Quaeryt wished he could have come up with a better ending to the homily, but any words he had tried to make a rousing end had seemed false. So he concluded with a simple phrase: “The Nameless has told us to turn from false images, whether in our minds or in the minds of others … and so we should … today, tonight, and for all time.”
He stood there silently for a moment after he finished, before beginning the closing hymn, the one he knew the best-“For the Glory.”
“For the glory, through all strife,
for the beauty of all life,
for all that is and will ever be,
all together, through forever,
in eternal Nameless glory…”
As in the past, when the voices of the men died away, he did not offer the standard benediction, but waited for silence, then simply said, “As we have come together to seek meaning and renewal, let us go forth this evening renewed in hope and in harmony with that which was, is, and ever shall be.”
After the benediction, he just stepped back, and stood on the stone oblong, before the dry fountain, waiting for the men to disperse.
Skarpa walked over. “That was carefully worded.”
“I hope so,” replied Quaeryt.
“There was another thing…” The commander paused. “You didn’t speak all that loudly, but all of the men seemed to hear and understand what you said.”
“I’m glad they did.” Quaeryt offered a grin. “At least, I think I am. I’ve done better.”
“We all have, but you’re still better than any chorister I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard more than a few.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll see you and Meinyt right after breakfast.”
“Yes, sir.” Although Quaeryt had a chamber with a comfortable bed, he wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon.
He still had to write out notes for Bhayar about the High Holder of Laesheld, based on what he and Fifth Battalion had uncovered, and he hoped he’d have a chance to write a few lines to Vaelora as well … before he was too tired to think well enough to write.
31
After breakfast on Lundi, Quaeryt sought out Shaelyt and drew him aside into a dim parlor in the hold house.
“What is it, sir?”
“I had a chance to talk to Undercaptain Voltyr the other day, but not you. He said you had made some steps toward developing the ability to shield yourself. How much progress?”
“I can harden the air so that I cannot break through it. That tires me so much that I can only do it for perhaps a third of a quint.”
Quaeryt nodded. “That’s a good start. Can you make the air less hard, so that you can push a sabre through it, but only with great effort?”
“I have not attempted that, sir.”
“You should. That should take less effort. That way you can hold the shield for longer.”
“What good will that do, sir, if I might ask?”
“First, the longer you can hold shields, the stronger you will become. Second … have you seen what happens when an arrow or a blade strikes water? How far does either penetrate?”
Shaelyt frowned, then smiled abruptly. “Thank you, sir.”
“You need to keep working every day, and you might pass that on to Voltyr.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all for now. You need to get ready to move out.”
Once Shaelyt had hurried off, Quaeryt made his way out to the west courtyard for morning muster. After that, while the companies were readying to head out, he returned to the hold house study to meet with Skarpa and Meinyt.
The commander’s first words were to the point. “The scouts I had out early this morning have discovered more Bovarians. Another regiment, half foot, is marching toward Villerive.”
“Where did they come from if they’re on this side of the river and marching away from us?” asked Meinyt.
“I’d guess they were stationed along the eastern end of the Bovarian border with Antiago. That dispatch indicated every regiment in Bovaria was being called in.”
“They had to have left before the battle at Ferravyl,” said Quaeryt. “If they came from there, they had to cover twice as much ground as we have to reach Villerive.”
“That could be. It doesn’t change anything. It’s another regiment we’ll have to fight. There’s no telling when they might stop and take a stand, either.”
“Not before Ralaes,” offered Meinyt. “They’ll need a day or longer to recover.”
“That’s only if they’ve traveled from the border,” Skarpa pointed out. “For all we know, they could have been much closer. They could be waiting four milles west of here.”
“What formation do you want this morning?” asked Quaeryt.
“The one with Fifth Battalion as the van.”
After receiving quick status reports from the two subcommanders, Skarpa dismissed them to make ready for immediate departure. Quaeryt reclaimed his kit from the bedchamber he’d used and hurried out to meet with Zhelan and the company commanders to let them know that Fifth Battalion would again take the lead in departing Laesheld.
Two quints later, when Quaeryt rode out through the weathered limestone gates and onto the river road once more, he felt that the air was slightly cooler, most likely because of the scattered rains of the previous days, but the crystal clear skies suggested that the day might end up as hot, if not hotter, than the previous days. He glanced ahead where the second of the squads dispatched as scouting parties disappeared over the crest of one of the low rolling hills that flanked the River Aluse, although with each mille they rode westward, the hills had become less steep, and now resembled gentle rises.
From what Quaeryt recalled of geography studied years previously, the midlands of Bovaria, stretching from the hills that ran from Kephria to the western end of the Sud Swamp northward almost to the eastern end of the Montagnes D’Glace, were largely flat and fertile, and the River Aluse ran through the midsection of that fertile area.
Fifth Battalion had barely covered a mille when Skarpa rode forward and joined Quaeryt.
“Have you seen anything? Have the scouts reported?”
“No, sir.”
“The Bovarians won’t let us ride into Villerive.”
“I’d think not, but who knows where they’ll take a stand?”
Skarpa shook his head and said nothing more.
Quaeryt listened to the undercaptains riding behind them, trying to hear what they were saying. For a time, the talk was about the rain and the strangeness of Laesheld. Then the comments drifted more onto the campaign.
“… seems like the Bovarians are letting us get too close to Variana…”
“… want to draw us in…”
“… commander and subcommander must know…”
“… subcommander knows more than he says…”
“What’s he done lately?”
That was Threkhyl’s voice, louder than it should be, as always, Quaeryt reflected.
“Besides keeping a score of troopers from getting hurt with all those traps, you mean?” asked Voltyr cuttingly.
“… not that special…” muttered the ginger-haired undercaptain.
“… and some imagers aren’t that bright, either.”
The last comment was murmured in such a low voice that Quaeryt barely heard it, but after that, for a time, none of the undercaptains spoke, not loudly enough for Quaeryt to overhear.
Another glass passed. While the day warmed, Quaeryt had to admit that so far it remained pleasant. Ahead, the road turned to the left, paralleling a narrow strip of water upstream of where it entered the River Aluse. Right after the turn, the dirt road was replaced by narrow stone paving, if ancient and worn. The waterway was so narrow that it had to be a canal, although it now appeared abandoned. The canal separated the river road from a wooded island or peninsula. Quaeryt couldn’t tell which yet. There was only a narrow strip of brush in front of the line of shorter trees just ahead on the south side of the island. The land north of the canal and the ground where the river road ran once had to have been joined, Quaeryt felt, because they were almost the same level, and the first trees were less than a hundred yards from the right shoulder of the road. The slopes down to the almost stagnant water on each side of the ancient canal were steep, and Quaeryt could see the remaining riprap that still faced the slopes in places between the bushes and grass.