L. Modesitt - Cyador’s Heirs

“Dinner, I won’t refuse, but I need to meet with Captain Graessyr before that.”

“In two glasses, then?”

“I’ll be here.” Kiedron looks to Lerial. “I’ll leave you in Majer Altyrn’s most capable hands and will see you at dinner.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Good.” Kiedron smiles, then inclines his head, and turns his mount back toward the waiting squad.

Lerial watches his father until he and the squad are well on the way back to the river road, then turns to the majer, who has not said a word. “I’m sorry, ser.”

Altyrn smiles, an expression that is both enigmatic and sad, all at once, before saying, “I understand.” He points toward the lane leading around the north end of the villa. “This way.” Then he walks beside the gelding as Lerial eases him forward. “The first building on the right is the quarters for the unattached men who work here. The second is the stable. The third is the barn, and the fourth holds quarters for the unattached women. There’s a line of cots on the south side for the couples and families who work here. The other buildings to the west are the livestock sheds.”

Lerial does his best to try to recall exactly what the majer has said, then asks, “What sort of livestock? Father didn’t tell me much.”

“He always has been closemouthed. That’s a good trait for a ruler, not quite so good for a parent, I’ve discovered.”

Lerial glances at the walls of the villa, noting that while there are numerous first-level windows, they are all narrow and tall-too narrow for anyone to squeeze through. “He gives short answers to questions, too.”

The majer nods. “That’s a habit hard to break.”

The area between the outbuildings on the north side of the villa and the villa itself is also brick paved, and there is a simple fountain midway between the villa and the stable, where water flows from a spout into a circular basin. Lerial assumes that there must be some piping somewhere that drains the excess so that the fountain does not flood the paved area that strikes him almost as a courtyard without walls.

Lerial dismounts outside the stable, then leads the gelding inside, following the majer, who steps through the wide stable door and points.

“The third stall on the right is yours. You have to groom your mount … you do know how to do that, don’t you?”

“Yes, ser. Father insisted on that.” If not that often. Lerial pauses, surprised that the stable has a brick-paved floor. The only other stable he has seen with such a floor is the one serving the palace, not that he has been in more than a handful of stables. “I only have a travel brush.”

“There are brushes in the tack room. You’re also responsible for feeding your mount and cleaning the stall every day. I’d suggest first thing in the morning and late in the afternoon or early evening, but that’s up to you. The soiled straw and offage go into the old cart on the side of the stable. The shovel, the pitchfork, and an old broom are on the peg racks over there. Put them back clean whenever you aren’t using them.”

“Yes, ser.” Lerial hasn’t had to clean a stall, but he has watched the palace stable boys do just that.

“The feed barrels are in the storeroom beside the tack room, but you’ll have to carry water from the outside fountain. When you finish unsaddling and dealing with your mount, we’ll get your kit to your room, and then I’ll show you around.”

Somehow Lerial finds that the whole process of unsaddling the gelding, racking the saddle and blanket, and grooming the gelding takes longer than he recalls. He does remember to check the gelding’s hooves, but he sees no stones or cracks, and the shoes look sound. He makes his way to the fountain through the late-afternoon heat that feels hotter than it probably is because there is no breeze at all. He half fills the bucket from the stall, then frowns and pours a little out. The gelding will be thirsty, but he is not that hot, because the pace from Brehaal had been deliberate. Still …

He carries the water bucket back to the stable and watches as the gelding drinks. Then he finds a grain barrel and half fills the feed bucket in the stall. By then, his undertunic is soaked, and sweat pours off his forehead

Finally, he closes the wooden stall half door, lifts his kit bag, and walks from the stable toward the courtyard fountain, where the majer has appeared, as if he had known when Lerial would finish.

“Maeroja and the girls will likely be in the courtyard, enjoying the cool.” Altyrn looks at Lerial. “You could use that as well.”

“It’s hotter here than in Cigoerne, and there’s no breeze today.”

“There usually is, but it’s been drier and calmer this summer. We’ve had to use more water from the Lynaar. That was one reason why I wanted these lands, and your grandmother and father were kind enough to grant them.”

“I don’t see any ditches…”

“I put them underground, and they leave the river farther uphill. That way there’s pressure for the fountains and the water’s cleaner.”

Lerial hadn’t thought about either, but he nods.

The north entry to the villa is just a simple recessed arch with a single ironbound door, but as Altryn opens it Lerial can see that the wood is thick, and the back is also ironbound with a double set of brackets for bars. Once they are inside, the majer immediately closes the door.

“We leave the shutters closed and don’t dally with the doors until it’s late in the evening and it’s cooler outside.”

While Lerial would not have called the wide corridor especially cold, the air is definitely cooler inside the villa.

“Most of the dayrooms are down on the ground level-the library, the winter dining room, my study, Maeroja’s study. There are root cellars and storage areas below. The kitchen is on the west end…”

Lerial listens.

The corridor is not that long, no more than ten yards before they walk through an open door and into a center square courtyard. A roof that extends some four yards from the villa runs all the way around the courtyard, creating a covered terrace that surrounds the center fountain, which contains four sprays, each one situated so that it geysers into the air opposite the middle of each wall. A walk runs from each spray to the terrace, and between the four walks are four small gardens. The one that is to Lerial’s immediate right, as he follows Altyrn to the left, appears to contain miniature fruit trees.

“Maeroja is quite the gardener … and quite the grower. I just listen to her.”

Lerial is certain that is something his father would never have said. “How did you meet her?”

“Did you mean to ask if she happens to be local?” Altyrn’s voice is dry.

Lerial is so taken aback that he blurts out, “I never even thought of that.”

Abruptly, Altyrn laughs. “Good for you.” Then he glances toward the woman and the three girls who stand waiting for them just around the corner of the courtyard. He shakes his head. “The girls actually put on dresses. I haven’t seen them that fancied up in eightdays.”

Since Lerial’s sister and cousin are younger, and since his mother and aunt are healers, he can’t recall, offhand, seeing many dresses around the palace in Cigoerne.

The majer stops short of his family. “Lerial, might I present my wife, Maeroja, and my daughters, Rojana, Tyrna, and Aylana?”

Lerial sets down his kit and inclines his head. “I’m honored to meet all of you, and I do appreciate your kindness in allowing me to be here.” Even though he suspects that the majer may not have had that much choice, his father would not have imposed if the majer had not been at least somewhat willing.

“We’re the ones who are honored,” replies Maeroja.