Lerial can detect no real sadness on the majer’s part. But then, Lerial hadn’t been at all impressed with Dechund, for all his perfect uniform and polished boots, and he suspected that the majer has been even less so. “Majer Phortyn doesn’t like Seivyr?”
Altyrn offers a sardonic smile. “Not since Seivyr was overheard saying that he needed to promote officers on their ability and not on the cleanliness of their uniforms.”
Lerial winces.
“It wasn’t an accident that Seivyr was posted to Tirminya … or that others with less ability or experience were promoted to captain.”
The majer is delivering more than one message with those words, Lerial realizes, but he only nods and says, “I think I understand.”
“Good.” Altyrn smiles warmly and hands an envelope to Lerial. “There is one other thing. This came for you.”
Lerial takes the missive and studies the handwritten address—“Lerial, Undercaptain, Lancer Detachment, Verdheln.” He does not recognize the handwriting. Although it looks feminine, it is not his mother’s, and it is too well formed to be Ryalah’s. Rather than guess, he will open it, alone. He nods to the majer. “Thank you, ser. Is there anything else?”
“Not until after you read the letter. You’ll be wondering who wrote it and why, rather than concentrating. Go read it and then come back.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial makes his way from the majer’s study to his own, a space even smaller than that of Altyrn’s, with only enough space for a table-desk and a chair, and perhaps one file chest, if Lerial even had one. The sole window fills almost all of the outside wall space. He doesn’t bother to sit, but leans against the desk, opens the letter with his belt knife, laying it on the desk, and looks to the signature—that of Emerya. He frowns. Why is she writing him? He begins to read.
Dear Lerial—
I trust this letter finds you well and hard at work. That is most likely because of your commander. I am writing because your mother requested it. Ryalah has suffered a terrible flux, but she is on the way to health, thanks be to the Rational Stars.
You may have heard that we are beset with annoyances on almost every border, but so far all has gone as well as might be expected. Your father continues to prevail in the north, and the raids in the southeast have not amounted to all that much to date. I did think you might be interested to know about one of the more unusual discoveries. It was made by a squad from Third Company. They were patrolling south of the border more than twenty kays west of Penecca because there had been raiders attacking and pillaging the hamlets. The squad surprised the raiders and killed a number. A few escaped. None were captured. Most of those killed were stripped of their weapons by their comrades, but one dead raider was not. The interesting thing was that his blade was the same kind of cavalry weapon used by Afritan armsmen …
Lerial lowers the letter and frowns. Weapons stripped … an Afritan sabre. While his aunt has given an explanation as to why she is writing him, he is still concerned. Surely, his mother must have had a few moments … or did Ryalah nearly die? Or was it that Emerya wanted to make sure word got to him—and the majer—as soon as possible? It’s also clear that his father is all too busy dealing with the Afritan problems … or Heldya … if not both.
… Amaira misses you and hopes you are eating well. The weather here has been chill and very dry. It is the driest winter I can recall, and the traders from the south are saying the same thing. From what we hear, that is true in Afrit as well …
In short, there will be more raids and trouble.
… I want to assure you that Ryalah is well on the way to full health, but it was a near thing, and it is another reason why I am writing, rather than your mother …
Another reason? That’s the only one she gives … Lerial shakes his head. The other reasons lie in what else she has written.
… Undercaptain Woelyt also asked me to send his regards. He and his company are being posted to Narthyl in early summer. The Palace guard will be a new company composed of some recruits and some more experienced Lancers. That way they can train those who are not on guard duty …
More companies being formed? Lerial worries about what he is reading.
One last caution from an overprotective aunt. When you are called on to do battlefield healing, you must be cold and ruthless. Do not waste order and strength on those who will die no matter what you do. And if you can save three men with lesser wounds, those that would turn to corruption and kill, or one man with a greater injury … you must choose the three. You are not only blessed with healing talent, but cursed with being a possible heir of Cyador. That, you must also remember.
The closing is “With Affection and Concern.”
When Lerial finishes reading, he walks the few steps back to Altyrn’s study. As close as it is to the evening meal, he knows the majer will not have left yet. Altyrn uses every moment. Lerial tries, but suspects he is not nearly so effective as is the majer.
Altyrn doesn’t even look surprised at Lerial’s swift return.
“Ser … I think you should read this. It’s from my aunt, but she usually knows more than she says.” Lerial extends the missive.
“I’m well aware of that,” Altyrn says wryly as he takes the letter and begins to read. He says nothing until he finishes and hands the letter back. “There’s a lot there.”
“There’s more there than she actually says.”
“That’s what I meant.” He looks at Lerial. “What do you make of it?”
“Duke Khesyn is doing as little as possible, but enough to keep all the Lancers in Cigoerne occupied. Somehow Majer Phortyn is creating more companies, one more at least.”
“And?” Altyrn raises his iron-gray eyebrows.
“Casseon is likely to move against Verdheln strongly but cautiously. He has probably sent enough scouts to discover that this post exists.”
“He has sent a few, remember? None recently, according to the wood-guards. Some might have sneaked past, but that won’t change matters any.”
“Do you think he knows we’re here?”
“To those like Casseon, it doesn’t matter. Two squads, an heir barely a man, if he even knows about you, and an ancient white-haired majer?”
“But our Lancers have proven better than theirs,” Lerial points out.
“Casseon would say that the people of the Verd are not fighters from the heritage of Cyador. I hope that is what he and his commanders believe. And he will lose men if it will gain him Verdheln and a better position from which to attack Atroyan, should the opportunity arise in the future.”
“You’re saying that Cigoerne has effectively saved Afrit from conquest. So why is Atroyan attacking us now?”
Altyrn laughs softly. “Who would come to Afrit’s aid if your father—or in years to come, your brother—decided to turn on Afrit? If Atroyan defeats your father, now, and is merciful, and he would be a fool not to be, and he’s not that much of a fool, who else could the people of Cigoerne support?”
“So that’s why Khesyn doesn’t want to commit many men to attacking us … so that if there’s a real war between Afrit and Cigoerne, at the end he can sweep down on Swartheld and take it?”
“Were I in his boots, that’s the way I’d plan it.” Altyrn stands. “We can’t do anything about any of that at the moment, and I’m hungry. I imagine you are, too.”
Lerial tucks the letter inside his riding jacket and follows the majer.
LII
Over the next several days, something nags at Lerial, but not until twoday, as he has finished his sabre instruction with the Verdyn recruits, who, he has to admit, are actually able to practice moves with real sabres, although they still spar with wands, does he finally realize what has been bothering him. He almost stops in midstride as he walks toward the stable as it hits him.
Altyrn’s near matter-of-fact attitude toward the death of Captain Dechund.
The majer hadn’t liked or respected Dechund, but the total indiff
erence—or was it the underlying lack of surprise in Altyrn’s feelings?—that was what has nagged at Lerial, without his even realizing it. But you didn’t like Dechund, either, and he was keeping information from Lancer headquarters. That was clear enough, although Altyrn has avoided talking about it, despite saying that they would later. But “later” had never come … and the majer isn’t one to forget anything.
“You’re looking serious. Very serious,” offers Altyrn, standing beside his mount. “What are you pondering?”
Lerial halts, caught off-guard. What can you say … that makes sense without being obvious? Or too obvious? “Captain Dechund’s death. It seems so … odd. Maybe ‘ironic’ is a better word. You can ride out against raiders or armsmen, and nothing happens, and then, something stupid, like a flux, hits you, and it does what armsmen couldn’t.”
“Life is like that.” Altyrn laughs, a sound as much sardonic as humorous. “So is death.” He pauses. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that I didn’t exactly express sorrow at his death. I don’t know why he wasn’t reporting the Afritan patrols, or why he was ignoring the raids close to the border, but those aren’t the acts of a good or loyal officer. And to have a situation where an Afritan archer took a shot at two officers in a Cigoernean town next to his post … that’s not an indication of an effective post commander.”
“An Afritan archer?”
“I kept the shafts. Those shafts are only used by Afritan armsmen. The arrowheads were those used on Afritan war arrows.” Altyrn shook his head. “Given all that, I trust you can see why I was actually relieved that he died. I’d cautioned Majer Phortyn, but…” The majer shrugs. “I could have sent him the arrows, but they just would have disappeared.”
The revelation about the arrows stuns Lerial. The majer is implying that Dechund was worse than incompetent … and that Phortyn isn’t much better.
“There’s nothing more to be said,” Altyrn goes on, almost genially. “Seivyr will make a good post commander, and most people will forget or feel sorry for Dechund. In a way, he was fortunate, I suppose, because if we brought the arrows to your father with all the Lancers who saw it happen … well, we still behead traitors, but that would have just created bad feelings among the Magi’i toward the Lancers, and that’s not something the Duke needs.”
Another thought strikes Lerial, one at which he has the feeling of both laughing and being totally appalled. “Majer Phortyn assigned Seivyr to Tirminya under Dechund? After his comment about uniforms?”
“He did indeed. That’s his prerogative as Lancer Commander. You should know that, but I wouldn’t mention it to anyone. Not for a while.”
“Yes, ser.” Lerial desperately wants to ask why he shouldn’t, but decides that he needs to think that over before asking the question. So far, the majer has been right in everything about which he has advised Lerial. But this?
An ostler walks Lerial’s gelding from the stable. “Seeing as you’ve been occupied, ser…”
“Thank you.” Lerial takes the reins and then mounts, his thoughts scattered and less than organized.
Altyrn rides beside Lerial toward the cleared area where the recruit squads—and now companies—practice maneuvers. After several moments, he asks, “What do you think of the Verdyn Lancers, such as they are?”
“They can charge and do basic movements.” Lerial pauses. “But, with those brown uniforms, the Meroweyans will know they aren’t Mirror Lancers.”
“That’s likely, but Casseon’s men will be surprised to find six companies of any sort of Lancers.”
“What about the other two hundred recruits?”
“They’re supposed to arrive on fiveday.”
“I can’t imagine they’re all that happy about it all. They work with a will, but there’s a … something…” Lerial shakes his head.
“Fatalism, perhaps? It doesn’t matter,” replies the majer. “They’d have to fight Casseon anyway, or have most of their young people in slavery or servitude. He’s the sort that wants everyone to believe in the same things as he does, and in the same way.” Altyrn pauses. “I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but that was one of your grandsire’s worst faults.”
“I couldn’t say, ser. I understand he was far from perfect.”
The majer nods. “Do you know what one of your father’s greatest strengths is? As a ruler, that is?”
“I wouldn’t want to guess, ser.”
“He doesn’t believe that people should all think or believe in the same way, just so long as they follow the laws of the land. None of the other Dukes think that way, and it’s one of the reasons why Cigoerne has grown. It’s why the elders of Verdheln came to him, and it’s also why the other rulers are trying to unite against him.”
“Won’t that help over the long run?”
“Who can tell? When people are different, and there’s no danger, they argue. Sometimes, even when there is danger, they argue more. It’s always about whose ways are right. That’s one of the clarifying things about a battle … or a war. No matter what the mages and philosophers say, whoever wins is right. That’s because dead men can’t argue, and most historians belong to the winner.”
As the winter has waned, and spring is approaching—as is the likely attack of Casseon’s armsmen—Lerial can see the growing cynicism of the majer … and that too troubles him.
As they rein up on the north side of the maneuver field, Lerial turns to Altyrn. “Do the Meroweyan armsmen wear breastplates the way the Afritans do?”
“Only the heavy cavalry of the Afritans wear armor, and that includes greaves and helmets. The Afritan ceremonial guards wear breastplates. I have no idea why. Casseon might have heavies, but I’ve not heard of any. Khesyn has at least three heavy cavalry companies.”
“Will our archers be able to slow or stop any, if Casseon brings them?”
“That’s the idea. Not that all ideas work out.”
Lerial decides to stop asking questions for the moment. It’s clear that Altyrn’s thoughts are elsewhere.
LIII
The first eightday of spring arrives, along with more cold winds … and no rain … and it passes, and Lerial keeps working on blade skills with new Lancers in the morning. In dealing with some of the less-skilled Lancer recruits, he has begun to instruct them using his wand left-handed, and no one has remarked upon it. But then, transferring a skill from one hand to another seems easier, far easier, at least to Lerial, than learning it completely anew. In the afternoon, he works with and continues to learn about mounted maneuvers and tactics with Juist, and more and more often, with Altyrn. In the evening, he strengthens his abilities to deal with chaos, chaos-fire, hoping that what he is doing will work with mage-created chaos.
Chaos is chaos, he tells himself, even as he wonders whether that is indeed true, much as Saltaryn had once told him that.
Most times, the majer is more than approachable … and yet, in some ways, Lerial feels that he does not know Altyrn at all. But then, he has felt the same way about his own father, especially when he had seen him laughing and joking with Altyrn’s daughters. Could he do that just because they were daughters … or because they aren’t his own children? He also recalls the great respect that Rojana and her sisters have for their father. Or is it that there is always a certain distance between strong parents and their children?
All those thoughts remind him of Ryalah, and the guilty pleasure she and Amaira take in playing with their dolls when Kiedron is not around—and Ryala’s almost secretive smile. Lerial can only hope that she is indeed as well as Emerya had written.
More and more, he has come to meet with Altyrn at the end of the training workday, just before dinner, and this fourday is no exception.
“We have a new report from the scouts,” declares the majer even before Lerial finishes closing the study door. “The Meroweyans are assembling in Yakaat. They’re also readying their forces for what looks like an advance on Verdheln.”
“Without building the fort?”
>
“They’ve put the people to work on the fort. The armsmen are gathering supplies.”
“Raiding the local people?” Lerial does not disguise the contempt he feels.
“Lerial…” Altyrn’s voice is low, almost tired, but there is iron in that single name.
“Yes, ser?”
“There is great danger in feeling superior to one’s enemy. That is especially true of moral superiority. Being a better person—or a better land—by itself does not make one more likely to prevail in battle … or in the events that follow a battle. The one who prevails is the one who destroys the enemy’s ability to fight. One can win a battle by every measure … and lose. But … almost never can one lose a battle … and still win. There are two ways to lose, and only one to win. All too often it may be the land that we would deem more worthy that loses, because moral worth in itself does not win battles. What wins battles and wars is the ability to prevail and the willingness to do whatever is necessary, however distasteful that may be. There are no moral victories in defeat; there are only ashes and suffering.”
Lerial is so taken aback by the iron in the majer’s voice that he does not speak as Altyrn continues.
“There are also ashes and suffering in victory, but with victory comes the opportunity to rebuild. Most times.” After the slightest pause, Altyrn continues. “If a land is willing and able to raise and train armsmen or Lancers without equal, to forge and sharpen weapons to supply them, and to appoint leaders who are able, perceptive, and determined, that land will prevail … even if it engenders suffering, all manner of evils, and the enslavement of much of its people.”
“You make it sound as though power obtained through evil will always prevail,” Lerial replies slowly.
“It often does.” Altyrn offers a bitter smile. “Until that evil makes it impossible for there to be wise and able leaders, and those who have been enslaved revolt or are so beaten down that they can no longer work effectively. History seems to show that power alternates between those who are worthy and neglect their strengths and those who are less wise, often evil, and preoccupied with gaining power at all costs.” He pauses. “The people of the Verd are wise in the ways of governing themselves, but they have been too trusting of those around them for too long, and one way or another, what they have been will be destroyed.”
Cyador’s Heirs Page 37