Cyador’s Heirs (42 page)

Lerial addresses his next statement to Chevaen. “Verdheln looks like a well-established land, for all your demurral about the lack of organization, so organized that I must wonder what assistance we and the Lancers can provide.”

“That is up to the elders of the High Council to say,” replies Chevaen, in a tone that is not quite sneering.

Lerial takes several more bites before saying, “We passed a Kaordist temple on the way to the hostel. Perhaps I am mistaken, but I had heard that the people of Verdheln accepted the reality of both order and chaos, while Duke Casseon has forbidden any use of chaos to his people.”

Chevaen nods. “That is so.”

Dalya looks as though she might say something, pauses, and finally speaks. “We accept the reality of chaos and the fire that it can bring, but fire is deadly to the trees near our dwellings.”

Near our dwellings?
Lerial frowns, if inadvertently. “Is it not dangerous to trees everywhere?”

From across the table Sherita laughs. “Fire thins the underbrush and keeps the forests healthy. We let the fires burn away from our hamlets and towns, but we prefer not to thin them in the same fashion.”

“I have heard it said that Duke Casseon has chaos mages among his armsmen,” Lerial says. “Do you know aught of that?” He tries to keep his tone guileless.

“His armsmen have burned hamlets south of the Verd,” admits Moensyn from across the table. “I have heard word that suggests the burning was not from torches … but that is likely a matter better addressed to the High Council.”

Lerial is getting an idea of why they are in Verdheln.

“Perhaps it should be,” adds Sherita, in a tone that essentially negates any possibility of further information along those lines.

Lerial has the definite feeling that any more questions along those lines will merely upset the elders, although he is puzzled by one matter, and one which he can bring up, while seeming to agree with Sherita. “I’ve never heard of councils of elders, but, begging your pardons, and hoping I am not offending, none of you seem that ancient.”

Dalya laughs, then turns to Moensyn. “Would you care to explain?”

“The term ‘elder’ refers to those who are respected and productive members of each community,” Moensyn says. “Also, no one can be an elder without having served the community without recompense for at least two years at some time in his or her life.”

“How does a community define what is productive or what is service?” asks Altyrn, surprisingly to Lerial.

“Service is what benefits all members of a community, not just a few,” replies Moensyn. “Things like building or smoothing the roads, building repairing the forest walls, planting trees where they are needed, digging wells, or maintaining the water or waste channels…”

“Most people choose to do service when they are young,” adds Chevaen, “and there are other forms of service as well.” He offers a sidelong glance at Dalya, who ignores it.

“And productive?” presses Altyrn.

“Productive is anything that adds, overall, to the community,” replies Dalya.

“That’s … rather general,” observes Altyrn.

“Life is rather general,” returns Sherita dryly.

Lerial can sense that the elders all seem in agreement, despite Chevaen’s apparent snide reference aimed at Dalya.

Moensyn gestures. Although Lerial sees no one besides those in the dining chamber, the servers return and remove the dishes before each person, placing in front of each a small plate, in the center of which is something that vaguely resembles a small mounded pastry.

“Honey nut-cakes,” explains Sherita in reply to Lerial’s quizzical glance.

Although Lerial is definitely fond of honey, he takes a small first bite … and is relieved that the confectionery, infused with honey, almost melts in his mouth. While there is a layer of crushed nuts, there is definitely a flour of some sort, but it is unlike any he has tasted, and he wonders if it is a nut flour.
Or what kind of nut flour.

After all have finished the honey nut-cakes, Moensyn coughs, then says, “We would not keep you … knowing you have a long ride ahead of you tomorrow.”

Altyrn smiles in return. “That is true. We do appreciate your hospitality and kindness and your telling us more about Verdheln.”

“It is the least we could do,” replies Sherita. “You needed to know more about the Verd.”

There is a definite note of truth in her words that strikes Lerial, almost as if she wished to say more … and could or would not.

“We are thankful.” Altyrn begins to stand and glances at Lerial.

“We are indeed,” adds Lerial as he also rises.

“We wish you well on your journey to Verdyn,” replies Moensyn, standing in turn.

“Thank you.”

Lerial follows Altyrn through the inn and past the silver and blond woman, who nods politely, and out to the narrow covered front porch. In moments, the Lancers appear, mounted and leading the mounts for Lerial and the majer.

“Were you fed?” Altyrn asks the lead ranker.

“Yes, ser. Best fare we’ve had since we left Cigoerne.”

“Good.” Altyrn mounts and waits for Lerial to do the same before he says, “We need to talk once we get back to the quarters.”

“Yes, ser.”

On the ride back west to the hostel, Lerial does his best to extend his senses, feeling for any sort of danger, but he can sense nothing. Nor is anything amiss when they reach their temporary quarters.

Once Altyrn shuts the door to his small chamber, he turns to Lerial. “What did you think of the elders?”

“They’re mostly honest. They know more than they’re telling us … and they’re worried.”

“About us?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so … but I’m not sure.”

“They’re more than polite,” rejoins Altyrn. “It’s not just that they have to be, either.” He pauses, then adds, “I was doubtful when the one elder said that weapons were staves and knives, and said bows were just for hunting, but I’m beginning to think he was telling the truth.”

“You think the forest people have relied on their trees and the distance from the large cities and towns of Afrit and Merowey to defend themselves?”

“That … and I’m thinking that all the raiders from the south may not be raiding Cigoerne just because of bad harvests. What if the harvests are so poor that Casseon is taking more to feed the people of the cities?”

“And driving the raiders north? Or do you think he’s looking to loot the granaries or the supplies of the Verd?”

“I don’t think they have granaries as we know them. Did you see any true flour? But they do have ample food. Does anything else strike you?”

“The roads. They’re level, and they cut through hill. They don’t seem to have that many people for all that roadwork and stonework.”

“They don’t. Remember what I told you about cammabark? They drill holes in the ground and then fill them with the dried bark. Then they take a string or a strip of cloth treated with a solution that has some cammabark, and they light it and take cover. The explosion removes rocks and dirt.” Altyrn shakes his head. “It’s very dangerous, but they’re very very careful … about that … about everything.”

While the two talk for another half glass, when Lerial leaves, he feels that they have not uncovered any insights they had not already made by the time they had left the inn.

XLV

Just after sunrise on sevenday the Lancers ride out from the travelers’ hostel of Apfhel, on a journey that will last past sunset, according to Yulyn.

As he rides beside the wayguide, Lerial cannot help wonder about the discrepancy between Casseon’s prohibition of chaos use among his people but his likely deployment of it against his enemies or those against whom he has a grudge.

All that raises another, and far more personal question. What can he do—if anything—should he encounter a magus or a white wizard using chaos-fire? He understands that some of those in the past of Cyador who were not full Magi’i, like Lorn, have faced chaos-fire and triumphed. Strong ordermasters are supposed to have been able to create order shields against chaos. Lerial is well aware that he is nowhere close to being either a magus or a full ordermage. Yet … is there anything he can do?
There must be something.

Even as he surveys the forest through which they ride, a forest that seems to change little, with its mixture of evergreens and broad-leafed trees, most of whose leaves are winter-grayed, his thoughts keep coming back to the question of what sort of defenses he can develop. After riding a glass and a half, from what he can tell, since it is hard to chart the progress of the sun between the intermittent clouds and the tall trees that leave the road in shadow most of the time, they ride through a hamlet. In the entire ride from Apfhel to the unnamed hamlet, they have passed but a handful of small wagons, two other riders, both in brown, and several young men walking the road, carrying either scythes or mattocks.

Once they enter the hamlet, from what Lerial can tell, there are close to a hundred dwellings, similar, if not nearly identical, to those he has seen in Apfhel. He does not see a Kaordist temple, but perhaps it is farther from the main road than is the one in Apfhel. With the thinning of the trees come rays of sunlight, for which Lerial finds he is grateful, yet before long they are back in the shadows of the main road.

“Are all the roads in Verdheln this shadowed?” he finally asks Yulyn.

“I know of none that are not … except where they pass through the great meadows.”

“Where are the great meadows?”

“Where they always have been,” replies Yulyn with a broad grin. “We will pass through one close to sunset. There are not many in Verdheln, and most are to the west and more to the south.”

“You don’t clear meadows?”

“If the Verd wants a meadow, there is one. Who are we to change that?”

“But you thin the trees for your towns.”

“As little as possible.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, where there is forest, there should remain forest.”

“Why do you think that is the way it should be?”

“The forest was here before us. It will be here long after we are gone. Who are we to change that?”

Once more, Lerial’s questions have brought him to a place where the answers to further questions will reveal nothing new. He leans back in the saddle and glances at Altyrn. The majer looks back with a knowingly amused expression, almost as if he might have once asked similar questions.

Over the course of the day, they pass with a certain regularity through hamlet after hamlet. Not only are the dwellings similar, but the hamlets resemble each other in the way in which the trees are thinned and the distances between houses, as well as the presence of stone-lined waste canals. Although the shapes of the hamlets differ, that is perhaps because of the terrain where each is located.

“We will be entering the great meadow shortly,” Yulyn announces late in the afternoon.

Only a fifth of a glass passes before the trees end abruptly, and Lerial rides into an open space, where knee-high grass seems to extend for more than a kay in every direction before him, except for where the road cuts through it. The sun hangs half covered by the trees to the west, and an orange light suffuses the air. In the distance to the southwest, which appears to be the direction in which the great meadow stretches the farthest, Lerial sees a red deer, or what he thinks is a red deer.

Fifty yards or so ahead of Lerial, a coney bounds out of the grass and then disappears into the grass on the east side of the road. Farther to the west, there is a small herd of cattle, less than twenty. Despite the lush grass, not until they are close to the southern edge of the meadow does Lerial see any other animals grazing, and then he nearly misses the flock of sheep almost lost in the grass, their fleeces tinted by the setting sun. Again, there are not that many sheep, not for a flock, perhaps fifty.

The road appears to have cut through the great meadow so that roughly one quarter is to the east of the road, and the remainder to the west and south. By the time they reach the south side, a distance of about two kays, the sun has dropped completely behind the tall trees to the west, and the orange glow is even more pronounced—and the gloom of the road under the towering trees is even deeper.

Lerial is glad that the road is comparatively smooth because it would be hard to see potholes in it, and that becomes more of a concern as the light dims over the next glass that passes before he sees the trees thin once more … on the outskirts of Verdell.

“The hostel is on the south side of Verdell, a bit to the west,” announces Yulyn, but he does not turn off the main road. Before long, after they have passed more than a score of the lanes between lines of trees, the road turns to the southwest once more. Even in the dusk that is verging on dark, it is clear that Verdell is far larger than Apfhel, possibly even larger than Cigoerne, although that is something Lerial cannot tell for certain.

A slender man with white hair—not silver—stands waiting under a lantern in the entry to the travelers’ hostel. “Welcome to Verdell, Majer Altyrn, Undercaptain Lerial.” He does not wear brown but a light tan tunic and trousers, although his boots look brown.

“Thank you.”

Interestingly enough, the travelers’ hostel—or way station—in Verdell is barely big enough to handle the two squads and Lerial and Altyrn without crowding, suggesting to Lerial that the statements of the elders in Apfhel were honest, and that he has indeed read them correctly. That he has troubles him in another way, because it is clear there are more hidden aspects about the people of the Verd than he has realized. He puts those thoughts to the side as he and Altyrn arrange for meals and watch schedules—necessary in case the hostel is not so secure as it appears and also to maintain an orderly and consistent routine.

The late-evening meal, served well after dark, consists of warm nut bread of some sort, bland and not so bitter as the acorn bread of Apfhel, and a meat-and-tuber casserole in a thick sauce that is neither creamy nor cheese but has a slightly nutty flavor, enough that Lerial questions whether everything has nuts in it.