Alector's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Dainyl found himself in turbulent river of purplish blackness, a darkness that buffeted and battered him. Yet he was carried nowhere, much as he felt as though he were caught in an underground river. Bitter chill penetrated every span of his body, sweeping through his garments as if he wore nothing. Instantly, he felt colder than he had in winter at Eastice. He could see nothing. He tried to lift his arms, but they would not move.

  Sluggishly, as if his thinking had been slowed by the chill, he remembered to reach out with his Talent, to try to find the locators. After what felt like glasses, he began to discern several narrow wedges, colored wedges. One hovered above him, a bright pink-purple. Another wedge of bright blue seemed closer than all the others except for the pink. Beyond, somewhere in the blackness and chill, he could sense wedges of color—crimson-gold, amber, brilliant yellow, green, gray… Beyond, in a sense he could not have explained, stretched a deep and distant purple-black wedge. The sense of distance was so overpowering that Dainyl felt almost nauseated.

  What was he supposed to do? To concentrate on using his Talent to move himself toward one of the wedges—the bright blue wedge.

  He concentrated… trying to focus on the blue, so near, and yet not so close as it seemed, seeking to bring himself to it, before the chill of wherever he was slowed his thinking so much that he could no longer use his Talent.

  He sensed no movement, nothing.

  He had to do something before he ceased to exist, or turned into a brainless wild translation—but what?

  Could he link himself to that blue wedge that was Tem-pre? He attempted to cast out a Talent line, and a thin line of purple flowed from him, a line of Talent-energy that connected with the blue wedge. Abruptly, with a swift pulsation, he felt himself flowing through the chill darkness, hurtling oward the blue, a blue that turned silver and shattered iround him.

  Dainyl had to take two quick steps to get his balance before he caught himself. Once more, he stood on a Table, this time in another windowless chamber. His entire body shivered, much as he would have willed it otherwise, and jven his legs quivered, feeling weak. Frost appeared on tüs uniform then vanished, melting as quickly as it had appeared.

  Dainyl eased himself off the Table. Unlike the Table chamber in Lyterna, the chamber was empty. The single entrance was a narrow square arch, in which a solid oak door was set—closed. There was not a single hanging on the walls, formed of fitted stone, rather than carved out of the rock itself, nor a single furnishing in the chamber.

  Dainyl opened the door. Outside, stationed on each side of the arch, were two alectors, both wearing the blue-and-gray Myrmidon uniforms. The Myrmidon ranker on the right had his hand on the hilt of a lightning edged short sword, the weapon used for guard duty inside buildings. As his eyes took in the uniform and the stars on Dainyl’s collar, the Myrmidon relaxed. “Submarshal, sir?”

  “Just looking around,” Dainyl replied. “This is Tempre, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.” Puzzlement appeared in the other’s eyes.

  “Good. Thank you.” Dainyl closed the door behind him and walked into the corridor, turning right, since he saw some sort of light in that direction. Behind him, he could pick up the murmurs between the two.

  “… said only the ones with stars, Submarshal and marshal, and the high alectors…”

  “… what’s behind the door…”

  “… don’t know, and Furtryl said I’d better never ask, and never look…”

  Dainyl kept walking. After fifty yards, he came to a circular stone staircase. Did he want to go up? He decided against it—Asulet was waiting—and walked back to the Table chamber.

  Neither guard said a word as he opened the door to the Table chamber and closed it behind him.

  He looked at the Table, took a deep breath, and stepped onto the black stone surface, concentrating on the blackness below. As he dropped through the Table, this time, he was aware of silverness spraying away from him.

  Again, the chill purple blackness enfolded him, but this time, he was already focusing on finding a pink-purple wedge. He fumbled for a moment before Talent-linking to the pinkish wedge. Silver sprayed away from him…

  He stood on the Table at Lyterna.

  Asulet smiled. “Congratulations, Submarshal. You are now qualified to be considered as a High Alector.”

  Dainyl stepped off the Table. That made sense in a way. “At least, the Highest and Marshal Shastylt won’t have to look for another Submarshal.”

  “Not until you become marshal; then it will be your problem.”

  That was likely to be many, many year’s away, if ever. Dainyl still recalled all too vividly what had happened to Tyanylt and how no one had ever mentioned his name again, even to Lystrana, once he had crossed the marshal and the Highest.

  77

  On Duadi, Mykel had sent out the scouts but given the rest of Fifteenth Company a day of badly needed and well-deserved rest. Then he had headed off to see Dohark.

  The overcaptain was standing in the study that wasn’t his, rather than pacing, and he still had dark circles under his eyes. “You might as well come in, Mykel.”

  Mykel closed the study door behind him.

  Dohark sat behind the desk and waited for Mykel to seat himself. He did not speak.

  “What have you heard?” asked the captain.

  “I’ve heard that I have a captain who’s managed to slaughter between one and three entire companies of rebels, and who has probably shot half of them himself.”

  While Mykel felt he’d shot and killed all too many rebels, the number couldn’t have been that high. “I’ve shot a few. Most rankers in Fifteenth Company have.”

  “How long can you keep it up?” From his tone of voice, Dohark might have been asking about what was being served in the officers’ mess.

  “For as long as they don’t know how to use scouts and don’t trust each other.” Mykel paused. “Is there any word on when the colonel will return back? Or on reinforcements?”

  Dohark shook his head.

  “Do you think that we’ve been left here to rot on the vine, sir?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t have any delusions about the warmth of the Myrmidons and the alectors, but I can’t see any benefit to them jn abandoning us.” A wry smile appeared. “Waiting until we’re in great difficulty before pulling us out… I can see that as a way of reminding everyone of our dependence on the power of the alectors.”

  Mykel could see that as well. He just didn’t like the implications for Third Battalion—especially for Fifteenth Company.

  “What new idea do you have for keeping us less dependent on them?” asked Dohark.

  “Can you get me several barrels of gunpowder?” asked Mykel. “And a length of good fuse, and two or three kegs of nails? Big nails.”

  Dohark looked across the desk at the captain. “How are you going to manage that, without blowing up your own company? What happens when the locals decide to reciprocate? Or the Myrmidons show up again? They’re not exactly fond of large explosive devices.”

  “I’ve heard words about that, but I’ve never seen anything.”

  “You won’t. It’s not written anywhere. I was a ranker for longer than most officers,” Dohark said. “I’d been with Ninth Company a year, maybe two, when we were sent east to deal with a bunch of Squawts in the hills around Dekhron. They’d built a redoubt on a hilltop, walls a good three yards thick, and at least four high. Had a well or a spring there, and enough food for years. Stone roof as well. Firelances didn’t do any good.”

  Mykel nodded. Solid stone would stop a skylance.

  “We had a captain. Bright man. You remind me of him. He didn’t like us getting picked off one at a time. He suggested that maybe we ought to leave the Squawts alone. Majer Bryten said no—we had orders to take the place, even if it meant killing half the battalion. He was like Majer Vaclyn. The captain did pretty much what you were thinking about. Did it himself. Sneaked up the hill on the darkest night and climbed
up the stones where the Squawts couldn’t see him. He lowered the barrel of powder somewhere, lit the fuse, and made off. Blew a big hole in the redoubt. We attacked, and the Squawts surrendered.”

  “What he did worked,” Mykel said. “Then what happened?”

  “He was recalled to Elcien. Told to ride there immediately the next morning. He never made it. One of the Myrmidons thought he was a Squawt—fried him to a cinder. Terrible mistake.” Dohark paused. “The word is that anytime someone starts using gunpowder for anything besides rifles, there’s a terrible mistake.”

  Mykel could not only sense the truth of Dohark’s words, but the concern behind them. He also realized he’d never heard or seen gunpowder used for anything except rifles or work in the mines. “I’d better think of something else.”

  “I worry about you, Mykel. All you’ve been doing is thinking of ways to kill people.”

  “Isn’t that what we were sent here to do?” Mykel heard the tiredness in his own voice.

  “You seem to like it.”

  Mykel could feel his face stiffen. “Sir, I don’t like it. I never have. I’m getting good at it, but that’s only because the choices don’t seem to be very great. If Fifteenth Company can’t strike first and harder, then Third Battalion loses more men.”

  “Frigging tough problem, isn’t it?” Dohark laughed, a sound both harsh and soft. “Do you have any other ideas?”

  “I’ll have to think about them, after the scouts get back.”

  “Maybe the lady seltyr can give you some ideas. She seems to talk to you. She won’t say a word to me, or Majer Herryf. She wouldn’t even say anything to Colonel Dainyl. Do you know why she talks to you?”

  “No,” admitted Mykel. “She doesn’t say much. I’m fortunate if I can get her to say more than a few sentences.”

  “That’s more than she’ll say to anyone else.” Dohark stood. “Do you still think you can operate effectively against the seltyrs?”

  “For now.” Mykel rose as well.

  “Don’t push it. There’ll be a time when you can’t. Just ride away when that happens.”

  “I will.” Mykel had no desire for a so-called glorious death in the face of impossible odds. He’d tried not to roll the bones except when the odds favored him. That wouldn’t change.

  “See that you do. We need you.”

  Mykel inclined his head, then left the study. He appreciated Dohark’s warning about the gunpowder, and the fact that the overcaptain had explained, rather than just dismissing the idea, as Majer Vaclyn would most likely have done.

  Once outside the headquarters building, Mykel had to squint for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the bright morning sunlight. A light wind blew out of the south as he walked across the courtyard toward the structure holding the officer’s cell—and Rachyla. The air was far warmer than it had been, giving the compound the feel of early summer in Elcien. Mykel had no desire to remain in Dra-mur for the long hot summer that was sure to come.

  Even before he reached the cell, one of the guards was watching him. Mykel stopped in the shade cast by the overhanging balcony and blotted the dampness off his forehead.

  “Sir?” asked the guard.

  “Overcaptain Dohark sent me. If you want to check—”

  “No, sir. He already told us that you were in charge of questioning the woman.”

  Mykel suppressed a smile. He owed Dohark for that. He wasn’t sure what he owed the overcaptain—a thank-you or a practical joke, or both.

  Rachyla did not even look at Mykel until the guards closed and locked the door. She said nothing. In turn, for several moments, he just looked at her.

  “Your splinter wound has healed,” she finally said.

  “Yes.” He waited, still standing a good two yards from her.

  After a moment, she asked, “Why are you here? Again?”

  “Because I want to be, because the overcaptain asked me, because…” He shrugged.

  “You are losing?”

  Mykel shook his head. “Not so far. It might be easier if Fifteenth Company were.”

  “Do not ask me for sympathy, Captain.”

  “I’m not.” He paused. “More than a week ago—it seems longer—we were attacked by bluecoats at the mine. Some prisoners tried to escape. The bluecoats stopped shooting at us long enough to shoot down all the prisoners. Why?”

  “A slave or a prisoner can never be allowed to be free again. That is the law of the seltyrs.”

  “What about you?”

  “I will not be freed. When my usefulness is over, I will be killed.”

  “That’s why you talk to me?”

  “I must talk to someone, or I will have no usefulness. You are honest. You are as sharp and as direct as a dagger of the ancients, and with that edge you will likely cut your own throat.”

  “As sharp and as direct as a dagger of the ancients? What does that mean?”

  Rachyla looked hard at him. “You are a dagger of the ancients, Captain. That is a curse and a prophecy, but the daggers are real. I have only seen one. It was my grandfather’s. He gave it to his worst enemy. Where it is now, who can say?”

  Mykel couldn’t help but wonder if the dagger concealed i in his belt was the same one. He doubted it, because he couldn’t imagine a seltyr stooping to have a chandler as his worst enemy, but one never knew. “Don’t you think the seltyrs are cutting their own throats?”

  Rachyla shrugged. “Do they have any choice? Do you?

  “Do I? Only the stupid talk of choices. Wisdom is when you see that there are no true choices.”

  “You don’t believe that we have choices?”

  A laugh filled the cell, that same ironic and melodic laugh that he tried to recall once he had left her—and never could. Mykel waited, hoping she would say more.

  “We have choices, Captain. We have one true choice at any one time. The rest are but illusions.”

  “The illusion of choice,” he said softly.

  “You understand. You wish you did not, but you do.”

  “So I am fated to kill hundreds of men whose only fault is that they follow an unwise seltyr, and that seltyr is fated to fail because he sees no other choice?”

  “Not if he would remain a seltyr,” Rachyla replied.

  “You’re saying that the Myrmidons are using the Cadmians to destroy the seltyrs.”

  “Are you not? My father is dead. How long before the others are dead or wish that they were?”

  Mykel didn’t have an answer for that, not an honest one. “What of you?”

  “I told you. Unless someone makes a foolish choice, I will die.”

  “Then why don’t you just give up?” Mykel managed not to snap the words out.

  A sardonic smile crossed her lips. “Because, Captain, there are enough men who make foolish choices that I see no point in seeking death. Death comes to all, sooner or later, but I would rather not hasten it. Besides, it is amusing to see you try to avoid your fate.”

  “What is my fate?”

  For the first time, her face showed just a touch of indecision, but that indecision vanished even as he read it in her green eyes. “You will be tormented by the One Who Is until you no longer know what you believe or whom to trust and that is but the beginning.” Abruptly, she turned away.

  “So… what do you suggest, Lady Rachyla?”

  She did not turn or respond.

  She would not. That he could tell, and he bowed, even though she could not see the gesture. “Good day, Lady. Until the next time.”

  He rapped on the door, and waited until it opened.

  Once he was outside, the guards looked at him.

  Mykel shook his head.

  “Seems to go that way, sir.”

  “Still… each time, I learn a little more.” Mykel wasn’t about to reveal all that he learned, and some of what he learned didn’t seem applicable. Not yet.

  As he crossed the courtyard, he hoped that the reports from the scouts would offer some ideas on what he co
uld do with Fifteenth Company. Rachyla hadn’t been helpful there, except to reinforce his feeling that the seltyrs weren’t about to surrender or submit—just as she would not.

  78

  Dainyl had felt exhausted after his two table trips on Duadi, brief as they had seemed, and had gone back to his guest quarters in Lyterna to rest.

  At the evening meal, Asulet had reassured him, “The first trips are tiring. With each translation, it gets easier. You’ll hardly notice it when you go back to Elcien tomorrow.”

  “No more secrets?” Dainyl had asked, with a smile.

  “There are always more secrets,” Asulet had replied with a laugh, “but those you don’t know won’t help you until you master what you’ve just learned.”

  That had been the end of the information, as Asulet had asked about the latest music from Ifryn, and about the weather in various places where Dainyl had recently been.

  He politely refused to answer any questions that dealt with substance.

  Early on Tridi morning, wearing his flying jacket and gloves, Dainyl had stepped onto the Table in the chamber in Lyterna, his saddlebags over one shoulder. He concentrated… and felt himself dropping through the silver barrier…

  … into the chill blackness. He extended his Talent, seeking out the brilliant white wedge at Elcien. With his Talent-link, he rushed through the darkness, yet without a real sense of motion, toward another silver barrier, one lined in white. White silver sprayed from him…

  He stood on another Table. For a moment, he shivered. The jacket and gloves had not helped against the cold blackness between Tables. The Table was identical to the others he had used, or so it seemed. The walls of the Table chamber were of white marble, and the floor of green. He stepped off the Table and walked to the heavy white oak door: He opened it and stepped into a small foyer, with a second door. The second door had a Talent lock, and it took a moment for Dainyl to release it.

  After he stepped into the familiar lower level corridor in the Hall of Justice, he replaced the Talent-lock and walked toward the Highest’s study. Even before he reached it, he could tell it was empty. He made his way to one of the other smaller chambers, one where the door was ajar.