“Captain Shastan sent half a squad of lancers as her escort. None of the majer’s daughters accompanied her.” Kiedron glances toward the door.
“Yes, ser.” Lerial nods and then leaves the study. As he walks along the main front corridor toward the south wing of the palace, he wonders exactly why Maeroja wishes to see him … and why she does not wish to speak of the majer to anyone before Lerial.
He pauses outside the closed door to the small salon, then opens it and steps inside, easing the door closed before he moves forward.
Maeroja rises immediately from the dark green velvet armchair in which she has been sitting, setting aside a folder. From what Lerial sees and senses, she looks no older than the last time he saw her, almost five years earlier when he returned from Verdheln, and just as striking. Her hair remains a shining jet black, her skin lightly tanned, and her blue eyes intense and penetrating … but upon closer scrutiny when he steps toward her, he can see that her eyes are slightly bloodshot and that there are dark circles under them. Her smile remains warm, but … there is sadness in it as well. She wears a pale blue blouse, with a dark blue vest and trousers, and a mourning scarf of white-bordered black.
“Lady,” Lerial offers gently.
“You do persist, don’t you?” she murmurs softly.
“You were, are, and always will be a lady,” he replies with a smile. “Grant me the wisdom to see that.”
“You’ve grown … even more.”
“I would hope so. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be following the majer’s teachings.” He gestures. “Please sit down. The last days have to have been tiring for you.”
“And not for you? There’s still road dust on your boots.”
“I did ride in this afternoon, but I had to meet with Father and Commander Jhalet. Father didn’t tell me you were here until after the meeting.”
“He and … Altyrn … always had their priorities.”
As do you. Lerial inclines his head momentarily, then picks up one of the straight-backed chairs, sets it on the carpet directly facing Maeroja, and after she reseats herself sits down. “I didn’t hear until I rode into Lancer headquarters. I asked about the mourning drape, and the gate guards told me, but no one could tell me more than that.”
“He wanted it that way. I owed him that … and much more than I could ever repay.”
“I think not, Lady. You gave him love and respect that no one else could have done.” Especially given your past, a very illustrious past that you have kept well shrouded.
Maeroja opens her mouth as if to protest, then smiles softly, ironically. “I won’t insult you by protesting … but he deserved that.”
“He deserved more than that.”
“We don’t often get what we deserve, especially those who are very good … or very evil.”
“No … we don’t. That was something I learned from him, among many other lessons.”
“Unlike most, you did learn. He was proud of you, you know?”
“I wanted him to think well of me and what I did, Lady … and the way in which I did what had to be done. I don’t think he always totally approved, but I tried to stay within the scope of what he taught.” Lerial isn’t about to point out Altyrn’s often utter ruthlessness in his quest to assure the future of what he believed to be the best of the heritage of Cyador, especially since Maeroja must already know that.
“He knew that.” Maeroja leans forward, reaches for the folder she had been reading, and extracts a sealed sheet. “He wrote this some time ago, last harvest…”
“Was he ailing then?”
Maeroja shakes her head. “He was never ailing. He came to bed, very tired. He held me, and then went to sleep.” Her voice catches, and she swallows. “I think he knew. I told you once, you might recall…”
“That he had a sense, a certainty about some things. I remember.”
“You would.” Maeroja’s smile is gentle, but sad. “He told me what was in the letter, but I did not read it. It is for you, and you alone. He said you would understand.”
Lerial takes the letter. On the outside is his name, written in a precise but slightly ornate script. He looks up. “I would read it now, with you here.”
“If you read it to yourself…”
Lerial nods. After a moment, he breaks the seal and begins to read.
Dear Lerial—
There is a time for all things, and a way to end them. It is fitting that, since the beginning of my life was never quiet, the ending will be. What you will and must do is also fitting. What I task you with, and it is a task and not a request, is to assure that the heirs of the Malachite Throne do not perish, that they do not stoop to petty bargains for a peace that will not last, and that their heritage will shine on when the City of Light is long forgotten. This does not mean you are to re-create Cyad or Cyador. That time is past. It does mean that what was best of that time should live on through you and what you do.