L. Modesitt - Cyador’s Heirs

Since the sun is barely above the horizon and below the roofs of Cigoerne, Lerial cannot see it, except when they ride past the east-west streets that run toward the river. He wants to ask his father what he had been talking over with the undercaptain, who had looked rather concerned, but decides against that. Instead he asks, “Who is the undercaptain? I’ve only seen him from a distance, and I don’t recall meeting him.”

“That’s Undercaptain Helkhar. Majer Phortyn thinks most highly of him.”

“He seems most diligent.”

“That he is. He is perhaps overconcerned with our safety.”

Lerial immediately understands and keeps his voice low as he asks, “That the Duke of Cigoerne is riding so far with only one squad of Lancers?”

Kiedron nods. “We’re well within the duchy, and having a larger escort would only reduce the number of Lancers available to deal with raiders and poachers.”

“Are there more because of the poor harvests in Merowey and Afrit?”

“There seem to be more. That might be the reason.”

From his father’s tone, Lerial can tell that Kiedron has said all that he is likely to, and the last thing Lerial wants to do is upset him again. “Thank you, ser.”

“You’re welcome.”

Lerial wonders what else might be happening, especially with Afrit, but he decides against doing so until they have ridden well away from the city. Instead he concentrates on observing the road, since he has only ridden for little more than a glass along it in the past. Perhaps three kays beyond where the city seems to end, if the end of close-set houses and the beginning of small cots on plots of land marks such a point, the road roughly follows the western side of a large stream or very small river, no more than six or seven yards across. If the maps are correct, the river is the Lynaar, and Teilyn sits north and west of where it flows out of the Wooded Ridges.

It is well past midmorning, after two brief stops to water the mounts and take a break, before Lerial asks another question. “Might I ask what I should know about Majer Altyrn besides the fact that he was the officer in charge of the Mirror Lancers who accompanied you and Grandmother, and Aunt Emerya on the Kerial from Cyador to Cigoerne?”

“You might. He was the most senior officer in the Mirror Lancers from the time he left Cyador until he took a stipend. Your grandmother insisted I promote him to commander before that happened. I did, but everyone still calls him Majer Altyrn.”

“Why?”

“That was his request, because, until recently, we never have had as many Lancers as would have been commanded by more than a majer, not back in Cyador.”

“We have more than fifteen companies, you said. That’s close to two thousand Lancers, and that doesn’t count the trainees or those you could call up.”

Kiedron nods. “In Cyador, five companies comprised a battalion, and a battalion was usually commanded by a submajer, but sometimes by an overcaptain. Majers often commanded entire outposts patrolling hundreds of kays, sometimes over a thousand Lancers.”

“But wasn’t the Emperor Lorn only a majer when he ascended the Malachite Throne?” Lerial knows this to be true, but phrases it as a question.

“That was an unusual time. He was never even the second or third in command of the Mirror Lancers. He was named the heir to the throne by the Emperor Toziel. Toziel had no blood heirs.”

“What about Alyiakal?”

“He was captain-commander of the Mirror Lancers and took the throne when the previous Emperor and his entire family perished. That is why Toziel designated Lorn as heir. Cyador must always have an heir.”

Cyador must have an heir-not always had to have an heir. That puzzles Lerial, perhaps even more than the fact that Alyiakal has never been well regarded by the Magi’i, although Saltaryn has admitted to him that some histories had suggested Alyiakal could have been a magus, but that his talents lay more on the order side, and for that reason he followed his family tradition as a Mirror Lancer. Did he have a choice? Based on what has happened to himself already, Lerial has some doubts. But Alyiakal surmounted all that and ruled Cyador .

By a glass past midday, Lerial can see that the Lynaar is markedly narrower, showing a width of five yards, although the stream does look deeper than it was closer to the city. The fields do not stretch as far to the west as they did, and the grasses that are already beginning to brown are shorter than those to the north. Some of the land used for pasture bears the mark of having been overgrazed, as well, and that concerns Lerial, although, again, he does not make that observation to his father.

“Where will we be stopping tonight?” asks Lerial.

“We have another three glasses to go. Are you getting saddle sore?”

“No, ser. I just wondered, because you hadn’t said.”

“We’ll be stopping at Brehaal. There’s a Lancer post there. More of a way station for the dispatch riders, but there are bunks enough and officers’ quarters and a good spring. The town … well, you’ll see.”

Some three and a half glasses later, Lerial does indeed see.

Brehaal appears to consist of a score of dwellings, few of which he would call houses, and some of which are less than cots, scattered not quite randomly on a low flattened rise to the west of the river road. Several modestly large buildings are dug into the north side of the rise. All the buildings have lanes that join a road leading straight to the river road. Between at least two of the buildings is a smooth expanse of polished stone, and above the stone surface are what appear to be long lines of tables. Beyond the dwellings stretch short, almost scrubby trees, with ditches between them.

Lerial looks at the trees more closely, then realizes that there are two types. As they ride closer, he recognizes one kind, but not the other. Finally, he turns in the saddle. “Ser … I can see the apricot trees … but I don’t recognize the other.”

Kiedron’s laugh is almost kindly. “You wouldn’t. Those are young olive trees. It’s likely to be another ten years before those bear sufficient fruit.”

“But…?”

“Who would plant trees that take more than twenty years to mature? And why? Your grandmother. Olives are good to eat, and the oil is useful in many ways. It makes a bright lamp flame also.”

“Then these are your lands?”

Kiedron nods. “Someone has to plant for the future, and not just the present. You and Lephi and your children will benefit.”

As his father talks, Lerial realizes the tables set on the stone pavement must be drying tables for the apricots. “Is this where the apricots you sell to the Heldyan traders come from?”

“From here and from some lands near Narthyl.” Kiedron gestures ahead. “There’s the Lancer post.”

Past the dwellings and well past the fruit barns, on the south end of the rise at the right side of the road and facing the stream, is the outpost. Barely visible above a wall-likely mud brick covered with a white clay plaster-is a long structure with a single set of gates. The walls around the building and its courtyard look to be less than fifty yards on a side.

Lerial understands, now, what his father had meant when he’d said little about the town of Brehaal. That fills him with foreboding, since Teilyn is another half day’s ride and even farther from Cigoerne.

Well before noon on twoday, Lerial’s legs and buttocks ache, even though they did not leave Brehaal until well after seventh glass, and his back twinges now and then, but he isn’t about to say anything. More time passes before he can make out the line of hills ahead that must be the Wooded Ridges. Directly before him, on his right, are fields with rows of some sort of green plants that are no more than waist-high. Cots are scattered here and there.