“I understand.”
“I would think … perhaps silver gray and black? Or red and black?” Syen frowned. “Then again…”
Quaeryt took a step farther back, content to let events take their course, but very glad that he was paid a great deal more as princeps than he had been as a scholar assistant. He might not know that much about being wedded to the sister of the Lord of Telaryn, but he did know that gowns did not come cheaply.
In the end, after Syen and Vaelora agreed on the design, and colors, and all the measurements were taken, Quaeryt handed over a gold for a deposit and to cover fabric. “Thank you.”
“Thanks are not necessary, but your coin is welcome, Princeps, as are you and your wife. It is too bad you will not be here long.”
Quaeryt raised his eyebrows.
“You—and your lady, by her very presence—have already done much of what was necessary, and Lord Bhayar will soon find other uses for your talents.”
“I won no battles, performed no heroic acts. I only helped others.”
Syen smiled. “The Sisters understand that more is often achieved by those who only help.” She emphasized the word “only” just a trace. “We know who vanishes and who flees when no one else has been able to remove such pestilence.” Syen turned to Vaelora. “Is that not so, Lady?”
“I would not argue with you on that, or anything else affecting Tilbor,” replied Vaelora. “Until next week. Meredi … unless it snows.”
“Until then.”
Once they had left the shop and remounted, neither Quaeryt nor Vaelora said much until they were well away from the harbor.
“What do you know about these Sisters?” she finally asked.
“As I told you … I overheard a conversation between two women, another between two officers, and what I gleaned when I talked to Syen.”
“You are truly Pharsi. To have determined what you did from so little…”
“You may be right You’re not the first to say that. When I first rode up from Ayerne…” He went on to tell the story of how he had delivered the letter from Rhodyn to the holder’s eldest son Jorem and how Hailae had spoken to him in Pharsi.
“White-blond Pharsi with black eyes…” mused Vaelora. “I have not heard of them, except as imagers, but that would explain much.”
As she finished, a gust of wind whipped around them. Quaeryt shivered, hoping that there would not be yet another storm coming. “You’ll wish we had hot springs like you did in Extela by the time we get back to the palace.”
“You’ll do quite nicely, dearest.”
Quaeryt certainly hoped so.
7
The next few days were far warmer, enough to melt the snow near dark stone and uncovered ground—except at night—and that meant that in the morning ice covered much of the stone pavement of the lane down to the lower gates.
On Mardi morning, Quaeryt walked to the private dining chamber, thinking that Vaelora would be along in moments. She wasn’t. After half a quint, he turned and headed back to the dressing chamber.
When he appeared, she stepped forward, shuddering, and put her arms around him.
“What is it?”
“Those shields … the ones you created for battle … can you still do that?”
“Yes … I haven’t seen much need, not here in the palace…”
“Please … whenever you leave the palace … or even here when there are people you don’t know … please use them…”
“Why … What did you see?”
“It was a hall … a long one, and you were standing by a doorway, and a man in dark clothes had a crossbow, and I saw the quarrel go toward you…”
Quaeryt stiffened. “Did you see any faces … anything else?”
Vaelora looked at him, and he saw the streaks of tears running down her cheeks. “It was so real … so very real.” Her voice strengthened. “You must use those shields.”
“But…” He knew better than to protest, but it seemed so unreal. So far as he knew, anyone who had a personal grudge against him was dead.
“Dearest … you are seen as a man of influence and power, and you have already changed much. You have done so quietly. Most people see the governor and the commanders as the ones who made the changes, but there are still those who know you were behind those changes.”
“I’m just a scholar who…”
“Just? If the Sisters all know what you did, who else does as well?”
Quaeryt smiled ruefully. “You’re right. I will.”
“Promise me. Starting today.”
“I promise.”
She blotted her cheeks and eyes, delicately. “I’m sorry. It was so real that I wanted to scream and warn you. Then it was gone.”
“Are these foresights always like that?”
“Farsight,” she corrected him. “I told you. I don’t have many. This is the first one in more than a year, but they all have felt so real when I see them.”
“I’ll go back to using shields,” Quaeryt said, trying to reassure her once more.
“I know it sounds silly … in a fashion, anyway…”
“If you’re right, then it will save my life or health, and if not … there’s certainly no harm done.” He shook his head and added quickly, “You’re right in any case. It’s just hard for me to believe that anyone would want to kill me. In a battle, yes, but as a regional princeps?”
“Who’s married to Lord Bhayar’s sister and who has come to power over so many younger sons of holders and High Holders,” added Vaelora.
“I wouldn’t even have been considered in a region like Ryntar or Montagne, or even Ruilan, would I?”
“I’d have considered you anyway,” she replied with a smile.
“That might have been, but I have my doubts your brother would have been so accommodating.”
“I’d have found a way.”
The matter-of-fact certainty in her voice reminded Quaeryt of one thing—Bhayar hadn’t needed to tell Quaeryt to respect Vaelora. Not at all.
“We should eat breakfast,” he said gently.
“Oh … I almost forgot.”
The inadvertent innocence in her voice reminded him of something else—and that was what a mixture of experience and inexperience lay beneath her determination. He embraced her once more. “I do love you.”
“I know.” Her arms went around him for a moment before releasing him. “We do need to eat.”
He didn’t mention that he’d just said almost the same thing.
They walked to the private dining chamber hand in hand.
After breakfast, Quaeryt made his way down the private staircase and to his study. He was early enough that he arrived before Vhorym. He didn’t settle behind the desk, but walked to the center window and pulled back the hangings and opened the shutters, ignoring the chill off the glass as he stood there looking out to the north. The first snows had begun to fall near the end of Feuillyt, and by mid-Finitas snowstorms were regularly bombarding Tilbor, and that had been weeks before winter began. Spring was less than two weeks away, and everything was still covered in snow, so much that when he rode out the east gates he could barely see over what was piled on each side of the access lane to the palace.
His thoughts went back to what Vaelora had said—and seen. Who would want him dead, and what would he be doing in a long dark hallway?
He laughed, quietly.
How would you ever have believed you—a mere scholar—would become princeps of Tilbor and be married to Bhayar’s daughter?
Then he turned to face the remainder of the day.
8
On Meredi, Quaeryt accompanied Vaelora back to Tilbora for a fitting of the ball gown—except that she insisted he wait outside. After the ride and while he stood and waited with the escort squad, he realized that he was somewhat tired, and he wondered why.
Shields … of course. Even though he was holding the lighter shields that stiffened only when something touched them, doing so was still an effort�
�one that he had not made in more than a month, except occasionally. He’d forgotten how long it had taken to build up his strength and endurance to be able to hold them much of the day.
He still couldn’t help but wonder who might be seeking his death. Those who were mostly likely to hold a grudge as a result of the destruction of the rebellious hill holds would be sons or heirs of those holders—and he doubted that many of them knew of his small role or even cared about him, particularly since Rescalyn—who had planned and executed the campaign—had died at the end of the last battle. Chardyn was dead, and from what he had determined it appeared that Zarxes had died in the battle for his father’s hold. The sea-reavers didn’t even know who he was … if any of them had even survived.
He shook his head.
“Dearest?”
Quaeryt turned to see Vaelora leaving Syen’s shop, carrying out what Quaeryt presumed was the gown, if rolled and covered in oilcloth.
When she reached him, standing beside the mare, she handed the gown to her husband. “Please don’t drop it.”
“I won’t. Is it finished?”
“Of course. She had to make a few changes. That was why it took a bit.”
“What do I own Syen?” he asked as he took the gown from her.
“Nothing. I paid her the rest of what was due.”
“You…?”
“I am not penniless, dearest. Bhayar did leave some golds for me. He told me to be careful of them. I have been. This is the first time I’ve spent anything. Major Daendyr has kept most of them in the regimental strong room.” With a smile, Vaelora swung up into the saddle, far more gracefully than he ever did.
Quaeryt should have known. He just shook his head.
“Please hand me the gown, if you would, dearest?”
He did, and then mounted, wordlessly, wondering exactly how many golds his wife had stored away. Certainly far more than you have. At least, he could say to himself, if not to anyone else, that he hadn’t married Vaelora for golds. He hadn’t even thought of it, not that anyone was likely to believe him.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked as they rode away from the harbor area of Tilbora.
“Because I never married you for your golds and because no one would ever believe me if I said so.”
“I do.”
“No one but you.”
“The young chorister at the scholarium—the one who used to be an undercaptain—he would.”
Quaeryt laughed, ruefully. “That might be the one thing on which we’d agree. Otherwise, he thinks too highly of me.”
“You want people to think you do well, but not too well. Is that because you’re afraid that if they think too highly of you, you’ll disappoint them?”
“Partly.” And partly because I don’t want them looking at me too closely.
“And partly for other reasons?” She glanced knowingly in his direction.
“You know me too well.”
“A wife should,” she replied playfully.
He wasn’t about to argue with that, either.
“Dearest … I have not pressed … but I cannot wear that gown and ride…”
“Oh … I’m sorry. I meant to tell you. We will ride in a carriage down to the lower gates, and High Holder Thurl will have a sleigh waiting for us—the four of us.”
“When did you learn this?”
“Yesterday,” he admitted.
Her glance was not quite withering.
“I did find out,” he said quietly.
After several moments of stone-faced silence, abruptly, Vaelora grinned. “Dearest … next time … I do hope there is not a next time.”
So did Quaeryt, even if it had been his fault. Especially since it had been.
By the time they neared the lower gates to the palace, Quaeryt could feel the sunlight for the first time in more than a season. He was riding with his winter jacket open, and he noticed that small piles of slush had been thrown to the side of the road by the small sleighs used by many Tilborans in winter. In a few places, he saw mud. He glanced toward Vaelora, noting she had loosened her coat as well.
“It’s gotten warmer,” he said.
“It has, but for how long?”
There was that, but it was a reminder that spring would come.
He kept thinking about that even after he escorted Vaelora back to their quarters and then made his way back toward his study. When he reached the gallery, he turned and made his way to the governor’s anteroom.
Undercaptain Caermyt glanced up. “He’s not busy, sir.”
Quaeryt knocked on the half-open door and then peered in.
“Come in, Quaeryt. What’s on your mind?”
“Sir … I just returned from Tilbora. I think that First Regiment should leave as soon as possible. If the roads turn to mud…”
“I agree. So does Commander Myskyl—and he does prefer to remain with First Regiment. They’ve almost made ready, another day at most, and they will leave on Vendrei.” Straesyr smiled. “We’ll still see freezing nights, but it’s likely to get warmer and warmer during the day.”
“Have you received any more dispatches?”
The governor shook his head. “I doubt we will for a time, unless we fail to send off the regiments in a fashion Lord Bhayar deems untimely, and neither of us would wish that, I think.” His voice turned wry and sardonic with the last words.
“No, sir.” Quaeryt paused. “Oh … I got a note from Raurem late yesterday. He can deliver another wagonload of grain cakes by the third of Maris.”
“That should be acceptable. Muddy roads or not, Commander Skarpa won’t have Third Regiment ready to leave before the end of that week.”
“I’ll let Raurem know, but I’ll insist on that date, just in case.”
Straesyr nodded.
After leaving the governor, Quaeryt walked back toward his own chambers, wondering what might be happening in the west … and whether … and if so, when events might involve him.
Thinking of Vaelora, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to be involved, for all of his plans.
But you made those plans before she came into your life. Times change.
So they did, more than he had ever anticipated.
9
Quaeryt had only been in his study for a quint on Jeudi morning when Vhorym knocked on the door.
“Sir … There’s a young scholar here to see you. His name is Lankyt, he says.” Vhorym did not quite frown. “He says it’s important.”
“I’ll see him. He’s a good youth. His father saved my life.” Quaeryt rose.
Vhorym left the door open, stepped back, and gestured.
Lankyt hurried in, bowing deeply, and straightening. “Sir … Chorister Gauswn … he sent me. Chorister Cyrethyn is dying. He would like to see you. Chorister Gauswn … he said you should know.”
“I can leave now.” Quaeryt stood. “You rode alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll ride back together.” Quaeryt gestured for Lankyt to follow him. “Vhorym … I’m needed at the scholarium. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but it will be later today.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quaeryt hurried down to the main level, stopping by the duty desk to request a squad to accompany him, and then out to the stable, where he saddled the mare, then walked her out of the stable and mounted. He rode across the courtyard to where Lankyt was waiting on a gray gelding. “Your mount?”
“Syndar and I share him.”
Quaeryt glanced around the courtyard, looking for the duty squad that was to accompany him. “He’s the one you used to visit the local growers? To find better ways to grow things?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you discovered anything new since last harvest?”
“Well … not much … except that marigolds keep away many bugs. I was thinking that if we planted them around the orchards, that might help…”
Quaeryt listened for not quite another half quint, until the duty squad arrived, and then
they set out through the eastern gates and down the stone lane to the lower gates. Once they left the upper gates, he raised his shields, the lighter ones that would stiffen into hard shields if anything neared them. He noticed that the snow heaped on each side of the lane seemed a touch lower and stone gutters flanking the lane were carrying meltwater down to the moat. They weren’t full, but it was more than a trickle.
After almost a quint of riding, Lankyt spoke again. “Sir … I meant to thank you, but I was worried about the chorister.”
“Thank me for what?”
“Yesterday … my da—my father—I got a letter from him. He agreed that since Syndar seemed so much better suited to being a scholar, I should come home, but only when the roads were clear and when I could join someone trustworthy. You did that, didn’t you?”
“Not exactly. Syndar wanted to stay. He’s been a great help to Scholar Princeps Yullyd. I wrote that to your father. Nothing more.”
“Thank you, sir. I liked what I learned at the scholarium, but I do so miss Ayerne, and I know I’m better suited to the land.”
“I’m sure you are.” Quaeryt paused. “Would you be willing to leave tomorrow?”
“Sir? Do you mean it?”
“First Regiment is heading that way, and they leave tomorrow. I think I can persuade Commander Myskyl to let you ride with them. They’ll likely overnight at Ayerne anyway. But you’ll have to gather your things and ride back with me when I leave the scholarium after I see Cyrethyn.”
“I can do that, sir. I can.”
Quaeryt nodded, his eyes on the road. So far the packed snow and ice, and presumably the ground beneath both in places where the roads were not stone-paved, seemed frozen solid. Of course, there would be mud farther south, but because the snow melted more in between storms, there wouldn’t be as much mud as in Tilbor and the area just south of the river when everything did melt.
After they had ridden a while longer, Lankyt again turned in the saddle. “You said First Regiment was riding south. Will there be a war, sir?”
Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio Page 5