Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18)

by Modesitt, L. E. , Jr.

  “I got caught in the backlash of a huge chaos-explosion.”

  “It destroyed more than three battalions of Heldyan troops,” Norstaan says. “Commander Dhresyl doubts we would have prevailed otherwise.”

  Lerial looks to Norstaan. “I don’t think we should wake the arms-commander.” For a number of reasons. “There’s nothing else the Mirror Lancers can do today, and my squad should certainly provide enough protection for Lady Kyedra. If Commander Sammyl should return before the arms-commander wakes…” Lerial ponders what he should say.

  “Ser?”

  “I will most likely be returning to Guard headquarters before I come back to the palace. So you can tell him that something’s come up, and I needed to return to my men.” That will be true so far as it goes.

  “Yes, ser.” A trace of a smile lurks around Norstaan’s lips.

  “When the arms-commander wakes, you can tell him exactly what happened—alone.”

  “Yes, ser.” With the words, Norstaan offers a vigorous nod.

  Lerial turns to Kyedra. “We’d best go.”

  Between Kyedra’s two guards and the two Mirror Lancers, and one Afritan Guard, the seven make quite a procession down to the stables. At least, that’s the thought Lerial has.

  Once Lerial and Fourth Squad leave the palace, the two Aenian House guards take the lead, with Lerial and Kyedra directly behind, followed by Fhuraan and his squad. Lerial studies the people and riders and wagons moving on the circular road around the palace, but no one gives them more than a casual glance.

  “Can you do anything?” When Kyedra finally speaks again, her voice is low. “I’m sorry. Mother and I had hoped…”

  “I can likely sense what might be the problem. Perhaps more.”

  “Have you heard more about Natroyor?”

  Hasn’t anyone told her or Haesychya? “I asked your uncle about Mykel. He hasn’t heard anything.”

  “Lord … I mean Lerial, you didn’t answer my question.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “He’s dead, too, isn’t he?”

  “I’m sorry. Rhamuel told me he was crushed when the palace collapsed. He was likely asleep.”

  There is low moment of silence that drags out … and out.

  Finally, there is only the slightest catch, a small roughness in Kyedra’s voice as she asks, “Why? Why does someone want us all dead?”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I could answer that simply. That’s not what you meant, was it?”

  Lerial cannot help but smile slightly at Kyedra’s response. “Perhaps the better question would be who in Afrit has the most to gain from the death of the duke and all his heirs, as well as from the death of all of his best commanders.”

  “All of his best commanders?”

  “Of his best commanders, only your uncle and Subcommander Ascaar are still alive or able to command. The explosions at the Harbor Post, a poisoning, and an assassination have accounted for the rest. The senior remaining commander freely admits he is the least qualified commander for battles, and wishes that Ascaar were in command—except Ascaar is tied up fighting more Heldyans in Shaelt.”

  “What about you?”

  “Someone sent a false healer last night, supposedly from the palace. I was unconscious, but my officers wouldn’t let him see me.”

  “There have to be traitors within the Afritan Guard. How else would they know?”

  “There might be another way,” Lerial admits, “but I can’t think of it. I think there have to be more than one or two.” After several moments of silence, he asks, “What can you tell me about what ails your grandfather?”

  “He’s hot, but not burning up. His stomach aches all the time, and his head hurts.”

  That could be almost anything. “He’s not coughing or sneezing?”

  “No. It’s not like a cold or consumption.”

  “We’ll just have to see.”

  After riding little more than a half kay on the boulevard that leads to the merchanting quarter opposite the harbor, they reach the wide road that heads westward up a gentle grade. The first several villas that they pass are modest, perhaps not even half the size of the palace in Cigoerne, but the next several are larger. After riding another half kay, the Aenian House guards turn up a paved lane. Thirty yards off the road is a pair of sturdy ironwork gates not quite three yards tall, which open as the two guards approach. Lerial and Kyedra ride through. Lerial can hear … and sense … when the gates closes behind the last riders in the squad. He thinks his order-sensing has increased slightly over the course of the day, but knows that could be wistful thinking.

  While the grounds and gardens surrounding the redstone villa are shaded, the sprawling two-level structure is set on a low rise away from the trees and extends more than a hundred yards across the front. Lerial wonders about the lack of trees until they ride up to the main entrance, where, despite the seeming stillness of the day, he feels a cooler breeze coming from the north.

  The entrance is on the east side of the villa, positioned so that it is shaded by the villa and the columns flanking the stone steps. The two Aenian house guards rein up at the north end of the wide steps, so that Lerial and Kyedra are opposite the middle of the steps when they halt.

  “Ser…” murmurs Fhuraan, “I’d prefer you be accompanied.”

  Much as he dislikes the idea, Lerial has to admit that the squad leader is right. He turns to look at Fhuraan. “For both the lady and me. She is likely in just as much danger.”

  “Four men, then.”

  Kyedra looks to Lerial as if to protest, then nods, almost sadly.

  Lerial dismounts quickly, handing the gelding’s reins to a ranker who rides forward, then offers a hand to Kyedra.

  She takes it, but places no pressure on him when she dismounts, her voice almost inaudible as she murmurs. “I don’t need the aid, but I appreciate the courtesy.”

  He replies in an equally low voice. “I know that, but I’d hate to seem like a boor for not offering, especially in front of your grandfather’s retainers.”

  She lifts her eyebrows as if to question.

  “Anyone Rhamuel has trained to use a blade scarcely needs any help.” He smiles, but does not move until four rankers dismount and flank them. Only then does he nod toward the redstone steps.

  The breeze is even stronger when they reach the stone terrace that fans out from the double doors of the main entrance. “He built this here, oriented in this direction, just for the prevailing winds, didn’t he?”

  Kyedra gives Lerial a curious glance, but does not reply. Lerial does not press her.

  After looking at Kyedra, the two guards open the doors, barely looking at Lerial or the rankers. Immediately beyond the doors is a circular vaulted entry hall, some fifteen yards across. The domed ceiling is an off-white, as are the walls. The floor is of interlocking white tiles, but the masonry grout is black, rather than the customary white or off-white. The hall itself has four archways, one for the entry, and each of the others opening to a wide hallway extending the length of each wing of the villa. Rising on both sides of the west archway are two curved staircases that lead to what looks to be an upper hall. The only furnishings in the entry hall are four identical sideboard cabinets of a golden wood, each one more than three yards long and curved to fit against the wall and placed equidistant from the archways flanking it. Each cabinet has a raised back, on which is carved a scene, although in the dim light, Lerial cannot make out the details.

  Kyedra motions to the hall to the right, the one leading to the north wing. “Grandpapa is in his study.”

  The corridor is also tiled in the black-grouted white tile, with the same off-white plaster walls. Lerial feels the breeze blowing in his face as they walk past door after door. Those few that are open reveal a library, a salon, a lady’s study, and what looks to be a children’s study.

  “Is that where your mother had her lessons?”

  “When she was older. I’ve had l
essons there, too. Usually in the summer.”

  “I imagine it’s much cooler here in the summer than in the palace.”

  “Much cooler.”

  Lerial guesses that the north wing is for family common spaces and studies, the west wing for entertaining, and the south wing for personal chambers.

  Near the end of the corridor, Kyedra points to a half-open door on the left. “There’s the study.” She looks pointedly at the rankers behind them, then at Lerial.

  “Just one inside,” Lerial murmurs. He would prefer none, but he has no real shields, and he knows he is physically still weary, if not close to exhausted.

  The four rankers exchange glances before one, the broadest and oldest, steps forward. “Ser.”

  Lerial nods.

  Kyedra frowns, but does not voice a complaint before she eases the door open and steps inside, announcing, “I’ve brought Lord Lerial.”

  Lerial and the lancer follow her. The study is not excessively large, some ten yards long and perhaps five wide, containing a wide table desk at one end, with four large cabinets against the wall behind it on each side of the large desk chair. The merchanter lies on a long leather couch set between two bookcases at the north end of the study. At each end of the couch is a small end table. Haesychya rises from a leather armchair facing the couch. The matching chair is empty, and only a pitcher and two mugs sit on the table between the armchairs. The wide windows on the west wall are open, and with the open door, there is a pleasant flow of air through the study.

  Within moments of entering the study, Lerial can sense the chaos radiating from Aenslem’s gut. He can also sense chaos in the tumbler on the side table nearest Aenslem.

  “What’s in the tumbler?” The words come out more sharply than Lerial intends.

  “Tonic…” gasps the merchanter.

  “That’s his tonic,” says Haesychya.

  Lerial walks to the side table and lets his order-senses study the tumbler … and the small corked jug behind it. Both exude chaos, far stronger than he has originally sensed. He turns to Aenslem and leans down. “Pardon me, ser.” Lerial lets his fingertips brush the merchanter’s hot and damp forehead and then hover near his chest and the abdomen below. There is a definite similarity between the chaos in the tumbler and jug, and that emanating from Aenslem.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s something in your tonic. It’s not doing you any good.” Lerial doesn’t want to claim that Aenslem is being poisoned, although that is his surmise. It is just possible that some would-be healer has concocted some potion that is poisonous out of the best intentions.

  “You’re saying he’s being poisoned?” Haesychya looks hard at Lerial.

  “But … no one…” protests Aenslem, still gasping.

  “I can’t say that.” For many reasons. “I can say that whatever is in the tumbler and jug is causing him some distress.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “It’s the same kind of chaos.” Lerial regrets his words immediately. Doing things when you’re tired means you’re not as a careful as you should be.

  “Besides being a field healer, you can sense chaos?” asks Haesychya.

  “That’s what allows me to be a field healer,” Lerial replies.

  “Then do something,” says Haesychya, in a tone that combines plea and demand.

  “I’m not a full-fledged healer.” And not anywhere close to full strength. “I’ll do what I can.” He bends over Aenslem again, feeling chaos even in the merchanter’s breath. He extends his fingertips and says, once more, “Pardon me.” He lets the smallest amount of order flow from him, directing it to Aenslem’s lungs and stomach. Then he straightens and waits. He feels just a touch of light-headedness, but he can sense an immediate reduction in the chaos in Aenslem, suggesting most strongly that the merchanter has been poisoned, because if the problem were an illness the chaos would be far more diffuse than it is.

  “Well?” asks Haesychya.

  “He likely has been poisoned. I may be able to do a little more.” Lerial again bends and extends his fingertips to the base of Aenslem’s neck, willing more order into the merchanter.

  As he straightens, Lerial can feel the study spin around him, and he immediately drops into the vacant leather armchair and lowers his head. He feels as though, if he moves at all, he will topple into darkness.

  “What…” Haesychya glances around the study.

  “He’s injured, Lady,” blurts one of the rankers by the door. “He had to be carried from his mount last night.”

  Haesychya looks to Kyedra. “Did you know this?”

  “He seemed all right on the ride here.”

  Haesychya looks to the ranker. “Injured? How?”

  “Saving us, Lady. He … he used order to shield us from chaos.”

  Kyedra’s mouth opens, but she does not speak.

  “Lager would help, Lady.”

  “Kyedra … you stay here. I’ll get it myself.” Haesychya turns and hurries from the study, almost at a run.

  Kyedra eases over to stand by Lerial. “I’m sorry … I didn’t realize.”

  Even through his light-headedness and his feeling that the study is spinning around him, Lerial can hear the concern in Kyedra’s voice. Somehow … that helps, if not physically.

  “Realize what, girl?” While Aenslem’s voice is raspy, it is clearly stronger, although Lerial cannot sense either order or chaos.

  “That he was so weak.”

  “Exhausted,” declares Aenslem. “Healing takes strength … like fighting.”

  Lerial says nothing, fearing that even trying to speak will start the room spinning around him … or send him back into darkness. He can hear Aenslem and Kyedra speaking, but the words make little sense.

  After time, how long he does not know, Haesychya is kneeling beside the chair, holding a goblet. “I took this from an untapped cask. That’s why it took longer. I got one that had dust on it.”

  Lerial understands. He manages a faint smile before taking a small swallow of the lager. His hands are shaking so much that Haesychya helps him hold the goblet for the first swallows. He slowly drinks, and by the time he is halfway through the goblet he feels steadier. At least, the room has stopped spinning around him, and his hands are no longer shaking. He takes another swallow, realizing, rather belatedly, that careful as he had tried to be, he had used too much order. Because your physical strength exceeded the amount of order you required from your body? Yet another thing he needs to consider.

  He takes yet another swallow from the goblet, finishing the lager, and looks up.

  “Would you like some more?” Haesychya is sitting in the other chair, with a pitcher on the side table, and Kyedra has pulled a straight-backed chair over beside her mother.

  “Yes, please. Perhaps some bread…”

  Haesychya rises, glancing at her daughter. Kyedra immediately leaves the study.

  As Haesychya refills the goblet, Lerial looks to the merchanter, whose brow is no longer damp with sweat. “Are you feeling better?” Let’s hope so … after this. The moment he thinks that, he feels ashamed of himself. Aenslem didn’t exactly choose to be poisoned.

  “Quite a bit. Not up to myself … but much better.”

  Lerial then looks to Haesychya, who has reseated herself. “No more of any tonics. Just bread and soup for the next few days … and lager. If he starts to get worse … let me know.”

  “It’s a wonder … what you did…”

  “No.” Lerial wants to shake his head, but stops himself. “Just fortune. Some poisons … what I could do wouldn’t have helped … but those are the kinds that are slower-acting and must be given continually in small doses.” He lifts the goblet and takes another swallow, realizing for the first time just how good the lager tastes.

  “You’re an expert on poisons, too?”

  “Hardly. That’s something I’ve picked up from some reading and from listening. Some plants and foods are actually like that. Not many, or
we’d all have trouble.”

  At that moment, Kyedra hurries back into the study, carrying two loaves of bread, one white and one dark. She stops just short of Lerial.

  He takes the dark bread, breaks off a chunk, and slowly eats it. After several mouthfuls, most of the light-headedness is gone, but that might have been from the lager he’d drunk earlier. He also discovers he has regained the tiniest bit of order-sensing. That’s hopeful.

  “I’m so sorry,” Kyedra says. “I didn’t think about what healing might do. I was so worried about Grandpapa.”

  “I understand,” Lerial replies, offering what he hopes is an understanding smile.

  “Don’t you think you should stay here?” asks Haesychya. “You’re not in the best of health at the moment.”

  “I’m not, but I need to be closer to the Mirror Lancers. I hope what I did will continue to help you,” Lerial says to Aenslem before turning and offering a wry expression to Haesychya. “You might suggest to your father that the lager you gave me will do him far better than any tonic.”

  “I’m … not much for lager … more a wine man,” says Aenslem slowly, “but I’d hate to waste your effort, Lerial.”

  “Then don’t,” says Haesychya, her voice so curt that she is almost snapping at her father. “Drink the lager. Otherwise you might not ever drink your wines again.”

  “Women … daughters…” Aenslem offers a tired smile.

  Lerial walks over to the merchanter, close enough that order-sensing is not a strain. The chaos in Aenslem’s gut is definitely weaker than before. Considerably weaker. He nods. “You are doing better.”

  “Stay with your grandfather,” Haesychya says to her daughter, her words an iron order. “I’ll escort Lerial out.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Once Lerial and Haesychya are outside the study, escorted once more by the Lancer rankers, she asks, her voice barely above a murmur, “He’s better, isn’t he?”

  “He is. There’s still some chaos there, but it seems to be fading. I’d keep him on bread you’ve seen baked and lager for a while.” Lerial does not mention the obvious again: that someone should look into whoever provided the “tonic”—or who might have adulterated it, since Aenslem had acted as though it was something he took regularly.