Cyador’s Heirs

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  Altyrn’s last words carry a conviction with which Lerial isn’t about to argue, especially when he sees Maeroja and the three girls waiting by the north entrance to the villa, less than forty yards away. Maeroja’s eyes are fixed on Altyrn, and Lerial can sense her concern.

  Apparently, so can the majer, because he eases his mount toward her. “We’re fine, dear one.”

  “I only counted nine rankers, and one of them was wounded.”

  Lerial realizes that she must have been watching—or had someone watching—when they rode past the villa to the post. She had someone watching every day?

  “We ran into a raiding party in the south valley. They won’t be doing any more raiding,” Altyrn says dryly.

  Rojana looks up to Lerial. “There’s blood on your sleeve. Were you wounded?”

  Lerial has forgotten the blood, most likely from when he sewed up Hualsh’s wound. “No … that’s likely from when I sewed up a wound one of the Lancers got from the raiders.”

  “Likely?” asks Maeroja. “There were other possibilities?”

  “It might have been a raider’s blood,” he admits. “I did have to use my sabre.” It feels strange to admit that the weapon Altyrn has given him is indeed his.

  “He used it in self-defense,” Altyrn adds. “The raiders attacked us.”

  “Don’t they always?” Maeroja’s voice is cool.

  Altyrn looks at her, and Lerial feels that he is almost pleading, if silently.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I had so hoped…”

  “So had I. I had hoped … this early in the fall…” The majer looks to Lerial. “We need to get the horses unsaddled and groomed, and we both need baths and clean clothes.”

  “You certainly do.” Maeroja’s voice is warmer.

  As Lerial and Altyrn ride toward the stables, Lerial continues to puzzle over the words the majer and his consort exchanged, as if somehow Altyrn has done something he had promised he would not … and was apologizing for having done so. But what he does every day on the lands takes more effort than the journey did … or has he promised not to fight the raiders?

  It takes Lerial longer than the majer to unsaddle and groom his mount, and by the time he has finished, the majer has left the stable. Lerial gathers his gear and lugs it to his chambers, and he is grateful that someone—most likely one of the girls—has carried water up to his bath chamber. When he is finally washed and dressed in clean greens, he makes his way down to the courtyard. He looks around and finds that the only ones in the courtyard beside him are Aylana and Tyrna, and they are gathering up their dolls and placing them in a leather case.

  “You took a long time,” says Tyrna, almost accusingly.

  “I had to groom my horse and see to his water and feed.” Lerial pauses. “Were you the ones who carried water to my room?”

  “We helped Seltha,” announces Aylana.

  “We did most of it,” adds Tyrna.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Tyrna smiles.

  “Your mother was most worried when your sister saw the blood on my sleeve,” Lerial keeps his voice puzzled.

  “Father’s not supposed to fight raiders anymore. He promised.”

  “Tyrna!” interjects Rojana, who is walking from the north door toward the terrace table. “You’re not…” She shakes her head.

  “He’s almost family,” replies Tyrna. “Father said so.”

  “So did Mother,” adds Aylana.

  Rojana offers a rueful smile to Lerial. “I’m sorry. It’s just…”

  “You all worry about your father.”

  “He’s supposed to take care of himself … and…”

  “He didn’t have a choice … and he agreed to train me, and none of us thought we were going to have to fight raiders when he took me to see places he thought I should see. None of you thought that, either.”

  “He shouldn’t have,” says Tyrna.

  “Fought raiders,” explains Rojana. “Not taken you … I mean, he should have taken you, but…”

  “He didn’t expect raiders,” Lerial says. “He really didn’t. When they showed up, he let the Lancers take the charges. There were two lines of Lancers, and we stayed behind both of them. It was just that there were more raiders, and some of them got around the Lancers.”

  “He said you killed one of them,” says Rojana. “Did you?”

  “Yes. He was charging right at me. I wasn’t trying to kill him. I was just trying to hit him with my sabre so that he wouldn’t kill me.”

  “You’ll have to kill more raiders if you go on patrols,” observes Rojana.

  “If I go on patrols … that’s possible.”

  Rojana is about to say something when Maeroja appears.

  “Lerial … girls … we’re having beverages in the salon. It’s too chill out here.”

  Lerial inclines his head. “Thank you. I didn’t know.”

  “That was why I sent Rojana.” Maeroja looks at her eldest daughter.

  “They were talking about the raiders … and Father…” Rojana’s voice is low.

  “I don’t imagine that Lerial missed our concerns,” replies Maeroja briskly. “He senses more than most.”

  Lerial has the feeling that Maeroja meant “most men” or “most Magi’i,’ although she had not uttered either phrase. “I could see you were worried. I’m sorry about the blood. It was where I didn’t see it.”

  “You worried about the wounded Lancer, didn’t you?” asks Maeroja.

  Lerial nods.

  After the slightest hesitation, Maeroja smiles, then gestures to the girls. “We shouldn’t be leaving your father alone in the salon.”

  Aylana and Tyrna turn and hurry toward the north door. Rojana glances at her mother, then follows her sisters.

  Maeroja says, “If you would escort me, Lerial?”

  “With pleasure.” As he speaks, Lerial wonders what is coming next.

  “You are a healer, and yet you will have to lead Lancers and kill men. It will take great strength. At times, if you are too merciful, even more will die.”

  Great strength? “I must confess that I have been so concerned about the strength required to master the blade that I have not considered that great strength might be required to deal with possible success in using it.”

  “You say that so well I find it hard to believe that you have not.”

  “I have worried that I may not be able to meet the expectations of others.” That is certainly true. “And … Lady … I am sorry if my father’s requests for my learning have caused you concern and pain. I would not have wished that…”

  Maeroja’s laugh is low and rueful. “It is not your father’s request that caused the concerns, but my consort’s sense of duty and rightness. It was his feeling that you needed to see what you might otherwise never behold.”

  “And has it been his idea that I also spar with the Lancers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I owe you both … deeply.”

  “If you survive, Lord Lerial, you will more than repay those concerns. What my consort has done beyond what your father requested is in the hope that you will be able to help your father and your brother triumph over what must come.”

  “Attacks by Afrit?”

  “Afrit will be your greatest worry, but not for the reasons you think.” Maeroja pauses at the north courtyard entry.

  Not for the reasons you think?

  “Afrit is not nearly so powerful as Duke Atroyan would have the world believe.” She continues into the inside corridor and toward the archway into the winter salon. “Your grandmother understood that. So does your aunt, but I am not so certain that your sire does.” She stops in the archway. “Perhaps I should not have voiced my views, but I trust you will keep their source to yourself … as few would respect the judgment of a mere woman.”

  “I respect your judgment … and your views.”

  Her smile is softer. “You did not have to say that. Your words and actions
already have. Let us join the others.”

  Lerial follows her into the salon.

  “I have your wine, dear,” says Altyrn. He is seated in a leather armchair, while the three girls occupy a leather couch. Pitchers of juice, lager, and wine rest on the sideboard.

  While Maeroja takes her place in the smaller chair beside her consort, Lerial walks to the sideboard and pours himself a mug of lager, then takes the straight-backed chair at the end of the couch away from the majer, but facing Altyrn.

  “It was quite a journey,” Altyrn begins. “It didn’t start out eventful at all. We rode to the Lancer post and then back south to the west trail. You girls have even ridden the first part of that…” He goes on to describe all that occurred until the part when the Lancers saw the locals fleeing up the road. Then he looks to Lerial. “Since I am suspected of telling matters either more or less dramatically than they may have happened, I’d be obliged if you would tell everyone what occurred after that.”

  Lerial almost wants to suggest that, in turn, the majer might wish to add to anything he might say, but decides against that, since he might not have seen what the majer did. “The majer suggested that the squad leader immediately see how many raiders there might be. I fear I may be to blame for the fact that we did not depart and leave the poor locals to what might have otherwise happened. It occurred to me that if we followed what some might have called the prudent course, over the years ahead it would be said that the son of Duke Kiedron fled in terror from the first raiders he encountered. I thought this would not be good for Cigoerne or my father … or for me, or for men I might have to lead in the future. So when squad leader Chaarn reported to the majer that less than ten raiders approached, I suggested that, if there did not appear to be any more, we should attempt to show force to encourage them to turn away. The nine raiders—I believe there were nine—rode forward at a walk, then burst into a gallop and attacked. The squad leader deployed his men in a five-abreast, two-deep, formation with the majer and me behind them. Just as the nine attacked the Lancers, another group charged over a hill and up through a gully. Half the Lancers turned to engage them, but they were outnumbered and two or three got past them. One of them charged me, and one charged the majer. The other one … I think he turned to try and attack the Lancers fighting the first raiders from behind, but I didn’t have time to think about that because I had to deal with the man coming at me. I managed to slip his blade and get a cut across his neck with a back cut as he went past.” Lerial pauses, then adds, “When I looked around after that, two raiders were galloping off, and the rest were dead … or dying.” He looks to Maeroja. “So it’s my fault that we stayed.” He thinks about apologizing, but decides against that, because he knows what he did was right for Cigoerne, even if it was not right for the majer. Instead, he turns his eyes on Altyrn. “I think you saw and could explain more of what happened after that.”

  After a rueful smile, Altyrn continues. “Two of the Lancers were badly hurt. One was fatally wounded, and Lerial gave him some order comfort before attending to the wound of the second. The first Lancer died that evening. The second looks as though he will survive, but likely would not have without Lerial’s skill…” Altyrn summarizes the remainder of the journey, ending with, “… and you saw us riding up the lane to Kinaar.” He smiles and says. “In a bit, I think we’ll all be ready to eat.”

  “You think there will be more raiders?” asks Maeroja, in a tone that is just short of not being a question.

  “I fear it is likely, but that is a matter with which the Duke and the Lancers will have to deal,” replies Altyrn. “I think my journey with Lerial will be the last to the south valley or anywhere that far for some time. If it is up to me,” he adds in a lower voice.

  Lerial sees the almost concealed wince on Maeroja’s face. Does he mean that Father might call him back to duty? How could he?

  “You won’t take us?” asks Aylana. “That’s not fair.”

  “Dear one … I will take you on journeys, perhaps to Cigoerne and other places. We just will not be riding into places where there may be raiders.”

  “That’s fair enough,” says Maeroja.

  Both Tyrna and Rojana nod.

  “Now … we should eat.” The majer rises from his chair.

  Lerial follows the majer and his consort, walking almost beside Rojana. She glances at him for a moment, but says nothing. Lerial isn’t certain what the glance might mean and is not about to ask.

  After everyone is seated, Altyrn looks to Maeroja.

  She nods, then says, “We offer thanks to the powers of order and chaos, and to the Rational Stars for the safe return of those who have traveled … and for all those who travel into danger.”

  “Thanks be to the Rational Stars,” murmur the girls … and their mother.

  Dinner is a fowl casserole with dark bread, the first Lerial has seen at Kinaar, and the girls are each allowed a quarter of a glass of white wine, also another first, clearly a quiet celebration of gratitude.

  After he has served Maeroja and himself, the majer looks to his youngest daughter. “Aylana, you’ve heard what we did. Tell Lerial and me what you have been doing, if you would.”

  “It’s not that exciting.”

  The majer waits.

  “Well … we’ve been learning how to use the threader, and I can even do it … if Tyrna helps…”

  From that point on, the conversation throughout dinner, and the honey-cake dessert that follows, remains firmly on what has happened at Kinaar.

  When everyone has finished eating, the majer clears his throat. “Girls … you may be excused. Your mother and I need a few words with Lerial.”

  Maeroja also looks at the three girls in turn.

  “Yes, Father.”

  Lerial notes that all three immediately rise, incline their heads, and depart without another word. He does not sense that either the majer or his consort is concealing strong feelings. So he waits for Altyrn to speak.

  Finally, the majer speaks. “Your father left the decision to me as to when you were ready to return to Cigoerne. I will be frank with you, Lerial. You have great … possibilities, but your strengths can also be weaknesses. It is clear you can use order skills to anticipate what I do with a sabre, what anyone does with a sabre. At the same time, those order skills will make it difficult for you in any prolonged battle.”

  Lerial almost asks why, before remembering the cold chill that had enveloped him just after the raider died. “Yes, ser. I had a feeling about that.”

  “You need to keep working on your blade skills, but there is little more that you can learn here, and, after what we encountered in the south valley, I fear you will be needed elsewhere before long.”

  Lerial has his doubts about that.

  “You’ll be riding back to Cigoerne with the dispatch rider and some other Lancers early on fiveday.”

  “With the dispatch about the raiders, ser?”

  “No. Captain Graessyr had a rider leaving the post within a glass of the time he found out. That couldn’t wait.”

  Lerial feels stupid for his question. Of course it couldn’t wait. What were you thinking?

  “You will always be welcome here.” Altyrn smiles.

  “And we would be most disappointed if you are near here and do not stop for at least a brief visit,” adds Maeroja.

  “The girls have benefited from your being here as well,” Altyrn goes on. “All of us will miss you.”

  “I will miss you,” Lerial replies.

  After a time, as he walks back toward his chamber, Lerial realizes the words he has thought he spoke in courtesy were in fact all too true. He will actually miss Kinaar … and the majer and his consort … and the girls, especially Rojana. He also wonders if he will see her that evening.

  He does not, and eventually, he drifts into an uneasy sleep.

  XXII

  Almost the moment Lerial finishes his last sip of the greenish berry juice at breakfast on fourday, Altyrn looks ac
ross the table at him. “No work on the lands today. You need to get ready for your journey back to Cigoerne. The regular dispatch riders leave at the hint of first light, and they ride straight through. You’ll need everything packed and ready before you turn in this evening.”

  “That’s a long ride for a mount…” And longer than you’ve ever ridden at one time.

  “They’ll have spare mounts at Brehaal. You’ll have to lead your gelding for the last half of the ride.” The majer rises. “Come with me. There are a few things you’ll need.”

  Lerial wonders what the majer has in mind, but follows him to his study. He watches as Altyrn opens one of the small doors in the tall cabinet against the side wall and extracts something.

  Then the majer turns and hands Lerial a pair of grayish green gloves that look never to have been worn. “I noticed you don’t have a good pair of riding gloves.”

  “I couldn’t—”

  “They’re yours. Captain Graessyr also said that you’re to keep the riding jacket. It’s cut to allow more movement in the saddle than your old jacket. Besides, the old one is too small. You’ve broadened across the shoulders.”

  Lerial had wondered about that when they had set out on the ride to the south valley, but that memory had slipped his mind—until now. “You don’t think that … on the way back to Cigoerne…?”

  “I doubt that seriously, but you never know where you’ll find raiders, or brigands. Also, no one thinks about things like proper blades, jackets, and gloves until after the need is obvious. Sometimes that’s too late. This way you’ll have them when you need them. And … the sabre does belong in your family.” Altyrn pauses. “I wouldn’t mention that to anyone, not for some time.”

  “I won’t, ser.” If I did, Lephi would insist that it belonged to him, and Father would likely agree.

  “Good … because it’s better suited to you than either your father or brother, and a blade and its wielder need to fit each other.”