“You are that sort,” says Haesychya, “and that is good.” She stops at the doors from the villa. “We trust it will not be that long before we see you again.”
At those words, Kyedra smiles again. So does Lerial, if more cautiously. Then he inclines his head. “I look forward to that.”
His smile is broader as he rides away from the villa beside Kusyl at the head of the Mirror Lancer squad.
LVI
Just before midday on an already hot and steamy eightday morning, Lerial is going over details of organizing the return ride to Cigoerne with Strauxyn, Kusyl, and Dhoraat, details that are necessary, but that feel unwelcome to him, when Norstaan rides into the courtyard of Afritan Guards headquarters with half a squad from Rhamuel’s personal company.
Lerial hurries over to the undercaptain, wondering why he has come, since there would be no need for him to ride from the palace if Rhamuel wishes to meet with him. “It must be important if you’re here.”
Norstaan smiles. “I’ve just received word that the healer you requested is arriving at the river piers just east of South Post. I thought you might wish to join us in welcoming the healer.”
Emerya? In Swartheld? Lerial finds it hard to believe. Could she have sent someone else? That would be even harder to believe. “I would. Very much.” He turns and hurries back to the other three. “I need ten rankers from the duty squad to accompany me to escort a healer from Cigoerne to the palace. Oh … and a spare mount.”
“Duty squad is my second,” declares Kusyl. “Do you want Polidaar as well?”
“That would be good.” Lerial realizes he will need the squad leader.
Less than a tenth of a glass later, Norstaan and Lerial are riding south on the shore road at the head of the two half squads.
“The duke doesn’t know, does he?” asks Lerial, blotting his face with the back of his sleeve, wondering just how much hotter Swartheld will get, considering that it is barely past midspring.
“You requested that he not be told, and I’ve made as certain as I can that he does not.”
“Thank you. Do you know what kind of rivercraft it is? Or whose?”
“No. We just got a message by fast courier that the healer’s boat had passed the southern river piers and should make the piers west of South Point within the glass. They may have landed already, but they’ll wait for an escort to the palace.”
“I hope we won’t make them wait too long,” worries Lerial.
“It shouldn’t be that long.”
Even so, another third of a glass passes before they ride past South Post and turn onto the paved area that stretches from the base of one pier to the other. After a moment, Lerial spies a sail-galley tied up at the southern stone pier. It is half again as large as the one Lerial had taken to deal with Estheld, making it over fifteen yards from stem to stern, and has a small upper deck that extends some five yards forward from the stern. As he reins up at the base of the pier, Lerial can see several people standing on the pier beside the rivercraft.
Lerial dismounts quickly, followed by Norstaan. Leaving their mounts with the rankers, the two stride out the pier toward the sail-galley.
Lerial immediately recognizes the green head scarf of a Cigoernean healer and the pale green blouse and trousers, not to mention the darkness of order that still suffuses his aunt. She must sense him, because she turns from the man with whom she has been talking, possibly the master of the rivercraft, and steps toward hm.
Lerial’s mouth almost drops open as he sees her, since her hair is no longer silver and red, but entirely red.
“Not a word, Lerial.” She spoils the severity of her tone with a smile. “It’s good to see that you’re hale … and still relatively balanced. I worried about that after the tales that have traveled upriver.”
Lerial’s second surprise is the figure who steps forward to stand beside Emerya.
Fhastal smiles at Lerial. “I thought it might be best if I accompanied the most noted healer in Cigoerne to Swartheld.”
“Just as your rivercraft have carried letters to and from her for years?”
“A mere convenience.” Fhastal shrugs. “I gained far more from it than they have.”
Lerial doesn’t dispute that and nods. “I can see that, but I still appreciate it, and I have no doubts that they have as well. I hope you won’t mind, but we do have a duty to get her to the palace—”
“Please, Nephew, do not speak of me as if I am not here.” Again, her words are humorous—mostly.
Lerial turns and bows excessively deeply. “Honored Healer and Lady, we apologize for the lack of deference and for only being able to supply a mount rather than a carriage.”
Emerya laughs. “I suppose I deserve that.”
“So did I,” Lerial replies.
“I do have two Lancer kit bags.”
“We brought a mount, and not a wagon, but we can put one behind you and one behind me. We’ll be heading directly to the palace.”
“In a moment,” Emerya says, drawing Lerial to one side of the pier, close enough that he can look down at the gentle waves lapping against the stone posts. “Before we go to the palace, I need to know just how bad his injury is.”
“His back was crushed at the bottom of his backbone. His leg was broken. It is healing well. He isn’t pissing himself, but he cannot move his legs. There was a huge chaos-knot around the lower part of his backbone. I managed to reduce that within a glass or two of the time they got him out of the rubble.”
“That soon?”
“Sheer fortune,” Lerial declares. “I mean that it was fortune that I arrived at the palace so soon.”
“You didn’t try to remove all the chaos?”
“No … that didn’t feel right. I would have … it would have taken too much order … That was the way I felt.”
Emerya nods. “You’ve always been more than a field healer. What’s so unusual is that you still have the feel of both a healer and … well, not a chaos-mage, but more like a gray mage.”
“Gray mage? I didn’t know there were such.”
“The Emperor Lorn was probably one. They’re rare. Most mages can’t continually balance order and chaos. We can talk about that later.” She looks directly at Lerial. “Do you expect me to heal him?”
“No. I expect you to do what you can. You know more than I do, and Afrit needs him to rule for years to come, not just a few seasons or a year or two.”
“You’re suggesting I remain in Swartheld?”
“That isn’t my decision. It’s yours.”
“Not your father’s?”
“No. You’ve given Father more than enough. Mother could take your place at the Hall of Healing, and in time I wouldn’t be surprised if Ryalah could … or Amaira, if that is your and her choice.”
“I left her in Cigoerne … obviously.”
“That makes sense.” For now. “He took the miniature and kept it close.”
“I know, although his words were veiled. He wrote almost immediately.”
Lerial debates whether to tell her what Kyedra has told him, but decides against doing so immediately. Matters might not go as he hopes they will, and if they don’t … “I’m glad.”
While they have been speaking, two of the galley crew have carried two completely full and overstuffed Mirror Lancer kit bags onto the pier. They stand beside them, clearly waiting to carry them to the horses.
“I need to introduce you to Undercaptain Norstaan…”
“I heard much about him.” Emerya turns.
“Norstaan, this is the healer Emerya. She is head of the Hall of Healing in Cigoerne. She is also my aunt and the one who taught me what healing I know.”
Norstaan bows. “Lady Healer.”
“Undercaptain, I’ve heard nothing but good of you.”
“Then, Lady, I fear you have not heard everything.” Norstaan smiles. “I do believe we should not tarry.”
“Then we will not,” declares Emerya.
Once the
kit bags are tied in place, and they have set off northward on the shore road, Lerial draws his mount closer to his aunt’s.
“I do have one confession. I didn’t tell the duke I’d asked for you to come.”
“I had that feeling. Do you mind telling me why?”
“I didn’t know if you would … or could, and I didn’t want to give him false hopes.”
“In more ways than one?”
“That, too.”
“We’ll just have to see how it goes, then.”
Lerial can sense the worry … and something more. Yet what else could he have done?
After a time, Emerya says, “I’d forgotten just how large Swartheld is.”
“From what I’ve figured, it stretches more than fifteen kays north and south, and almost five kays, east to west, more in some places. It turned out to be a very good idea to come to Swartheld.”
“Besides your successes with the Heldyans?”
“Fhastal told you?”
“I already knew what happened at Luba. He told me that you broke the back of the attackers and the Afritan Guard finished them off … and that you did something to destroy the next invasion force.”
“I turned Estheld into an inferno when they were loading out for the attack.”
“You don’t show that much chaos.”
“I’m glad.”
Emerya nods and says in a low voice, “Later.”
It takes two-thirds of a glass to reach the ring road around the palace. As they ride past the gates and the east side of the palace, Lerial can see a number of Afritan Guards working on the wooden framework on the stone platform that will be the base of Mykel’s pyre.
“Who died?” murmurs Emerya.
“Lord Mykel,” replies Lerial. “He was killed as part of an attempt to replace the duke. He wasn’t part of it, but captured by those behind the plot and killed when they realized they had failed.”
Emerya adjusts her head scarf and glances up at the southeast corner of the palace, where the masons continue to work at rebuilding the outer wall.
“The plotters also used cammabark to create the explosion that killed Duke Atroyan and his son and injured Duke Rhamuel.”
“You do end up in difficult situations, Lerial.” Emerya’s voice contains sardonic humor. “Or you create them. Your father says it’s hard to tell which.”
“Majer Altyrn seemed to know.” Lerial regrets those words as soon as he speaks them.
“That’s why your father sent you to Teilyn. He does understand his own limits, Lerial.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. For all the great things you’ve done, there is still always something to be learned.”
Lerial chuckles almost silently. Emerya has always been good at reminding him of such.
Although the Afritan Guards at the stable are clearly puzzled, they say nothing when Lerial and the others rein up, and he tells Polidaar to leave Emerya’s kit bags in place for the time being. Then Norstaan and Lerial accompany Emerya across the courtyard and into the palace. While Emerya could let her head scarf drop to her shoulders once she enters the palace, she leaves it in place, even adjusting it to reveal less of her face.
They are still on the main level when a serving woman or maid rushes out of a side corridor and toward them, then bows so deeply to Emerya that Lerial fears she will prostrate herself, before the woman backs away. An older man, a servitor of some sort, behaves the same way after they reach the top of the main staircase and turn toward the duke’s receiving study.
“Perhaps I should come to Swartheld more often,” murmurs Emerya to Lerial just before they reach the door to the anteroom.
“Perhaps you should.” Lerial nods to the guard and opens the door, gesturing for Emerya to enter.
In turn, Norstaan nods for Lerial to follow his aunt, then joins them and closes the door.
Sammyl, alone in the anteroom, looks up from the papers he has on the desk in front of him, then quickly stands. “Ah … the duke wasn’t expecting you, Lord Lerial.”
Lerial can sense that Rhamuel is alone in his study, but he still asks, “Is he in?” His question is not an inquiry.
“I’ll tell him…”
“No … this time, we’ll just go in.”
Lerial raps and then opens the door without waiting for a response.
Rhamuel, who has been looking out the window into the hazy summerlike sky, jerks his head back toward the door in annoyance. “I said—” His mouth opens as Emerya lets the head scarf slip off her hair and away from her face.
“I heard you might need a healer,” Emerya says as softly as Lerial has ever heard her speak.
“I … never … how…” Rhamuel looks at Lerial.
“I asked for the best,” Lerial manages to reply almost blandly, although he feels anything but bland, after hearing Emerya’s voice and seeing the expression on the duke’s face.
“Lerial … you are a devious bastard.” Rhamuel tries not to smile, although he cannot control the dampness from his eyes. “Why didn’t you—”
“I could only ask, and she came faster than a reply would have.” Lerial wants to smile in relief—and joy—because he has seen the looks between the two. “Now that I have delivered the best healer in Hamor, I’m going to leave the two of you and wait outside while she determines the state of your health and injuries.” He manages not to grin as he steps back, opens the study door, and then leaves, making certain that the door is closed firmly behind him.
Sammyl’s face remains almost frozen in puzzlement, while Norstaan is doing his best to hide a wide grin.
“The healer I escorted in to see the duke is the best in Hamor, most likely one of the best in the world. She is also my aunt, and the one who healed him after his ill-advised attack on Cigoerne a number of years ago. I did not know if she would travel to Swartheld when I sent the message asking if Duke Kiedron would allow her to come … or if she would choose to. That is why I said nothing, and why I did not even tell the duke.”
“She’s … the one…?” stammers the commander.
The only one, from what you just saw. “Yes.”
After a long moment, Lerial says, “While we’re waiting, why don’t you fill me in on the arrangements for Lord Mykel’s memorial?”
More than a glass passes before Emerya opens the study door. “He’d like to see all of you.” Then she looks at Lerial, who lets the other officers enter the study while he waits beside her.
“I’ll wait out here. It’s better that way.”
Lerial understands … and nods. He enters the study and closes the door, letting his order-senses range over the duke. While he can sense traces of order here and there that had not been present before, he cannot discern any major changes in Rhamuel.
The duke waits until the three senior officers are seated before clearing his throat. “The Lady Healer Emerya has consented to remain here in Swartheld for at least a time as my personal healer. She will also be working to establish a hall of healing somewhere not too far but not too close to the palace. That’s something we’ve lacked for too long. For now, she will have quarters in the palace suitable to her station.”
Sammyl frowns, if slightly.
“She is, or was, the high healer in Cigoerne, and she is Duke Kiedron’s sister.”
Sammyl cannot conceal the surprise on his face. “No one … said…”
“That’s absolutely correct, Commander,” Lerial says smoothly. “It was an unfortunate oversight on my part not to inform you and Commander Ascaar, but I was glad to see my aunt, and the duke did not realize I had not informed you.”
“What will people say?”
“No one would say a thing if I consorted her,” Rhamuel points out. “Dukes often consort the close relatives of other dukes, and after all the aid that Cigoerne has provided…” He smiles. “In fact, maybe I should consort her … after a proper time of mourning, of course, for my brothers and nephew. In the meantime, why would anyone car
e so long as matters appear to remain proper?”
“But…” Sammyl appears ready to protest.
“Do you think that most of the people of Afrit really care?” asks Ascaar. “All they want from the duke is to keep tariffs low and to be left alone.”
Lerial manages to keep from grinning, given that he’d been thinking along the same lines. “The only people who might care are merchanters with eligible daughters that won’t get to consort the duke. But how could they complain, at least in public, if the duke consorts the sister of another duke.” Before anyone can say more, Lerial adds, “Admittedly, I’m biased, because she is my aunt, but that’s balanced by the fact that I do like her, and if she’s in Swartheld and I’m in Cigoerne, I won’t get to see her.”
“What about heirs?” demands Sammyl.
“What about them?” retorts Rhamuel. “I’ve only been duke a few eightdays, and brothers of a duke aren’t allowed to consort and have heirs unless they succeed. Besides, I haven’t consorted her. I haven’t even asked her. So talk of heirs will have to wait. All I said…” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Is there anything else? Good.” He looks to Lerial. “I understand the healer needs to talk to you about what you did. You can all go so that I can finish what I’m going to say at Mykel’s memorial tomorrow.”
“You’re going to speak?” asks Sammyl.
“He is … was my brother. The memorial is in the palace. Everyone who will be there already knows I broke my leg.” Rhamuel gestures.
Lerial immediately rises, nodding to the duke, then turns toward the door. The other three follow him. Norstaan is the last and closes the study door after he leaves.
“We’ll leave the anteroom to you and the healer,” Sammyl says.
In moments, Lerial and Emerya are alone. She walks to the window and looks out to the west. Not a hint of a breeze comes into the room, even though the window is full open.
Lerial waits.
“I never thought … and now…”
“And now … what?” he finally asks.
“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” The enigmatic expression vanishes as she looks directly at her nephew. “Did you do anything besides what you told me on the way to the palace?”
Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) Page 60