Imager’s Battalion

7

Quaeryt found himself once more in the saddle, looking out through the rain at the massed Bovarians as the horns began to sound. The mournful penetrating call shivered through his bones. As one the Bovarians began to advance toward the Telaryn forces on the low ridge south of the River Aluse, closing in from the north, the south, and even the west.

Quaeryt cleared his throat, extended his shields to encompass Desyrk and Shaelyt, then concentrated on imaging the bridge he visualized, with high slight arches to a central pier, a massive structure necessary for what must come.

Nothing happened, and the Bovarians kept advancing.

Could he do it again? Draw power from the warm rain, from the warmth of the Bovarian troopers and their mounts? From the river itself? Could he again slaughter tens of thousands?

Yet if he did not …

He reached out for that warmth-and from everywhere came lances of pain, strikes like cold lightning. Overhead, the clouds darkened into masses blacker than a moonless night without even the thinnest crescent of either Erion or Artiema, and liquid ice poured down like sheets in an arc around him, slashing through his shields as if they did not exist, sucking all the warmth within him away.

From somewhere came a mocking whisper. “Should you not suffer what you wrought?”

He wanted to protest that he hadn’t been the one who had begun the war, but the chill froze his tongue in his mouth. Brilliant lines of white ice-lightning flared through his skull, and the tears caused by that pain froze instantly on his cheeks. White fog billowed below him … and icy whiteness froze him into stillness. He struggled to escape, to move somehow, but he could not, chill as he was. He tried to blink, but failed, as if they were frozen open watching thousands freeze around him, even as ice built around him. Somewhere, he could hear rain, icy droplets … falling, coating him with yet more ice.

He shuddered, trying to escape the endless ice and chill.

Suddenly there was light all around him, light so bright he could hardly see, but he was cold, so cold he was shivering, even with all the sunlight.

Before he could say anything, Vaelora’s arms were around him. “It’s all right, dearest. It’s all right.”

Her words did not register with him, not for several moments, because they were in Bovarian. “What…?” he murmured, half mumbling because his lips were so cold they felt numb.

“It’s all right. I’m here. I’m right here.”

She’ll freeze, too. “… chill you … the way…”

“I’m warm enough. Just hold on to me. Talk to me. Tell me what happened.” With her arms wrapped around him, slowly the cold deep within him began to melt away.

Later, when they finally moved apart, at least enough for Vaelora to look at him, worry in her eyes, she asked, “What was it? The ice storm? You were so cold.” She swallowed. “The walls…”

“What is it?” Quaeryt could see the concern on her face.

“You started shivering in your sleep, and then there was frost. It was all over the walls.”

He glanced around the bedchamber.

“It’s all melted now.” She laughed uneasily. “It is full summer. But can’t you feel how cool everything is?”

Quaeryt managed not to shudder again. Did you image in your sleep? Enough to cause frost to form?

“Were you dreaming? About the ice storm you caused?”

He nodded. “It was worse than that. I was fighting the battle again, and I didn’t want to image and kill thousands again, but they kept coming … and coming.” He shuddered in spite of himself.

“What you’ve been doing with the regiment isn’t the only reason you’re tired, is it?”

“No…” he admitted warily.

“Tell me about it. All about it.” Her words, gently as they were spoken, were not a request.

“This wasn’t the first time. I dream about getting caught in the rain, being frozen in place, along with the … thousands of others … the Bovarians … some of ours … I try to escape … but I can’t.” He finally shook his head. “I struggle with the ice until I wake up.”

“Does where you sleep feel cold to you when you finally wake up?”

“How could I tell? I always wake up cold and shivering, no matter how hot it was the night before.” After a moment he added, “I never saw frost … but I never looked for it, either.”

Vaelora offered a smile.

Quaeryt suspected she’d forced the expression, but he smiled back.

“You do make the bedchamber more comfortable in summer,” she said quickly. “It was rather warm … until…”

He looked at her, pale in the morning light. “How long have you been awake?”

“A glass, I’d guess. You were so tired, and I didn’t want to wake you, then…”

“You’re hungry, enough to feel faint, aren’t you?”

“That seems to be happening more, now that…”

Quaeryt sat up in the wide bed. “We need to get you something to eat.”

“You’re not doing much better than I am.”

Quaeryt laughed. “Then we need breakfast.” As he put his feet on the floor a moment of light-headedness swept over him, suggesting he had indeed been imaging as he dreamed. How had that happened? He managed not to frown, not wanting to worry Vaelora any more than he already had.

They washed and dressed quickly. Even so, by the time they reached the terrace, the hold house servers had moved the table closer to the study so that it still rested in the morning shadows. Tea and lager were waiting for them, and two platters appeared almost immediately, with biscuits, omelets, and strips of fried ham.

Neither said much until they had each eaten several mouthfuls. Then Quaeryt looked to his wife and said, “We were hungry.”

“We were.” Her words and smile warmed him through, if in a different way. “All three of us.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“Much. You?”

He nodded, since he’d taken another mouthful of the omelet. Then he had a swallow of the lager … and more omelet, and bread with berry preserves.

“I’ve been thinking,” Vaelora said carefully. “Do you remember the story the old Pharsi woman told us in Extela, after you rescued her from the mob?”

Quaeryt glanced toward the serving woman who stood on the terrace beside the study door.

“They don’t speak Bovarian well, remember,” murmured Vaelora, “only the common terms spoken slowly.”

Quaeryt nodded, then replied, “You noticed the old woman. I just followed your suggestion. You really rescued her.”

“All right. After we rescued her.”

“I remember. The story was about four Pharsi, three men and a woman. The woman and her distant cousin who was courting her were lost ones. The brothers were seeking easy fortune.”

“Do you remember the refrain of the young woman?”

“‘Do not argue over what is not and may never be,’ or something like that.”

“Dearest … what sort of story was it?”

“It was a parable. The two brothers kept finding things and wanting more and arguing over what they’d found until they lost everything because of their quarrels.” Quaeryt grinned. “The only one with any sense was the woman.”

“Not quite. The cousin who was a lost one and, according to the old woman, looked like you, also had some sense.” She smiled sweetly. “He had enough sense to listen to her.”

“Your point is taken, dear.”

“Why did she tell the story to us?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve wondered about that.”

“She made a point of telling us. Not anyone else. I don’t think it was to please us or to entertain us.”

“No. It was to warn us. That was clear enough. We are young and carry Pharsi blood. She saw we had some power and position, and she wanted to warn us about wanting what we could never have.”

Vaelora nodded. “How did she know that? She’d never seen us before.”

“You’re suggesting…?” Farsight?

“I don’t know. It’s just … it’s bothered me on and off ever since.”

“Why did you bring that up now?”

“In a way … in a way, you need to look at the ice storm like that. You’ve said that no matter what you did, thousands would die. You had no choice about whether troopers died. Your only choice was which thousands died.”

“If I could have found another way…” Like you did with Rescalyn.

“The only choice we have is to do the best we can when we can. You’re thinking about Rescalyn, aren’t you?”

“How did you know?”

“How could I not know? You’ve talked about it before. It’s bothered you as well, but by killing him in a way that made him a hero, you stopped a bloody revolt that would have slaughtered more thousands than you did at Ferravyl. Don’t you think that if Rescalyn had provoked a rebellion, whether he had been successful or not, it would have weakened Telaryn? That Kharst would have attacked even sooner? Then, how many more thousands would have perished?”

Quaeryt did not answer that. He knew the answer, and so did she. “Still … it doesn’t help that I’ve had to act as a chorister of the Nameless, giving homilies about virtue … mercy … and then…”

“You acted in accord with what you said, dearest.”

“That doesn’t help as much as I’d like.”

She let the silence grow for a moment, then repeated, “‘Do not argue over what is not and may never be.’ That includes arguing with yourself, dearest.”

“It’s hard not to think about the consequences when you’re the one who causes the deaths of so many.”

“Kharst decided to attack. His actions determined that thousands would die. Your actions merely determined which thousands.”

“Merely?” said Quaeryt dryly.

“You know what I meant. Are you determined to take on totally a responsibility that is only partly yours at best?”

“My dreams are suggesting it’s more than that.”

“You need to inform your dreams otherwise.” Vaelora’s voice was almost tart.

That’s easy enough for her to say. She wasn’t there when thousands froze because of what you did.

“Dearest … do you want Lydar to be a better place? Or do you want rulers like Kharst killing all the Pharsi, and Aliaro enslaving all the imagers?”

Quaeryt sighed. “I understand your words. I understand your logic. My head agrees with you. My heart, my feelings … they only comprehend all the deaths.”

“I thought that scholars were ruled by their minds.” A faint, almost mischievous smile lurked at the corners of Vaelora’s mouth.

“It’s easier to declare the mind superior when you’re in a scholarium,” replied Quaeryt. “It’s harder when you see the results of what your mind declares is the best course.”

“That was one reason why Bhayar was trained as a common trooper and went to Tilbor at the end of the conquest. He was twenty, then.”

“He went to Tilbor? I didn’t know that. He’s never mentioned it.”

“He wouldn’t. Everyone would assume he was either boasting or that he’d been protected by a full battalion. He wasn’t. He did have a pair of experienced troopers with him. Father worried the whole time. He said that was the hardest part.”

From what Quaeryt had heard about Lord Chayar, that seemed improbable. But then, he never would have guessed that Bhayar had served as an ordinary trooper, even in a somewhat protected position.

After a moment of silence, Vaelora spoke. “How are your imagers doing?”

“They’ve all improved, especially Threkhyl, Voltyr, and Shaelyt.” Quaeryt snorted. “I wouldn’t trust Threkhyl as far as I could throw my mare.”

“Believe in your feelings on that.”

“But not about the ice storm?” He raised his eyebrows.

“You have to learn when to trust your feelings and when not to.”

“Oh?”

“Women should take care in trusting their feelings with regard to men. Men should take care in trusting their feelings when it comes to battles and fighting, especially for power and glory. Both should take care in dealing with golds. Especially those of us raised without having to count them.”

Quaeryt smiled at the dryness of her last words.

“What about the others?” asked Vaelora. “Can you trust Voltyr and Shaelyt?”

“As much as one can trust anyone. They both have much to lose should anything happen to me.”

“As do I, dearest.” Vaelora pursed her lips. “You must take care … but not too much, for that is worse than no care at all.”

Quaeryt could see the brightness in her eyes. He stood and walked around the table, putting his hands on her shoulders, as comfortingly as he could. “I will balance heart and mind as best I can.”

Vaelora slipped from his grasp and stood, facing him. “We have a little time. Would you walk with me through the gardens?”

“There are gardens?”

“There are. They have been neglected, but there are remnants of their beauty.”

Quaeryt rose from the table and extended a hand. “I would be pleased to walk with you.”

Her fingers twined around his as they set forth from the terrace, not looking back.

“You see here … they planted matching birches on each side,” said Vaelora as she stepped onto the path that had once been white gravel, but now held gray and white pebbles, with patches of bare earth covered with moss in between the gray stones set unevenly into the ground. “There is also a gray cat, but it is fearful, and it is as still as a stone when it hears footsteps.”

Quaeryt glanced around. He saw no cat, but a flash of blue and gold as a southern finch darted into a pine. “What else?”

“The housekeeper says that there’s a black coney deep in the garden, but that when it appears it’s a sign of ill fortune to come.”

Quaeryt almost laughed. A black rabbit a sign of misfortune? Abruptly he realized he’d never seen a black hare, not wild or domestic. “Then we’d best not look for it.” He pointed. “Those stone squares-there once were two stone pillars on this side of the birches.”

“Sometimes, nature does outlast the works of men.”

In the end, always. Quaeryt squeezed her hand.

“You can smell the wild roses. They’re so much more fragrant than the ones cultivated for gardens. Over there…”

As he walked with Vaelora, Quaeryt knew the day would be far too short, and that he would have to leave all too soon.

Before he knew it, fourth glass had arrived, and he had changed into a clean uniform and was leading the mare into the courtyard. Vaelora walked beside him, and they made their way to the drive in front of the hold house.

As he stood beside the mare, ready to mount, she turned to him. “Remember, with your thoughts and your heart, that you did not bring this war to pass. All you can do is your best for everyone … and for us, the three of us.” With her words came tears.

He held her for a long time, murmuring his love for her, before she released him and stepped back.

He mounted, and then looked at her. Neither spoke. What more can we say?

Her smile was unsteady.

He touched his fingers to his lips, then blew a last kiss to her before he turned the mare and rode to join his escorts waiting farther out on the drive.

Halfway down the drive, as he glanced back one last time toward Nordruil, he wondered how long it would be before he saw her again.

His lips quirked into a wry smile. And to think, a year ago, you had met her but for a few moments, and had received one very scholarly letter.

A year had changed everything. He just hoped the year ahead did not undo all that the previous year had brought. He pushed that thought away and looked at the road ahead, leading to Ferravyl.