Rex Regis

8

Roughly two quints before midday, Quaeryt glanced to the woods east of the river road, then across the brush that sloped down to the waters of the River Laar, then back to the comparatively narrow track that passed for a road in southern Bovaria. After a time he turned in the saddle and asked Vaelora, riding beside him, “How are you feeling?”

“Dearest … you’ve asked that almost every glass since we left Kephria this morning. I will tell you if matters are not right.”

Quaeryt winced at the clipped words and exasperated tone. “I can’t help it.” He ran his left hand over the staff in the holder, a staff he had imaged into being the day before, since his previous staff had disappeared in the last battle in Variana. He’d tested the new staff, and from what he could tell it was solid, yet not a dead weight.

“I know you worry. Asking me every glass or less isn’t going to change things.”

“I will try not to inquire often.” He had trouble not asking, partly because Vaelora would seldom admit that she was ailing, but he could sense an outright lie or evasion if he asked her directly. But then, she knows that.

He would have liked to have waited longer to leave Kephria, but Vaelora had been insistent, even citing his imaged dream-if it truly had been that. In the end, he’d dispatched the Zephyr, with three wounded troopers as couriers, at dawn on Samedi, and by seventh glass, he and Vaelora were riding northward in the van of first company, followed by Calkoran and his company, with Eleventh Regiment following and providing the rear guard. But he still worried about her … and how she was dealing with the loss she wouldn’t mention.

The weather had been pleasant enough, if slightly chill with a high haze muting some warmth from the sun, although Quaeryt was glad for the lack of an appreciable wind, again worried about Vaelora.

Finally, he spoke again. “I’d like your thoughts on something. All through the Antiagon campaign, we kept expecting to run into muskets. The Antiagons had cannon, and they used them fairly effectively. But we never saw a musketeer or a single musket. Kharst had both, and Bhayar has been trying to find a way to produce muskets on a large scale, but no one even seemed to have thought of muskets in Antiago.”

“Hmmm.” Vaelora tilted her head, but said nothing.

Quaeryt waited, glancing again ahead and then to the woods and back to the river.

Finally, she spoke. “I know that Aliaro kept his imagers locked away from himself, and from others, and never allowed them to gather in groups, except for battles.”

“Even then, except at Liantiago, there were never more than a half score imagers in one place,” Quaeryt added.

“Could the absence of muskets be because a musket can also be used equally in battle or against individuals? It’s also a weapon that can kill from a distance and doesn’t take years to master. You’ve said that the entire land was ruled by the Autarch and a few score Shahibs.”

“That might be it.” Quaeryt shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe Skarpa will find out in time. I still worry.” About more than you ever thought possible.

“You didn’t have any more bad dreams … after Liantiago?”

“Not yet … except for the one. But I’ve been fairly exhausted most nights.” He paused. “I worry about doing massive imaging.”

“Rebuilding a five-hundred-yard-long solid stone pier wasn’t massive imaging?”

“I meant the kind where I’ve killed thousands. Yet…” He let the words dwindle away.

“You could do less than massive imaging,” she replied lightly. “Or you could let one of the younger imagers do it.”

“There’s a price to that.” And not all imagers can bear it, as you’ve found out with Horan.

“There is, dearest. There’s a cost to everything, but your school or collegium or whatever you want to call it won’t last unless everyone has to bear part of that cost.”

“Collegium … I like that. Maybe we should call it the Collegium Imago.”

“Dearest, I’d worry about the name after you have Bhayar’s absolute approval and your undercaptains are raising buildings.”

“It doesn’t hurt to have a name. That creates the impression of approval.”

“If you start to give that approval now…” she warned.

“I know … Bhayar will be furious. So I won’t. But I’ll bring up the name when I talk to him.”

“Knowing you, after that you’ll keep using it with him.”

“Of course, and he might start using it. I won’t use it to others, except you, until he does.”

“Nor will I, dearest.” Vaelora smiled sweetly.

“Thank you for the name.”

“You’re welcome.”

Looking north along the road, Quaeryt saw dust and stiffened in the saddle, then relaxed slightly as he saw that the rider was a Telaryn scout. Still … that meant some difficulty or another.

“Sir?” offered Zhelan from where he rode ahead of Vaelora and Quaeryt.

“I see. That means we have a problem.”

Half a quint later, the scout reined in beside Quaeryt.

“Commander, sir, the bridge over that rise has been washed out. Must have been a recent storm. The water in the stream is still running high, and it’s muddy.”

Quaeryt looked to the east, but the sky was clear, and the shoulder of the road was slightly damp in places, but not muddy. “How wide is the stream? How long was the bridge?”

“The stream’s not that wide, less than ten yards. The bridge was maybe fifteen yards from bank to bank.”

Quaeryt nodded, then turned in the saddle. “Undercaptain Horan! Forward!”

The narrow-faced older imager moved forward from where he rode beside Baelthm and then eased his horse alongside Quaeryt’s mount. “Yes, sir?”

Quaeryt couldn’t help but note that Horan’s short beard, once sandy blond and mixed with gray, was now almost totally gray, as was his hair. Imaging, battles, and strain do change us all. “There’s a bridge ahead over a small stream. Do you think you could image a replacement for us?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m going to send Khalis and Elsior with you, Khalis to provide shields, if necessary, while you’re working, and Elsior to observe.”

“That’d be fine, sir.”

Quaeryt turned in the saddle. “Undercaptain Khalis and Trainee Elsior! Forward.”

“Yes, sir.” Khalis led the slender Elsior, who looked less than perfectly comfortable on his mount, forward so that they were immediately behind Quaeryt.

“Horan is going to ride ahead to replace a bridge. I’d like you to accompany him and to provide shields … just in case. Elsior, you’re to observe.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Undercaptains, head out.”

Quaeryt watched as the three followed the scout northward.

“A large proportion of your imagers are Pharsi,” Vaelora said.

“About half of us are,” Quaeryt said.

“You know, dearest, I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said that you’re Pharsi.”

“It probably is,” he said with a wry smile. “It took long enough, didn’t it?”

Vaelora offered a warm smile in return.

Almost two quints later, first company approached the point where the three undercaptains waited, with Horan on the west side of the road, and Khalis and Elsior on the east.

A solid but graceful single stone span stretched across the stream, wide enough for two wagons abreast, and with a narrow stone guard wall on each side. Quaeryt couldn’t help but think that the bridge was far better than the road it served. But then, that’s another problem we’ll likely have to help Bhayar with. How few really good roads existed in Bovaria had been one of the biggest surprises that had faced the Northern and Southern Armies as they’d advanced on Variana.

“We’ve ridden across and back several times, Commander!” Horan called out. “She’s solid.”

“Excellent!” returned Quaeryt, gesturing for the three to rejoin the column. “It’s also a beautiful structure.”

“Thank you, sir,” returned Horan as he swung his mount back behind Quaeryt and beside Baelthm’s horse.

“How are you feeling?” asked Quaeryt.

“It wasn’t any trouble at all.”

“Good.”

Quaeryt was also pleased that Horan seemed so cheerful, given the imager undercaptain’s despondency after the carnage that Quaeryt’s imaging had created in Liantiago.