Imager's challenge ip-2

by L. E. Modesitt

  “In peace and harmony,” we replied.

  I reached out and squeezed Seliora’s hand, and got a warm but gentle squeeze in return, and there was a scuffing of chairs as everyone sat down. Then platters of food appeared, along with a large teapot and carafes of heated mulled wine. One platter held the thinnest of fried cakes, rolled around a mixture of what looked to be sauteed mushrooms, cheese, and chopped sausage. I took several.

  “They’re better with the berry syrup,” suggested Bhenyt.

  “Thank you.” I took his suggestion and dosed mine with the syrup, then ate one. Bhenyt was definitely correct about the syrup.

  “You’re going riding, aren’t you?” asked Odelia. “Seliora says that you finally look like you’ve seen a horse before.”

  “Once or twice, if I don’t have to ride one that doesn’t care for me.”

  “The horses all like you,” Bhenyt said.

  I laughed gently, but I wondered where he’d gotten that idea.

  “You’re Pharsi at heart,” Betara explained, “maybe more than at heart, and Pharsis have a way with horses.”

  I didn’t think I’d pass that compliment along to my mother, not the way she felt about Pharsis. Yet I felt very much at home with Grandmama Diestra’s clan.

  “I heard indirectly from Horazt that you’ve been kind and helpful to his nephew,” Diestra said from across the table.

  “Shault’s a good boy, and I’d like him to succeed as an imager.”

  “He also said that you got rid of Youdh before he could make any more trouble.”

  I shrugged. “He attacked me and another patroller. I did what had to be done.” I really didn’t want to discuss the details surrounding Youdh’s hearing and death.

  “You understand that one must act before too many suffer,” Grandmama Diestra said carefully. “So often, the good innocents always believe that there is another way. They are convinced that there must be a way that hurts no one, or only the most evil of the evil. While they try in vain to find such a way, more suffer and more die.”

  “They believe,” added Betara, “that there is always a way where few suffer. That belief is an illusion, and it is deadly. We Pharsi have learned that deadliness through too many years of too many deaths.”

  What could I say to that, especially since Ryel was proving that very point to me?

  “Horazt has suggested you’d make a good Patrol captain for the taudis area. That’s not likely, is it?” Diestra covered her mouth, blocking what sounded like a racking cough.

  I waited until she finished. “There’s nothing prohibiting it, but the Collegium-not to mention the Council-might well be opposed to an imager serving officially in the Civic Patrol.”

  “Is it that impossible?” asked Seliora, her voice guileless, yet teasing.

  “It’s not impossible, merely exceedingly improbable.”

  Betara and Shelim laughed.

  After a very filling brunch, complete with another glass of cheerful conversation, Seliora and I walked through the back hall and down the back stairs into the courtyard and across to the stables. We stepped inside, and at the south end of the stable I saw a trap, covered with a canvas tarpaulin. I walked toward it.

  “Rhenn . . . I thought we were riding,” Seliora said. “Traps like that are more dangerous than the way you ride. That hasn’t been used in years, anyway.”

  “Thank you, dear lady.” I half turned and inclined my head. “We are riding, but I need to look over the trap first.”

  Seliora joined me, watching as I squatted and studied the wheel and axle assembly. When I’d first come to the Collegium, I’d had to learn about various axle assemblies and even how the drive train of an ironway locomotive was constructed and operated. The trap’s wheels and bearings didn’t look that different from those I’d studied.

  “Do you know if all traps have wheels and axles like this?”

  “I don’t, not for sure.”

  I’d have to work from that. I rose and smiled. “Let’s see if I can still saddle the mare.” I was certain I could, not because I was that good at it, but because the mare was. Even so, it was close to two quints later before we were mounted and headed northeast on the Boulevard D’Este under a sky that had finally begun to clear, even if the sun had not quite broken through the thin clouds. The wind was light, if chill, but by the time we reached the Plaza D’Nord, I was glad that I’d worn my heavy winter cloak and gloves.

  “Are you warm enough?” I asked, turning in the saddle to glance at Seliora, riding beside me and wearing a black leather riding jacket over her vest. Her gloves were also black.

  She was entirely in black, and I was in gray, except for black belt and boots. Black and gray . . . If I were a poet or a philosopher, I could have made something out of it.

  “I’m comfortable. I’m wearing silks under the riding skirts. How about you?”

  “I’m more than warm enough.”

  There were almost no riders on the road, except for a private messenger who passed us heading into L’Excelsis at a good clip, not at a gallop, but at something less than a canter.

  Another three quints or so brought us to the crest of the hill south of Ryel’s estate, and as we descended into the small depression or valley through which the stream ran, I studied his lands again, especially the walls around the stream, and the small turnout on the west side of the road about halfway up-or down if one happened to be headed south.

  Then, as I rode up the hill, keeping the mare on the right side of the road, as close to the estate wall as I could, I attempted to image a small stone into being near the tower off the south terrace. I could just barely do that. That confirmed that for any serious imaging, I’d have to be closer and on the estate grounds. That could subject me to Ryel’s low justice, were I discovered, and that was something I’d need to avoid at all costs.

  “Be careful. The mare won’t keep you on the road if you’re guiding her off it,” Seliora warned me.

  “I’m sorry. I was trying something.”

  She just nodded.

  All the way uphill to the turnaround, I kept studying every aspect of the grounds that I could see, as well as the road itself, particularly on the steeper downslope below the gates to the estate. Then, while we ostensibly let the horses rest, I studied the chateau proper.

  On the way back, I concentrated on the road, at least until we reached the crest of the rise south of the one on which the estate stood.

  “Can you talk now?” asked Seliora.

  “Now? Yes? Was I that intent?”

  “More than that,” she said with a smile. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “I think so, but time will tell.” Time and the effectiveness of what I planned.

  When we finally returned to the courtyard at NordEste and unsaddled and groomed the horses, I was more than ready for the hot tea and cakes and cheeses that Betara had waiting for us in the breakfast room off the kitchen, a breakfast room larger than some formal dining rooms I’d been in. But then, I reminded myself, close to a triple quint of Seliora’s family and relatives might fill the room for breakfast.

  Once we were settled at one end of the long table, I said, “Thank you.”

  “You’re more than welcome.”

  “If it’s all right, could I borrow the mare on Mardi, possibly on Meredi, or even Jeudi? Is that possible?”

  “Whenever you need her. You’re not hard on her. You actually ride fairly well for someone with no experience before now.”

  “I won’t be able to get here until close to half past eighth glass on Mardi.”

  “Just come to the family entrance. Someone will find me.”

  “Thank you.”

  In the end, I didn’t return to Imagisle until close to time for Solayi services. I missed dinner, but that mattered little. I’d eaten more than enough having afternoon tea with Seliora.

  Once an imager was a master, the anomen services weren’t mandatory, but most masters went. I didn’t min
d going, because Chorister Isola’s homilies were usually thought-provoking. Unfortunately, this Solayi was one of the few times I wasn’t exactly enthralled by her homily.

  I could tell that from almost the first few words after the offertory, when Chorister Isola stepped to the pulpit. “Good evening.”

  “Good evening,” came the reply.

  “And it is a good evening, for under the Nameless, all evenings are good.” She paused as she always did. “All of you here are imagers or those close to imagers. Being an imager carries a special burden. You have all been told that. It is a special burden, but there is a tendency for all of us to hear what we want to hear. Too seldom do we concentrate on the important word of those two. The important word is ‘burden,’ not ‘special.’ Yes, we can do what others cannot, but thinking that because we have an ability, a talent, that we are in some way special . . . that is no more than another case of Naming. We name ourselves as ‘special,’ without understanding that this talent, like all great abilities of all those who possess them, demands equally great responsibility. . . .”

  I didn’t mind great responsibility, but it seemed to me that as a result of my special and great talent, I had been put in a situation where if I failed in the slightest, I’d be before a Collegium hearing and shortly thereafter rather thoroughly and specially dead. If I did nothing, my entire family would be slowly and specially ruined and many of them equally specially dead.

  I was Namer-well aware that I had a special burden, and it had been dumped on me by Master Dichartyn and Maitre Poincaryt. My greatest problem would not even have existed if either of them had had the guts to deal directly with Lord Ryel’s excessively spoiled son. But no, I had to do that, and ever so inexorably, events were pressing in on me, and as a result, one way or another, people would die, and one way or another, I would be responsible.

  After the final prayer, I was still angry when I left with the others. Instead of heading back to my quarters, I slipped off to the walk along the west side of Imagisle and followed it to the Bridge of Stones, which I crossed. I kept walking southward along West River Road for almost a mille to the abandoned and burned-out shell of an old mill that I’d noticed earlier.

  As I neared the shadowed and soot-blackened walls, I heard murmurs.

  “Someone headed here . . .”

  “. . . go on by . . . patrollers never come here . . .”

  “. . . could be a demon . . . spawn of the Namer . . .”

  “. . . no such thing as demons . . .”

  I really didn’t want anyone to see what I was doing, nor did I wish them hurt. Enough people were going to suffer anyway. I raised concealment shields and moved closer, thinking about what I could do.

  “Gone . . . whoever it was . . .”

  “. . . don’t disappear like that . . . still say demons . . .”

  Abruptly I smiled, thinking about how Youdh had imaged a cloud of dust to mark my position. In the chill air, something else might be better, scarier. I concentrated, imaging water from the river into a misty figure some three yards high, looming next to the tall south wall in the dim light of a fading Artiema.

  A man yelled, and a woman uttered a cry between a scream and an imprecation.

  “. . . told you there were demons!”

  I waited until the last of the five had scrambled southward before dropping my concealment shields and stepping forward to the ruins. The remaining sections of the mill walls were thick and constructed of heavy stones. In the dimness I couldn’t see what kind of stone it might be, but I doubted it would matter that much. While I wasn’t trying to image gold or aluminum out of the stone, heavy was still heavy.

  Even though I had no idea exactly how I would do what I had in mind, I looked at the top stone on the low section of the wall to my right and tried to concentrate on image-removing the mortar. A puff of dust billowed from beneath the stone, and it rocked forward and backward, before settling back into place. I took several steps forward and pushed the stone. It wobbled.

  I would have laughed if I hadn’t been panting. My imaging had been successful enough. The mortar was gone, but the building stone had been fitted so well to its place that it had merely dropped the width of the missing mortar onto the stone below.

  I just stood there, breathing heavily. There had to be a better way. There just had to be.

  “. . . imaging takes energy from all around you . . .” Who had said that? Master Dichartyn? I tried to remember what he had said, but I was fairly certain he hadn’t said much more than that. But why not? Because it was dangerous, obviously, but dangerous to whom? All the lead and leaded glass in the Collegium . . . for whom did they provide protection?

  I glanced at the scrubby bush by my feet. Could I?

  I looked at a smaller stone set in the second course of stone below the topmost remaining, then at the bush, and concentrated on a tie between the bush and the stone. I took a deep breath and tried to image the stone out of the wall-but away from me and nearer the taller south wall.

  Craackkk . . . Stone chips sprayed everywhere, some striking my shields with such force that I took two steps backward in order to keep my balance.

  A thump . . . thump echoed through the ruined walls, followed by a dull thud.

  Where the stone had been, an oblong opening remained, with a powdery, dusty mist slowly settling and sifting down toward the uneven ground next to the wall. The stones around the gap in the wall had not moved.

  I looked back to the scrubby bush. It wasn’t there. Or rather, where it had been was an ash-outlined and flattened image of a bush that shifted on the hard ground in the light night breeze, then vanished as if it had not been as the air currents swirled it away.

  I looked at the south wall of the mill, rising two stories. I found myself trying to moisten my lips, dry as my mouth suddenly was.

  “Take it a step at a time,” I murmured, trying to steady myself.

  Abruptly I almost laughed, recalling what Alsoran had said about steps. My eyes took in a forlorn-appearing tree that had grown up in the sheltered corner where the west and south walls of the mill joined. Slowly I walked around to the outside of the south wall and studied it, trying to determine where its weakest points might be.

  I shook my head. That wasn’t what I needed. Where would removing stones cause the greatest damage? Finally, I stepped back from the wall. I didn’t want to think too hard about what I was about to try, yet what else could I do? I had to know if what I had in mind worked.

  This time I tried to create a link between the straggly misshapen tree and the southwest corner of the wall. Then, I focused on imaging out a section of that corner of the wall at ground level.

  Craaack. . . .

  Stones seemed to fly everywhere, or maybe I was, because I felt myself being flung backward. For a moment-it might have been a great deal longer-there was blackness over and around me. Then I was looking up at the sky. Artiema was still about where she had been . . . or maybe somewhat farther westward and lower in the sky. Slowly . . . very slowly, I sat up. My right buttock was sore, very sore, and my shoulder twinged as I struggled to my feet. My head ached, and my vision was blurry.

  I looked toward the old mill, squinting through the blurriness to make things out. The entire south wall had slumped into a pile of rock and stone, as had the southern half of the west wall. There was no sign of the tree. In fact, I realized, there were no bushes or trees anywhere close to the building. All the undergrowth was gone, and a thick coating of frost was everywhere. The air was icy.

  As far as I had moved back from the ruins, I definitely should have retreated farther, much farther. I’d proved that what I’d had in mind worked, but my technique, as Maitre Dyana would have said, definitely needed much more refinement.

  As I walked-more accurately, limped-back toward the Bridge of Stones, the wind rose slightly, coming off the water with a bitter chill. I glanced down at the gray water, where I could see the shimmering of shards of rime ice breaking up even as I
watched.

  I swallowed, but kept walking.

  At that moment, something flashed before my eyes-an oblong building that trembled and shook, and then exploded, with flames shooting in all directions, and then dust and smoke rising even as chunks of masonry and timbers began falling on the street and a low wall. I stopped, frozen in place, as the image vanished from my eyes or mind. I knew the building. It was the Temple of Puryon . . . but it couldn’t have just exploded, because it was night, and the explosion had occurred in the light. Was I imagining it? Or had it happened? Would it happen?

  How could I tell?

  I resumed walking, cold inside and out, and realized that I was going to be very sore.

  As I walked off the bridge and toward the quadrangle and my quarters, more like an old man than a young imager, an errant thought struck me-I’d probably convinced five vagrants that demons did exist and that the old mill was indeed haunted.

  Demons indeed.

  But the flash vision of the explosion seemed all too real.

  44

  Not only were my buttocks and shoulder sore and painful when I staggered out of bed on Lundi morning, but my legs were sore, and I still had a trace of the headache I’d gone to bed with. I could see, however, and I could raise shields. I couldn’t help but frown at that. Did that mean that I’d handled the imaging part as I should have, but I was suffering the consequences of not physically protecting myself as well as I should have? Wonderful! My technique was better than I thought, but I still came close to killing myself . . . again. And then there was that vision of the Temple of Puryon exploding. I’d just have to see . . . and be very careful around the Temple.

  Clovyl’s stretching exercises did help, but my running left so much to be desired that I was in the group bringing up the rear. Fortunately, no one seemed to care. The cold shower that followed my return to quarters numbed the aches, but also stiffened me up some, and I was slow in shaving and getting dressed. I still made it to the dining hall without being terribly late.