L. Modesitt - Heritage of Cyador

After finishing whatever it might have been, Aenslem clears his throat, then says, “Your Grace … this dinner has been a great honor, but the day has been long…”

“I understand, Aenslem.” Rhamuel turns to Haesychya. “My thanks for your coming. I would not keep you long. I will need just a few moments with your sire, but only a few.”

“We can manage,” replies Haesychya. “We will take our time going to the coach.”

Lerial almost smiles at her words and tone, which convey the sense that if whatever the two are going to discuss takes much longer, she will not be pleased. Lerial wouldn’t put it past her to just direct the coach back to the villa if Aenslem takes too much time with the duke. He turns to Kyedra and takes her hand, under the table, squeezing it gently. “Thank you … for everything.”

Her voice is firm, but low, as she replies, “I am the one who should offer thanks, for what you have done. I will not offer thanks for your departure.” She squeezes his hand in return, then slips her fingers from his.

“Nor I.”

“Kyedra,” offers Haesychya, “we do need to go.” She looks at Lerial, almost sadly, and nods. “Good evening, Lerial … and thank you, again, for my father’s life.”

Lerial stands with everyone else, and watches as Emerya departs with the other two women. Why is she going? But he really cannot ask. So, after several moments, he walks over to the duke, but before he can say anything, Rhamuel speaks.

“We’ll talk in the morning about your departure. I’d thought we might tonight, but it’s been a long day, and I need a few moments with Aenslem.” Rhamuel shakes his head ruefully. “There’s one thing that can’t wait, but I’m not getting into merchanter affairs tonight.”

“There are a few other things I’d also like to suggest.”

Rhamuel looks away, then motions to someone.

Lerial realizes that someone is Emerya, who obviously only spent a few moments with Haesychya and Kyedra before she returned. She moves to Rhamuel’s shoulder. The way she touches the duke’s shoulder tells Lerial that there is something else he has missed.

“Yes,” murmurs Emerya, “but you’re the first to know. Official word must wait for mourning to end.”

“I could not let her go, or leave her, not again,” murmurs Rhamuel, before smiling widely. “She will have the position she long deserved. And now, I need to talk to Aenslem. I’ll see you in the morning. Not too early. Say … eighth glass.”

That is an obvious dismissal, and Lerial inclines his head. “Eighth glass.”

As he walks from the chamber, then to the stables, and even as he rides back to Afritan Guard headquarters, he is still pondering how he missed what had occurred between his aunt and Rhamuel, but he is pleased for them, especially for Emerya.

All that doesn’t help him, especially since it doesn’t seem that there is anything he can do as far as Kyedra is concerned. You can’t ask for her hand, not as the younger brother of the heir, without your father’s consent, and she can’t consent without Rhamuel’s approval and Aenslem’s, and Aenslem won’t consent unless both Haesychya and Rhamuel agree … and Lephi would have a fit. Except Lerial really doesn’t care what Lephi thinks, nor does that matter unless their father agrees with Lephi. And then there is the other small problem that he has three companies of Mirror Lancers, or what is left of them, to look after as well.

He laughs softly. And all because she smiled … and that smile made you look at her more closely.

He shakes his head and keeps riding, not really hearing the echoes of the gelding’s hoofs on the paving stones.

When Lerial meets with his officers and senior squad leaders on twoday morning, after going over muster reports, Strauxyn asks, “Begging your pardon, ser, but do you know when we’ll be leaving?”

“That’s one of the things I hope to settle with the duke this morning. Now that he’s dealt with his brother’s memorial, we should be able to settle things.”

“You don’t like Swartheld so well?” asks Kusyl jestingly.

“It’s all right. It’s just…” Strauxyn breaks off his words.

“Who is she?” Kusyl grins.

Strauxyn flushes.

Lerial smiles. “It’s amazing what women can do.”

“Or what men will do for the ones they love,” adds Kusyl.

That comment shocks Lerial, because it’s not what he’d have expected from the sardonic older undercaptain. But there’s likely so much you don’t know, just like Aenslem and Atroyan, and perhaps even Rhamuel, who know so little of those below them. He pushes aside that sobering thought, as well as the near-continual thoughts about Kyedra, wondering if there is any way he can get his father to agree to letting him ask for Kyedra’s hand. That’s assuming Aenslem and Rhamuel-and Haesychya-would agree. And that is anything but certain.

“Ser … there is one thing,” ventures Dhoraat.

“Yes?”

“There are some rankers whose terms expire on eightday…”

Lerial should have remembered that. All rankers’ terms expire on one of ten days in the year-the last day of a season or the eightday of the fifth week of the season. “They can still travel back to Cigoerne with their company. It’s not as though we’re likely to be fighting, and they can draw pay for the travel time without agreeing to extend their term.”

“They know that, ser. There are a couple who want to stay here. They’ve found positions.”

“And lady-friends, I’d wager,” adds Kusyl.

“That can happen to any man, anywhere,” Lerial replies. “I don’t see a problem there. If there aren’t too many, I can find a way to cover their back pay.”

“Just three that want to stay, ser.”

“We can manage that. Anything else?”

“No, ser.”

“Then I need to get to the palace to meet with the duke.”

Lerial takes only a half squad of rankers as an escort, and he doubts he needs more than two men, but there still is the question of appearances. When he reaches the anteroom outside the duke’s study, only Norstaan is there.

“Go right in, ser,” says Norstaan. “He’s alone. The commander is at South Post this morning.”

“Thank you.” Not without some trepidation, Lerial steps into the receiving study.

Rhamuel motions for him to take a chair, and Lerial does so, waiting.

“To begin with, I thought you’d like to know that five days ago, Maesoryk died peacefully in his sleep. The local healer could find no trace of chaos or poison.”

Lerial manages to avoid taking a deep breath. “I’m not surprised.”

“I didn’t think you would be. In fact, I think you’d only have been surprised if you had not heard of his death.” After a moment, Rhamuel continues, his voice firm and decisive, “I have some other things I’d like to discuss with you, but let’s go over what you had in mind first. Save the questions about your departure for last.”

Lerial again feels like taking a deep breath. He doesn’t. “You need to make some changes in what the merchanters can and cannot do.”

“Such as?”

“Powerful order-mages or chaos-mages should serve the duke and/or the Afritan Guard, not the merchanters. Less powerful mages or wizards should only serve merchanters with the knowledge and consent of the duke.”

“Why do you think that?” Rhamuel’s tone is even, not quite skeptical.

“Most of the treachery your brother faced was made possible by the fact that Duke Khesyn had control of chaos-mages and traitorous Afritan merchanters did also-”

“And the only thing that saved me and Afrit was one powerful magus loaned to me by the grace of the Duke of Cigoerne.”