L. Modesitt - Cyador’s Heirs

Lerial sighs, loudly and for effect.

“You don’t do that well.”

“Sighing, you mean?”

“What else would I mean?”

He shakes his head and starts to dig through a clump of tough and wiry grass.

Almost half a glass passes before Rojana pauses and asks, “Was your grandmother as fearsome as they say?”

“I never thought so. She was determined, and what she said was usually what happened.” At least until a few days before she died. “How did your parents meet?”

“I don’t know,” Rojana confesses. “I’ve asked Mother, but she just said that it was something that was meant to happen.”

“But she’s not from around Cigoerne or from around here. She doesn’t look like anyone I’ve ever seen.” Lerial realizes that what he’s said isn’t coming out the way he intended. “I mean … she’s beautiful…” That’s not any better. He flushes. “Nothing I’m saying is coming out right. But do you…?”

“I understand. She is pretty. I’m glad I look more like her. She comes from Heldya, but that’s all I know.”

“You don’t know your grandparents, then?”

Rojana shook her head, then lifted another spadeful of dirt from the bottom of the trench. “Father’s parents had already died when he came to Hamor, and neither of them talk about Mother’s. What about you? Besides your grandfather who was Emperor?”

“I told you about my grandmother. My mother’s parents died after they came to Cigoerne. That was the year when so many died of the flux.”

“Your mother’s a healer. Why couldn’t she do something?”

“She had the flux herself, and she was with child. My aunt was in Narthyl, tending to all the Lancers that had been wounded in the first big attack by the Heldyans.” After a moment, Lerial added, “There aren’t that many healers, just like there aren’t that many Magi’i who are strong mages … or white wizards.”

“Can you throw chaos, the way they say the white wizards can?”

Lerial shakes his head, then considers. “I can light a candle or a lamp with chaos. I’ve never tried more. My tutor said I shouldn’t try without a magus nearby.”

“Could you be a healer?”

“Men aren’t healers.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Could you be … “My aunt said I might … well … she didn’t actually say that, but she showed me some of the things that healers can do.”

“Why couldn’t you heal your hands, then?”

“Can you lift your boots when you’re standing and your feet are in them? Healing’s sort of the same thing. A healer uses her own strength to use order against the chaos that grows in wounds or in the body when it has a flux. Using your own strength to try to heal your own injuries would weaken you in other places in your body.” Or something like that. Lerial thought he’d remembered what Emerya had told him.

“Oh … that makes sense.” After a moment, Rojana adds, “There aren’t any real healers here in Teilyn.”

“There aren’t?” That surprises Lerial, but as he thinks it over, he realizes it shouldn’t. There are only a handful of good healers in the city of Cigoerne, and it’s far bigger than Teilyn.

“The Magi’i don’t like to live away from Cigoerne. That’s what Father says.”

“… and most healers are from the Magi’i,” concludes Lerial. “That doesn’t mean that there can’t be healers and Magi’i born from parents who aren’t Magi’i. Alyiakal’s father was a Mirror Lancer.”

“Who’s Alyiakal?”

“He was one of the great Emperors of Cyador. Some of the great healers didn’t even have altage parents. That’s what my aunt says.”

“I’ll bet they all consorted Mirror Lancers or men who were Magi’i.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s true.”

“How do you know that?”

“How do you know it’s not?”

Lerial starts to retort, then stops. After several moments, he finally says, “You’re right. I don’t know that it’s not true.”

Rojana grins.

“We’d better get back to digging.” Lerial shifts his grip on the shovel.

Shortly after midday, Altyrn calls them to a meal under one of the olive trees in an adjoining orchard, if bread and cheese washed down with juice for Rojana and lager for Lerial count as a meal. The three sit in the shade as they finish their fare.

“You two have been working hard,” says the majer.

“It’s the only way we’ll get done, ser,” replies Lerial.

“That’s true … but it’s dangerous to look at things that way. People who just want to get done with whatever they’re doing often don’t do a good job. You two are working hard and well. That’s good.”

“Thank you, ser.” Lerial is embarrassed to say that, but not to acknowledge the compliment would be discourteous.

“Why is digging an irrigation ditch well a good thing?” This time, Altyrn looks to his daughter.

“Doing anything well is better than doing it badly.”

Altyrn laughs. “Those are my words coming back to me. Why is doing something well worth it, even if the work is unrecognized or if time will undo it?”

Rojana glances at Lerial, but does not speak.

“Lerial?” prods the majer.

“I think that it’s important. I don’t have the words to explain it.”

“You might try.”

“Ser … I…” Lerial shrugs helplessly.

“You need to think about it. I’ll give you a hint. What remains of Cyad, once the mightiest city in the world?”

“Nothing,” rejoins Rojana.

“Exactly. Think about it.” Altyrn rises. “Time to get back to work.”

Throughout the afternoon, at least occasionally, Lerial considers Altyrn’s question. If all work, even the greatest works, are doomed to fall and be forgotten, why does it matter for him-or anyone-to do a good job, especially of digging a ditch?

He feels as though the answer to that question should be obvious, and yet, he cannot come up with a response that satisfies him.

For Lerial, fiveday isn’t much different from fourday, and neither is sixday, just more digging, followed by more digging. Lerial finds that his hands, with the help of Maeroja’s anointment and the heavy gloves, are both recovering and toughening, and his pale skin has actually tanned somewhat, with the help of the ointment. He still has no answer to Altyrn’s question, and certainly not one with which he is personally satisfied, but the majer does not ask or even remind him of the question.

Why is doing something well important when in the end nothing is left? Those weren’t Altyrn’s words, but his question had amounted to the same thing. But did they?

Much as Lerial pushes the question away, it keeps coming back into his thoughts, as do other thoughts, such as why the majer even asked the question.

“Have you had to dig this much before?” Lerial finally asks Rojana sometime before midday on sixday, setting down his shovel for a moment.

“No. Father insists that we must know how to do everything on the lands.” Her face turns sober. “I told him that I didn’t want to work in the cocoonery. It’s boring and tedious work, and everyone there … they’re all women, and all you do is make sure that the worms aren’t too cold or too hot and cut leaves and make sure that there are plenty of leaves in close to each one. If any die, you have to make sure they are dead and lift them out and clean up where they were.”

“It does sound tedious … but so is digging ditches.”

Rojana sets a spadeful of dirt from the bottom of the ditch on the edge, lays down her shovel, and uses the wooden template gauge to check the depth and width of the trench. “It’s outside, and it doesn’t smell as much. I don’t mind teasing the silk strands out of the cocoons. That’s tedious, but you can see where everything’s going.”