Heritage of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I only did what he asked.”

  “You have always done more than that, I think.” As he did for you.

  Another silence follows before he asks, “How are Rojana and the girls?” As the words leave his lips, he realizes the meaning of the way he has inquired, and he blocks a self-amused smile.

  “All three are fine. Rojana can handle Kinaar quite well in my absence … if not quite so well as she thinks. She has taken over the brewery and is expanding production.”

  “Because she detests the shimmersilk worms and will do anything else?”

  “There is some truth to that.”

  Lerial does let himself smile. “She is quite a young woman.”

  “She is.”

  “One other thing…” Lerial pauses.

  “Yes?” The hint of a smile appears at the corners of her mouth.

  “Father said you would be joining us for refreshments and dinner at fifth glass. I would be greatly disappointed if you were not there. So, I think—”

  “You don’t have to say it. I understand, and you’re right.”

  “I know it may not be easy…”

  Her laugh is soft, short … and bitter.

  “I will see you then?”

  “You will.”

  Lerial rises and inclines his head. “Thank you … again.”

  “You’re more than welcome.” Her words are warm, anything but perfunctory.

  After leaving the small salon, and wanting to be alone, he walks back to his own chambers, rooms he has not occupied in more than a season, and for less than two eightdays over the past several years. There, he rereads the letter.

  Use it to balance good and power. Good only needs to survive, not triumph. Lerial thinks he understands what the majer was suggesting, but he decides not to pursue that line of thought. Not yet. One of the other lessons he has learned from the majer is that matters are often not what they first seem, and when one has a chance to wait and reflect, it is often better. But then, sometimes you don’t get that choice.

  At a fifth before fifth glass, he makes his way down to the main salon. Emerya and the two girls are the only ones there.

  Ryalah runs to him and throws her arms around his waist. “You’re here!”

  Lerial realizes, belatedly, that she has indeed grown … and so has Amaira, who now stands almost as tall as her mother. “I am indeed.”

  “How long?” Ryalah releases him and steps back.

  “I don’t know … but not too long.” Lerial looks to Amaira. “You’re looking very good.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Lerial.” Amaira’s smile is still shy and sweet, although Lerial can sense a certain strength in the flow of order and chaos around her, and a definite darkening of the order she holds, suggesting that, like her mother, she will be a strong healer. He can also see that her black hair holds hints of a reddish tinge, something he does not recall, either with her or anyone else.

  Last, he turns to Emerya, whose hair is now close to entirely silver, a shade not unbecoming to her. “It’s always good to see you.” He steps toward her and adds in a lower voice, “We need to talk later.”

  She nods. “Your mother will be here, but only when your father arrives.”

  “I wouldn’t have expected it otherwise. You’ve told the girls we’ll be having company at dinner?”

  “I did. I told them that Maeroja’s consort had just died, and that they need to be very kind because he was a special man, and she loved him very much.” Emerya smiles, although the smile is for her daughter and niece.

  “Isn’t she special, too?” asks Ryalah.

  Behind the younger girl, Amaira nods.

  “She is,” replies Lerial.

  The palace bells are striking fifth glass when Maeroja enters the salon, the mourning scarf draped more widely across her shoulders.

  Even before she has taken three steps into the chamber, Kiedron and Xeranya follow her.

  “I’m so glad you could join us,” offers Xeranya as Maeroja turns to face the couple.

  “I do so appreciate your courtesy and kindness,” replies Maeroja.

  Lerial translates those words to mean his mother’s courtesy and his father’s kindness.

  “We could do no less for you, given all that you have done for Lerial and all the majer did for me,” replies Kiedron.

  Lerial senses that his father’s voice has almost caught. That surprises him, but he adds, “I cannot say how much I appreciate how at home you both made me feel.”

  “What will you have?” asks Kiedron, stepping toward the refreshments table.

  “The lager, if you please.”

  “I’d be more than pleased,” replies the duke cheerfully.

  Lerial turns to his mother.

  “The white wine, thank you.”

  As Lerial moves to the refreshments table, Emerya eases over to Maeroja and begins to speak. “It’s been years since we’ve talked, and I was hoping we’d have a chance…”

  The interplay confirms to Lerial that dinner will be polite, punctuated by the attempts of Emerya, his father, and himself to bring warmth to the formality that will continue to be exuded by his mother.

  IV

  Dinner goes exactly as Lerial has expected—formal, with underlying tension, and with Kiedron, Lerial, and Emerya being as warm and cheerful as possible. When it is over, Emerya ushers the girls off to bed, and Lerial escorts Maeroja back to her quarters in the south wing of the palace. He can sense Maeroja’s relief as soon as they are away from the dining chamber and walking along the main front corridor.

  “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

  “It’s not your fault. There are some things that must be, and it’s a small price to pay for years of happiness.”

  “But it’s hard to pay after a loss.”

  “That’s when it’s most important,” Maeroja murmurs softly. “Wasn’t it hard for you to talk to Elder Klerryt?”

  Lerial is momentarily surprised, but realizes that the majer would certainly have told his consort. “Yes … but I wasn’t in love with Alaynara.”

  “You knew exactly what I meant about what happened in Verdheln five years ago, Lerial. That should tell you something.”

  He laughs softly, barely above a murmur. “I should never dispute you, Lady.”

  “Do not make me more than I am. Do not do that to anyone … but do not make them less, either.”

  Those were the majer’s words. He is still considering that when Maeroja speaks again.

  “I will be leaving before sunrise tomorrow so that we can make Teilyn in a single day. I cannot keep Captain Shastan’s lancers any longer.”

  “Nor would you, knowing what you know.”

  “I do not know exactly what he wrote, Lerial, but I will add my own words. Do not make foolish sacrifices for others. Very few sacrifices of self are worth that price, because one who lives and strives can keep making the land a better place. Accomplishments end with death.”

  “The majer said that it was better to have the enemy make the gallant sacrifices.”

  “Sometimes, one must let friends or others close to one make the sacrifices.” She smiles wryly. “That can also become a rationalization for using others without care. It is far better to avoid useless sacrifices or those which gain little or sacrificing others in the same fashion. Most sacrifices are unnecessary and can be avoided. Too often those who send others into avoidable danger call their deaths necessary sacrifices. They usually are not. In the end, you will do what you feel you must.” She stops outside the door. “Thank you for walking with me.”

  “Thank you for letting me. Do take care on the ride back … and give my best to your daughters.”

  Maeroja offers the smile he has found so enigmatic. “I will.” Then she opens the chamber door and slips inside, closing it behind her.

  Lerial can hear the latch bolt click into place. He turns and begins to walk back toward Emerya’s chambers—her new chambers, a sitting room with two bedrooms off it, re
flecting how Amaira has grown.

  When he reaches his aunt’s second-level quarters, he raps gently.

  “You can come in, Lerial.”

  Lerial does, closing the door quietly. He does not see anyone, nor does he order-sense anyone. Then, abruptly, Emerya is seated before a small hearth in which a low fire burns. “I’ve never been able to detect your concealments.”

  “One of my few magely talents. And a vanity.”

  He takes the chair across from her. “Is Amaira asleep?”

  “She’s likely reading, but the door is solid. How are you doing?” she asks.

  “Better … now.” He shakes his head. “How can Mother be so cold, so hostile to Maeroja? She just lost her consort, and he was a man who gave everything for us, especially for Father and for me.”

  “Don’t you think she must have her reasons?”

  “I suppose she must, but what did Maeroja ever do to her? Maeroja consorted Altyrn, and they were happy together. I can’t imagine that Mother’s sister would have been happy with Altyrn. She wasn’t even happy in Cigoerne, from what you told me.”

  “Lerial … there’s more that I haven’t told you. Your mother believes she lost her sister because Altyrn spurned Zanobya. Zanobya would have consorted Altyrn. She was taken with him, but she couldn’t bear staying in Cigoerne when he turned her down. He was gentle about it, but…”

  Lerial can’t help but think about Altyrn’s reaction when Lerial had distanced himself from Rojana.

  “So … Zanobya fled to Swartheld. She died there in childbirth three years later. She might have lived had she given birth here. Xeranya never saw her again. Your mother blames Maeroja.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

  “Your mother asked me never to mention it. Your father asked that I honor that request. I would ask that you never reveal that I have told you … but you should know. Your mother loved Zanobya dearly.”

  Lerial conceals a wince. What else could Emerya do? Then he frowns. “But the majer couldn’t have met Maeroja until after Zanobya fled, could he?”

  “No, he didn’t, but that doesn’t matter. Altyrn did so much for your father that Xeranya dared not blame him. And then, after he helped you so much … Blaming Maeroja was so much easier.”

  Lerial can understand his mother’s feelings of loss and grief, but not why she feels she must blame Maeroja. Yet it is more than clear what she feels and that those feelings will never change. “You’ve been writing Rhamuel for years, haven’t you?”

  “You’ve just come to that conclusion?” Emerya offers an amused smile.

  “I’ve thought so ever since I left for Verdheln, but I never said anything. Is Atroyan … not particularly stable?”

  “That’s one way of saying it. He is always charming and witty, but he thinks that everyone is plotting against him.”

  “Including his brothers?”

  “Especially Mykel, his youngest brother … and that is absurd.”

  “Why?”

  “I’d prefer to leave it at that, Lerial.”

  “So Rhamuel has been keeping Atroyan out of trouble … mostly?”

  “He tries. He’s not always successful. Every so often there’s some field-grade officer who gets to the duke when Rhamuel isn’t around and persuades the duke to do something unwise. Then, too, Rhamuel isn’t as wise as he could be. He’s balanced and has common sense, but not too much imagination.”

  “But he’s charming and gentle with women?”

  “Of course.”

  Lerial waits.

  “I did what I had to … Kiedron and your mother needed all the help they could get.”

  Lerial can sense something behind the black mist of order. Sadness … or something even more painful? “And it was unlikely that Rhamuel would ever be allowed a consort in Swartheld?”

  Emerya nods.

  “Does Amaira…?”

  “She knows. She also knows that she can say nothing. I write him, always about my daughter, should others read the letters, and convey what other information he needs to know. In a veiled and fluttering feminine fashion…”

  Lerial doubts that Emerya has ever been a fluttery female.

  “… and your father and I discuss that. In turn, he sends me cheerful letters with gossip and odd bits of information.”

  “Enough that you can learn what you and father need to know.”

  “Not always … but usually.”

  “Do you think that Khesyn is really planning to attack Afrit … somewhere?”

  “I’m afraid I do, Lerial. He’s made far more raids on Afrit than on Cigoerne. We don’t talk about it, but it’s clear from what I hear and from what the traders report.”

  “And we can’t afford to have Afrit fall?”

  “What do you think?”

  “About the same as you and Father feel, I suspect. Khesyn holding even Luba would destroy us both in time.” Lerial pauses. “But how much can we trust Atroyan … or Rhamuel?”

  “Atroyan not at all, and Rhamuel only to the extent that something benefits him and he cannot hurt you.”

  Lerial is tempted to ask again how she could have done what she did … but she has already answered him.

  Her eyes fix on him. “You have already done things that are necessary … I can see that. Destiny exacts a heavy price. What else do you want to know?”

  “You’ve told me all I need to know.”

  She shakes her head. “All you want to know, and all I can tell you, perhaps, but not all you need to know.”

  He smiles in return. “You’re right.”

  “If there’s nothing else…”

  “Not now.”

  Emerya rises. “Then … good night, Lerial.”

  He stands. “Good night.”

  As he walks along the corridor toward the steps up to his chambers, he thinks over what she has said. Some of what he has learned are things he has long suspected, but what he has not fully realized is the various prices so many have paid to create and strengthen the duchy … to continue the good traditions of the Malachite Throne, as Maeroja and Altyrn might have put it. Given all that, Altyrn’s use of the Verdyn war—and Lerial himself—to strengthen the duchy in the west, the cold-blooded poisoning of Dechund to put an end to the captain’s treachery and plotting … and likely much more about which Lerial knows nothing.

  Lerial shakes his head.

  And yet … what else could any of them do, faced with the destruction of all that they held dear?

  Are you any better … given what you have already done?

  V

  Lerial sleeps well enough, but wakes early on sixday, thinking about what Emerya has said, and pondering over what she has left out that he knows too little about to ask the right questions. In turn, he still wonders about just how close—or distant—she and Rhamuel may be, although he certainly has the impression that they have not seen each other since she returned to Cigoerne after healing him and accompanying him back to Swartheld.

  Early as he is dressed and in the breakfast room, seemingly within moments of the time he has seated himself, his father, mother, and sister join him, followed shortly by Emerya and Amaira.

  “We thought we should have breakfast together,” his mother announces. “A family breakfast.”

  Meaning that dinner last night was not at all a family affair. That realization saddens Lerial, particularly since Altyrn and Maeroja had certainly made him a part of their family when he had lived at Kinaar and worked and studied under the majer.

  “You have to go back soon, don’t you?” asks Ryalah.

  “Yes.” Lerial takes a swallow of lager, looking away from Kiedron, who happily takes a deep draught of bitter greenberry juice.

  “In the next day or so,” adds Kiedron.

  “There is one other matter we have not discussed, Lerial,” says Xeranya, smiling.

  “Yes?” he replies as warmly as he can, given that something about her words and expression makes him wary.


  “You’re twenty-two … almost twenty-three…”

  “That’s true.” Lerial takes a mouthful of egg toast and waits for the other boot to drop.

  “You might wonder why we haven’t talked about consorting lately…”

  That is a subject that Lerial is more than happy has not been brought up, but he replies, “I had noticed that.”

  “Duke Casseon and Duke Khesyn have been reluctant to make any commitments, especially where Lephi is concerned. Atroyan has said nothing…”

  “Why don’t they want to consort their daughters—” questions Ryalah loudly.

  Xeranya looks hard at her daughter. “Ryalah…”

  “Yes, Mother.” Ryalah looks down at her egg toast.

  “Or nieces,” adds Lerial quickly, and turning to his sister, “to Lephi or me? Because Cigoerne is the smallest duchy in all of Hamor.”

  “What about Atla?” asks Ryalah.

  “Atla’s not a duchy. It’s mostly desert and grassland, and there’s not much of worth there. The Tourlegyn clans share it—sort of, except they fight among each other as much as share, and there hasn’t been a leader from the same clan in hundreds of years.”

  “I know that. I even know that some of the Tourlegyn clans live in Heldya. But why isn’t Atla a duchy?”

  “Because they fight so much that no one clan has ever really ruled.”

  “Ryalah,” says Xeranya coolly, “would you like to finish your breakfast? Or go without?”

  Ryalah takes a bite of egg toast.

  “As I was saying,” Xeranya continues, “if you should encounter either Duke Atroyan or Arms-Commander Rhamuel, it would be most helpful if you inquired as to the health of the duke’s daughter.”

  “Kyedra? The one I met years and years ago?”

  “She is his only daughter,” replies Xeranya.

  “I will.” Lerial takes another swallow of lager, followed by a mouthful of egg toast. “What about Casseon? Does he have any daughters?”

  “His oldest is about Amaira’s age,” says Emerya. “Khesyn’s sole daughter is around my age, and she has, I’ve heard, a daughter a year or so younger than you, Lerial. His eldest son has two boys. The youngest is about Lephi’s age, maybe a year or two older.”