Lerial lowers the letter slightly. Why me? Why not Lephi? What did he know that he never said?
… You will likely not understand fully the burden I have placed on you for some time to come, much as you may think you have. Then I could be deceiving myself. That becomes easier, even necessary, when one has great hopes for another.
If one chooses power over good, then that power will fail in time, as it did in Cyador. If one chooses good over power, then evil will triumph because there will not be strength to oppose it. Finally, it is not good to be merciful, if that mercy will doom others in even greater numbers. All this, you know. Knowing what to do, regardless of what others including sages say, is not the most difficult task. Doing what needs to be done for good to survive is far harder. Good only needs to survive, not triumph.
Those words strike Lerial—Good only needs to survive, not triumph. Then he looks at Maeroja and nods.
Before he can continue, she speaks. “Your expressions when you read the letter … Some of them were like his. You are more alike than you know.”
Once Lerial would have protested that, and certainly he still would likely have rejected that observation from anyone but Maeroja.
… As for the blade you bear, I am fairly sure that it belonged to one of the great ones, possibly even Lorn himself, although I cannot be certain. I am absolutely certain that it is and should be yours. Call this the certainty of an ancient Lancer.
Use it to balance good and power.
At the bottom, there is a single ornate “A.” At that moment, Lerial realizes that he has never seen the majer’s handwriting before … and most likely never will again.
After a long moment, he refolds the letter and slips it inside his riding jacket. “Thank you.”
“I only did what he asked.”
“You have always done more than that, I think.” As he did for you.
Another silence follows before he asks, “How are Rojana and the girls?” As the words leave his lips, he realizes the meaning of the way he has inquired, and he blocks a self-amused smile.
“All three are fine. Rojana can handle Kinaar quite well in my absence … if not quite so well as she thinks. She has taken over the brewery and is expanding production.”
“Because she detests the shimmersilk worms and will do anything else?”
“There is some truth to that.”
Lerial does let himself smile. “She is quite a young woman.”
“She is.”
“One other thing…” Lerial pauses.
“Yes?” The hint of a smile appears at the corners of her mouth.
“Father said you would be joining us for refreshments and dinner at fifth glass. I would be greatly disappointed if you were not there. So, I think—”
“You don’t have to say it. I understand, and you’re right.”
“I know it may not be easy…”
Her laugh is soft, short … and bitter.
“I will see you then?”
“You will.”
Lerial rises and inclines his head. “Thank you … again.”
“You’re more than welcome.” Her words are warm, anything but perfunctory.
After leaving the small salon, and wanting to be alone, he walks back to his own chambers, rooms he has not occupied in more than a season, and for less than two eightdays over the past several years. There, he rereads the letter.
Use it to balance good and power. Good only needs to survive, not triumph. Lerial thinks he understands what the majer was suggesting, but he decides not to pursue that line of thought. Not yet. One of the other lessons he has learned from the majer is that matters are often not what they first seem, and when one has a chance to wait and reflect, it is often better. But then, sometimes you don’t get that choice.
At a fifth before fifth glass, he makes his way down to the main salon. Emerya and the two girls are the only ones there.
Ryalah runs to him and throws her arms around his waist. “You’re here!”
Lerial realizes, belatedly, that she has indeed grown … and so has Amaira, who now stands almost as tall as her mother. “I am indeed.”
“How long?” Ryalah releases him and steps back.
“I don’t know … but not too long.” Lerial looks to Amaira. “You’re looking very good.”
“Thank you, Uncle Lerial.” Amaira’s smile is still shy and sweet, although Lerial can sense a certain strength in the flow of order and chaos around her, and a definite darkening of the order she holds, suggesting that, like her mother, she will be a strong healer. He can also see that her black hair holds hints of a reddish tinge, something he does not recall, either with her or anyone else.
Last, he turns to Emerya, whose hair is now close to entirely silver, a shade not unbecoming to her. “It’s always good to see you.” He steps toward her and adds in a lower voice, “We need to talk later.”
She nods. “Your mother will be here, but only when your father arrives.”