Imager's Challenge

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “Yes, sir.”

  In less than half a quint, I was back in the conference room, trying to puzzle out what lay behind what had just occurred. I still had a long and, hopefully, boring day as duty master.

  After the remainder of Solayi that was indeed quietly and comfortingly long and boring, I had managed to determine, at least in my mind, much of what must have occurred, although it would likely be weeks before the events that would confirm, or disprove, what I thought I had worked out. I was still exhausted when I finally went to bed, and my sleep was thankfully dreamless.

  For all that, when I woke, my thoughts were of Rousel. Matters seemed to be working out for me—or I had managed to work them out. Yet in a way, Rousel had been the one to pay for them. Because of his death, so had my parents, and Khethila, and even Culthyn. I’d always feel that loss . . . and the lesson that came with it, one that Dichartyn had hammered at me from the beginning, but which I hadn’t felt. Everyone around a powerful imager paid when the imager failed to see or to anticipate what he should have. The costs fell, I was beginning to see, most heavily on those closest and those who could not protect themselves. That was why there were security and covert imagers, not so much to resolve problems, but to stop them before they became too large and the consequences too great.

  Inadvertently, I had just provided an object lesson to High Holders, one that I had no doubts Maitre Poincaryt would ensure that they understood. Yet, few except High Holders would ever know of that lesson, and that was because of something else that had become apparent to me, but well understood by Maitre Poincaryt and Maitre Dichartyn. Given human nature, every large catastrophe or event with adverse consequences that could be attributed to someone or some human creation would be, and that attribution would provoke a reaction, and the reaction would provoke yet another. Sometimes, if rarely, public attribution was salutatory. Sometimes it was necessary. Usually, it just led to demands for action and revenge, which led to more demands and actions.

  I noted those thoughts as I dressed to head out for exercise and running. The cold shower didn’t feel all that bad when I returned, and I was feeling less depressed after I dressed and walked across the quadrangle to the dining hall.

  “Rhenn, how was your weekend?” asked Ferlyn as I settled down to eat.

  “Long. I was duty master yesterday. Oh, I did finish the portrait of Master Rholyn, and it’s being framed. I don’t know where Maitre Poincaryt will hang it, though.”

  “How do you think things will go with the Civic Patrol after that Temple explosion?”

  “I imagine they’ll settle down. Most people just want to get on with their lives.” I helped myself to two of the fried flatcakes and dowsed them with berry syrup.

  “What will they do with you?”

  “Whatever Maitre Poincaryt and the Civic Patrol decide, they’ll let me know in a few days. It just could be that they’ll want me to stay with the Patrol and be more circumspect. We’ll have to see.”

  “You don’t seem that worried.”

  “It won’t do any good. Not now.” I laughed. “I should have worried when Master Dichartyn asked if I wanted to be a covert imager.”

  From beside Ferlyn, Maitre Dyana offered a slight nod and a smile.

  After breakfast, given all that had happened, I did use a duty coach to take me out to NordEste Design for one last important action, something that I felt had been assumed, but never formalized, and in some matters, formality was absolutely necessary. So I stood outside the private door at just past seventh glass. I clearly wasn’t expected, because I had to bang the brass knocker several times.

  Finally, the door eased open, and Seliora stood there. She looked less than pleased, although some of the irritation faded as she recognized me. “Rhenn! What are you doing here? Aren’t you working?”

  “You might say that my duties have been temporarily suspended. A few more things have happened, and we do need to talk.” I tried to keep my face formal.

  “How bad . . .” She stopped. “It can’t be that bad if you’re here.”

  “That depends on how one defines ‘bad.’ Might I come in?”

  “Oh . . . yes.” She paused, then stepped back. “This is a working day, you know?”

  “I know. That’s why I’m here early.” I stepped into the foyer, closing the door and turning to her.

  “What is it?”

  I thought I caught a trace of humor behind the question, but I wasn’t quite certain. “To begin with, Madame D’Rhennthyl-to-be, assuming you agree, you see before you a Civic Patrol captain and Maitre D’Structure.”

  For a moment, Seliora looked absolutely stunned. “A Patrol captain and a Maitre D’Structure?”

  “Apparently, I’ve made it impossible for anyone else to be Patrol captain in Third District, and my imager abilities merit an advancement, and that advancement entitles me—if I am married—to one of the larger quarters for families on Imagisle.”

  She still kept looking at me.

  “So I would like to ask you, and your parents, formally, for your hand. I haven’t actually done that.” I paused. “We can’t announce it to anyone else until Ryel’s successor is confirmed, but I’ve been told that will occur within the next month or two. That will allow quiet planning for a suitable and proper Pharsi wedding.”

  At that, her arms did go around me.

  This time, we held on to each other for a very long time.

  EPILOGUE

  In the fading twilight, I glanced out the coach window at the snow and ice alongside the road. It was cold enough and the paving stones clear enough that the hoofs of the two chestnuts were throwing little or no mud against the polished body of the coach. Mother had insisted that Charlsyn drive us, and that the coach be spotless, winter or no winter.

  My eyes went to the hand-calligraphed invitation I held again. Seliora looked over at it from where she sat beside me, attired in another formal outfit of shimmering black and red, and I turned it for her to see, not that we both hadn’t perused it more than a few times.

  YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUESTED

  AT THE WEDDING OF

  IRYELA D’ALTE

  AND RYEL [KANDRYL D’SUYRIEN-ALTE] D’ALTE

  RYEL ESTATE, L’EXCELSIS,

  THE TWENTY-FIRST OF IANUS

  AT HALF PAST SIXTH GLASS.

  “I still say that’s a rather odd way of describing her husband-to-be,” said Seliora.

  “It’s the only possible way. She cannot keep the holding without marrying another High Holder, and whoever she weds must take the holding name.”

  “So he can’t be Suyrien’s heir?”

  “He could be, if he were the oldest, but he’s the younger son. But it does resolve any inheritance problems for the High Councilor. In fact, his younger son may end up with more than his own heir—and sooner.”

  “Rhenn . . . was this all Ryel’s doing?”

  I shook my head. “No. Much of it was Iryela’s. She played her father, her brothers, and me in order to gain the freedom and power she felt she should have had through her abilities. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t looking for a possible tool when she asked me to dance with her back at the Harvest Ball.”

  For a long moment, there was silence. Finally, she looked into my eyes. “How long have you known?”

  “I had wondered, but when the invitation arrived, I knew.”

  Seliora waited for me to explain.

  “At the Autumn Ball, she had just danced with Kandryl when I asked her to dance. She revealed more than she should have about Ryel’s, Dulyk’s, and Alynat’s activities, but that could have been resentment and knowing that I was someone who could never really tell anyone in a way that could hurt her—except what she said about Kandryl. She said that he was very sweet and had a very redeeming quality. I asked her if that quality was being willing to accede to her wishes and desires, and she replied by saying that he was sweet.”

  “She plotted it all out, then, possibly even pushing her father
to seek revenge on you for blinding Johanyr and knowing that you would destroy Alynat, Ryel, and Dulyk.”

  “I doubt she had to push her father too much.” Not with the arrogance I’d seen in Ryel.

  “And you . . . how can you? After everything?” Seliora shook her head, even her whole body. “I cannot imagine . . .”

  “I disagree. You can imagine. She is smarter, more beautiful, more talented, and, despite her horrible plotting, more evenhanded than any of the men in the family. I met them all, if in passing in some instances, and not a one of them had a single redeeming quality. She did not wish to be married off and minimalized . . . or suffer a fatal accident if she could not be married off. Exactly what were her options, given her position?”

  “And we’re going to her wedding? You’re going to her wedding?”

  “What are our options if we wish to end the game?” And it had been a game, a deadly game. I could have claimed I’d been a player, but I’d been played, as had Master Dichartyn and the Collegium. The only two real players had been Grandmama Diestra and Iryela, and in a sense, both had won, although Iryela had lost far, far more than she realized. I had the feeling that Maitre Poincaryt might have understood some of it, at the end. He had certainly taken the opportunity to play me against the High Holders.

  Seliora nodded, as I knew she would. “I can’t say that I like it.”

  “Nor do I, but we don’t deal the plaques. At best, we can but play what we have.”

  Charlsyn slowed the coach, then guided it through the massive ironwork gates, calling out, “Master Imager Rennthyl and Mistress Seliora D’Shelim.”

  He eased the coach up the well-swept stones of the driveway and under the portico. There, a footman in black and silver stepped forward to open the coach door and to extend a hand to Seliora.

  When I stepped out in my black formal wear with poison testing strips inside my jacket and joined Seliora, I saw a black and silver coach stationed on the far side of the circle. At that moment, I recalled where I had seen that coach before—when I had first come to Imagisle and had watched an imager met coolly by a blond beauty. That had been Iryela meeting Johanyr, and now I understood the coolness I had seen.

  We had taken but three or four steps into the entry when an older man, wearing a black velvet jacket with silver piping over a silver shirt and black trousers, stepped forward, inclining his head deeply. “Master Rhennthyl, Mistress Seliora, if you please, Mistress Iryela would like a word with you both before the ceremony.”

  We nodded, and followed him down a side corridor. I did continue to maintain full shields over both of us. Nothing was settled until it was settled.

  He stopped at the door at the end of the side corridor. “Master Rhennthyl and Mistress Seliora.”

  “Have them enter.”

  The functionary opened the door and gestured for us to go in.

  The chamber was a sitting room, decorated in pale blues and silvers. Iryela turned from where she stood before a full-length mirror. She wore a silver gown, but one trimmed at the hem in thin lines of blue and green, and her bride’s vest was a silvered green.

  For a moment, I was most conscious of standing between two beauties—one dark and one fair—and both dangerous, if in differing ways.

  Iryela stepped forward, and then inclined her head first, a complete breach of High Holder etiquette. “Master Rhennthyl, I am pleased that you are here, and I trust that your acceptance of the invitation signifies what I hope will be a long and close relationship between our families. I would not wish ever for my family to incur your displeasure.”

  I inclined my head to her, then looked directly into the hard depths of those blue eyes. “My lady Ryel—and you merit that honor on your own, regardless of custom—we will treasure that friendship, and I would that it had not cost all so very dearly. Even so, or especially so, you have my greatest respect, as well as my friendship.”

  Her smile was unforced, yet gentle, so much like the sun struggling from behind clouds after a spring shower. Even so, I sensed the cold steel behind that unfamiliar warmth. “You have acted with restraint and honor, and you are always welcome.” There was the faintest emphasis to the word “always.” Iryela’s eyes turned to Seliora. “You also played a part in this, I know, equally honorable, and you and your family also have my respect, and I would wish you for a friend and a sister.”

  The last words did surprise me, yet they did not seem to surprise Seliora.

  Seliora returned the smile. “I would be honored to be either, or both, as you wish.”

  “I would like both . . . very, very much.” Her smile actually appeared nervous. “Thank you both so much for being here.”

  “We’re pleased to be here.”

  “Fahyl will escort you to your place in the family anomen.”

  Seliora and I both inclined our heads, then turned and left.

  Back in the corridor, Fahyl bowed again, then said, “If you would . . .”

  We followed him to the family anomen—at the end of the north wing of the chateau on the main level—a space larger than some public ones used by worshippers of the Nameless. While the anomen was without ornamentation, as were they all, the stonework of the walls was precise and perfect, and the joins in the polished floor tiles were nearly indistinguishable.

  Fahyl led us to the front of the anomen, just a few yards back from the low stone dais, and had us stand on the left side, exactly in line with High Councilor Suyrien and his wife, who stood on the right. “Once the ceremony is over,” Fahyl said, “the guests leave in order and process to the grand salon, where they are announced. You will be the last to leave, and the last to be introduced in the grand salon, before the bride and groom.”

  I didn’t say anything, nor did Seliora, but I was more than a little surprised. Iryela was definitely making a statement, not only to me, but to every High Holder present.

  As we stood there, waiting, Seliora murmured, “She has no one to trust, does she?”

  “Not now, certainly among the High Holders, and possibly not ever.” I paused. “Except us.”

  “She’s not quite like I thought,” Seliora said in a low voice.

  “No,” I replied gently. In many ways, Seliora and Iryela were indeed alike, but there was no need to say that, none at all.

  We stood in the stillness of the anomen, while others filed in behind us, and I held full shields. In time, the organ at the back of the anomen shifted from the quiet background to what sounded more like a cross between a waltz and a march, and a pair of viols joined in.

  Kandryl appeared first, accompanied by his brother, but while Kandryl wore the black and silver of Ryel, with a green vest of the same silvered sheen as Iryela’s, his brother wore the crimson and silver of Suyrien. They stopped short of the low dais where the silver-haired chorister in his green vestments waited behind the arched canopy of flowers. In Ianus, the fresh flowers were a statement of wealth and power.

  Then came Iryela, unaccompanied. She stepped up beside Kandryl.

  The chorister smiled at the couple, then began to speak. “We are gathered here today in celebration of the decision of a man and a woman to join their lives as one. The name of a union between a man and a woman is not important, nor should anyone claim such, for the name should never overshadow the union itself. Iryela and Kandryl have chosen each other as partners in life and in love, and we are here to witness the affirmation of that choice. . . .”

  From there the ceremony went exactly as any other I’d witnessed, down to the final charge.

  “From two have come one, and yet that unity shall enable each of you to live more joyfully, more fully, and more in harmony with that which was, is, and ever shall be.”

  The chorister stepped back, and Iryela and Kandryl exchanged a chaste kiss under the flowered canopy, before turning and facing those in the anomen. From Kandryl’s side, a small girl, possibly the daughter of his brother, stepped forward and handed the small green basket of flower petals to Kandryl, who
held it while Iryela scooped out a handful and cast them forward and skyward. Then she took the basket, and he scattered his handful.

  They both smiled and walked, arm in arm, from the anomen.

  As instructed, we were the last to leave, just behind High Councilor Suyrien and Madame D’Suyrien, and we followed them at a stately pace, along the main corridor of the north wing and back along the main corridor of the south wing, until we came to a halt a good ten yards from a set of double doors that presumably opened into the grand salon.

  Ten other couples stood before us, and I could hear each set of guests being announced.

  Finally, after the High Councilor, we stepped up to the archway.

  Fahyl cleared his throat and then announced, “Rhennthyl D’Imagisle, Maitre D’Structure and captain of the Civic Patrol, and Mistress Seliora D’Shelim.”

  A footman escorted us into the long chamber with the high vaulted ceiling, and I could sense more than a few eyes turning in our direction as we entered the grand salon, filled with close to twenty circular tables, each seating six.

  According to protocol, we should have been at one of the tables far from the bride’s table. We weren’t. We were seated at her table, across from High Councilor Suyrien and his wife, and the empty two places showed that I was seated immediately to Iryela’s left.

  None of Iryela’s family was present, although her mother and the half-blind Johanyr were the only survivors of her immediate family. Their absence, and that of any other relations, underscored just how much Iryela’s determination had cost her. Yet I recalled, too, the morning I had been required to execute the wife of a High Holder because she had been unable to escape and had murdered her abusive husband, and I could understand how far desperation could take one. Understand . . . and accept. In time, I might forgive.