Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (37 page)

“Are you a prophet?”

“I’ve been tutored in history, and that is one of its lessons.”

“Yet you don’t claim to be a historian.”

“I don’t know enough to claim that.”

“You noticed that Mykel is not able to bear weapons, not those with blades…”

Lerial avoids the trap by saying, “That is what he has told me. I have no reason to doubt that.”

“Why not? It is clear you have no aversion to doubting … when necessary.”

“I am most certain that his stance on weapons has been put to the test. Rhamuel has informed me that Mykel is most adept with a staff. That suggests that he is not averse to violence, or even killing, only to edged weapons.”

“A staff…” Haesychya gives the tiniest of headshakes.

“Hardly the weapon of a ducal legacy, you fear.”

“I know … sadly.”

Why is she bringing this up?
“A lance is little more than a longer staff with a point.”

“If I’m not mistaken, Mirror Lancer officers do not carry lances.”

“Not any longer. The Emperor Lorn did. So did the Emperor Alyiakal. The lesson might be that we should,” Lerial keeps his tone light.

“Times change.”

“They do.”

“Are you always so agreeable?”

“In public I do my best not to be disagreeable. In private, I try harder. I don’t always succeed.”

Before Lerial knows it, the dance is ending, and Haesychya turns to him.

“For someone who has seldom danced, you’re excellent.”

“Thank you, but it’s only because you’re an excellent dancer. I just followed what you wished to do.”

A faint smile crosses Haesychya’s face. “Wise man. Would that more understood that.” She inclines her head. “Thank you. I did enjoy that.”

“Perhaps later?”

“Perhaps, but now…”

“I should see to Kyedra.”

Haesychya nods.

Lerial inclines his head. “My thanks for the dance, Lady.”

Haesychya does not reply, except by inclining her head in return.

Lerial steps back, then turns to where Kyedra stands beside Rhamuel, the arms-commander almost guarding his niece, or so it seems. Lerial can well imagine Rhamuel doing the same with Amaira … and he swallows.

Studying Kyedra as he steps toward her, Lerial sees that she is also wearing a gown of flowing silk, of a color he can only describe as an intense pale green with the slightest hint of golden lime, trimmed, of course, in silver, with a matching silver-trimmed head scarf. He cannot imagine a color that would look any better on her, although there must be some. He can also sense the strength of the black order within her, far the deepest of all of her family.

“Might I have the honor of the dance?” Lerial smiles as warmly as he can.

“You might, Lord Lerial.”

“Thank you, Lady Kyedra.” His words are gentle, if with just a touch of humor.

“I’m not…”

“And neither am I. ‘Lerial,’ please.”

“Then you might … Lerial.”

“Thank you, Kyedra.”

The music begins, and Rhamuel is already dancing with Haesychya before Lerial takes Kyedra’s hand, or rather barely more than her fingertips. For several steps, he is hesitant, until he can adjust to her reactions to the music, a piece just slightly faster than the previous one.

“Have you been to many balls?”

“Every one since I turned eighteen. Father only allowed me two a year after I was sixteen.”

“I doubt if I’ve been to as many in my entire life as you were between sixteen and eighteen.”

“That is not the greatest of losses.”

Several couples away, Lerial sees Mykel dancing with a much older woman.

“Who might that be with your Uncle Mykel?”

“That’s Nelyani. She’s Maesoryk’s consort. Properly speaking, he ought to be dancing with the consort of the head of the Merchanting Council. That would have been Grandmother, but…”

“She’s … no longer with you?”

“She never was. Not with me. She died having Uncle Mykel.”

“Thank you. I’d wondered about that.” Lerial pauses, then asks, “Your grandfather never took another consort?”

“No.”

The reply is so cold and short than Lerial immediately says, “I’m sorry. I did not mean to pry.”

“It’s not you. Some other time, if you would, we might talk about it.”

“You dance well … far better than I.”

“I don’t notice you having any trouble, and you haven’t stepped on my shoes the way Uncle Rham did.”

“That’s because I’m following the hints you give.”

For a moment, Kyedra stiffens.

“I mean, if I start to go the wrong way, you move away. So I just stay with you.”

“You can sense that?” There is a hint of surprise in her voice.

“If I pay attention, and I’m trying very hard to do that.”

A smile crosses her face, and Lerial can’t help but smile back. He says, “You have a lovely smile.”

“I suppose you tell all the women that.”

Lerial manages not to frown as he considers the question. “No. I’ve only told my cousin that.”

“You actually thought about it. I’m flattered. Or were you thinking about who else you said that to and whether I’d find out?”

“I haven’t told anyone that they have a lovely smile except Amaira.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m particular, I suppose.”

“What about women who did and you didn’t tell?”

“Majer Altyrn’s consort has a lovely smile, but she’s almost old enough to be my mother.”

“And you’re comparing me to her?”

Lerial grins, then says slowly, “Well … there are some similarities…”

Kyedra laughs. “I like that.”

As the music comes to an end, Lerial guides her back to where Rhamuel and Haesychya stand, then inclines his head. “Thank you.”

“Thank you.” There is just the slightest emphasis on the word “you.”

Mykel steps up to take Kyedra’s hand, and Lerial moves away.

For the next glass or so, Lerial dances with a number of women, ranging in age from unconsorted girls to dowagers with white hair, making certain to dance only once with each, and being careful to limit his comments to pleasantries. He sees both Oestyn and Mykel dancing with a number of women, but notes that neither Atroyan nor Rhamuel—nor Haesychya—dance that often.

Then, Lerial notices Dafaal moving across the ballroom to Rhamuel. The functionary leans toward the arms-commander and says something. Rhamuel nods, and the two walk toward the ballroom entry. Lerial cannot determine what happens next because of the swirl of dancers, but he doesn’t like what he has seen.

He puts on a smile and asks the bored-looking consort of a merchanter, who is talking to another merchanter, to dance. The brunette immediately smiles and inclines her head. Her consort barely glances in her direction as Lerial leads her out into the dancers.

Two dances pass before Rhamuel returns, and Lerial immediately makes his way to join the arms-commander.

“You have a worried look,” Lerial says.

“The piers at Estheld are crowded with merchanters. This afternoon until just before sunset a number set sail, all heading northwest out of the bay.”

“That doesn’t make sense. You don’t have any ports or places they could land to the northwest, do you?”

“Only Baiet, and if Khesyn were going to attack Swartheld, there’s little point in landing more than fifty kays northwest and then march back.”

“Do you think he’s going to attack Nubyat and try to take over Merowey?”

“That would be a problem for us both,” Rhamuel points out.

“We don’t want to support Casseon, and we don’t want Khesyn surrounding us on all borders. I assume that’s what you mean.”

Rhamuel nods.

“Where are the flatboats?”

“We don’t know. They left Luba. We all saw them leave Luba. They’re not at Estheld, not now, anyway.”

“Could they be upstream somewhere south of Swartheld?”

“It’s possible. It’s also possible that all those troopers are being loaded onto the merchanters. All we can do is watch … and wait.”

“You didn’t tell the duke.”

“I’ll tell him after the ball is over, in the family quarters, when everyone is gone. Otherwise…” Rhamuel shakes his head.

Atroyan will tell too many people? Or his reaction will be public and unpleasant?
“You can’t do anything now, anyway, can you?”

“Nothing that we should. I have sent word to cancel all leaves and passes until further notice. Your men are all at headquarters, and you’re here. So enjoy what’s left of the ball.” Rhamuel smiles.

Lerial can sense that the smile is forced, but he nods. “I think it’s time to ask your niece for another dance.”

“That’s a very good idea.”

Lerial waits until the music dies, then approaches the dais, where Kyedra stands, talking to Oestyn and Mykel. “If you would…”

“I would like that.” Kyedra turns to Mykel, beside her. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“I can’t compete with Lerial,” replies Mykel with a broad smile. “Nor would I wish to.”

Lerial takes her hand, and as the music begins, he takes a step, then slips into following her rhythms.

“You did wait a while.”

Lerial can see the glint in her eyes and replies, “I was instructed not to inflict my presence upon you or your mother too often.”

“Too little is as bad as too often. For that, you should pay.”

“Oh?”

“You must dance the next one with Mother, and then again with me.”

“I can do that.”

“Can?”

“I can dance with your mother and would enjoy dancing with you after that.”

Kyedra offers a shy smile, but does not look directly at Lerial.

As they continue to dance, he finds even the shy smile charming, especially the warmth beneath it.

“You didn’t dance with any unconsorted girls, did you?”

“Only once with any one.”

“Why not more often?”

“It didn’t seem … appropriate.”

“Do you care what other people think?”

“It all depends on what they think and why. Sometimes, they have good reasons. Sometimes, they don’t. And sometimes, even when they have the worst of reasons, you can cause even worse problems by not considering why they think the way they do.”

“You sound like Mother.”

“Not like your father?”

“No … my mother … but we shouldn’t talk about that.”

“Thank you.” Lerial’s words are low, but warm, trying to convey that he understands what she has revealed by the way in which she has changed the subject.

“You understand, don’t you?”

Lerial is afraid he does. “People always think that men are the wisest. Often men should listen to their sisters, aunts, mothers, or consorts … and have the wisdom to know whom to heed and to what degree. Not that they shouldn’t listen to men as well, but they should be skeptical.”

“Why should they be more skeptical of men?” There is a hint of amusement in Kyedra’s voice.

“Anyone who has power needs to be skeptical, but a sister, a consort, or a daughter is more likely to have a man’s interest at heart.”

“Because his successes or failures will affect her more?”

“Isn’t that true?” Lerial asks gently.

“From what little I have seen, I fear so.”

“And you dislike being a hostage to any man’s weaknesses?”

“Or his strengths,” Kyedra replies firmly, if quietly. “Do you think that is awful?”

“No.” Lerial struggles for a moment, trying to think who it is that Kyedra reminds him of.
Emerya!
They’re not the same, but there is a definite similarity. “Your mother is a strong person, in a quiet way.”

“She has to be.”

“Both quiet and strong?”

Lerial can feel and sense Kyedra’s nod, although she does not speak.

“I haven’t seen your brother…”

“He’s taking advantage of his position and that he can go anywhere in the palace.”

“Isn’t that a little dangerous?”

“Not for him,” replies Kyedra dryly. “He does have enough sense—or cunning—to offer to show the palace to women who are already consorted and whose consorts don’t seem to care. They’re the men who have other interests.”

As the music of the dance dies away, Lerial guides Kyedra back to the edge of the dais, where Rhamuel stands. Lerial glances at the arms-commander, who gives a small shake of his head, then turns to Kyedra. “Thank you. I enjoyed the dance.”

She only smiles and inclines her head.

Lerial turns to Haesychya, who has been standing between Rhamuel and Atroyan. “If I might have the next dance?”

Like her daughter, Haesychya merely smiles and nods, belatedly murmuring, “Of course, Lord Lerial.”

Neither speaks for several moments, and Lerial finally says, once they are out of earshot of Kyedra and Atroyan, “You have a lovely daughter, you know?”

“Lovely? That is a word men use when they don’t know what else to say.”

For an instant, Lerial is taken aback and can say nothing. “Perhaps I should have said that she has a lovely smile and that she is quite perceptive and very good-looking.”

“Perhaps you should have.”

Lerial thinks there is a hint of amusement in her words, but he is anything but certain about that. “As are you, Lady.”

“Flattery, yet.”

“Truth … and you and I both know it.”

“As far as the duke is concerned, you’re the wrong brother, you know?”

“I’ve known that for years.”

“Is he as charming as you are?”

“Since I don’t consider myself charming, he’s likely more so.” That is certainly true, because, so far as Lerial is concerned, charm embodies a certain elegant dishonesty, and he tries, not always successfully, he fears, to avoid dishonesty. He has some doubts about his brother on that count.

Haesychya is silent for several moments, and from the change in the patterns of order around her, Lerial has the feeling that he has surprised her, at least slightly.

“You have a sister, I understand,” he says after some silence. “I would guess that you share some attributes, and not others.”

“That is true.”

“But neither of you says more than is necessary?” he prods lightly.

“Oh, no,” Haesychya says with an amused lilt in her voice. “Sophrosynia speaks often and most cheerfully. She has to, you know. Fhastal is most sober.”