“Yes, Father.”
Altyn rises from the table.
Lerial follows, as does Rojana, and as he stands beside her, Lerial realizes that Rojana is taller than she had been when he’d come to Teilyn, only a few digits shorter than he is. Why didn’t you notice that before? Or that she and her mother are tall for women?
He is still pondering that as he walks beside Altyrn past the main entry corridor and then around the corner to the middle of the south side of the courtyard to the south corridor out to the south entrance. The majer halts beside a narrow door, the last one, which he opens. Beyond the door is a long and narrow chamber, with weapons racked on each side.
An armory. Why on the south side? Because when the villa was built, the dangers came from the south?
Altyrn lifts two full-sized wooden wands from a rack.
Lerial notes smaller wands as well. “You’ve taught the girls to handle sabres as well, ser?”
“Her mother and I have. They’re likely not as accomplished as you are, but they will be in time.”
The majer closes the armory door and leads the way out to the paved “courtyard.” There he stops and hands one of the wooden wands to Lerial.
Lerial takes it, finding it much heavier than the wands with which he has practiced, and certainly heavier than a standard Lancer sabre. He hefts it, frowning.
“It’s heavier than what you’ll use. There’s a reason for that. More than one, actually.” Altyrn smiles. “Take your position.”
Lerial does so.
“Now … begin an attack.”
Lerial moves forward cautiously, then has to dart sideways, barely able to deflect the majer’s wand. Yet the majer seems barely to have moved.
Watch his order flows! The words come into his mind from somewhere, words with the feel of his aunt, for all that he knows he is warning himself. He steps back and tries to concentrate on both watching Altyrn and sensing what the flow of order around the majer indicates.
Lerial’s next attack is better, but his defense is shaky, and the majer’s wand strikes Lerial’s calf, hard enough to sting and likely leave a bruise.
“A real blade would have cut through and left you lying on the stones.” Altyrn’s words are matter-of-fact.
Nodding, Lerial steps back and straightens.
After another series of engagements and disengagements, Lerial begins to sense more clearly what the majer’s intents and possible attacks and defenses are … but even when he can sense what will happen before it does, he finds himself on the defensive, unable to counter what the majer does.
After almost a glass, Altyrn steps back. “That’s enough for today.”
Lerial is soaked all the way through, but, despite a glass of sparring under the summer sun, the majer sports but a sheen of perspiration on his face and a few damp patches on his work shirt.
“You need to cool down and wash up. When you’ve done that, meet me in the courtyard at the table. Just wait if I’m not there. I may need to spend more time with Rojana.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial cannot say that he is displeased, but at the same time, he is angry, angry with himself for not being able to counter or avoid what he knows is coming, angry once more with Lephi and his father for sending him away … and angry for reasons he cannot even name.
By the time he has cooled down, washed up, and made his way back to the fountain courtyard, most of his anger has subsided.
Tyrna and Aylana are sitting at a small table near the fountain, in much the same fashion as Amaira and Ryalah did in Cigoerne, although they are engaged in a board game that he does not recognize. Even so, at the sight of the two girls at the table, a wave of loss and sadness sweeps over him, and he turns away, standing there for a time before he feels enough in control to continue toward the fountain.
“What are you playing?” he asks.
“Capture,” replies Tyrna.
“She’s better.” Aylana’s words hold an irritated edge.
“You’ll get better,” says Tyrna encouragingly.
Lerial can sense the honesty and the affection behind those words, and he says to Aylana, “You’re very fortunate to have a sister who cares.”
“She still wins all the time.”
“That will change if you keep working at it.” Lerial looks up as, from the corner of his eye, he sees Altyrn enter the courtyard. “It’s time for my lessons.”
Aylana sighs loudly and says to Tyrna, “I get the first move this time.”
Lerial walks toward the larger table, reaching it just before the majer, who gestures for him to sit down. Lerial seats himself as the majer does.
“I know nothing about the elthage skills,” Altyrn begins. “I won’t even attempt to instruct you in such matters. As your father’s son and as the brother of the heir, you will be called upon to lead Lancers. If you fail at that, you will not only suffer and possibly die, but so will others. If you are a good leader, but cannot defend yourself with a blade, others will have to die protecting you. Likewise, if you become a master blade, but cannot lead, you will still die, because there will be no one left to protect you.” The majer pauses and looks to Lerial, as if expecting a response.
“You’re telling me that I have to be a good leader, a good tactician, and a master blade … or I will fail.”
“Sooner or later, unless you are extremely fortunate … yes. And fortune is a most fickle lady and a worse mistress.” Altyrn smiles encouragingly. “You have the makings of a good master blade, if you will apply yourself. You have the ability to anticipate, which many never have, but you have less than no idea how to best counter what you anticipate. That … I can teach you, if you are willing to learn.”
“I felt that, ser. I could almost see what was coming, but not how to best react.”
“You don’t have the moves. They have to be so drilled into you that you almost do not have to think. Because you are thinking, you are too slow. If you work, we can remedy that. The same principle applies to tactics. One must recognize what is developing before it occurs … and act before your enemy knows that you have recognized what he is doing.”
“How am I to do that?”
“First, I will instruct you in the basics, what every ranker must know before he rides on his first patrol. Then we will, at times, ride various places, and I will show you how attacks might develop in various places, in the woods, in undergrowth, in the hills, in the sands…”
Lerial listens, almost overwhelmed by just the description of what Altyrn expects.
Abruptly the majer stops. “What you need to learn is much. That is because much is expected of you, and that is because you have great advantages in life. A man who does not know how to appreciate and to use his talents and position to their best will soon waste both. I trust you would prefer not to do that.”
“No, ser.”
“Let me ask you this. Why does your father have power? Why is he Duke of Cigoerne?”
For a moment, Lerial is at a loss. Why is he Duke? Because he is. That is not the answer the majer wants, though, and Lerial struggles to come up with a reason. “Well … he has the Mirror Lancers, and they obey him. And he is the son of the Emperor of Cyador.”
“Cyador is gone. Little more than toppled stones remains. As for the Lancers, why do they obey him? He is only one man, and they are many.”
“They respect him.”
“Do they? Or do they obey him because he can pay them? Or pay them more than others do? Or do they respect and obey him because the senior majer does? Or their squad leader does? Or is it because obeying him is the only way they can be Lancers, and that is what they wish to be? Or do they obey because they fear if they do not, they will be executed for failure to obey?”
“It could be any of those,” admits Lerial. “Or some of them.”
“If you are a leader, you need to know which support your leadership. What do all of those questions tell you?”
Lerial does grasp that. “The more reasons a leader is resp
ected and obeyed, the stronger his ability to lead?”
“Good. Then why should you be a master blade, if you can pay for the best Lancers?”
Lerial remembers that answer from his father. “Because you’re not asking them to do something you can’t do.”
The questions go on seemingly endlessly, but it is only half a glass later, when Altyrn says, “That’s enough questions. We’ll start with what a Lancer squad is, what it does, and how it operates.”
Lerial nods and listens.
XIV
For the next two eightdays, as summer turns to harvest, even if the days and nights are no cooler, Lerial continues the same pattern of work in the morning and sparring and arms practice in the afternoon, followed by studies of tactics. On fourday, slightly before midmorning, he is working with Rojana in the small lemon orchard, picking only the lemons that are the right size and shade of yellow. He picks those that can be reached from the ground, and she is the one who climbs the tree.
Lerial hears several yells, and then a harrowing scream.
Before he can say a word, Rojana calls down from the tree, “Something’s happened! A little boy was hit by the brick wagon.” She scrambles down the tree, then grabs Lerial’s arm. “This way!”
Lerial has to run to keep up with her as she races up the lane in the direction of the villa, then crosses the space in front of one of the olive groves and nears the narrow brick-paved road down from the brick kiln.
The teamster is still seated on the wagon seat, holding the two-horse team steady. All the color has drained from his face. Another man and a woman kneel beside the large rear wheel of the wagon, loaded with the same kind of yellow-rust bricks as those used to build the villa and pave the area around it.
A boy stands on the shoulder of the road. He is stone-faced. “I didn’t mean to hurt him bad…” His words are in Hamorian, and are almost defiant.
“What happened?” demands Rojana as she nears the wagon.
The teamster is the one who answers. “One of the boys pushed the other, and he lost his balance and fell under the wheel. I couldn’t stop in time…”
Rojana turns and hurries to the rear of the wagon. Lerial follows. They both look down on a boy, slightly younger than the one standing back from the road.
Lerial gapes. Blood still flows from a wound on the inside of the boy’s upper arm. The flesh is mangled, but only on the underside, as if the iron tire of the wagon had just clipped his arm. How that could have happened without the boy having his entire arm crushed, Lerial has no idea. Even so, the child could die. The woman is trying to stanch the flow of blood, but her efforts appear ineffectual. The man, possibly the teamster’s assistant, just stares.
Rojana grabs Lerial’s arm again. “Do something! You must have learned something from your aunt…”
Lerial pulls off his shirt, then kneels down as Rojana pulls the woman back. The only thing he can see is that there’s too much blood. He quickly wraps the shirt around the boy’s arm above the wound, ignoring the moans and cries as he does. The shirt stops some of the blood flow, but not enough.
“Get me a short stick!”
In moments, Rojana hands him one, and he ties a knot above and below the stick, then turns it a turn, then another. A third turn is enough to stop the blood flow.
Now what do you do? He has nothing with which to clean the gaping gash, and he’s not certain he would even know how to sew up the wound.
“We need to get him somewhere where we can clean the wound and sew it up. As fast as we can.”
“Mother can do that!” says Rojana. “You keep him from bleeding while they carry him to the villa. I’ll have Mother meet you in the courtyard by the fountain.”
Lerial can do that. He also tries to infuse a little order to the boy’s arm as he walks beside the teamster’s assistant, guiding them toward the closest door—the one on the west side of the villa.
Maeroja is waiting when the teamster lays the boy on the courtyard table, and Tyrna has a bucket of water and clean cloths.
Lerial keeps the tourniquet only as tight as necessary and tries to stay out of Maeroja’s way as she cleans and wound and begins to sew it closed. After several stitches, she looks at Lerial.
“Do you see what I’m doing?”
“Yes, Lady.”
She frowns at the term of address, but only says, “I want you to do the next stitch. You’ll have to do worse in the field.”
Lerial sees that there is no way to decline. He takes the needle.
“Keep it close to the last stitch.”
Lerial manages two more stitches before she takes the needle back.
“You have to tie the last stitch, or the wound will open again.”
He knows that, but watches closely to see how she does it.
When the boy’s arm is stitched up and wrapped, Lerial immediately loosens the tourniquet. There is less order in the lower arm than he would like, and he tries to infuse just a bit more. That effort leaves him light-headed, and he has to put out a hand to the table to steady himself.
“You’re white,” says Tyrna. “Does seeing blood do that to you? It does to Aylana.”
“No,” replies Lerial. “It was … something else.” He stands there and listens as Maeroja speaks to the child’s mother in a lilting but fluent Hamorian … with an accent he has heard before … or not exactly … although he cannot recall where he has heard that before. He also realizes that he has never heard Maeroja speak Hamorian before.
“… you must keep this dressing on for the next two days. Keep it clean. Then come back here on sixday. We will see how it heals.” She pauses, then nods toward Lerial. “You are fortunate that … Lerial was close. Otherwise, your son might have bled to death.”
The woman looks to Lerial … and then away, almost as though she does not wish to see him.
Rojana offers Lerial a warm smile, one that leaves him disconcerted.
Why? Why would her smile do that? Is it because he is light-headed?
Once the mother and her son have left, Maeroja looks to Lerial. “You did what the healers do, after I closed the wound, didn’t you?”
“I was worried that the tourniquet was on too long. I tried to strengthen the order in his arm below the wound.”
“He is fortunate in more ways than one.”
“He is,” replies Lerial. “If Rojana had not seen what happened and insisted we go see, we might not have gotten there in time.”
“She thinks quickly, but so did you.” Maeroja smiles. “I think the lemon grove can wait until tomorrow. You two just stay here. I’ll have one of the girls bring refreshments. You both could use them. You especially, Lerial.”
“I could.” Lerial hates to acknowledge weakness, but he is still light-headed and more than relieved to be able to sit down, although he does choose the smaller table.
After Maeroja and Tyrna leave, followed by Aylana, Rojana sits across from Lerial. “You never said you were a healer.”
“I’m not. I know a little bit about healing, and I can focus a little order and a little chaos. That doesn’t make me a magus or a healer.”
“Then you could be a healer, couldn’t you?”
“I could probably heal a little. Maybe more.” Lerial isn’t about to admit that he could be a healer, especially if that means giving up the possibilities of at least leading Mirror Lancers and undertaking the other tasks of a true magus.
“You don’t want to be a healer?”
“Some healing skills are helpful for an officer who leads Mirror Lancers, especially after battles.”
“There’s already too much fighting.”
“It’s necessary.”
“It wouldn’t be if people didn’t fight.”
“What would you do if there weren’t any Lancers, and Meroweyan raiders tried to take your sheep and all the crops?”
“We’d have to fight, but they wouldn’t have to attack.”
“What if they’re attacking because they have
no food?” countered Lerial.
“It’s still not right.”
“There are a lot of things that aren’t right, but happen. We have to be prepared for them.”
“We shouldn’t start them.”
Lerial thinks about that, then decides not to reply as one of the serving girls appears with a tray. She sets it on the table.
“Thank you,” he says, but she does not reply, only inclines her head and backs away.
Lerial wonders what he did to frighten or offend her.
“Saenja almost never speaks.”
“Do you know why?” He looks at the tray that holds two mugs, one filled with a greenish juice and the other with dark lager, and a platter with thin slices of what looks to be ham, as well as cheese and a loaf of dark bread. He sets the juice in front of Rojana. “Do you want some bread?”
“You need it more than I do.”
Lerial breaks off a chunk of the bread and cuts away a chunk of cheese that he wraps in a slice of the ham. He alternates mouthfuls of the bread and the ham and cheese, interspersed with swallows of the lager. Before too long, the headache he has not even realized he has begins to vanish, along with the light-headedness.
“I thought you’d be full of yourself,” Rojana declares. “You’re not. Not too much, anyway. That’s good.”
If that’s a compliment, I don’t want an insult. “It’s hard to be too full of yourself when you have an older brother who can drub you in sparring.”
“He won’t be able to do that if you do what father says.” Rojana sips the juice. “I’ll be glad when I can have lager or wine. They taste better.”
“I’m sure they do.” Lerial looks at the platter. It is empty, but he doesn’t recall eating all that, and he is certain that Rojana ate far less than he did.
“You don’t like letting people know what you feel, do you?”
“It’s dangerous when your father is the Duke.”
“That’s sad. No one will ever know how good you are.”
How do you answer that? “I just try to do the best I can.”
“I’m glad.”
For a time, neither speaks.
Then Saenja reappears and takes the tray and the mugs. Even before she leaves the courtyard, Altyrn enters from the north corridor and walks toward the two. “Time for studies, Rojana, and, for you, Lerial, sparring.”
Cyador’s Heirs Page 12