Cyador’s Heirs

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  Perhaps a glass before midday, the squad leader says, his voice even, “Captain Graessyr said you and the majer ran into some raiders.”

  “We did. I don’t think he expected them so soon after harvest.”

  “One of the men who went with you said you wanted to fight.”

  Lerial is stunned, but manages to offer a rueful laugh. “Not exactly. I didn’t want them to fight, and I wasn’t looking to … but…” He shrugs. “If I said we shouldn’t fight, all Hamor would know in eightdays that the Duke’s son avoided a fight with a bunch of raiders. That wouldn’t be good for my father, and it wouldn’t be good for the Lancers.”

  “Killed one of them, didn’t you?”

  “Two—maybe three of them—got past the Lancers, and one charged me. I managed to slip his blade and slash his throat. That was all. All the other Lancers took care of the other raiders, except the ones that the majer got with his bow and the one he killed when they charged.”

  “You healed Hualsh. Said he wouldn’t have made it without you. Most healers don’t carry sabres.”

  “I can heal a little,” Lerial admits, “but I can also use a sabre.”

  “That’s what Chaarn said. Ser … do you mind if I ask whether you plan to ride patrols like your brother does?”

  Lerial gets the feeling that Eshlyn’s question is anything but casual. “I don’t mind. I’d always thought I’d ride patrols. Nothing’s changed that. As for riding the way my brother does, I can’t answer that because I don’t know anything about how he rides a patrol. I still have a lot to learn. That’s one reason why I’ve asked some of the things I have.”

  Eshlyn nods. “What did you think of the raiders?”

  “They must be desperate to ride so far into Cigoerne. The ones we saw, their bodies, anyway, they looked like they hadn’t been eating all that well. Are they always like that?”

  “Sometimes. More the last few years, it seems.”

  “You’ve been in the Lancers for a long time, it seems. What do you think about those raiders being so far north?”

  “Not so long. Seven, eight years. Think the same as you, ser. Trouble. Folks who go raiding when the harvest is barely in … means they don’t have enough food for the winter. Or they’ve had a flux, and they need women. Or someone’s taken over their lands. Any way you look, it’s trouble.”

  “What about the Heldyans?”

  Eshlyn snorts. “Raiders with uniforms. The ones across the river, anyway. Duke Khesyn just sends out his troublemakers to keep us busy. Offers a half a gold for every Lancer they kill.”

  “Half a gold? Why?”

  “Must have his reasons. Majer Altyrn said it was to keep Cigoerne from getting too strong.”

  Why would Khesyn care? Heldya is more than five hundred kays east of Cigoerne and close to eight hundred from Swartheld. “How often do they cross the river?”

  “Three, four times a season. Try to watch for small patrols. Easier to kill a Lancer if we’re outnumbered.” Eshlyn offers a sly smile. “At times, we run a half squad on the river road. When they’re looking. Keep a company hidden. Works pretty well if we don’t do it much.”

  “Your idea?”

  “No. Majer thought that up. Submajer Jhalet told us to keep doing it. Heldyans still don’t get it.”

  “That’s why you don’t think the ones across the river are their best armsmen.”

  Eshlyn nods.

  Lerial takes out his water bottle and has a swallow of the lager from Kinaar, then replaces it in its holder.

  After several moments, Eshlyn asks, “That’s not a new sabre, is it?”

  “It’s new to me … well, in the past season. It came from Cyad, though.”

  “I thought so. It’s cupridium, but it looks heavier, and that’s an old, old design.”

  “The majer had me sparring with heavier blades.”

  “The captain says you’re better with it than most new undercaptains.”

  “So does the majer. He also said that’s not good enough. From just what I saw in the south valley, he’s right.”

  Eshlyn actually laughs, if softly. “I’m not sure anything’s good enough for the majer. That’s why the Lancers are what they are.”

  Lerial can definitely see that, and from Eshlyn’s questions, Lerial gets a definite feel that, much as he hates to admit it, his father was right to send him to Kinaar, especially since it’s clear that Eshlyn, and probably most Lancers, aren’t likely to blindly follow him or Lephi, whether or not they’re the Duke’s sons. “I take it he’s the reason why Afrit and Heldya haven’t taken over Cigoerne.”

  “As much as anyone is … excepting that Duke Kiedron knew to back the majer all the way.”

  Lerial can’t say much to that … and doesn’t. Since Eshlyn isn’t inclined to say more, another glass goes by without much passing between the two.

  Finally, Lerial asks, “How did you come to be a Lancer … if I might ask?”

  “Simple enough. My da was a goat herder, south of Ensenla, little place called Penecca. Just north of the border between Afrit and Cigoerne. Was then, anyway. Now Penecca’s part of Cigoerne. That’s another story. I had three older brothers. Herd wasn’t big enough all for us. So I was looking. One day a bunch of Afritan armsmen rode through headed south. They took a third of the goats. Butchered some right there, and ate ’em for supper. Took the rest with them. Two eightdays later, they’re riding back. A lot less of them. Some were wounded. They took a couple more goats. I snuck up to their camp and listened. Didn’t hear that much, except that they’d tried something, and they’d got whipped by some Lancers.” Eshlyn grins. “Knew I wanted to be part of anything that’d pay back Duke Atroyan. Walked all the way to Cigoerne. Guards at the gate to the old Lancer post wanted to turn me away. Submajer Jhalet—he was a fresh captain then—he said anyone who walked eighty kays to join the Lancers ought to be given a chance. The majer agreed. Here I am.”

  “I’m glad you are.” Lerial nods. He isn’t certain he would have had that determination, not walking eighty kays into an unknown land.

  He’s worried enough about returning to Cigoerne.

  Cigoerne

  XXV

  A good glass past sunset on fiveday, with barely the faintest trace of twilight left in the western sky, Lerial, Eshlyn, and the half squad of Lancers accompanying them ride into the north courtyard of the palace. Lerial is stiff and sore in a few places, but not nearly so much as he thought he might be.

  Undercaptain Woelyt strides forward to meet them. “What detachment is this? No one was expected at the palace this evening.”

  Eshlyn glances to Lerial, who eases the bay he has ridden for the latter part of the day forward.

  “I fear I’m the cause of the unexpected detachment, Undercaptain.”

  Woelyt looks up quizzically, starts to say something, then stops. After a moment, he goes on. “Lord Lerial … there was no word…”

  “No … I imagine there wasn’t. When Commander Altyrn felt my training was completed, he sent me back to Cigoerne with the dispatch rider and this escort party.” Lerial inclines his head. “Squad Leader Eshlyn was kind enough to take on the duty.”

  “Ser.” Eshlyn nods to the undercaptain. “We were to escort Lord Lerial to the palace and then continue to Lancer headquarters.”

  “I won’t keep you,” replies Woelyt. “You’re relieved of escort duty. Report to headquarters as ordered.”

  “Thank you, ser.” Eshlyn gestures, and one of the rankers rides forward holding the lead to Lerial’s gelding.

  Lerial takes the lead. “Thank you.” Then he turns back to Eshlyn. “And thank you … and your men.”

  “Our pleasure, ser.”

  Lerial has the feeling that the squad leader actually means it, especially since he smiles before he orders, “Squad! Turn! Forward!”

  Neither Woelyt nor Lerial speaks for a moment

  Finally, the undercaptain looks up to the still-mounted Lerial. “I didn’t recognize you at
first.”

  “I doubt I’m much taller,” Lerial says wryly.

  “Some, but you’re broader across the shoulders and not so pale. You ride like an officer…”

  Lerial can sense relief behind Woelyt’s words. Did I ride that badly before? Somehow … he doesn’t think that is it.

  “… I’ll send a messenger to let your mother know you’ve returned.”

  “My father?”

  “He’s in the north with the Lancers. Near the border. There have been more raids.”

  “Have many been hurt? Crops or herds lost?”

  “A few. Your father had posted more patrols there before the raids began.”

  Lerial nods, then dismounts and begins to walk both horses toward the stable. “I need to get the horses settled.”

  “The duty ostler can handle that, ser.”

  Lerial smiles. “Tonight, anyway.” He understands Woelyt’s unvoiced hint that his mother would prefer to see him sooner, rather than later.

  Even so, after turning the mounts over to the ostler, he does carry his personal gear up to his own dark chamber before heading down the corridor to his parents’ rooms. He steps into the sitting room to see his mother and aunt sitting in the armchairs at each end of the settee. A single wall lamp is lit. Stifling a grin, he says, “I’m sorry to be late, but we rode straight through.” He makes his way to the settee, prepared for a gentle grilling, and seats himself, sitting forward and adjusting the sabre and scabbard.

  “That’s a long ride for one day,” offers Emerya.

  “We headed out well before sunrise. The Lancers had spare mounts. So I have two stabled here. Tomorrow, I’ll need to return the bay to Lancer headquarters.”

  “Majer Altyrn … he did not send word to expect you.”

  Lerial notes the concern in his mother’s voice, but before he can say anything, Emerya speaks.

  “The majer can’t be too displeased. Lerial’s wearing a sabre.”

  “Oh … I didn’t notice, dear. Was that a gift?”

  “It’s an old Lancer sabre from many years ago that he had. He thought it suited me, and I think he was right.”

  “Why was your return so hasty?” presses Xeranya.

  So hasty? After two seasons? Lerial pushes those questions away. “The majer took me on a long ride through the southern valley south of the Wooded Ridges. He persuaded Captain Graessyr to provide a half squad of Lancers as an escort.” Lerial pauses just slightly before continuing. “We ran into a band of Meroweyan raiders.”

  “You didn’t…,” begins Xeranya.

  “We didn’t have much choice.” Lerial is trying to keep his response ambiguous, without explaining why he felt they had no choice. “They attacked us. The Lancers took the brunt of the attack.”

  “You had to fight—personally—didn’t you?” asks Emerya.

  Xeranya glances at Emerya, not quite quizzically.

  “He’s changed. More than meets the eye,” replies Emerya, who then turns her gaze on Lerial. “What happened?”

  “Some of them got past the Lancers…” Lerial goes on to explain all that happened, although he does not actually say that he killed the one raider, and ends up by saying, “We rode back the next day, and the majer sent word to Cigoerne. He arranged for me to leave two days after that … well … a full day and two nights after we got back.”

  “He shouldn’t have…,” begins Xeranya.

  “He didn’t have any choice. He was using the terrain to teach me tactics. There haven’t been raiders that far north in years.” Lerial’s words are matter-of-fact, not with effort or deceit, but because they’re true. “Even the majer’s consort was upset and surprised that we encountered raiders.”

  “I would think so.” Xeranya’s words are cool, too cool.

  For a moment, Lerial doesn’t know what to say, but he does want to know more. “Why? Because she’s Heldyan?”

  “That’s true.”

  “I know,” Lerial replies. “She said she was born in Heldya and raised in Amaershyn.”

  “She’s a very lovely person,” adds Emerya. “The majer was fortunate to find her.”

  “She was more fortunate that he did.” Xeranya’s voice remains cool.

  “She’s been good for him, and he deserves that after all he’s done,” replies Emerya.

  “I can’t deny that,” replies Xeranya in a tone that belies her words. “Anyway, we’re glad you’re back safely.”

  “Lephi’s out on patrol somewhere?”

  “He’s in Narthyl,” affirms Xeranya. “With Overcaptain Carlyt. There were reports of some Heldyan armsmen on the west side of the river.”

  “Weren’t there Meroweyan raiders near Narthyl as well? Earlier?”

  “There were,” answers Emerya.

  So Lephi has an overcaptain to watch out for him. Rather than say that, Lerial merely nods and waits.

  “We shouldn’t be keeping you up longer,” Xeranya says. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  “What about the girls?”

  “They’re both fine,” replies Emerya.

  “Good.”

  “It is getting late…,” offers Xeranya.

  Lerial doesn’t press or question, but stands.

  So does Emerya. “I need to check on Amaira.”

  “I will see you both at breakfast.” Xeranya remains seated.

  Once Lerial and Emerya are out in the corridor and well away from his parents’ chambers, Lerial looks to his aunt. “She wasn’t all that pleased to see me.”

  “She’s worried. Wouldn’t you be if one son just came back from a fight that wasn’t supposed to have happened, another is riding patrols where there might be Heldyan armsmen, and your consort is fighting raiders and who knows who else in the north?”

  Lerial can see that, but still thinks his mother was rather cool. “Why doesn’t Mother like Maeroja?”

  “She thought Altyrn should have consorted a Cyadoran. There were so few men, except for the Lancers, and most of them were rankers,” replies Emerya. “There were only a handful of officers, all junior. As the senior Lancer officer in Cigoerne, the majer should have consorted one of the Magi’i young women. That’s what Xeranya felt. She’s never forgiven him for that.”

  “Why?”

  “Her sister Zanobya was interested…”

  “I thought she ran off with a merchanter in Swartheld.”

  “She did. After Altyrn ignored her advances. She was never happy here. She missed the luxuries of Cyad.”

  “We have everything…”

  “Lerial … we have nothing compared to what we had in Cyad. The palace here is the size of a villa that a small outland merchanter in Cyad might have possessed. The Palace of Light towered into the evening, ablaze with lights. The streets were all paved with white stone, harder than a cupridium blade. The awnings were all green, all the same shade. The piers where ships from across the seas docked were of white stone. Every delicacy appeared at table…”

  “You’ve never said…”

  “None of us ever have. Your grandmere would have torn out our tongues. What’s past is past—that was what she always said. She told us that Cyad had once been a tiny town, and that we had to rebuild just as those from the Rational Stars had to rebuild.”

  “She said all that?”

  “She did. She was right. We can’t dream about a past we can never reclaim. The future is all we can change.”

  Abruptly, Lerial truly understands. His aunt was born in the height of luxury and has lost more than anyone who survived the fall of Cyador. She has no consort and no hope of one. She has no real position in Cigoerne. She has only her healing and her daughter … and scandal behind Amaira’s birth, and some small security in living in a palace that is nothing compared to where she had been raised.

  Emerya says nothing in the dimness of the corridor.

  Lerial looks toward the steps some twenty yards ahead, and the palace guard stationed there, and then back to his aunt.

&nbs
p; “That’s not anywhere close to a standard Lancer blade, you know?” Emerya’s voice is matter-of-fact.

  “I know. But the majer said it should belong to me.”

  “So it should. So it should.” She offers an enigmatic smile, then says, “You killed the raider who attacked you, didn’t you?”

  “How did you know?”

  “You’ll come to recognize that, and other things, if you continue developing your abilities. You’ve been healing, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” She pauses, then adds, “I’d avoid Saltaryn until your father returns. You might spend time sparring with the more experienced Lancers at headquarters—using blunted blades and armor—and occasionally accompanying me to the healing hall.”

  Lerial frowns. Why is she suggesting both, when Saltaryn … “You think I need both skills. Might I ask why?”

  “You might. Those who rule and those who advise rulers must always balance contradictions in order to succeed. Usually those conflicting contradictions involve power. Learning more about healing and more about war will begin to teach you balance … and that will prove useful.”

  “You haven’t advised either Lephi or Father that way.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I don’t think you have. You’ve said they’re order-blind.” After a long moment, he asks, “What do you expect of me?”

  “To be the best person you can, and you can’t be that unless you develop all your skills.”

  Lerial cannot argue with that … although he knows his father would oppose what Emerya is proposing … if he knew.

  “Good night, Lerial.”

  “Good night.” Still thinking about all the undercurrents behind the evening’s conversation, and his mother’s coolness, he makes his way toward his chamber. At least … his chamber for a while.

  XXVI

  Sixday morning, after breakfast, Lerial rides along the southeast boulevard toward the Lancer compound that holds the headquarters building. He is leading the bay he borrowed to complete the journey from Brehaal the afternoon before, and four Lancer rankers accompany him—the fewest he could persuade Undercaptain Woelyt to provide as an escort … and that few only because Lerial is wearing Lancer gear. Since it is almost winter, not that winter is especially cold in the north of Hamor, except for perhaps a few eightdays near the middle of the season, the sun is not all that high in the eastern sky, and Lerial is grateful for the jacket and visor cap.