Lerial has sensed the second movement even before Woelyt has begun it, and he manages to beat it aside.
“Good,” murmurs the undercaptain.
The single word distracts Lerial so much that he has to jump to the side to avoid Woelyt’s wand, and he staggers slightly. Concentrate! Lerial pivots slightly, getting his feet slightly farther apart to put himself in a more balanced position.
Even so, Lerial has to back away quickly, circling in order to recover and be able to try to hold his ground.
By the end of a quarter glass, Lerial is sweating heavily, but he realizes that Woelyt has seldom managed to touch him—except with each attack, the undercaptain is getting closer to doing so, not because Lerial cannot sense what the other is about to do, but because his arms and even his legs are getting heavy.
Finally, after another long series of passes and more effort than Lerial would like in sliding and avoiding the officer’s attacks, the undercaptain’s wand twists Lerial’s weapon out of his hand and then hits Lerial’s thigh with enough force that the youth staggers back, even though Woelyt turns the wooden wand at the last moment so that the flatted side strikes, rather than the edge.
“You’ve improved,” says the officer, lowering his blade. “I tried to pull that last strike.”
“That wasn’t your fault,” replies Lerial. “I just got too tired to slide or block it.”
“You’re young and don’t have your full strength. You also aren’t spending enough time practicing. You need to take a heavy wand and practice every move, time after time, just by yourself, without stopping until your arms and hands cannot hold the wand. Then rest … and do it again … do that for a glass every day for an eightday or two, and you’ll be surprised at the difference it makes.”
Lerial hasn’t thought about it that way, but that is what Emerya has been having him do, in her own way, in dealing with sensing order and chaos. He takes a deep breath. “Then … in a few moments, I suppose I’d better try again … if you have the time.”
Woelyt smiles warmly. “We can do two more sessions with a break in between before I’ll have to leave on my rounds.” The officer pauses. “While you’re catching your breath, let me show you another way to deflect a blade, one that doesn’t leave you so open for a counterthrust.”
“That would be good.”
“We’ll do this slowly. I’ll start as if you’ve knocked my wand up with a low counter coming up. You make a straight thrust at my gut—slowly. This is just to show you how it works…”
Woelyt goes through the motions slowly, then goes through them a second, and a third time. After that, he has Lerial try to replicate the move. It takes Lerial almost a score of attempts before Woelyt nods.
“You’ve got it well enough that, if you practice it some tonight and first thing in the morning, you might be able to work with it in sparring. Now … you should be ready for another round.”
Lerial forces a smile, trudges to the edge of the circle, and lifts his wand.
When Lerial leaves the Lancer’s exercise area, more than a half glass later, he understands three things. First, what Emerya’s exercises have given him. Second, that he doesn’t have the physical strength and endurance to take advantage of what he has learned, or, rather, not for very long. Third, even if he had more strength, that he doesn’t have the technique he needs.
From the Lancers’ outer exercise yard, Lerial makes his way into the palace and then to the north courtyard, the most private of the three, and cooler than the south courtyard, especially beside one of the fountains. He sees that his mother is seated at a table near the west fountain, and he eases toward the east one, only to find Amaira and Ryalah seated at a small table there, with several small dolls. One is a Lancer, another a healer, a third a magus, but he cannot make out the others.
“You’re all wet,” Ryalah declares.
Seated in the chair beside Lerial’s sister, Amaira says nothing, but her eyes are fixed on Lerial.
“I am. I was practicing blades with Undercaptain Woelyt. I sweated a lot.”
“Is he good?”
“He’s better than I am.”
“Is he as good as Lephi?”
“He’s better, I think.”
“Lephi says he’ll always be better than you.”
Lerial keeps the wince he feels to himself, even though he suspects both girls can sense his discomfort. “Right now, he’s bigger and has more experience. It won’t always be like that.” Lerial feels that, and he knows that will be true, even if he cannot explain why to himself, much less anyone else.
“He says you have too much order to be a good Lancer,” Ryalah adds.
“You do have order,” says Amaira more softly.
“Your mother says I can get much better.” Lerial laughs gently. “If your mother says so, I’m not going to argue with her.”
Amaira grins and shakes her head.
“Lerial!” calls Xeranya from the other end of the courtyard..
He turns to see her beckoning. “I’ll be right there.” Then he looks back to the girls, taking in the dolls. “You’re fortunate Father isn’t around.”
Amaira nods solemnly.
Ryalah nods as well. “We only play with them when he’s gone.”
“That’s wise.” With a smile, Lerial turns and walks toward the other fountain.
As he nears his mother, he sees her slip a thin volume under a leather folder before she turns and smiles at him. “I didn’t see you come in. Viera saw you sparring with the undercaptain. Your father will be so pleased that you’ve been diligent in that.”
Lerial hadn’t seen Viera, the oldest and only surviving family retainer who had accompanied his grandmother from the destruction of Cyad to Hamor. “I hope so.” He’s more likely to be concerned that I haven’t practiced enough or learned enough. He’s never satisfied. Lerial does not dare voice such thoughts. He even worries about thinking them. “What are you reading?” he asks, glancing at the leather folder and what lies under it, because he cannot make out what the volume might be.
“An old book of verse.” She slides the leather folder aside to reveal a thin volume whose cover is a shimmering silver, touched with a hint of green. “Your grandmother gave it to me. It will go to your daughter. Your aunt has the other copy. There were only two made. Hers will pass to Amaira. If you do not have daughters, your copy will pass to Ryalah.”
“Might I look at it?” Lerial isn’t all that interested in verse, but he has never seen that kind of binding, and that suggests the book is clearly old.
“Carefully.” Xeranya lifts the small volume and extends it to him. “I wouldn’t let your father know you’ve read it. You know what he thinks about verse and playacting.”
Lerial nods. “I won’t.” He won’t not just because his mother has asked, but also because she is absolutely right about the way Kiedron feels about verse.
“It is a part of your heritage, the heritage of Cyador. If you and Lephi do not carry on that heritage, who will?”
Lerial nods, then opens the cover gently, although the volume does not feel old, and turns to the first page, which holds only a title: Meditations Upon the Land of Light. The characters are strangely angular and hard to read. He turns the page and reads another set of lines, “To those of the Towers, to those of the Land, and to those who endured.” Below them are a name and a title, “Kiedral Daloren, Vice Marshal, Anglorian Unity.” Lerial has not read or heard of either Kiedral Daloren, whoever he might have been, or the Anglorian Unity. He has heard of the Towers.
“There really were Towers … Mirror Towers?”
“Once … yes. Your grandmother told me that Kiedral was the second Emperor of Light.”
“Who was the first?”
Xeranya shrugs and offers a wry smile. “I asked. No one knows.”
Lerial frowns and turns to the first verse.
For all those who braved dark translation’s hell
and fought the Forest bravely if not we
ll,
may these words offer consolation’s praise
the remnant of past Anglorian days,
and hopes for Cyad’s shining, mirrored ways …
He slowly closes the book and looks to his mother. “It doesn’t make much sense.”
“Poetry usually doesn’t make sense to you when you’re young. I’m just now beginning to understand some of it. Later … you might appreciate it. In a way, I think it’s all about the founding of Cyad and Cyador and what the writer felt about starting over in a strange land, so far from the Rational Stars. Your grandmother said it gave her hope. Someday, it might help you.”
Hope … from old verses?
Xeranya extends her hand, and Lerial returns the volume.
As he walks away to wash up and change to cleaner garb, he can’t help but continue to wonder how old verses could help anyone … and him, because his mother has not mentioned Lephi, or his daughters, and she never would have omitted his older brother unintentionally.
Never. Why would she give her copy to your daughter? And not to Lephi’s. That doesn’t make sense. It especially doesn’t make sense because Lephi is the heir, Cyador’s heir, and his parents are both practical. Very practical.
V
On sixday, Lerial’s leg is indeed bruised, and a bit stiff, but he makes his way along the palace corridors to meet with Saltaryn, trying not to limp. He practiced with a wand for more than half a glass the night before, if in his chambers—where no one could see—but the extra practice hasn’t loosened up his leg, and he certainly doesn’t feel any more accomplished with the wand, although he thinks he has the movements right for what Woelyt had showed him.
Lerial reaches the study before the magus does, but chooses not to sit down. Saltaryn will not be late, and Lerial does not want to seat himself, only to stand when the magus arrives. He waits only a few moments before he sees Saltaryn approaching, carrying the leather case, more like an oblong box with strap handles.
Saltaryn studies Lerial as he nears the youth, then purses his lips and frowns. “You’re still more black, except where you’re bruised on your leg.”
“I got the bruises sparring with Undercaptain Woelyt. He was showing me moves I didn’t know.”
“Are you practicing with order?” Saltaryn sets his case on the table.
“I beg your pardon, ser?” Lerial tries to keep his voice calm. “Practicing with order, ser?”
“Are you trying to gather order or trying to heal people?”
“I went to the Hall of Healing several days ago to see what healers do. That was all.”
“If you want to be a magus, you need to learn to control chaos before you work at all with order. I suggest you stay away from the Hall … that is, if you want to remain among the Magi’i.”
Lerial doubts that, as the son of the Duke of Cigoerne, and the grandson of the last Emperor of Light, he will be denied elthage rights, but … he could be declared unfit to be a magus, and that would certainly bring his father’s wrath down upon him. “I haven’t been to the Hall of Healing except that one time, and I don’t plan to go again any time soon.”
“Good. Now … let us see how you have progressed with the candle exercises.” From his case, Saltaryn produces two candles, so stubby that they are barely three digits long, for all that they are set in ornate and polished brass candleholders. He sets them on the side of the table away from Lerial. “Do you see the candles?”
Of course. “Yes.”
Saltaryn takes out a thin brass frame, perhaps three hands high, from which hangs a black cloth that extends down far enough that its base droops on the table. “Take a chair and seat yourself against the wall so that you face the candles.”
Lerial does so, watching as the magus then places the frame before the candles. The frame is high enough and wide enough that Lerial cannot see the candles.
Saltaryn then does something with his hands. “Where are the candles?”
“Behind the drape.”
“Are they?” Saltaryn lifts the drape.
Lerial sees no candles. Is he using chaos to hide them? He concentrates, trying to feel for the candles with order.
“You’re using an order-probe,” observes the magus. “That will tell many Magi’i exactly where you are.”
“I was trying to see if you had hidden them behind a chaos screen or something.” Lerial refrains from pointing out that many of the stronger Magi’i, those using chaos, often cannot sense order. He understands what Saltaryn means—he cannot trust that other Magi’i will not sense what he does with order … at least, from what Emerya has said, not unless he becomes very skilled, and that doesn’t appear likely any time soon.
“That comes later.” Saltaryn lifts the leather case beside the drape frame. The candleholders with the candles are there, behind where the case had been. He lowers the case. Even without probing, just passively sensing the movements of Saltaryn’s hands, Lerial can tell that the magus is moving the candles, but not exactly where, or whether he has moved one or both.
“I want you to tell me where the candles are—without probing.”
Lerial knows he could do that if he were closer, but he is sitting almost five yards away, and the candles and their holders are small. Still … he concentrates, trying to get a sense. “I think there’s only one behind the drape.”
“Think?”
“There’s one.”
“Good. We’ll try again.”
After several more trials, Saltaryn straightens. “You seem to be able to sense where the candles are without probing. Now … I want you to light whatever candles I put behind the drape, using only the smallest possible amount of chaos, just barely enough to catch the wick on fire.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Why am I asking you to do this with the smallest amount of chaos?”
“To teach me better control of chaos?”
Saltaryn nodded. “There’s another reason that goes with it. Can you think of what that might be?”
“So someone will have a harder time sensing what I’m doing?”
“That’s a good reason, especially for you, but it’s not linked to control.”
Lerial frowns. What does he have in mind?
Saltaryn smiles. “How did you feel after the lesson where you first had to light a candle?”
“Tired. Very tired.”
“That’s because you worked hard. Directing and using chaos takes strength…” The magus lets his words hang, waiting for Lerial to reply.
“Oh … you want me to only use as much chaos as necessary so that I don’t get tired and can do more if I have to.”
“That’s right. Especially if you have to use chaos in battle, you don’t want to get any more tired than you have to.” Saltaryn moves one candle. “Try to light it that way now.”
Lerial tries to focus the smallest bit of chaos on the candle. From across the study, even that takes some effort … and nothing happens.
“You’ll need a bit more chaos,” offers Saltaryn.
Lerial tries again … and again.
Finally, after close to a quarter glass of effort, he manages to light a candle.
“Good! Now do it again.”
Lerial refrains from groaning or sighing and makes another effort.
Then Saltaryn puts two candles behind the drape, and when Lerial has managed to light those, the magus says, “Light both of them at once, not one at a time.”
Finally, Saltaryn says, “Good. You’re using just the right amount of chaos. When you practice any magely skill, try to determine how to do what you’re doing with the least amount of effort and chaos.”
“Yes, ser.” Lerial blots his forehead with the back of his forearm. He is sweating once more, but not so profusely as if he had been sparring. He is definitely doing better in handling chaos, but he could not have gathered much more free chaos than what he had used … at least, it doesn’t feel that way. Yet once he has mastered the knack of determining just how much chaos he
needed, at the end, lighting the candles was almost easy. Is that because you’re using the order to control it more effectively? Emerya had said control of order would help, but that raised another question. Why is Saltaryn so worried about Lerial’s use of order, especially if it helps in handling chaos?
“Now we need to move on to history.” As he talks, the magus collects the items he has set on the study table and replaces them in the leather case.
Lerial notices that the brass of the holders now appears tarnished, yet the metal had been polished when Saltaryn had taken them from the case. Did my use of chaos do that? Or was that caused by what I did at first with too much chaos? He can think of no other reason than chaos being the cause, and, somehow, that bothers him.
“Lerial?”
Lerial stiffens as he realizes he has not heard what Saltaryn asked. “Ser? I’m sorry. I was still thinking about the exercises.”
“I asked you whether you had considered what we discussed yesterday, about the dangers of a ruler who is also a strong magus?”
“I did, ser.”
“And?”
“The greatest danger is to the ruler himself. He’s likely to think he is more powerful than he is.”
“Why? If he’s a powerful mage and knows his power, why would he think he is more powerful than he knows himself to be?”
“Because most of a ruler’s power comes from those who follow him. Just because he’s a strong magus doesn’t increase the strength of his Lancers … or increase the golds in his treasury…”
“Don’t you think, if his Lancers know he is powerful, that they will be more confident and more effective?”
“That could be…” Lerial has his doubts.
More questions follow.
“What did you think about Tafoyan’s Historie of Afrit?”
“What was the most notable accomplishment of Lorn and why?”
Then, after history, comes Saltaryn’s perusal of the essay Lerial has written comparing the trading practices of the factors of Merowey with those of Heldya and of Afrit.
Cyador’s Heirs Page 5