L. Modesitt - Imager's challenge

“I felt like ice.”

“Can you walk? Grandmama is waiting in the plaques room across the hall. I’ll get Mama.”

“I’m tired, but I’ll be all right.”

Still, Seliora stood right beside me as I got up, but I wasn’t nearly as unsteady as I’d been on the endless walk from beneath the fallen tower to the mare. She didn’t have to summon her mother. Betara was already in the plaques room, quietly talking to Diestra. Both stopped and watched as we entered.

“You’re feeling better?” asked Betara.

“He couldn’t have felt much worse,” Seliora said dryly. “The lager helped a great deal.”

The four of us sat around the plaques table. I waited.

“We have been worried,” Grandmama Diestra said, absently shuffling the plaques with a dexterity I envied, and that bespoke long familiarity with plaques. “Seliora and Betara should have told you that we . . . arranged for friends to watch your family and Seliora at all times. What they have not told you is that there were three assassins waiting outside the anomen after the services for your brother. They disposed of two, but did not know about the third because he was concealed atop a water tower on a nearby building. They saw him fire, then topple over. When they reached his body, his face was swollen and disfigured. He had a look of horror frozen there.” She looked to me. “That was your doing?”

“Yes. I had shields around Seliora, and my father, mother, sister, and brother. When the bullets struck, I tried to image caustic back at the shooter. The shots stopped, but I didn’t know whether the shooter had run off or whether I’d been successful.”

“Now . . . you know,” Diestra said. “Our friends took care of the bodies. That makes some nine in all this week. Since all were bravos for hire, that is likely to make your duties with the Patrol somewhat less risky. Or the duties of some patrollers less dangerous, and the innocents of L’Excelsis subject to less killing.”

“How much longer will this go on?” asked Betara.

“It should be over, although there might be a bravo or two who doesn’t get the word for a day or so. Ryel, his son, and his nephew are all dead. I brought down his tower around him. Several other High Holders perished as well. I hope none were your clients.”

“Even if they were, we’ll survive.” Betara’s voice was sardonic.

“Those who celebrate with the Namer fall with him,” added Diestra.

I had to admit that I had little sympathy or remorse for any High Holders who had fawned over Ryel, especially when all knew just how cruel and ruthless he was. Claiming innocence while courting evil was false righteousness.

“The only possible heir is Ryel’s daughter,” I concluded, “and since there are no males left, that means that we have prevailed, at least, according to tradition.”

“ ‘We’?” asked Diestra.

“I’m an imager, ladies, but I have limits, and without your help, I would not have prevailed. Without Seliora, I would have died the first time I was shot. Without you and your friends, I would have no family at all left.” I paused. “We. Not me.”

Both Betara and Diestra nodded.

In the silence, I turned to Seliora. “By the way, how did you know I’d need a spyglass?”

“She didn’t,” replied Grandmama Diestra. “I did. I saw you in the middle of a swirl of ice with a spyglass.”

I couldn’t help but wonder what else she had seen.

“Did you plan all this?” I asked her. “Did you know from the beginning?”

“Only that you would be the king of stags, so to speak, and meant for the daughter of the moon. Beyond that?” She shook her head. “No. Even the best plaques player does not control how the plaques fall, only how to play them.” She paused. “And there is always the chance that others may play better or unpredictably.”

King of stags? If I’d thought of myself in terms of plaques, I’d have imagined myself more as the knight of crowns, because knights always served others. That triggered another thought. “It is amusing,” I found myself saying quietly, “that both the heirs out of this are women.”

No one said anything.

“I’m an imager, and the only thing I can pass on is whatever I’ve made as an imager. I cannot inherit anything from my parents. Once Seliora and I are married, if she and you will still have me, she can pass anything to our children.” I smiled. “But then, isn’t the Pharsi tradition to pass everything through the daughters?”

Betara and Diestra exchanged glances, then laughed.

In the end, I didn’t remain long, much as I would have preferred to, but my eyes kept closing, and Seliora sent me off in a hack that Bhenyt had hailed for me.

Getting out of my clothes in my own quarters was a chore, and I collapsed into bed.

Exhausted as I was, I didn’t dream on Samedi night, but on Solayi morning I still had to get up early as duty master. The numbness in my back and legs had passed, replaced by bruises and soreness. I could raise shields, but before long my head began to ache. So I went shieldless to the shower, so to speak, then returned to don another set of warm grays.

After breakfast, eaten early and alone, I made my way to the administrative building where, after telling the duty prime where I’d be, I settled into the conference room off the receiving hall, trying to gather a greater sense of how I should handle the repercussions from Samedi and hoping for a quiet day, while knowing that it was not likely to be so.

The one chilling thing that struck me as I sat there was that I felt no remorse or sadness for the deaths of Ryel, Dulyk, and Alynat. Had I become just like Master Dichartyn? Or was it that they had caused so many-not just me and my family, but countless others-so much loss and pain that any remorse would have been hypocritical? Or was any remorse I might have felt outweighed by my anger at having been forced into a situation where I had been left no choice at all if I and my family wanted to survive? Or was I still numb from all that had happened?

I wasn’t certain that I knew. Maybe I never would.

Sometime just after ninth glass, Master Dichartyn peered in. His face was stern. “You’ll be here for the next glass?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Then he was gone, striding down the corridor.

Less than a quint later, he returned, striding into the conference room, closing the door, and dropping into the chair nearest me.

“You know why I’m here.”

“I prefer not to guess, if you don’t mind.”

“Let me begin another way.” He sighed. “Chassendri mentioned to me that you looked absolutely shocked when she suggested that you were unpredictable. Why were you so surprised? It cannot have escaped your attention that we have often had to deal with unforeseen situations involving you.”

“I don’t see why any of them should have been unforeseen. I don’t believe in avoiding problems when they can be resolved. You instructed me that resolution was desirable in ways not calling public attention to the Collegium. That is what I have attempted to do.”

Dichartyn shook his head. “Maitre Poincaryt and I, as well as Maitre Schorzat, all understand that facet of your character. What was most unpredictable was not your desire to resolve matters, but the way in which you have repeatedly done so. High Councilor Suyrien sent an urgent messenger requesting that Maitre Poincaryt join him for dinner on Lundi night . . . I imagine you can guess the subject.”

“As I said before, sir, I’d rather not. I’ve had to guess at far too many things recently.”

“Then I will tell you. The terrace tower on High Holder Ryel’s estate collapsed suddenly yesterday during his annual fall foliage celebration. Besides his son, four other High Holders were killed. Interestingly enough, at about that same time half of Ryel’s gardens were destroyed by an unseasonable frost that struck only his estate and no other, and a sudden chill froze the stream beneath the gardens solid. The chill was so intense that it turned all the gardens to dust, and ice droplets rained from a cloudless sky.”