Even with the tents awaiting them, along with several barrels of fresh water—which Lerial inspects with his order-senses—it takes him almost a glass and a half before he is satisfied. Then he meets again with Fheldar, Strauxyn, and Kusyl.
“For some necessary reasons, I’ll be staying in what the subcommander calls the ‘country house.’ I need to meet the other senior officers, and I’m supposed to meet with Arms-Commander Rhamuel before the evening senior officers’ mess. As the senior company officer among you, Kusyl will be in command in my absence…” While that is standard, because Kusyl has not been a part of Lerial’s command recently Lerial wants to emphasize that. He has barely finished going over what he expects should anything not go as anticipated when he sees Drusyn riding toward them. He remounts the gelding and rides to join the subcommander.
“The tents are quite solid,” Lerial says as he joins Drusyn.
The subcommander laughs. “They were created for a festival two years ago. The arms-commander stored them. They’re too heavy for real field use, but they have come in useful here.”
“What sort of festival?”
“I’ve forgotten the official name. It was a forest frolic or some such.”
Lerial decides against pursuing that and instead studies Atroyan’s country home, which sits on a raised knoll facing the Swarth River and rises three levels, although most likely the knoll was raised around the lower foundation. There are two wings extending from the central building, which looks to have been constructed around a center square. Those wings are parallel to the river, and comparatively narrow.
The two ride to a smaller side entrance to the north wing, with Drusyn taking the outer circular lane that curves around the paved plaza before the high pillared receiving portico before the main section of the small palace. As soon as the two officers rein up, a crimson-liveried footman hurries out, looking to Lerial and then to the subcommander.
“I trust Lord Lerial’s quarters are ready?”
“Yes, ser.” The footman turns to Lerial. “Will you be needing your mount soon, ser?”
“I may.”
“The ostlers can have him back here in less than a third of a glass,” says Drusyn quietly.
“I likely won’t need him that soon.” Lerial smiles cheerfully.
“Just let one of us know, ser.” The footman gestures, and a young stableboy in gray hurries from where he has been standing in the shadows of the entrance.
“I will see you later.” Drusyn nods, then turns his mount and rides back toward the troopers’ tents, again riding around the entry plaza.
Lerial would have been happy to carry his kit bag, but he understands the formalities and the need to let the young footman carry it inside the north wing and up a modestly wide staircase to the second level.
The chamber to which the crimson-liveried footman escorts him contains a wide double bed with an age-darkened golden oak bedstead and matching armoire, bedside tables, and writing desk, with even a weapons rack. There is a small washroom and jakes, and a tap for water. Emerya had mentioned that there was running water in the Palace of Light, but this is the first time Lerial has encountered it—except water running in a stream. Still, he makes good use of it, not only washing up, but using a damp cloth to rub away the dust and dirt on his uniforms.
He even has some time to look out the wide center window across the river toward Vyada, but outside of the tops of buildings, he can see nothing, and no sign of where Khesyn may have posted armsmen. Then there is a knock on the door.
“Lord Lerial, ser?”
“Yes?” Lerial walks to the door and opens it to see an Afritan Guard standing there, a man perhaps a year or so younger than Lerial himself.
“I’m to escort you to the arms-commander, ser.”
“Just a moment.” Lerial retrieves his father’s response to Atroyan’s “invitation” before returning. As he walks down the corridor beside the ranker, he says nothing for a few moments, then asks, “Are you attached to his staff or part of the household here?”
“His staff, ser.”
“Who are the senior officers who report to him? I’d rather not offend anyone by not knowing what everyone else does.”
“Yes, ser. I can understand that. Commander Sammyl is his chief of staff. Subcommander Valatyr is in charge of evolutions. Subcommander Klassyn runs logistics. Majer Prenyl and Captain Waell are assigned to the staff, but I don’t know their duties. I’m sorry, ser, but I’ve only been on the staff for an eightday. Oh … and the two battalion commanders are Subcommander Drusyn and Subcommander Ascaar.”
“Thank you. That will be a help.” Lerial can’t help but wonder why Drusyn greeted him, rather than the staff subcommanders, or even the majer or the captain, neither of whom would have been considered a slight. Another thought strikes him. “The Afritan Guards don’t have submajers, do they? I’ve never heard that rank mentioned.”