“And you just led a company? That’s all?”
Lerial pauses for just an instant, then says, “I’m just a young undercaptain, acting as a captain. That’s the way it’s reported, and the way it should be.”
After a moment, Graessyr nods. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. You’re right, though. Might I ask…”
“I requested that it be that way. The majer had drafted the report along those lines before I read it.”
“Is there anything else you would care to tell me?”
Lerial thinks. “I don’t know if you heard, but Captain Dechund suffered some sort of flux and wandered off in a brain fever and died. Majer Phortyn promoted Seivyr to post captain.”
“Dechund … oh … he was the one with the clean uniforms and bright boots. Sorry to hear it. Seivyr’ll do well, though.”
Graessyr’s matter-of-fact comments confirm that he has the same opinion as Altyrn does, and that tends to reinforce some of Lerial’s skepticism about Majer Phortyn.
“Now, ser, I have a question. What can you tell me about raids by the Heldyans, especially along the river?”
Graessyr snorts. “Not much has changed since you and the majer left. We hear that they kept testing the patrols, but they withdraw if we show any force. I haven’t heard anything about your brother. Were there anything wrong, I’m certain we’d know.”
“Thank you. Now … if I might borrow a mount?”
“I told the ostler to have one ready for you. I’d thought to have four men as an escort…”
Lerial wants to deny the escort, but then thinks about Graessyr’s position in dealing with the son of the Duke. “I think two would be more than adequate.”
Graessyr starts to say something, then shakes his head. “You’re sounding like your sire.”
Before long, Lerial and two Mirror Lancers are leaving the post and heading south toward Kinaar. He is glad that the majer’s villa is close. Less than a fifth of a glass later, he turns the borrowed mount onto the packed clay lane leading off the main road. The lane is just as smooth as he recalls as it passes through the yellow brick posts toward the villa. They have barely covered half the three hundred yards from the posts to the villa when Lerial sees several figures hurry out of the villa and wait by the north entrance. How long has she had someone posted and watching?
As he rides nearer, he sees, standing with Maeroja, Rojana, Tyrna, and Aylana. Even before he reins up, Lerial can see the worried expression on Maeroja’s face, and he quickly says, “He’s fine. The fighting is over, and the Meroweyan force was destroyed. He said he had to stay another season to complete the training necessary so he wouldn’t have to go back.” Altyrn had never actually said the last words, but Lerial feels that is what he meant. “I have a letter for you. He asked me to deliver it personally.” Lerial keeps his eyes on Maeroja, although he can feel Rojana looking at him.
Rojana murmurs something to her mother, and Maeroja smiles. “Can you stay for dinner? I would have asked anyway, but I was prompted.”
“I’d hoped that would be possible. I’d very much appreciate that.” Lerial turns in the saddle. “You can return to the post.”
“Ser…?” ventures one of the Mirror Lancers.
“Give him a good two glasses,” says Maeroja.
Lerial laughs. “You can see I’m in good hands. Two glasses, it is.”
“Thank you, ser.”
As the two Lancers leave, Lerial says, “Can I just stable the mare in an empty stall?”
“We could summon the ostler…”
“I can do it, and it’s likely to be faster.” Lerial rides to the stables, where he dismounts, stalls his horse, then walks back to the north entry, where Tyrna and Aylana are waiting.
“Mother took Rojana with her,” announces Aylana.
“They’re getting refreshments,” adds her older sister. “We’re to take you to the salon.”
“It’s still cold in the courtyard,” declares the youngest daughter.
“Have you started this year’s worms?” asks Lerial.
“Not yet. Mother says they’ll be late.” Tyrna turns.
Before she can open the outer door, Lerial steps forward and opens it. “After you, ladies.”
“We’re not ladies yet, mother says,” declares Aylana.
“Rojana almost is,” adds Tyrna.
Lerial keeps his smile to himself, thinking of Ryalah and Amaira as he follows them all the way to the salon. Maeroja and Rojana rise as the two younger sisters and Lerial enter the chamber. For a long moment, Rojana looks at Lerial, then drops her eyes.
“Before I forget…” Lerial steps forward and withdraws the sealed envelope from his Lancer jacket, extending it to Maeroja. “I might take a walk in the courtyard while you read it.”
Maeroja cannot conceal a frown.
“There shouldn’t be anything disturbing in it,” Lerial says quickly. “I just thought you’d appreciate it without…”
“If you wouldn’t mind…”
“I wouldn’t have suggested it.” Lerial looks down to Aylana. “Would you care to come with me?”
Aylana looks to her mother.
“I’ll read it all to you later.”
“We’ll all walk in the courtyard,” announces Rojana, with a firmness that sounds much like her mother.
Once the four have left the salon, Rojana glances to Lerial. “Thank you. She’s been so worried.” She pauses. “Father is all right, isn’t he?”
“He was fine when I left. He wasn’t wounded or injured at all. He was brilliant in the way he defended the Verd—and Cigoerne.”
“Cigoerne?” asks Tyrna. “I thought you were in Verdheln. That’s what Mother said.”
“We were. But we were fighting to keep the Meroweyans from threatening Cigoerne.”
“Oh.”
Lerial walks toward the nearest fountain, realizing, suddenly, that he had not seen a single fountain anywhere in Verdheln. Is that because they have plenty of water? “I like your fountains.” He glances back to see that Aylana has stamped her foot and is glaring at Tyrna.
Rojana glances back at her sisters, shaking her head and smiling, then says, “The arrangement was Mother’s idea. You won’t tell her I said that, will you?”
“No. Not if you don’t want me to.” Why would she say that? “Is that because … she missed having fountains?” Lerial barely manages to keep from having said something about Maeroja missing things from home, remembering what Emerya has said about her.
“Father never said. Neither has Mother. I thought you might know.”
“He said that it took some effort and special pipes for them.” That is certainly true enough.
“You won’t say, will you?”
“It’s not my place to say.”
“You’ve changed.”
Lerial can hear a trace of sadness in her voice as he looks into her gray eyes and says softly, “War, for the first time, must change everyone, don’t you think?” He pauses. “I never truly thanked you for the lodestone. What I’ve learned from it saved my life … more than once.”
“I’m glad … I thought it might help.”
“It did. More than you know.”
“I wanted…”
“I know.”
Neither speaks for a moment. Then Rojana looks away.
“Do you think she’s through reading now?” asks Tyrna, hurrying toward them.
“We should walk around the fountains once,” suggests Rojana.
“I don’t want to. I’m cold,” declares Aylana as she joins the others.
“You’ll feel warmer if you keep moving,” says Lerial, reaching out and taking Aylana’s hand. “We’ll go this way.”
Lerial and Rojana manage to coax the other two into two tours of the courtyard before returning to the salon.
Maeroja looks to Lerial and Rojana and mouths, “Thank you.” Then she says, “Your father assures us that he is healthy and well. I’ll let you all read it later. He also wrote
that things would have gone badly without Lerial. He says we mustn’t ask Lerial about it. That’s because he will insist that your father and the elders and everyone else did it. That’s not true, but it has to remain our secret.” Maeroja pauses. “We should have refreshments. Lerial has waited long enough.”
“Can I have lager?” presses Tyrna.
Maeroja shakes her head. “Not yet. You and Aylana can have a little watered wine, if you like. Rojana, only half a beaker of lager.”
“When can I have lager—” begins Aylana.
“When you’re the age Rojana is now,” says Maeroja firmly.
Aylana’s pout is only momentary, perhaps because of the stern look bestowed on her by her mother.
Lerial moves to the refreshment table, then nods to Maeroja. “Wine or lager?”
“Lager, please.”
Lerial fills one beaker—that is, two-thirds full—and another one-third full, handing the second to Rojana and the full one to her mother, before returning to the table and serving himself. Then he takes the armchair to Maeroja’s left, the one not usually occupied by the majer. After a slow sip from the beaker, he smiles. “This is the best lager I’ve had, ever, and it’s made better by the fact that they don’t brew anything like it in Verdheln.”
“I’m glad you like the lager,” says Maeroja. “Dinner will be simple. We didn’t know we’d have company.”
“Whatever it is will be far better than anything I’ve eaten in over a season.”
“Could you tell us something about the Verd?”
“Trees and more trees,” he begins, “and where the trees end they have grown special trees with such trunks that they form a tree-wall around the forests that comprise the Verd…” From there Lerial does most of the talking for a good half glass … until he sees a serving girl standing in the entrance to the salon.
“It is time for dinner.” Maeroja rises.
Lerial does as well.
“You didn’t finish,” declares Aylana.
“I’ll finish at dinner,” Lerial promises.
The main dish—in fact really the only dish—except for fresh-baked bread and pickled carrots, not his favorite, but acceptable—is a large platter of lamb biastras, seasoned with far less chili than at the Palace, with a brown sauce that has a slight fruity taste, rather than the white cream sauce that Lerial associates with biastras. The sweet peppers are an orange brown also. He has four of the tubular biastras, and could have eaten more, except he feels that would be excessive … and he has promised to finish telling about Verdheln. He cannot, or should not, talk while eating. So he contents himself with sips of the excellent lager and describes everything he can remember.
“I hope you don’t mind,” says Maeroja, “but we hadn’t planned sweets…”
“Stars, no! The biastras and the lager are treat enough.” Lerial means every word. Simple as the meal may have been, he has not had anything that good since leaving Kinaar the last time.
Maeroja glances to Rojana. “If you would help your sisters ready themselves for bed…”
Lerial can tell that is the last thing Rojana wants to do, but she nods politely and ushers the other two from the table.
“And make sure you wash your hands and faces,” adds their mother as the three leave.
“I’ve truly enjoyed being here, and the biastras and bread were delicious.” Lerial knows he needs to be leaving soon.
“Thank you. It was our pleasure, and we cannot thank you enough for the news and for the letter.”
“That was my pleasure,” Lerial insists.
After a moment of silence, Maeroja fixes her eyes on Lerial. “How much danger does he face in Verdheln? Truly?”
“Very little, if any … now.”
“You are being truthful, I trust.”
“Very truthful. There are only a few handfuls of Meroweyans in Verdheln, mostly wounded and all held captive … and no mages or wizards—not Meroweyan ones. There are at present no other Meroweyan armsmen near the Verd, and I doubt that there will be for some time to come.”
“What you say suggests that he was in great danger earlier.”
“He was in danger. He was most careful. He sent others on the most dangerous missions. He led no charges, but we were greatly outnumbered. He planned thoroughly and well. What he did was brilliant.”
“But you went on missions, didn’t you? Why?”
“I’m a junior undercaptain, and he’s the majer in command. Also, he is more valuable to Cigoerne than I am.”
“He would not say that.” She purses her lips.
Lerial smiles pleasantly and waits.
“He knows how things should be,” she finally says. “He claims he doesn’t see what will be … but he has … a certainty.”
“He had that about you, didn’t he?”
For one of the very few times he has seen, there is a momentary expression of surprise and consternation on Maeroja’s face. Then she laughs softly. “I should have expected that. I imagine you know the answer. He also believes that you are … let us say that…” She shakes her head. “Let us say nothing.”
By saying she would say nothing, she has said what she wished to convey, Lerial knows. Since he senses someone—Rojana—nearing and stopping just short of the open doors to the dining chamber, he decides against pursuing that. He is also amused, since there is no way that Rojana could have completed her task in that short a time, which means that she likely turned the task over to one of the servants in order to hurry back and eavesdrop. “I am just the younger son, doing what I can to support my father.”
“Doing it rather well.”
“Only because of your consort, and all he has done for me,” he replies. “I cannot thank him—or you—enough.”
“You have already. You can tell me what you will, but you kept him safe.” She holds up a hand. “Please … no argument. I can see—it is plain to see, for those who observe with more than eyes—that you are not the youth who left here more than a season ago.”
“Rojana said I’ve changed.”
“You will change more. We live in a time of great change.” A faint smile crosses Maeroja’s lips. “You may come in, Rojana.”
“The girls are in their rooms and ready for bed,” Rojana announces as she steps through the doors.
Lerial looks to Maeroja. “I should be going. It’s a bit past two glasses.” He stands.
“We’ll walk you out to the outer courtyard.” Maeroja rises from the table and nods to her daughter. “We’re so glad you could stay for a while.”
“So am I. And I’m glad that I could bring you good news.”
When they reach the north entrance, Lerial can see that one of the villa stable boys has brought the borrowed mare from the stable and holds her reins. Beside the mount, the two Lancers wait, still mounted.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” Lerial says. “I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“No, ser. Less than a tenth of a glass. Young fellow here just brought your mount.”
Lerial turns back to Maeroja and Rojana. “Thank you both. I can’t tell you how much I appreciated the dinner and the company.” Especially since it will be a long time before I’m back here.
“It was our pleasure.” Maeroja smiles.
Rojana’s smile is fainter, as if it is an effort, and Lerial wants to comfort her … and knows that would be a mistake, because it would give her the wrong impression. Instead, he returns the smile and then mounts.
He can sense Rojana’s eyes on his back as he rides down the lane toward the yellow brick posts and the main road.
LXXXIII
Lerial leaves Teilyn before dawn on twoday so that they can reach Cigoerne in one long day. Even so, the sun has set before they ride into the city proper, and the twilight is lengthening into a deep greenish purple when they reach the gates of Lancer headquarters. Lerial frowns. The main gates are actually closed, although the small personnel gate is ajar.
“Detachment retur
ning from Verdheln,” he announces.
The shorter gate guard looks hard at Lerial. “Begging your pardon, ser. There are no detachments in Verdheln.”
For an instant, Lerial is disconcerted. “Then Majer Altyrn and two squads of Mirror Lancers will be somewhat concerned to learn that they don’t exist. And Duke Kiedron will be most upset to think that he dispatched his son with a detachment that doesn’t exist.” Even Lerial is surprised at the dry and withering tone with which the words come forth.
“Ser…”
Lerial surveys the guard, with his crisp greens and polished sabre and almost comments on that, but instead says mildly. “You can let us enter, and lose a bit of face. Or you can deny us and face the consequences tomorrow.” Lerial can’t help but think about the number of Verdyn Lancers who died fighting off the Meroweyans, especially compared to the guards standing gate duty in Cigoerne.
The other guard peers at Lerial, then swallows, finally saying in a low voice, “Ruefyl … that’s Lord Lerial you’re denying.”
“But…” Ruefyl looks totally flustered.
“Yes, I am wearing the uniform of an undercaptain. That is because I am one. So is my older brother, who is riding patrols in the south along the river. You might recall that my father the Duke still commands patrols. Or have you forgotten that as well?”
Lerial realizes that he’s already said too much and adds quietly, “Just open the gates. It’s been a long ride from Verdell.”
“Yes, ser.” Ruefyl looks totally dejected as he steps back and signals. “Open the gates. Incoming detachment.”
After several moments, the gates swing inward, and the eleven riders and two packhorses move through.
As they ride toward the stables, Lerial turns to Bhurl. “I’ll need to talk to the duty officer. We’ll need bunks for the Lancers, and food, as well as feed…”
“We can take care of the mounts, ser.”
Cyador’s Heirs Page 59