Rex Regis

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  She shook her head.

  “You may leave the chamber and wait to hear what we decide.”

  Both Basalyt and Baarlan rose and bowed, more to Vaelora than Quaeryt, and left the chamber. So, after a nod from Quaeryt, did Khalis and Lhandor.

  Once they were alone, Quaeryt turned to Vaelora. “What do you think?”

  “He’s sincere … or as sincere as any High Holder is likely to be. It wouldn’t hurt to keep one of the original High Holders. That would still leave four holdings that Bhayar could bestow. It would also show that he can be merciful … to some degree.”

  “I don’t like the idea of his retaining the holding. If he does, that’s a precedent—even in one out of five—that Bhayar may regret. What if we insist that the holding go to Barlaan, who can rely on his sire for advice? That way, no one can say that Bhayar can’t be merciful to a degree to the family. It would also make the point that Bhayar can remove individual High Holders and replace them with heirs who are more loyal.”

  “How do you explain that?” Vaelora glanced toward the closed door, then back to Quaeryt. “They took up arms.”

  “Barlaan didn’t fight against us. We don’t have to get into the reason why he didn’t, and Basalyt isn’t going to say anything, not if it means that the family loses everything.”

  The two talked for another quint before Quaeryt walked to the door and called, “Have Basalyt and Barlaan return!” Then he returned to the table and sat beside Vaelora as the undercaptains and two troopers returned, followed by the former High Holder and his son.

  Barlaan kept looking to Quaeryt, while Basalyt’s eyes were fixed on Vaelora.

  Vaelora waited until the chamber was absolutely still. “As empowered by Lord Bhayar we have heard your appeal. Our decision is this. You, Basalyt, former High Holder of Bartolan, may live out your days on the holding. You will not be High Holder. Ever. From this day forward, your son and heir, Barlaan, will be High Holder, and only his direct heirs may inherit the holding. If there is any failing to meet the obligations of a High Holder to Lord Bhayar, or those acting in his name, or if any deception has been practiced in presenting this appeal, the judgment will be revoked and the holding will revert to Lord Bhayar. So be it.”

  “Thank you, Lady and Commander,” replied Basalyt. “That is a just decision.”

  Let us hope it’s also a wise one, thought Quaeryt. “High Holder Barlaan, you may rebuild a hold house, but it may not have walls or moats or gates, or any form of fortification.”

  Barlaan nodded.

  Quaeryt thought he looked slightly stunned.

  Basalyt cleared his throat. “There is one thing you should know, Lady and Commander. Chaellonyt, the son of Chaelaet, has sworn vengeance against the submarshal who destroyed Laetor and slaughtered his father at Barna. He is Chaelaet’s surviving son, and he did not go to fight in Liantiago. He has claimed that nothing will stop him. I would not want it said that I knew something and did not reveal it.”

  “Did he say this to you?” asked Quaeryt.

  “No, sir. I heard this from his assistant steward. It was Loetnyn who told me. He is a most honest man, and I trust him. Loetnyn told me because he felt Chaelaet had treated us ill, and he did not wish more ill to fall on us.”

  “Is there anything else Lord Bhayar should know?” asked Vaelora.

  “Not that I know, Lady.” Basalyt inclined his head.

  Quaeryt and Vaelora exchanged glances.

  “Then this hearing is at an end,” she declared. “You may return to Bartolan. You will receive a written record of this judgment shortly, and a copy will also go to Lord Bhayar.”

  Neither Quaeryt nor Vaelora stood until the two men had left.

  Then they rose.

  “We’ll need to send a message to Skarpa with the other dispatches about this Chaellonyt,” said Quaeryt. “Someone who is that angry could be a real danger.”

  “It’s a good thing he has Voltyr and Threkhyl.”

  “I’d still be happier if Chaellonyt had died in one of the battles.”

  “You can’t do everything, dearest,” murmured Vaelora. “Nor do matters ever go as smoothly as we might wish.”

  “No … but…” Quaeryt shook his head. He had the feeling that he’d missed or forgotten something, but he honestly couldn’t think what it might have been.

  6

  “How are you feeling?” asked Quaeryt as he sat down on the simple chair beside the bed. Even with the sun seeping into the old fort in late afternoon on Jeudi, the light was dim.

  “I’m a little tired now, but that might be because of all the riding,” replied Vaelora from where she was sitting on the bed, propped up with pillows, and her feet up. She looked at Quaeryt. “We’re not going to leave tomorrow, are we?”

  “I’m thinking Samedi or Solayi, depending on how you’re doing tomorrow.”

  “I hate feeling weak.”

  “You’re not weak. You were wounded, just like any trooper. And you sound like most of them when they’re told they can’t return to duty yet.”

  Vaelora offered a mock-glare at Quaeryt.

  He grinned back at her.

  “You’re making fun of me,” she replied in a doleful voice.

  “I didn’t say a word.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  After several moments of silence, he asked, “What did you think about the meeting with the locals in Geusyn?”

  “They weren’t happy.”

  “I can’t blame them, but in time things will be much better.” Not that most people who’ve been devastated want to hear that.

  “Do you think some of the traders in Geusyn will take your advice and relocate to Kephria?”

  “Some will right now. Several have ordered lumber from the mills in the hills. The others will as soon as they see that Kephria is a better location. A factor from farther north, Ghaern, in fact, came to see me while you were resting. He’s already made plans to open a factorage here.” Quaeryt smiled ruefully. “It doesn’t hurt that Ghaern wasn’t burned to the ground by Aliaro’s imagers.”

  “The local traders and factors won’t like that.”

  “No … but I’ve talked things over with Zhael and Arion. You remember all the goods we removed from Laetor?”

  “The ones Khaern had stored in that abandoned shaft? You’re going to use them?”

  “There are two pieces we’re taking back to Bhayar—one is a Cloisonyt vase that’s worth close to a hundred golds—but I went over the goods with the majors and wrote out a listing of approximate worth. If they can get that worth, they can use the golds and silvers for provisions, and perhaps to offer a little help to some of the locals. Some of the silver was battered and not worth much more than the metal. I had Khalis and Lhandor image it into silvers that the majors can use immediately. I also left them thirty golds out of what Skarpa sent with me.”

  “You’ve been busy.”

  “I’ve tried to foresee what they’ll need. I’ve kept the imagers very busy. It does maintain their skills and strength.”

  “You’ve been imaging a fair amount, too. Beyond what you did with the pier. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “I’ve needed to rebuild my strength as well.”

  “Did you have to reinforce and refinish the entire pier?”

  “A good pier is a necessity, and that’s something that would take stone masons weeks, if not months. Sario thinks his family might want to open a factorage here. He likes the pier and the harbor.”

  Vaelora shook her head.

  “While you’ve been recovering, have you discovered anything of interest in Rholan and the Nameless?” Quaeryt leaned forward slightly, shifting his weight on the chair that he’d wished he’d imaged to be a bit more comfortable.

  “You’re humoring me.”

  “I am … but humor me as well.”

  After the smallest of sighs, Vaelora picked up the small leatherbound volume that was Rholan and the Nameless. For a time, she flipped through
the pages. Then she stopped and began to read.

  “As with all who think themselves philosophers, Rholan seldom allowed small inconsistencies of fact or of logic to get in the way of powerful words. Whether such inconsistencies were small or not, he always considered them so, as when he insisted in a homily that the Naedarans were ‘negligible nabobs of nothingness.’ When Chorister Thamus told him that Naedara had rivaled Bovaria in power, Rholan dismissed Thamus’s words with the statement that the so-called ancients of Naedara knew nothing of true power. This was despite all the documents and books that mentioned them in the great library of Tela, before it burned. Rholan said that since he’d seen no proof, and what proof there might have been was as smoke, then there was none.”

  Vaelora slipped her worn leather bookmark into the book, closed it, and looked at Quaeryt.

  “Why did you find this so interesting?” he asked.

  “There were two things. The writer quoted exact words from Rholan’s homily. The writer also knew of the great library and what was in it, including material about Naedara. Naedara wasn’t that widely known in the east of Lydar, especially in Rholan’s time.”

  “So you’re saying that the writer knew Rholan very well and was also high in position, from a High Holder’s family, possibly even a High Holder?”

  “I don’t see how it could be otherwise.”

  “And the writer has no compunctions about revealing Rholan’s imperfections, regardless of whether he revitalized the worship of the Nameless all across Lydar.”

  “Except in Khel,” Vaelora pointed out.

  “That’s interesting, given that Rholan didn’t like the Naedarans, and there’s definitely a link between them and Khel.”

  “The writer doesn’t say he didn’t like them.”

  “If he called them ‘negligible nabobs of nothingness’ he didn’t like them. That’s not exactly a favorable description,” Quaeryt pointed out.

  “It also suggests he might not have been fond of imagers.”

  “That’s true … in a way,” mused Quaeryt. “The book doesn’t ever mention imagers, but does that reflect Rholan or the author … or both of them?”

  “Both, I’d guess, but it’s not likely we’ll ever know.” Vaelora smiled sardonically. “It does make me wonder just who wrote the book … and why.”

  “There’s not even a name at the end, just the letters that look to be a fanciful curlicued version of ‘The End.’”

  “I’ve never heard of it, and Father’s library was not small.”

  “There was nothing like it in the scholarium library in Solis, and I’ve never heard of any chorister who spoke about it, but then, I also haven’t asked.”

  “How about leaving on Samedi?” Vaelora said quietly.

  “Have you had another farsight image?”

  She shook her head. “The ones I’ve had have all been … well … frightening, even the one that turned out well.”

  “The one about me, you mean?”

  She nodded.

  “But you’re worried about your brother?”

  “I’m worried about him when you’re not around, and we’ve been gone long enough for there to be trouble.”

  “I’ll think about leaving on Samedi when I see how you are tomorrow.”

  “You’re stubborn.”

  “No … I’m worried about you.”

  Quaeryt was relieved that she smiled softly.

  7

  Quaeryt woke abruptly, not because he had heard something, but because the silence was overpowering. He immediately glanced from the pallet where he lay to the bed where Vaelora slept. In the darkness, he could see nothing. Nor could he hear anything, not even her breathing. Was she breathing?

  He started to sit up, but found he could not move, except for his head, as if he were pinned to the pallet by unseen chains. Then the thinnest streams of silver light flowed from the cracks and gaps in the boards covering the gun port of the old Antiagon stone fort and into the makeshift quarters section.

  The light formed an archway, and through the archway stepped the figure of a man with hair like flowing silver, standing at the end of a road of reddish silver that stretched up behind him through the stone ceiling and up and out into a night sky filled with brilliant silver-white stars. In one hand, he held a dagger with a blade of brilliant light. Across his back was a mighty bow, and in his other hand was something shimmering so brightly that Quaeryt could not determine what it might be … a key, a small book, a coiled chain of gold…?

  The silver-haired figure surveyed Quaeryt before he spoke. “The road back only goes forward. What is done is done forever.”

  “I know that,” protested Quaeryt.

  “You know it, yet you do not, for you know, and do not believe what you know. The road forward always reveals what should have been seen in the past and was not. That is the lot of most men. You must not act or see as most men do.”

  “That’s easy enough for you to say.” Quaeryt regretted the words as soon as they left his lips.

  “Words can always excuse. What is done is what matters.” The silver-haired man smiled ruefully. “Do not argue over what is not and may never be.”

  The light faded, and Quaeryt found he could sit up.

  “Quaeryt?” asked Vaelora, alarm in her voice.

  “I’m here.” Quaeryt quickly stood and moved to the side of her bed, reaching down and taking her hands.

  “That light … that figure. He looked like Erion.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “He was talking to you, about the road going back going forward. You were talking, too.” She struggled into a sitting position. “I could see a reddish silver road behind him, going through the roof into the heavens. The stars were so bright.”

  Quaeryt shivered, and not from the chill in the air. “I thought I was dreaming it. I couldn’t move, and I couldn’t hear you breathing.” He said quickly, “You’re all right, aren’t you?”

  “I’m … fine. I don’t hurt.” In the dimness, Vaelora’s free hand reached out and touched his face, her fingers running down the line of his jaw. “You’re here. You’re real.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Then … either we both dreamed it … or…”

  Quaeryt feared he understood. Had he actually imaged his dream into a half reality? Had it happened because of his worries about Vaelora’s farsight? Or was there truly an Erion? He almost wanted to burst into ironic laughter. For a man who doesn’t even know whether there’s a Nameless … to see and talk to Erion in the dark … and have Vaelora see him as well … Are you going mad?

  He shook his head.

  8

  Roughly two quints before midday, Quaeryt glanced to the woods east of the river road, then across the brush that sloped down to the waters of the River Laar, then back to the comparatively narrow track that passed for a road in southern Bovaria. After a time he turned in the saddle and asked Vaelora, riding beside him, “How are you feeling?”

  “Dearest … you’ve asked that almost every glass since we left Kephria this morning. I will tell you if matters are not right.”

  Quaeryt winced at the clipped words and exasperated tone. “I can’t help it.” He ran his left hand over the staff in the holder, a staff he had imaged into being the day before, since his previous staff had disappeared in the last battle in Variana. He’d tested the new staff, and from what he could tell it was solid, yet not a dead weight.

  “I know you worry. Asking me every glass or less isn’t going to change things.”

  “I will try not to inquire often.” He had trouble not asking, partly because Vaelora would seldom admit that she was ailing, but he could sense an outright lie or evasion if he asked her directly. But then, she knows that.

  He would have liked to have waited longer to leave Kephria, but Vaelora had been insistent, even citing his imaged dream—if it truly had been that. In the end, he’d dispatched the Zephyr, with three wounded troopers as couriers, at dawn on Samedi, an
d by seventh glass, he and Vaelora were riding northward in the van of first company, followed by Calkoran and his company, with Eleventh Regiment following and providing the rear guard. But he still worried about her … and how she was dealing with the loss she wouldn’t mention.

  The weather had been pleasant enough, if slightly chill with a high haze muting some warmth from the sun, although Quaeryt was glad for the lack of an appreciable wind, again worried about Vaelora.

  Finally, he spoke again. “I’d like your thoughts on something. All through the Antiagon campaign, we kept expecting to run into muskets. The Antiagons had cannon, and they used them fairly effectively. But we never saw a musketeer or a single musket. Kharst had both, and Bhayar has been trying to find a way to produce muskets on a large scale, but no one even seemed to have thought of muskets in Antiago.”

  “Hmmm.” Vaelora tilted her head, but said nothing.

  Quaeryt waited, glancing again ahead and then to the woods and back to the river.

  Finally, she spoke. “I know that Aliaro kept his imagers locked away from himself, and from others, and never allowed them to gather in groups, except for battles.”

  “Even then, except at Liantiago, there were never more than a half score imagers in one place,” Quaeryt added.

  “Could the absence of muskets be because a musket can also be used equally in battle or against individuals? It’s also a weapon that can kill from a distance and doesn’t take years to master. You’ve said that the entire land was ruled by the Autarch and a few score Shahibs.”

  “That might be it.” Quaeryt shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe Skarpa will find out in time. I still worry.” About more than you ever thought possible.

  “You didn’t have any more bad dreams … after Liantiago?”

  “Not yet … except for the one. But I’ve been fairly exhausted most nights.” He paused. “I worry about doing massive imaging.”

  “Rebuilding a five-hundred-yard-long solid stone pier wasn’t massive imaging?”

  “I meant the kind where I’ve killed thousands. Yet…” He let the words dwindle away.