Cyador’s Heirs (41 page)

“Thank you.”

Both the majer and Lerial nod to her. Lerial can sense neither chaos nor danger as he follows, but his hand is still near the hilt of his sabre.

Inside the small chamber are a circular table of polished dark wood and four armless wooden chairs. Standing beside one is a silver-haired man in green, whose long-sleeved tunic is trimmed in brown. “I am Elder Moensyn. Welcome to Apfhel.” He looks to the majer. “You are?”

“Majer Altyrn, of the Mirror Lancers. This is Undercaptain Lerial, the younger son of Duke Kiedron.”

Moensyn nods, then addresses Lerial. “You are truly just an undercaptain?”

“A very new undercaptain, Elder Moensyn. I have barely finished training.” In the larger sense, Lerial believes, that is true.

“Does your older brother command a group of Lancers?”

“No. He has only been riding patrols for a year. He is assigned to a company in the southeast of Cigoerne.”

“You have no other siblings?”

“A sister only. She is six … seven now.” As he corrects himself, he realizes he has missed Ryalah’s birthday. He also realizes that Moensyn must be an ordermaster from the flow of darkness around the elder.

Moensyn frowns just slightly. “As the son of the Duke, with his heritage, are you not of the Magi’i?”

“I am. My talents lie more in order, though.” Lerial knows he is not telling Moensyn any more than the elder can sense.

“Yet you are effective with a sabre?”

“Enough to defend himself most effectively,” interjects Altyrn smoothly.

Lerial can sense a veiled feeling of exasperation on the majer’s part.

“You must pardon me, Majer,” says the elder, “but it is my task to ascertain you are those you purport to be.”

“That may be,” replies Lerial, “but as an ordermaster, you should now know that.”

Moensyn looks taken aback, if but for a moment, before he replies. “I do. I apologize for any inadvertent offense I may have created.”

“What exactly do you expect of us?” asks Altyrn.

“Here in Apfhel, we expect nothing. We will provide lodging and food for the night and morning, and tomorrow Yulyn will guide you on your way to Verdell. The High Council will tell you where you are needed. You will be staying at the travelers’ hostel just beyond the western end of town.” Moensyn smiles. “The other elders and I would hope that you two would join us at the Copse Inn for dinner. It’s the inn you passed on the main street.”

“We would be delighted,” replied Altyrn. “Once we have seen our men settled.”

“Of course. Perhaps in two glasses, or somewhat earlier?”

“Between a glass and a half and two glasses, I would judge,” replies the majer. “If there are no difficulties.”

“There should be none, but we will wait on you.”

“Thank you.”

Moensyn inclines his head, and the two Lancers nod in reply, then leave the council building, nodding in turn to the blonde who stands as they pass. Lerial does note that she is extremely attractive … as he has been warned.

As they ride toward the west side of Apfhel, Lerial is definitely puzzled. The town is orderly and clearly prosperous, and certainly nothing like anything he had expected. With all the prosperity and with what appear to be solid defenses and border guards, why are the elders requesting aid from his father?

Less than a half kay from where they turned off the paved street and onto the main road west, Lerial sees a small, single-storied stone building that isn’t a shop or a dwelling, set, again in an octagonal green. The structure is long and narrow with a tower at one end that holds a pair of spires. Yet the spires are very different. One is shimmering silver, and the other a warm bronze. The silver spire is straight, narrow, and several cubits higher than the bronze spire, which appears as if wide rounded coils had twisted around each other and narrowed as they rose in a most even fashion to a rounded nub at the top, while the tip of the silver spire is almost like a mirror lance.
Or what a mirror lance must have looked like,
muses Lerial, since he has never seen one.

He shifts his weight in the saddle and points, asking Altyrn in a low voice. “What’s that?”

“I think it’s the local temple of Kaorda—the mighty god and goddess of order and chaos.”

“The god and goddess have the same name?”

“No. Kaorda has two attributes,” replies the majer. “As I understand it, there is the orderly male side and the chaotic female side. According to the Kaordists, half of Kaorda’s face is male, and of unsurpassed and rare beauty and composure. The other half is female, but of a dark beauty that shows chaotic and demented passion.”

“Some would say that it is the purity of unchecked passion,” interjects Yulyn, looking back at them.

“Are there any statues of the god … goddess?” asks Lerial, wondering how such a visage might appear.

“Oh, no,” replies the guide. “Trying to create an image of Kaorda would be blasphemy.”

“Blasphemy?” Lerial almost laughs, except he can sense just how serious Yulyn is. Making a statue would be … blasphemy? Trying to show what their deity is would diminish it? Ironmages and builders in Cyad often made models to see what something looked like or whether it would work. Saltaryn had been quite clear about that. Either a god exists, or he or she doesn’t. If a god doesn’t exist, what harm could a statue do? And if the god of the Kaordists does exist, how could a graven image diminish what exists? “What would happen if a stonecutter or a wood carver tried to make such a statue?”

“They would not. Not in the lands of the Verd.” Yulyn’s voice is firm.

Lerial wonders how the Kaordists express their belief, but he can sense that pushing his questions further is unwise. “Thank you for explaining.”

“You are welcome.”

A tenth of a glass later, Yulyn turns south off the main road and down a smooth packed clay lane that leads into an open space that holds several long timber buildings, all of one story, as well as a stable as long as one of the buildings. The guide reins up at the end of the nearest building, which resembles a barracks of some sort.

“This is the hostel. It is yours for the evening. There are several cooks and provisions, and you can request what can be prepared from those. I will meet you here in the morning, at sunrise.”

“Thank you,” replies Altyrn.

As the guide turns his mount and then rides back toward the main road past the column of Lancers, Lerial wonders if his questions have upset Yulyn—although he has discerned none of the usual signs of anger shown by the order and chaos flows around the man. Or is Yulyn always that abrupt? There is also another question.

Lerial turns to Altyrn. “This travelers’ hostel is more than large enough for two squads of Lancers. Are there that many who travel here?”

“I would not have thought so,” admits Altern, “but the forest people are said to be most practical.”

It takes nearly a glass for Altyrn and Lerial to make arrangements with the cooks and to settle the men. The hostel buildings are indeed like barracks, although there are several small individual chambers, and Lerial takes one, and Altyrn another, but the accommodations are far better than any the Lancers have had since leaving Teilyn.

More than a glass and a half later, Altyrn and Lerial, accompanied by four Lancers, ride back into the center of Apfhel and rein up outside the Copse Inn. They leave their mounts with the Lancers and enter the inn.

A slender older woman with silver and blond hair steps forward as Altyrn and Lerial step into the small entry hall. “The elders are in the small dining chamber. If you would follow me?” She pauses. “I noticed you have escorts. We will feed them as well.”

“Thank you.”

“We thank you for coming.”

The majer nods in reply.

Lerial does not frown, but wonders at the concern her words have not expressed.

The woman steps down the wooden-walled hallway, a space neither narrow nor especially wide, to the first door on the right, where she stops and gestures. Lerial follows Altyrn into the chamber where four people are standing there and apparently talking turn. Elder Moensyn is accompanied by three other elders—one man and two women, all standing near the front of the chamber. One of the women is silver haired, while the other man and woman are both younger, perhaps fifteen years older than Lerial at most.

“Welcome. This is Elder Sherita,” says Moensyn, nodding first to the silver-haired woman, then to the black-haired man, “and Elder Chevaen, and Elder Dalya.” Dalya is the younger strawberry-blond woman. “We should be seated. You have ridden long days, I am certain.”

“You might say so,” replies Altyrn genially, “but the quarters at the hostel are excellent. I would not have thought so many travelers or traders would come from the north and east.”

“Oh … they do not. The hostel also houses those who are learning service in the woods many times during the year. We are fortunate that only a few are here at present. That is also why your wayguide has requested you depart early tomorrow. There are no other hostels large enough for your forces between Apfhel and Verdell.”

Lerial can sense the truth of that, but from the maps he has studied, Verdheln extends much farther to the south. Why is the major town so far north when Verdheln is a part of Merowey?

The table in the small dining chamber is round. Lerial finds himself seated between Chevaen and Dalya, and across from Altyrn, who is seated between Moensyn and Sherita.
You’re between the two younger elders, and Altyrn is between the two older ones.
Lerial doubts that pattern bears any resemblance to coincidence. At each place is a wide platter of golden brown. For a moment, Lerial thinks it might be polished wood, but then sees that it is crockery, or perhaps something between crockery and porcelain. There is also a slender mug of the same substance.

Once everyone is seated, Moensyn clears his throat and speaks again. “We are honored to host Majer Altyrn, the most renowned Lancer of Cigoerne, and Undercaptain Lerial, who is also the son of Duke Kiedron. They have come with their men to assist us with certain concerns of the High Elders.”

How does he know Altyrn is the most renowned Lancer?
Lerial wonders.
From Altyrn’s past visits? Or was there something in the documents Altyrn showed him?

Moensyn gestures to the pitchers on the table. “We can offer you greenberry juice or melomel. The greenberry pitchers have a green stripe.”

“We do not have lager or ale,” adds Chevaen, “but the melomel is similar to a slightly sweet golden lager, I am told, although I have not tasted a golden lager, I must admit.”

Lerial is not certain he wishes either, but decides on the melomel, as the lesser of evils, and starts to reach for the pitcher, but Dalya is quicker, and fills his mug.

“That’s a good choice,” she says. “At least for me, it is. The greenberry’s too tart.” She looks to Chevaen. “Some prefer it that way.”

“Just be thankful Moensyn didn’t offer leshak,” comments Chevaen.
Leshak?

At his expression, Dalya explains. “Leshak is made from greenberries and white grapes, and you don’t want to drink much if you want to be able to do much of anything at all … even if it is sweet and doesn’t taste that strong. Sweet can be powerful.” Her last words were edged, but Lerial does not feel that they are aimed at him.

He takes a sip of the melomel and finds it sweeter than any lager he has tasted, but not overpoweringly so, although he doubts that it has the thirst-quenching ability of a good pale or amber lager. “Are there only four elders in Apfhel, or are you four just those dining with us?”

“There are only four elders in any hamlet or town in Verdheln,” declares Chevaen.

“Four seems like a strange number,” ventures Lerial.

“It makes perfect sense.” Chevaen smiles broadly. “If the council, of elders, that is, cannot decide by three to one, it’s not a good idea.”

“That still doesn’t make it a good idea,” adds Dalya quietly. “It just makes it a popular bad idea.” She looks directly at Lerial. “Might I ask how long you have been a Lancer?”

He finds her gaze, especially with her gold-green eyes, more than a little disconcerting, but he smiles in return. “Not that long. I trained with arms for almost a year before my father and Majer Phortyn decided I was ready to be an undercaptain.” Lerial knows he is stretching the truth in one way and understating it in another, since his studies have been to prepare him as well, and they have gone on for years.

“Have you used your sabre in a real fight?” asks Dalya.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“You’re young to have wounded or killed a man.” Her words contain sadness.

“It wasn’t my choice.”
Not if you wanted to live … and hold your head high.
Before either can reply to that, he quickly says, “I must confess that I had no idea about how well planned and organized Verdheln seems to be.”

“Moderately well planned,” replies Chevaen with a slightly twisted smile. “Not nearly so well organized.”

“The way the trees form a living barrier near the road, and the raised stone wall that is sealed to keep water in … That would seem…” Lerial leaves his sentence unfinished.

“Tradition and custom,” says Dalya. “Those are custom. We live with and by the trees and in harmony, as we can, with the land.”

“You wear blades at your side,” Chevaen adds. “Here, weapons are knives and staves.”

“And bows for hunting,” adds Dalya.

At that moment, two servers appear with platters, which they set in the center part of the table, spaced equally around it.

“The main dish is huuras. That’s ghanos marinated in spices, then grilled and served with a mild cream sauce that’s seasoned with just a touch of honey-burhka sauce. The tubers are baked and covered with the same sauce, and the bread is a kind of acorn loaf.”

For a moment, Lerial struggles to remember what a ghano is, then recalls that it is essentially an overgrown ground squirrel. With that thought, he just hopes the sauces are good.

For a time, as everyone serves themselves, there is little conversation, and Lerial takes small bites of everything. The acorn bread has a taste of bitterness. The ghanos strips, at least presented as they have been, are close enough to fowl that the slightly gamey taste is not off-putting to Lerial. The tubers are bland, but with the sauce make the best part of the meal.