Cyador’s Heirs

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “You don’t clear meadows?”

  “If the Verd wants a meadow, there is one. Who are we to change that?”

  “But you thin the trees for your towns.”

  “As little as possible.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because, where there is forest, there should remain forest.”

  “Why do you think that is the way it should be?”

  “The forest was here before us. It will be here long after we are gone. Who are we to change that?”

  Once more, Lerial’s questions have brought him to a place where the answers to further questions will reveal nothing new. He leans back in the saddle and glances at Altyrn. The majer looks back with a knowingly amused expression, almost as if he might have once asked similar questions.

  Over the course of the day, they pass with a certain regularity through hamlet after hamlet. Not only are the dwellings similar, but the hamlets resemble each other in the way in which the trees are thinned and the distances between houses, as well as the presence of stone-lined waste canals. Although the shapes of the hamlets differ, that is perhaps because of the terrain where each is located.

  “We will be entering the great meadow shortly,” Yulyn announces late in the afternoon.

  Only a fifth of a glass passes before the trees end abruptly, and Lerial rides into an open space, where knee-high grass seems to extend for more than a kay in every direction before him, except for where the road cuts through it. The sun hangs half covered by the trees to the west, and an orange light suffuses the air. In the distance to the southwest, which appears to be the direction in which the great meadow stretches the farthest, Lerial sees a red deer, or what he thinks is a red deer.

  Fifty yards or so ahead of Lerial, a coney bounds out of the grass and then disappears into the grass on the east side of the road. Farther to the west, there is a small herd of cattle, less than twenty. Despite the lush grass, not until they are close to the southern edge of the meadow does Lerial see any other animals grazing, and then he nearly misses the flock of sheep almost lost in the grass, their fleeces tinted by the setting sun. Again, there are not that many sheep, not for a flock, perhaps fifty.

  The road appears to have cut through the great meadow so that roughly one quarter is to the east of the road, and the remainder to the west and south. By the time they reach the south side, a distance of about two kays, the sun has dropped completely behind the tall trees to the west, and the orange glow is even more pronounced—and the gloom of the road under the towering trees is even deeper.

  Lerial is glad that the road is comparatively smooth because it would be hard to see potholes in it, and that becomes more of a concern as the light dims over the next glass that passes before he sees the trees thin once more … on the outskirts of Verdell.

  “The hostel is on the south side of Verdell, a bit to the west,” announces Yulyn, but he does not turn off the main road. Before long, after they have passed more than a score of the lanes between lines of trees, the road turns to the southwest once more. Even in the dusk that is verging on dark, it is clear that Verdell is far larger than Apfhel, possibly even larger than Cigoerne, although that is something Lerial cannot tell for certain.

  A slender man with white hair—not silver—stands waiting under a lantern in the entry to the travelers’ hostel. “Welcome to Verdell, Majer Altyrn, Undercaptain Lerial.” He does not wear brown but a light tan tunic and trousers, although his boots look brown.

  “Thank you.”

  Interestingly enough, the travelers’ hostel—or way station—in Verdell is barely big enough to handle the two squads and Lerial and Altyrn without crowding, suggesting to Lerial that the statements of the elders in Apfhel were honest, and that he has indeed read them correctly. That he has troubles him in another way, because it is clear there are more hidden aspects about the people of the Verd than he has realized. He puts those thoughts to the side as he and Altyrn arrange for meals and watch schedules—necessary in case the hostel is not so secure as it appears and also to maintain an orderly and consistent routine.

  The late-evening meal, served well after dark, consists of warm nut bread of some sort, bland and not so bitter as the acorn bread of Apfhel, and a meat-and-tuber casserole in a thick sauce that is neither creamy nor cheese but has a slightly nutty flavor, enough that Lerial questions whether everything has nuts in it.

  Later that evening, tired as he is, Lerial makes his way to the kitchens, where he finds some embers in one of the large porcelain-fired clay stoves. Why not iron? That is another question begging for an answer, but an answer that will have to wait. While he cannot even conceive of how he might create shields, the idea has occurred to him that since order and chaos do flow through and around people—and even objects—perhaps he can find a way to slide chaos bolts away from him so that he does not have to bear the brunt of their power.

  He finds a few sticks of dry wood in the bin and feeds them to the coals, watching with both his eyes and his order-senses as the wood catches fire. As more wood bursts into flame, Lerial can sense the interplay of order and chaos, although it is not exactly an interplay, because there is little pattern to the way the forces move around the base of the flame, and the only thing that resembles a pattern is that what seem to be tiny bits of order are carried up the chimney by larger bits of chaos.

  Still … can he move either the order or the chaos? He has been able to move order, and he can focus chaos to light candles. Here the chaos already exists, and he should be able to move it, shouldn’t he?

  First, he extends his order-chaos senses and tries to direct the flashes of chaos, but while he can move a few, the others just skitter away. Next, he attempts to gather the chaos flashes into larger flashes. He can do that, but as was the case when he tried to light multiple candles, he can feel the effort and strain of doing so … and that approach doesn’t seem as though it would be terribly productive. He lets go … and a flare of light flashes upward.

  Releasing it creates a flare? He’s not sure what to make of that.

  What would attract chaos? Does order attract it? At that thought, he thinks about the patterns of order around the lodestone, and the fingers of his left hand reach into his inside jacket pocket and touch the silk pouch, feeling the oblong shape there. Can you copy that pattern … or something like it? So that chaos attracts order?

  Lerial frowns. He doesn’t want to attract order, just channel it, the way that order circles the end of the lodestone … but without coming back and striking it.

  He tries replicating the pattern at the end of one of the sticks of wood. There is a circular flare, but it does not last. Next, he tries two lines of the pattern … and coils one back into the other. For several moments, there is a matching line of fire, paralleling his tiny lines of order. After a moment, he adds a third line … and the circular flame is even stronger. He can even feel the heat radiating.

  It works … but why?

  The problem is that he cannot find and manipulate that much order—more than he can chaos, but still not that much. He tries with four fine lines of order, and the chaos flame is even stronger.

  “Cold, are you?” asks Altyrn from the doorway to the kitchen.

  “No.” Lerial pauses, then decides not to evade the point, at least not by too much. “I’m studying the chaos of fire.”

  “I thought handling chaos was difficult for you.”

  “It is. That’s why I’m looking at how order and chaos interact in fire.”

  Altyrn nods, then says. “Just make sure you’ve banked the embers well when you’re finished.”

  “I will. I won’t be that long.”

  Once the majer has left, Lerial takes a long deep breath.

  Should you try five lines?

  He does … and the heat, for a moment, drives him back, and then it subsides, and only ashes and embers remain in the stove.

  Will that work against a chaos bolt? He has no idea, except a feeling that, if he can c
reate that pattern around himself—but far enough away—it might.

  He knows he has done enough, though, because he feels exhausted. He does remember to finish banking the fire and closes the stove door before he heads for the small chamber where he will sleep.

  XLVI

  Just before eighth glass on eightday morning, Altyrn and Lerial rein up outside a single-level octagonal building of rough black stone, set in the middle of an octagonal green situated in the center of a paved square. The roof is a low dome of smooth slate, suggesting to Lerial that some form of chaos or order mastery was used to create it. That the elders of Verdheln are meeting with them on the end-day morning also suggests either that they believe the reason for which they have requested the Lancers is pressing … or that they do not wish the Lancers to be long in Verdell—if not both.

  This time Yulyn dismounts and leads the way into the High Council building.

  Once inside, Lerial is surprised, because the front half of the building is simply open, with a raised dais against the wall that divides the building. Two doors at floor level flank the ends of the dais.

  Yulyn heads for the door on the right side, then glances back and says, “The small meeting room is here.” The wayguide opens the door, then stops and announces, “I have brought the majer and the heir.”

  “Have them enter.”

  Of the four elders, two are men, two women. One man is clearly older, with silver and white hair, while the other is a redhead. The older woman has iron-gray hair, and the younger, most likely close to the age of Lerial’s mother, is a brunette. Lerial immediately senses that all four elders could be of the Magi’i, were they of Cigoerne, although none of them strike him as exceptionally powerful. Yet … there is an almost hidden darkness. The four are seated around a circular table, at which there are two vacant chairs, side by side.

  “Please take a seat,” suggests the oldest elder.

  Lerial lets the majer choose the seat on the left, closest to the young male elder. The elder closest to him is the younger woman. She smiles warmly, if briefly, at Lerial.

  When Lerial and Altyrn are seated, the silver-haired elder also smiles, almost apologetically, before speaking. “I am Donnael.” He nods to the gray-haired elder. “Ruethana … and Klerryt and Essiana.” After a moment, he continues, “You have traveled through some of the Verd for the past two days. You have also been here before, some years back, have you not, Majer?”

  “I have.”

  “Do you have questions as to why we have reached out to Duke Kiedron?”

  “In a way,” replies Altyrn. “I assume you reached out to him because there was no one else to whom you could turn. That raises the question as to why that might be.”

  “Had we reached out to Duke Khesyn, would he have been receptive?”

  “He might have been receptive, but he would not have offered much beyond words, not when Verdheln lies between three other duchies. Duke Atroyan would seem likely to have been more receptive.”

  “He might well have been. So receptive that everything of value would have been tariffed and all our ways trampled beneath the rush of Afritan traders and armsmen.”

  “Yet you sought our aid…” Altyrn’s words are level, neither asking nor concluding.

  “We have made clear to Duke Casseon that we wish to retain our own ways, and that we have only requested assistance from Cigoerne in training our own people to defend those ways. We have also made that clear to Duke Atroyan.”

  The majer lets the silence draw out before he says, “You must realize the risk you take.”

  “If we do nothing, we lose because Casseon will destroy our ways. If we ask aid of Atroyan we lose as surely as if Casseon’s armsmen insist on imposing his ways. What other course would you have us take?”

  “You have few choices. How do you know that Duke Kiedron will not require something of you?”

  “We do not, but he has not forced great changes upon those in his lands. Nor has he turned women into chattels.”

  Those words surprise Lerial. While the composition of the councils indicates women have a greater voice in Verdheln than in the rest of Hamor, he had not considered that the people of the Verd would court destruction to avoid letting their women lose their position … and that the men would fight what well might be a long and losing battle to retain that custom.

  “It is more than a custom,” says Ruethana, looking at Lerial after either reading his face or sensing his feelings. “It is what we are. You will also be training archers. Most are women. They are all good with bows. They do not know fighting.”

  Lerial can sense slight surprise from the majer, but not shock.

  “You expect us to turn your people into Lancers in a matter of eightdays?” asks Altyrn.

  “In the past,” replies Donnael, “Duke Casseon has not brought large forces north before the end of spring planting.”

  “Then why do you think he will attack this year?”

  “Because he will,” declares Klerryt.

  “We did not worry much when the traders told us of a fort being built in Dhesoryt,” adds Ruethana, “until the fort was built. It was finished last summer, and many of the people were driven off their lands and sold at the slave market in Nubyat.

  “Now we hear that there are plans for another fort. It will be in Yakaat. There have also been Meroweyan scouts. Some did not return to Dhesoryt, but those that did likely discovered we have built a place to train our Lancers, as you will see. Some may also discover that we have been acquiring horses for them for well over a year.”

  That suggests they decided to prepare to fight some time ago, reflects Lerial.

  “I have no doubt of that,” replies Altyrn.

  “Where is Dhesoryt?” asks Lerial. “And Yakaat?”

  “Yakaat is but thirty kays south of Escadya. Dhesoryt is some fifteen kays southwest of Yakaat.”

  “Escadya—that’s the southernmost large town in Verdheln, isn’t it?” asks Altyrn, most likely for Lerial’s benefit.

  Donnael nods.

  “And is that where you want us to begin training your Lancers? The ones you realized you could not train yourself?”

  Ruethana frowns. “You assume too much.”

  “Do I, Elder Ruethana?” asks the majer. “You have no one among your people who knows how to counter the Meroweyans. They are to the south. Where else would we train them? What weapons can you supply?”

  “Very few, besides arrows for bows,” admits Donnael. “We only have those for which we can trade, and neither the traders of Afrit nor those of Heldya will supply fighting blades. Nor can those of Cigoerne, because your father the Duke”—he looks to Lerial—“purchases any forged or shipped there. What else can we do?”

  “You could forge your own,” suggests Altyrn.

  This time it is Essiana who shakes her head. “We would have to rip open the earth to mine coal or cut great swathes from the Verd to cut trees to make charcoal … In doing so, we would destroy all that we hold precious and dear.”

  “More to the point,” adds Ruethana, “we have not the time or the ability to do so.”

  “Also to the point,” adds Donnael, “is that it is to your advantage to help us. If Duke Casseon brings his armsmen and forts close to your borders, you will be pressed on all sides and without any help. Duke Atroyan already regrets the bargain his sire made with Duke Kiedron.”

  Lerial does not correct the elder, although it was his grandmere the Empress who made the bargain.

  “You do have a point,” says Altyrn mildly, “but that is why we are here, and why we did indeed bring blades. We will need supplies to reach Escadya … and your petition mentioned some shared tariffs to be sent to Duke Kiedron.”

  “The golds will be dispatched tomorrow. We would request four of your Lancers to accompany our couriers.”

  “We can do that…”

  From there the discussion continues into the particulars of logistics and travel to Escadya, and Altyrn’s polite
but rather direct cautions about the immediate effectiveness of training.

  “I think you will find that those we have selected for you to train have great ability,” counters Klerryt. “They also know that failure will destroy the Verd.”

  “That can only help,” admits Altyrn.

  Lerial can sense that the majer has other concerns, which he is not about to voice, and that the elders know that as well, and will not press him to reveal them. He can also sense the regret and sadness in Essiana, and he wonders, It is almost that she feels they have already lost.

  A good glass later, Altyrn and Lerial leave the council building, although Donnael draws Altyrn aside for a moment before they depart.

  Lerial does not hear what transpires between the two, but the conversation is brief, consisting of only a few short sentences by each man.

  Once they’re mounted and riding back to the hostel behind Yulyn, Lerial looks to Altyrn. “Might I ask what Elder Donnael wanted to convey?”

  “That he was most impressed by the fact that you were here, as only one of two heirs to the Duchy … and that we are free to stay another day here.” Altyrn clears his throat. “Even though we won’t be allowing the men to leave the hostel area, we do need a day of rest for them and the horses.” He slows his mount slightly, letting the distance widen between them and the wayguide. “What are your thoughts about what Duke Casseon is doing?”

  “Casseon is doing more than merely strengthening his defenses on his northern border,” replies Lerial.

  “Why? And why now?” asks the majer. “We pose little immediate threat, and the people of the Verd certainly do not. They don’t wish to leave the forest. They never have.”

  Lerial shrugs. He has no idea.

  “The only thing I can see is that Casseon wants to take over Verdheln soon, and the only reason he could have for that is that he believes that, between them, Khesyn and Atroyan will either destroy Cigoerne or weaken us so much that Atroyan will be able to take over Verdheln.”

  “But…” Lerial stops.

  “But what?”