“What about your heritage?”
Rhamuel laughs. “I would trust your heritage far more than mine. That is another reason why I would like you to see Swartheld, whether or not Khesyn attacks or refrains.”
“You make Swartheld sound so inviting.”
“I’m being honest, or as honest as I dare. I would say that your presence is necessary for your sake and for that of your heritage.”
“And if I don’t find it so?”
“You may leave. I have no intention of forcing you to remain, only to have you see Swartheld and meet my brother the duke … and a few others.”
Lerial offers a wry grin. “How can I refuse such an invitation?”
Rhamuel smiles in return. “You can’t. Or you shouldn’t.”
“I’ll need to send back some of my rankers, perhaps with a few of the riding wounded, with a dispatch detailing my acceptance of your invitation.”
“I can spare a squad to escort them to Ensenla.”
“That would be helpful.”
Rhamuel nods, and Lerial knows there is nothing else that needs to be said.
When Lerial leaves the country house, he can see Drusyn’s battalions of Afritan Guards already formed up and beginning to ride out of Lubana. He makes out a banner he has not seen before and wonders if that signifies Sammyl’s presence or just that of a battalion overcommander. He can’t say that he is unhappy to see Sammyl depart, but he has his doubts about what impressions Sammyl will convey of him and the Mirror Lancers. But then, that is exactly why you’re going to escort Rhamuel and why Sammyl isn’t being told that Lerial will be coming to Swartheld.
As he walks toward the Cigoernean encampment, another fact strikes Lerial. In a way, his own heritage and that of Rhamuel have been entwined for years. You just haven’t thought of it in that way. But does Rhamuel?
Even when he reaches the officers’ tent where his officers wait, Lerial doesn’t have an answer for that question.
“What is it, ser?” asks Kusyl. “You have that look.”
“We may be in Afrit for a time.”
“Another frigging Heldyan attack?”
“Not yet.” Lerial smiles wryly. “We’ve been invited to escort the arms-commander back to Swartheld … and he wants the duke to thank me personally for our supporting them.” He holds up a hand. “For the moment, you’re not to tell the men or the squad leaders anything except that we’ll be here for a few more days, and especially don’t say anything but that to anyone else, either.” While Rhamuel has not specifically asked for that silence, Lerial feels that, at present, some caution is wise, especially from what he has seen of Sammyl, and even possibly Drusyn.
Strauxyn and Kusyl exchange glances. Fheldar shakes his head. Then all three look to Lerial.
“I could refuse … but I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Ser?” asks Strauxyn after a moment.
“Think about it. Duke Khesyn wants to rule all of Hamor, and Duke Casseon still hasn’t forgotten what we did to him in Verdheln.”
“So we really don’t want to piss off Duke Atroyan, do we?” says Kusyl. “Frig!”
Lerial has no doubt that the two undercaptains would say more with even less complimentary language if they knew what he suspects. “We’ll leave on sevenday. We can send some of the riding wounded back to Ensenla with our letters and dispatches, along with the other wounded. The arms-commander will provide an escort squad that far.”
“That’s even worse,” comments Kusyl. “He’s got something even tougher in mind for us.”
“Most likely,” agrees Lerial. “But if we don’t stay allied against Khesyn…”
“Fragging mess,” mutters Kusyl.
Absolutely. Lerial shrugs … and then smiles. “We might as well go over what we’ll need.”
XV
Only a handful of senior officers remain in the private dining room on sixday morning—Lerial, Ascaar, Valatyr, Klassyn, and Majer Waell.
As they near finishing their meal, Lerial says to Ascaar, “I wish you and Subcommander Klassyn a pleasant and uneventful ride to Shaelt.”
“With the arms-commander accompanying us, one hopes for an uneventful journey even more than a pleasant one.”
Rhamuel hasn’t told him? Or have I been deceived? Lerial manages just to nod, but also feels glad that he has told his officers to say nothing about when the Mirror Lancers will be departing and what their plans may be.
“You will be leaving shortly, I presume.” Ascaar’s voice is cheerful, at least as close to cheerful as it ever is in the early morning.
“Tomorrow or eightday,” replies Lerial. “I don’t want to hurry the wounded.” What else can you say? His eyes go to Valatyr, but the operations commander’s face betrays nothing, one way or the other.
“Can most of them ride? I know you have some wagons, but…” Ascaar’s voice shows honest concern.