Quaeryt glanced toward the serving woman who stood on the terrace beside the study door.
“They don’t speak Bovarian well, remember,” murmured Vaelora, “only the common terms spoken slowly.”
Quaeryt nodded, then replied, “You noticed the old woman. I just followed your suggestion. You really rescued her.”
“All right. After we rescued her.”
“I remember. The story was about four Pharsi, three men and a woman. The woman and her distant cousin who was courting her were lost ones. The brothers were seeking easy fortune.”
“Do you remember the refrain of the young woman?”
“‘Do not argue over what is not and may never be,’ or something like that.”
“Dearest … what sort of story was it?”
“It was a parable. The two brothers kept finding things and wanting more and arguing over what they’d found until they lost everything because of their quarrels.” Quaeryt grinned. “The only one with any sense was the woman.”
“Not quite. The cousin who was a lost one and, according to the old woman, looked like you, also had some sense.” She smiled sweetly. “He had enough sense to listen to her.”
“Your point is taken, dear.”
“Why did she tell the story to us?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve wondered about that.”
“She made a point of telling us. Not anyone else. I don’t think it was to please us or to entertain us.”
“No. It was to warn us. That was clear enough. We are young and carry Pharsi blood. She saw we had some power and position, and she wanted to warn us about wanting what we could never have.”
Vaelora nodded. “How did she know that? She’d never seen us before.”
“You’re suggesting…?”
“I don’t know. It’s just … it’s bothered me on and off ever since.”
“Why did you bring that up now?”
“In a way … in a way, you need to look at the ice storm like that. You’ve said that no matter what you did, thousands would die. You had no choice about whether troopers died. Your only choice was which thousands died.”
“If I could have found another way…”
“The only choice we have is to do the best we can when we can. You’re thinking about Rescalyn, aren’t you?”
“How did you know?”
“How could I not know? You’ve talked about it before. It’s bothered you as well, but by killing him in a way that made him a hero, you stopped a bloody revolt that would have slaughtered more thousands than you did at Ferravyl. Don’t you think that if Rescalyn had provoked a rebellion, whether he had been successful or not, it would have weakened Telaryn? That Kharst would have attacked even sooner? Then, how many more thousands would have perished?”
Quaeryt did not answer that. He knew the answer, and so did she. “Still … it doesn’t help that I’ve had to act as a chorister of the Nameless, giving homilies about virtue … mercy … and then…”
“You acted in accord with what you said, dearest.”
“That doesn’t help as much as I’d like.”
She let the silence grow for a moment, then repeated, “‘Do not argue over what is not and may never be.’ That includes arguing with yourself, dearest.”
“It’s hard not to think about the consequences when you’re the one who causes the deaths of so many.”
“Kharst decided to attack. His actions determined that thousands would die. Your actions merely determined which thousands.”
“Merely?” said Quaeryt dryly.
“You know what I meant. Are you determined to take on totally a responsibility that is only partly yours at best?”
“My dreams are suggesting it’s more than that.”
“You need to inform your dreams otherwise.” Vaelora’s voice was almost tart.
“Dearest … do you want Lydar to be a better place? Or do you want rulers like Kharst killing all the Pharsi, and Aliaro enslaving all the imagers?”
Quaeryt sighed. “I understand your words. I understand your logic. My head agrees with you. My heart, my feelings … they only comprehend all the deaths.”
“I thought that scholars were ruled by their minds.” A faint, almost mischievous smile lurked at the corners of Vaelora’s mouth.
“It’s easier to declare the mind superior when you’re in a scholarium,” replied Quaeryt. “It’s harder when you see the results of what your mind declares is the best course.”
“That was one reason why Bhayar was trained as a common trooper and went to Tilbor at the end of the conquest. He was twenty, then.”
“He went to Tilbor? I didn’t know that. He’s never mentioned it.”
“He wouldn’t. Everyone would assume he was either boasting or that he’d been protected by a full battalion. He wasn’t. He did have a pair of experienced troopers with him. Father worried the whole time. He said that was the hardest part.”
From what Quaeryt had heard about Lord Chayar, that seemed improbable. But then, he never would have guessed that Bhayar had served as an ordinary trooper, even in a somewhat protected position.
After a moment of silence, Vaelora spoke. “How are your imagers doing?”
“They’ve all improved, especially Threkhyl, Voltyr, and Shaelyt.” Quaeryt snorted. “I wouldn’t trust Threkhyl as far as I could throw my mare.”
“Believe in your feelings on that.”
“But not about the ice storm?” He raised his eyebrows.
“You have to learn when to trust your feelings and when not to.”
“Oh?”
“Women should take care in trusting their feelings with regard to men. Men should take care in trusting their feelings when it comes to battles and fighting, especially for power and glory. Both should take care in dealing with golds. Especially those of us raised without having to count them.”
Quaeryt smiled at the dryness of her last words.
“What about the others?” asked Vaelora. “Can you trust Voltyr and Shaelyt?”
“As much as one can trust anyone. They both have much to lose should anything happen to me.”
“As do I, dearest.” Vaelora pursed her lips. “You must take care … but not too much, for that is worse than no care at all.”
Quaeryt could see the brightness in her eyes. He stood and walked around the table, putting his hands on her shoulders, as comfortingly as he could. “I will balance heart and mind as best I can.”
Vaelora slipped from his grasp and stood, facing him. “We have a little time. Would you walk with me through the gardens?”
“There are gardens?”
“There are. They have been neglected, but there are remnants of their beauty.”
Quaeryt rose from the table and extended a hand. “I would be pleased to walk with you.”
Her fingers twined around his as they set forth from the terrace, not looking back.
“You see here … they planted matching birches on each side,” said Vaelora as she stepped onto the path that had once been white gravel, but now held gray and white pebbles, with patches of bare earth covered with moss in between the gray stones set unevenly into the ground. “There is also a gray cat, but it is fearful, and it is as still as a stone when it hears footsteps.”
Quaeryt glanced around. He saw no cat, but a flash of blue and gold as a southern finch darted into a pine. “What else?”
