L. Modesitt Jr. - Princeps

“Were we ever like that?” Emra looked to Straesyr.

“In our own way, yes.”

“I suppose we were. Time does pass…” Emra paused. “I did persuade the kitchen to provide us with specially roasted game fowl. I do hope you like game fowl.…”

“Indeed,” said Quaeryt, almost simultaneously with Vaelora’s “Of course.”

Their eyes met, momentarily, and they smiled.

Quaeryt understood both the warmth and the sadness in his wife’s brown eyes, and resolved to make the evening as cheerful as possible.

Quaeryt felt as though he might be exceeding the bounds of his office in using a squad to escort him and Vaelora to Tilbora early on Samedi morning … but the half-staff he had obtained as a replacement for the one lost in the last battle against the hill holders was scarcely adequate by itself against brigands, and explaining imaging would have also created problems and questions better left unraised. Besides, she was Bhayar’s sister, and had she not been married, or had she been married to someone else, and had she come to Tilbor, Straesyr certainly would have provided an escort.

Quaeryt was glad that the sun was out, and that there was no wind, so that the morning was almost pleasant, at least for winter in Tilbor. It was well before eighth glass, and both Artiema and Erion were still in the sky, although neither moon was close to being full, when they rode down the cold stone lane from the palace, with two rankers before them and the rest of the squad following, all of them riding far enough away from the couple so that they could talk privately-if they kept their voices low.

He turned in the saddle. “You were wonderful at dinner last night.”

“So were you.” She paused, then added, “It’s so sad. They love each other, but…”

“Even when they talk about the very same things, they’re not talking about the same things.”

“They know it, and he still loves her, and she still loves him.” Vaelora paused, and then looked straight at Quaeryt. “If I don’t understand … talk to me until I do.”

“I will.”

“Promise me.”

Quaeryt almost recoiled at the intensity behind those quietly spoken words. “I promise. I will. But you must do the same.”

“I already do.” She flashed a warm smile.

“I have a question. One I should have asked earlier.”

“Oh?”

“You take after your grandmere-”

“Yes, dearest.”

“I meant … about whether you see things as she did … visions?”

“I knew what you meant. I do … not often. She didn’t, either.”

“Did you see me?”

“Not exactly. But you looked familiar the very first time I saw you, in a strange way, and it wasn’t because of what Grandmere had told me. There was one … farsight … that later proved to be about us. I didn’t know that at the time. Years ago, I saw an image, as if I were there, and Bhayar and I were riding up a stone lane to a wall with gates. I didn’t know what it meant-until I saw it again.”

“The gates to the Telaryn Palace.”

She nodded. “There have been a few others, but none that have not already come to pass.”

“You’ll tell me if there are others?”

“I will. Now you tell me more about this seamstress.”

“I don’t know much more about her skill, except that she’d mentioned doing clothes for Tyrena. I only recall her first name. Syen. I was trying to talk to people in Tilbora about what happened just before and after your grandfather defeated the pretender. Most people wouldn’t talk to me, because I wore scholar browns. She was the one who told me why they wouldn’t. That was likely because her husband-I think it was her husband-tried to kill me…” He went on to explain about the link between Chardyn and the scholars who had run the scholarium and how they’d been tied to the rebels, including how Chardyn had tried to kill him.

“You used imaging to kill this Chardyn?”

“I had to. He would have killed me otherwise. That was what got me to thinking about doing other things with imaging, like the shields I told you about.”

“Do other imagers know how to do that?”

“Voltyr and Uhlyn didn’t. I don’t know any other imagers.”

“Few can do that, or all would know.”

Quaeryt had no doubts that Vaelora was right about that. “I wouldn’t, either, except I feared that if I didn’t try it, I wouldn’t survive what Rescalyn had in mind for me.”

“That is also farsight.”

“A different kind,” he replied with a laugh.

She smiled, but he had the feeling that she didn’t totally agree.

When they neared the harbor, Quaeryt was careful to direct the squad to approach the shop from the south to avoid the brothel on the street to the north. While the brothel doubtless had its windows closed and shuttered against the cold, there was no point in going that way, especially since they would not be using the stable situated beside the pleasure establishment.

Once outside the shop, in the row of buildings fronting the harbor, Quaeryt dismounted and handed the mare’s reins to the nearest ranker, then turned to offer help to Vaelora, but she already stood on the dirty snow beside her mount. He looked back to the squad leader. “Hernyn … we’ll try not to be long.”

“That’s not a problem, sir. It’s warm as winter days go.”

Unlike the last time he had been in the harbor area, all the doors were unshuttered, although most shop windows were at least partly shuttered against the cold, and the air held the acridness of burning wood … and perhaps coal. As when he had come the first time to Syen’s tiny shop, the single narrow window beside the door was shuttered, but the door was not, and it opened to his touch. He stepped through, holding his shields, recalling his last visit, when the seamstress’s husband had tried to kill him because he’d mistaken Quaeryt for a colleague of Chardyn. Vaelora followed him and closed the door.

Syen looked toward them from where she stood beside the frame shaped like a woman’s figure.

“This time, I definitely don’t have the wrong shop,” Quaeryt said.

“Greetings, Lady,” said Syen, looking to Vaelora, before turning to Quaeryt. “I thought I might see you again, scholar … or is it Princeps these days?”

“Both, I suppose. Syen, this is my wife, Vaelora. I don’t remember your surname.”

“Syen … Syen Yendradyr.” A faint smile crossed the lips of the trimly muscular woman who likely was not that much older than Quaeryt, despite the lines from the corners of her eyes and the streaks of gray in her short-cut hair.

“I’m pleased to meet you.” Vaelora’s husky voice was warm.

“And I, you.” Syen inclined her head, as she had not done with Quaeryt.

“Quaeryt has told me how helpful you were to him,” Vaelora added.

“As he was … later.”

“She needs a ball gown rather quickly,” said Quaeryt, not wishing to dwell on where that might lead.

Both women looked at Quaeryt.

He took a half step back, almost inadvertently.

“By two weeks from yesterday, if it is possible,” added Vaelora. “If not, I do understand.”

“Times are slow now.” A smile and what seemed a twinkle in her eyes followed. “And we do owe your husband for several matters.”

“I did what I thought was right,” Quaeryt said.

“So you did. Would that more did.” Syen turned her eyes back to Vaelora. “The sewing and the fitting can be done in the time you wish, even sooner, but the gown will have to be made from the fabrics that I can find here in Tilbora.”

“I understand.”

“I would think … perhaps silver gray and black? Or red and black?” Syen frowned. “Then again…”