L. Modesitt - Cyador’s Heirs

“Will she keep working in the morning as well?”

“She may be doing different tasks at times. That all depends on what is necessary, and what the lands require. Even rulers, if they wish to be successful, must understand what their lands require. This morning, you’ll both be helping with the barley harvest.”

Helping with the barley harvest doesn’t sound that bad to Lerial, and better than digging. “Yes, ser.”

Altyrn turns and beckons to Rojana, who walks to join them. “You’ll need hay rakes. You two will follow the men with the scythes and rake the cut stalks into neat piles. Try to keep the heads of the grain in each pile in the same place. I’ll show you how once we get to the field…” Altyrn goes on to explain as he leads Lerial and Rojana across the paved space behind the villa.

Lerial glances to the south, where he can just make out the hillside grapevines-the ones that supply the grapes for the raisins … and for some small amount of wine, or so the majer has said.

Altyrn stops at the small equipment building, where he steps inside and then returns with two wooden rakes. He hands one to Rojana and the other to Lerial.

Even the teeth are wood, Lerial notes.

“You’ll have to rake firmly, but gently. If you break the teeth, you’ll have to spend time in the evening cutting and carving a new rake head.” With that, Altyrn turns and continues westward.

The sound that comes from the cocoonery as they pass is like rain, although Lerial cannot imagine rain falling inside that shed, much as he has learned that the sound is that of thousands of silkworms chewing mulberry leaves. “It’s hard to believe they’re so noisy,” he murmurs to Rojana.

“Before long they’ll start spinning their cocoons. Then you won’t hear anything. It still smells.”

Rojana and Lerial follow Altyrn down a narrow lane past the north side of the new mulberry orchard, with mostly brown pasture to the right, before reaching a field of golden tan grain. Three men with scythes have begun to work, their scythes moving in unison as they walk and cut the stalks, leaving the fallen grain, still on its stalks, and stubble only a few digits high.

“If you’ll hand me your rake, Lerial…”

Lerial does.

“This is what I want from you…” Altyrn demonstrates, using a firm but gentle motion to gather the stalks sideways, so that each line of stalks ends up essentially as an unbound bundle. “Aylana, Tyrna, and I will gather these into the cart. Once everything is gathered, we’ll take the sheaves to the threshing barn. Lerial, you’ll be alternating turning the threshing drum with me and the other men, but we won’t be doing that until it’s all cut and in the barn. That will take several days.”

“How many fields have to be cut and gathered?” asks Lerial.

“Five about this size,” replies Altyn.

“That’s what it takes just to make the lager?”

“For about twenty-five people for a year, yes, with enough left to sell maybe ten barrels, except we sell it in kegs, not barrels.”

Lerial is still thinking about that long after he has begun to rake the stalks of grain into the loose sheaves or bundles. It is harder than Altyrn has made it look, far harder. His only consolation is that Rojana appears to be having the same difficulties.

“It’s harder than it looks,” he finally says.

“Father has a way of making things look easy. They aren’t.”

By midday, Lerial has discovered that barley raking is just as hard as digging, if in a different way, and there are muscles in his shoulders that ache. He is more than glad to surrender his rake to one of the women who works on the majer’s lands, and is struck by how easy she also makes the rake-gathering look.

He has to hurry to catch up to Rojana and Altyrn.

“You both can have some lager and bread and cheese before you start your afternoon lessons.”

They eat at the courtyard table not far from the fountain. Lerial appreciates the coolness brought by the spray, although there is so little breeze that the comparative cool barely reaches where they sit.

As Lerial takes a last swallow of lager, Altyrn clears his throat, then speaks. “Lerial, we’ll begin with sparring. I’d like to see what you know … and what you don’t. After that, we’ll see about your other skills with arms. Lessons after that.” He looks to his eldest daughter. “Rojana … I expect more attention in your history studies. Few women…”

“Few women have such opportunities away from Cigoerne. I know, Father.”

“You know, you say, daughter, but how can things change if women like you do not know both the good and the evils of the past.” Abruptly, Altyrn addresses Lerial. “Why did an Empress never rule Cyador? Cyador, not Cigoerne.”

“Ah … there were always male heirs.”

“There were not. Both Alyiakal and Lorn had no imperial blood. Not that we know, anyway. There may have been others whose blood was not as it was supposed to be. That’s not something we’ll ever know.” Altyrn pauses. “Why were there no Empresses who ruled? Did your magus tutor not address that question?”

“Ah … no, ser. Custom?” Lorn ventures.

“Custom, indeed. We have women who are ironmages. Why are none of them called magus? They have the same talents as a magus, and some are more skilled in handling chaos than many men who are Magi’i. Your own grandsire had almost no ability as a magus, yet he was considered of the Magi’i.”

“Another custom, ser?”

“Why such a custom?” Altyrn looks back to Rojana. “And why did the Emperor Lephi decree that women who were not ironmages should wear either chains or the wristbands of a healer?”

“He did that?” Lerial blurts out the question unthinkingly.

“He did indeed. Can either of you think why all that might be so?”

“Men didn’t want women to have power,” declares Rojana. “Is that it?”

“We don’t know. We’ll never know.” Altyrn smiles, an expression ironic, yet warm. “So why are questions like that important … if we can’t ever know?”

Lerial looks to Rojana. She offers an enigmatic smile, one that instantly recalls to him that her mother has the same expression. The enigmatic similarity so disconcerts him that, for a moment, he forgets the majer’s question.

“You have no thoughts on that?” presses Altyrn. “Either of you?”

Lerial wrenches his attention back to the majer and throws out the first thing that comes to mind. “If we don’t know, that’s because no one thought of asking the question … or, if they did, they were too afraid to ask.”

Altyrn actually looks stunned, if but for an instant. Then he smiles. “That’s an excellent answer! And it’s likely true. There are two reasons I can think of why obvious questions like that are never asked. The first is what you said. Can you think of the second?”

Lerial cannot.

Rojana does not speak either.

“The other is because the question does not occur to anyone. Why does the sun rise?”

Lerial blinks. “It always has.”

“Why? Will it always do so? People don’t ask questions, or stop asking questions, when they feel they can’t do anything about something … or they don’t want to.” The majer shakes his head and laughs softly. “You two will have me talking all afternoon. Think about questions, though. And, Lerial, have you an answer as to why we should do tasks well when no one will remember or nothing will remain?”

“No, ser. I’ve thought about that. I don’t have an answer that makes sense.”

The majer nods, then turns to Rojana. “Read the next chapter in the history while I’m working with Lerial. I’ll have questions for you when I return.”

“Yes, Father.”