Princeps

18

Just past midafternoon on Vendrei, Quaeryt turned in the saddle and looked to Vaelora. “How did you and Bhayar get to Tilbora so fast? We’ve been on the road for a little more than two weeks, and we aren’t even to Montagne.”

“The weather was drier, and we only traveled with a company of cavalry with a spare mount for every rider. Also, the roads are better, and it’s quicker from Solis to Cloisonyt to Tilbora than from Tilbora to Cloisonyt to Extela.”

Quaeryt nodded. “I see.” Even so, you must have ridden from sunrise to sunset and commandeered mounts along the way. He was about to say something to that effect when, as they rode around the side of a hill, he saw a collection of houses and buildings less than two hundred yards ahead. The town was so small that there wasn’t even a millestone with a name cut into it. At least, Quaeryt hadn’t seen one.

“Do you know the name of the town?” Quaeryt asked Skarpa, riding on the far side of Vaelora.

“Ah … no, sir. It’s on the map, but I don’t recall.”

“Gahenyara,” said Vaelora brightly.

Quaeryt looked to his wife. “That must mean something.”

“I was told it means the eastern end of Yara.”

“The boundary of the Yaran warlord’s lands? How did you know that?”

“Grandmere’s mother came from here. Her father was a large holder to the north of town.”

“A High Holder?” asked Quaeryt.

“What amounted to one. He only had daughters, and the lands went to Grandpere Lhayar.”

“So they’re Bhayar’s now?”

“Unless he granted them to someone. I don’t think he has, but he doesn’t exactly tell me everything.” Vaelora smiled mischievously. “He tells me very little, but he does tell Aelina.”

“And you’re very close to her.”

“Without her…” Vaelora shook her head.

Quaeryt said nothing, although he had suspected Aelina’s influence early on in his and Vaelora’s correspondence.

Ahead of them was a narrow timbered bridge, wide enough for a wagon or three horses side by side, and little else, that extended a good twenty yards over a small river, supported by two sets of stone pylons, each one set equidistant from the end of the bridge and the other pylon. The river was running high enough that the water was less than a yard beneath the bridge deck.

As the scouts crossed the middle section of the bridge, Quaeryt noted that the planking and timbers flexed more than he thought they should, especially on the south side, but there was little give on the last third of the bridge, the one closest to Gahenyara.

“We can only do two at a time,” suggested Skarpa as the three neared the bridge. “I’ll drop back a bit.”

Quaeryt could feel the bridge depress as the mare moved to the midsection, but there was no sense of recovery or rebound in the planking-only an ominous creaking that intensified. He immediately extended his shields to the planks and anchored the shield to the two pylons.

“Keep riding!” he hissed at Vaelora. He turned in the saddle. “Keep clear of the midsection of the bridge! It’s going to give way!”

“Should I turn?”

“No. Keep moving.” Quaeryt couldn’t explain his words, but with each step the mare and Vaelora’s gelding took, he felt more and more pressure on his shields-as if they were contracting around him. He concentrated on holding them, despite the pain and pressure, until both of them were on the far section, when he released all shields because he could barely hold on to them.

He glanced back over his shoulder, but kept riding until he and Vaelora were off the bridge, when he turned the mare and reined up. So did Vaelora.

The heavy planks on the south side of the middle section of the bridge-where he had been riding-slowly sagged into the water. For almost half a quint, nothing seemed to happen. Then the rushing water ripped away one plank … and then another … and a third, until even part of the bridge where Vaelora had crossed was gone. Before long, only the northern third of the midsection remained. The rest of the midsection had been carried away by the flood waters. The northern part might support a single horse and rider at a time, but what remained was far too narrow for any of the supply wagons.

Skarpa had retreated to the eastern end of the bridge, where the bulk of the regiment now waited.

Quaeryt’s head ached, and his eyes burned so much that he could barely make out much beyond the bridge and the river.

“You’re pale and shaking,” Vaelora said. “You need to eat something.” She reached back to the pack behind her saddle, then handed a hard biscuit to him.

He fumbled out his water bottle, filled with watered lager, took a mouthful, enough to make the biscuit chewable, and slowly ate it. “We’re going to be here a while, until the engineers can repair the bridge.”

“If you keep making a habit of this,” murmured Vaelora, handing him another biscuit, “I won’t have any extra food left.”

You won’t have a husband, either. Except … what else could he have done?

“You need to be more careful.”

“I didn’t think it was going to collapse when we started across, and I wasn’t going to let you get swept away by the river.”

“You were on the weaker part.” A grin followed. “I do appreciate the thought, though.”

Quaeryt refrained from pointing out that the planks where she’d been riding were also at least partly gone as well. “Thank you, dear one.”

“Well … I was riding close to what collapsed.”

“I worried.” Quaeryt paused but slightly. “Is this under the administration of the governor of Montagne? Do you know?”

“On this side of the river. That’s why-”

“The town is named Gahenyara,” he finished.

Two men came running toward the riders from the town.

Quaeryt and Vaelora eased up beside the scouts and waited.