“What about a new arms-commander?”
“You need to remain arms-commander for now, possibly for at least another year. You can do that with Sammyl as your chief of staff.”
“You don’t trust Sammyl, do you? Why are you recommending him?”
“I don’t trust his judgment on military matters. I do trust his loyalty to you. Right now, that’s very important.”
“It’s a pity you’re the younger son.”
Lerial shakes his head. “Where did those words come from?”
“From what I’ve seen, and from what Emerya has written. And please don’t tell me you don’t know we’ve exchanged letters for years.”
Almost … almost, Lerial laughs. Finally, he smiles. “I thought that was so, but she never, ever said anything about it to me, or to anyone else that I know of. I suspect Father and Mother know. Probably Grandmere knew.”
“By sending that miniature, Emerya told you.”
“She confirmed what I already knew.”
“We need to talk of that … later.”
Lerial understands. “How long do you think you’ll need me?”
“It’s a little early to set dates … don’t you think? I won’t ask you to stay here any longer than necessary … but … would you be serving Cigoerne’s interests by leaving too soon?”
With a rueful smile, Lerial says, “No. You know that.”
“I just wanted to make sure you understand that as well.”
Lerial finds himself yawning, wondering why, when it’s only a bit past fifth glass. “It’s time for me to head back to Afritan Guard headquarters.”
“Get some rest or sleep,” suggests Rhamuel.
“I’d thought of that.”
“If you’re feeling better tomorrow morning, I’d suggest you go to Aenslem’s first. We’re going to need his knowledge and advice over the days ahead. I want to be certain he’s up to it.”
“I can do that.”
“If he is, escort him here, and we can go over some matters. Now … go and get some food and rest. Don’t worry. You can start that tomorrow.” Rhamuel spoils the stern words with a grin.
Lerial can’t help but smile back before he turns and leaves the sitting room. Outside, he smiles again, cheerfully, at Sammyl. “I think he has a few more things for you to do.”
Then he nods to the two rankers, and the three head for the palace stables. He hopes he won’t fall asleep before he can brief his own officers. At the same time, he also wonders, not for the first time, if his dispatch has reached Emerya. He shakes his head. It has only been a little more than a eightday.
XLV
Lerial manages to brief his officers and Dhoraat on the events at Estheld, but not about Rhamuel’s request, before retiring to his chamber in the officers’ quarters at Afritan Guard headquarters and falling asleep well before eighth glass, deeply enough that he does not dream. Then … in the darkness, he bolts awake, yet hears nothing. Half sitting up in the bunk, he glances around, but he can see only the vague outline of the room, the doorless armoire, the narrow table desk. He is relieved that he can order-sense, slightly, and only for a short distance, enough to discern no one outside the barred door.
What woke you so suddenly? He shakes his head and lies back down. For a time he listens and order-senses, but the quarters remain still, and there are no loud sounds issuing from the headquarters courtyard outside and below his shuttered window, no wind, no rain or thunder.
How long will you have to stay here? With that question, his mind is filled with all the complications—Rhamuel’s health, how the merchanters will react, how to deal with Maesoryk, if he even returns to Swartheld, Jhosef, and Alaphyn … or the possible problem with the fact that Aenslem has no sons … and that Fhastal has two, both Aenslem’s grandsons, but complicated because Aenslem cannot stand Fhastal … and the two are the wealthiest and most powerful merchanters in Afrit. He also has to tell his officers and men about Rhamuel’s request, something he avoided the night before, because he wanted to think about the matter more before he did.
Then too, he must admit, there is the question of what will happen to Kyedra. Certainly, no one in Afrit, especially not Rhamuel, would want her consorted to any heir in Heldya, and from what Lerial has seen of Casseon’s acts, any consorting to anyone in Merowey wouldn’t be much better.
She’s too good for Lephi … and you’re the wrong brother.
Finally, he falls back asleep, only to wake at the first glimmer of light through the cracks in the closed shutters. While he feels better than he did on fiveday, his neck and face are still warm and red, doubtless from all the sun he’d endured, something he had not even noticed the day before, and he has a faint headache, although the light-flashes across his eyes have stopped. So, he realizes, has the itching on his hip.