L. Modesitt - Cyador’s Heirs

“Make way! Make way…”

Emerya and Lerial look up as two men rush in carrying a burly older man with a blood-soaked arm, and blood dripping everywhere.

“Cleaver handle broke … cleaver cut through his arm!”

Lerial watches intently as Emerya wraps a large cloth bandage around the man’s arm, above the gaping wound, then tightens it with a smooth stick, just enough to stop the gushing of the blood, before cleaning the wound, then stitching it, and then binding it, immediately loosening the tourniquet.

“See what you can sense in the arm below the wound,” she murmurs to Lerial.

Lerial’s head aches, but he concentrates. “There’s order there. There’s chaos around the wound.”

“If you leave a tourniquet on very long, the arm won’t recover.”

Lerial can sense what she does not say-that it might not anyway. He has another thought. “You had me put order on the wound chaos. Why couldn’t we just … well … bleed way the chaos?”

“There are two reasons for that. First, it’s harder for a healer to do that. Second, you can bleed away the chaos force in the body to the point where order will become too strong … and the person will die.”

Order … too strong?

“Lerial … order and chaos in the body have to balance, or at least come close to balancing. Hasn’t Saltaryn taught you anything?”

“I … I just didn’t think of it that way.”

“As a healer you always have to keep that in mind.”

Although her words are quiet, Lerial feels like wincing, but he just nods.

By midafternoon, after following Emerya through the Hall of Healing as she tends to those whose injuries have left them bedridden Lerial comes to a realization. “It seems to me that a good half of the healing you’ve done today deals with small wounds or minor injuries. Sometimes, it’s things caused by the body itself, like boils.”

“You’re right. What would have happened to that little boy, though, if we hadn’t cleaned and gotten rid of the worst of the wound chaos?”

“It would have gotten worse. He might have died.”

“It’s better to heal, Lerial, when injuries are small. It takes less effort, and a healer can do more for more people.”

“You come here most days. Are there that many…?”

“Many come here from well outside of Cigoerne. The way that little boy spoke, he was originally from the part of Merowey just to the southwest of Cigoerne.”

“Why do you heal those not from Cigoerne?”

“They could not have traveled that far. They live near here. But … even if they did not, we should let them suffer and perhaps die?”

“No … I didn’t mean that.” Not exactly.

“Your father rules a land that is more than ten times the size it was when we came here. Every year another village, sometimes more than one, asks to become part of Cigoerne. We protect them and heal them as we can. That is what a good ruler does. The Dukes of Merowey and Afrit have been forced to recognize your father as ruler.”

“But not as their equal.”

“Not yet. That will come. After all, he is Cyador’s heir.”

The way Emerya says that contains a certainty that chills Lerial, even as he thinks he should be cheered by it. So he merely nods and follows her to the next ward.

By the fourth glass of the afternoon, when Lerial accompanies Emerya from the Hall, he is exhausted. His boots feel heavy, and his feet ache from being on them all day. Trying the small amount of healing that Emerya has let him do has left him without the ability to focus even the smallest bit of order.

Late on fiveday morning, after his lessons with Saltaryn, Lerial watches two of the Lancers assigned to the palace guard detail sparring in the exercise yard to the west of the palace stables. He can do this without being too obvious by using a small window in the stable. After several moments, he realizes that he can sense the order and chaos flows, if as almost vague misty shapes, that would reveal their bladework in darkness.

Useful at night, but you need to be able to hold your own in full light. Still, he has to admit that he is learning from Emerya, and what he is discovering will be useful somewhere and at some time.

When he leaves the stable a half glass later, he is about to cross the courtyard when a voice calls to him.

“Lord Lerial?”

Lerial turns to see Undercaptain Woelyt walking toward him. “Yes?”

“I happened to see you watching Forran and Ghestyn sparring, and I realized that your brother has not yet returned from his patrol.” Woelyt smiles politely.

The undercaptain is close enough that Lerial can sense he has something in mind, and Lerial has few doubts about what it is. He just waits.

“Your father suggested several sparring sessions, and we have only had one this eightday…” After a slight pause, the undercaptain goes on. “I doubt that he would be pleased with me if I did not mention the matter.”

Lerial understands all too well that Woelyt cares less about sparring than in making certain that Lerial’s lack of practice is not blamed on the undercaptain. He can hope that the undercaptain has other duties. “Perhaps now?”

“Now would be excellent, and since the wands are already there…” Woelyt smiles.

“Then we should do so.” Lerial forces a smile and walks with Woelyt toward that part of the courtyard where he has just observed the Lancer rankers sparring.

As they near the worn green tiles set in the limestone courtyard paving, one of the Lancers appears with a pair of wooden wands. “Sers.”

“Thank you, Ceaslyr,” says the undercaptain.

Lerial nods politely as he takes one of the wands, then tries to concentrate on Woelyt as the undercaptain takes a position just inside the circle. After a moment, Lerial edges forward, wand in a guard position, not only watching Woelyt, but trying to follow the order patterns as the officer feints a thrust, before coming up with a backcut.

Lerial has sensed the second movement even before Woelyt has begun it, and he manages to beat it aside.

“Good,” murmurs the undercaptain.

The single word distracts Lerial so much that he has to jump to the side to avoid Woelyt’s wand, and he staggers slightly. Concentrate! Lerial pivots slightly, getting his feet slightly farther apart to put himself in a more balanced position.

Even so, Lerial has to back away quickly, circling in order to recover and be able to try to hold his ground.

By the end of a quarter glass, Lerial is sweating heavily, but he realizes that Woelyt has seldom managed to touch him-except with each attack, the undercaptain is getting closer to doing so, not because Lerial cannot sense what the other is about to do, but because his arms and even his legs are getting heavy.

Finally, after another long series of passes and more effort than Lerial would like in sliding and avoiding the officer’s attacks, the undercaptain’s wand twists Lerial’s weapon out of his hand and then hits Lerial’s thigh with enough force that the youth staggers back, even though Woelyt turns the wooden wand at the last moment so that the flatted side strikes, rather than the edge.

“You’ve improved,” says the officer, lowering his blade. “I tried to pull that last strike.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” replies Lerial. “I just got too tired to slide or block it.”

“You’re young and don’t have your full strength. You also aren’t spending enough time practicing. You need to take a heavy wand and practice every move, time after time, just by yourself, without stopping until your arms and hands cannot hold the wand. Then rest … and do it again … do that for a glass every day for an eightday or two, and you’ll be surprised at the difference it makes.”