L. Modesitt - Heritage of Cyador

“Do you think Atroyan is ill,” asks Lerial, “and that someone, such as Rhamuel, is using his seal to obtain the assistance that Atroyan would never request? Or is this a ploy to trap and destroy at least several companies of our lancers?”

“Those are good questions,” replies the duke. “We know that Khesyn is sending armsmen to Vyada. We don’t know why. The dispatch from Swartheld came by a fast sail-galley.”

“That means that whoever dispatched it did so with the approval of someone high in Atroyan’s counsels,” suggests Jhalet.

“There is also the fact that the Afritans have abandoned their Ensenla post and withdrawn all the Afritan Guards stationed there,” Lerial points out.

“That strikes me as offering no risk at all to Atroyan,” Jhalet points out. “He knows we won’t invade.”

“If he is threatened by Khesyn, that would be the first place from which he would withdraw the Afritan Guards,” Kiedron replies. “He knows that we know that. So that offers no evidence as to whether his dispatch is genuine or a ploy and trap.” He looks to Lerial.

“I think someone in Swartheld is very concerned, and I would suspect it is not the duke.”

Jhalet turns his eyes on Lerial but does not speak.

“Why do you say that?” asks Kiedron.

“Because when we know that Arms-Commander Rhamuel has been in command of the Afritan Guards, they have not attacked us. Only when he has not been in command have we been attacked. They have taunted us time and time again on the northern border but always retreated before we could come close to attacking. That would seem to me, at least from the perspective of a captain who only patrolled the border, that Rhamuel has been having the Guards act as aggressively as possible without provoking an actual fight. That means that Atroyan is the one who wants to attack, and that he has been restrained by his brother. They built a new post in old Ensenla … but they’ve pulled out? That, just in my opinion, suggests great need for those troops, but I have my doubts that even Rhamuel could pull them unless the need is very great or Atroyan is indisposed … if not both.”

“That may be,” replies Jhalet. “If it is, what happens if you dispatch a force, and Atroyan recovers and declares that we are invading Afrit? Or someone else takes power?”

“We would have to dispatch that force in such a way and under such a commander that it would be unwise for the Afritans to attack, regardless of who controls Swartheld.” Kiedron looks to his son.

Lerial understands immediately. “What forces would you wish I take? And what gifts will you proffer?”

“You are one of the heirs…” Jhalet draws out the words.

“My father is strong and healthy, and so is my brother, and I am not the principal heir.”

“There is also the fact that Lerial speaks perfect Hamorian, and any officer who is assigned to this duty must be able to understand it well enough to know what is not being said.” Kiedron holds up his hand to forestall any more discussion. “Commander, I would like you to come up with a plan for how the Mirror Lancers could support a force moving north along the river to Luba. I would also like to hear any reservations you might have, and the reasons for those reservations. Likewise, of any advantages such a plan might create. Lerial and I will discuss the other matters such an evolution might affect. We will meet tomorrow morning at eighth glass.”

Jhalet inclines his head. “Yes, ser.”

“Tomorrow morning, at eighth glass,” says Kiedron firmly. Then he stands.

Lerial and Jhalet immediately rise.

Once the commander leaves the study, Kiedron turns to Lerial. “Your mother and the girls would like to see you, but there is something else you need to attend to.”

“Ser?”

“I assume you heard about Majer Altyrn.”

“Yes, ser. I wanted to know more, but Commander Jhalet couldn’t tell me.”

“Maeroja is here. She brought the news. She is waiting for you in the small south salon.”

Lerial understands. His mother has never fully approved of Altyrn’s consort, and his father has given Maeroja the use of the salon as far from her as possible … and the one about which Xeranya cannot complain.

“She has indicated she wishes to speak to you first. I’m certain she’ll tell you what you need to know,” adds Kiedron. “All of us, including Maeroja, will be having refreshments in the main salon at fifth glass.”

“Did she come alone?”

“Captain Shastan sent half a squad of lancers as her escort. None of the majer’s daughters accompanied her.” Kiedron glances toward the door.

“Yes, ser.” Lerial nods and then leaves the study. As he walks along the main front corridor toward the south wing of the palace, he wonders exactly why Maeroja wishes to see him … and why she does not wish to speak of the majer to anyone before Lerial.

He pauses outside the closed door to the small salon, then opens it and steps inside, easing the door closed before he moves forward.

Maeroja rises immediately from the dark green velvet armchair in which she has been sitting, setting aside a folder. From what Lerial sees and senses, she looks no older than the last time he saw her, almost five years earlier when he returned from Verdheln, and just as striking. Her hair remains a shining jet black, her skin lightly tanned, and her blue eyes intense and penetrating … but upon closer scrutiny when he steps toward her, he can see that her eyes are slightly bloodshot and that there are dark circles under them. Her smile remains warm, but … there is sadness in it as well. She wears a pale blue blouse, with a dark blue vest and trousers, and a mourning scarf of white-bordered black.

“Lady,” Lerial offers gently.

“You do persist, don’t you?” she murmurs softly.

“You were, are, and always will be a lady,” he replies with a smile. “Grant me the wisdom to see that.”

“You’ve grown … even more.”

“I would hope so. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be following the majer’s teachings.” He gestures. “Please sit down. The last days have to have been tiring for you.”

“And not for you? There’s still road dust on your boots.”

“I did ride in this afternoon, but I had to meet with Father and Commander Jhalet. Father didn’t tell me you were here until after the meeting.”

“He and … Altyrn … always had their priorities.”

As do you. Lerial inclines his head momentarily, then picks up one of the straight-backed chairs, sets it on the carpet directly facing Maeroja, and after she reseats herself sits down. “I didn’t hear until I rode into Lancer headquarters. I asked about the mourning drape, and the gate guards told me, but no one could tell me more than that.”

“He wanted it that way. I owed him that … and much more than I could ever repay.”

“I think not, Lady. You gave him love and respect that no one else could have done.” Especially given your past, a very illustrious past that you have kept well shrouded.

Maeroja opens her mouth as if to protest, then smiles softly, ironically. “I won’t insult you by protesting … but he deserved that.”

“He deserved more than that.”

“We don’t often get what we deserve, especially those who are very good … or very evil.”

“No … we don’t. That was something I learned from him, among many other lessons.”

“Unlike most, you did learn. He was proud of you, you know?”

“I wanted him to think well of me and what I did, Lady … and the way in which I did what had to be done. I don’t think he always totally approved, but I tried to stay within the scope of what he taught.” Lerial isn’t about to point out Altyrn’s often utter ruthlessness in his quest to assure the future of what he believed to be the best of the heritage of Cyador, especially since Maeroja must already know that.