Lerial knows that the majer understands his father’s abilities with a blade, but how does he understand Lephi’s? And why does the blade fit you better?
“Your brother stopped by here on the way to one of his patrols. Your father sent a note asking me to give him some pointers in bladework. I did.”
“He didn’t mention that.” Lerial now recalls Lephi’s mention of Teilyn, but he’d never mentioned the majer. That would be Lephi.
“I don’t imagine that he did. Lephi’s more like your father. You take more after your grandmeres on both sides.”
“I never knew Grandmere Althya.” Except that she perished in Cyad … and no one talks about her.
“Quite a woman she was, and an outstanding healer, I heard tell. She was a redhead, too. There was a portrait in the Palace of Light … looked quite a bit like her. Have no idea who it was, except she had to have been an Empress in the old times.”
“The old times? How could you tell?”
“It was hung in a back hall, but the painting was excellent, as was the frame.”
“Ser? What should I have asked you that I didn’t and that I need to know?”
Altyrn laughs, warmly, then shakes his head. “I didn’t expect that, but it’s a good sign.” He gestures to the circular table. “We might as well sit down.”
Lerial seats himself and waits.
Altyrn takes the seat across from Lerial and clears his throat. “You need to think about men more than weapons. Weapons are necessary, but it’s always men who use them. You need to understand what your officers and squad leaders think and know. You need to talk to them. Never be familiar, but never condescend to them. Always consider the men you work with and against. In some ways, men who are weak within themselves are the most dangerous, especially if they have taken great pains to conceal their weaknesses. Because they are weak, they tend to be ruthless when it is not necessary. They can seldom be trusted to keep their word, except when it suits them. That is, I believe, and it is only my opinion, because they know they are not trustworthy, and therefore believe no others can be trusted.” The majer offers a rueful smile. “The truth is that most men are weak in this way. The most dangerous are those with power. People say that the most dangerous man is the one with nothing to lose, but they forget that every man has his life to lose, and that is the most precious thing of all to most. Never threaten to kill a man. Decide whether to kill him or not. Then do it. If you threaten and don’t kill him, he’ll never believe you again, and you’ll always have to watch out for him, even if you put him in jail in chains.”
Lerial nods slowly. “What do you think of Duke Atroyan?”
“You cannot trust the Duke or any of his family, the Duke least of all.”
“Have you met him, ser?”
“I’ve never met him, but I’ve watched him when he has met with your father and your grandmere. He is a man who believes almost any man can be bought … and that those few who cannot need to be killed quickly and quietly.” The majer smiles again. “I’ll give you another piece of advice. You likely won’t pay it much heed, but I’d be remiss in not offering it to you.”
“Ser?”
“A woman’s beauty has nothing to do with her character or temperament. Some men claim that you can’t trust beautiful women, and you can trust those who aren’t. That’s sowshit. Some beautiful women are honest and trustworthy. Some are not. The same is true of those who are not beautiful. If you treat any woman badly, matters will get worse for you. An untrustworthy woman will become more so, and a trustworthy woman will likely become less so.” Altyrn laughs softly. “By the way, that applies to men as well.”
“Will you tell me what you know of Afrit and Swartheld that I’m not likely to know?”
“Swartheld is a port. That means you’ll find almost anything there…”
Lerial listens for almost a glass before the majer stops.
“I’ve said more than enough, and more than you’ll remember. You need to see about organizing your gear.”
“Yes, ser.”
Still thinking over his conversation with the majer, and puzzling over the matter of the ancient sabre that is now his, Lerial carries the riding gloves back to the chamber that has been his for more than two seasons. Once he climbs the steps, he sees Seltha and Maeroja coming from his chambers, Seltha carrying a large stack of his uniforms.
“You’ll have to pack most of your uniforms late this afternoon or early this evening,” Maeroja announces, adding with a smile, “There’s no way we’re sending you back with any dirty garments except those on your back.”
“I didn’t wish to cause you any trouble…”
“You haven’t. It’s a good thing it’s sunny, if a bit brisk. They all should dry.” Maeroja stops, but motions Seltha to continue toward the steps down to the main level. “I couldn’t help but notice that you don’t carry any … personal … items.”
Lerial offers an amused smile. “I’m sure you noticed that before now.”
Her smile is open and warm. “I did. Is that by choice or training?”
“Choice. The personal things that matter are those I remember.”
“You’re like my consort in that respect. That seems to be a Lancer trait. It’s rare in a healer.”
“You think I’m really a healer, don’t you?”
“You don’t have all the training you need, but … yes, you’re a healer.” Her smile turns sad, or more reflective. “People will say that healers can’t be Lancers … or they can’t kill. Or that Lancers can’t be healers. That’s nonsense. It takes more strength to heal than kill … and to see those you’ve treated die, and then try again. Any fool trained with a sharp blade can slaughter people.”
“You know more about healing than you let on.”
“I have the skills, but not the touch with order. My sister was a healer.”
The way Maeroja mentions her sister suggests that her sister is no longer alive.
“I’m sorry.”
“You see? I didn’t even have to say that I lost her. You sense more than you think you do. In the life the Rational Stars have chosen for you, you will need to take care not to reveal what you feel … especially in Cigoerne or Swartheld … or Heldya, should you be sent there.”
It is more than clear to Lerial that both the majer and his consort believe he will be sent wherever in Hamor that his father, or his brother, feel will serve their interests … and possibly those of Cigoerne … and they believe it will be soon.
“Are you from Heldya once upon a time?” Lerial has always wondered, but he realizes this may be his last chance to ask.
“In a way. I was born there. We left long before I was old enough to remember anything. I grew up near Amaershyn.”
That makes sense to Lerial, since Amaershyn is the westernmost large town—or small city—in Heldya and some hundred and fifty kays south of Cigoerne. Unfortunately, it is also a Heldyan garrison town, and was the staging point for Heldyan forces when they made attacks on the Duchy of Cigoerne. But how did she and Altyrn meet? Lerial does not recall his father sending Lancers against Amaershyn, and it is unlikely he did so in the time before Lerial was born, but not impossible, even though Amaershyn is a walled city larger than Cigoerne. But maybe it isn’t any longer. Lerial pushes away those thoughts.
“You need to get on with whatever you need to do, and I have a few things yet to do today.” Maeroja smiles, then hurries past Lerial, leaving him standing outside the door to his room, his at least for one more day.
He makes his way inside and begins to organize his things.
That doesn’t take long because, with most of his clothes being washed, he has very little left to organize. So before long, he heads back down to the courtyard, which is not quite chill and more than slightly breezy. For a time, he stands, watching the fountains, thinking that Kinaar is indeed much quieter, more peaceful than will be the palace to which he will be returning—until his father sends him off somewhere else.
He has been so lost in his musings he has not even sensed Rojana’s approach. He turns.
“You’ll be leaving before dawn tomorrow, won’t you?”
“That’s what your father tells me.”
“Please be careful.” Rojana’s voice is low as she looks into his eyes. “Really careful.”
Lerial tries not to frown. Why is Rojana so concerned? Both her parents have made it clear by words, in the case of Maeroja, and deeds, by the majer, that there can be nothing between the two of them … and even Rojana has maintained a certain reserve around Lerial.
She hands him a small black silk pouch. “This is for you.”
As he takes the pouch, Lerial can feel a heavy oblong shape inside the smoothness of the silk. “You don’t have to…”
“Gifts aren’t gifts if you have to.”
He can’t help but smile, partly because she is so right, and partly because her voice is so like her mother’s.
“It’s a lodestone. It will help you. It’s something I feel. Tyrna, Aylana, and I wove the pouch.”
Lerial knows that lodestones fashioned into needles are used as compasses on ships, but how will a solid block of lodestone help him? Yet … he feels there is something Rojana is not telling him. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
After a moment of surprise, she nods. “One of the old books … there’s a mention of lodestones and ordering order.” She pauses, then says, “I don’t know how you could order order … but maybe you can.”
Lerial smiles. The small pouch and the lodestone certainly can’t hurt him … and maybe, just maybe, he can figure it out. “Thank you.”
Rojana looks intently at him. Her eyes are bright. “Take care. You must.” Then she turns and moves away, first walking quickly and then running.
Lerial finds that his own eyes are burning … but she has vanished from the courtyard … and what could he do, even if he ran after her?
He fingers the silk pouch and the lodestone beneath the silk … then turns and heads for the north corridor. Perhaps a long walk will help. Perhaps …
XXIII
In the dimness well before dawn on fiveday, Lerial begins to dress, thinking over the events since he arrived at Kinaar more than two seasons ago. He also worries about Rojana, who had not appeared at dinner the night before. He does not believe he has led her on, and he has been careful never to suggest that there should be anything between them. Yet he is aware, if only through watching and listening, that hearts do not always listen to words or prohibitions.
He pauses. Is that the difference? He shakes his head. He has certainly not listened to prohibitions in other areas, and that is why he was sent to Kinaar. The fact that he has listened to the warnings and words of Maeroja and Altyrn about their daughter suggests that his feelings about her are not that deep in his heart … and yet … he cares, and does not want her hurt. Much as you care for Ryalah … or Amaira? With a certain physical attraction added in, he admits to himself.
After pulling on his boots, he stands and walks to the bedside table. From there, he picks up the black silk pouch and fingers the oblong lodestone within through the silk. It is not quite a perfect oblong, but when he studied it the night before, it appeared that it had not been cut or ground, and that it had been formed naturally, however such stones occurred. By the workings of order and chaos within the earth? He smiles and slips the pouch into the inside pocket of his Lancer riding jacket, then straps on the sword belt and sabre.
He takes a last look around the chamber, picks up the kit bag, and leaves the room, for possibly the last time in his life.
Altyrn is already in the stable, saddling his mount by the light of a single dim lamp, when Lerial arrives.
“Good morning, ser,” Lerial offers.
“It is morning, and they seem to come earlier with each year … or maybe the nights are just shorter.”
Only a thin glow barely illuminates the eastern horizon when the two lead their horses out of the stable and mount. Lerial glances toward the villa. Just away from the lamp set on a bronze bracket by the north door stand Maeroja and the three girls. All are fully dressed. He guides the gelding toward the four and reins up short of Maeroja.
“I cannot thank you enough.” Lerial means every word. “For everything.”
“We enjoyed having you here, especially the girls,” replies Maeroja. “You are always welcome here.”
“Always,” adds Rojana.
Lerial senses something behind that single word, and he can see that her eyes are bright. They may even be red, but even with the lamplight illuminating her face at an angle, he cannot be certain. “Thank you. And thank you for your gift. It means more than you know.” Even if I cannot accept it in quite the way you meant it. Or the way I think you meant.
Rojana continues to look at him, and the obvious hurt tears at him.
“Please come back.” Aylana’s voice is not quite plaintive.
“That’s up to the Duke, but I will if I can. I don’t think it will be soon, though.” Lerial doesn’t know what else to say, but manages. “All of you … please take care.”
“We will,” promises Maeroja.
As he and the majer ride down the lane toward the main road, Lerial can sense eyes on his back. At least, that’s the way it feels.
He does not speak again until they have nearly reached the road. “I have to thank you again, ser. I don’t know that I could have learned so much anywhere else.”
“Given who you are,” replies Altyrn, “you likely couldn’t. That is why your father sent you here.”
Lerial still isn’t certain he wants to give his father that much credit. “My father … or my mother?”
“It was your father’s choice. I’d be most surprised if your mother and aunt weren’t the ones who suggested it. But…” Altyrn pauses for several moments. “… even if it happened to be their suggestion, your father had the wisdom to accept it and carry it out. That’s one of the most valuable traits a leader can have—to see the wisdom of good suggestions made by others and to accept them and carry them out.”
Lerial has to admit that the majer has a point. A very good one, whether you like it or not.
“You made quite an impression on the girls,” observes Altyrn after several moments of silence, “especially Rojana.”
“I’m sorry. I tried not to—”
“You were a perfect gentleman, Lerial, and that just made you that much more attractive to her. I couldn’t have asked for a better first infatuation for her.”
Lerial isn’t so sure that Rojana’s feelings are merely infatuation. “I think I hurt her”—You know you did—“and I didn’t mean to, but I didn’t know how not to hurt her in some way or another.”
“You were gentle. That’s all you can be when something like that happens.”
“You’re not too upset?” Lerial has to know.
“I’m upset that she’s hurting. Any father would be. But that’s not your fault. As you said, you didn’t lead her on, and you didn’t take advantage of her. You might be the one for her, but she’s not the one for you. No matter whom you consort, you’ll cause her grief and pain. The Stars know I’ve caused Maeroja more pain than I ever intended.”
“I’m sorry about what happened in the south valley—”
Altyrn waves off Lerial’s words. “She was worried. Pain is different. In time, you’ll understand. I hope you do. Most leaders and rulers do … if they’re good at leading.”
Lerial worries about the majer’s words about pain, especially given how much Lerial had ached in the first eightdays at Kinaar. Altyrn is clearly talking about something far greater.
“You don’t have to worry about that yet,” adds the majer.
“Is there anything else?”
Altyrn laughs. “Be a little late now, wouldn’t it?”
“I can try,” responds Lerial lightly.
In the dimness, Lerial feels as much as sees the good-natur
ed headshake that is the majer’s response.
Just before they reach the post gates, Lerial turns in the saddle. “Ser … I want to thank you again.”
“You’re more than welcome. I hope whatever you’ve learned will stand you in good stead.”
“I’m sure it will, ser.”
The half squad of Lancers accompanying the dispatch rider—and Lerial—are mounting up when Lerial and Altyrn ride through the post gates. At the head of the column of riders, two abreast, stands Captain Graessyr, beside another mounted Lancer, an older and slightly grizzled man with the insignia of a squad leader. The squad leader’s complexion is even darker than Amaira’s, suggesting he comes from a local Hamorian background.
Lerial reins up short of the two, as does Altyrn.
Graessyr looks at Lerial, nods, then turns to the older squad leader. “Lerial … this is Squad Leader Eshlyn.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Squad Leader. I appreciate your escorting me back to Cigoerne.”
“We appreciate having you ride with us, ser.”
Lerial notes the Hamorian accent in the squad leader’s words, but just replies, “I hope you don’t mind if I learn what I can from you on the way.”
Eshlyn grins. “Don’t know that it’s much, but you’re welcome to try.”
Lerial couldn’t help but grin. He likes the squad leader immediately, more on feeling, but, usually his feelings are correct. And now you’re heading back to where no one thought they were.
“Don’t hesitate to tell him if it’s a stupid question, either,” says Altyrn cheerfully.
“I won’t. You know me, Majer.” Eshlyn turns to Lerial. “You ready, ser?”
“I’m ready.”
“Let’s head out!”
Lerial offers a last smile to Altyrn, then turns the gelding to come alongside the squad leader.
XXIV
Because Lerial does not wish to seem too forward, he is mostly quiet during the first few glasses after leaving Teilyn, asking an occasional question about the area through which they are passing or about riding formations or other Lancer matters.
Cyador’s Heirs Page 19