“Of course.”
“Why did you write me about Syndar?”
“Originally, I wanted to find some way to tell you that Syndar was not suited to be a holder, but that did not seem … right. When Yullyd told me how well Syndar did in helping with the ledgers, I realized that while my feelings had been correct, I hadn’t fully understood why. Your son Jorem has made the produce factorage more successful because he loves his wife and what they do together. Lankyt will make a good holder because he loves the land so much that he has gone out of his way to discover ways to improve what can be grown and how. Those were obvious to me, but when I saw, through others, that Syndar truly loved the life of study and numbers, I wrote … because men and women, I believe, find the most in life when they love what they do, either because they always love that or come to find that they do.”
“And you, Princeps,” asked Darlinka softly, “what do you love?”
“Besides Vaelora?” replied Quaeryt with a smile.
“You still answer some questions with questions,” said the holder’s wife.
What do I love doing in life? After several moments of silence, Quaeryt replied, “That’s because I question that myself. I don’t know that I have an answer for you, not one that would be completely honest. I like making things … better. But ‘better’ is something that is different for each man, each woman.” He offered a crooked smile.
Darlinka looked to Vaelora, questioningly.
“I would not dispute my husband’s answer, nor would mine be much different.”
Rhodyn laughed. “Then it appears you are well matched.”
“I only hope that you are strong enough together to survive what you love,” said Darlinka, her voice still soft, with a hint of sadness beneath the words.
So do I. Quaeryt did not voice the thought, but just reached out and squeezed Vaelora’s hand.
15
South of Ayerne, the ice-covered snow of Tilbor and the north gave way to softer snow that was little more than calf-deep and soft and slushy. Even so, only by concentrating could Quaeryt make out the snow-covered remnants of the towns that Rhodyn and the other holders north of the Ayerne River had leveled years earlier. Progress for the regiment was slow until they reached the small town of Sullys, three days south of Ayerne, where they turned west on the solid stone-paved post road built generations earlier in the time of Hengyst.
Roughly at midmorning on Samedi, under high gray clouds, Quaeryt and Vaelora were riding beside Skarpa near the front of the column when a scout headed toward them from around a wide curve in the road. The scout reined in his mount, then drew alongside the commander.
“Sirs! The bridge is covered with water. It’s deep, more than head-high. The water’s running too fast to cross, even if we could see where the bridge is. There are chunks of ice everywhere.”
“We might as well see how bad it is before we decide,” said Skarpa, looking to Quaeryt.
Quaeryt nodded.
“I’d like to come, too,” said Vaelora.
Quaeryt wasn’t about to deny her, not when she was a far better rider than he was.
Skarpa turned in the saddle and raised an arm. “Regiment! Halt!”
As the command rippled back along the column, Skarpa, Quaeryt, and Vaelora rode forward with the scout. The road between two tree-covered ridges was level all the way around the curve, then descended gently to an expanse of murky gray water, dotted with chunks of grayish ice, that covered the bridge. The four reined up beside another scout, some ten yards back from the edge of the water, and surveyed what lay between them and the road on the far side.
The river ran between two long ridges, neither more than fifty yards above the road, and less than a hundred yards apart at the level of the road, before plunging over a barrier of frozen vegetation, branches, and tree trunks, at the top of what was likely the top of a moderate cataract most of the year, but the barrier formed a dam that had lifted the water level well above the road leading to the submerged bridge, and whatever eroding effect the frigid water might be having was more than outweighed by the vegetation and chunks of ice piling up behind the existing tangle.
“It could be days…” said Vaelora quietly.
“Is there any way around this?” asked Quaeryt.
“From the maps we have, and from what I recall from when I was here before, we’d have to go back more than ten milles to take a more southern road, and it’s not paved.” Skarpa looked at Quaeryt. “You know what that means, sir.”
Quaeryt did. The southern road would be even less passable in spots, besides taking much, much longer.
After a time, he said, “Let me take a closer look.” Before either Vaelora or Skarpa could say anything, Quaeryt eased his mount off the road, southward along the lower part of the hill on the east side of the slowly rising water, trying to let her pick her way over the soggy ground between dampened and flattened bushes and leafless trees.
As he neared a point opposite the tangle that comprised the barrier, he could see that part of the hillside had collapsed, perhaps because of rain or melting snow, if not both. The combination of the rocks and soil and trees that had slid into the river and the debris carried downstream and snagging on who knew what else below the surface of the water, not to mention the ice, had created a temporary but effective dam.
But temporary could mean it lasts for days or weeks.
He tied the mare to the exposed root of a tree partly ripped out of the hillside by the landslide, then took his half-staff from its leathers and slowly made his way downhill to the end of the debris, a mass of ice, soil, and twisted branches and roots. He put one foot on the end. The debris did not budge. He took three more careful steps, using the staff to probe for solid footing, but when he tried to extend his boot for the fourth, he could feel the makeshift dam shift, if ever so slightly. Less than three yards from where he stood, water poured over the middle part of the barrier, almost as if it were a spillway, and then cascaded down over and around icy rocks and huge boulders, dropping a good thirty yards over a distance of less than a hundred.
He glanced back upstream. The torrent of murky gray water and ice chunks seemed endless. He looked at the face of the “dam,” trying to pick out places where the water was seeping through in more than mere tricklets. Finally, he located a streamlet of water almost as big around as his wrist, shooting out from the front, some two yards down and possibly four toward the center of the twisted mass from where he stood.
He bent and began to wiggle a root, not that his efforts did so much as even cause a stir in the debris, but none of those around Skarpa could have determined that from where they watched. Then he concentrated on trying to image away some of the debris above the streamlet.
He could sense that he’d moved something, but the flow of water remained the same. The second time, he concentrated on an area to the far side. He could feel himself begin to sweat, despite the cold and clammy air around him.
He waited and watched. The streamlet seemed larger, but not much.
The third time, he visualized removing debris and soil behind the last place from which he had removed matter, and the size of the streamlet again grew … but not that much.
Quaeryt made another effort. The streamlet tripled in size, and the entire dam shuddered, if slightly.
Quaeryt retreated several steps and waited. While the streamlet continued to expand, he could see that the increased flow still was far from enough to lower the water level. He bent and grabbed another branch, but that was for effect only as he attempted to image away more, visualizing the removal of a large cube of material.
Everything around him seemed to flash, and sweat poured from his forehead. For a moment, he could see nothing because of the flashes, while the makeshift dam shuddered more. At that moment, he lost control of even his lightest shields. Then a cascade of water poured through the area Quaeryt had enlarged, and the barrier began to shake.