L. Modesitt: Imager’s Battalion

“I’m certain he was earnest about that.”

“We can talk about him later. I want to know about you.”

Quaeryt glanced to the side of the terrace where the two servers stood, then back to Vaelora.

She nodded in understanding. “Just what happened, although they may not speak Bovarian that well.”

“The ice came down in sheets. Most of it covered the Bovarians. Bhayar said that we lost almost a battalion. They lost close to eight regiments. It was truly awful.” He paused. “Yet … we were so evenly matched that … without the storm … we both might have lost even more.” He shook his head.

“What about you? When I heard … That was why I rode from first light into the night every day.”

“I was caught close to the ice. They told me I didn’t wake for three days, and they weren’t sure I would. They piled quilts over me…” He shook his head wryly. “I finally woke up sweating.”

“You did too much.”

“Anything less wouldn’t have worked.” His eyes again flicked toward the serving women.

“You can tell me more … later.” Vaelora took a last swallow from her beaker. As she set it down, her eyes met his again.

Quaeryt blushed.

“Would you mind … dearest … if I bathed?”

“Of course not.”

“You could … keep me company…” Her smile and eyes were more than inviting as she glanced to the upper levels of the hold house and then back to Quaeryt.

As he rose and guided her from her chair, Quaeryt doubted he would recall what he ate.

Later-much later, in the orangish glow of twilight-Vaelora sat up in the ancient goldenwood bed. “You’re looking at me as if you’ve never seen me this way before.”

I haven’t … not exactly like this … not understanding what I might have lost. “I told you. I missed you. There were times when I didn’t know if I’d see you again.”

“You got my letters?”

“I got the note you left in my saddlebag, and the one you wrote about the warm rain … that was what made it all possible. I don’t know that I would have thought it out without your letter.”

“I’m glad. I think you would have, but I wanted to make sure … or try to.” After a moment she went on. “I told you that Bhayar did not wish to delay my reaching you. After seeing your bruises and … everything … I can see why.” She reached out and let her fingers run down the side of his face, along his jawline, before leaning forward and kissing him. Then she straightened, slightly disentangling herself from his arms. “I’m not going anywhere. Nor are you. Not in the next few days, anyway.”

Quaeryt couldn’t help but frown. “He told you that?”

“He told me more than that. He was proud of what you did. He won’t tell you.” She paused. “How did you do it?”

“I told you-”

“Dearest … it had to be more than warm rain, did it not?”

“It was mostly warm rain…” He paused, yet … who else could he tell? “Imaging takes heat … or something like it. Everyone thinks that the rain froze the Bovarians.” He shook his head slowly. “I’m not certain, but I think the imaging froze them first, and the ice rain coated them afterward.”

“The imaging … it sucked the warmth out of them?”

He nodded. “I fear so.”

“Have you told Bhayar?”

“I’ve told no one but you.”

“Good. Never tell anyone else.”

“I dare not tell Bhayar. Not the way he is playing us both.”

“Of course he is. What else would you expect? You’ve proved to be a great weapon, and you love me, and I love you. He’ll use both of us to become the ruler of all Lydar … or destroy us all in trying.”

Quaeryt was still astounded at the matter-of-fact way in which she regarded her brother and how she could balance sisterly affection with cold calculation in assessing Bhayar. Then again, it could just be that women are better at that than men. Quaeryt didn’t know. He only knew that Vaelora was adept at seeing the undercurrents between people, but he’d never really known another woman, except in a casual sense, and he’d never talked as honestly to anyone as he did to her. “I don’t see destroying him, first or later, as a good idea, either.”

“No, someone has to unite Lydar, and we’ll all be better off under him … especially with you at his side.”

“That’s not exactly a foregone conclusion,” Quaeryt pointed out.

“It’s anything but,” Vaelora replied, “except the alternatives would be less happy for both of us.”

Quaeryt nodded slowly. History indicated that the relatives of unsuccessful conquerors seldom survived, and an imager who served such a ruler certainly wouldn’t-unless they fled in obscurity, and that wasn’t a path Quaeryt wanted to take … and doubted Vaelora did, either.

He laughed, not quite bitterly. “That appears to be settled.”

“There’s another complication, dearest.” Vaelora smiled.

“Complication?”

“It’s early … but women in our family know almost immediately.”

Women in your family? Quaeryt swallowed. “You’re not…”

She nodded. “I feel that she’ll be a girl.”

“Does Bhayar know?”

“No. And he won’t, not until long after you and he leave Ferravyl.”

Quaeryt didn’t know what to say.

“I … decided … on those last days in Tresrives. I knew you’d be safe. But … I still couldn’t let you go … not without … I just couldn’t.” Her eyes were bright.

Quaeryt leaned forward and folded his arms around her. “I love you. I love you both…” He could feel his own eyes tearing up.

As Quaeryt and Vaelora finished breakfast on Meredi, a meal taken somewhat later than was usual for them, Quaeryt lifted the small volume. “This is the book I was telling you about.”

“The one about Rholan?”

He nodded as he handed it to her, after opening it to the title page, which held only the title Rholan and the Nameless and the words “Cloisonyt, Tela.”

“The title is ironic, you know?” observed Vaelora, taking the small volume.

“More like a double meaning.” He paused, then rose from the table on the terrace and walked to stand at her shoulder. “There’s one page I thought you might find especially interesting. That’s where I put the bookmark.” He watched as she turned to the marked page, reading over her shoulder as she scanned the text.

Rholan spoke at many times and in many places about the vanity of attempting to achieve greatness, most notably at Gahenyara before his last trip to Cloisonyt, but it is interesting to note that he never spoke of the cost of actually accomplishing great deeds …

“He spoke in Gahenyara? There are no family stories about him, and you’d think there would be,” mused Vaelora.

“Read on,” suggested Quaeryt.

Many have suggested that Rholan was a giant of a man, a great warrior, with shoulders a yard across and thews like the trunk of an oak, green-eyed and black-haired with a full black beard, others that he was small and slender, almost frail, with fine red hair and piercing blue eyes. Neither description is accurate. In his prime, he was a man slightly larger than most other men, but by no more than a few digits in height. His eyes were black and his hair white-blond, and his left arm was shorter than his right, and crooked, as a result of breaking it while trying to chop down a young oak tree as a youth …

“A lost one?” asked Vaelora.

“The author never says … not in what I’ve read so far, anyway.”

“And you haven’t read it all while you were waiting for me?” teased Vaelora. “You just pined for me?”

“I did indeed pine for you, as you should be able to tell…”