Authors: L. E. Modesitt
As
he tried to meld and create that necessary diffuse link, he added a sense of
similarity ...
...
and he dropped through the stone toward the blackish green of the ley node
below.
The
ley web was cool, welcoming.
Yet
Dainyl couldn’t seem to locate the ley node that matched the crimson-gold of
the locator for Dereka, and his entire body felt as though it were turning to
i.e.
In
desperation, he jabbed a Talent link at the Dereka locator... and slowly,
glacially, it neared him. He toppled through the silvered barrier...
...
going to his knees on the Table. For a moment, he remained there on his knees.
“Don’t
fire! It’s the Highest! He’s hurt.”
Dainyl
eased himself to the side of the Table, getting his legs out from under
himself. He sat on the edge, trying to recover some strength.
Whelyne
walked around the end of the Table. As she studied him more closely, her eyes
widened, and her mouth opened. “Highest... what... ?”
“...
Jonyst... around?”
“No,
sir.”
“Tell
him ... that Brekylt has left Alustre ... There are lightcannon and
light-rifles in Dulka ... and the ancients are massing some kind of green
Talent force.” He forced a smile. “Do you think Guersa could take me to the
RA’s quarters? I need some rest.”
“Yes,
sir. I’m certain she could.” Whelyne added, “Do you need help?”
“Let’s
see.” Dainyl stood, slowly. His knees felt wobbly, and his calves were weak,
but he walked slowly to the archway out of the Table chamber and up the stairs
into the spacious library. The afternoon sun poured into the room, giving it a
sense of warmth.
“I’ll
walk down with you,” Whelyne said.
“You
don’t need to ...”
“If
Jonyst found out I hadn’t, sir ...” Dainyl understood that. He was also
grateful for her presence.
When
he stepped out of the recorder’s building on the lower level where the coach
waited, Dainyl could tell he wasn’t going to walk that much farther, not the
way his legs alternated between feeling like jelly and as though they would
seize up in cramps any moment.
“Guersa...
you’ll need to take the Highest to the RA’s quarters. He’s been in some sort of
... battle.”
Dainyl
could sense that Whelyne had almost said a “Talent battle.”
“I
can do that.”
Dainyl
did take Whelyne’s arm and assistance to climb into the coach. “Thank you.
You’ll tell Jonyst?”
“I
will, Highest. You need to get well.”
For
several moments after the coach pulled away and headed south on the main
boulevard, Dainyl just sat on the hard bench seat of the coach. For the first
time in his life, or at least in a long time, he realized, he’d faced an array
of weapons that could kill him regardless of the Talent of the alector who
held them. What was worse was that Ruvryn and Brekylt and Samist seemed
intent on manufacturing and distributing them widely. Didn’t they understand
the implications? Or were a few years of power more important to them than the
future of both indigens and alectors?
He
had recovered slightly just slightly by the time Guersa eased the coach to
a halt outside Lystrana’s official quarters.
He
opened the door and stepped down as carefully as if he were an older alector
close to losing all his lifeforce and maybe he had come that close then
made his way to the doors.
Fortunately,
the house girl opened the door quickly.
“Oh,
Highest... she’s still at work.”
“That’s
all right. I’ve had a hard day, and I need some rest.”
“Oh
... yes, sir.” Jylena fumbled the ironwork door open.
“Thank
you.” Dainyl forced himself to smile politely as he entered. Then he walked
along the inside hallway that seemed endless, slowly making his way to the
bedchamber.
He
could only manage to remove his boots before the walls began to strobe and
swirl around him. With the last of his strength he took two steps from the
chair to the bed, half climbing, half falling onto it as his eyes closed and a
blackish green swept over him.
In
the orangish light preceding twilight, Mykel reined up outside the small
shedlike barn, taking in the other outbuildings and the larger barn that would
hold many of the men. He turned to Rhystan, who had ridden in beside him. “It’s
not much, but it’s better than bivouacking in the open or in woods. After you
get your companies set, we’ll meet here. By then, the last of the scouts should
be back. If you’d pass the word to the other officers?”
“We’ll
do that.” Rhystan turned his mount, and he and Culeyt rode toward the barn.
Rather
than dismount immediately, Mykel made another tour of the area, looking and
saying little. The main house was shuttered tight, and he couldn’t say he
blamed the family.
He
rode past the provisions wagons, lined up on one side of the barn. The
ammunition wagons were farther away, next to a shed, but a five-man guard was
already on duty. Beyond the barn, the stock pond had ice around the edges, and
a guard to keep Cadmians from using or defiling it. To the northeast of the
stock pond, another hundred yards away, was the southwestern base of a low hill
that rose a good fifteen yards above the rest of the holding. The upper section
was bare black rock, almost polished-looking. Mykel studied it for a moment,
thinking that it reminded him of something, but what it was he couldn’t say.
He
took his time with his survey, then rode back to the shed barn. After
dismounting carefully, he tied the roan to a fence post. Although he could now
use his right hand, he still could not lift his forearm, and the sling remained
a necessity. By the time he had carried his saddlebags and bedroll into the
shed one-handed and found a corner that looked dry and less drafty, he
heard voices. He walked back outside.
Jasakyt
and Coroden had dismounted and tied their mounts.
“Afternoon,
Majer,” offered Jasakyt, the Fifteenth Company scout.
“Majer,
sir.” Coroden inclined his head.
Mykel
could see others approaching Rhystan and Loryalt on foot, Culeyt and the
other two undercaptains riding, followed by three more scouts. He moved back in
front of the shed and waited. Once they all were present, he cleared his
throat. “Let’s have the scouts’ reports.”
The
first was Coroden from Fourteenth Company. He swallowed and began. “Most of the
tracks lead down that lane that circles around the hill....”
By
the time all five scouts had reported, the sun had dropped below the tree-lined
western horizon, and the northeast wind had picked up. Mykel fumbled his jacket
closed. It appeared likely that the Reillies and Squawts were preparing to move
first to the southwest and then intercept the Borlan road another ten vingts to
the south. Their strategy looked to be direct and simple. Keep threatening
Borlan and force Mykel to try to stop them so that they could attempt to kill
him and destroy Third Battalion.
As
a Cadmian commander, Mykel couldn’t risk letting the hill barbarians loose on
Borlan. “We’ll leave at dawn. We should be able to reach the hills to the north
of the flats across the river from Borlan.”
“Yes,
sir.” That came from the three undercaptains. Rhystan and Culeyt only nodded.
“That’s
all for now,” Mykel went on. “I’m going to walk the camp.”
The
scouts and undercaptains and Culeyt departed immediately.
Rhystan
waited, then turned to Mykel. “Do you think you can get them to fight us?”
“Sooner
or later. I’d prefer sooner, and we’ll have to make it costly for them.”
“You
already have, sir, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping them.”
Mykel
was well aware of that. From the latest reports, the Reillies had left close to
four hundred on the field in three encounters, yet they were regrouping. From
the two Cadmian battalions, thirty men had been killed outright in the second
skirmish, with another ten dying later of wounds, and fifty wounded. “Some
people can only accept things their way. They’d almost rather die than change.”
“Almost?”
Rhystan’s
tone was wry, but Mykel could sense the deeper feelings behind it.
“I
know. I’m going to walk through the camp for a bit. Do you want to join me?”
“It
might be best if I didn’t, sir.”
“Then
I’ll see you later.” Mykel smiled and turned to his left. Less than ten yards
toward the barn, he dodged a half-frozen hole that contained water and worse,
heading for the closest company Thirteenth Company.
“Sir!”
Dyarth stiffened as he saw Mykel.
“I’m
just looking around, Undercaptain. How are your wounded doing?”
“We
lost one, sir. The others look to make it.”
“Good.
Just keep up the good work.” Mykel offered a smile he hoped was encouraging and
sympathetic, then moved on.
As
he neared the cookfires to the south of the main barn, the odor of wood smoke
grew stronger. From the
e.g.
of Fourteenth Company,
he could hear voices from a group of rankers.
“...
puts on his pants like everyone else, bleeds like us, too...”
“...
rode out of that forest with an iron bar through his chest...”
“...
dagger of the ancients ...”
Mykel
managed not to wince. When he stepped away from the cookfires, in the growing
darkness he looked toward the lone hill, a hill that seemed cloaked in a black
and amber-green.
...
Learn what you must know ...
Were
the soarers calling him?
They
always had a reason. He turned toward the hill, following an old and overgrown
path. He glanced toward the holder’s dwelling, where the shutters remained
tight, although a healthy line of smoke issued from the main chimney.
The
upper part of the hill was surrounded by a wooden plank fence, old enough that
several of the planks had fallen and not been replaced. Likewise, the gate half
hung from a single iron hinge. Mykel stepped around the gate and continued up
the gentle slope of the path.
The
soarer hovered over bare black stone short of the highest point of the low
hill, clearly waiting for Mykel.
You
have become more perceptive.
“You
summoned me.”
Invited.
Mykel
received the impression of humor. He waited.
What
do you intend to do about the invaders?
“What
do you intend? It’s clear that you planned the attacks to destroy Fourth
Battalion. Why? You said that we weren’t the problem, but the ... the Ifrits
were.”
That
is not quite true. They are the greater danger. They will destroy the world for
all life, all but the lowest forms. But a herding dog who follows such an
invader is also a danger.
“So
I’m a danger, now?”
Not
you. Not so far. The one bound by the Talent of the Ifrits. We had him
destroyed.
That
had to be Hersiod. “So why didn’t you just kill him and not all the innocent
rankers and miners?”
Not
all of them were innocent. A single death would not have brought you here.
Him?
In some fashion, they’d created the carnage so that he would be sent? “How did
you know they would send me?”
They
know you have Talent. Before they kill you, they wish to use you against us. If
we kill you, then they risk nothing. If you weaken us, it costs them nothing. That
is obvious. The soarer radiated bitter humor. They do not understand the
choices they have forced.
“Why
are the Reillies so intent on destroying me?” Mykel thought he might as well
ask.
You
have Talent. Only their high priest and his assistants may have Talent. You
also support the Ifrits, and they have Talent. For the hill peoples, that is
wrong. It is an affront to their god. It matters little that such a god does
not exist. “What do you want of me?” And my Talent?
?????
“You
would not have invited me if you didn’t have some reason.”
We
have our reasons. We wish you to survive and return to the one to whom you are
tied. That will benefit all the world. Avoid the Ifrits until you know that
matters have changed greatly enough that they will no longer attempt to kill
you.
“That’s
easy enough for you to say. You can soar and disappear into rock.”
Have
you ever tried?
Mykel
blinked. The soarer had vanished.
After
trying to locate the soarer with his Talent-aided senses, Mykel finally turned
and began to walk down the path. The Reillies and the Squawts were out to kill
him. The alectors were out to kill him, as Rachyla had said, once his
usefulness was over. He had Talent. That he knew, but how to use it effectively
was something he still had not mastered. And now the soarers were suggesting
that he could soar and disappear into the rock.
He
stopped and concentrated on the ground beneath the hill, using his Talent.
Somewhere
beneath him lay a blackness, of the same sort he had sensed in Hyalt. That
suggested the soarers used it, or drew on it, as a form of transport. He tried
to reach it... somehow. For a moment, the sky seemed to swirl around him. He
stumbled, then caught himself.
There
had to be a way. He shook his head. That would have to wait.
He
smiled as he recalled what else the soarers had said that he was tied to
Rachyla and that would benefit all the world? The tie was obvious, but
benefiting the world?
He
snorted.
Dainyl
felt a warm hand on his forehead.
“Dearest...
dearest...”
“...
be all right.” His words came out mumbled.
“I’m
sure you will be, but you need rest.”
He
opened his eyes, taking in the darkness beyond the bedchamber windows. Then he
realized that Lystrana had undressed him and put him in a nightshirt, as well
as propped two pillows under his head, and folded the counterpane across his
chest. “Thank you.”