Princeps

9

Quaeryt had only been in his study for a quint on Jeudi morning when Vhorym knocked on the door.

“Sir … There’s a young scholar here to see you. His name is Lankyt, he says.” Vhorym did not quite frown. “He says it’s important.”

“I’ll see him. He’s a good youth. His father saved my life.” Quaeryt rose.

Vhorym left the door open, stepped back, and gestured.

Lankyt hurried in, bowing deeply, and straightening. “Sir … Chorister Gauswn … he sent me. Chorister Cyrethyn is dying. He would like to see you. Chorister Gauswn … he said you should know.”

“I can leave now.” Quaeryt stood. “You rode alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll ride back together.” Quaeryt gestured for Lankyt to follow him. “Vhorym … I’m needed at the scholarium. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but it will be later today.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt hurried down to the main level, stopping by the duty desk to request a squad to accompany him, and then out to the stable, where he saddled the mare, then walked her out of the stable and mounted. He rode across the courtyard to where Lankyt was waiting on a gray gelding. “Your mount?”

“Syndar and I share him.”

Quaeryt glanced around the courtyard, looking for the duty squad that was to accompany him. “He’s the one you used to visit the local growers? To find better ways to grow things?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you discovered anything new since last harvest?”

“Well … not much … except that marigolds keep away many bugs. I was thinking that if we planted them around the orchards, that might help…”

Quaeryt listened for not quite another half quint, until the duty squad arrived, and then they set out through the eastern gates and down the stone lane to the lower gates. Once they left the upper gates, he raised his shields, the lighter ones that would stiffen into hard shields if anything neared them. He noticed that the snow heaped on each side of the lane seemed a touch lower and stone gutters flanking the lane were carrying meltwater down to the moat. They weren’t full, but it was more than a trickle.

After almost a quint of riding, Lankyt spoke again. “Sir … I meant to thank you, but I was worried about the chorister.”

“Thank me for what?”

“Yesterday … my da-my father-I got a letter from him. He agreed that since Syndar seemed so much better suited to being a scholar, I should come home, but only when the roads were clear and when I could join someone trustworthy. You did that, didn’t you?”

“Not exactly. Syndar wanted to stay. He’s been a great help to Scholar Princeps Yullyd. I wrote that to your father. Nothing more.”

“Thank you, sir. I liked what I learned at the scholarium, but I do so miss Ayerne, and I know I’m better suited to the land.”

“I’m sure you are.” Quaeryt paused. “Would you be willing to leave tomorrow?”

“Sir? Do you mean it?”

“First Regiment is heading that way, and they leave tomorrow. I think I can persuade Commander Myskyl to let you ride with them. They’ll likely overnight at Ayerne anyway. But you’ll have to gather your things and ride back with me when I leave the scholarium after I see Cyrethyn.”

“I can do that, sir. I can.”

Quaeryt nodded, his eyes on the road. So far the packed snow and ice, and presumably the ground beneath both in places where the roads were not stone-paved, seemed frozen solid. Of course, there would be mud farther south, but because the snow melted more in between storms, there wouldn’t be as much mud as in Tilbor and the area just south of the river when everything did melt.

After they had ridden a while longer, Lankyt again turned in the saddle. “You said First Regiment was riding south. Will there be a war, sir?”

“There’s always likely to be a war sometime. When and where the next one will be, I don’t know, but I fear it won’t be that long.”

“Will you have to go or will you stay in Tilbor?”

“I serve here at the pleasure of Lord Bhayar. That’s up to him.”

The youth nodded thoughtfully.

It was close to a glass later when Quaeryt dismounted outside the stable of the scholarium. He was almost breathing heavily when he dismounted, and wondered why, until he realized, belatedly, that he’d been carrying shields for the entire ride.

Can you lower them? He frowned. Surely, here … He decided against it. He’d promised Vaelora, and if anything at all happened … he certainly didn’t want to hear what she might say. Besides, the more he worked at it, the sooner before the effort required would diminish.

At that moment, he saw Gauswn hurrying toward him at almost a run.

“Sir!” panted the chorister.

“Where is Cyrethyn?” asked Quaeryt.

“He’s in his quarters in the anomen, sir. He does want to talk to you, but he’s so weak. I was afraid to leave him.”

“We came as quickly as we could.” Quaeryt turned to Lankyt. “You need to get your things ready. If any of the scholars need an explanation, I’ll talk to them after I see to Cyrethyn.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt handed the mare’s reins to the ranker nearest to him and looked to the squad leader. “I’ll probably be here about a glass, Heisyn. There should be room in the stable for the mounts, and the tack room is usually warm.”

“Yes, sir.”

With that, Quaeryt nodded to Gauswn, and the two walked along the packed snow that covered the brick lane and then along the foot-packed path from the scholarium to the anomen.

Gauswn led the way to the main door of the building and stepped into the vestibule. “The private hallway is this way.” He opened a narrow ancient ironbound door that Quaeryt had only vaguely noticed in passing on the few occasions he had visited the scholarium’s anomen.

The long hallway, barely illumined by a single oil lamp, led to a narrow staircase whose stone steps bore the hollows worn by years of choristers’ footsteps. At the bottom of the staircase, there was another passage to the right, again dimly lit by a single oil lamp in a wall sconce. Quaeryt found the near darkness oppressive, but less than five yards from the bottom of the steps was a door, beside which stood two older students.

“He’s in his bed.” Gauswn pointed to the door. “He said he needed to talk to you alone. I’ll wait out here.”

“I’ll try not to tire him.”

Gauswn nodded, but then said, “Please … sir … do let him say what he must, whatever that may be.”

Quaeryt smiled sadly. “I will.” He opened the door, stepped into the chamber, and shut the door behind him. The sole light came from a pair of high and narrow windows, only one of which was unshuttered, and just on one side. The furnishings were few, just the bed, a night table beside it, an armoire, a writing desk, and a chair-which had been pulled up close to the bed.

The old chorister, whose still wavy brown hair, without a trace of white, was so in contrast to the drawn and lined features of his face, smiled faintly as Quaeryt walked over to the narrow bed and sat on the chair.

“I came as soon as I could.”

“I … thought … you would.”

Quaeryt waited.

“Thank you … for Gauswn. He will be … a good chorister.” Cyrethyn took a wheezing breath. “A better chorister than an officer…”

“He was a good officer,” said Quaeryt.

“He will be … he already is … a better chorister … and you … you have not disappointed him. He will always look up to you.”

That was something Quaeryt had worried about more than once. “I wish he did not.”

“No … you must understand that he does … Never forget it … you … there is more about you … and … you must … must never … disappoint those who believe … in you.…” Cyrethyn was gasping as he finished those words.

Quaeryt wanted to ask if there was any way he could make Cyrethyn more comfortable, but knowing there was not, he remained silent until Cyrethyn’s breathing eased somewhat. “Is there anything else … I should know?”

The slightest smile crossed the old man’s lips. “You would make … a fine chorister … but … the world would be … poorer for it.”

Quaeryt did not wish to dispute either, much as he doubted both of Cyrethyn’s assertions, so he just sat on the stool and smiled warmly. “Is there anything I can do?”

“You … have done all I hoped … so far … just … do … not … disappoint them.…”

Even those words exhausted the old man, and Quaeryt nodded, rather than speak. For perhaps a quint he sat there, long after the chorister’s eyelids closed and he drifted into sleep. Finally, Quaeryt rose and walked to the door, opening it quietly and stepping outside, trying to close it equally silently.

“Is he…?” asked Gauswn.

“He told me what he wanted me to know. He’s sleeping or dozing now.”

“Thank you for coming,” said Gauswn.

“I could do no less for him.” Quaeryt shook his head. “But there is also little else I can do.”

“You saved the scholarium and the anomen, sir, and he cared greatly for both.”

“He was devoted to both.” Unlike some.

After several moments of silence, Gauswn cleared his throat. “I’ll see you out, sir.”

“There’s no need. Cyrethyn needs you more than I do.”

“He’d be very disappointed, sir, if I didn’t at least see you to the door.”

Quaeryt smiled. He couldn’t argue with that. “Just to the anomen door.”

From the chorister’s chamber they walked side by side, just far enough apart that Quaeryt’s closely held shields were not triggered into full protection. Because the staircase was too narrow to be comfortable for two, Quaeryt led the way, with Gauswn close behind. Just before Quaeryt reached the top of the staircase, he frowned. Was there someone waiting by the door?

Something slammed into his shields, driving him back so hard that he staggered to one side and almost fell. Because of his shorter left leg, he barely managed to catch his balance after going down one step.

As he did, Gauswn sprinted past him, a long knife drawn from somewhere in his hand.

Quaeryt’s eyes followed the chorister, and after a moment, so did his feet as he ran after Gauswn. He was close enough to see Gauswn’s arm move in what looked to be an underhanded thrust to the chest of a man in black-whose face mirrored shock, even as the crossbow clattered to the stone floor.

“You … always…” The would-be assassin’s knees crumpled.

Gauswn thrust the dying man backward, and his body hit the stone with a muffled thud.

Quaeryt reached the chorister and looked down at the sharp-faced and dark-haired figure, attired totally in black, who tried to gasp, then shuddered and was still. “Alkiabys … I thought he’d died in the last battle, along with Zarxes.”

“He should have.” The chorister turned to Quaeryt. “Again … the Nameless has protected you.…”

“Alkiabys just missed.”

Gauswn looked straight at Quaeryt. “I saw you be thrown back by that quarrel. It was aimed straight at your heart. Yet it was as if it hit a wall and dropped to the stones.”

“I didn’t see that,” replied Quaeryt. That much was true. He hadn’t seen it; he’d only felt the impact.

Gauswn inclined his head. “You are blessed by the Nameless.”

What can you say to that? After a moment, Quaeryt said, “I don’t know that. I do know that I’m glad that quarrel didn’t reach its target … and that you took care of Alkiabys. All I can ask is that I’d very much appreciate it if exactly what happened remains between us. I’m not asking you to lie…” Quaeryt paused. “You can say that Alkiabys fired his crossbow at me. That is true. You can also say that, for some reason, the quarrel didn’t hit me. I will say, which is also true, that you leapt to my defense and killed him.”

“But … why…?”

“Gauswn … if … IF I’m somehow protected, and you tell anyone, how long before someone else tries … and if I survive, someone else after that? If, as you think, the Nameless is protecting me-and I have grave doubts about that-but if it is true, the Nameless might not wish to keep protecting me if the fact of that protection is flaunted … or even known to a single other person.”

The chorister nodded slowly. “Sir … it will be between us.”

“Thank you. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate that.” And I can’t … at least not for a very, very long time. Because, while two people could occasionally keep a secret, especially if one happened to be as honorable as Gauswn, three people never could.

Gauswn looked down at the body, then at Quaeryt.

“Give him an honorable pyre, but no memorial.”

The young chorister nodded. “That would seem fitting.”

“You attend to Cyrethyn. I’ll have Yullyd or Nalakyn come and take care of the body.”

“Thank you, sir.”

When Quaeryt reached the rear of the scholarium, he saw Lankyt standing on the porch, with Nalakyn beside him. Several bundles were set at Lankyt’s feet.

“Princeps, sir,” began Nalakyn, “I understand that you have offered-”

“To have Lankyt escorted back to his father’s holding? That’s correct, but I’m going to have to task you with a less pleasant duty. You might recall Alkiabys?”

“Yes … sir.” The round-faced master scholar sounded puzzled.

“He was hiding in the anomen and tried to attack me when I left after seeing Cyrethyn. Gauswn leapt to my defense and killed him. Because he once was a scholar, he deserves a pyre, but not a memorial.” Quaeryt fumbled in his wallet until he came up with a pair of silvers. “I would not wish the expense to fall entirely on the scholarium. Use these to replace whatever wood is necessary. And because Gauswn must attend to Cyrethyn … could you have some of the scholars remove the body?”

“Yes, sir.” After a moment, Nalakyn said, “About young Lankyt…?”

“He’ll be riding back to the palace with me. He’ll be riding out with Commander Myskyl early tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt looked hard at the master scholar. “We’ll be leaving as soon as the horses are ready.”

“I’ll have the students on discipline duty and Scholar Weisyn remove the body.”

“Thank you.”

Nalakyn almost scuttled across the covered porch and inside the building.

“It really was Alkiabys?” asked Lankyt.

“Yes.”

“I never liked him,” blurted Lankyt. “He liked to hurt students in Sansang practice. He’d say that they needed to learn what would happen when they didn’t defend themselves right. But he liked it. Scholar Chardyn was hard, but he was fair.” There was a pause. “Do you know what happened to him?”

“Let’s just say that he and Phaeryn would make certain that on the day that the visiting scholars or others said they would depart … they departed early … and left their coin for the Ecoliae. I suspect that one of those visitors took exception … perhaps many did, but one was finally able to prevail.”

Lankyt nodded slowly. “That … I can see that.”

Quaeryt bent and picked up one of the bundles. “Is this all you’re bringing?”

“I left whatever Syndar could use, sir. I’ll have more than enough at home.”

That was certainly true, reflected Quaeryt as they walked toward the stable, but Lankyt’s leaving anything that his older brother could use was still thoughtful.

“Father did tell me to ride the gelding home,” Lankyt added. “He said that, as a scholar, Syndar would have less need for him.”

A quint later, when Quaeryt, Lankyt, and the squad were a half mille away from the scholarium, Lankyt turned in the saddle, looked across the space between mounts, and said, “Master Scholar Nalakyn says that we should always tell the truth. I don’t see everything, sir, but it seems to me there are times when the truth hurts more than not saying anything.”

Quaeryt laughed ruefully. “That’s true enough. The problem is that when you start thinking like that, it becomes easy, first to say nothing, and then to lie, and then lie more, and finally to justify all the lies you’ve told. Yet … there are times, when part of the truth, so long as that part is not a lie in and of itself, is better than the whole truth … For example, if a man loses his courage in a battle and turns and flees, but is cut down from behind, there is no harm, and a grace, in telling his family that he died in battle without saying that he tried to flee. If a man has done evil while doing some otherwise good deeds and is killed in trying to do evil, it is sometimes better to say that he had good qualities and qualities that were not so good. But … if you do not tell the entire truth, you must always remember that you did not tell the entire truth, and each time you are tempted not to, you should ask whether you do so to make your path easier, or to aid others … or whether you do so for your own interests. If you find you are too often ‘helping’ others in that fashion, then you are deceiving yourself.” He shook his head. “As in everything, nothing in life is as simple as the maxims we teach. It is so easy to slip from the honorable … and yet, I have seen what many would call honorable used as a reason for cruelty and despicable behavior.” After another pause, he concluded, “And I don’t know that I’ve answered your question.”

“I think you have, sir.”

Quaeryt wasn’t so certain. It’s so easy to self-justify, and so hard to be truly honest about why you do what you do. Rescalyn certainly believed that overthrowing Bhayar would result in better rule of Telaryn … and you believed that a slightly better ruler would not justify all the upheaval and bloodshed. Who was right?

For all that he believed he had acted wisely, who was truly to say?

On the remainder of the ride back to the Telaryn Palace, Quaeryt managed not to reveal much more than he’d asked Gauswn to say, despite Lankyt’s curiosity. Once they reached the palace, he found Myskyl, who was surprisingly amenable to letting Lankyt ride with the regiment, then made arrangements for Lankyt to take a room in the west wing, and to eat as a guest in the mess. Finally, Quaeryt hurried to the main section of the palace and up to his and Vaelora’s quarters, where he found her in the study that had become hers.

She looked up from the table desk where she was writing. “Dearest … why are you here … now?”

“The scholarium sent a messenger to ask me to come see Cyrethyn-the old chorister. He’s dying and wanted to talk to me. A few things happened. You were right … sooner than you thought…” He went on to explain what happened, ending with … “and I believe Gauswn will keep the details to himself. Asking that of him … it bothers me … yet…”

“You were right to do so. The longer before anyone knows what you can do, the better.” After a moment, she added, “Grandmere said something like that.”

“Oh?” Quaeryt truly did wonder what Vaelora’s grandmother might have said.

“It’s better that others guess than know, because guessing breeds uncertainty, and uncertainty clouds action. That’s what she said.”

“There’s also another matter I had to deal with. The messenger from the scholarium was young Lankyt. You met him…”

“The young man who wants to be a holder?”

“That’s Lankyt. His father has finally agreed…” Quaeryt went on to explain, then said, “I had to persuade Myskyl to allow Lankyt to accompany First Regiment.” He smiled crookedly. “I shouldn’t have had a problem with that, not when they’d planned to overnight near Ayerne, but I do need to make certain that Straesyr understands.” He paused. “I did want to tell you what happened.” He grinned, if raggedly. “And that I did keep my promise.”

“Sometimes … a woman does know…”

“More than sometimes,” he admitted. “Especially you.”

“You’d better tend to Straesyr. You might also tell him that Lord Bhayar was most favorably disposed toward Holder Rhodyn.”

“I will.” He glanced at the papers on the desk. “More of your writing on governing and people?”

“Yes … I was thinking…” She smiled. “Let me finish. You can read it when I’ve thought it out. You should do what you must as princeps.”

“You sound like Straesyr … as though we won’t be here that much longer.”

“I fear he may be right. I cannot say why.” Her eyes flicked in the direction of the center of the palace.

“You cannot … or you’d rather not?”

“I cannot … it is just a feeling.”

“Farsight?”

She shook her head. “Just a feeling. Go see Straesyr.”

Quaeryt doubted that what she sensed was just a feeling, but he only said, “I will see you later.” Then he stepped forward, bent down, and kissed her cheek, before straightening and leaving.