“Send out two more outriders, fifty yards ahead. Forward!”
They resumed riding, and after several moments Skarpa leaned forward in the saddle to look across past Vaelora to Quaeryt. “What … what did you do back there?” The commander’s voice was low.
“I caught it and threw it back,” replied Quaeryt. “I was furious! No one … no one … attacks my wife.”
“I can see that.” Skarpa’s voice turned dry. “I still don’t know how you did that.”
“Neither do I,” admitted Quaeryt. “I just did.”
The commander shook his head. “Might I ask … Princeps … what he yelled? What it meant?”
“Lord Chayar’s forebears were called Yaran warlords. They defeated Hengyst’s descendants and took over Telaryn. Apparently, some people in Cloisonyt have never forgotten, most likely because it was first a Tellan and then a Ryntarian stronghold.” Quaeryt paused. “What I’d like to know is how he knew that Lady Vaelora would be coming.”
“He must have found out from someone at the post … or from someone who knew someone at the post.”
For all Quaeryt’s caution and the extra outriders, or because of them, they encountered nothing else untoward for the remainder of the ride through Cloisonyt, up the hill, then down a quarter of the way on the west side before turning northwest for another mille. A half glass passed before they rode through the ancient stone- pillared iron gates of the post into the main courtyard.
They had barely reined up when a major hurried across the courtyard almost at a run. He came to a halt several yards short of Quaeryt and Vaelora. “Welcome to Cloisonyt Post, Lady, Princeps.” He bowed, then straightened. “Major Duffryt, at your service.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “Have you received any news from Extela?”
“Very little, Lady. Only that part of the city was destroyed. The lava still flows, and ash still falls.”
Quaeryt hadn’t expected much more news than that, not when they had a good week’s travel, if not more, to reach Montagne, with Extela three to four days beyond.
“How long will you be staying?” asked the major.
“That depends on the needs of the regiment.” Quaeryt looked to Skarpa. “The horses need rest and grain and fodder.”
“Two days would be good,” offered Skarpa.
“Two or three days,” said Quaeryt. Arriving in Extela with excessively tired men and mounts wouldn’t help people much and would just tax even more whatever food and provisions remained in the battered city.
“The post commander’s quarters are ready for you, Lady … Princeps,” offered the major. “And we will have a fine dinner for you and all the officers.”
“You’re most gracious,” replied Vaelora.
Quaeryt merely nodded.
Even so, it was almost a glass later before Quaeryt and Vaelora entered the quarters of the former post commander, a modest dwelling set against the north wall of the post, with a formal sitting room, a capacious dining room and kitchen, a small study-all on the first floor-and three bedrooms and a bathing chamber on the second.
“This furniture is beautiful,” said Vaelora, looking around the master bedchamber, taking in the postered bed of dark goldenwood, the matching night tables, and even the twin armoires.
“It’s not as old as the house,” offered Duffryt. “Lord Chayar’s father had it placed here for when he traveled to Cloisonyt.”
“I will leave you to do what you must … and perhaps rest. The dinner will be in the officers’ mess at half past fifth glass.”
After the major departed and Quaeryt had closed the massive carved front door, the two studied the sitting room, then sat down in facing armchairs, waiting for the promised hot water for the bath chamber from the kitchen staff.
“What happened with that man … You couldn’t do that before, could you?” asked Vaelora, keeping her voice low.
“Do what?” asked Quaeryt innocently.
“That kind of imaging.”
“Not with something as big as that spear,” he admitted. “I didn’t think. I just did it. I didn’t want you hurt.”
“There was a flash of light around you…”
“I’ve never seen that happen before,” he admitted.
At the footsteps in the hallway, Quaeryt stopped and looked to the archway.
“The water is ready and in the tub, Lady … Princeps.” The sturdy graying woman bowed her head.
“Thank you.” Both Vaelora and Quaeryt stood and made their way to the staircase.
Little more than a glass later, far cleaner and in fresh browns, Quaeryt escorted Vaelora, who wore one of the simple dresses she had packed in the kit bag that accompanied her trunk, across the stone-paved courtyard to the officers’ mess. Everyone stood as they entered.
Quaeryt was seated at the head of the table, with Vaelora to his left and Skarpa to his right. Major Duffryt was beside Vaelora, and as the senior major in the regiment-which had taken Skarpa some considerable maneuvering to achieve-Meinyt was seated beside Skarpa.
“Perhaps … your wife might offer a blessing?”
Quaeryt looked to Vaelora.
“I would be pleased.” She lowered her head slightly and spoke with the slight huskiness of voice that Quaeryt always enjoyed hearing. “For the grace we owe each other, in times both good and ill, for the bounty of which we are about to partake, for good faith and kindness among all peoples, and especially for mercies great and small. For these blessings, we offer thanks and gratitude, in the spirit of that which cannot be named or imaged.…”
“In peace and harmony,” chorused the officers quietly.
After the blessing, Quaeryt immediately poured the red wine into Vaelora’s goblet, then into his own. He waited until all the officers had wine, then raised his goblet. “A toast to the hospitality and grace of Cloisonyt Post.”
“To the post,” seconded Skarpa.
Then the servers appeared with platters of lamb and roasted potatoes.
Once everyone was served, Major Duffryt turned to Quaeryt. “Princeps … I heard that you picked a spear aimed at your wife out of midair and hurled it back at the man who threw it with enough force to send it through his chest. You broke most of his ribs and killed him on the spot.”
“I don’t know about the ribs,” demurred Quaeryt.
“You have to be a strong man, but you’re only a trace larger than average. I don’t know how you could do that while mounted.”
Quaeryt smiled, sheepishly. “Major … I wish I could answer that question. I just saw the man throwing the spear, and I reacted.”
The major tried not to frown.
“The princeps is too modest,” said Skarpa. “I have seen him in battle. With only a half-staff he unseated a rebel with enough force to break his neck. He took a crossbow bolt full in the chest, pulled it out, blocked the wound, recovered a stray mount, and rode back to the post. He was fighting again in a month. Another time, he broke a line of pikemen and cut down almost half a score from behind.”
“Yet you wear brown…”
Quaeryt could see why the older officer was still only a major and in charge of a reserve post. That was where his nit-picking would be most valuable. “I’m still a scholar. I was riding with Sixth Battalion because the former governor felt I needed the experience to be able to report back to Lord Bhayar. Now … the man who attacked the lady Vaelora was wearing a uniform I’ve never seen.” He looked at the major.
“Yes, sir.”
