L. Modesitt - Cyador’s Heirs

As Lerial looks at Maeroja, she seems to be only a few years older than he is, but he has to doubt that, since the tallest girl is less than half a head shorter than he is, suggesting she is close to his age. Maeroja is also, he realizes, rather striking, with jet-black hair, a slightly tanned skin, and penetrating blue eyes. Her smile is warm, but … unsettling, almost ironic, he thinks. He almost stammers, but manages to respond. “Not … from what I see. I’m the one most honored.”

Altyrn smiles, then says to his wife, “Lord Kiedron will be returning for dinner in little more than a glass.”

“We will be ready.” Maeroja turns her eyes on Lerial. “I thought the girls could show you to your chamber, and you might wish to wash up before rejoining us for something cool to drink before dinner.”

“I would appreciate that very much.”

“Rojana … if you would show Lerial?”

The tallest girl, who has her mother’s complexion and hair, but her father’s gray eyes, smiles. “Lord Lerial…”

“Lerial … please. I’m just a younger son.”

“This way…” Rojana turns and walks south to the corridor in the middle of the east side of the villa, then steps inside.

Lerial can see that the corridor continues to the main entrance and a circular entry hall, although the light is dim, yet Rojana does not continue toward the hall, but heads up the narrow steps, open on one side except for a railing. Lerial picks up his bag and follows her. The two other girls trail him.

At the top of the steps Rojana pauses, then walks back toward the courtyard along a hallway directly above the one below. “Everyone’s chambers overlook the courtyard. The upper balcony goes all the way around it.” She turns right at the balcony and follows it around until she stops at a door just past midway along the north side of the villa’s upper level.

“This is your chamber. It has a small washroom through the door. There are two buckets to bring up water. You can get cool water from either the outside fountain or the spout beside the fountains in the courtyard. Later we can show you the upper cistern that holds warmer water. It’s on the roof balcony. We did fill the tub and buckets for you this time. There is a drain for the waste water.”

“Where does it go?”

“The pipes take it to the ditch that serves the front meadow.”

Since Rojana does not open the door, Lerial depresses the door handle and pushes the door open. He steps inside, and she follows. Her sisters do not. The chamber is long, some seven yards, he judges, but only four wide. There are three long and narrow windows set in the north wall, about twice as wide as those on the lower level, and one on each side of the door from the balcony. The furnishings are simple and sparse-a single bed, a doorless armoire, a dresser with three drawers, a flat-topped storage chest at the foot of the bed, a narrow bedside table, and a writing table-desk and a chair. There is one wall lamp suspended from a brass arm and a lamp on the table-desk.

“This is very nice,” he says, nodding to Rojana. “Thank you.”

“There’s also a set of work trousers and a work shirt in the armoire. Papa said he hopes they’re close enough to fit you, but he didn’t want you spoiling riding clothes working with him.”

Lerial manages to stifle a rueful smile. The majer has used his daughter to deliver a tactful announcement of what awaits him. “That is thoughtful. I didn’t bring anything like that.”

“Mother thought you wouldn’t.” That comes from the youngest girl, who stands in the doorway, a serious expression on her face.

“Your mother was right,” replies Lerial.

Rojana eases back to the door. “Is there anything else you need?”

“I wouldn’t think so, but I’ll let you know if there is.”

After the three leave, Lerial closes the door, then carries his kit bag to the chest, where he places it and opens it. First, he unpacks and places his garments in either the armoire or the dresser, setting aside a clean set for dinner. Then he disrobes, washes and shaves, although that takes little time, given that his beard is still fine and uneven. Before dressing in his own garments, he does try on the work clothes. They fit, although they are a shade large.

Less than half a glass later, dressed in clean clothes, he leaves his chambers and retraces his steps back down to the courtyard.

As he nears the majer and his family, gathered around a large circular table under the terrace roof, Lerial can’t help but overhear a few words between the girls.

“… said he wouldn’t take long…”

“… because you like him…”

“Ssshh!”

Lerial keeps a straight face as he stops short of the table. “Thank you. The quarters are lovely.” “Lovely” isn’t really the right word, but “more than ample” sounds condescending, and “adequate” would be arrogant. “Perfect” would be an obvious exaggeration.

“We hope so,” replies Maeroja. “Your rooms are the same as those of Rojana, and all the chambers are similar.”

“I do appreciate them.” He turns to the majer. “And the work clothes.”

“Good. Working here can be a dirty business.” Altyrn gestures to the chair to his left, with an empty mug before it. “You can sit down.”

“Would you like lager, ale, or redberry?” asks Maeroja, gesturing to the three large pitchers in the center of the wooden table.

“Lager, please.”

“That’s the pitcher with the gold stripe.”

From that, Lerial understands that he is to pour his own … and he does so.

“How was the ride?” asks Altyrn.

“Long. I’m not used to that much time in the saddle. But it was interesting. I’ve never been this far south.”

“It’s different, and it’s not … just like most places.”

“Dear … don’t be quite so obscure,” suggests Maeroja with a gentle laugh.

“By that,” adds Altyrn, “I meant that people don’t change much in what they feel, but how they express it may be very different. That’s one way of looking at it.”

At that moment, a young man in a tan shirt and shorts emerges from the corridor leading from the main entry door. “Ser … Lord Kiedron is approaching.”

“Thank you, Rhewen.” The majer stands and looks at Maeroja and Lerial. “I’ll greet him myself.”

Since no one else moves as Altyrn leaves, Lerial remains with Maeroja and the girls, although he feels awkward doing so … but the majer’s words had been a command of sorts.

“He does have a way of making his wishes known without stating them,” Maeroja says to Lerial, her tone matter-of-fact.

“I’m gaining that impression, Lady.”

While the majer’s wife does not flush, Lerial can tell that his salutation has embarrassed her, but what else could he call her. Not to address her would be presumptuous, if not rude.

“If you must address me,” she says with a slight twist to her lips, “‘Maeroja’ might be better.”

“I did not wish to presume,” he replies gently.

“That would not be presumptuous.” She smiles softly. “I do appreciate the honor, undeserved as it is.”

After those words, Lerial is the one trying not to blush.

“How old are you?” asks the youngest girl.

“Almost sixteen,” he answers, adding, “Aylana,” as he finally recalls her name.

“You don’t look that old. You’re thin, too.”

“That’s likely one reason why I’m here. My father wants me to learn things from your father.”

“You’ll learn,” says Rojana. “Father will see to that.”

Both her sisters nod.

“Enough, girls.” But there is a trace of an amusement behind Maeroja’s words.

Lerial takes a careful swallow of the lager, darker than he would prefer, and, after swallowing it, he finds it is likely also stronger and a shade more bitter. Still … he would prefer lager to ale … and definitely to redberry. “Do you brew your own lager and ale?”