Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Vaelora laughed softly. “It is a compliment that you not only read my words, but recall them so well.”

  “I read them often.”

  “I can tell. For that I am grateful.”

  “As am I, because your advice and counsel are wise beyond your years.”

  “In some matters. Not in others.” Looking over his shoulder, she murmured, “There’s a couple approaching.”

  As he turned, he murmured, “Fhaedyrk and Laekyna.”

  “Princeps … and this must be the lady Vaelora.” Fhaedyrk bowed.

  “High Holder Fhaedyrk … Laekyna,” Quaeryt acknowledged, deliberately bending social niceties by acknowledging Fhaedyrk’s wife in her own right.

  Laekyna’s eyes widened just slightly, but she curtseyed, a courtesy Quaeryt had not seen in Tilbor before, but then, until the ball, he’d been at no functions where more than a single woman of position had been present.

  “Lady Vaelora,” offered Laekyna after the slightest hesitation, “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  “And I you,” replied Vaelora. “My husband has told me of your hospitality and grace when he visited you.”

  Laekyna smiled, shyly. Even so, the act transformed her face, and once more Quaeryt was struck by the similarity in expression between her and Vaelora, although the two were not at all alike in appearance. “He is most kind to notice.”

  Kind? Hardly. Fair … perhaps. “You were most hospitable.”

  “One could hardly be less to the princeps,” said Fhaedyrk smoothly.

  “That is true, especially if he happens to be the husband of the sister of Lord Bhayar,” replied Vaelora with a smile. “But, as I recall, Quaeryt was only a scholar assistant at the time, and that speaks to hospitality.”

  “What can I say?” replied Fhaedyrk disarmingly.

  “That you understand not all wisdom or power resides in those who are High Holders, perchance,” said Vaelora. “Or that offering hospitality is not conditional upon position, but it is better to act than to speak such. Of course, as a woman, that is merely my youthful opinion.”

  Quaeryt noted that Laekyna was having difficulty concealing a smile.

  “It is an opinion well worth considering.” Fhaedyrk paused for but an instant. “Do you have news on what may be happening in the west?”

  “Only through my husband. It appears as though Rex Kharst may be considering actions hostile to Telaryn. What those actions might be is not clear.” Vaelora glanced to Quaeryt. “Is that not so, dearest?”

  “That is indeed all that we know at the moment. We have been requested to prepare another regiment for deployment to the west, but not for what purpose.”

  “What do you think of Thurlhold?” asked Laekyna of Vaelora.

  “It appears tastefully impressive,” replied Vaelora.

  After several more exchanges of polite comments, Fhaedyrk and Laekyna excused themselves.

  Behind Quaeryt and Vaelora, the group of musicians began to play.

  “We should dance,” said Vaelora quietly.

  “Perhaps we should,” replied Quaeryt, “but I don’t know how.”

  “That part of your education was neglected, dearest, but it’s not hard. I’ll show you how. You take my right hand in your left, and place your right on the middle of my back just above my waist…”

  Quaeryt did his best to follow her instructions and her lead, but the best he felt he could have said when the musicians stopped for a moment was that he’d managed not to step on her feet or trip her and that he’d managed to look generally like he knew what he was doing.

  Vaelora looked up at him. “You see? It’s not that hard.”

  “No. Except that, without your instruction, I wouldn’t have the faintest idea of what to do.” And I’m not certain that I still wouldn’t. “Would you like some wine?”

  “Just a little.”

  As Quaeryt and Vaelora walked toward the nearest sideboard, the musicians struck up another tune, one livelier than the one played before. Quaeryt glanced at the dancers, still no more than a score, and wondered if he’d ever learn the intricate steps that he observed. With Vaelora’s insistence and instruction … most likely.

  When Quaeryt turned from the sideboard holding two goblets of white wine, he found himself facing a High Holder he did not recognize.

  “Princeps … High Holder Heskhaeld.” The trim but muscular holder who addressed Quaeryt smiled politely. “We have not met, but the governor suggested that I talk to you.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you.” Now that he had the man’s name, Quaeryt knew exactly what Heskhaeld wanted, and he doubted that the High Holder would be satisfied with what would likely happen.

  “While a ball is perhaps not the optimal location for discussing matters of property, it is winter, and I so seldom can get to Tilbora…”

  Quaeryt nodded and waited.

  “… more than a month ago, I inquired about the purchase of a section of land adjoining mine—certain lands belonging to the rebel holder Saentaryn…”

  Quaeryt nodded. “And you have not had a response and wondered when you might?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Those lands now belong to Lord Bhayar, and as princeps, I sent your request to him in Solis. As princeps, I have authority over supplies and other matters here in Tilbor, but not over Lord Bhayar’s lands. Any decision on those he must make, and he will likely consult with his finance minister before doing so. As this is winter, to get a message to Solis takes some time, even with military couriers … and a return message also takes time…” As Quaeryt explained, he understood, once more, how easily procedures could be employed to offer a negative response without ever directly saying “no,” although he had recommended that the lands not be sold for the present, given their proximity to High Holder Eshalyn’s coal mine. “… and when I receive an answer, you will be assured that we will inform you as soon as we can.”

  “I can ask no more.” Heskhaeld bowed, clearly mollified, but less than satisfied.

  Quaeryt slipped toward Vaelora and handed her the goblet of wine.

  “What was that about?” she asked.

  “He wants to purchase lands from your brother…” Quaeryt explained quickly.

  “At a ball?”

  “I’m only a princeps,” Quaeryt said wryly. “He obviously felt the courtesies don’t apply to me.” Unlike Fhaedyrk.

  “Lady Vaelora?”

  They both turned to see another couple, neither of whom Quaeryt recognized, approaching.

  The rest of the evening will be like this. Nonetheless, Quaeryt smiled.

  13

  Quaeryt had barely finished dressing on Solayi morning when the bells in their quarters rang so insistently that someone had to be yanking the bell-pull with either excessive enthusiasm or great urgency.

  “Who can that be?” asked Vaelora.

  “It’s not good. Not on Solayi morning.” Quaeryt turned and hurried down the private staircase to the access doors. He peered through the peephole and saw a squad leader he did not recognize standing there, most likely one on duty. Still, he raised his shields before opening the door. “Yes, Squad Leader?”

  “Princeps, sir, the governor requests that you join him in his study at your earliest convenience.”

  “Tell him I’ll be right there. You wouldn’t know what this is about?”

  “No, sir.”

  Quaeryt smiled politely and tried to use his imaging ability to project friendly and open curiosity.

  “He did receive an urgent dispatch, but he didn’t say what was in it, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Quaeryt took the steps back up to their quarters two at a time and strode to their dressing room.

  “What is it?”

  “As I said, it’s not good. Straesyr just got a dispatch, and he wants to meet in his study immediately. The regular couriers never arrive on Solayi.”

  “You’ll tell me?”

  “As soon as I can. Save me some
breakfast.”

  “I can do that.”

  Quaeryt bent over and kissed her neck, then made his way back down to the second level. When he reached the governor’s chambers, Quaeryt hurried in past the empty table desk where Undercaptain Caermyt usually sat. The governor did not rise from behind his desk, but motioned to the chairs. Straesyr was wearing an old set of winter greens, suitable for the chill of the study where the stove had not been fired up.

  Quaeryt sat. “What’s the problem, sir?”

  “There are several.” Straesyr’s mouth curled into a smile both sardonic and rueful. “Mount Extel … it erupted last week. A quarter of Extela is covered in lava…”

  Vaelora’s grandmere’s foresight flash … Quaeryt repressed a shiver.

  “… Kharst is rushing troops to Ferravyl, obviously wanting to attack if Lord Bhayar removes any forces there at present. Lord Bhayar wants you and his sister to leave immediately with Third Regiment for Extela. You’re to go to Extela and take over as temporary governor. Governor Scythn was killed by the flow of hot ash that preceded the lava. So were the princeps and most of their staff. I’m to send Second Regiment—somehow—to Ferravyl within two weeks of your departure.” He handed a single sheet of paper, sealed, to Quaeryt. “This was included for you.”

  Quaeryt broke the seal and read quickly.

  Quaeryt—

  Extela was in chaos. I have a regiment there, but they need to return to Ferravyl before your arrival. Send a courier to Commander Zhrensyl when you’re two days away. You will be governor of Montagne province, and you and Vaelora will be my personal representatives there. Don’t neglect the safety of the people, but release as many companies from your regiment as soon as you can …

  There was more, but the remainder of the missive expanded on the basic responsibilities laid on Quaeryt—and Vaelora.

  “He’s sent a regiment there to keep order, but we’re to replace them, and Vaelora and I are supposed to use our presence to keep order so that most of Third Regiment can leave as soon as possible.” Quaeryt paused. “You probably knew that already.”

  “In general terms.”

  “How soon are we leaving?”

  “Mardi—if it doesn’t snow.”

  “I’ll send a messenger to Raurem and tell him to deliver whatever he can tomorrow. The rest can go for Second Regiment…”

  For almost a glass, the two discussed what arrangements had to be made and which of them would do what.

  Then Quaeryt headed back up to Vaelora to inform her before he went to deal with everything else.

  Vaelora jumped up from where she sat at the table. “What did he want?”

  “To tell me that your grandmere was right. He didn’t put it—”

  “She was right about what?”

  “You’ll need to pack up everything that will fit on a mount and in one trunk. Mount Extel erupted…” Quaeryt went on to explain.

  When he paused, Vaelora asked, “What about the people? How many people were hurt?”

  “A quarter of Extela was destroyed. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, are missing. They’re likely dead, especially with the flooding.”

  “Flooding? In winter? Oh … the heat melted—”

  “All the snow and ice at once,” he finished.

  “Those poor people…” mused Vaelora. “That was what Grandmere said would happen.”

  “Was she always right?”

  “That was the only vision I know of that had not come to pass when she died. I don’t know what Bhayar expects of us…”

  “I don’t know what we can do, either … but your brother expects us to make things better.”

  “You’ll think of something.”

  “We’ll think of something. Remember … your brother insisted you come, too.” He shook his head. “On top of it all, I need to give a homily at services tonight.”

  “What?” Vaelora’s voice rose just slightly.

  “I promised Phargos I would give one homily—just one—before I left Tilbora.”

  “Oh … dearest…” Vaelora shook her head. “Do you know what you’ll say?”

  “No … but I’ll think of something.”

  “I’m sure you will.” She smiled. “I’d like to hear it as well.” The smile vanished. “One trunk?”

  Quaeryt shrugged. “Do you want your brother’s soldiers commenting on how you carried everything you had in a supply wagon?”

  “How much are you taking?”

  “I think I can fit almost everything I own in an officer’s kit bag.” Tightly.

  Vaelora made a face. “I can do the same with one trunk. If I can find one.”

  “If you can’t, I’ll get two kit bags for you.”

  “Go!” The single word was delivered with mock gruffness. “Do what you must.”

  “I need to eat something, first.”

  “Oh … I forgot. There’s plenty left.”

  Quaeryt ate the cold omelet and the bread, if smeared liberally with a quince jelly that was so tart it was just short of bitter. Then he headed for his study to compose messages and try to begin to do what Straesyr had delegated to him.

  Amid his efforts to make the arrangements for their departure, Quaeryt did locate Phargos, several glasses later, actually in the anomen.

  “The word is that you and Third Regiment will be leaving in the next day or so.”

  “Mardi morning, if it’s not storming.” Quaeryt paused. “I made you a promise…”

  “I hope you intend to keep it.” Phargos grinned. “I was worried about the homily for this evening anyway.”

  “I will.” But you may well worry about the homily after it’s delivered.

  After he left the anomen, Quaeryt returned to his various tasks, eventually getting back to his and Vaelora’s quarters in time to eat and then for the two of them to make their way to the anomen for services.

  They stood near the front, but to one side through the first part of the service.

  When it came time for the homily, Phargos did not step up to the pulpit, but stood in the middle of the sacristy and began to speak. “As all of you know, Princeps Quaeryt will be leaving with Third Regiment. So I thought it would be fitting for him to deliver the homily this evening.” Phargos offered a benevolent smile.

  As Quaeryt turned to move to the pulpit, the first time he’d actually delivered a homily from there, he did catch the glimpse of an almost impish expression on the regimental chorister’s face. Without being excessively slow, he moved to the pulpit deliberately, then stood there for several moments before speaking, in Bovarian, as was the custom at the anomen in the Telaryn Palace.

  “Under the Nameless, all evenings are reckoned as good, but, unhappily, at times, we all have our doubts about that reckoning.” After delivering that phrase as wryly as he could, he paused slightly. He could see several nods and heard a rueful chuckle before he went on. “The reason Third Regiment is leaving Tilbora early is that there is great destruction in Extela. Mount Extel erupted and destroyed much of the city. I doubt most seriously that many in Extela feel that this is a good evening. Nor would many of thoughtful mind have said that the Solayi following the fall of the last hill hold was especially good, not with all the deaths and the agonizing injuries. Yet all evenings under the Nameless are good … so it is said.

  “Well … certainly being able to be alive and well enough to see the evening is better than the alternative, but is that what is meant by a good evening? Is mere survival enough to make the evening good? There’s certainly nothing I’ve read or heard that makes such a claim. Nor has the Nameless whispered in my ear and said, ‘All evenings are good because I said so.’ And, while it may be personal vanity on my part, somehow I don’t think that the Nameless would say that. I’m going to go out on a limb—or stand at the edge of a cliff, if you will, in this storm that we call life and say that what is meant by those words is something quite different from the simple meaning we hear in them.” Quaeryt paused again.

  “W
hat if … what if those words really mean that all evenings are good because we have the ability to discern between what is good and what is not? That we have the capability to choose between a course of good or a course of evil or a course somewhere in between. Now … some will say that the Nameless has the power to do anything, and question why evil things happen to good people, especially evil things not made by people. In one way or another, we choose whether to fight, as do those against whom we fight, but no one chooses to have a mountain explode and kill them or their family. Yet … let me put the question in another way. What value, what integrity, would lie in life if the Nameless mandated and ordered life in such a fashion that there were no evils … of any sort? Or even a world where evildoers were struck down by lightning or plague sent by the Nameless? Could it be that all evenings are good, because each one offers us the possibility of affirming what we are and what we can be at our best?

  “If there were no evil … could there be good? And what would that good be worth? Could it be that the good of every evening is that we are granted the power to choose what course we will follow, to make of ourselves what we can…”

  When he finished, he surrendered the pulpit to Phargos for the concluding hymn and benediction.

  Vaelora slipped up to Quaeryt after the service, but said nothing as Phargos approached.

  “I can see that you don’t mind touching the most fundamental questions,” observed the chorister. “Yet I did notice that you did not actually affirm that there is a Nameless.”

  “I tried not to. I honestly don’t know if the Nameless exists. I can’t proclaim what I don’t know.”

  “That’s the beauty of faith.”

  “No … that is faith. Whether faith is beauty depends on whether the Nameless exists.”

  Phargos shook his head. “If you were young and had not seen what you have seen, Princeps, I would say that you did not understand the need for faith. But you have seen and endured much, and you have clearly felt the agony of others. So I will say nothing except that you will either break the world or it will break you.”