“There is indeed. It’s only symbolic,” Altyrn says. “At one time, Casseon’s predecessors promised the same thing. It’s very hard for a ruler to bind his successors to a promise, even one in writing, made by a man long dead.”
Lerial feels stupid for not seeing the obvious, but he’s not about to admit that, except to himself. “They hope that if I agree…” He shakes his head. “Lephi’s the heir, not me, and I can only try to persuade him.”
“They know that, but if you and your father agree, it will be harder for him to ignore the promise, and it may not even come to that.”
Lerial can see the elders’ point. “That raises another question. I assume I should report to Majer Phortyn immediately upon my arrival in Cigoerne.”
“If you still consider yourself a Mirror Lancer.”
“Why shouldn’t I? I’m not the heir. As an undercaptain, I should report to the majer.” Even if I won’t be telling him everything.
“As an undercaptain … that’s true.” Altyrn’s voice is level.
“I’m certain that the majer would prefer that I report initially through the chain of command,” adds Lerial. “He doesn’t have to know I carry a personal communication from the High Council.”
“He could command you to reveal it to him and to remain at headquarters while he reports to your father.”
Is he that great an idiot? “Then I would just have to tell him that my orders from his superior-that’s my father-were that I should report to the majer first, but that I should then report to the Palace. I would prefer not to have to say that.”
“You likely won’t have to, but it’s best to decide how you would deal with such a situation.”
Another not-so-veiled suggestion to anticipate and prepare for all possibilities.
For another half glass, Altyrn goes over the details of Lerial’s return to Cigoerne and what he should expect, including what to say to the post commander when he reaches Tirminya. To Lerial, the fact that Altyrn does not refer to Dechund by name suggests just how little the majer thinks of the captain.
When Altyrn finishes, he adds, “By the way, you won’t have to write Elder Klerryt.”
“Oh?” Lerial is immediately on guard.
“He came to Escadya yesterday to represent the council. Donnael has been ill and has returned to Verdell to recover.”
“I should talk to him, then.”
“You should. He’ll be here by eighth glass.”
“That won’t be long. I might as well go out and wait for him.” While you think about what you should say about Alaynara.
“He would appreciate that courtesy.”
“By your leave, ser?”
“Of course. I also appreciate the courtesy.”
Lerial stands and then makes his way to the hitching rail outside the barracks building that holds the officers’ quarters and their studies. There are no riders coming down the lane from the main road, and he turns his thoughts to Alaynara. He is still thinking about what he should say when he sees two riders on the lane. The elder rides in accompanied by a wayguide who looks familiar, but it takes Lerial a moment to recognize and recall Yulyn, who had guided them from the northeast side of the Verd to Apfhel and then to Verdell and Escadya.
“Greetings, Elder, Wayguide,” offers Lerial.
“The same to you,” returns Klerryt as he dismounts.
From what Lerial recalls, there is far more white in the elder’s red hair than there was a season ago, not to mention the dark circles under his eyes. “I thought we might talk for a bit … if you have some time.”
“I always have time to talk to Duke Kiedron’s son.”
Lerial stiffens inside at the formality of Klerryt’s words and tries to offer his reply in a gentle tone. “I would hope you would also have time to talk to Undercaptain Lerial, ser.”
“I would and do.” After a slight hesitation, Klerryt adds, “I’d prefer to walk while we talk.”
“We can do that.” Lerial gestures toward the green in the center of the rows of barracks buildings, then steps up beside the elder, who is just a digit or so taller than Lerial is.
“What did you have in mind?”
“I wanted to talk about Alaynara.”
“To offer some trite comments or explanations?” Klerryt’s words are softly tart.
“No. To tell you what I learned about her and exactly what happened … without justifications or elaborate explanations or rationalizations.”
“I’m listening.”
“She was very professional. She was the best archer I’ve ever seen, and she could estimate a distance and put an arrow down almost on a point on the darkest night. That is no surprise to you, I’m certain.”
“I can’t say it is.”
“She was also very perceptive. She once suggested, very tactfully, except it was really a rhetorical question, when no one else was around, that I’d hadn’t been allowed to be a child long.”
“I don’t imagine you were. What did you tell her?”
“That it didn’t matter now … that what mattered was that other children would have that chance. Somehow … that surprised her. At least, I think it did.”
“It may well have. Why did you think so?”
“Her voice softened, and she said she was sorry.”
Klerryt shakes his head, but there is a wry smile on his face as he looks at Lerial. “That would have been Alaynara. Is there anything else?”
“She was excellent at knowing where the archers should be, and in letting me know in a way that was firm without being challenging.” He pauses. “I didn’t talk to her that much, but…” He shakes his head. “She had picked the position for the archers in the battle at the stream, but we didn’t have the chance to see how effective they would be. We were ordered to pull out and move north along the east side of the stream to delay some Meroweyan companies so that Donnael and Ruethana-I think-could call a storm to block the chaos wizards…” Lerial goes on to explain how he had positioned the squads. “… I misjudged the speed of the Meroweyan advance, but Alaynara had fourth squad cutting down a great number of the leading ranks. There had not been any chaos-bolts thrown. I was prepared for that, and when one came, I redirected it back at their wizard. He did something I hadn’t seen before, and it came back at us twice as strong. I must have done something wrong, because when I sent it back, just a tiny blast of chaos flared back-right in the middle of fourth squad. It only hit three archers. The middle one was Alaynara.” Lerial swallows slightly, then says. “I had the company withdraw immediately, or they would have overrun us.”
Klerryt does not speak for a long moment. “You surprise me.”
Lerial waits, unsure of what the elder will say, worried that Klerryt will offer some withering remark, and knowing he has every right to do so.
“You have not offered a single word to mitigate or justify what happened.”
“How could I, ser? It was a small miscalculation on my part. That is true, but some under my command died because of that mistake.”
“How many others died?”
“None, ser. Not there.”
“Were you attracted to my daughter?”
Lerial blinks. What? For a moment, he can say nothing. Finally, he says, “I admired her. I didn’t think of her in any other way.”
“A fair and honest answer. You’ve worried about her death and talking to me … have you not?”
“Yes, ser.” Many times.
“So here we are. An older man and a younger man. You have risked your life to save our people, and you made a small error of judgment that required your taking an action that led to my daughter’s death, but preserved the lives of almost a hundred other young people.”
“Then,” Lerial is forced to add.
“Then,” agrees Klerryt. After another painfully long silence, he continues. “You have not resorted to excuses. You understand more fully than most far older than you would your responsibility. I can mourn the circumstances. I can and do grieve for my daughter. I cannot fault you, especially given the burdens you bear. No leader, no ruler, no officer can protect all of those in his charge from all eventualities. All we can ask is that they have the greatest skill possible and carry out their duties to the best of their abilities. You are what, perhaps eighteen?”