Imager’s Battalion

help us anyway. We don’t have time to wait for harvest. All it does is harm people who have nothing to do with the fighting. And I won’t have that-whether it’s by our men or theirs. You can pass that on. If someone lifts a weapon, even a pitchfork against a trooper, then he’s an enemy, and they can cut him down. But we’re not here to destroy people’s lives, just to prove we can. Do you understand?” Quaeryt looked sidewise at Ghaelyn. He thought the undercaptain understood. “Besides, I don’t think the peasants and small growers really care who wins so long as they aren’t hurt. They’ll be a lot easier to govern if they aren’t starving and angry.” You hope so, anyway.

“Yes, sir.”

The ride to the tumbled-down barn was fruitless. Although there were tracks around the collapsed structure, the Bovarians had hurried off.

Quaeryt studied the horizon in all directions. He didn’t see any more smoke, but all that meant was that they’d stopped some burning for at least a while. Still, there couldn’t be that many Bovarians around, could there?

Two glasses later, with first company returned to the main body, Quaeryt rode to report to Skarpa.

“I see the locals didn’t come out to thank you,” observed the commander dryly as Quaeryt rode up beside him.

“I didn’t think they would.”

“How many did you capture?”

“We didn’t,” Quaeryt said. “Some fled. Of the rest, those we didn’t kill outright in the fighting were all wounded, and I left them with the locals.”

“They may not fare well…”

“That’s their problem. I don’t like troopers who burn the crops of their own people, and it’s only fair that I left them with their own people.”

Skarpa’s mouth opened, then closed.

“You might talk to the Pharsi officers about how Kharst took Khel. Or think about the fact that as soon as Kharst found out that Extela had been devastated by an eruption he was massing troops for an attack on Ferravyl.”

“Aren’t you acting like him?” asked Skarpa.

“No. I kept my troopers from touching or hurting the locals, and I did my best to save their crops. But when troopers don’t even care for their own people, and when they kill anyone who doesn’t immediately surrender, I tend to lose patience.”

“Do you think the Bovarian people will understand that difference?”

Quaeryt smiled tiredly. “I think it will become clear before long.” At least you hope so. But he was all too conscious that such might well not be the case.

10

The two regiments and Quaeryt’s battalion made good progress on the rest of Meredi, despite the narrow rough road. They ran across only one other area where the crops had been torched-apparently even before the fires Quaeryt had attempted to prevent, because the fields farther west were black, without a trace of smoke or embers. Other than that, they saw no more signs of Bovarians.

Jeudi morning was cooler, and thick clouds rolled out of the north. By late afternoon a cold deluge poured down, with no sign of letting up anytime soon. The regiments took what shelter they could, split between three hamlets each some five milles apart along the river. Quaeryt and Fifth Battalion made an encampment in the smallest hamlet, making do with several sheds, and a few tents and waterproofs used as slanted awnings.

Once he had inspected all the shelters, and checked once more with Zhelan and all the company officers, he went back and found Major Arion, where he had last seen him, standing by the doorway to a shed, looking out into the rain.

Although the Pharsi officer was the youngest of the Khellan majors, he was likely several years older than Quaeryt. “Sir?”

“Major Zhael mentioned the High Council. Khel was the only land in Lydar that was not governed by a hereditary ruler. How did the Council come to be? Do you know?”

Arion smiled. “I have heard the tales. Does anyone know how true they are?”

“Tales are better than ignorance. Tell me about the Council. Then tell me the tales. Besides, what else are we going to do right now?”

“Why do you wish to know?”

“There are many reasons. One is simply that it may be part of my heritage, and I know little about Khel, and nothing about the High Council.”

Arion looked out into the rain again, but began to speak. “Once, every city in Khel was governed by a clan, and the elders of the clan met and made decisions. Unlike Bovaria, many of the elders were women…”

From what he’d seen so far of Pharsi women, that scarcely surprised Quaeryt.

“But the cities and even the towns grew. There were soon two or three or four clans in a town, and some clans were of herders, and others of crafters, and still others of growers, and each clan wanted its needs to come first. So the elders in Khelgror, for it was the first, formed a council for the city and the lands around it, and each year, the head of a different clan headed the local council. Then came a time when one region felt its needs were more important than another. The head councilors of each region decided that they would form a council from all the chief councilors in Khel. Each year the councilor from a different region would head that council. They called it the High Council. The High Councils lasted longer than there has been a rex in Bovaria or a lord in Telaryn.” Arion shrugged, but did not look at Quaeryt.

“Weren’t there struggles in all that time?”

“There were arguments. Some of them lasted years. And there are stories. Some even say that the lost ones come from a clan in the western part of the Montagnes D’Glace, and that they were lost when they went to take up arms against those below the mountains. Erion threw a mountain from the sky and sealed the way from their valley. Only those wise enough to know when to use arms were able to leave the valley. The price for leaving was to bear the mark of Erion.”

“The mark of Erion?” prompted Quaeryt, suspecting all too well what Arion would say.

“You bear it, though you do not flaunt it. Hair almost as white as the ice, and a reminder that the worship of physical perfection is vanity.” An ironic smile crossed the major’s lips. “A form of Naming, if you will, for those who follow the Nameless.”

“You follow Erion and Artiema?” asked Quaeryt.

“I would say that we believe that they are manifestations of the one who cannot be named. Calling that one the Nameless is another way of Naming.”

Quaeryt nodded. “I’ve often pondered that.”

“That does not surprise me, Subcommander.” Arion paused. “Why did you turn the Bovarians over to the growers?”

“Because the Bovarian troopers destroyed the crops of those people. I thought they should decide.”

“What if they fear Rex Kharst so much that they release them?”

“That is their choice. To do otherwise would tell the local people that Lord Bhayar would merely be another ruler like Kharst.”

“How do you know he will not?”

“I think I know him well enough to say that he will not.”

“How well does he know you?”

“Well enough to allow his sister to wed me.”

Arion smiled softly. “He thinks to bind you. In the end, you will bind him because you cannot escape who you are. He is trapped, and he knows it not. He cannot conquer Lydar without you…”

“You give me far too much credit.”

The Pharsi officer shook his head. “You are a lost one, and the hand of Erion. If Lord Bhayar rejects or