Cyador’s Heirs

Teilyn
IX

Well before noon on twoday, Lerial’s legs and buttocks ache, even though they did not leave Brehaal until well after seventh glass, and his back twinges now and then, but he isn’t about to say anything. More time passes before he can make out the line of hills ahead that must be the Wooded Ridges. Directly before him, on his right, are fields with rows of some sort of green plants that are no more than waist-high. Cots are scattered here and there.

The column slows as they approach a narrow stone bridge, waiting for a horse-drawn cart to cross. When Lerial rides onto the short bridge, he looks down to see that it crosses an empty irrigation channel, although the mud at the bottom is still damp. He glances to his left, where a heavy wooden watergate, set in crude mortar and stone and similar to many they have passed on their journey, blocks the flow from the Lynaar. The channel continues for only fifty yards to the west, where it splits at a diversion gate that, in one position, sends the water to the northwest and in the other to the southwest, both heading toward orchards. Between the two orchards, which look to contain apricot trees, is another, one of olive trees, but no ditch leads to the olive orchard.

“There’s no water going to the olives,” he observes.

“They get enough from seepage,” replies Kiedron. “The trees won’t grow that fast, nor yield nearly so much when they mature, but there’s only so much water. For any lands away from the Swarth, water is a problem. You’ll learn more about that, I’m sure, from Majer Altyrn. Listen to him, because it’s something you’ll need to know.”

Know about water? Still, Lerial doesn’t question his father, because Kiedron, for all that he has upset Lerial, has never knowingly lied to him. That, Lerial could have sensed.

Barely visible beyond the fields ahead is Teilyn, which appears to have close to a hundred houses or other structures. To the west are more fields, and beyond them, sparse grasslands.

Lerial stifles a yawn. He’d not slept well the night before, even though he’d had a small sleeping chamber to himself-a chamber barely big enough for the narrow pallet bunk and a stool, with pegs on the wall. After seeing that his father and Undercaptain Helkhar occupied similar spaces and that the Lancers slept in crowded bunk rooms, he’d felt comparatively fortunate … and the pallet hadn’t been that hard. He just hadn’t slept well.

“How are you doing?” asks Kiedron.

“A little stiff, but fine.”

“Good. You’ll get over that.”

“Where is the majer’s … villa?” Lerial has to think for a moment about what his father had called the majer’s dwelling.

“It’s on the lower slopes south of town, not far beyond most of the other houses, a bit more than a kay out.”

“Will you stay with the majer or start back … or are you riding somewhere else?” asks Lerial.

“There’s an actual Lancer outpost, a real one, at Teilyn,” replies Kiedron. “It’s also south of town, about halfway to Majer Altyrn’s place. It’s the base for the regular patrols along the foot of the Wooded Ridges. The officers’ quarters there are adequate, and I wouldn’t want to impose on the majer’s hospitality.”

Lerial is surprised at the concern in his father’s voice, especially since he’s seldom heard it, especially about people outside the family. “Will you ride any patrols?”

“Not unless the post captain reports something strange. I need to get back to Cigoerne before the Heldyans get more restless.”

“Are they going to be a problem?”

“They’re always a problem,” replies Kiedron dryly. “That’s why Duke Atroyan’s father let us purchase the lands around Cigoerne. This year might be worse.”

“I hope not, ser.”

“When others depend on you, Lerial, you can’t rely on hope. Not if you want to carry on the heritage of Cyador.”

Lerial nods, wondering why so often his father’s words seemed designed to keep him from talking. Instead, he concentrates on the buildings as they ride into Teilyn.

The houses in Teilyn are largely constructed of brick, some of mud brick covered with a white coating that, in many cases, bears a pinkish tan tint, and some fewer and larger ones of fired brick of a rusty color. None of them are more than a story high, and all appear to have tile roofs. Lerial keeps looking at the dwellings and then to the Wooded Ridges, then back to the dwellings. Finally, he asks, “Why are the houses all of brick?”

“With all those trees so close?” Kiedron laughs softly. “For several reasons. First, the ground up on the ridges is rough and the undergrowth is thick and often thorny. It’s hard to get logs down. Second, the trees are a mix of all sorts, but most of the wood is soft. Third, brick houses are cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter. Fourth, the clay here is very good and easy to get to.”

There is a modest square located to the west of the road, which has become the main street, if the only paved street in the town, unlike all the streets in Cigoerne, and on its edge are a small inn, a chandlery, and several small shops. Farther south of the square, Lerial sees a blacksmith shop. In far less than half a glass, they are riding away from Teilyn through more fields, orchards, and scattered cots, but the road has begun to rise, so gradually that Lerial does not even realize it, until he glances back north.

Ahead are the walls of the outpost, and it is at least twice the size of the way station post at Brehaal. Even from a hundred yards away, the gate guards are obvious, although the heavy wooden gates are open and swung back. There is also a single narrow lookout tower rising another two yards above the middle of the north wall. Lerial smiles when he sees the awning above the lookout. But it makes sense, especially in summer.

As they ride closer to the outpost, he sees that, farther south, between the trees on the tall hills that comprise the Wooded Ridges, at irregular intervals, jagged spurs of red rocks jut up. Around the base of the rocky spurs the vegetation appears sparse, but elsewhere the mixed forest appears thick and almost impenetrable.

Once they have ridden past the outpost, Kiedron points south and west of the road. “There’s the majer’s villa.”

Lerial can only see a low structure barely rising above the orchards north of it, but before long, the outriders turn their mounts through a pair of yellow brick posts and onto the packed clay lane, smoother than the slightly rutted main road. The lane runs some three hundred yards to the villa, a two-story squarish structure perhaps forty yards on a side situated on the slightest of rises facing the river. On each side of the lane is a meadow of sorts, with grass perhaps calf-high, as if it had been grazed, but not recently.

When they are within a hundred yards of the villa, Lerial can see that there is no portico, only a brick-paved square some fifty yards on a side before the east entry, while the lane splits, one branch leading to the square and the other angling to the northwest and the outbuildings. Unlike the majority of houses in Teilyn, the majer’s villa is built of the yellow-tinged rusty fired brick, as are the outbuildings. All have roofs of the same reddish yellow tile as the buildings in Teilyn.

A slender man with iron-gray hair stands waiting in the afternoon shade just in front of the entry door.

“Ride forward with me,” orders Kiedron quietly.

Lerial does, and the two rein up some four yards short of the man, who wears a plain white tunic, if in the style of the Mirror Lancers, and matching trousers. His black boots are shined, and he smiles at Kiedron.

“Welcome, Lord Kiedron. I see you got here without any problems.”

“Thank you. We did indeed. I must say that you’re looking well, Majer.”

“Working hard will do that.” The majer looks from Kiedron to his son. “Welcome to Kinaar, Lord Lerial.”

“Lerial … please, ser.”

Altyrn smiles. “So be it. Welcome, Lerial. I daresay you will find life here very different from that Cigoerne. In some ways, at least. I will walk around to the stables with you.” He looks to Kiedron. “You will stay for dinner?”

“Dinner, I won’t refuse, but I need to meet with Captain Graessyr before that.”

“In two glasses, then?”

“I’ll be here.” Kiedron looks to Lerial. “I’ll leave you in Majer Altyrn’s most capable hands and will see you at dinner.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Good.” Kiedron smiles, then inclines his head, and turns his mount back toward the waiting squad.

Lerial watches his father until he and the squad are well on the way back to the river road, then turns to the majer, who has not said a word. “I’m sorry, ser.”

Altyrn smiles, an expression that is both enigmatic and sad, all at once, before saying, “I understand.” He points toward the lane leading around the north end of the villa. “This way.” Then he walks beside the gelding as Lerial eases him forward. “The first building on the right is the quarters for the unattached men who work here. The second is the stable. The third is the barn, and the fourth holds quarters for the unattached women. There’s a line of cots on the south side for the couples and families who work here. The other buildings to the west are the livestock sheds.”

Lerial does his best to try to recall exactly what the majer has said, then asks, “What sort of livestock? Father didn’t tell me much.”

“He always has been closemouthed. That’s a good trait for a ruler, not quite so good for a parent, I’ve discovered.”

Lerial glances at the walls of the villa, noting that while there are numerous first-level windows, they are all narrow and tall-too narrow for anyone to squeeze through. “He gives short answers to questions, too.”

The majer nods. “That’s a habit hard to break.”

The area between the outbuildings on the north side of the villa and the villa itself is also brick paved, and there is a simple fountain midway between the villa and the stable, where water flows from a spout into a circular basin. Lerial assumes that there must be some piping somewhere that drains the excess so that the fountain does not flood the paved area that strikes him almost as a courtyard without walls.

Lerial dismounts outside the stable, then leads the gelding inside, following the majer, who steps through the wide stable door and points.

“The third stall on the right is yours. You have to groom your mount … you do know how to do that, don’t you?”

“Yes, ser. Father insisted on that.” If not that often. Lerial pauses, surprised that the stable has a brick-paved floor. The only other stable he has seen with such a floor is the one serving the palace, not that he has been in more than a handful of stables. “I only have a travel brush.”

“There are brushes in the tack room. You’re also responsible for feeding your mount and cleaning the stall every day. I’d suggest first thing in the morning and late in the afternoon or early evening, but that’s up to you. The soiled straw and offage go into the old cart on the side of the stable. The shovel, the pitchfork, and an old broom are on the peg racks over there. Put them back clean whenever you aren’t using them.”

“Yes, ser.” Lerial hasn’t had to clean a stall, but he has watched the palace stable boys do just that.

“The feed barrels are in the storeroom beside the tack room, but you’ll have to carry water from the outside fountain. When you finish unsaddling and dealing with your mount, we’ll get your kit to your room, and then I’ll show you around.”

Somehow Lerial finds that the whole process of unsaddling the gelding, racking the saddle and blanket, and grooming the gelding takes longer than he recalls. He does remember to check the gelding’s hooves, but he sees no stones or cracks, and the shoes look sound. He makes his way to the fountain through the late-afternoon heat that feels hotter than it probably is because there is no breeze at all. He half fills the bucket from the stall, then frowns and pours a little out. The gelding will be thirsty, but he is not that hot, because the pace from Brehaal had been deliberate. Still …

He carries the water bucket back to the stable and watches as the gelding drinks. Then he finds a grain barrel and half fills the feed bucket in the stall. By then, his undertunic is soaked, and sweat pours off his forehead

Finally, he closes the wooden stall half door, lifts his kit bag, and walks from the stable toward the courtyard fountain, where the majer has appeared, as if he had known when Lerial would finish.

“Maeroja and the girls will likely be in the courtyard, enjoying the cool.” Altyrn looks at Lerial. “You could use that as well.”

“It’s hotter here than in Cigoerne, and there’s no breeze today.”

“There usually is, but it’s been drier and calmer this summer. We’ve had to use more water from the Lynaar. That was one reason why I wanted these lands, and your grandmother and father were kind enough to grant them.”

“I don’t see any ditches…”

“I put them underground, and they leave the river farther uphill. That way there’s pressure for the fountains and the water’s cleaner.”

Lerial hadn’t thought about either, but he nods.

The north entry to the villa is just a simple recessed arch with a single ironbound door, but as Altryn opens it Lerial can see that the wood is thick, and the back is also ironbound with a double set of brackets for bars. Once they are inside, the majer immediately closes the door.

“We leave the shutters closed and don’t dally with the doors until it’s late in the evening and it’s cooler outside.”

While Lerial would not have called the wide corridor especially cold, the air is definitely cooler inside the villa.

“Most of the dayrooms are down on the ground level-the library, the winter dining room, my study, Maeroja’s study. There are root cellars and storage areas below. The kitchen is on the west end…”

Lerial listens.

The corridor is not that long, no more than ten yards before they walk through an open door and into a center square courtyard. A roof that extends some four yards from the villa runs all the way around the courtyard, creating a covered terrace that surrounds the center fountain, which contains four sprays, each one situated so that it geysers into the air opposite the middle of each wall. A walk runs from each spray to the terrace, and between the four walks are four small gardens. The one that is to Lerial’s immediate right, as he follows Altyrn to the left, appears to contain miniature fruit trees.

“Maeroja is quite the gardener … and quite the grower. I just listen to her.”

Lerial is certain that is something his father would never have said. “How did you meet her?”

“Did you mean to ask if she happens to be local?” Altyrn’s voice is dry.

Lerial is so taken aback that he blurts out, “I never even thought of that.”

Abruptly, Altyrn laughs. “Good for you.” Then he glances toward the woman and the three girls who stand waiting for them just around the corner of the courtyard. He shakes his head. “The girls actually put on dresses. I haven’t seen them that fancied up in eightdays.”

Since Lerial’s sister and cousin are younger, and since his mother and aunt are healers, he can’t recall, offhand, seeing many dresses around the palace in Cigoerne.

The majer stops short of his family. “Lerial, might I present my wife, Maeroja, and my daughters, Rojana, Tyrna, and Aylana?”

Lerial sets down his kit and inclines his head. “I’m honored to meet all of you, and I do appreciate your kindness in allowing me to be here.” Even though he suspects that the majer may not have had that much choice, his father would not have imposed if the majer had not been at least somewhat willing.

“We’re the ones who are honored,” replies Maeroja.

As Lerial looks at Maeroja, she seems to be only a few years older than he is, but he has to doubt that, since the tallest girl is less than half a head shorter than he is, suggesting she is close to his age. Maeroja is also, he realizes, rather striking, with jet-black hair, a slightly tanned skin, and penetrating blue eyes. Her smile is warm, but … unsettling, almost ironic, he thinks. He almost stammers, but manages to respond. “Not … from what I see. I’m the one most honored.”

Altyrn smiles, then says to his wife, “Lord Kiedron will be returning for dinner in little more than a glass.”

“We will be ready.” Maeroja turns her eyes on Lerial. “I thought the girls could show you to your chamber, and you might wish to wash up before rejoining us for something cool to drink before dinner.”

“I would appreciate that very much.”

“Rojana … if you would show Lerial?”

The tallest girl, who has her mother’s complexion and hair, but her father’s gray eyes, smiles. “Lord Lerial…”

“Lerial … please. I’m just a younger son.”

“This way…” Rojana turns and walks south to the corridor in the middle of the east side of the villa, then steps inside.

Lerial can see that the corridor continues to the main entrance and a circular entry hall, although the light is dim, yet Rojana does not continue toward the hall, but heads up the narrow steps, open on one side except for a railing. Lerial picks up his bag and follows her. The two other girls trail him.

At the top of the steps Rojana pauses, then walks back toward the courtyard along a hallway directly above the one below. “Everyone’s chambers overlook the courtyard. The upper balcony goes all the way around it.” She turns right at the balcony and follows it around until she stops at a door just past midway along the north side of the villa’s upper level.

“This is your chamber. It has a small washroom through the door. There are two buckets to bring up water. You can get cool water from either the outside fountain or the spout beside the fountains in the courtyard. Later we can show you the upper cistern that holds warmer water. It’s on the roof balcony. We did fill the tub and buckets for you this time. There is a drain for the waste water.”

“Where does it go?”

“The pipes take it to the ditch that serves the front meadow.”

Since Rojana does not open the door, Lerial depresses the door handle and pushes the door open. He steps inside, and she follows. Her sisters do not. The chamber is long, some seven yards, he judges, but only four wide. There are three long and narrow windows set in the north wall, about twice as wide as those on the lower level, and one on each side of the door from the balcony. The furnishings are simple and sparse-a single bed, a doorless armoire, a dresser with three drawers, a flat-topped storage chest at the foot of the bed, a narrow bedside table, and a writing table-desk and a chair. There is one wall lamp suspended from a brass arm and a lamp on the table-desk.

“This is very nice,” he says, nodding to Rojana. “Thank you.”

“There’s also a set of work trousers and a work shirt in the armoire. Papa said he hopes they’re close enough to fit you, but he didn’t want you spoiling riding clothes working with him.”

Lerial manages to stifle a rueful smile. The majer has used his daughter to deliver a tactful announcement of what awaits him. “That is thoughtful. I didn’t bring anything like that.”

“Mother thought you wouldn’t.” That comes from the youngest girl, who stands in the doorway, a serious expression on her face.

“Your mother was right,” replies Lerial.

Rojana eases back to the door. “Is there anything else you need?”

“I wouldn’t think so, but I’ll let you know if there is.”

After the three leave, Lerial closes the door, then carries his kit bag to the chest, where he places it and opens it. First, he unpacks and places his garments in either the armoire or the dresser, setting aside a clean set for dinner. Then he disrobes, washes and shaves, although that takes little time, given that his beard is still fine and uneven. Before dressing in his own garments, he does try on the work clothes. They fit, although they are a shade large.

Less than half a glass later, dressed in clean clothes, he leaves his chambers and retraces his steps back down to the courtyard.

As he nears the majer and his family, gathered around a large circular table under the terrace roof, Lerial can’t help but overhear a few words between the girls.

“… said he wouldn’t take long…”

“… because you like him…”

“Ssshh!”

Lerial keeps a straight face as he stops short of the table. “Thank you. The quarters are lovely.” “Lovely” isn’t really the right word, but “more than ample” sounds condescending, and “adequate” would be arrogant. “Perfect” would be an obvious exaggeration.

“We hope so,” replies Maeroja. “Your rooms are the same as those of Rojana, and all the chambers are similar.”

“I do appreciate them.” He turns to the majer. “And the work clothes.”

“Good. Working here can be a dirty business.” Altyrn gestures to the chair to his left, with an empty mug before it. “You can sit down.”

“Would you like lager, ale, or redberry?” asks Maeroja, gesturing to the three large pitchers in the center of the wooden table.

“Lager, please.”

“That’s the pitcher with the gold stripe.”

From that, Lerial understands that he is to pour his own … and he does so.

“How was the ride?” asks Altyrn.

“Long. I’m not used to that much time in the saddle. But it was interesting. I’ve never been this far south.”

“It’s different, and it’s not … just like most places.”

“Dear … don’t be quite so obscure,” suggests Maeroja with a gentle laugh.

“By that,” adds Altyrn, “I meant that people don’t change much in what they feel, but how they express it may be very different. That’s one way of looking at it.”

At that moment, a young man in a tan shirt and shorts emerges from the corridor leading from the main entry door. “Ser … Lord Kiedron is approaching.”

“Thank you, Rhewen.” The majer stands and looks at Maeroja and Lerial. “I’ll greet him myself.”

Since no one else moves as Altyrn leaves, Lerial remains with Maeroja and the girls, although he feels awkward doing so … but the majer’s words had been a command of sorts.

“He does have a way of making his wishes known without stating them,” Maeroja says to Lerial, her tone matter-of-fact.

“I’m gaining that impression, Lady.”

While the majer’s wife does not flush, Lerial can tell that his salutation has embarrassed her, but what else could he call her. Not to address her would be presumptuous, if not rude.

“If you must address me,” she says with a slight twist to her lips, “‘Maeroja’ might be better.”

“I did not wish to presume,” he replies gently.

“That would not be presumptuous.” She smiles softly. “I do appreciate the honor, undeserved as it is.”

After those words, Lerial is the one trying not to blush.

“How old are you?” asks the youngest girl.

“Almost sixteen,” he answers, adding, “Aylana,” as he finally recalls her name.

“You don’t look that old. You’re thin, too.”

“That’s likely one reason why I’m here. My father wants me to learn things from your father.”

“You’ll learn,” says Rojana. “Father will see to that.”

Both her sisters nod.

“Enough, girls.” But there is a trace of an amusement behind Maeroja’s words.

Lerial takes a careful swallow of the lager, darker than he would prefer, and, after swallowing it, he finds it is likely also stronger and a shade more bitter. Still … he would prefer lager to ale … and definitely to redberry. “Do you brew your own lager and ale?”

“We do, but only enough for Kinaar. The barley takes too much space for us to grow more.”

Lerial is pondering that, given that there seems to be plenty of land, when Altyrn and his father step out onto the terrace. As Kiedron approaches the terrace table, Maeroja rises, and so do Lerial and the three girls.

“It’s an honor and a pleasure to see you again, Lord Kiedron,” Maeroja offers.

“It’s my pleasure as well. It’s not often I can dine with just a family, other than my own.”

Lerial can sense the truth of his father’s words, and he cannot help but wonder how much he does not know about what has occurred involving the majer and his wife … and his father.

“It’s still our pleasure,” adds Altyrn. “You have had a long day. Perhaps we should adjourn to the dinner table?”

“That might be for the best. I will need to leave quite early tomorrow.”

The dining chamber is off the terrace, but has three sets of wide sliding doors that are open so that the chamber shares the cool of the courtyard. On colder evenings, Lerial imagines that they are closed. Altyrn seats Kiedron at the head of the table, with Maeroja to his left, then takes the place to the Duke’s right. Lerial is seated beside Maeroja, with Rojana beside her father, and the middle daughter, Tyrna, to Lerial’s right, and Aylana beside Rojana.

Once everyone is seated and a serving maid fills each goblet, Altyrn raises his. “To the Duke, Lord Kiedron, without whom Cigoerne would not be.”

“I’ll only drink to that, if I can reply that I wouldn’t be here without you,” answers Kiedron, lifting his own goblet.

Altyrn does not offer a demurral, Lerial notes, but adds, “To what has come to pass.” He glances across at his wife, who smiles.

Once more Lerial feels that there is much passing by him, but he drinks with the others, and after a moment lifts his goblet of lager. “Might I offer thanks to Majer Altyrn and his lady for their kindness in taking me in to teach me what I must learn?”

“You may indeed,” says Kiedron, his words warm.

After that toast, Maeroja says, “The dinner tonight is simple, but one you have always enjoyed.”

“It wouldn’t be the roasted fowl and mushrooms, with glazed lace potatoes, would it?”

Both Altyrn and Maeroja laugh, if softly.

As the server dishes out the main course to Kiedron-Lerial notes that there is no appetizer or salad-the Duke looks to Rojana. “You’ve grown quite a lot since I was last here, and you take after your mother, not that you wouldn’t look good taking after your father … but I do think that gray hair looks better on him.”

The girls all smile.

He’s never joked that way at table in Cigoerne.

“I would guess that Lerial takes more after your sister, with the red hair,” observes Maeroja.

“He does, in that and other ways. That’s one of the reasons I thought some time with you might do him good.”

“How is she?” asks Altyrn.

“She’s well, and I don’t know what the healers in Cigoerne would do without her…”

For a time, the conversation remains firmly away from personal observations, if ranging from the weather to timbering, the possibility of Meroweyan raiders, and the ambitions of the Duke of Heldya.

Then Kiedron asks, “How is the kiln working these days?”

“There are some who want bricks every year. We fire it up when times are slower in the fields.”

“What about our venture?”

What venture? Lerial is not about to ask, but he listens intently.

“We sold some ten stones worth last year. Half of that went to pay off the ironmages who made the threading machine and … well, and the interest, because we had to borrow from the moneylenders in Swartheld to pay the ironmages, but it can handle ten times that much, and it will be years before we can produce that much. We also needed more kettles.”

“You’re getting … what?”

Altyrn glances to Maeroja.

She nods.

“A hundred a stone.”

A hundred what a stone? Lerial wonders. Coppers, silvers, golds? It must be coppers or silvers. What could possibly cost a hundred golds for a stone’s worth? A half-yearling lamb cost between five coppers and a silver, and a yearling colt between three and five golds. For a hundred golds, his father could almost supply an entire squad of Lancers with mounts and gear … well … not completely, but close.

“You’re going to expand?” asks Kiedron.

“We’re working on it. We’ll need more trees.”

Kiedron nods, but does not ask more, and the conversation reverts to more on the weather and the likelihood of famine in parts of Heldya and Merowey.

Dessert consists of a fried molasses sweetcake, followed by tiny glasses of a sweet white wine. Lerial has to admit that the wine, as dessert, isn’t bad.

Before long he is walking with the majer and his father out to the front entrance of the villa, where two Lancers wait for the Duke.

At the entry, Kiedron turns to his son. “I expect you to obey the majer and learn from the experience, Lerial.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Good.” Kiedron nods, then adds quietly, “Just be careful.” Then he turns abruptly, walks toward his horse, and mounts. In moments, he and the Lancers are largely lost in the dimness of late evening.

Just be careful. The concern in those words confuses Lerial, because he’s seldom heard that from his father. He stands there, watching, until he can make out no sign of the riders. Then he turns.

Altyrn has waited. “He does care, you know? He just feels he can’t show it.”

Then why has he brought me here?

“You’ll understand in time,” adds the majer, almost as if Lerial has spoken. “You probably need a good night’s sleep. Morning comes early. I’d suggest wearing the work clothes and your worst boots.”

“Yes, ser.”

Altyrn closes and bars the main entry door, and the two walk back toward the courtyard terrace.