L. Modesitt - Cyador’s Heirs

“We do, but only enough for Kinaar. The barley takes too much space for us to grow more.”

Lerial is pondering that, given that there seems to be plenty of land, when Altyrn and his father step out onto the terrace. As Kiedron approaches the terrace table, Maeroja rises, and so do Lerial and the three girls.

“It’s an honor and a pleasure to see you again, Lord Kiedron,” Maeroja offers.

“It’s my pleasure as well. It’s not often I can dine with just a family, other than my own.”

Lerial can sense the truth of his father’s words, and he cannot help but wonder how much he does not know about what has occurred involving the majer and his wife … and his father.

“It’s still our pleasure,” adds Altyrn. “You have had a long day. Perhaps we should adjourn to the dinner table?”

“That might be for the best. I will need to leave quite early tomorrow.”

The dining chamber is off the terrace, but has three sets of wide sliding doors that are open so that the chamber shares the cool of the courtyard. On colder evenings, Lerial imagines that they are closed. Altyrn seats Kiedron at the head of the table, with Maeroja to his left, then takes the place to the Duke’s right. Lerial is seated beside Maeroja, with Rojana beside her father, and the middle daughter, Tyrna, to Lerial’s right, and Aylana beside Rojana.

Once everyone is seated and a serving maid fills each goblet, Altyrn raises his. “To the Duke, Lord Kiedron, without whom Cigoerne would not be.”

“I’ll only drink to that, if I can reply that I wouldn’t be here without you,” answers Kiedron, lifting his own goblet.

Altyrn does not offer a demurral, Lerial notes, but adds, “To what has come to pass.” He glances across at his wife, who smiles.

Once more Lerial feels that there is much passing by him, but he drinks with the others, and after a moment lifts his goblet of lager. “Might I offer thanks to Majer Altyrn and his lady for their kindness in taking me in to teach me what I must learn?”

“You may indeed,” says Kiedron, his words warm.

After that toast, Maeroja says, “The dinner tonight is simple, but one you have always enjoyed.”

“It wouldn’t be the roasted fowl and mushrooms, with glazed lace potatoes, would it?”

Both Altyrn and Maeroja laugh, if softly.

As the server dishes out the main course to Kiedron-Lerial notes that there is no appetizer or salad-the Duke looks to Rojana. “You’ve grown quite a lot since I was last here, and you take after your mother, not that you wouldn’t look good taking after your father … but I do think that gray hair looks better on him.”

The girls all smile.

He’s never joked that way at table in Cigoerne.

“I would guess that Lerial takes more after your sister, with the red hair,” observes Maeroja.

“He does, in that and other ways. That’s one of the reasons I thought some time with you might do him good.”

“How is she?” asks Altyrn.

“She’s well, and I don’t know what the healers in Cigoerne would do without her…”

For a time, the conversation remains firmly away from personal observations, if ranging from the weather to timbering, the possibility of Meroweyan raiders, and the ambitions of the Duke of Heldya.

Then Kiedron asks, “How is the kiln working these days?”

“There are some who want bricks every year. We fire it up when times are slower in the fields.”

“What about our venture?”

What venture? Lerial is not about to ask, but he listens intently.

“We sold some ten stones worth last year. Half of that went to pay off the ironmages who made the threading machine and … well, and the interest, because we had to borrow from the moneylenders in Swartheld to pay the ironmages, but it can handle ten times that much, and it will be years before we can produce that much. We also needed more kettles.”

“You’re getting … what?”

Altyrn glances to Maeroja.

She nods.

“A hundred a stone.”

A hundred what a stone? Lerial wonders. Coppers, silvers, golds? It must be coppers or silvers. What could possibly cost a hundred golds for a stone’s worth? A half-yearling lamb cost between five coppers and a silver, and a yearling colt between three and five golds. For a hundred golds, his father could almost supply an entire squad of Lancers with mounts and gear … well … not completely, but close.

“You’re going to expand?” asks Kiedron.

“We’re working on it. We’ll need more trees.”

Kiedron nods, but does not ask more, and the conversation reverts to more on the weather and the likelihood of famine in parts of Heldya and Merowey.

Dessert consists of a fried molasses sweetcake, followed by tiny glasses of a sweet white wine. Lerial has to admit that the wine, as dessert, isn’t bad.

Before long he is walking with the majer and his father out to the front entrance of the villa, where two Lancers wait for the Duke.

At the entry, Kiedron turns to his son. “I expect you to obey the majer and learn from the experience, Lerial.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Good.” Kiedron nods, then adds quietly, “Just be careful.” Then he turns abruptly, walks toward his horse, and mounts. In moments, he and the Lancers are largely lost in the dimness of late evening.

Just be careful. The concern in those words confuses Lerial, because he’s seldom heard that from his father. He stands there, watching, until he can make out no sign of the riders. Then he turns.

Altyrn has waited. “He does care, you know? He just feels he can’t show it.”

Then why has he brought me here?

“You’ll understand in time,” adds the majer, almost as if Lerial has spoken. “You probably need a good night’s sleep. Morning comes early. I’d suggest wearing the work clothes and your worst boots.”

“Yes, ser.”

Altyrn closes and bars the main entry door, and the two walk back toward the courtyard terrace.

On threeday morning, before sunrise when the sky is as much gray as greenish-blue, there is a rap on his door.

“Time to get up,” calls a girl’s voice.

Lerial struggles out of sleep, then sits up … and finds that every muscle is his body feels stiff and sore. In the dimness, he struggles into the work clothes and boots, washes his face, and finally makes his way downstairs. He is the last one to the breakfast room … where the girls are already eating. All three are dressed in faded brown trousers and long-sleeved shirts.

“A little stiff from all that riding?” asks Altyrn.

“A bit more than a little, ser,” replies Lerial.

“Nothing like a good breakfast and some exercise to take care of that,” says Maeroja. She gestures toward the empty chair at the table. “Are you better with a shovel or a hoe?”

How is he supposed to answer that? He’s never used either. After a moment, he replies, “I suspect I’m equally bad with either.”

“You’ve trained with wands,” says Altyrn. “You’ll be better with a shovel. You and I and Rojana will be working with the crew extending the ditches for the meadow we’ll be switching to growing more mulberries.”

Mulberries? Lerial has heard of mulberries, but never tasted one. “How do they taste?” He slides into the chair beside Rojana.

All the girls smile.

Lerial has the feeling that mulberries are not something that people eat, but, if that’s so, why is Altyrn going to grow more of them?

“They’re not bad in a pie, especially if you thicken the filling and add raisins,” replies Maeroja. “Do you remember shimmercloth?”

“Grandmother had a scarf and a blouse of it.”