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“I can certainly convey that agreement.”

“Perhaps you should read it,” says Ruethana dryly.

“We would be happy to do so,” replies Lerial.

Ruethana hands a large envelope to Klerryt, who passes it to the majer.

Altyrn slides the single sheet from the envelope, reads it, and then passes it to Lerial with a pleasant smile.

Lerial begins to read, almost skimming over the prefatory politeness and formality of the greeting to his father, referred to as “Duke of Cigoerne, heir of the Rational Stars,” before concentrating on the text that comprises the key section of the agreement. To his surprise, the agreement is almost as direct as Ruethana’s words. The last paragraph lauds Kiedron under the notation that the signatories for the High Council freely acknowledge the Duke’s aid and assistance without which there could have been no agreement.

After rereading the agreement to make certain that he has not missed anything, Lerial slips the agreement back into the envelope, then says, “I see no problems with conveying this to Cigoerne for my father’s consideration.”

“Then that is settled,” says Ruethana, nodding to Donnael.

“Lord Lerial,” offers Donnael, “I will be frank. We appreciated the gesture of your sire in sending his youngest son. We thought that his dispatching you was merely a commitment to good faith. We did not anticipate that you would actually command a company in battle. Nor did we think that the Duke would have sent someone so young…”

Barely more than a boy, is what Donnael means, Lerial suspects.

“… who turned out to be so powerful.” Donnael coughs several times, then wheezes.

Lerial cannot help but sense the faint red of sickness chaos in Donnael’s chest, but manages a polite smile, rather than the concerned frown that is more like what he feels.

“… we would like to convey our appreciation, both personally and as representatives of the High Council, for your efforts, one of which brought you as close to death as is possible without dying…”

Even with the chaos radiating from Khalya, Lerial can sense some disruption of the flow. Surprise? Consternation? Anger? He cannot tell, only that something affected her.

“… likewise, Majer Altyrn, without your expertise, experience, and capabilities in training and employing the Verdyn Lancers, all would have been lost from the beginning. For those reasons, we would like to present you each with a small token of appreciation.” Donnael nods to Klerryt.

Klerryt swallows before he speaks. “The past few eightdays have been difficult … for me. You all know why. I asked to go to Escadya. It was not only to relieve Donnael. It was to find an answer. I did not find the answer I sought, but another. That is why I have asked Donnael to allow me to present these to you.” Klerryt leans forward and hands Altyrn two objects wrapped in soft brown cloth. “The top one is yours, Majer.”

Altyrn takes the top bundle and hands the other to Lerial.

Lerial discovers that the soft cloth is a winter scarf, but it is wrapped around something else-a belt knife in a tooled leather scabbard. The tooling on the front of the scabbard displays an ornate “L” flanked on each side by a cloud, with three stars in an arc above the “L.” The hilt is of black lorken, textured with a diamond pattern. He eases the knife from the scabbard, and he can feel the order within the iron. The blade is simple, with a full lower cutting edge, and a double-edged point. The knife itself is older than the scabbard, but certainly not ancient. He looks up. “Thank you. It’s beautiful and most effective, I suspect. I hope I will do justice to it and to whoever last carried it.”

Klerryt nods. “You already have.”

There is little Lerial can say to that except nod.

“We will not keep you,” Ruethana says, not quite curtly. “We know Lord Lerial has to prepare for a long ride back to Cigoerne.” She rises, as do the other elders, although Donnael is slightly slower.

“Thank you,” offers Altyrn as he stands.

After rising, Lerial walks over to Donnael, where he sets the envelope holding the agreement on the table, along with the scarf and knife, then takes Donnael’s hand with his own, placing his other hand on the older man’s forearm and letting a flow of order go from him to Donnael, directing some of it into the other’s chest and lungs. “I do appreciate your understanding, Elder Donnael. I will take the agreement you are requesting and present it to my father with my support for what it contains.”

Donnael looks surprised, and murmurs, “You do not have to do that.”

Lerial knows he is not referring to the agreement on the table. “I do, as my father’s son, for good and trustworthy allies are not often found.” He releases the elder’s hand and arm, then retrieves the knife, scarf, and envelope, steps back and smiles.

Klerryt escorts the two out of the council building, then stops at the bottom of the low black stone steps and turns to Lerial. “You healed him, didn’t you?”

“I hope so. I tried.”

The elder smiles. “You did enough that he will recover.”

This time. “Thank you for presenting the knife to me. I appreciate that … after…”

“She would have wanted me to.”

Lerial nods. He understands that, recalling again what Alaynara had said to him. He reaches out and grasps Klerryt’s hand for a moment. “Take care.”

“You as well, Lord Lerial.”

“As I can.” Lerial offers a last smile, then turns and walks to where one of the Lancers holds the gelding’s reins. Before mounting he slips the knife, scarf, and agreement into the top of his saddlebags.

They have ridden for several hundred yards before Altyrn speaks. “You know, don’t you, that you’re committed to support them?”

“By accepting the knife and scarf?” Lerial shakes his head. “I was committed before that.”

“After the stream battle?”

Lerial nods.

“Loyalties outside family are dangerous,” Altyrn says quietly.

“Having none is even more dangerous, I think.”

Abruptly, the majer laughs. “Let’s get back to the hostel and make certain everything’s ready for you to leave in the morning.”

To Cigoerne

LXXXI

Six days later, Lerial glances up at the sky and then back at the two packhorses and the last of the Verdyn Lancers in his comparatively small party-just nine Lancers, Bhurl, and himself-the smallest group of Lancers he has led in more than a season. There are no clouds, but a faint haze imparts a silvery sheen to the green-blue sky, and the air is warm for a spring day. But then, Lerial realizes, while he has been thinking of the season as spring, two days earlier, spring had given way to summer.

Now, kays east of the Verd, he cannot help but keep going over the thoughts that circle in his mind. What did all of this accomplish? Casseon never really held the Verd, and he still doesn’t. He lost more than four thousand men and something like six white wizards trying to get something he never really held. The people of the Verd lost thousands, young and old alike, and one of their most talented elders, and it will be years before Verdheln recovers … and it’s likely never to be the way it was.

How did it all come about? We were supposed to train Lancers. Lerial shakes his head. Somehow, after training the Verdyn Lancers, he and Altyrn and the squad leaders and rankers ended up leading them. It seemed so logical.

His fingers drop to the hilt of the knife from the elders, and, again, he can feel that there is something slightly different about the order contained in the blade and tang, although he cannot explain what that might be, but it is somehow almost reassuring, like the lodestone from Rojana that has provided him with so much understanding and inspiration.

In time, he thinks about Alaynara … and then Essiana, not that he knew the elder at all, except through one brief meeting, and about her successor … and the fact that, for all that Khalya radiates chaos, that chaos is not a part of her, and yet he could detect no pattern, no mechanism that attracted or diverted chaos … as if that ability were indeed a part of her.