“It’s all right. I’m here. I’m right here.”
She’ll freeze, too. “… chill you … the way…”
“I’m warm enough. Just hold on to me. Talk to me. Tell me what happened.” With her arms wrapped around him, slowly the cold deep within him began to melt away.
Later, when they finally moved apart, at least enough for Vaelora to look at him, worry in her eyes, she asked, “What was it? The ice storm? You were so cold.” She swallowed. “The walls…”
“What is it?” Quaeryt could see the concern on her face.
“You started shivering in your sleep, and then there was frost. It was all over the walls.”
He glanced around the bedchamber.
“It’s all melted now.” She laughed uneasily. “It is full summer. But can’t you feel how cool everything is?”
Quaeryt managed not to shudder again. Did you image in your sleep? Enough to cause frost to form?
“Were you dreaming? About the ice storm you caused?”
He nodded. “It was worse than that. I was fighting the battle again, and I didn’t want to image and kill thousands again, but they kept coming … and coming.” He shuddered in spite of himself.
“What you’ve been doing with the regiment isn’t the only reason you’re tired, is it?”
“No…” he admitted warily.
“Tell me about it. All about it.” Her words, gently as they were spoken, were not a request.
“This wasn’t the first time. I dream about getting caught in the rain, being frozen in place, along with the … thousands of others … the Bovarians … some of ours … I try to escape … but I can’t.” He finally shook his head. “I struggle with the ice until I wake up.”
“Does where you sleep feel cold to you when you finally wake up?”
“How could I tell? I always wake up cold and shivering, no matter how hot it was the night before.” After a moment he added, “I never saw frost … but I never looked for it, either.”
Vaelora offered a smile.
Quaeryt suspected she’d forced the expression, but he smiled back.
“You do make the bedchamber more comfortable in summer,” she said quickly. “It was rather warm … until…”
He looked at her, pale in the morning light. “How long have you been awake?”
“A glass, I’d guess. You were so tired, and I didn’t want to wake you, then…”
“You’re hungry, enough to feel faint, aren’t you?”
“That seems to be happening more, now that…”
Quaeryt sat up in the wide bed. “We need to get you something to eat.”
“You’re not doing much better than I am.”
Quaeryt laughed. “Then we need breakfast.” As he put his feet on the floor a moment of light-headedness swept over him, suggesting he had indeed been imaging as he dreamed. How had that happened? He managed not to frown, not wanting to worry Vaelora any more than he already had.
They washed and dressed quickly. Even so, by the time they reached the terrace, the hold house servers had moved the table closer to the study so that it still rested in the morning shadows. Tea and lager were waiting for them, and two platters appeared almost immediately, with biscuits, omelets, and strips of fried ham.
Neither said much until they had each eaten several mouthfuls. Then Quaeryt looked to his wife and said, “We were hungry.”
“We were.” Her words and smile warmed him through, if in a different way. “All three of us.”
“Are you feeling better?”
“Much. You?”
He nodded, since he’d taken another mouthful of the omelet. Then he had a swallow of the lager … and more omelet, and bread with berry preserves.
“I’ve been thinking,” Vaelora said carefully. “Do you remember the story the old Pharsi woman told us in Extela, after you rescued her from the mob?”
Quaeryt glanced toward the serving woman who stood on the terrace beside the study door.
“They don’t speak Bovarian well, remember,” murmured Vaelora, “only the common terms spoken slowly.”
Quaeryt nodded, then replied, “You noticed the old woman. I just followed your suggestion. You really rescued her.”
“All right. After we rescued her.”
“I remember. The story was about four Pharsi, three men and a woman. The woman and her distant cousin who was courting her were lost ones. The brothers were seeking easy fortune.”
“Do you remember the refrain of the young woman?”
“‘Do not argue over what is not and may never be,’ or something like that.”
“Dearest … what sort of story was it?”
“It was a parable. The two brothers kept finding things and wanting more and arguing over what they’d found until they lost everything because of their quarrels.” Quaeryt grinned. “The only one with any sense was the woman.”
“Not quite. The cousin who was a lost one and, according to the old woman, looked like you, also had some sense.” She smiled sweetly. “He had enough sense to listen to her.”
“Your point is taken, dear.”
“Why did she tell the story to us?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve wondered about that.”
“She made a point of telling us. Not anyone else. I don’t think it was to please us or to entertain us.”
“No. It was to warn us. That was clear enough. We are young and carry Pharsi blood. She saw we had some power and position, and she wanted to warn us about wanting what we could never have.”
Vaelora nodded. “How did she know that? She’d never seen us before.”
“You’re suggesting…?” Farsight?
“I don’t know. It’s just … it’s bothered me on and off ever since.”
“Why did you bring that up now?”
“In a way … in a way, you need to look at the ice storm like that. You’ve said that no matter what you did, thousands would die. You had no choice about whether troopers died. Your only choice was which thousands died.”
“If I could have found another way…” Like you did with Rescalyn.
“The only choice we have is to do the best we can when we can. You’re thinking about Rescalyn, aren’t you?”
“How did you know?”
“How could I not know? You’ve talked about it before. It’s bothered you as well, but by killing him in a way that made him a hero, you stopped a bloody revolt that would have slaughtered more thousands than you did at Ferravyl. Don’t you think that if Rescalyn had provoked a rebellion, whether he had been successful or not, it would have weakened Telaryn? That Kharst would have attacked even sooner? Then, how many more thousands would have perished?”
Quaeryt did not answer that. He knew the answer, and so did she. “Still … it doesn’t help that I’ve had to act as a chorister of the Nameless, giving homilies about virtue … mercy … and then…”
“You acted in accord with what you said, dearest.”
“That doesn’t help as much as I’d like.”
She let the silence grow for a moment, then repeated, “‘Do not argue over what is not and may never be.’ That includes arguing with yourself, dearest.”
“It’s hard not to think about the consequences when you’re the one who causes the deaths of so many.”
“Kharst decided to attack. His actions determined that thousands would die. Your actions merely determined which thousands.”
“Merely?” said Quaeryt dryly.
“You know what I meant. Are you determined to take on totally a responsibility that is only partly yours at best?”
“My dreams are suggesting it’s more than that.”
“You need to inform your dreams otherwise.” Vaelora’s voice was almost tart.
That’s easy enough for her to say. She wasn’t there when thousands froze because of what you did.
“Dearest … do you want Lydar to be a better place? Or do you want rulers like Kharst killing all the Pharsi, and Aliaro enslaving all the imagers?”