Heritage of Cyador

LI

Because Lerial can see no point in spending another day or even part of one at the Streamside, he and his force set out for Lake Jhulyn early on threeday. He does pay Immar two golds from the small bag with which Rhamuel has entrusted him, for which Immar again practically grovels thanks. Or relief, more likely, Lerial suspects.

As they ride away from the inn, Lerial cannot help but wonder whether Emerya will come to Swartheld. Father has to have received your dispatch by now. But there is also the question of whether he will even tell Emerya. Should you have sent a separate dispatch to her? But doing so would have meant going around his father … and that …

He shakes his head.

By the third glass of the afternoon they are approaching Merchanter Jhosef’s villa, set on the west edge of the lake near its northern tip. Even from over a kay away, the size of Jhosef’s grounds and summer villa are impressive, the villa itself a white structure set facing the lake, with lawn running down to a sandy beach. Walls a good three yards high run from fifty yards out into the water up each the side of the lawn past the villa and its outbuildings to a point a half kay higher on the long gentle slope leading down to the lake. The west wall, the one high on the hill, appears to be closer to four yards tall. The road leads to an entry gate in the north wall.

Flanking the gate, inside the walls, are several white stone buildings, and out of those buildings a white stone-paved lane leads due south, passing directly beside stone retaining walls, on the top of which are extensive terraces, before curving south and uphill around the villa, presumably to an uphill entrance on the west side.

Lerial cannot help but wonder why the entry road does not just angle directly across the slope to the entry on the west side of the villa, but then realizes that the existing approach is far more artistic. Oestyn’s idea? Or someone else’s earlier? Lerial cannot imagine it being Jhosef’s. As he rides closer to the gates, he continues to study the walls and the grounds, and the paved lanes connecting the gates and all the outbuildings, certainly enough outbuildings to quarter several companies of private guards.

“How do you plan to get in to see the merchanter, ser?” asks Strauxyn, riding on Lerial’s left. “Those walls are high and stout.”

“First, we’ll ask. Then we’ll see.”

“I can’t imagine them defying you, ser,” says Norstaan.

Lerial can, unhappily, given all he has witnessed since entering Afrit more than a season before, and especially after seeing the small stone fortress set beside Jhosef’s dam and above the water gates. He carries full shields as he rides up toward the stout timbered gates, iron-bound and set into massive stone posts.

“Lord Lerial to see Merchanter Jhosef.”

“Merchanter Jhosef is not receiving visitors. He never receives unannounced visitors here.”

Lerial can sense … something beyond the walls-well beyond-almost a swirl of order and chaos. A very good shield! So Jhosef has a strong mage … something no one has ever mentioned, not that Lerial is especially surprised. He finds that he is angry. Aenslem had a low-level chaos-mage; Maesoryk had or has two or more. Jhosef has one … And you had to deal with the Heldyans and the traitor mages without any magely support because not a single merchanter would even admit to having mages or white wizards.

Except, Lerial realizes, he had never asked for such support, nor had he learned about who had any mages, until after most of the Heldyan attacks were over-and neither Atroyan nor Rhamuel had mentioned such a possibility, except in general terms, and none of the merchanters had volunteered their mages. Lerial knows why, or what they would have said-that they could not afford to give up any advantage to other merchanters. And that, too, feeds his anger.

“Then I suggest that you announce us. He will receive us,” Lerial states calmly. One way or another.

“I think not, ser.” Whoever is behind the iron-framed peephole closes it.

“We’ll move back,” Lerial says to Strauxyn, gesturing. “Around that curve in the lane.” He waits as Strauxyn gives the necessary orders, and the entire force withdraws a good quarter kay.

Lerial then concentrates and attempts what he hopes will be two very small order-chaos separations, one on each side of the heavy gates.

Crumppt!

Powdered stone cloaks the gates. Then there is a huge thud, and the paving stones under Lerial’s mount’s hoofs shudder. As the dust and stone subside, Lerial can see that the gates have toppled forward, leaving a narrow passage between the gateposts and the buildings directly behind them.

“Lances ready!” orders Strauxyn.

“Lances, ready, ser!”

“Forward!”

Lerial holds back slightly, letting the first rank of lancers precede him, although he does strengthen his shields, as well as mentally readies an order-line pattern in case the mage beyond the gates should attempt some sort of attack. A squad of men in white tunics and brown trousers is still forming up in the narrow stone-walled passage behind the entry gates to the villa, but at the sight of the lancers bearing down on them, most drop their pikes and attempt to flee. Those who are not quick enough are cut down. In moments, Twenty-third Company sweeps through the narrow space and up the paved lane. Lerial glances ahead, studying the approach to the villa, still almost half a kay away.

“Deliberate advance!” Lerial orders.

They have covered almost half of that distance at a fast walk when from out of nowhere comes a warm and comforting feeling … the sense that everything is fine. Then a voice says, You don’t need that knife among friends … just unstrap it … you’ll feel so much better without it … so much better …

Lerial feels his hand going down to his belt, even though he has not willed it to do so.

You’re among friends here … we all want you to feel welcome … your very good friends … such good friends.…

… yes … good friends … Somewhere … Lerial hears people talking, but their words don’t seem all that important … His hand brushes the highly ordered and tooled leather of the sheath … and the comforting words vanish … and he can sense a web of twisted order and chaos retreating from him … and that his shields are lowering. He immediately refreshes them, then concentrates on trying to locate the source of that probe … that insinuating attack that he has not even anticipated. He cannot determine the exact location of the chaos-mage, only the general feeling that he is near or in the villa proper.

Projecting feelings … over that distance? Lerial almost shudders as he rides closer to the villa, a low single-level structure that stretches close to a hundred and fifty yards, end to end. Below the east-facing terraces is a stone retaining wall that extends the length of the terraces, some fifty yards, and well beyond the terraces on both the north and south, and which rises from the west side of the road to the terrace floor. Above that is a waist-high stone balustrade, clearly placed to keep revelers or children or anyone from falling some three yards off the terrace to the road below. From the east side of the road, the lawn stretches down to the water, although there is a hedge maze of some sort in the middle of the lawn. Lerial does not recognize the bushes of the hedge that composes the diversion. A single white stone pier extends some twenty yards out into the water, with several small boats tied to bollards, and one much larger pleasure barge tied at the very end.

When they are less than fifty yards from the north end of the terrace, Lerial sees several figures move up to the balustrade. He almost swallows in amazement because, standing behind the middle of the terrace wall, several yards above an iron-bound door that doubtless blocks a staircase up from the road to the terraces, is Jhosef, flanked by two guards in brown and white uniforms. After denying us entrance, he can just stand there as if nothing happened?

“Company! Halt!” Lerial orders, looking up at the merchanter and past the retaining wall to the base of the sculpted and decorative balustrade that defines the end of the terrace. There’s no way to get up there quickly … not from here.

“That’s a very good idea, Lord Lerial. It is you, isn’t it? Who else would it be? Running errands for whelp Rhamuel again?”

“If you call seeing why you had Mykel killed running an errand,” replies Lerial sardonically.

“Killing Mykel? Perish the thought! Why would I ever wish to do that? That’s the last thing on my mind. You mistake me, Lord Lerial. I have only the highest interests of Afrit in mind. Killing young Mykel would scarcely further restoring the strength of Afrit, no matter what you younger sons think. Why don’t you ride up to the main entrance? From there you can easily enter the villa, and we can discuss what might be the best future for Afrit.” With that, Josef steps back, and in moments is out of sight.

For an instant, Lerial is dumbfounded. Now what? He had expected either more fighting, or Josef fleeing, or not being at his villa, or even some sort of attempt at a negotiated surrender. Unless those words are his way of offering such. Except Lerial trusts the merchanter not at all.

“Ser?” asks Strauxyn.

“Capture and tie up all Jhosef’s personal guards, everyone in those gate buildings. Send one squad up to the entrance immediately so that no one escapes, but keep them well back. Norstaan and I and his squad will follow that squad. Once we have the grounds secure, then we’ll look into the villa and consider Merchanter Josef’s kind invitation.” Lerial doesn’t keep the sarcasm from the last words.

“Yes, ser! First Squad, forward!”

While Lerial waits for Norstaan and his squad to move up behind First Squad, he makes certain he is maintaining his shields while he uses his order-senses to determine what pitfalls may lie farther along the approach road or on the terrace above. He can sense no other living beings in either place. There are more than a few people inside the villa, but how many are unarmed retainers, how many are armed guards, and where exactly the chaos-mage might be he cannot tell, except that he is somewhere nearby. Nor is there any indication of whether Mykel or Oestyn are even in the villa, but there is no way for him to pick them from the others within.

Before long, Lerial and Norstaan ride at the head of the Afritan squad, immediately behind First Squad. They encounter no one along the sweeping and gently rising stone-paved lane that curves around the south end of the villa, past low gardens and private terraces outside several rooms. Before long they rein up short of a columned portico in the middle of the west side of the villa. Lerial still sees no one. Nor can he sense exactly where the chaos mage might be, other than in the villa, somewhere near the entrance, he feels, although he cannot be certain.

As Lerial and the two squads wait for Strauxyn and the remainder of Twenty-third Company to secure the grounds, Lerial continues to check his shields and use his eyes and order-senses, wondering whether he is being too cautious. Except there are the “small” problems that, first, despite the fact that Lerial knows Josef has to be behind whatever happened to Mykel and Oestyn, he has no proof, and, second, if Mykel is still alive, as Josef has indicated, simply storming into the villa might not be the best approach, especially with a chaos-mage in waiting. On the other hand, not storming the villa, given the mage, might be more than a little dangerous for Lerial personally. Either way, he’s not about to take any action until Strauxyn reports that the estate grounds are secure.

As he waits and considers, and reconsiders, no other guards or armsmen attempt to flee from the villa, nor from the outbuildings near the villa, from what he can see and sense. Before that long, Strauxyn returns with two of his three remaining squads, reins up, and reports, “All of the merchanter’s guards are taken care of.”

“Casualties?” asks Lerial.

“None from our side, ser. We had to kill three more of them, and several others are wounded. That doesn’t count a handful or so who fled. Fourth Squad has the others under guard.”

Lerial glances at the columned entrance to the villa. Finally, he smiles wryly. “I think I’m going to have to take Josef’s invitation.”

“Ser … after…?” Strauxyn breaks off before he can say more, but the concern is written across his face.

“We broke the gates to enter, but once we entered, the merchanter himself has not opposed us. Besides, we don’t know what has happened to the heir. I will take half a squad as personal support, and Undercaptain Norstaan should accompany us.” We just might need an Afritan officer as a witness. “Have another squad ready to follow immediately, just in case.”

“You’re certain, ser? You don’t want to have the Lancers go in first?”

“That wouldn’t be wise,” replies Lerial. “First, there’s a chaos-mage somewhere. If he’s hostile and attacks, without me there, that’s sentencing the lead rankers to certain death. I’d prefer not to lose any more Lancers in Afrit than we already have. Second, it’s not polite to honor an invitation with a Lancer squad preceding the invitee.”

Strauxyn nods reluctantly. After a moment, so does Norstaan, if with a slightly puzzled expression.

“First Squad, then, sir?” asks Strauxyn.

Lerial nods.

“First Squad! First ten men! Dismount!”

Lerial waits until the rankers are in position with their sabres out before he dismounts. He does not draw his own sabre, that cupridium-plated, iron-cored weapon that has served him so well for so many years, but his hand rests on its hilt. Then, he walks toward the door, abruptly halting and stepping back as he senses the faintest hint of chaos somewhere ahead to his left.

After a moment, Lerial takes another step, then opens the door, stepping inside past another short line of columns, with Norstaan immediately behind him, and the Lancers behind Norstaan. Lerial holds his shields wide enough to protect them. No one approaches as he leads the way past the columns into the hexagonal entry hall, but he gains a feeling that the chaos-mage is close … perhaps even at the other side of the hall, a space a good fifteen yards across, floored with alternating tiles of shimmering white and lustrous golden brown. Lerial advances just far enough into the hall that Norstaan and the ten Lancers are fully clear of the columns and directly behind him before he halts and sends out the slimmest probe of pure order.

A flash of light flares, and when it fades, Jhosef stands on the other side of the entry hall. Beside him stands Mykel. “You see? Mykel is quite alive.” He turns his head toward the heir. “Aren’t you, Mykel?”

“Of course, I’m alive. Why would I not be?”

With Mykel’s words, words that are somehow slightly stilted and flat, comes a sense of peace, of cool reassurance … and the thought that we’re all reasonable men … we can work this out … we all have the same goal in mind.

Lerial almost finds himself agreeing, but catches himself. The same kind of attack as before. “Where is Oestyn?” he asks quickly, the first words that come to his mouth, as he uses his order-senses to try to locate the chaos mage. He can also sense that the Lancers behind him have been slowed somehow.

“Oestyn is fine,” replies Mykel, his voice still just slightly flat.

Lerial can see that Mykel is not even looking at him, although the heir is facing him directly.

“Come here, Oestyn.” Jhosef motions, and Oestyn walks out of the side hall stiffly, almost as though he does not wish to step forward.

Like a marionette. Manipulated somehow by the chaos-mage? As his eyes flick from Jhosef to Mykel and then to Oestyn, Lerial realizes that there is little emotion shown on the faces of the two younger men. Lerial extends a quick order probe, but Mykel and Oestyn are alive, if surrounded by a reddish silver order-chaos web … and something else within them, especially within Oestyn. Something like that mage tried on me, as well as some sort of drug or potion … it has to be.

Lerial finally says, “Now that I’m here, what exactly did you want to discuss?”

“I told you,” replies Jhosef. “The future of Afrit. Who will be heir after Rhamuel’s short time of ruling.”

“It won’t be short, and he can still have children.”

“He’s crippled. No one will believe that he can sire heirs. You know that. So does all of Afrit, and all of Hamor,” Jhosef responds. “Mykel is the only one of the blood whom the merchanters will accept. If anything happens to Mykel, it will be your fault, and all Afrit will turn on you. They’ll turn on Cigoerne as well. They’ll raze everything in that poor excuse for a capital to the ground, and it all will be your fault. You don’t want that on your head, especially not as a younger son.”

Lerial cannot believe what he is hearing. How can he believe that? How can he possibly think that? We’ve beaten back Merowey and destroyed Khesyn’s ability to invade anywhere for a while … if not years. “They’ll turn on you. You’re the one who kidnapped Mykel. Not me. Not the arms-commander. All I’m asking is for you to release Mykel, and let us take him back to Swartheld and his family.”

“What family? A crippled brother, a useless niece, and the worthless sisters who consorted for golds and power?”

Keep him talking … until you can find a way to free Mykel … “They’re still his family, Jhosef.”

“They’re all worthless. Just like Mykel, a half-grown half-man.” Jhosef snorts theatrically. “Except he can learn, unlike the others.”

Learn? Lerial wouldn’t call it that. “Just because a man isn’t suited to bear arms doesn’t make him less.” What else can you say?

“Just leave,” replies Jhosef. “I’ll keep Mykel safe until you come around. I’m not in the mood for debating.”

“Perhaps we should leave,” suggests Norstaan, his voice also just slightly flat. “It might be best.”

Leave … and then what? After all this madness? All this death? Lerial isn’t sure that saying anything will work, but withdrawing…?

It would be for the best … The cool but reassuring words creep into Lerial’s skull.

Lerial knows he has to act, and quickly, or he will stand totally alone in the hall, if indeed he does not already, and he is already having trouble fighting the insidious suggestions from the chaos-mage. He forces the thinnest order-pulse from the immobile Oestyn away from the columns behind Jhosef, Mykel, and Oestyn and toward the far left side of the entry hall, toward … something. The probe is stopped by a shield of some sort.

Order and chaos meet, and another flash of light occurs. When it subsides, Lerial sees a slender blond man, attired in brilliant white, except for the scarlet sash and the black leather of his boots. The chaos-mage stands to Lerial’s left, almost as far from Lerial as from Jhosef.

“You have not met Maastrik, I believe,” declares Jhosef.

“Only in my thoughts,” replies Lerial, studying the mage and sensing the strength of the blond wizard’s shields, strong enough that Lerial does not have the ability to penetrate them without using order-chaos separation. And any order-chaos separation strong enough to crush him would pulverize most of the villa and everyone around you.

The white-clad mage smiles faintly, and inclines his head, as if signifying that he knows what Lerial has just determined.

“Your lack of understanding represents the greatest threat ever posed to Afrit,” Jhosef says, breaking the momentary silence. “Anyone who sees the wider picture would conclude the same.”

You … as the greatest threat? Abruptly, he understands. “To Afrit, or to the most powerful merchanters who in turn control the chaos-mages who influence all that happens in Afrit?”

“Does it matter? Gold controls everything, and we control the gold.”

“No,” replies Lerial, realizing that, in one sense, it does not matter, although his realization, he suspects, is based on a somewhat different line of reasoning.

“You cannot destroy Maastrik, he has told me, without destroying all those around you. You cannot afford to do that … no matter how much you wish to destroy Maastrik … or me. You do not wish to destroy Lord Mykel. Nor do I wish that, either. Therefore, the best thing for both of us, and especially those you wish to protect, is for you and your men to depart.” Jhosef smiles warmly.

Lerial blocks the overwhelming feeling of warmth and friendliness that surrounds him and smiles in return … coldly. “I think you have overlooked something. What if I don’t wish to depart?”

“Then we will remain here until Maastrik wears you down, and he will, and then you will depart, in one fashion or another. Or, possibly, you will attempt a foolish attack, and you and your men will watch Mykel perish, and I will rally the merchanters against Cigoerne and to restore Afrit to its former glory.”

He’s truly mad. With what he now understands, Lerial cannot allow either alternative. He also knows that he cannot hold out forever against the insistent voices projected by the chaos-mage. Even if he can, he cannot let Jhosef and such a deadly chaos-mage escape, and the longer the standoff continues the weaker his position becomes.

What can you do?

“Well?” asks Jhosef.

Lerial can think of only one thing. He can only hope that it will work. He immediately creates three almost minute order-chaos separations in the stone under the white mage’s right boot, knowing that the mage’s shields will block the direct impact. He also knows that no one can do much of anything but fling out their hands when they feel themselves falling.

The explosion muffled by the mage’s shields staggers him, and the white-clad man flails, while pulverized rock and dust flare up around him.

Lerial contracts his shields almost to his body, sprints forward, and attacks through the swirling dust, not with either order or chaos, but with the ancient iron-cored, cupridium-plated blade. While he runs into what feels like a wall, the ancient blade continues onward, slicing into the mage’s shoulder.

The unvoiced scream dies, and ugly reddish silver mud-black splotches-not even close to the usual black-silver death mists-spray out from the near-instant ashes that are all that remain of the wizard. Even the shimmering white cloth turns gray and then ashen, before joining the pile of ash so fine that it will sift with any movement anywhere close.

“Kill them all!” screams Jhosef.

For a moment, Lerial does not understand to whom Jhosef is talking, not until a chaos-bolt slams against his shields. He turns toward Jhosef, only to see Mykel half-wreathed in flame from a second chaos-bolt, far weaker than the first. Lerial’s eyes turn to the other side of the entry hall, where another mage in white stands, a dark-haired man most likely younger than Lerial.

Lerial immediately attempts an order-pulse against the younger mage’s shields, if only to distract him. That pulse, likely aided by some chaos depletion, does just that, and the mage flings another chaos-bolt at Lerial, one that he returns to the attacker with enough force that the younger mage staggers, his shields disintegrating, then turns and runs, heading toward the corridor behind the columns.

Unwilling to let the mage escape, although he is more properly a white wizard, and unable to project significant chaos that distance, Lerial separates the smallest possible section of the fleeing man’s belt into order and chaos, because that is all he can do at that moment. A chunk of the man’s back explodes. The white wizard pitches forward onto the polished white and brown tiles, his body slowly turning to ash as the chaos consumes it.

Lerial immediately turns to face Jhosef, only to see Oestyn and his father in an embrace-except it is more deadly. Jhosef’s arms flail as Oestyn steps back and wrenches the knife from his father’s body.

“You … you…” Jhosef cannot seem to speak more as his hands clutch at his abdomen. Lerial can only see blood everywhere across Jhosef’s chest and abdomen, and it is clear enough that Oestyn has struck more than once. Abruptly, Jhosef sags, and then collapses like a marionette whose strings have been cut.

Oestyn turns, the bloody knife in his hand. “I tried so hard … I did…” Tears are streaming down his face. “It was never … never enough. Never…” He looks down at Mykel’s half-charred form, then lifts the knife again. “I’m … sorry, Mykel … sorry … so sorry.” Then the knife clatters on the floor tiles.

Lerial is frozen for a moment before he lunges toward Oestyn, but by the time he crosses the almost ten yards that separate them, even his efforts to use order to stanch the blood from Oestyn’s neck are too little and too late … and the quick shower of black and silver tells Lerial that Oestyn is dead. Lerial sees that, as Oestyn collapsed, he had reached out and clutched Mykel’s hand with both of his.

Lerial slowly straightens, ignoring the blood on his hands … and in those places from where you can never wash it away,

Belatedly, his shields in place, Lerial immediately searches for yet another concentration of chaos. If there were two, could there be another? He can find no sign of another chaos-mage, and he glances toward Norstaan, who looks stunned, if not more than stunned.

The undercaptain shakes his head and asks, “What happened?”

“Didn’t you see?”

“You were talking to someone … and then there was something like a small chaos-bolt, and you got to him with your blade, and he turned to ashes. But then someone hit Mykel with chaos … I saw everything after that-Oestyn, Jhosef … and the heir.” Norstaan shivers.

The fact that the dead and vanished wizard had managed to cloud the minds of Norstaan and likely the rankers from First Squad is another chilling reminder to Lerial of just how complex the situation in Afrit was … and likely still is. “There were two chaos-mages. I never sensed the second one because the first was so strong he overshadowed the other. The second one was likely his assistant.”

“Jhosef … he wanted to use Mykel … didn’t he?”

“Like a puppet, a marionette,” Lerial confirmed.

“Who would ever have thought … a produce merchanter … a frigging produce merchanter…”

Strauxyn and several Afritan Guards hurry into the vast entry hall, where the fine particles of dust and ash are slowly settling.

“Ser?” asks the undercaptain, his eyes widening as he takes in the three bodies sprawled on the white and brown tiles and the few metal items and coins scattered amid the ashes that are all that remains of the two chaos-mages.

“Jhosef’s chaos-mage attacked. I stopped him, and when I did, his control over Oestyn and Mykel vanished. The moment Jhosef thought we’d be able to rescue Mykel, he ordered the other chaos-mage to kill everyone. We didn’t know there was a second mage. He started with Mykel, then me. I stopped him, too, but while I was doing that, Oestyn must have grabbed his father’s belt knife, and he stabbed his father so quickly and so deeply that no healer could have saved him, even if I’d wanted to. Then Oestyn slit his own throat.” Lerial knows that the first part of his explanation is not true. But what else could you have done? Or said? Besides, in a way the chaos-mage had attacked, with his insidiously and false projections.

“Oestyn slit his own throat?”

“He did,” Norstaan confirms. “He said he tried, that he was so sorry, and then he just … slashed his own neck. Overcaptain Lerial tried to stop the blood, but he couldn’t.”

After a long silence, Strauxyn clears his throat, once, and again, before he finally speaks. “Now what, ser?”

“We’ll stay here this evening,” replies Lerial. “I intend to make a thorough search and inventory of the entire estate. We also need to do what we can to prepare the heir’s body for return to Swartheld.” As well as deal with a few other matters. More than a few, Lerial fears.