L. Modesitt - Heritage of Cyador

“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 care 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?”

“I added a little more order, trying to reduce the chaos, later on, as I felt he might be able to receive it. That was all.”

“I think I can help him a little more. However you did what you did, it worked. He shouldn’t be able to feel anything much below his waist, but he does.”

“Enough to do most things … except for riding and walking?”

Emerya nods.

“What about his leg?”

“It will heal, but it will likely take longer because he can’t move the muscles around it.”

Lerial takes a deep breath, then faces his aunt.

“What is it?” A worried expression crosses Emerya’s face.

“You can’t return to Cigoerne.”

A bemused smile appears on her face. “You’re telling me where I can and can’t go? Your father couldn’t stop me from coming here, and…” Her smile broadens. “But that’s not what you meant, was it?”

Lerial shakes his head. “It would be wrong for you to leave him. Even I can see that. And it’s not because you’ll keep him strong so that he can put Afrit back together, either.” Although Lerial knows that Emerya’s presence will help Rhamuel in more ways than one.

“I know. Your father was likely most unhappy when he found I had left.”

“You didn’t tell him?”

“He would have forbidden it. I didn’t give him the choice. I’d already made arrangements with Fhastal’s people. They told me there was a message from you to your father. They also told me Rhamuel had been injured. I asked Kiedron what was in the message. Then, he had to tell me.”

“Because you’d know if he lied.”

“He wasn’t happy about that, either. He said he’d done enough in risking you. He wasn’t about to lose me, too. I didn’t argue. I just left. No one saw me.”

“A concealment?”

“What else?”

“Does Amaira know?”

“She begged me to go.”

Lerial can understand that. Amaira would know why her mother needed to go, and unlike many young people, Amaira feels well beyond herself. But then, even young healers do. Mostly. You didn’t.

After a moment of silence, he says, “We need to arrange for your quarters.”

“That might be for the best.”

Lerial understands that she doesn’t wish to say more. So he just leads the way to the door.

After Lerial makes certain that Emerya is settled, and that includes transferring a half squad of lancers to the palace to serve as her personal guards, he returns to Guard headquarters. He doubts that Emerya needs protection from anyone in the palace itself, but he is far less certain about whether there are other merchanters who might pose a threat to her, simply because they would prefer that Rhamuel not be physically strong. He hopes that perhaps Rhamuel will invite him to a private dinner, with Emerya, but such an invitation does not appear. Upon reflection, he suspects that the duke feels that such a “personal” dinner before the memorial might be seen less than favorably, if only by powerful merchanters, since Lerial doubts others in Afrit care that much about the duke’s personal habits.

Lerial is still thinking over those matters, along with another, long after he has eaten in the officers’ mess at Guard headquarters and returned to his quarters. The other concern is the fact that the merchanters, and even Rhamuel himself, seem unaware of how they are regarded by the everyday people in Afrit, and that sense is reinforced when he thinks about the reaction of his rankers over the years and, more recently, the comments of the couple at the cloth factorage, and even the reaction of Immar the innkeeper. While he certainly understands that Rhamuel needs to remain highly wary of the powerful merchanters, it seems to him that doing a few more things that gain the confidence of the small merchants, crafters, and tradespople would be helpful. That was something his grandmere had been most aware of … and one of the reasons why there was a Hall of Healing in Cigoerne, one well away from the palace.

Lerial is still half musing about that on oneday when he and a squad from Eleventh Company ride to the palace for the morning memorial to Mykel. Norstaan, wearing the crimson dress uniform of the Afritan Guard, meets Lerial at the stables almost as soon as Lerial has dismounted.

“Good morning, ser.”

“Good morning.” Lerial smiles. “What do I need to know about the ceremony?”

“It will begin at eighth glass, but everyone except you, the lady healer, and the duke and his family will be in place before that…”

After going over the arrangements, and allowing Lerial to inform his men of their duties, Norstaan adds, “This evening, there will be a family dinner at the palace. You and Lady Emerya are invited, and even the Lady Haesychya will be there.”

As Norstaan continues, Lerial follows him into the middle section of the palace, where Emerya waits. She wears a black and white mourning head scarf over her healer’s head scarf, arranged so that both show, suggesting both her understanding of the memorial and her position in Swartheld.

“I will leave you two here for a few moments,” Norstaan says. “The duke and his family will be here shortly.”