Cyador’s Heirs (20 page)

“You understand, I hope,” Maeroja says.

“That she’s fond of me? Yes.”

“It’s best that you leave it that way, Lerial.”

Why?
After a moment, he decides to ask just that. “Why do you put it that way?”

“She’s my daughter. You’re the Duke’s son. You will consort whomever your parents choose … or, if matters worsen, whomever you must. Rojana cannot help you. Encouraging her affection will only hurt her.”

Lerial nods slowly … as he recalls a time when he sat in the palace courtyard with the daughter of the Duke of Afrit.
Was it planned that long ago?

“You do see.”

“I see. I don’t have to like it.”

“I’m glad you don’t … and, in time, you will also be glad. In time.” After the briefest pause, she adds, “Good night, Lerial,” her voice almost an older echo of her daughter’s. Then, she too turns.

For a time, Lerial stands alone in the courtyard, before he turns toward the majer’s study to reclaim his sabre.

Much later, as he lies in his bed, eyes wide open, wondering what the morrow will bring, Lerial’s thoughts drift back to what Rojana had said … and what his father had not. Yet, if the majer had trained his father, and his father has sent Lerial to Kinaar, that must mean that his father thinks highly of the majer … and that Lerial is worth that training. And the ancient sabre suggests that the majer believes that as well. But why has his father never said anything? Why does it seem as though nothing Lerial has done is enough? And what great deeds could he possibly accomplish? Cigoerne is a small duchy compared to Afrit, and especially to Heldya or Merowey.

For all that he wonders and ponders, Lerial can find no answers before he drifts off to sleep.

XVIII

The sun is barely above the low rolling hills to the east of the Lynaar when Lerial and Altyrn ride down the lane to the main road. Altyrn wears a worn Lancer riding jacket, along with Lancer greens, without insignia, as well as a Lancer cap, also without insignia, although Lerial can see the brighter green of fabric once covered by insignia.

“You haven’t said much about where we’ll be going and what we’ll be doing,” offers Lerial once they are headed north toward the Lancer post.

“I haven’t. That’s true.” Altyrn grins, something he doesn’t do that often, Lerial has noticed, and even the majer’s smiles are often guarded. “First, you need to see more of Cigoerne. You also need to compare what maps show to what you see with your own eyes.”

“To be able to see in my mind what a map shows?”

“Partly … and partly to see what even the best maps do not show.”

“What else?”

“That’s enough for now, don’t you think?”

What that tells Lerial is that the majer has something else in mind.

When they ride into the fort and rein up perhaps ten yards from the small headquarters building, Lerial immediately sees a group of Lancers ready to mount at the near end of the stables. There are ten rankers—and a junior squad leader.

A junior squad leader … and ten rankers? Just to accompany the majer and him? Either the majer is more worried about Lerial’s safety than he will admit to Lerial, or he has far more in mind than just a journey to educate Lerial.
If not both.
And Captain Graessyr is not likely to allow eleven Lancers to go off with Lerial and the majer, is he, just for an uneventful ride. But if Lerial is that important … why is he being allowed any freedom at all?

Lerial is still trying to decide if he is reading too much into what he sees when Captain Graessyr appears on the steps of the headquarters building and calls out, “If you’d spare me a moment, Majer?”

“Just stay here,” Altyrn tells Lerial, before he rides over to where the captain stands on the steps up to the small headquarters building. Graessyr moves closer to the majer and his mount and speaks in a low voice.

Lerial struggles to hear the words, but can only make out a few.

“… sure this … wise?”

“… necessary … more … think … someone … family … see…”

“… careful…”

Altyrn nods once, then twice, then remains by the steps when Graessyr reenters the building, only to emerge in moments carrying a jacket and a Lancer cap.

“Lerial.” Altyrn motions.

Wondering exactly what the two want, Lerial urges the gelding forward and then reins up beside the majer. “Ser?”

“The majer and I have been talking,” Graessyr begins. “If you wear a different jacket when you’re riding with him and the others, people might take too much of an interest. We’d both feel better if you wore a Lancer riding jacket and cap. No insignia. Just so you don’t stand out.”

“Yes, ser. I can see that makes sense.” Lerial slips off the gray riding jacket and folds it, then turns in the saddle and eases it under the straps holding his kit in place. He takes the Lancer jacket from the captain.

“It should fit.”

Lerial dons the jacket, leaving it unfastened, and nods. “It does.” He takes the cap, and adjusts it so that, as far as he can tell, it sits on his head in the same way as the Lancers wear theirs. He finds that it is more comfortable than it looks. “It fits, ser.”

“Excellent.” Graessyr steps back. “A good journey to you all.”

For all the heartiness in the officer’s voice, Lerial can sense a certain concern. That concern is scarcely allayed when, after the riders have left the post, two rankers ride out and take positions as scouts or outriders a good hundred yards ahead of Lerial and Altyrn.

Lerial debates asking the question that springs to mind for the time it takes to ride some fifty yards, then turns in the saddle and addresses the majer, who rides beside him. “The majer ordered the rankers to accompany us. He’s not happy about it. Why did you do it?”

“Of course, he’s not happy. You’re second in line to be Duke of Cigoerne, and he’s in charge of patrolling this part of the duchy. If anything happens to you, he doesn’t want to explain how it happened.”

“You told him I needed to see more of the duchy, and blackmailed him into supplying half a squad of Lancers.”

“I didn’t ask for anything,” replies Altyrn. “I just told him what I planned to do and why. He insisted.”

“How could he not?”

“Exactly. That’s the first lesson. Sometimes, it’s just better to do something than try to persuade someone. You have to be prepared to carry out your plan without them, however, and it had better be good, or you won’t be convincing. At least, not until you’re much older and more skilled at misrepresenting the situation.”

“We’re going to do more than ride around this part of Cigoerne, aren’t we?”

“There wouldn’t be any point in going to all the trouble of possibly angering your father for just that, would there?”

Lerial sees no point in even contesting that. “So what are we going to do?”

“If I tell you first, then you’ll never really understand.”

“But you wanted me to study the maps…”

“That’s different. Some things, like reading or knowing maps or handling a blade or riding, you have to learn the basics first. But there are other things where book learning, or tales from an old Lancer, makes it harder to learn.”

“Such as?” asks Lerial.

“If I told you, that would amount to the same thing.” Altyrn offers a rueful smile. “Now … look at the part of the Wooden Ridges that is closest to the river. Where would be the best place to approach it if you thought there might be archers hidden in the trees?”

Realizing that the majer has said what he is going to say about the purpose of the journey, Lerial turns his attention to the trees, a mixture of pines and broadleaf types. “I’d come in from the north, along that gentle slope that goes south from your southernmost barley fields.”

“That’s the easiest for riders, and it’s open,” replies Altyrn. “Don’t you think the archers would know that? Wouldn’t there be more of them there?”

You should have thought of that.
“The horses would have trouble climbing the slope to the east, if they could do it at all.”

“Does every attack have to be mounted?”

Lerial pauses for a moment. “On foot, the Lancers could take cover behind the boulders, and they could be within yards of where the trees get thick before they’d be exposed.”

“That’s true enough, but a bow has a longer range than a blade…”

Lerial takes another long look at the Wooded Ridges. Even what might have been a pleasant ride that morning is turning out to be more than he expected.

XIX

Lerial continues to puzzle over what Altyrn has in mind beyond teaching him tactics suited to various kinds of terrain. Less than two glasses after they leave the Lancer post on fiveday, they reach the end of the road—rather the point where it turns into a path impassable to all but the smallest carts—but they continue south for another kay before turning west on a trail that winds up a low and wide valley through a less densely forested section of the Wooded Ridges. They bivouac that night at a crude way station that, according to Altyrn, dates back to the first days of the duchy, and then depart just after sunrise on sixday, following the trail through sparsely wooded low hills to the west and south of the higher wooded ridges.

Sevenday dawns cool with a silver haze across the green-blue sky, and Lerial rides behind Altyrn along a section of the trail that is too narrow for two mounts side by side. Riding in front of Altyrn is Chaarn, the junior squad leader, although he looks to be close to the age of Lerial’s father, if not older. One of the rankers is roughly two hundred yards forward of Chaarn, and a second is about a hundred yards ahead.

By standing in his stirrups, Lerial can see that they are riding out of the sparse trees and toward a valley of low rolling rises covered in sparse browned grass that might have once been knee-high. He also sees what might be a thin trail of smoke farther to the west, but, other than that, and the trail that has obviously been used recently, he can discern no sign of anyone living in the valley. But then, he reflects, he has not seen any brooks or streams, and certainly no lakes, since they left the second old way station that morning.

By the time they leave the trees, it is midafternoon, suggesting that the distance was much farther than Lerial realized. He rides up beside Altyrn, but the majer says nothing, and Lerial has nothing to say that would not sound inane. So he studies the valley, or what of it he can see—which holds a few scattered clumps of trees and long browned grass that may stretch for kays westward, just below the Wooded Ridges to the north, or end just beyond the next rolling rise.

“If you’re patrolling in areas like this,” Altyrn says after a time, “you need to watch for tracks near clumps of bushes like those.” He points ahead to a patch of foliage some thirty or forty yards across that might barely reach shoulder height on his mount. “Raiders and even Heldyan armsmen like to hide there and attack from the rear when you’ve passed. The Merowyans usually don’t, but enough do that you need to be careful when you’re patrolling anywhere.”

“From the rear? Not from the side?”

“Just try to turn your horse quickly when arrows or spears are flying at you and when everyone else is attempting the same thing.” Altyrn’s voice is dry. “The Meroweyan raiders sometimes have spear-throwers, too. That means they can get off several spears from farther away and with more force.”

Spears?

“Once you get away from the Swarth River this far upstream, or away from the port cities on the coast, there’s much of Hamor that hasn’t changed in hundreds of years,” the majer replies to the unasked question.

Lerial nods and asks, “Why is that?”

The majer offers a sweeping gesture. “There are more fertile lands closer to the coast and the river, and here there is little those with golds want. Why else did the Duke let your grandmother purchase the rights to the lands your father could hold?”

That, unfortunately, makes sense to Lerial, far too much sense.

“What the present Duke’s father did not understand was that knowledge also has value. He came to understand that late, if at all, and it was a bitter draught for Atroyan to swallow when he became Duke. But his sire needed every gold he could lay his hands on. He was not the wisest of rulers.”

The way Altyrn explains reminds Lerial that the Duke had not been that much older than Lerial is now when he became Duke.

Another glass passes, and after Lerial and the others ride over yet another rise, the lead scout halts where the trail intersects a wider path, one that is almost a road heading north into the Wooded Ridges. He points south, and Lerial follows the gesture to see a small herd of goats trotting north toward the scout. Behind the goats are close to forty people, some leading horses. All of them are walking quickly. Some of the smaller children are running.

“They must have sighted raiders.” Altyrn urges his mount forward. Lerial and the others follow.

While Lerial reins up behind Altyrn, the other Lancers ride past and then form up in a five-abreast front some fifty yards south of Chaarn, Altyrn, and Lerial.

When the people near, Altyrn rides to them and stops a white-haired man and asks him something.

“There are raiders coming. We must go to the caves,” declares the old man. “There are many, but they do not know the forest or the caves as we do.”

Lerial can see that he has few teeth.

“How many?” asks the majer.

“Too many.” The old man shrugs. “We must go.” He hurries off.

Lerial looks south along the trail that is almost a road, making out what he first thinks in a haze beyond a rise several kays to the south, except he understands that what he sees is dust.

“They won’t stop at the hamlet,” says Altyrn. “What they want are the women and the goats.”

“Not any of the grain or crops?” asks Lerial.

“You can’t carry much grain on a horse.”

“Shouldn’t you … Majer?” asks Chaarn, not quite looking at Lerial.

“Send out a scout to see how many there are. If there are only a handful or two, we can’t leave these people to them.”

“Yes, ser.” Chaarn nods and rides toward the Lancers.

Altyrn dismounts, then hands his horse’s reins to Lerial. “Hold him for now.”