Princeps

“He did it because of a vision.”

“A vision? Lord Chayar was a most practical man. I can’t believe he saw visions.”

“He didn’t, dearest.”

Quaeryt sighed. Loudly.

“Father moved the capital to Solis because Grandmere had a vision. She didn’t call it that. She said it was foresight. She was mostly Pharsi. Everyone knows that, but no one talks about it. She had more than a few visions, and Father said he’d not listened to her only once, and he wished he had. So when she said she’d seen Extela in ruins and parts of it covered with ash and lava, he didn’t argue.”

“Well … so far as I know, Extela’s still doing quite nicely.”

“It is. Sometimes the mountain rumbles and at times it spews out ash, but the ash and hot springs are why the uplands are so fertile.”

“And he uprooted everyone and rebuilt Solis because of a vision?” Quaeryt tried not to sound appalled. “One that never happened?”

“You didn’t know Grandmere.”

Quaeryt considered. If her grandmother was anything like Vaelora, I can see … “You take after her, don’t you?”

Vaelora offered a rueful smile, one of the few that Quaeryt had seen on her face. “That was what Mother claimed. Bhayar said I have her spirit and that I was born to plague him.”

Quaeryt grinned broadly. “So … that was why-”

He didn’t get any farther because a good portion of the cold water pitcher splashed across his chest and face.

Later … when laughter subsided, with domestic order restored, and Quaeryt stopped shivering and got dressed, they did manage to reach the private dining chamber, where, thankfully, the stove had warmed the air to an almost pleasant state, pleasant for winter in Tilbora, reflected Quaeryt as he took a welcome swallow of tea.

“Dearest … are you still going to ride to the scholarium this morning?”

“Yes, even after a cold dowsing.” Quaeryt managed not to frown, then saw the anxious expression on Vaelora’s face, an expression he knew he was meant to see, since she was excellent at avoiding what she did not wish to reveal. “Would you like to accompany me?”

“If you wouldn’t mind too terribly. Emra … I had thought to spend some time with her, but both her son and daughter are quite ill with the croup. So is Eluisa. That means I won’t see her, either, and I was looking forward so to learning some of the pieces by Covaelyt and Veblynt.”

“Isn’t there sheet music? You play well enough…”

“She only has one copy of each, and she is most guarded in holding them. You can understand why that might be, and I’d rather not have to copy it line by line.”

Left unsaid was that there were no copyists at the Telaryn Palace except those attached to the regiments, and neither Quaeryt nor Vaelora felt it proper to request personal copying from them.

Quaeryt looked at his wife. “You miss Aelina, don’t you?”

“Terribly. I cannot tell you how much … She was the only one…”

“Except Aunt Nerya, of course,” teased Quaeryt.

Vaelora looked at her husband with wide guileless eyes. “I should have mentioned her.”

“Was she that bad?”

“You know what I feel.”

Quaeryt did, and did not press. “I’ll be leaving at half past seventh glass, and I’ll have a mount for you. Please dress warmly. There’s a bit of a wind.”

“Yes, dearest,” replied Vaelora in a voice that Quaeryt knew as her sweet and falsely submissive one-and that she knew he recognized as such.

He laughed.

The last quint of breakfast passed too quickly, and before that long, or so it seemed to Quaeryt, he had sent word down to have his mount and Vaelora’s ready, finished reading the various dispatches, and was donning his heavy riding jacket, the fur-lined leather gloves, and the fur-lined cap he’d taken to wearing whenever he was outside for long.

“Vhorym … I’ll be riding over to the scholarium. I likely won’t be back until close to second glass.”

Vaelora was actually mounted and waiting for him in the palace courtyard, as was the squad from Sixth Battalion who would accompany them. Quaeryt glanced at the sky, with the high gray clouds that were all too common in winter, then mounted quickly. As he and Vaelora followed the outriders through the eastern gates of the palace-the only gates-and down the stone-paved lane across the dry moat, now half filled with drifting snow, he could barely see over the snow piled on each side of the lane, even on horseback. The wind was raw and bitter, as it usually was when it blew out of the east.

Snow crunched under the hoofs of their mounts as they rode through the lower gates and onto the main road to the south.

“We’re only a few weeks from spring,” he said cheerfully.

“That’s spring in Solis,” returned Vaelora.

“True enough. We’ll be fortunate to have frozen mud by then.”

The wind was bitter enough that neither said that much on the glass-long ride to the scholarium. In fact, Quaeryt said almost nothing at all until they rode up the snow-packed lane and past the main building of the scholarium before reining up opposite the middle of the rear porch.

“Squad Leader, put all the mounts in the stable. You and the men wait in the tack room in the stable. If the stove isn’t fired up, you have my authority to do so. I will need two rankers to escort my wife.”

“Yes, sir.” Rheusyd glanced at the stable to the rear of the main building. “Might already be fired up, sir. There’s smoke rising.”

“I hope so. It’s been a cold ride, at least for us.”

“Been on colder ones, sir, but a warm stove would be good for the men.”

Vaelora and Quaeryt dismounted, climbed the steps, and crossed the wide and empty covered porch.

As he held the door for her, he said, “There’s a stove in the main hall outside the master scholar’s study. You can warm yourself there. I imagine you’ll have company before long. Besides your escorts.”

Vaelora raised her eyebrows, then brushed the combination of water and melting frost from them. “Oh?”

“There aren’t any women here, except for the cooks and a few others, and none are as beautiful as you.”

“Who could tell under all these garments?”

“They could tell.” Quaeryt turned as the gray-haired and round-faced master scholar hurried toward them. “Nalakyn, I’d like to present you to my wife, the Lady Vaelora.”

The master scholar bowed deeply, his eyes avoiding those of Vaelora, as was proper. “We are most honored to have the sister of Lord Bhayar here, and especially in weather such as this.” He straightened. “I would offer you my study or that of the scholar princeps, but neither has a stove or a hearth. With your permission, I will have a comfortable chair brought for you so that you can warm yourself by the main stove here.”

“You’re most kind, master scholar.”

Nalakyn flushed. “It is not often we are so honored.”

Once Vaelora was seated before the stove, the two rankers discreetly standing against the wall several yards away, Quaeryt and the other two scholars were about to retire to the much cooler study of the master scholar when another figure hurried through the rear door, a young man wearing the robes of a chorister. Snow sprayed from his boots.

“Princeps! Sir?”

Quaeryt stopped and waited. “Gauswn! It’s good to see you. How are you doing? How is Cyrethyn?”

“He is in good spirits, sir, but he is frail, and he begs your pardon for not joining me, but he is not so steady on his feet as once he was.”

“Has he let you deliver any homilies?”

“Let, sir? He insists I do two a month.” The young chorister looked embarrassed. “One of them was taken