L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

Jeudi morning was cooler, and thick clouds rolled out of the north. By late afternoon a cold deluge poured down, with no sign of letting up anytime soon. The regiments took what shelter they could, split between three hamlets each some five milles apart along the river. Quaeryt and Fifth Battalion made an encampment in the smallest hamlet, making do with several sheds, and a few tents and waterproofs used as slanted awnings.

Once he had inspected all the shelters, and checked once more with Zhelan and all the company officers, he went back and found Major Arion, where he had last seen him, standing by the doorway to a shed, looking out into the rain.

Although the Pharsi officer was the youngest of the Khellan majors, he was likely several years older than Quaeryt. “Sir?”

“Major Zhael mentioned the High Council. Khel was the only land in Lydar that was not governed by a hereditary ruler. How did the Council come to be? Do you know?”

Arion smiled. “I have heard the tales. Does anyone know how true they are?”

“Tales are better than ignorance. Tell me about the Council. Then tell me the tales. Besides, what else are we going to do right now?”

“Why do you wish to know?”

“There are many reasons. One is simply that it may be part of my heritage, and I know little about Khel, and nothing about the High Council.”

Arion looked out into the rain again, but began to speak. “Once, every city in Khel was governed by a clan, and the elders of the clan met and made decisions. Unlike Bovaria, many of the elders were women…”

From what he’d seen so far of Pharsi women, that scarcely surprised Quaeryt.

“But the cities and even the towns grew. There were soon two or three or four clans in a town, and some clans were of herders, and others of crafters, and still others of growers, and each clan wanted its needs to come first. So the elders in Khelgror, for it was the first, formed a council for the city and the lands around it, and each year, the head of a different clan headed the local council. Then came a time when one region felt its needs were more important than another. The head councilors of each region decided that they would form a council from all the chief councilors in Khel. Each year the councilor from a different region would head that council. They called it the High Council. The High Councils lasted longer than there has been a rex in Bovaria or a lord in Telaryn.” Arion shrugged, but did not look at Quaeryt.

“Weren’t there struggles in all that time?”

“There were arguments. Some of them lasted years. And there are stories. Some even say that the lost ones come from a clan in the western part of the Montagnes D’Glace, and that they were lost when they went to take up arms against those below the mountains. Erion threw a mountain from the sky and sealed the way from their valley. Only those wise enough to know when to use arms were able to leave the valley. The price for leaving was to bear the mark of Erion.”

“The mark of Erion?” prompted Quaeryt, suspecting all too well what Arion would say.

“You bear it, though you do not flaunt it. Hair almost as white as the ice, and a reminder that the worship of physical perfection is vanity.” An ironic smile crossed the major’s lips. “A form of Naming, if you will, for those who follow the Nameless.”

“You follow Erion and Artiema?” asked Quaeryt.

“I would say that we believe that they are manifestations of the one who cannot be named. Calling that one the Nameless is another way of Naming.”

Quaeryt nodded. “I’ve often pondered that.”

“That does not surprise me, Subcommander.” Arion paused. “Why did you turn the Bovarians over to the growers?”

“Because the Bovarian troopers destroyed the crops of those people. I thought they should decide.”

“What if they fear Rex Kharst so much that they release them?”

“That is their choice. To do otherwise would tell the local people that Lord Bhayar would merely be another ruler like Kharst.”

“How do you know he will not?”

“I think I know him well enough to say that he will not.”

“How well does he know you?”

“Well enough to allow his sister to wed me.”

Arion smiled softly. “He thinks to bind you. In the end, you will bind him because you cannot escape who you are. He is trapped, and he knows it not. He cannot conquer Lydar without you…”

“You give me far too much credit.”

The Pharsi officer shook his head. “You are a lost one, and the hand of Erion. If Lord Bhayar rejects or destroys you, he destroys himself. He may not know that, but it is so. Did not his sister seek you out?”

“She wrote me,” Quaeryt admitted. “How did you know that?”

“I saw her.” Arion smiled. “Actually, I heard she rode to find you when you had fallen, and I made certain I saw her. She did not see me. She has the sight.”

Quaeryt frowned. How can he know that?

“My grandmere had the sight, and there is a way, a certain … I cannot describe it, but your wife is the only woman beside my grandmere I have ever seen who is like that.” The major sighed softly. “Grandmere saw the Red Death. She warned the High Council against trade with Bovarian merchanters, but the coastal clans sought the Bovarian golds. Golds always speak louder than sight or wisdom.”

“I’ve seen that more than once.”

“That is good that you have. You will see it again … and again.”

“Then how does wisdom prevail?” countered Quaeryt.

“Only when those who are wise know when to use force and what force to use.”

Does it always come down to that? Brute force? Except … did it have to be brute force? Was there a way to apply force without the devastation of a battle such as that at Ferravyl?

He was still pondering that when he realized that Arion had slipped away, back into the gloom of the shed.

As Quaeryt stood in the dimness of a rainy twilight fading into a cold, wet, and dark night, he couldn’t help but wonder: For all your unbelief in the Nameless, in any deity, how can you know whether you chart your own course? And, for all your thought, whether it is truly the right course.

Quaeryt did not sleep well on Jeudi night, and not because of the damp and the crowded conditions in the shed he shared with others. The conversation with Major Arion had disturbed him more than he would have believed.

It wasn’t that Arion had predicted victory. He hadn’t. He’d as much as said that Bhayar would fail without Quaeryt, but that didn’t mean Bhayar would succeed, either. By implication, Arion’s words declared that Quaeryt was a tool and would not accomplish what he wanted by himself. Quaeryt had known that. It was the major’s preternatural knowing that had disconcerted Quaeryt. And yet, from the bearing and the reactions of the other two Khellan majors, it seemed clear to Quaeryt that Arion had not told them. Why not?

Quaeryt didn’t have an answer for that question. Nor did he feel comfortable asking Arion, although he could not have said why, and he didn’t want to press the matter until he could figure out the reason for his own unease.

While the skies were clearing on Vendrei morning, mud was everywhere, and getting the wagons on the road took an extra glass. The air was cooler than the day before, but Quaeryt had no doubts that by afternoon it would be even steamier than on Jeudi.

Because Fifth Battalion had no engineers and needed fewer supplies than a regiment, it had fewer wagons, and those wagons carried little beside spare sabres and food. Before long Quaeryt and Zhelan were at the head of the slow-moving column, behind the outriders and a vanguard of one company from Third Regiment. Quaeryt rode on one side of Skarpa, Zhelan on the other, with the imager undercaptains directly behind them.