“People see what they want to see,” agreed Quaeryt. “Can you tell me which patterns have affected Tilbor over the recent past?”
“All of them.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but I don’t know the history, and no one outside of Tilbor has written it. Chardyn said that you-”
“Ah … yes, Chardyn,” replied Sarastyn in a lower voice. “He’s a pattern, too. He watches all strangers. More than he should, as he is now observing you.”
“Why might that be?”
“That … you will have to discover for yourself, but it is a pattern that has been consistent for the last few years. He always observes those who do not reside here for long.”
“I see.” That did confirm some of Quaeryt’s suspicions. “He said that you could help with the history.…”
“You risk that I may be telling you only my own recollections.”
“I’ll take that risk.”
For the third time, Sarastyn laughed. “It is a lovely day, and the Ice Cleft will not open its doors on a Solayi until the fourth glass of the afternoon. We should repair to the north porch.” After a last swallow from the mug, he stood.
Quaeryt rose as well, noting that Chardyn did not turn his head. Quaeryt still felt eyes on his back as he followed the older scholar.
Sarastyn chose a pair of chairs close to the railing, well shaded by the porch roof, but where the building did not block the slight breeze out of the southeast. Quaeryt settled into one of the wooden chairs to listen.
“In what are you interested?”
“Who was Khanar before Eleonyd … and was he stronger than his son?”
“It might be best if I started several generations before,” suggested Sarastyn, smiling broadly. “Context is often as important as the events themselves. Nidar the Great was the last of the truly strong Khanars-the great-grandfather of Eleonyd. He was the one who rebuilt the harbor here in Tilbora and restructured the old clan levies into the Khanar’s Guard and the militia.… Not coincidentally, he was the one who thwarted Hengyst’s ambitions to conquer Tilbor.…”
Quaeryt listened closely as Sarastyn continued, interjecting occasional questions for his own clarification and mentally noting particular references. Over the next glass and more, his interest grew, he had to admit, as Sarastyn’s verbal history drew closer to the present.
“… Tyrena was-I expect she still is-very blond and very strong-willed … as good with arms, if not better, than her father. But then, Eleonyd wasn’t much good at anything. So long as he listened to his wife … he got good advice … she died giving birth to Tyrena … listened to his daughter, but not enough … Rhecyrd … raised in the Noiran coast highlands … typical norther … tall, handsome, and thought everything could be solved with a bow or a blade … Eleonyd thought to preserve his lineage by marrying Tyrena to him … she wanted to rule in her own right … northers objected … members of the Khanar’s Council from both Midcote and Noira walked out…”
Quaeryt nodded as Sarastyn elaborated on what Chardyn had mentioned the night before.
“… can’t say as I blame Tyrena. She didn’t have much choice…”
“Could she have ruled in her own right?”
Sarastyn offered a rueful smile. “There’s never been a Khanara who ruled, but the people of the south preferred her. Rhecyrd started tales that Eleonyd wasn’t ill, but that Tyrena was poisoning him … most likely that his personal healer was, possibly paid by Rhecyrd … Eleonyd started to get better when the healer fell off a balcony and died … damage was done by then … and Eleonyd never fully recovered … got carried off by a nasty form of croup … might have been a civil war except the northers are hotheads … southers don’t like to fight losing battles…”
“Except that they did-with Chayar,” Quaeryt pointed out.
“No. Most of the southers didn’t fight at all. The Guard pulled back to the palace, and Rhecyrd’s clans fought. I don’t know that either of the Telaryn governors has understood that. Southers, and that’s all those south of the Boran Hills, are realists.”
“Just don’t back them into a corner?” asked Quaeryt.
“Mostly. Except for the Pharsi. They’re stiff-necked, but there aren’t many left since the riots years ago.” Sarastyn coughed several times. “I think I’ve talked long enough for now. Time for a rest before I take my afternoon medicinals.”
“Thank you. Have you written down any of this?”
“Save you, and a few others, who would care?”
“Those who have yet to be born who would also care,” suggested Quaeryt.
“You have great faith, Scholar Quaeryt. Few learn from what they observe, and fewer still from the accounts of the mistakes of others.”
“I have little enough faith, sir, but I refuse to give up hope.”
Sarastyn laughed, openly and without bitterness or malice. “Well said! Well said. So should it be for all scholars.” He coughed again. “This has tired me. We should speak later.” He rose slowly.
“Are there any books in the library that you or others have written that might be of value?”
“Those I wrote have long since vanished, and the others … you can see what you will.”
Quaeryt stood and watched as the older man made his way toward the nearest door.
Once he turned to head toward the stables, he saw Chardyn seated at the other end of the porch, seemingly reading a book. He had his doubts that the Sansang scholar had been just engaged in reading.
As Quaeryt stepped off the porch, he glanced to the north and west, but the sky remained clear, without even a trace of haze. While the day felt cooler than it had on Samedi, by late afternoon, it well might be hotter. He shrugged and continued to the stable.
When Quaeryt had finished saddling the mare and led her out into the sunlight, where he mounted, it was close to midday. He didn’t see Chardyn on the porch when he rode past the northeast corner, nor any other of the few scholars he might have recalled from the night before. Several students were playing what looked to be a form of turf bowling on the lower lawn in front. He thought one of them might be Lankyt, but the youth didn’t look in his direction.
He rode eastward past the anomen, and then farther, past the circular crossroads, which seemed even quieter than the last time he had ridden through it, before he finally came to the broader paved road that led south to the river piers or north to the Telaryn Palace. He turned the mare north.
Less than a hundred yards later, he rode past a produce wagon, filled with baskets of maize, most likely headed toward the river piers. A short distance behind that wagon was another, this one bearing bushels of the red and green apples he’d seen at Jorem’s factorage. By the time he was a good half mille, or so he judged, from the lower gate to the causeway serving the palace, he’d ridden past more than a dozen produce wagons, all headed south-and on a Solayi, to boot.
He eased the mare to the shoulder of the road and reined up and studied the Telaryn Palace and its grounds. The long rise ran roughly east to west and had been stripped of all vegetation except grass, and the grass had been grazed regularly enough that it looked to be less than ankle-high in most places. A dry moat some twenty yards across encircled the base of the entire rise, and another road ran parallel to and south of the moat, intersecting the road which Quaeryt had taken at the lower gate that guarded access to the causeway leading up to the palace. Halfway up the slope, the hillside had been carved away to create a wall out of the underlying limestone some three or four yards high. The sole break was where the angled causeway turned straight uphill for a timber bridge that crossed that gap. On the uphill side, the causeway angled back to the east, reaching a stone-framed gate near the eastern end of the gray stone walls.
After taking in the palace, he urged the mare forward and rode slowly toward the gates.