L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

Quaeryt was glad for the last two words she spoke, even as he knew she was right. He would have more than enough time without her to think over how people defined what was good and what was not. He smiled and lifted his beaker. “To your wisdom, to us, and to the evening.”

Vaelora raised her beaker as well, extending it so that it touched his with the faintest clink. “To us.”

They drank, eyes locked.

Quaeryt found himself once more in the saddle, looking out through the rain at the massed Bovarians as the horns began to sound. The mournful penetrating call shivered through his bones. As one the Bovarians began to advance toward the Telaryn forces on the low ridge south of the River Aluse, closing in from the north, the south, and even the west.

Quaeryt cleared his throat, extended his shields to encompass Desyrk and Shaelyt, then concentrated on imaging the bridge he visualized, with high slight arches to a central pier, a massive structure necessary for what must come.

Nothing happened, and the Bovarians kept advancing.

Could he do it again? Draw power from the warm rain, from the warmth of the Bovarian troopers and their mounts? From the river itself? Could he again slaughter tens of thousands?

Yet if he did not …

He reached out for that warmth-and from everywhere came lances of pain, strikes like cold lightning. Overhead, the clouds darkened into masses blacker than a moonless night without even the thinnest crescent of either Erion or Artiema, and liquid ice poured down like sheets in an arc around him, slashing through his shields as if they did not exist, sucking all the warmth within him away.

From somewhere came a mocking whisper. “Should you not suffer what you wrought?”

He wanted to protest that he hadn’t been the one who had begun the war, but the chill froze his tongue in his mouth. Brilliant lines of white ice-lightning flared through his skull, and the tears caused by that pain froze instantly on his cheeks. White fog billowed below him … and icy whiteness froze him into stillness. He struggled to escape, to move somehow, but he could not, chill as he was. He tried to blink, but failed, as if they were frozen open watching thousands freeze around him, even as ice built around him. Somewhere, he could hear rain, icy droplets … falling, coating him with yet more ice.

He shuddered, trying to escape the endless ice and chill.

Suddenly there was light all around him, light so bright he could hardly see, but he was cold, so cold he was shivering, even with all the sunlight.

Before he could say anything, Vaelora’s arms were around him. “It’s all right, dearest. It’s all right.”

Her words did not register with him, not for several moments, because they were in Bovarian. “What…?” he murmured, half mumbling because his lips were so cold they felt numb.

“It’s all right. I’m here. I’m right here.”

She’ll freeze, too. “… chill you … the way…”

“I’m warm enough. Just hold on to me. Talk to me. Tell me what happened.” With her arms wrapped around him, slowly the cold deep within him began to melt away.

Later, when they finally moved apart, at least enough for Vaelora to look at him, worry in her eyes, she asked, “What was it? The ice storm? You were so cold.” She swallowed. “The walls…”

“What is it?” Quaeryt could see the concern on her face.

“You started shivering in your sleep, and then there was frost. It was all over the walls.”

He glanced around the bedchamber.

“It’s all melted now.” She laughed uneasily. “It is full summer. But can’t you feel how cool everything is?”

Quaeryt managed not to shudder again. Did you image in your sleep? Enough to cause frost to form?

“Were you dreaming? About the ice storm you caused?”

He nodded. “It was worse than that. I was fighting the battle again, and I didn’t want to image and kill thousands again, but they kept coming … and coming.” He shuddered in spite of himself.

“What you’ve been doing with the regiment isn’t the only reason you’re tired, is it?”

“No…” he admitted warily.

“Tell me about it. All about it.” Her words, gently as they were spoken, were not a request.

“This wasn’t the first time. I dream about getting caught in the rain, being frozen in place, along with the … thousands of others … the Bovarians … some of ours … I try to escape … but I can’t.” He finally shook his head. “I struggle with the ice until I wake up.”

“Does where you sleep feel cold to you when you finally wake up?”

“How could I tell? I always wake up cold and shivering, no matter how hot it was the night before.” After a moment he added, “I never saw frost … but I never looked for it, either.”

Vaelora offered a smile.

Quaeryt suspected she’d forced the expression, but he smiled back.

“You do make the bedchamber more comfortable in summer,” she said quickly. “It was rather warm … until…”

He looked at her, pale in the morning light. “How long have you been awake?”

“A glass, I’d guess. You were so tired, and I didn’t want to wake you, then…”

“You’re hungry, enough to feel faint, aren’t you?”

“That seems to be happening more, now that…”

Quaeryt sat up in the wide bed. “We need to get you something to eat.”

“You’re not doing much better than I am.”

Quaeryt laughed. “Then we need breakfast.” As he put his feet on the floor a moment of light-headedness swept over him, suggesting he had indeed been imaging as he dreamed. How had that happened? He managed not to frown, not wanting to worry Vaelora any more than he already had.

They washed and dressed quickly. Even so, by the time they reached the terrace, the hold house servers had moved the table closer to the study so that it still rested in the morning shadows. Tea and lager were waiting for them, and two platters appeared almost immediately, with biscuits, omelets, and strips of fried ham.

Neither said much until they had each eaten several mouthfuls. Then Quaeryt looked to his wife and said, “ We were hungry.”

“ We were.” Her words and smile warmed him through, if in a different way. “All three of us.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“Much. You?”

He nodded, since he’d taken another mouthful of the omelet. Then he had a swallow of the lager … and more omelet, and bread with berry preserves.

“I’ve been thinking,” Vaelora said carefully. “Do you remember the story the old Pharsi woman told us in Extela, after you rescued her from the mob?”

Quaeryt glanced toward the serving woman who stood on the terrace beside the study door.

“They don’t speak Bovarian well, remember,” murmured Vaelora, “only the common terms spoken slowly.”

Quaeryt nodded, then replied, “You noticed the old woman. I just followed your suggestion. You really rescued her.”

“All right. After we rescued her.”

“I remember. The story was about four Pharsi, three men and a woman. The woman and her distant cousin who was courting her were lost ones. The brothers were seeking easy fortune.”

“Do you remember the refrain of the young woman?”

“‘Do not argue over what is not and may never be,’ or something like that.”

“Dearest … what sort of story was it?”

“It was a parable. The two brothers kept finding things and wanting more and arguing over what they’d found until they lost everything because of their quarrels.” Quaeryt grinned. “The only one with any sense was the woman.”

“Not quite. The cousin who was a lost one and, according to the old woman, looked like you, also had some sense.” She smiled sweetly. “He had enough sense to listen to her.”