Alastar studied the two beakers, but as far as he could tell, there was the same amount of lager in each.
“So far, so good,” he murmured.
Then he lifted the second beaker and took the tiniest sip of the liquid in it. While the smell was like lager, if a poor variety, at the first taste, he winced. Only by the greatest stretch of imagination could it be called lager, although it tasted drinkable, and he had tasted worse, but not in a very long time. Still, it would do for his purposes.
He set the two beakers directly in front of him, the one with real lager on the right, and the one with imaged lager on the left, then concentrated again. He thought he saw the slightest movement of the liquids in both beakers, although he couldn’t be sure. He reached for the goblet on the right. It smelled like the imaged lager. He sipped. It was the imaged lager. He set down that beaker and tasted the one on the left. It was the real lager, although it tasted a shade off.
He poured real lager into the other empty beaker, and lifted it, as if in a toast, and then attempted to image out the real lager and replace it with imaged lager. Liquid spilled over his hand.
He set the beaker down, imaged away the liquid, then refilled the beaker and tried again, with the same result.
“Hmmm…”
He set the beaker back on the desk, wiped his hands on the handkerchief he almost never used, then imaged the liquid from the beaker, and poured fresh lager into it. This time, he left the beaker on the desktop and image-replaced the lager. Not a drop of liquid moved.
He went through another attempt with the toasting motion, only to get liquid on his hands, even though he did not image until he held the beaker still.
He set down the beaker and wiped his hands once more, thinking. Your hand must move imperceptibly, even though you think it’s not. At least, he knew what was possible and what was not, in case certain circumstances arose.
He imaged away all the liquid in the three beakers, picked them up, and took them to the kitchen, then came back for the pitcher and carried it to the kitchen. He thought about trying to wash the three, and decided against it. When he returned to the study, he glanced at the third volume of Chorister Gauswn’s journals, then shook his head.
You’re tired enough that you won’t remember much, and you might miss something. With that thought, he imaged out the study lamp and made his way to the stairs and up to his bedchamber.
31
On Solayi morning, after an early breakfast before most of the student imagers straggled in, Alastar went back over his homily for the memorial services, and then spent almost three glasses working on various possibilities for reducing the costs incurred by the rex, including the number of army regiments. All those costs were estimates, because he had no solid numbers whatsoever, only the base pay rates for troopers and officers and the figures on what various goods and materials cost the Collegium. At the same time, he doubted that either Lorien or Petayn knew even that much, at least from what he’d observed. Add to that the lack of a minister for the army, since the marshal of the army functioned as such. Not a good system for knowing costs. That led to a proposal for restructuring the government to increase accountability. Which is where you should have begun.
When he set aside those papers and walked from the study, he found Alyna sitting at Dareyn’s table in the hallway.
She immediately stood. “I thought I might accompany you to the services, if you don’t mind.” Her words were almost shy.
“I’d like that. Very much.”
With his words came her smile, the one that likely was not special to anyone else, but which somehow warmed him. “I worried…”
“You don’t have to worry.” That was the last thing Alastar wanted.
“You mean that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.” Before Alastar could reply, she said, “We had better set out, if you don’t want to hurry. It’s already two quints before two.”
“Then we will.” Alastar moved to the front door, opening it for her. He’d debated whether to wear an overcoat or heavier jacket, but although the day was gray, there was no wind, and he knew the anomen was likely to be close with as many people as would be there. When they neared the ancient but polished brass-bound double doors of the anomen, it was still a quint before the chimes would strike.
Standing on one side of the stone walkway just outside the door was Chervyt, while on the other side were Lhendyr and a woman who had to be his wife, along with Carmina, and her two daughters. Alastar struggled for a moment to recall their names. Charlina and Mhora.
“You talk to Carmina first,” murmured Alyna. “I’ll talk to Chervyt until you can.”
“Thank you.” Alastar’s words were even more subdued than Alyna’s as he stepped toward Carmina.
“Maitre … I did appreciate your coming to see me. I wasn’t at my best.” Carmina met Alastar’s eyes and offered a sad smile.
“Matriana … no one would be at her best after suffering such a loss. If there is anything else I can do, now or in the future, please don’t hesitate to let me know.” He glanced to Charlina, a solid red-haired little girl with dark blue eyes that Alastar would have called knowing, and then to Mhora, older, perhaps ten or eleven, and more slender. “That goes for you two young women as well.” His eyes went back to Carmina. With a nod toward Charlina, he said, “Most likely. I’ll be inquiring from time to time as to how things are going.”
“You’re most kind, Maitre.”
Hardly, not when your husband paid the price for all of us. “I’d rather not have to have thanks for what I can do. I’d rather that I were talking to you both.”
“So would I, but we do what we must,” Carmina returned.
Alastar turned slightly toward Lhendyr and his wife. “Thank you for standing by Carmina as well.”
“The least we could do, sir. The least.”
“You and Mhorys always provided an excellent example for the younger maitres, and I have appreciated that and always will.” Alastar offered a warm smile before easing away toward Chervyt.
“… think the Maitre has some words.” Alyna slipped away, back toward Carmina, as Alastar stopped before Chervyt.
“I’m sorry, Chervyt, both for you and for Nuasyn. I wouldn’t know, but I think it must be particularly hard to lose such a close friend, when there are so few you can truly be close to.”
Chervyt’s eyes brightened, and he swallowed before he spoke. “Thank you, sir. I … I don’t know what to say … it’s like … everything…”
“Perhaps like a certain brightness has left your life?”
Chervyt nodded.
“Having such a brightness is a blessing, but the loss makes things seem darker for a time … but only for a time. If you need to talk, I’ll listen. If you’d rather not, know that I’ll understand.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Alastar turned back toward the door of the anomen to find Alyna at his elbow. “We’ll need to be at the front on one side.”
She nodded.
“How is Carmina, do you think? I tried to be concerned without being false.”
“She’ll be fine.”
“I worry about the little one. I have the feeling that she sees and understands too much too young … and that she’ll likely be an imager.”
“Would you like me to occasionally visit her?”
“If you could without upsetting Carmina.”
“I can manage that.”
Once inside the anomen, Alastar and Alyna made their way to the front and to the left side, not that such was difficult, despite the fact that the nave was already crowded, because everyone immediately moved aside, a deference that Alastar found vaguely disconcerting.
Shortly after the chime of the glass died away, Chorister Iskhar stepped out from the pulpit and stood in the middle of the sacristy dais. “We are gathered here together this afternoon in the spirit of the Nameless, in affirmation of the quest for goodness and mercy in all that
we do, and in celebration of the lives of those brought to a close by the senseless violence against the Collegium. We are here to remember Mhorys, Nuasyn, Klovyl, Johanyr, Shabrena, Ellya, Vierli, Jeena, and Albyrt, to give thanks for their lives, for their loves, and for their sacrifice.”
The opening hymn was “The Glory of the Nameless.” Alastar sang in a low voice, glancing at Alyna, who remained standing beside him. He couldn’t help but note that she sang far better than he did, despite her earlier statement that she was a poor singer. Then came the confession. Alastar had always wondered how effective the confession was, despite the claim by choristers that, without confession, there could be no understanding and no healing.
“We do not name You, for naming is presumptuous, and we would not presume upon the creator of all that was, is, and will be. We do not pray to You, nor ask boons or blessings from You, for requesting such asks You to favor us over others who are also your creations. Rather we confess that we always risk the sins of pride and presumption and that the very names we bear symbolize those sins, for we too often strive to arrogate our names and ourselves above others, to insist that our petty plans and arid achievements have meaning beyond those whom we love or over whom we have influence and power. Let us never forget that we are less than nothing against your Nameless magnificence and that all that we are and all that we may become is a gift to be cherished and treasured, and that we must also respect and cherish the gifts of others, in celebration of You who cannot be named or known, only respected and worshipped.”
“In peace and harmony,” came the response.
After that came the charge from Iskhar. “Life is a gift from the Nameless, for from the glory of the Nameless do we come; through the glory of the Nameless do we live, and to that glory do we return. Our lives can only reflect and enhance that glory, as did that of all those whom we honor, whom we remember, and who will live forever in our hearts and in the glory of the Nameless.”
Another hymn followed—“In the Footsteps of the Nameless.”
“When we walk the narrow way of what is always right,
when we follow all the precepts that foil the Namer’s blight…”
Alastar had some doubt about following the footsteps of the Nameless, since it seemed to him that following anything blindly more likely led to trouble than to glory, but that wasn’t a point he was about to make.
Then Iskhar said, “Now we will hear from Maitre Alastar.”
Alastar realized that, with Iskhar’s words, Alyna had glanced warmly at him, and that surprised him enough that he did not step forward for several moments. He walked purposefully, but not hurriedly, and stepped up on the dais. When he turned and looked out across the anomen, completely filled, both with imagers and their families, but also with so many of those who worked and lived on Imagisle, far more than he realized, he could see more than a few green-and-black mourning scarves worn by the women.
He paused, not wanting to hurry, then gently and quietly cleared his throat before beginning. “Nine members of the Collegium died this past week. Mhorys, Nuasyn, Klovyl, Johanyr, Shabrena, Ellya, Vierli, Jeena, and Albyrt. All were valued; all left those who cared for them, and for whom they cared; all worked in their own ways to make the Collegium, and thus, all Terahnar, a better place. Yet for all that shared purpose, each was an individual and differed from anyone else. What I will say about each is only a fraction of what could be said and far, far less than what each and every one of us should recall.” Alastar paused again.
“Mhorys was a hardworking, good-tempered Maitre D’Aspect who died protecting all that he held dear, just as he had lived supporting and protecting all that he held to be of worth and value…” From there, Alastar went through each of the other eight. When he finished with Albyrt, he said, “One was an imager, three were student imagers, four were cooks and assistants, and one was a gardener. Each offered what they were and what they did to make Imagisle a better place. The very least we can do is to give thanks for their lives, their loves, and their sacrifices.” You, especially.
Alastar had to swallow. He stood there for several moments, just taking in those in the anomen. More than a few people were weeping, including Carmina. He hoped that the tears would be a beginning of healing. But do you ever fully heal?
He stepped down from the dais and rejoined Alyna.
Chorister Iskhar stepped forward to the pulpit once again. “At this time, we wear black and green, black for the dark uncertainties of life, and green for its triumph, manifested every year in the coming of spring. So is it that, like nature, we come from the dark of winter and uncertainty into life which unfolds in uncertainty, alternating between black and green, and in the end return to the life and glory of the Nameless. In that spirit, let us offer thanks for the spirits and the lives of those who died for us,” intoned Iskhar, “and let us remember them as each was, not merely as a name, but as a living breathing individual whose spirit touched many and in ways only the Nameless can fully fathom. Let us set aside the gloom of mourning, and from this day forth, recall the glory of their lives and the warmth and joy they have left with us…”
Warmth and joy? Alastar had his doubts, even as he could sense that some of the women had let the mourning scarves slip from their hair.
Then came the traditional closing hymn—“For the Glory.”
“For the glory, for the life,
for the beauty and the strife,
for all that is and ever shall be,
all together, through forever,
in eternal Nameless glory…”
As the last words of the closing hymn echoed through the anomen, Alastar straightened. “We need to speak to Iskhar.”
“You do,” said Alyna, with a warm but mischievous tone. “I’ll be close.”
Alastar moved toward the chorister, who stepped down from the dais to meet him. “A good service, Iskhar.”
“A better appreciation of those it honored, I think.”
Alastar laughed softly. “Now that we’ve congratulated each other, do you think it helped those who suffered and those who worry about what might happen in the days to come?” What he couldn’t ask was why he’d been forced to sacrifice nine lives for the sake of the others.
“Recognizing the worth of those who die always helps. It never helps enough.”
With that, Alastar could agree. “Thank you. I’ll see you again this evening.”
“You need two services today, Maitre?”
“Two might help.” Alastar managed a rueful smile before turning and rejoining Alyna.
By the time the two reached the doors of the anomen only a few people remained, none of whom Alastar immediately recognized, and none of whom even paid him more than a passing glance. He did pick up a few fragments of conversations.
“… leastwise … sounded like he meant it…”
“… supposed to … part of being Maitre…”
“… don’t understand … army killed Albyrt … and … does nothing…”
Did nothing? Alastar managed not to smile bitterly. More than a hundred troopers dead, possibly even two hundred or more, a dead rex, a dead High Holder, and a dead marshal, and he’d done nothing?
“You spoke well,” said Alyna once they were walking toward the Maitre’s dwelling.
“I tried to say what was necessary.”
“Without saying too much,” she added.
He shook his head. “I tried to mitigate the damage—and, if people had listened, just listened, there would likely only have been three deaths, instead of nine. Almost no one’s thinking about how many people died elsewhere.”
“Does that bother you?”
“People are like that. But yes, it bothers me. It bothers me that so few understand that the Collegium has done so little over the past few years—”
“You’re being kind. It’s been longer than that here in L’Excelsis. You mentioned what imagers do in Westisle, but until you had us repair the sewers, I can’t think of a single thing t
he Collegium did outside Imagisle.”
“We’ll have to do more. Oh … I forgot to mention that Rex Lorien wants us to finish the avenue after we rebuild the Collegium … and that he’s having a public memorial service for his father next Samedi.”
“That’s necessary, but I’d be surprised to see many tears.”
“Will there be that many people there?”
“High Holders won’t attend, except for any who are ministers, and factors who sell to the Chateau D’Rex will attend … and many others.” A rueful smile crossed her lips.
“There’s a reason for that, I take it?”
“The family will strew coppers and silvers in his memory.”
“I wonder if that was why Lorien asked…”
“About the new avenue?” she said. “I wouldn’t be surprised. I imagine he said he wanted it done, and you said it would be after the rebuilding.”
“It did go something like that,” admitted Alastar. “Have you discovered anything about Bettaur?”
“I haven’t had an opportunity to talk to Seliora yet, not in a way that would be conducive to finding out what…” Alyna shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s that I’d rather not bring up the questions when Orlana, Linzya, or Dorya are around, and if I ask Seliora for a moment, the other girls will be on her to find out what I wanted.”
“Because some of them are sweet on Bettaur?”
“How about all of them except Seliora,” replied Alyna.
“That’s another problem, then.”
“From what I can tell, he’s been on his best behavior with all of them … or almost best behavior. He can be witty and charming.”
“I’m well aware of that. It’s part of what’s gotten him in trouble.” Alastar frowned. “Has Tiranya had trouble because she insisted on Bettaur behaving?”
“No. She handled it so quietly that it’s created another problem.”
“Oh?” That seemed like the safest response to Alastar.
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