L. Modesitt - Cyador’s Heirs

Lerial could have said the same, but he is glad that his aunt does.

“Of course,” agrees Lephi genially. “That’s what I meant.”

“Did they look thin or gaunt?” presses Emerya.

Lephi frowns. “I don’t know.”

“What did the captain say about how they fought?”

Lerial can tell that Emerya is worried, but he doesn’t understand why.

“He did say something about it being easier than usual. Why?”

“They’re avoiding Narthyl because it has a garrison there. Your company was sent out to patrol an area north and west of Narthyl. That likely means that the grassland nomads are short of food. We didn’t have much rain this winter, and the hill grasses here are already browning.”

“I’m afraid you’re right, Emerya,” offers Kiedron as he nears the table. “The southlands are dry, and last fall’s harvest in the north of Merowey was scanty. That’s what all the traders have been saying as well. The Ministry records show we’ve been getting more hides as well.”

Hides? What do they have to do with it? Lerial wonders, but does not ask, not with Lephi ready to show his superiority.

Kiedron walks to the serving table and pours himself a goblet of the red wine. “It’s not much better to the west of here. That’s where I’ve been with Fifth Company. We’re even seeing raiders and poachers from Afrit there, and the hill forests are drier than usual.” He sits down between his sister and his consort so that he is on Emerya’s right.

“Did you come across any raiders from Afrit?” asks Xeranya.

“One of the squads did, but we killed only two. The others fled into the woods. The area was rocky and dangerous, and I didn’t want to risk the mounts, not over raiders who were more like poachers.”

“They’re hungry,” observes Emerya.

“Then they should poach in Afrit,” retorts Kiedron, “except they know Atroyan-or Rhamuel-will execute their families if they’re caught. We can’t do that, because we’d have to go into Afrit to do it, and the poachers know that. So they try to steal game, crops, or livestock from Cigoerne. Even if they get caught, their families are safe.”

“A cruel choice,” says Emerya.

“It’s a cruel choice for us as well,” points out Kiedron after taking a swallow of wine and setting the goblet on the table. “If we don’t kill at least a few of them, even more will come sneaking into Cigoerne and steal from our people. We’re not a wealthy land, not yet. Duke Atroyan could spare some wheat-corn or maize flour for his people, but he chooses not to. You know we’ve sent what we can to Narthyl and some of the hamlets when we could.”

Emerya nods slowly, and Lerial gets the impression that she does not fully agree … or that there is something left unsaid, if not both. But then, that is often the case.

“Lephi’s patrol seemed to go well,” suggests Xeranya.

“That’s what Captain Jahaal told me at the Lancer headquarters. They did run into some raiders, but not as many as I feared from the earlier reports.”

“That may be because many are too weak to cross the hills.”

“It’s possible, and I’m grateful for that. We don’t need hordes of poachers, raiders, and beggars. It will be worse after harvest. The water level in the Thylan is low, and it’s continuing to drop. If it gets much lower, we won’t be able to use some of the older irrigation ditches unless they’re deepened, and some of the growers aren’t listening. By the time they do something, it will be too late.”

“You can’t order them…?” says Xeranya.

“I’d rather not. If I do, then I’ll have to punish those who don’t. If I punish them enough that they understand, they won’t be in any condition to dig ditches … or harvest their crops.”

“What about having some of the Mirror Lancer trainees, the rankers, that is,” suggests Emerya, “work on some of the ditches?”

“Majer Phortyn is already assigning that duty for disciplinary punishment. That will help some, but not enough. He’s always believed in punishment tasks, rather than flogging.”

“With his background, how could he not?” asks Emerya.

“He’s worked hard.” Kiedron gives his sister a hard glance.

Lerial wonders what lies behind the look, but says nothing.

“Could some of the Magi’i help, Father?” asks Ryalah, timidly.

Kiedron laughs, heartily. “I would that they could, little one, but using chaos to dig in the earth is tiring, and there are better uses for the Magi’i.”

Also, reflects Lerial, earth tends to absorb chaos, so that chaos isn’t that helpful in digging through soil. In the moment of silence that follows, he turns to his father. “Why weren’t there any Magi’i in the Mirror Lancers … or in our Lancers?”

“There were more Magi’i in Cyador. It was a far bigger land, but we still have Mirror Lancers.”

“But we don’t have firelances or mirror shields.”

“They’re still Mirror Lancers, and their training and tactics are better than any other troopers in Hamor or Candar … or anywhere else,” replies Kiedron. “We have over fifteen companies now to protect our people. That’s another reason why Cigoerne has grown and prospered.”

“And because Grandmother chose where we could settle wisely?”

“That’s true, but it doesn’t matter how well you choose if you can’t hold and defend what you have.” Kiedron’s voice is jovial, but Lerial can sense, both by the slight edge to his father’s words and by the increase in the chaos surrounding him, that Lerial’s question has annoyed him.

“Strong Lancers are everything,” adds Lephi in a pontificating tone.

Lerial debates contesting that, saying that Lancers cannot defend if they don’t have a strong land with crops and herds, and crafters to support them, but he decides against speaking out.

“I understand you’ve been most diligent in your sparring,” Kiedron looks at Lerial and goes on, in an almost patronizing tone. “If you keep working you might even be their commander when Lephi is ruler of Cigoerne.”

Lerial keeps a pleasant smile on his face. I hope that’s a long time coming. “You didn’t tell me why there are no healers-”

“Men aren’t supposed to be healers, except maybe if they’re officers, and they can do a little healing for wounded men. Healers feel too much to be effective fighters…” Kiedron shakes his head. “Feeling pain and suffering is necessary to be a good healer, but all that feeling would keep a Lancer from being effective in battle.”

From beside her brother, where Kiedron is not looking, Emerya gives Lerial the smallest of headshakes. Lerial represses a smile.

“Besides,” adds Lephi, “people think healers aren’t strong, and it wouldn’t be good for us if the barbarians think our officers are weak.”

“There’s strength, and there’s strength,” Emerya says calmly. “It takes a certain kind of strength to face wounds and fluxes and blood all over everything and to do the best you can do … and know that it might not be enough. I’ve seen Lancers able to cut down barbarians with ease pale and almost faint when they see a woman or a child who’s been badly hurt and bleeding all over everything.”

Surprisingly, at least to Lerial, his mother nods at Emerya’s words.

Kiedron almost frowns, Lerial thinks.

Instead, his father declares firmly, “We need both kinds of strength.” Then he turns to Xeranya. “What might we be having for dinner?”

Even as he understands that his father has ended any further discussion of healers, Lancers, and strength, Lerial wonders why his father has done so.

Lerial wakes early on eightday, but does not rise immediately. Instead, he lies on top of the covers, trying to cool off, because even before dawn on the third level of the palace the air is so still and hot that it might well be an oven, but the sheet gets damper with each moment, and he sits up. He does not cool down, not when there is no breeze coming through the windows, but at least when he sits up, he gets no hotter and his sweat doesn’t soak the sheet.