“You’re all wet,” Ryalah declares.
Seated in the chair beside Lerial’s sister, Amaira says nothing, but her eyes are fixed on Lerial.
“I am. I was practicing blades with Undercaptain Woelyt. I sweated a lot.”
“Is he good?”
“He’s better than I am.”
“Is he as good as Lephi?”
“He’s better, I think.”
“Lephi says he’ll always be better than you.”
Lerial keeps the wince he feels to himself, even though he suspects both girls can sense his discomfort. “Right now, he’s bigger and has more experience. It won’t always be like that.” Lerial feels that, and he knows that will be true, even if he cannot explain why to himself, much less anyone else.
“He says you have too much order to be a good Lancer,” Ryalah adds.
“You do have order,” says Amaira more softly.
“Your mother says I can get much better.” Lerial laughs gently. “If your mother says so, I’m not going to argue with her.”
Amaira grins and shakes her head.
“Lerial!” calls Xeranya from the other end of the courtyard..
He turns to see her beckoning. “I’ll be right there.” Then he looks back to the girls, taking in the dolls. “You’re fortunate Father isn’t around.”
Amaira nods solemnly.
Ryalah nods as well. “We only play with them when he’s gone.”
“That’s wise.” With a smile, Lerial turns and walks toward the other fountain.
As he nears his mother, he sees her slip a thin volume under a leather folder before she turns and smiles at him. “I didn’t see you come in. Viera saw you sparring with the undercaptain. Your father will be so pleased that you’ve been diligent in that.”
Lerial hadn’t seen Viera, the oldest and only surviving family retainer who had accompanied his grandmother from the destruction of Cyad to Hamor. “I hope so.” He’s more likely to be concerned that I haven’t practiced enough or learned enough. He’s never satisfied. Lerial does not dare voice such thoughts. He even worries about thinking them. “What are you reading?” he asks, glancing at the leather folder and what lies under it, because he cannot make out what the volume might be.
“An old book of verse.” She slides the leather folder aside to reveal a thin volume whose cover is a shimmering silver, touched with a hint of green. “Your grandmother gave it to me. It will go to your daughter. Your aunt has the other copy. There were only two made. Hers will pass to Amaira. If you do not have daughters, your copy will pass to Ryalah.”
“Might I look at it?” Lerial isn’t all that interested in verse, but he has never seen that kind of binding, and that suggests the book is clearly old.
“Carefully.” Xeranya lifts the small volume and extends it to him. “I wouldn’t let your father know you’ve read it. You know what he thinks about verse and playacting.”
Lerial nods. “I won’t.” He won’t not just because his mother has asked, but also because she is absolutely right about the way Kiedron feels about verse.
“It is a part of your heritage, the heritage of Cyador. If you and Lephi do not carry on that heritage, who will?”
Lerial nods, then opens the cover gently, although the volume does not feel old, and turns to the first page, which holds only a title: Meditations Upon the Land of Light. The characters are strangely angular and hard to read. He turns the page and reads another set of lines, “To those of the Towers, to those of the Land, and to those who endured.” Below them are a name and a title, “Kiedral Daloren, Vice Marshal, Anglorian Unity.” Lerial has not read or heard of either Kiedral Daloren, whoever he might have been, or the Anglorian Unity. He has heard of the Towers.
“There really were Towers … Mirror Towers?”
“Once … yes. Your grandmother told me that Kiedral was the second Emperor of Light.”
“Who was the first?”
Xeranya shrugs and offers a wry smile. “I asked. No one knows.”
Lerial frowns and turns to the first verse.
For all those who braved dark translation’s hell
and fought the Forest bravely if not well,
may these words offer consolation’s praise
the remnant of past Anglorian days,
and hopes for Cyad’s shining, mirrored ways …
He slowly closes the book and looks to his mother. “It doesn’t make much sense.”
“Poetry usually doesn’t make sense to you when you’re young. I’m just now beginning to understand some of it. Later … you might appreciate it. In a way, I think it’s all about the founding of Cyad and Cyador and what the writer felt about starting over in a strange land, so far from the Rational Stars. Your grandmother said it gave her hope. Someday, it might help you.”
Hope … from old verses?
Xeranya extends her hand, and Lerial returns the volume.
As he walks away to wash up and change to cleaner garb, he can’t help but continue to wonder how old verses could help anyone … and him, because his mother has not mentioned Lephi, or his daughters, and she never would have omitted his older brother unintentionally.
Never. Why would she give her copy to your daughter? And not to Lephi’s. That doesn’t make sense. It especially doesn’t make sense because Lephi is the heir, Cyador’s heir, and his parents are both practical. Very practical.
V
On sixday, Lerial’s leg is indeed bruised, and a bit stiff, but he makes his way along the palace corridors to meet with Saltaryn, trying not to limp. He practiced with a wand for more than half a glass the night before, if in his chambers-where no one could see-but the extra practice hasn’t loosened up his leg, and he certainly doesn’t feel any more accomplished with the wand, although he thinks he has the movements right for what Woelyt had showed him.
Lerial reaches the study before the magus does, but chooses not to sit down. Saltaryn will not be late, and Lerial does not want to seat himself, only to stand when the magus arrives. He waits only a few moments before he sees Saltaryn approaching, carrying the leather case, more like an oblong box with strap handles.
Saltaryn studies Lerial as he nears the youth, then purses his lips and frowns. “You’re still more black, except where you’re bruised on your leg.”
“I got the bruises sparring with Undercaptain Woelyt. He was showing me moves I didn’t know.”
“Are you practicing with order?” Saltaryn sets his case on the table.
“I beg your pardon, ser?” Lerial tries to keep his voice calm. “Practicing with order, ser?”
“Are you trying to gather order or trying to heal people?”
“I went to the Hall of Healing several days ago to see what healers do. That was all.”
“If you want to be a magus, you need to learn to control chaos before you work at all with order. I suggest you stay away from the Hall … that is, if you want to remain among the Magi’i.”
Lerial doubts that, as the son of the Duke of Cigoerne, and the grandson of the last Emperor of Light, he will be denied elthage rights, but … he could be declared unfit to be a magus, and that would certainly bring his father’s wrath down upon him. “I haven’t been to the Hall of Healing except that one time, and I don’t plan to go again any time soon.”
“Good. Now … let us see how you have progressed with the candle exercises.” From his case, Saltaryn produces two candles, so stubby that they are barely three digits long, for all that they are set in ornate and polished brass candleholders. He sets them on the side of the table away from Lerial. “Do you see the candles?”
Of course. “Yes.”
Saltaryn takes out a thin brass frame, perhaps three hands high, from which hangs a black cloth that extends down far enough that its base droops on the table. “Take a chair and seat yourself against the wall so that you face the candles.”