Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (38 page)

“I’d wager that for all her cheer, she says not one word that is not exactly what she meant, and that most of her words reveal nothing.”

“For someone who has not met her, that assumes much.”

Lerial laughs lightly. “Then you must tell me that I am wrong, for I wouldn’t want to hang on to a mistaken notion.”

“Ser…” After the single word, she shakes her head and laughs as well, if also quietly. After a silence, she says, “You should leave Swartheld soon. It would be for the best.”

“I was commanded, in effect, by the duke to remain until after the ball.”

“He could do no less.”

“Then I will make plans to depart soon and when it seems appropriate.” Even as he says those words, Lerial wonders if uttering them is wise.

“There is such a thing as…”

“Overstaying one’s welcome? I worry greatly about that, Lady.”

“Then we are agreed.”

“We are.”
In principle, at least.

When Lerial turns from Haesychya at the end of the dance, Kyedra actually steps forward into his arms, but Lerial can sense a certain dismay from Atroyan, as well as observe a fleeting frown. Haesychya’s face reveals nothing.

“What did Mother say? She looked rather stern.”

“Besides suggesting that it is likely that I will be leaving soon?”

“She said that?”

“In effect.” Lerial does not wish to lie, but neither does he wish to depict Haesychya as unduly harsh, concerned as she is for her daughter. “I had not meant to come to Swartheld at all, but your father’s invitation was not to be refused, and I cannot overstay my welcome. That would be good for no one.”

“You’re right. One must consider these things.”

“One certainly must,” Lerial banters. “We must, must we not? Oh, the tragedy of being born into a ducal line, the endless responsibility, the unending stream of polite phrases concealing murderous thoughts … or terminal boredom with continued trivialities, punctuated with occasional unforeseen disasters, and family fallings-out that must be concealed at all costs … while smiling so often that one risks snaring bugs with one’s teeth…”

For an instant, Kyedra stiffens, and Lerial worries that he may have gone too far, but then he realizes that he must have gotten the tone just right, because the stiffness is the result of her trying to contain her laughter. Finally, she looks at him. “You’ve been so sweet, so polite, and with only a hint of not being absolutely proper … I didn’t expect…”

“Mostly … I am proper … mostly.”

“I’m glad it’s not all the time.”

“And you’re proper all the time … in public.”

“I’m to be proper all the time, anywhere.”

“Is that the dictum from your mother?”

“She doesn’t have to say anything. She just has to look.”

“I’m familiar with that.”

Kyedra doesn’t say anything for a time, and Lerial just enjoys dancing with her, realizing that it has been almost two years since he last danced, and that was at the year-turn ball at the palace, but he has no recollection of those with whom he danced, except Ryalah and Amaira.

“What are you thinking?” Kyedra finally asks.

“That it’s been years since I danced, and the only ones I remember dancing with are my sister and cousin.”

“You’re the only one I’ve danced with who isn’t either an older merchanter or officer who’s consorted … or my uncles.”

“Then I am fortunate indeed.”

“You are.” The slight hint of a smile softens the arch tone of the words.

When the dance ends, Lerial asks, “Might I have the last dance?”

“You may. It won’t be long now. Dafaal will announce the last dance, and Father and Mother will dance it together. It’s a very short dance. Father believes endings should be quick.”

After relinquishing Kyedra, Lerial glances toward Haesychya, who offers the slightest of headshakes, to which Lerial responds with a smile and a nod. He turns away and moves to a sideboard, where he takes a beaker of lager and sips it, watching and waiting.

When Lerial finally sees Dafaal stepping up onto the dais he makes his way to Kyedra.

Atroyan looks at the pair, then glances at his consort. In turn, she bends forward and murmurs something, and the duke nods, if clearly reluctantly.

Once they have moved away from the dais, letting the duke and his consort dance away from them, Lerial looks to Kyedra.

“Father says that I am not to become attached to you. At least, not now.”

“That has many meanings.”

“I’m sure you have thought of them all.”

“And you haven’t?”

Kyedra’s smile turns mischievous. “I might have missed one or two.”

“There are only so many heirs in Hamor.”

“What if I don’t want to consort an heir?”

“Then I imagine you’ll have to settle for an old and very wealthy merchanter,” replies Lerial.

Kyedra grimaces.

“Unless, of course, Khesyn poisons his consort, or Casseon needs another one.”

“You don’t mention Cigoerne,” she banters back.

“My mother is most healthy, and as a healer, with my aunt the head healer watching over her, she is unlikely to suffer any strange maladies.” Lerial tilts his head. “There might be a tall barbarian among the Tourlegyn clans of Atla, one who worships the Chaos Demons most assiduously.”

“You’re terrible.”

“Just exploring the possibilities.”

Lerial realizes that the duke and Haesychya are approaching the dais, and that Dafaal is stepping out in front of the musicians. “The last dance is
very
short.”

“I did tell you Father believed in swift endings.”

When the music ends, Dafaal announces, “The duke bids you all good evening.”

After the last dance, Lerial looks around to see if he can find Rhamuel, but the arms-commander is nowhere to be seen.
There’s nothing you can do in the middle of the night.

“Who are you looking for?” asks Kyedra as Lerial escorts her toward her parents.

“Your uncle Rhamuel.”

“He never stays to the end.”

“And your brother?”

Kyedra shrugs. “I cannot speak for him.”

“Then I should escort you back to your quarters.”

“That would be most gracious,” interjects Haesychya, her voice pleasant, but not especially warm.

Given that permission, Lerial begins to walk with Kyedra and her parents back to the family quarters, where he hopes Rhamuel is waiting. He cannot help but notice that Mykel and Oestyn have vanished as well.

“Too bad your brother couldn’t have come,” observes Atroyan, looking back at Lerial. “Is he much like you?”

“I’m not the best one to answer that. Brothers can be very alike, but they’re still very different people.”
As you should know.

“We’ll have to see about a visit … or perhaps we could send Kyedra to Cigoerne before too long.”

“All things in their time, dear,” says Haesychya warmly. “That is what you always say. You do need to see this dreadful situation with Khesyn resolved before anyone goes anywhere, don’t you think?”

“Would that I didn’t.” Atroyan shakes his head.

“He is an awful man,” Haesychya adds. “He’s likely worse than Casseon, and you know what I think of him.”

“I do indeed,” says the duke.

When they reach the guards posted at the double doors, Kyedra turns to Lerial. “I’m glad you walked back with us.”

“So am I.”

She smiles again, then turns and enters the quarters under Haesychya’s watchful eyes, for Atroyan has already preceded his consort and daughter.

Lerial nods to Haesychya, then turns and makes his way down to his own rooms, where one lancer remains on duty.

“Keep an ear out for anything strange. Wake me if there’s anything like that.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial hopes that there isn’t, but the thought of almost no ships at Swartheld and scores at Estheld still preys on his mind.

XXVI

Lerial awakes abruptly in the darkness before dawn, shuddering. He sits up in the wide bed. What had wakened him? The air in the bedchamber is warm, almost too warm, yet his hands and feet are cold. Could it have been thunder? He walks to the window and pulls back the heavy hangings, but all he can see are a few lamps in the courtyard … and the stars overhead, bright and clear in the dark sky.
Definitely not a storm, at least not one close to Swartheld.

While he returns to his bed, he finds he cannot sleep, and he tries to recall the feelings—or the dreams—that awakened him. All he can recall is a vague sense of ice that burned like fire … perhaps fire that froze like ice.
But why would you dream about that?

Finally, when the sky begins to gray, he rises, washes up, and dresses. Then he looks at the armoire, wondering whether he should pack, in order to be ready to leave Swartheld. Certainly, Haesychya has made it clear that he should be leaving, and the duke has as much as said that Lephi would have been more welcome.

He shakes his head. To leave without at least meeting with Atroyan and thanking him for his kindness would be unwise and could cause more problems for his father and Lephi. He can’t help thinking that Kyedra is better than Lephi deserves, and, given the way both Khesyn and Casseon feel, Kyedra is most likely to be the only young woman from a ducal lineage in Hamor available to either Lephi or Lerial.

He snorts softly as he thinks about how the majer and Maeroja had discouraged any entanglement between him and Rojana. Yet … Maeroja had talked more than once about the absolute certainty of the majer’s feelings. And how had the majer known Lerial would need the iron-cored cupridium sabre? And then there had been Altyrn’s emphasis not so much on the need to re-create Cyador but to carry on the best of its heritage and tradition.

Before he leaves the sitting room for breakfast, he goes to the windows on the south side and looks eastward, toward the bay. While he cannot see the harbor, there are no rivercraft headed north toward the harbor piers. For that matter, on the small section of the bay he can view, he can see no vessels at all.

Lerial wonders if anyone will even be at the family dining room, but Rhamuel is already there and eating. He waves Lerial to the place across from him.

“You’re up early,” Lerial observes.

“So are you.”

“Did you talk to the duke last night? About the merchanters?” Lerial slides into the chair, and a server sets a pitcher of lager and a beaker before him, then immediately withdraws.

“I did. He wasn’t pleased.” Rhamuel takes a swallow of his greenberry-and-lager breakfast beverage, then adds, “He thinks we should know more.”

“Have you heard any more this morning?”

“I’ve sent a river patrol galley to see.”

Lerial frowns.

“It’s misty or foggy on the east side of the bay,” Rhamuel explains.

“The sky is clear. So is the bay. Well … the south part is.”

Rhamuel smiles indulgently. “We often have fog over the bay and around the harbor with clear skies above. This morning, the west side of the bay is clear, but there’s a misty fog around Estheld. It’s rare when the fog doesn’t cover the entire southern end of the bay, but it does happen every once in a while.”

“And the harbor here is clear.”

“I said it was.”

Lerial manages a shrug. He hates even an implied correction. “I’m not that familiar with fog. It just seems strange to me.”

Rhamuel says nothing as the server returns with a platter for Lerial. On it are two slices of egg toast, some thin mutton strips, an orange cut into quarters, and a small loaf of dark bread. The server also sets down a small pitcher of what looks to be a berry syrup. Again, he leaves the private dining room quickly.

“You danced quite a few times with Kyedra.”

“Four. I danced twice with Haesychya. She turned me down when I asked her a third time.”

“She never dances more than twice with anyone besides Atroyan, and only twice with those of position or great wealth.”

“I should feel flattered, since I have little enough of either. Haesychya made it quite clear that I was the wrong brother. So did the duke.”

“What did you expect? You’re not the heir.” Rhamuel’s dark eyes fix on Lerial. “What do you think of Kyedra?”

“I like her. She’s intelligent and capable.”

“Compared to who?”

“She appears to take after her mother in many ways, but I’d say that she has some of the same family traits that you do.”

Rhamuel smiles. “I don’t think you answered the question.”

“I didn’t answer the one you didn’t ask.” Lerial pours the berry syrup over the egg toast and takes a large bite. “I would say that it’s a pity she can’t be Atroyan’s heir. Or yours.”

“That sort of talk would incense the Merchanting Council, you know?”

“I have no doubt that it would, but, from what I’ve heard, Cyad might well be standing if my grandmere had ruled, rather than my grandsire.”

Rhamuel smiles. “And matters would be little different if your aunt ruled instead of your father?”

“They’d be different, but I think Cigoerne would still be strong.”

“Neither you nor I can change what is.” Rhamuel’s smile is slightly sad, and he starts to push back his chair, only to stop as he sees Dafaal enter the private dining chamber.

“Oh … I didn’t expect to see you here, Lord Lerial.”

“Nor I you.” Lerial smiles politely. “Since you have found me, however, I won’t have to go looking for you.”

“How might I help you?”

“I suspect that it is time I made preparations to leave Swartheld and return to Cigoerne,” Lerial says pleasantly.

“When it is appropriate, I would think so, Lord Lerial.”

“Last night, the duke suggested that I should consider it.”

The white-haired functionary frowns. “He has not mentioned that to me, and I am certain that he would.”

“Then perhaps I should talk to him.”

“You … Ah, yes, in time, you should.” Dafaal looks to Rhamuel. “It is really a matter for both the duke and the arms-commander. I just facilitate what the duke wishes to be done.”

Rhamuel raises his eyebrows. “He was fine last night.”

“He’s likely fine today,” replies Dafaal. “But he says he’s not seeing anyone this morning. That is why I sought you out. There are certain matters…”