Kiedron looks to his son.

  Lerial understands immediately. “What forces would you wish I take? And what gifts will you proffer?”

  “You are one of the heirs…” Jhalet draws out the words.

  “My father is strong and healthy, and so is my brother, and I am not the principal heir.”

  “There is also the fact that Lerial speaks perfect Hamorian, and any officer who is assigned to this duty must be able to understand it well enough to know what is not being said.” Kiedron holds up his hand to forestall any more discussion. “Commander, I would like you to come up with a plan for how the Mirror Lancers could support a force moving north along the river to Luba. I would also like to hear any reservations you might have, and the reasons for those reservations. Likewise, of any advantages such a plan might create. Lerial and I will discuss the other matters such an evolution might affect. We will meet tomorrow morning at eighth glass.”

  Jhalet inclines his head. “Yes, ser.”

  “Tomorrow morning, at eighth glass,” says Kiedron firmly. Then he stands.

  Lerial and Jhalet immediately rise.

  Once the commander leaves the study, Kiedron turns to Lerial. “Your mother and the girls would like to see you, but there is something else you need to attend to.”

  “Ser?”

  “I assume you heard about Majer Altyrn.”

  “Yes, ser. I wanted to know more, but Commander Jhalet couldn’t tell me.”

  “Maeroja is here. She brought the news. She is waiting for you in the small south salon.”

  Lerial understands. His mother has never fully approved of Altyrn’s consort, and his father has given Maeroja the use of the salon as far from her as possible … and the one about which Xeranya cannot complain.

  “She has indicated she wishes to speak to you first. I’m certain she’ll tell you what you need to know,” adds Kiedron. “All of us, including Maeroja, will be having refreshments in the main salon at fifth glass.”

  “Did she come alone?”

  “Captain Shastan sent half a squad of lancers as her escort. None of the majer’s daughters accompanied her.” Kiedron glances toward the door.

  “Yes, ser.” Lerial nods and then leaves the study. As he walks along the main front corridor toward the south wing of the palace, he wonders exactly why Maeroja wishes to see him … and why she does not wish to speak of the majer to anyone before Lerial.

  He pauses outside the closed door to the small salon, then opens it and steps inside, easing the door closed before he moves forward.

  Maeroja rises immediately from the dark green velvet armchair in which she has been sitting, setting aside a folder. From what Lerial sees and senses, she looks no older than the last time he saw her, almost five years earlier when he returned from Verdheln, and just as striking. Her hair remains a shining jet black, her skin lightly tanned, and her blue eyes intense and penetrating … but upon closer scrutiny when he steps toward her, he can see that her eyes are slightly bloodshot and that there are dark circles under them. Her smile remains warm, but … there is sadness in it as well. She wears a pale blue blouse, with a dark blue vest and trousers, and a mourning scarf of white-bordered black.

  “Lady,” Lerial offers gently.

  “You do persist, don’t you?” she murmurs softly.

  “You were, are, and always will be a lady,” he replies with a smile. “Grant me the wisdom to see that.”

  “You’ve grown … even more.”

  “I would hope so. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be following the majer’s teachings.” He gestures. “Please sit down. The last days have to have been tiring for you.”

  “And not for you? There’s still road dust on your boots.”

  “I did ride in this afternoon, but I had to meet with Father and Commander Jhalet. Father didn’t tell me you were here until after the meeting.”

  “He and … Altyrn … always had their priorities.”

  As do you. Lerial inclines his head momentarily, then picks up one of the straight-backed chairs, sets it on the carpet directly facing Maeroja, and after she reseats herself sits down. “I didn’t hear until I rode into Lancer headquarters. I asked about the mourning drape, and the gate guards told me, but no one could tell me more than that.”

  “He wanted it that way. I owed him that … and much more than I could ever repay.”

  “I think not, Lady. You gave him love and respect that no one else could have done.” Especially given your past, a very illustrious past that you have kept well shrouded.

  Maeroja opens her mouth as if to protest, then smiles softly, ironically. “I won’t insult you by protesting … but he deserved that.”

  “He deserved more than that.”

  “We don’t often get what we deserve, especially those who are very good … or very evil.”

  “No … we don’t. That was something I learned from him, among many other lessons.”

  “Unlike most, you did learn. He was proud of you, you know?”

  “I wanted him to think well of me and what I did, Lady … and the way in which I did what had to be done. I don’t think he always totally approved, but I tried to stay within the scope of what he taught.” Lerial isn’t about to point out Altyrn’s often utter ruthlessness in his quest to assure the future of what he believed to be the best of the heritage of Cyador, especially since Maeroja must already know that.

  “He knew that.” Maeroja leans forward, reaches for the folder she had been reading, and extracts a sealed sheet. “He wrote this some time ago, last harvest…”

  “Was he ailing then?”

  Maeroja shakes her head. “He was never ailing. He came to bed, very tired. He held me, and then went to sleep.” Her voice catches, and she swallows. “I think he knew. I told you once, you might recall…”

  “That he had a sense, a certainty about some things. I remember.”

  “You would.” Maeroja’s smile is gentle, but sad. “He told me what was in the letter, but I did not read it. It is for you, and you alone. He said you would understand.”

  Lerial takes the letter. On the outside is his name, written in a precise but slightly ornate script. He looks up. “I would read it now, with you here.”

  “If you read it to yourself…”

  Lerial nods. After a moment, he breaks the seal and begins to read.

  Dear Lerial—

  There is a time for all things, and a way to end them. It is fitting that, since the beginning of my life was never quiet, the ending will be. What you will and must do is also fitting. What I task you with,
and it is a task and not a request, is to assure that the heirs of the Malachite Throne do not perish, that they do not stoop to petty bargains for a peace that will not last, and that their heritage will shine on when the City of Light is long forgotten. This does not mean you are to re-create Cyad or Cyador. That time is past. It does mean that what was best of that time should live on through you and what you do.

  Lerial lowers the letter slightly. Why me? Why not Lephi? What did he know that he never said?

  … You will likely not understand fully the burden I have placed on you for some time to come, much as you may think you have. Then I could be deceiving myself. That becomes easier, even necessary, when one has great hopes for another.

  If one chooses power over good, then that power will fail in time, as it did in Cyador. If one chooses good over power, then evil will triumph because there will not be strength to oppose it. Finally, it is not good to be merciful, if that mercy will doom others in even greater numbers. All this, you know. Knowing what to do, regardless of what others including sages say, is not the most difficult task. Doing what needs to be done for good to survive is far harder. Good only needs to survive, not triumph.

  Those words strike Lerial—Good only needs to survive, not triumph. Then he looks at Maeroja and nods.

  Before he can continue, she speaks. “Your expressions when you read the letter … Some of them were like his. You are more alike than you know.”

  Once Lerial would have protested that, and certainly he still would likely have rejected that observation from anyone but Maeroja.

  … As for the blade you bear, I am fairly sure that it belonged to one of the great ones, possibly even Lorn himself, although I cannot be certain. I am absolutely certain that it is and should be yours. Call this the certainty of an ancient Lancer.

  Use it to balance good and power.

  At the bottom, there is a single ornate “A.” At that moment, Lerial realizes that he has never seen the majer’s handwriting before … and most likely never will again.

  After a long moment, he refolds the letter and slips it inside his riding jacket. “Thank you.”