Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (6 page)

“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…”

Quaeryt took a step farther back, content to let events take their course, but very glad that he was paid a great deal more as princeps than he had been as a scholar assistant. He might not know that much about being wedded to the sister of the Lord of Telaryn, but he did know that gowns did not come cheaply.

In the end, after Syen and Vaelora agreed on the design, and colors, and all the measurements were taken, Quaeryt handed over a gold for a deposit and to cover fabric. “Thank you.”

“Thanks are not necessary, but your coin is welcome, Princeps, as are you and your wife. It is too bad you will not be here long.”

Quaeryt raised his eyebrows.

“You—and your lady, by her very presence—have already done much of what was necessary, and Lord Bhayar will soon find other uses for your talents.”

“I won no battles, performed no heroic acts. I only helped others.”

Syen smiled. “The Sisters understand that more is often achieved by those who
only
help.” She emphasized the word “only” just a trace. “We know who vanishes and who flees when no one else has been able to remove such pestilence.” Syen turned to Vaelora. “Is that not so, Lady?”

“I would not argue with you on that, or anything else affecting Tilbor,” replied Vaelora. “Until next week. Meredi … unless it snows.”

“Until then.”

Once they had left the shop and remounted, neither Quaeryt nor Vaelora said much until they were well away from the harbor.

“What do you know about these Sisters?” she finally asked.

“As I told you … I overheard a conversation between two women, another between two officers, and what I gleaned when I talked to Syen.”

“You are truly Pharsi. To have determined what you did from so little…”

“You may be right You’re not the first to say that. When I first rode up from Ayerne…” He went on to tell the story of how he had delivered the letter from Rhodyn to the holder’s eldest son Jorem and how Hailae had spoken to him in Pharsi.

“White-blond Pharsi with black eyes…” mused Vaelora. “I have not heard of them, except as imagers, but that would explain much.”

As she finished, a gust of wind whipped around them. Quaeryt shivered, hoping that there would not be yet another storm coming. “You’ll wish we had hot springs like you did in Extela by the time we get back to the palace.”

“You’ll do quite nicely, dearest.”

Quaeryt certainly hoped so.

7

The next few days were far warmer, enough to melt the snow near dark stone and uncovered ground—except at night—and that meant that in the morning ice covered much of the stone pavement of the lane down to the lower gates.

On Mardi morning, Quaeryt walked to the private dining chamber, thinking that Vaelora would be along in moments. She wasn’t. After half a quint, he turned and headed back to the dressing chamber.

When he appeared, she stepped forward, shuddering, and put her arms around him.

“What is it?”

“Those shields … the ones you created for battle … can you still do that?”

“Yes … I haven’t seen much need, not here in the palace…”

“Please … whenever you leave the palace … or even here when there are people you don’t know … please use them…”

“Why … What did you see?”

“It was a hall … a long one, and you were standing by a doorway, and a man in dark clothes had a crossbow, and I saw the quarrel go toward you…”

Quaeryt stiffened. “Did you see any faces … anything else?”

Vaelora looked at him, and he saw the streaks of tears running down her cheeks. “It was so real … so very real.” Her voice strengthened. “You must use those shields.”

“But…” He knew better than to protest, but it seemed so unreal. So far as he knew, anyone who had a personal grudge against him was dead.

“Dearest … you are seen as a man of influence and power, and you have already changed much. You have done so quietly. Most people see the governor and the commanders as the ones who made the changes, but there are still those who know you were behind those changes.”

“I’m just a scholar who…”

“Just? If the Sisters all know what you did, who else does as well?”

Quaeryt smiled ruefully. “You’re right. I will.”

“Promise me. Starting today.”

“I promise.”

She blotted her cheeks and eyes, delicately. “I’m sorry. It was so real that I wanted to scream and warn you. Then it was gone.”

“Are these foresights always like that?”

“Farsight,” she corrected him. “I told you. I don’t have many. This is the first one in more than a year, but they all have felt so real when I see them.”

“I’ll go back to using shields,” Quaeryt said, trying to reassure her once more.

“I know it sounds silly … in a fashion, anyway…”

“If you’re right, then it will save my life or health, and if not … there’s certainly no harm done.” He shook his head and added quickly, “You’re right in any case. It’s just hard for me to believe that anyone would want to kill me. In a battle, yes, but as a regional princeps?”

“Who’s married to Lord Bhayar’s sister and who has come to power over so many younger sons of holders and High Holders,” added Vaelora.

“I wouldn’t even have been considered in a region like Ryntar or Montagne, or even Ruilan, would I?”

“I’d have considered you anyway,” she replied with a smile.

“That might have been, but I have my doubts your brother would have been so accommodating.”

“I’d have found a way.”

The matter-of-fact certainty in her voice reminded Quaeryt of one thing—Bhayar hadn’t needed to tell Quaeryt to respect Vaelora.
Not at all.

“We should eat breakfast,” he said gently.

“Oh … I almost forgot.”

The inadvertent innocence in her voice reminded him of something else—and that was what a mixture of experience and inexperience lay beneath her determination. He embraced her once more. “I do love you.”

“I know.” Her arms went around him for a moment before releasing him. “We do need to eat.”

He didn’t mention that he’d just said almost the same thing.

They walked to the private dining chamber hand in hand.

After breakfast, Quaeryt made his way down the private staircase and to his study. He was early enough that he arrived before Vhorym. He didn’t settle behind the desk, but walked to the center window and pulled back the hangings and opened the shutters, ignoring the chill off the glass as he stood there looking out to the north. The first snows had begun to fall near the end of Feuillyt, and by mid-Finitas snowstorms were regularly bombarding Tilbor, and that had been weeks before winter began. Spring was less than two weeks away, and everything was still covered in snow, so much that when he rode out the east gates he could barely see over what was piled on each side of the access lane to the palace.

His thoughts went back to what Vaelora had said—and seen. Who would want him dead, and what would he be doing in a long dark hallway?

He laughed, quietly.

How would you ever have believed you—a mere scholar—would become princeps of Tilbor and be married to Bhayar’s daughter?

Then he turned to face the remainder of the day.

8

On Meredi, Quaeryt accompanied Vaelora back to Tilbora for a fitting of the ball gown—except that she insisted he wait outside. After the ride and while he stood and waited with the escort squad, he realized that he was somewhat tired, and he wondered why.

Shields … of course.
Even though he was holding the lighter shields that stiffened only when something touched them, doing so was still an effort—one that he had not made in more than a month, except occasionally. He’d forgotten how long it had taken to build up his strength and endurance to be able to hold them much of the day.

He still couldn’t help but wonder who might be seeking his death. Those who were mostly likely to hold a grudge as a result of the destruction of the rebellious hill holds would be sons or heirs of those holders—and he doubted that many of them knew of his small role or even cared about him, particularly since Rescalyn—who had planned and executed the campaign—had died at the end of the last battle. Chardyn was dead, and from what he had determined it appeared that Zarxes had died in the battle for his father’s hold. The sea-reavers didn’t even know who he was … if any of them had even survived.

He shook his head.

“Dearest?”

Quaeryt turned to see Vaelora leaving Syen’s shop, carrying out what Quaeryt presumed was the gown, if rolled and covered in oilcloth.

When she reached him, standing beside the mare, she handed the gown to her husband. “Please don’t drop it.”

“I won’t. Is it finished?”

“Of course. She had to make a few changes. That was why it took a bit.”

“What do I own Syen?” he asked as he took the gown from her.

“Nothing. I paid her the rest of what was due.”

“You…?”

“I am not penniless, dearest. Bhayar did leave some golds for me. He told me to be careful of them. I have been. This is the first time I’ve spent anything. Major Daendyr has kept most of them in the regimental strong room.” With a smile, Vaelora swung up into the saddle, far more gracefully than he ever did.

Quaeryt should have known. He just shook his head.

“Please hand me the gown, if you would, dearest?”

He did, and then mounted, wordlessly, wondering exactly how many golds his wife had stored away.
Certainly far more than you have.
At least, he could say to himself, if not to anyone else, that he hadn’t married Vaelora for golds. He hadn’t even thought of it, not that anyone was likely to believe him.