Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18)
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Authors: Jr. L. E. Modesitt
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To David,
for taking a chance more than thirty years ago …
and sticking with me the whole way
Characters
Lephi | Emperor of Cyador (Deceased) |
Mairena | Empress of Cyador (Deceased) |
Kiedron | Duke of Cigoerne, Son of Lephi and Mairena |
Xeranya | Healer and Consort of Kiedron |
Emerya | Healer, Daughter of Lephi and Mairena |
Jhalet | Commander, Mirror Lancers |
Chaen | Majer, Second-in-Command, Mirror Lancers |
Altyrn | Majer [stipended], former Commander of Mirror Lancers |
Maeroja | Consort of Altyrn |
Rojana | Daughter of Maeroja and Altyrn |
Lephi | Eldest Son of Kiedron and Xeryana |
Lerial | Second Son of Kiedron and Xeranya |
Ryalah | Daughter of Kiedron and Xeranya |
Amaira | Daughter of Emerya |
Atroyan | Duke of Afrit |
Haesychya | Atroyan’s Consort; their children are Kyedra, Traeyen, and Natroyor |
Rhamuel | Arms-Commander of Afrit, brother of Atroyan |
Khesyn | Duke of Heldya |
Casseon | Duke of Merowey |
Tyrsalyn | Third Magus of Cyador, First Magus of Cigoerne |
Saltaryn | Magus, former Tutor of Lerial |
Apollyn | Magus |
Veraan | Former Captain, Mirror Lancers, head of Myrapol House |
Aenslem | Merchanter of Afrit, father of Haesychya |
CONTENTS
Tor Books by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.
PROLOGUE
From the low rise where he has reined up, the Mirror Lancer undercaptain glances eastward to the Swarth River, slightly more than five hundred yards away, its waters far lower than usual in the hot afternoon, an afternoon more like late summer or early harvest. Then his eyes turn westward, taking in the open lands, whose grass is dry and brown and barely calf high. More to the north are the few scattered plots that have brought forth little enough from the drought-plagued past harvest. Less than a kay behind him, beside the small stream that flows down the middle of the swale between the rolling rises, is a scattering of cots and hastily built shelters—structures thrown together by the people of Ensenla after they had fled the town of the same name, a town less than two kays north of where he waits, a town burned to the ground early that morning and now marked only by trails of smoke rising into the silver-hazed green-blue sky. Roughly fifty yards in front of him is a single post, stained a faded green. There is another such post a quarter kay to the east, overlooking the river, and another a quarter kay to the west, and that line of posts extends a good ten kays west of the river, perhaps farther, since the undercaptain has not measured the precise distance they extend in the three eightdays since he arrived to patrol the area.
The undercaptain studies the lay of the land, and the approach to the rise, knowing that a full battalion of Afritan Guards rides toward him and Eighth Company. They are less than half a kay to the north, just out of sight on the dirt road that has linked the burned-out town to the Cigoernean hamlet of Penecca for the past twenty years.
The undercaptain continues to reach out to the skies, frowning as he does. Still … there is enough moisture there to continue to create the clouds he would prefer but does not need.
“Ser?” asks the senior squad leader.
“Five companies. They’re riding up the slope just on the other side of the border. They’ll want us to stand aside so that they can slaughter the people who fled. We can’t let them do that.”
“Strange that the duke isn’t here, ser.”
The undercaptain knows that the senior squad leader is suggesting a withdrawal might be in order. “It’s better that he isn’t.”
“Begging your pardon, ser…”
“The blood won’t be on his hands.” The undercaptain is being obscure, but he also knows that obscurity will serve him and the duke far better than clarity in the matter.
The Afritan battalion appears at the north side of the top of the rise perhaps two hundred yards from the undercaptain and the senior squad leader. The Afritans continue forward until the lead riders are within fifty yards of the border post, and the line of five companies abreast comes to a halt. All five companies re-form into a five-man front, then dress their ranks, and even their files.
An armsman carrying a white banner bordered in the dull crimson of Afrit rides forward, stopping just short of the border post.
The undercaptain motions for him to proceed, even as he separates order and chaos in the air above the rise, watching as the cloud above expands and darkens slightly.
The Afritan rides forward, reining up ten yards short of the Mirror Lancer undercaptain.
Neither speaks, but the undercaptain gestures.
The lancer clears his throat, then begins. “Majer Ehraam is pursuing traitors who have rebelled against His Mightiness Duke Atroyan. He would appreciate your not impeding his duty.”
“These are the lands of Duke Kiedron. While we understand the majer’s desire to do what he perceives as his duty, our duty is not to allow the armsmen of another land to murder and ride down those who have fled to Cigoerne for refuge.”
“I am commanded to inform you, Undercaptain, that you and your men will be treated as allies of those who are traitors if you stand in the majer’s way.”
“Might I ask if Arms-Commander Rhamuel accompanies the field commander?”
The Afritan armsman does not answer.
“Surely, you must know,” prompts the undercaptain.
“The majer has the authority of His Mightiness.”
The undercaptain nods. “You may inform the majer that we will not harm him or his men so long as he does not cross the border into Cigoerne. My Mirror Lancers are posted a hundred yards south of that border.”
