“His observation was meant to suggest something.”
“You mean that the Heldyans had no intention of invading us at Luba? Just causing destruction? He was just pointing out the obvious.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
Valatyr seems to shrug, although, since Lerial cannot make out facial expressions when he is using a concealment, that is a guess.
“You don’t want to say much, Subcommander.”
“No, ser. I dislike guessing about the intentions of those I do not know. Especially when they are more powerful than they appear. He might well be a mage.”
Sammyl’s snort is more than audible. “Of course he’s a mage. What else would he be? That whole family is descended from the Magi’i of Cyador. His father isn’t much of one, though, and the overcaptain can’t be too powerful, or he wouldn’t be an officer on point … so to speak. He does have some ability as a field healer, but probably not much more. You’ll notice Kiedron didn’t send his eldest.”
“I wouldn’t send the heir, either.”
“Nor would I, but Kiedron sent the overcaptain to Verdheln when he was sixteen or seventeen. If that demon-cursed Altyrn hadn’t been with him, there would be only one heir to Cigoerne, and our problems would be much fewer.”
Why would that be? What do you have to do with Afrit’s problems? Even as those thoughts cross Lerial’s mind, he realizes how much easier matters might be for Duke Atroyan if one heir had vanished years earlier.
“And Casseon wouldn’t be scared of his own shadow,” adds Valatyr.
“He doesn’t have anything to fear now that the majer’s safely dead.”
“Except that Altyrn trained and disciplined so many Verdyn Lancers that it would be a waste of armsmen for him to try to reclaim Verdheln.”
“For now. For now. Times change … and we’ll have to help them change.” After a moment, Sammyl speaks again. “You’re certain that Majer Chorazt is the best commander to leave here?”
“He’s good enough to be a battalion commander. He’s loyal. He’ll do anything to stop any Heldyan raiders, and he follows orders.”
“Good. Would that…”
Lerial gains the impression that Sammyl offers a minute shake of his head.
“I’ll convey that to the arms-commander, and I’ll see if he’s decided what else might be necessary.” After another pause, the commander adds, “No, he hasn’t said. He keeps his own counsel, and sometimes … sometimes … you understand?”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial is afraid he understands as well, but he eases himself into a corner and waits until the two leave the dining chamber before he follows, still holding the concealment.
XIV
For the remainder of threeday, Lerial busies himself with two main tasks: healing his wounded, as he can, and dealing with the mundane aspects of commanding three companies, from arranging for horses to be reshod and saddles to be repaired, to looking over the captured Heldyan weapons and gear, as well as arranging for the distribution of the coppers and silvers taken from the dead attackers.
All the time, one question remains unanswered. Now that the Heldyans have been repulsed … what do you do now? In theory, Lerial could claim his duties and responsibilities have been fulfilled and arrange for a return to Cigoerne. He hears nothing from Sammyl or the arms-commander, and since Rhamuel does not come to the officers’ mess on threeday evening, Lerial cannot even bring up the question indirectly. He does not want to press immediately for a meeting with the arms-commander, much as he would like to, feeling that, since his men and wounded, not to mention the horses, need time to recover, there is little to be gained by pressing and conceivably more to be lost by making the first move.
Nothing changes on fourday, a warm and blustery day that suggests spring is around the corner, except that it appears that all the wounded who have survived thus far will recover and will likely be able to return to full duty, if not for a season or so.
Breakfast and the senior officers meeting on fiveday are both uneventful, and Sammyl makes no reference at all to Lerial or his companies. After leaving the meeting and bidding a rather quiet Drusyn an uneventful ride to Swartheld, Lerial has turned to head out to report on events to his officers when a ranker approaches.
“Lord Lerial, ser?”
“Yes?”
“The arms-commander would like a word with you, ser … at your immediate convenience.”
Lerial withholds a smile at the oxymoronic terminology of “immediate convenience” and says, “Of course. Lead on.” He follows the ranker across the entry hall.
The guard outside Rhamuel’s private study nods politely to Lerial. “Ser, please go in.” He opens the door.
“Thank you.” Lerial smiles and enters, noticing how quickly and quietly the door closes behind him.