in all that we do.”
Then came the opening hymn, and he began the only one he knew by heart-“Glory to the Nameless.” At least some of the troopers knew it, and he did not project his singing after the first few words, knowing he’d get off-key sooner or later.
The confession, as always one of the hardest parts of the service for Quaeryt, came next. He felt fraudulent in leading a confession of error to a deity he wasn’t certain existed, or that any deity existed, although he had no trouble confessing to error, just to the idea that he and those who followed his words would be forgiven by the Nameless, since he’d observed all too little forgiveness in the world.
“We name not You, for naming presumes, and we presume not upon the Creator of all that was, is, and will be. We pray not to You for ourselves, nor ask from You favor or recognition, for such asks You to favor us over others who are also Yours. We confess that we risk in all times the sins of presumptuous pride. We acknowledge that the very names we bear symbolize those sins, for we strive too often to raise our names and ourselves above others, to insist that our small achievements have meaning. Let us never forget that we are less than nothing against Your Nameless magnificence and that we must respect all others, in celebration and deference to You who cannot be named or known, only respected and worshipped.”
Quaeryt did lead the chorus of “In Peace and Harmony.”
In the silence that followed, he cleared his throat and began. “Good evening, and it is a good evening.”
“Good evening,” came the chorused reply.
“All evenings are good evenings under the Nameless. Some are good in and of themselves, and some are like this evening. They’re good because most of us have survived to reach the evening, despite the best efforts of our enemies to the contrary…” Quaeryt paused briefly, looking upward to the higher part of the slope, but even up there several troopers had nodded, and that suggested his image-projection was working.
“Earlier today, I was talking to another officer, and I asked him if the Nameless was somehow different here in Bovaria-although I guess we’re now still in Telaryn, according to Lord Bhayar…”
That brought a few smiles before Quaeryt went on.
“… or was it that the ideas attributed to the Nameless were taken differently here. He just said wisely that so far as men were concerned, it made no difference. Why does it make no difference?”
Quaeryt paused, letting the silence draw out, before he went on. “It makes no difference because no matter what the precepts of the Nameless may be, we as men, and women as women, are the ones to interpret those precepts. The Nameless does not come thundering out of the sky-at least not very often from what I’ve seen-and strike down any man who lies, or cheats, or murders … or Names in some fashion. We are the ones who enforce, or fail to enforce, those precepts. We are the ones who lead by example … or fail to do so. The Nameless has not changed nature or precepts from one part of Lydar to another. In war, the Nameless does not tell Lord Bhayar to treat small growers with care and Rex Kharst to burn the lands of such small growers.
“How does this happen? It happens, it seems to me, when those with power become more interested how others view them-and they wish to make other men desire to be like them. They wish to create other men in their likeness. What is that but another form of Naming? Yet that is not the way of the Nameless. That is why the Nameless has no appellation. It is why there are no paintings or statues of the Nameless, because the Nameless gave us the freedom to be the best we could be, not to strive to be a copy of something.
“Look around at the world. Not all creatures are the same, nor are all the creatures of a given type all the same. The same is true of people. There are tall men and women and short ones, those with red hair, and those with black or blond hair. Across the world, the colors of people’s skins differs. In these regiments, we have different men with different skills. If all of us were like each other, we could not accomplish nearly so much. We need troopers, and quartermasters, and scouts, and engineers, even imagers. There is not one likeness that fits all men-and yet rulers like Kharst would have it so … and that is one of the most evil forms of Naming of all, the vanity that one man, one ruler, would wish to have all people act in one manner, and in one likeness. And all of you have seen the evil that comes from this … and that is an evil we must firmly oppose while remaining true to what we are and can be-men with great differences striving toward a common goal, and that goal is to create a land where all can be the best that they can, and not pale likenesses of a ruler who has turned to the Namer in an effort at mindless conquest.”
Quaeryt wished he could have come up with a better ending to the homily, but any words he had tried to make a rousing end had seemed false. So he concluded with a simple phrase: “The Nameless has told us to turn from false images, whether in our minds or in the minds of others … and so we should … today, tonight, and for all time.”
He stood there silently for a moment after he finished, before beginning the closing hymn, the one he knew the best-“For the Glory.”
As in the past, when the voices of the men died away, he did not offer the standard benediction, but waited for silence, then simply said, “As we have come together to seek meaning and renewal, let us go forth this evening renewed in hope and in harmony with that which was, is, and ever shall be.”
After the benediction, he just stepped back, and stood on the stone oblong, before the dry fountain, waiting for the men to disperse.
Skarpa walked over. “That was carefully worded.”
“I hope so,” replied Quaeryt.
“There was another thing…” The commander paused. “You didn’t speak all that loudly, but all of the men seemed to hear and understand what you said.”
“I’m glad they did.” Quaeryt offered a grin. “At least, I think I am. I’ve done better.”
“We all have, but you’re still better than any chorister I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard more than a few.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll see you and Meinyt right after breakfast.”
“Yes, sir.” Although Quaeryt had a chamber with a comfortable bed, he wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon.
He still had to write out notes for Bhayar about the High Holder of Laesheld, based on what he and Fifth Battalion had uncovered, and he hoped he’d have a chance to write a few lines to Vaelora as well … before he was too tired to think well enough to write.
31
After breakfast on Lundi, Quaeryt sought out Shaelyt and drew him aside into a dim parlor in the hold house.
“What is it, sir?”
“I had a chance to talk to Undercaptain Voltyr the other day, but not you. He said you had made some steps toward developing the ability to shield yourself. How much progress?”
“I can harden the air so that I cannot break through it. That tires me so much that I can only do it for perhaps a third of a quint.”
Quaeryt nodded. “That’s a good start. Can you make the air less hard, so that you can push a sabre through it, but only with great effort?”
“I have not attempted that, sir.”
“You should. That should take less effort. That way you can hold the shield for longer.”
“What good will that do, sir, if I might ask?”
“First, the longer you can hold shields, the stronger you will become. Second … have you seen what happens when an arrow or a blade strikes water? How far does either penetrate?”
Shaelyt frowned, then smiled abruptly. “Thank you, sir.”
