Princeps

77

Hot rain swirled around Quaeryt, and he shivered, even as lightnings of jagged ice cut him, and blood dripped into scarlet icicles hanging from his face and arms and legs … and when he turned and looked into the fog, a stone span receded and vanished … and ice flowed over him once more …

Quaeryt shivered … and slowly opened his eyes.

He was lying in a wide bed. Quilts covered him, but he could feel sweat beginning to form on his forehead. He tried to push back the quilts, but his arms did not seem to want to move. He tried again. Every muscle in his arms quivered, and lines of pain flared from shoulder to fingertip. Slowly … oh, so slowly, he pushed back the covers, barely enough that he did not feel as though he were being roasted alive.

Then he turned his head, although the movement sent lightning through his skull, to see a young man sitting on a chair lean forward, his mouth opening-Shaelyt.

“You’re awake!”

“I … am,” Quaeryt attempted to say, but the words were muddled. He wanted to sit up, but wondered if he even could.

“No one knew…”

“Knew what?” His lips were stiff and chapped, and each word was an effort.

“When they found you in the middle of the ice … you were warm … but no one could rouse you, sir.”

“Help me … sit up.” Quaeryt hated to ask, but his body was anything but cooperative.

“Yes, sir.” Shaelyt stood and leaned forward, easing pillows behind Quaeryt and steadying him.

Quaeryt just leaned back against the pillows for several moments, not that he had any choice, weak as he was. “What … about … you … the others?” He found himself still unable to speak clearly because his mouth was dry.

“All of us … we made it. We were cold for a long time, but not like you.” Shaelyt handed him a mug. “It’s watered lager.”

Quaeryt eased himself forward just enough to be able to drink, glad that Shaelyt was supporting the mug. His stomach muscles ached as well.

“You did something-”

“No … all of you worked together. You must have,” Quaeryt added quickly, ignoring the furrowing in Shaelyt’s brow. “I just gave you the ideas.” He frowned. “You and Desyrk … how is he?”

“I told you. We all woke up. Even the others who weren’t with us collapsed. The last was Baelthm. He woke yesterday. We’re all fine. Well … maybe a little sore.”

“Yesterday? What day is it?” Quaeryt took the mug from Shaelyt’s hands and lowered it so that it rested on the quilt across his midsection.

“It’s Mardi … morning.”

“Mardi?”

“Yes, sir.” The young imager stepped back. “I’m supposed to send word to Lord Bhayar.”

“If I wake … or expire?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Send away.” Quaeryt’s tone was dryly ironic.

When the door to the chamber closed behind Shaelyt, Quaeryt took another long swallow of the watered lager, before setting the mug on the bedside table. His hands were trembling, and he almost dropped the mug. He could do little more than lean back against the pillows Shaelyt had put behind his back to prop him up against the dark wooden headboard. As he rested there, he noted as he did that he was in a spacious bedchamber and that he’d been undressed and put in a long flannel nightshirt. The small effort he had made in setting aside the mug brought another sweat to his forehead.

You’re weaker than you thought. Frig … you’re fortunate to be alive with what you tried.

Had it worked? He frowned. It had to have worked to some extent, because Shaelyt had looked more relieved than worried and Bhayar was still around. That suggested that they’d managed at least a standoff.

After a time he reached for the mug, his hand and arm trembling, and took another swallow before he set the mug down, afraid he might drop it.

The chamber door opened, and Bhayar stepped inside, closing the door behind him, but not before Quaeryt caught sight of the armed guard outside. That worried him, for more reasons than one.

Bhayar stepped toward the bed, shook his head, then looked at Quaeryt before speaking quietly in Bovarian. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Either that bridge or the desolation on the east side of the Vyl.”

“Did the bridge hold?”

“The engineers say it will last for centuries, if not longer.” Bhayar frowned. “You don’t know what you did?”

“I tried to have the imagers turn the rain that fell on the Bovarians into ice. I couldn’t think of anything else to do against so many troops.”

“You and your imagers slaughtered almost eight regiments of Bovarians. They were coated in ice and froze to death before they could move. Less than a battalion survived. You also killed some four hundred of ours. There was fog over the triangle and the river and the south of Ferravyl until yesterday.” Bhayar paused. “It will be called a great victory for us, and a tragedy for Bovaria.”

Eight regiments? Eight? More than twelve thousand men? Despite the sweaty dampness on his forehead, Quaeryt shivered. “A great victory,” he repeated, hearing the words come out flat.

“The way matters were going it would have likely ended up with no winner, and just as many dead, except that half of them would have been ours.”

Quaeryt hadn’t thought of that, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

“What did the bridge have to do with it?” prompted Bhayar.

“Imaging it was the only way to freeze the rain.”

Bhayar frowned. “I can’t say I understand.”

“Neither do I,” Quaeryt replied, for he didn’t, not entirely, at least. “I just hoped that it might work.”

“Might work? It worked indeed. With what Pulaskyr and Claeph did to the three Bovarian regiments that came down from the north, Kharst doesn’t have enough men left in all of eastern Bovaria to stop a single regiment…” Bhayar paused. “Can you do that again? What you did here?”

Quaeryt laughed raggedly. “How often is there warm rain? How often are that many soldiers gathered in one place? How often could any group of imagers manage building a bridge like that?”

“That’s not an answer,” said Bhayar coolly.

“It’s … the best answer … I can give.” Quaeryt wanted to snap back, but that would have taken more strength than he had. “Do you think I like the idea of having imagers and scholars linked to the biggest massacre of troops in the history of Lydar? In fact, if you even mention imagers and scholars…”

Bhayar actually stepped back. “I beg your pardon.” His words were sardonic.

Quaeryt ignored the tone. “Even if we could do something like that again, do you really want it known? Second, if you suggest it, what happens when it doesn’t work? It might not ever work again. Imaging is never that certain. If you don’t believe me, ask the imagers you put me in command of.” He closed his eyes for a moment. Even those few sentences had been an effort.

“I did. They don’t know how they did it.”

“That’s why you’re better off claiming that the Nameless punished Rex Kharst with a mighty storm for trying to invade a neighboring land that never threatened him.”

“I have suggested something like that.”

“Keep suggesting it,” Quaeryt said tiredly. “It can’t hurt … if Kharst and Autarch Aliaro are worried … the Nameless is on your side.”

“What would you like to do now?” asked Bhayar, his voice deferential, or almost so, for perhaps the first time in all the years Quaeryt had known him. “After you’re stronger. You’re not going anywhere for another few days or maybe longer.”

“Visit my wife. I think I deserve that.”

Bhayar nodded slowly. “I thought you might have that in mind. About a glass southeast of here is a small estate-Nordruil. My father seized it years ago for failure to pay tariffs. I think you will find it more to your liking than traveling to Solis. Besides, you’re in no shape for a ride like that.”

“Why there?” asked Quaeryt warily. “What about Vaelora?”

“Because … when it became clear that you-or the Nameless,” added Bhayar archly, “had succeeded in annihilating the Bovarian forces attacking Ferravyl, I sent for Vaelora. I had no idea if you would live. I just said that you’d been wounded and requested her presence. I imagine she has been riding eight glasses out of every ten.”

“Why else?” asked Quaeryt, although he had a very good idea why Bhayar wanted him to recover at Nordruil.

“Because the war with Bovaria has just begun … and because you couldn’t even start to ride to Solis for a week at best, maybe not for several weeks. The time you would have taken traveling to and from Solis will not be wasted. It will take that long, if not slightly longer, to reorganize and refit the army for the campaign ahead-”

“And for the other regiments you called up to arrive,” interjected Quaeryt.

“For the campaign ahead,” continued Bhayar implacably, “in which you will play a vital role, I am certain. While you recover at Nordruil, you and Vaelora can discuss how both of you can help in such matters…”

Quaeryt could not have expected anything else, he supposed. “Not Vaelora. Don’t bring her into it-”

“I won’t, not so long as I can count on you.”

You truly are a bastard. Quaeryt didn’t speak those words. “What other choice do we have?” He kept his voice level.

“Not much. You more than anyone should know what Kharst-or any other ruler-would do … has done to imagers and scholars.”

“Why do you think I’ve done what I’ve done-even before Vaelora?”

“As soon as you’re able, I’ll have escorts help you to Nordruil to wait for her. You should enjoy Nordruil,” said Bhayar pleasantly. “So should Vaelora.”

I’ll enjoy making you pay double when the time comes … and Vaelora can help me figure out how. “I’m certain we will.” He forced himself to remember that Vaelora would be at Nordruil. Soon, he hoped. Soon …

Then, at that, he smiled, ignoring the frown on Bhayar’s face.