L. Modesitt: Cyador’s Heirs

“What are you going to do today?” he asks.

“What I always do every day. I try to heal people. What you will do is to observe closely and say nothing until I ask you a question or give you permission to speak. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Good. I don’t want to have to remind you when others are around.”

Lerial can understand that, and he wouldn’t want to be corrected in front of others, especially healers. He is always happy to be out of the palace, and he begins to study both sides of the boulevard.

Although his parents and Emerya have all assured him that, as cities go, Cigoerne is small, it does not seem that small to Lerial. The palace is located on a flattened ridge almost two kays west of the Swarth River, with the Square of the Magi’i directly before it on the east side. East of the square, beyond the walls around the Ministry, stretching somewhat to the north and south, are larger dwellings, all of two stories, and all with center courtyards and fountains. These house the families of the Magi’i and those of the more senior Lancer officers, those whose rank is overcaptain and higher. As a practical matter, only the majer and the submajers, past and present, have dwellings anywhere close to the square, not that there are even a handful of them.

Even farther east and extending north and south as well are the dwellings of the merchanters. Even closer to the river, and lower, if not low enough to worry about the infrequent floods of the Swarth River, are the houses and shops of the crafters. Just behind the river piers are the structures housing the warehouses and factorages of the merchanters, as well as the shops of various tradesmen.

Lerial remains silent for a time as they ride down the boulevard, which leads directly to the Hall of Healing, just as the boulevard that angles southeast from the square leads to the headquarters of the Lancers, also located on a low rise above the river, with piers for the Lancer river patrol craft below the rise. Finally, he asks, “You never really answered my question about why the Hall of Healing is so far from the palace.”

Emerya laughs softly. “You asked that years ago. You couldn’t have been more than ten. Do you recall every question you asked when you were told you needed to be older to understand?”

Lerial smiles at the good-humored tone in her voice. “Probably not … but I remember the ones I thought were important.”

“Sometimes those are the best to remember, but not always. Sometimes, the questions we forget to ask are the ones that are the most important.”

Lerial has to think about that for a moment, then realizes that Emerya has still not answered his question. “Why is the Hall of Healing-”

“Who needs healing the most?”

“Everyone needs healers at times.”

“What happens if you need a healer? Or your father? How many healers are there in the palace?”

“Oh … the poorer people don’t have that many healers, and the Hall is closer to them?” Lerial pauses. “Then why didn’t you tell me that then?”

“I did. You said that there had to be another reason.”

Lerial doesn’t remember that, but he can sense that there is no evasion in his aunt’s reply. “Then there must have been.”

“There is. There are several. Would you care to think what they might be?”

Lerial thinks and finally says, “Because putting it there shows that Father cares about the people. It’s more visible there.”

“Good.”

“Why couldn’t you tell me that?”

“You weren’t able to consider the political reasons then. What else?”

Lerial shrugs. “I can’t think of another reason. Not right now.”

“Who are the healers … most of them, anyway?”

“Daughters … women of the Magi’i … most of them, anyway.”

“Where do they live?”

“Father and Mother … and you … located the Hall there so that they’d all have to leave where they lived to go to the Hall?”

“Actually, it was your grandmother who made that point. She made it rather strongly. She said that the elthage and the altage classes of Cyador had become too separate from the people they ruled. She also made the point that the poorer folk wouldn’t travel to a healing hall in the middle of dwellings of those better off, and that defeated half the reason for even having a Hall of Healing in Cigoerne.”

Lerial could see that. What he couldn’t see was his grandmother thinking that way.

“She was very proud, Lerial, but she was anything but stupid or unobservant, something that your grandsire never understood. Had he listened to her, we all might still be in Cyad, enjoying the pleasures of the City of Light.”

“You’ve never said anything like that before.”

“I have. Just not to you. I told Lephi the same thing when he was your age. He insisted that I was mistaken. Assuming I’m still around when Amaira is old enough to understand, I’ll tell her, and Ryalah, in turn. Why am I the one? Usually, some things are better left unsaid by parents, and it might be better if someone else told Amaira … perhaps … well … we’ll see when the time comes.”

Lerial can see that … mostly. Sometimes, more than sometimes, he does listen to his parents, even when he doesn’t agree. After several moments, he asks, “Will Amaira and Ryalah be healers?”

“They have the order-talent, but healing takes more than talent, just as it takes more than the ability to recognize, summon, and direct chaos to be a full magus or even a white wizard.”

From what Lerial has gathered, although no one had actually said it in as many words, “white wizard” was the term used by the Magi’i for those chaos wielders who were lesser in ability than a truly accomplished magus, those whose talents tended to be limited to throwing firebolts and other forms of lesser destruction.

The walls around the Hall of Healing are formed of comparatively small sandstone blocks mortared in place and about two yards high. There are two gates, both of iron grillwork, and both open, although they are generally closed every night after dark, when a few Lancers guard them, mainly to keep lawbreakers and other minor miscreants from sneaking in and robbing the ill of what little they have. Emerya and Lerial ride in through the north gate, the one reserved for healers and Magi’i, and Emerya leads the way to the modest stable set against the north wall.

“You can leave your mount for the Lancers to groom,” advises Emerya. “They don’t have much else to do.”

Lerial is glad of that suggestion, especially since he has only groomed his mount a handful of times, under supervision, more to let him know what is required than to make him proficient.

After dismounting, Emerya strides toward the doorway on the north end of the Hall, that entry barely standing out with the smallest of limestone arches set in the plain sandstone wall, marked with frequent, if narrow, windows. Lerial hurries to catch up to her. Once inside, in the main corridor that runs the length of the building, he almost stops in his tracks after two steps. That is how powerfully the sense of chaos strikes him.

Emerya lets the head scarf slip off her hair and away from her face, easing that end of the shimmersilk fabric back over her shoulder as she glances back at him. “Come on. You’ll get used to it. You’d better, if you want to ride patrols.”

Lerial swallows and follows her along the corridor to the first door, then inside. An older woman in pale green-a healer’s aide-glances up from where she sits behind a narrow table desk. “Will you need an aide today, Lady Emerya?”

“My nephew has some healer talent. We’ll see how he does.” Emerya smiles.

“There are several children in the receiving chamber. One has been there more than a glass,” offers the woman.