L. Modesitt: Cyador’s Heirs

He frowns, as if to say something, then shakes his head. “Until later.”

“Yes, ser.” Lerial is careful to close the study door firmly behind himself.

Then he makes his way to the stable where the two rankers are waiting.

“We’re headed back to the Palace now.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial mounts quickly and guides the gelding through the courtyard, followed by the rankers. He does not look back as he rides through the gates and turns northwest on the boulevard that leads back to the Palace.

It is a good half glass before noon when Lerial finishes unsaddling and briefly grooming the gelding, then makes his way through the warmest morning he has felt in more than two seasons back to the Palace, looking for his mother. He would prefer Emerya, but he has no doubts that she is at the healing hall.

He finds Xeranya in the salon.

“So you have time for your poor mother now.”

Lerial represses a sigh, wondering why she sounds more bitter than he recalls. Or did you just not see it? “I had to report to Majer Phortyn. Father insisted that I do so first thing this morning. As soon as I did that, I rode straight back here and came to find you.”

Xeranya actually smiles. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been so worried. I’ve worried about all of you. I thought you were the safest out there in the west while Lephi was in the south fighting Heldyan invaders.” Her words are unsteady, as if she is almost on the brink of tears.

Lerial just looks at his mother, sensing that she truly feels that. He doesn’t shake his head. “Like Lephi, I went where Father sent me. I did all that he asked.”

“It’s all so terrible. I thought … once Cigoerne was strong … that the fighting would stop. It never does.”

“It hasn’t, but we’ve lost very few here in Cigoerne. Thousands of people died in Verdheln under the Meroweyan attacks.”

“I can’t worry about them. I can only worry about Lephi … and you, of course, Lerial.”

Lerial has the feeling that her last words are an afterthought, but he nods, then goes on, knowing that his words will have little impact for the moment, but feeling they need to be said.

“All those who died or suffered had dreams, too, and many of them were young men just like Lephi, or me. Too many of them died. Because they fought and died, Casseon will not attempt another attack on Cigoerne. The people of Verdyn are part of Cigoerne, and they will fight to the death against Merowey … or anyone else, so long as Father allows them their own way of life. There are likely over a thousand more Lancers in training there now.”

“I’m just glad you’re safe, and I want to see Lephi safe, too.”

“Once Duke Khesyn hears about what happened in Verdheln, we may see fewer attacks from Heldya.”

“I would hope so.”

Lerial smiles. “It’s quite pleasant in the courtyard. We could enjoy the spring air. Would you join me?”

Xeranya smiles in return.

After spending a good glass with his mother, Lerial repairs to his chambers and changes into an old set of greens and, after finding Woelyt, works out in the Lancers’ courtyard with some of Woelyt’s junior rankers. He can only hope, at best, that his efforts will work, and, at worst, that, whether they do or not, there will be no signs of what he has done. By half past the third glass of the afternoon, Lerial is sweat-soaked and calls an end to the combination of exercise and training.

Once it is clear that Lerial has finished, Woelyt approaches. “You’re even better than when you left.”

“You might call it practice under pressure.” Although most of the practice was with order-sensing and anticipation. Lerial blots his forehead.

They both look up as Emerya and a Mirror Lancer officer Lerial does not recognize immediately ride into the courtyard, followed by a full squad of Mirror Lancers. Emerya dismounts hurriedly and gestures for Lerial to join her. As he walks toward her, he recognizes the other officer as Submajer Jhalet, the second-in-command of the Mirror Lancers. He also sees a Lancer behind the submajer carrying a small strongbox, one that is anything but light, it appears.

“What-”

“Just come with us. Is your father in his study?” asks Emerya.

“He was when I came out to spar.”

“He likely still is, then. This way, Submajer,” Emerya orders, in a fashion that Lerial knows would make any Mirror Lancer obey.

Kiedron is indeed in his study. “What’s happened that all of you have descended on me?”

“Majer Phortyn died, ser,” announces Jhalet. “He left headquarters for a bite to eat at the mess, and then went to his quarters. He did not return for his afternoon meeting with me. The duty officer and I went to summon him, but he did not answer the bell. We had to break the door. He was in his armchair, as if he just dozed off … but he didn’t wake up. Sometimes … sometimes, people aren’t dead when they look like they are. So I summoned the head of healing at the Hall.”

“He died in his sleep … or his nap. His heart may have been failing. It might be why he felt tired and sat down to rest,” Emerya says. “There’s no trace of poison or chaos. In fact, there was less sign of chaos in his body than in most cases.”

“You’re certain?” asks Kiedron.

“Absolutely.”

Lerial refrains from nodding, maintaining an interested expression.

“There was one thing, though,” adds Jhelat. “That is another reason why I am here.”

“Oh?”

Jhalet gestures, and the Mirror Lancer steps forward and gently sets the small but heavy ironbound chest on the desk.

“When I was checking his quarters, just in case matters were not as they seemed,” Emerya said, “I could sense some highly ordered iron. There was a strongbox hidden in his armoire. The lock was ordered iron. We brought it here, unopened. We also brought the key pouch we found.”

Kiedron frowns.

“If there’s something of value there,” the dark-haired Jhalet adds, “we didn’t think it should be left, although I did post guards.” He extends the small leather pouch. “We thought it might be best if you were the one…”

Kiedron takes the pouch and extracts a leather spring ring on which are three keys, all similar. The lock opens to the second key.

“Let me, ser,” suggests Jhalet. “Just in case.” He takes out his belt knife, one with an ornate carved hilt, possibly mother-of-pearl, Lerial notes. Then he uses the tip to lift the lid of the chest, standing as far back as he can.

In the ironbound box are hundreds, if not thousands, of golds.

For several moments, none of the three speaks.

“It must be an inheritance or a gift he kept secret.” Kiedron looks to Jhelat. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, ser. It must be.”

Kiedron frowns. “He has no children, does he? I know he never took a consort … but…”

“None that anyone knows of.”

“Then it would be appropriate if the golds were held and a set amount given to the widows of Mirror Lancers killed in service, would it not?” suggests the Duke. “As a tribute to the majer’s service?”

“Yes, ser,” agrees Jhalet.

Lerial looks at the other keys, wondering what chests they might open and where they are. Will we ever know? He has his doubts.

“You will make arrangements for him,” says Kiedron to the submajer, “and let us know?”

“Yes, ser. Will you take custody of the chest?”

“I think not. It belongs to the Mirror Lancers. Have the golds counted by you and two other trusted officers and kept in the Lancer strong room with a separate ledger for each disbursement. Say … ten golds for an officer’s widow, or young children, if his wife is dead, and five for a ranker.”