He stiffened in the saddle, as the words of Vaelora’s letter came to him.… the warmest rain can turn to ice, and ice can imprison the unwary … Warm rain turning to ice? Was that what she had foreseen?
Could he and the other two imagers imprison the Bovarians in ice? But he couldn’t very well just image ice. The ice came as a result of imaging something else, something massive.
“Desyrk, Shaelyt … you need to image a stone bridge, from the lower ground south of the point of the triangle over to the far side of the Vyl.”
“What?”
“Don’t argue with me. Not now. We need a stone bridge over the Vyl. Make it two spans with a single central pier. I want you to concentrate on that when I give you the command. Do you understand?”
Shaelyt nodded. After a moment, Desyrk nodded, although his eyes held confusion and puzzlement.
“Desyrk … when I tell you, just image the stone for the bridge, as much as you can.”
He looked again at the massed Bovarians. Do you dare to try? Should you?
A horn call echoed through the rain, and as one, the Bovarians began to advance.
Quaeryt cleared his throat, extended his shields to encompass Desyrk and Shaelyt, then called, “Image the bridge! Now!”
He visualized the structure he imagined, with high slight arches to a central pier, and knowing he needed power, he didn’t limit himself to just the rain. So he attempted to draw warmth from the Bovarian mounts, with thin tendrils of thought, and from the river itself—it had to have heat somewhere because when it didn’t the water froze into ice. He even tried to link to the imagers who weren’t near them … somehow.
From everywhere came lances of pain, strikes like cold lightning.
In instants, the clouds darkened from thick gray to black masses … and liquid ice poured down like sheets in an arc around him.
Quaeryt could feel that pervasive chill trying to suck heat from himself, yet being blocked by his shields, but that intense cold impacting his shields, even though they were not against his skin, made him feel as though ice were building all around him and the other two imagers.
Brilliant lines of white ice-lightning flared through his skull, and his tears seemed to freeze for an instant on his cheeks, and white fog billowed below him …
… and icy whiteness froze him into stillness.
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.
78
Quaeryt swayed slightly in the saddle of the mare as he neared the midsection of the old fortified bridge across the Aluse, guiding the mare to the left side of the span away from the damaged roadbed and wall ahead on the right.
“Are you all right, sir?” asked Undercaptain Jusaph, turning back to watch Quaeryt.
“I’m fine.” Quaeryt forced heartiness he didn’t feel in his voice. Even after resting and recuperating for another three days since waking up, his entire body ached, and he had bruises and strained muscles in improbable locations.
“Yes, sir.” Jusaph’s voice contained doubt, and he continued to look back every few yards as they rode past the stoneworkers and engineers already working to repair the damaged bridge.
Quaeryt straightened himself in the saddle, trying not to wince, and turned his eyes to the southwest once he was clear of the workers and riding down the bridge’s unharmed southern span. Everywhere he looked there were wagons and carts moving, and hundreds of troopers toiling in the steamy air to bury the Bovarian dead before the sun of full summer corrupted the bodies. Two long and deep trenches stretched across the front of the low bluff of the triangle below which the rivers met, and in those trenches lay body after body. Another square pit had been dug, closer to the Narrows Bridge, then filled and heaped up with earth packed into a pyramid. That had to be the grave for the Telaryn fallen, Quaeryt knew, although no one had told him. In fact, few had spoken to him, except for Skarpa, Zhelan, and Shaelyt. And, of course, Bhayar.
Quaeryt looked back at Jusaph, noting the muffled murmurs of the two squads of first company escorting him to Nordruil. He could not hear the words and was just as glad he could not. Yet what else could he have done?
He looked ahead at where the road branched below the southern approach to the bridge, the one turning westward and then running south along the smaller river past the dark stone structure that he and the imagers had created to span the Vyl—and destroy thousands of Bovarians. That dark structure pointed like a crossbow quarrel toward Bovaria … and Variana, like the quarrel that once might have killed him, and had forced him to develop the imaging abilities that had seemed inevitably to require greater and greater destruction on his part.
Deliberately—and abruptly—he turned his eyes to the road leading southeast, first along the greenery of the river and then angling southwest toward Nordruil. Bhayar had said the holding was peaceful and quiet. He could use both.
He smiled faintly as he turned the mare southeast where the roads split, riding toward a respite, a time of rest … and a place where he could wait for Vaelora.
Vaelora …
He smiled once more.
Tor Books by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.
The Imager Portfolio
Imager
Imager’s Challenge
Imager’s Intrigue
Scholar
Princeps
The Corean Chronicles
Legacies
Darknesses
Scepters
Alector’s Choice
Cadmian’s Choice
Soarer’s Choice
The Lord-Protector’s Daughter
Lady-Protector
The Saga of Recluce
The Magic of Recluce
The Towers of the Sunset
The Magic Engineer
The Order War
The Death of Chaos
Fall of Angels
The Chaos Balance
The White Order
Colors of Chaos
Magi’i of Cyador
Scion of Cyador<
br />
Wellspring of Chaos
Ordermaster
Natural Ordermage
Mage-Guard of Hamor
Arms-Commander
The Spellsong Cycle
The Soprano Sorceress
The Spellsong War
Darksong Rising
The Shadow Sorceress
Shadowsinger
The Ecolitan Matter
Empire & Ecolitan
(comprising The Ecolitan Operation and The Ecologic Secession)
Ecolitan Prime
(comprising The Ecologic Envoy and The Ecolitan Enigma)
The Forever Hero
(comprising Dawn for a Distant Earth, The Silent Warrior, and In Endless Twilight)
Timegod’s World
(comprising Timediver’s Dawn and The Timegod)
The Ghost Books
Of Tangible Ghosts
The Ghost of the Revelator
Ghost of the White Nights
Ghost of Columbia
(comprising Of Tangible Ghosts and The Ghost of the Revelator)
The Hammer of Darkness
The Green Progression
The Parafaith War
Adiamante
Gravity Dreams
Octagonal Raven
Archform: Beauty
The Ethos Effect
Flash
The Eternity Artifact
The Elysium Commission
Viewpoints Critical
Haze
Empress of Eternity
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
L. E. Modesitt, Jr., is the New York Times bestselling author of the Saga of Recluce. He lives in Cedar City, Utah.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
PRINCEPS: A NOVEL IN THE IMAGER PORTFOLIO
Copyright © 2012 by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.
Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio Page 58