Soarer's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “You were victorious, I take it.”

  “Only after a fashion. We lost something like twenty pteridons and Myrmidons. By my count, they had Second and Fourth Companies. Three of them escaped. There were another four pteridons without fliers.”

  Alcyna looked at Dainyl. “You can’t destroy a pteridon with a skylance. Did they shoot down their own pteridons with lightcannon?”

  Dainyl swallowed. In the heat of the battle, he hadn’t even considered that. “No. Well…it’s possible that they might have hit some of their own. They were heavy lightcannon. Each one was powered by a wagon full of lifeforce crystals…”

  Alcyna’s white face turned even more pale. “You destroyed almost twenty pteridons?”

  “I didn’t seem to have much choice. They were trying to destroy ours, and they had light-rifles in the air and on the ground.” Dainyl stopped speaking and watched as the pteridons that had followed him began to land, one after the other.

  “Neither of the Duarches will be happy.”

  Dainyl agreed with her on that. Anything that pleased Khelaryt certainly wouldn’t have pleased Samist, and the reverse was certainly true. Since neither had totally triumphed, neither would be pleased.

  He turned and walked across the courtyard, not that he really had anywhere to go at the moment, not with the Table in the Hall of Justice pouring out a purple miasma of deadly Talent, but he didn’t wish to note which faces were among the missing, particularly those from First Company.

  Inside, the duty desk was held by Doselt, the administrative squad leader.

  “Highest, sir?”

  “First, Fifth, and Seventh Companies have returned. Casualties were high. The marshal will be able to fill you in.”

  Dainyl turned and walked down the corridor to the empty study that had been his when he’d been submarshal. He left the door slightly ajar and sat down behind the empty table desk.

  He’d tried to keep it all from coming to what had just happened. He’d warned Shastylt. He’d warned Zelyert. He’d warned the Duarch and kept him informed. He’d stopped Rhelyn and Fahylt. He’d kept more than half of the Myrmidons in the east loyal. And what had Khelaryt done?

  The High Alector of Justice looked out the window in the direction of the Palace.

  90

  Some time after Dainyl had entered the empty submarshal’s study, perhaps a half glass later, Alcyna stepped into the study and quietly closed the door.

  “We lost Ghasylt and Yuasylt, Lyzetta and one of her undercaptains, and two of Fhentyl’s undercaptains.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Dainyl replied quietly.

  “I’ve done a quick debriefing,” Alcyna went on. “According to Chelysta, Ghanyr, and Asyrk, you destroyed all the lightcannon and light-rifles and something like twenty pteridons. By yourself. All by yourself. All by your frigging self.”

  “I didn’t keep count,” Dainyl admitted. “I tried not to get our Myrmidons into the mess. It would have been much better not to be on the defensive, but Khelaryt wouldn’t respond. I had to do something.”

  The marshal shook her head. “You went after Brekylt, didn’t you?”

  “In both Alustre and Dulka.” He laughed ruefully. “I didn’t have a pteridon. They do make a difference.”

  “For you. Not necessarily for everyone.”

  There was a sharp and hard rap on the closed door.

  “Marshal! Highest! There’s a messenger here from the Duarch.”

  Alcyna and Dainyl exchanged glances.

  “You said he wouldn’t be pleased,” Dainyl finally said, standing.

  Alcyna opened the door.

  Doselt stood there. “He doesn’t look happy.”

  “Let’s go see what it’s all about,” suggested Dainyl.

  As he and Alcyna walked down the corridor toward the entry foyer, Dainyl looked toward the front entrance, where a green dispatch coach waited.

  The alector who awaited them wore dark green. His face was grim, and his eyes twitched. He did not look at Dainyl as he stepped toward Alcyna. “Marshal…you are summoned to the Palace immediately—”

  Dainyl stepped forward. “No. The marshal acted under my orders. If there is a summons, I will take it.”

  “But, Highest…”

  “I will accompany you. I will be most happy to explain matters to the Duarch, but I will not have my subordinates summoned and questioned for my orders.”

  The alector glanced across the faces of the Myrmidon officers. His shoulders slumped. “As you wish, Highest.”

  “I need a moment with my officers,” Dainyl said. “Wait. I’ll follow you in my coach.”

  After a moment of hesitation, the messenger nodded, then turned.

  Once he was out of the building, Dainyl faced Alcyna. “If anything happens to me, fly all the Myrmidons to Lyterna and place yourself under the command of Asulet. If he has not survived, then you will be the senior alector. Take control of Lyterna and defend it.”

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” asked Alcyna, her voice low.

  “No. I know what I should have done, and I know what I won’t do. Widespread use of lightcannon will destroy Acorus and all of us. Unless he changes his mind, Khelaryt is unwilling to accept or understand that. He is more worried about pteridon fighting pteridon than about a weapon far more deadly and dangerous.” And I still don’t understand why.

  “He’ll kill you.”

  “He may, but he needs to hear what is, not what he wishes to hear, and a good Myrmidon offers his best judgment.” Dainyl walked toward his still-waiting coach.

  “To the Palace.” Dainyl was tired, almost exhausted, when he climbed into the coach and closed the door. Yet the summons to the Palace was an order, and one that obviously indicated that the Duarch was displeased. But why? Because of the losses the Myrmidons had taken in repulsing the attack and destroying most of the attackers? Or because Dainyl was supposed to have let them destroy Elcien without a fight in order to avoid pteridon fighting pteridon?

  He sat back on the hard bench seat and closed his eyes for a time, just gathering himself together. Then, as the coach neared the Palace, Dainyl looked to the Hall of Justice, partly because he wondered how long the transfer would take and partly because he worried about the conflict within Lyterna, yet there was no way to discover how Asulet and Myenfel had fared against Paeylt without the use of the Tables.

  He still recoiled from the purpleness around the Hall, stronger than before, yet paradoxically, he could sense a stronger presence of the blackish amber-green of the ancients beneath and around it.

  Do you dare? Did he not dare?

  He extended a Talent probe—one of green—to that well of lifeforce/Talent, touching it, but not drawing from it. Not yet.

  He held that tie after the coach halted in the entry rotunda and he stepped out and through the archway into the entry foyer. He also held full Talent shields. The messenger had to run from the dispatch coach to catch up to Dainyl, then abruptly stopped behind him in the foyer.

  The functionary who greeted Dainyl was not Bharyt, but a younger alector—the stern-faced Moryn. “Highest…” His eyes flicked to the messenger.

  “I intercepted the summons,” Dainyl stated firmly. “The marshal acted under my orders, and I will see the Duarch. If he is displeased with my actions, he can summon the marshal later.”

  After the briefest of pauses, Moryn replied, “He will see you in the conference room. This way.”

  Dainyl nodded and followed the functionary down the long columned hallway.

  Moryn opened the door. “He will be with you shortly, Highest.”

  Dainyl had his doubts about that and settled into one of the chairs. He waited a good half glass before the door from the private library and study opened.

  Khelaryt stepped into the conference room. Talent and anger swirled around him, but he closed the door gently, if firmly.

  Dainyl stood, inclining his head slightly. “Most High.”

  The Duarch
took two steps into the room and stopped, looking down on Dainyl.

  “I am less than pleased with you, Dainyl. Why did you not bring the news about the transfer of the Master Scepter personally? Why did you decide whom I would summon?”

  Dainyl eased away from the chair and the table. “Because Elcien was under attack, sir. I could do nothing about the Master Scepter, and two companies of pteridons loyal to Samist, two ships fitted with lightcannon and loyal to Alseryl, who decided to betray you to Samist, and sandoxen and lightcannon under Ruvryn—they all were headed here to attack Elcien.”

  “All because you angered the Duarch of Ludar, and Brekylt and the other High Alectors. That was your doing.” Despite the dark reddish purple of the anger roiling within the Duarch, his deep voice was mild.

  Dainyl strengthened his tie to the black amber-green beneath Elcien.

  “And you continue to employ that improper Talent.”

  “I have always supported you and the Duarchy, no matter what the nature of my Talent may be,” replied Dainyl calmly. “Even when others have not.”

  “Did I give you orders to attack? Was that support? Did I tell you to sacrifice scores of pteridons? Was that support?”

  “We did not attack, sir. We defended Elcien against attack. We would have lost even more pteridons by not responding.”

  “Why did you fight pteridons against pteridons?” asked Khelaryt.

  “I was not aware that we had any choice, sir.”

  “The responsibility of the High Alector of Justice is to avoid such wasteful conflicts.”

  “I thought that was your responsibility, sir. By refusing to see what has developed, and by refusing to act against disloyal High Alectors when you had the power to do so, you ended up with only me supporting you. These events have angered you, and now you wish to take that anger out on me.”

  “You were supposed to stop the disloyalty. You failed me and the Duarchy.”

  Dainyl just looked at the Duarch. “I did not fail you, Khelaryt. I may have failed the Duarchy.” Had the Archon selected Khelaryt as a figurehead shadowmatched and conditioned not to use force just so that there would not be a violent war? Was that how Dainyl had failed? In not understanding the true power basis of the Duarchy?

  “You want to be Duarch, don’t you, Dainyl?” Anger and sadness mixed in Khelaryt’s words.

  “No. I never aspired to be Duarch. I still do not.”

  “And yet you have destroyed the Duarchy. Why?”

  Because I was trying to save it in the only way I knew how.

  “Why?” demanded Khelaryt. “You must answer for it.”

  “Because you were too weak to save it.”

  “Weak? Without that green abomination you would not have the strength to stand in the same chamber with me or any other true alector.”

  “What do you intend to do now?” Dainyl asked.

  “I need do nothing. I am the Duarch.” Khelaryt meant every word he spoke.

  Dainyl steeled himself, opening the channels to the well of amber-green beneath Elcien, letting it pour into him.

  Take care with what you do.

  The words, seemingly from nowhere, gave Dainyl pause.

  “You cannot stand against a Duarch,” Khelaryt said, smiling winningly. “You will not.”

  Dainyl struck, with all the power of the web beneath the world, all focused into the narrowest blade, a tiny spear of infinite power.

  For an instant, Khelaryt looked stunned.

  Then…there was only dust and a set of shimmersilk garments fluttering to the green marble floor.

  Dainyl stood there, stunned himself, both at what he had done, at the ease of his action, and at the fact that Khelaryt had been, impressive as he had seemed, little more than a figurehead, a placeholder, in case the Archon had decided to move the Master Scepter to Acorus. Was Samist also a placeholder, or had he been positioned for a stronger role?

  After a time, Dainyl stepped out of the conference room, green light radiating from him.

  Moryn turned and looked at Dainyl. Then he paled and swallowed. He bowed deeply.

  Dainyl looked hard at the functionary. “The Duarch of Elcien is dead. Announce mourning. A great alector has died. I will convey the news to the Duarch Samist personally. Tomorrow, most likely by pteridon, since the Tables are blocked.”

  “You are not claiming…” stammered Moryn.

  “I am the High Alector of Justice, and for now, I intend to remain so. It would be presumptuous and premature to do otherwise.”

  Moryn bowed again as Dainyl walked past him. Dainyl felt as though the Palace had become a prison, confining him. But then, hadn’t it been just that for Khelaryt? For that reason alone, even if it were offered, he would not be Duarch. Behind him he heard Moryn and another voice.

  “…let him leave?”

  “…look at him. You try to stop him if you wish. No one has ever crossed him and lived…No one ever will. Not now.”

  No one ever will. Not now. Those words rang in Dainyl’s ears as he walked down the corridor and out to the waiting coach.

  He looked to the driver. “Myrmidon headquarters, please.”

  The driver did not look in Dainyl’s direction. “Yes, Most High.”

  Dainyl did not bother to correct him as he climbed into the coach.

  After he closed the door and leaned back, a sad smile crossed Dainyl’s face.

  Had Khelaryt always been that way, and Dainyl just hadn’t seen it? Or had losing the shadowmatch and the power it held unbalanced him? Or had the Archon planned it all that way from the beginning? The more Dainyl discovered, the less he knew. And the less sense anything made. Khelaryt’s youngest daughter had given her life for her father, and it had meant nothing, not so far as Dainyl could tell. More than thirty Myrmidons and pteridons had perished, and Dainyl wasn’t certain their loss changed anything.

  When the coach reached Myrmidon headquarters and Dainyl entered the building, he discovered that Alcyna and all the officers were waiting in the foyer and around the duty desk. Their eyes fell on him, and not a one looked directly at him for more than an instant.

  Alcyna looked at Dainyl, then squinted, looking slightly away. “You’re back. You’re…different. What happened?” Alcyna glanced toward the corridor leading to her study.

  Dainyl shook his head. “The Duarch is dead. I told the acting chief assistant to prepare mourning for a Duarch and great alector.”

  At the indrawn breaths from the officers clustered behind the duty desk, Dainyl paused. “He had failed as Duarch, and he knew it, and he could not accept that.” That was true enough. Khelaryt had never really tried to defend himself, not that it would have made any difference, Dainyl knew. He also knew that Khelaryt had known that as well, but had not wished to admit it.

  Dainyl nodded toward Alcyna’s study.

  Neither spoke until she closed the door.

  “Now…what do you plan to do?” asked Alcyna.

  “We attempt to reach an agreement with Samist. They destroy the lightcannon, and I remain as High Alector of Justice, and you become the next High Alector. There will be a vacancy.”

  Her mouth opened, but she said nothing, closing it. Finally, she spoke. “After all this…when you could be Duarch…and you’d let…”

  “What do you suggest I do?” asked Dainyl. “The only force to balance them is the Myrmidons. I want Acorus safe for everyone. It won’t be safe for anyone, and it won’t last long enough with lightcannon and light-rifles everywhere.”

  “You’re the only force. Don’t you see? You’re the only frigging force that can stand against Samist! You destroyed twenty pteridons. You destroyed the Duarch…” Alcyna’s voice died away.

  Dainyl understood. Now…she feared him, and was truly appalled at the words that had spilled from her lips.

  “No…we’re the only force,” Dainyl replied quietly. “If anything happens to me—and it could because no one is indispensable or invulnerable. Khelaryt thought he was, and so
did Zelyert. If anything happens to me,” he repeated, “they still have to deal with you, and we can set it up so that if anything happens to you, they’ll still have to deal with Sevasya.”

  “When…how?”

  “Tomorrow morning. If the Tables are still blocked, we’ll take pteridons. Fifth Company, I’d suggest.”

  “I suggest you go by pteridon regardless. They won’t deal with you. Khelaryt wouldn’t, would he?”

  “No,” admitted Dainyl. “But I have to try.”

  “They’ll have more lightcannons. Not that it will do them any good.” Alcyna laughed, softly, bitterly, almost under her breath.

  Dainyl doubted her assessment. Samist would not react as Khelaryt had, nor would Brekylt. If Dainyl had to lead a battle, it would be worse than what had happened in the skies south of Elcien. And he was tired. Bone-tired.

  91

  Mykel rode northward, with Fabrytal beside him, and a squad from Fifteenth Company behind them. The sun had barely cleared the old oaks on the east side of the narrow lane, and although the sky remained clear, his breath—and that of his mount—steamed in the shadows cast by the trees.

  Another wave of the unseen purple-black flashed through the skies, or so it seemed to Mykel. He’d been sensing such flashes for almost a day, but no one else had noticed them. Was he losing his mind? Was it some sort of delayed poisoning from his wound? It couldn’t be that. While he would bear scars for the rest of his life, the wound itself had healed cleanly, even if he had a ways to go in regaining the strength and mobility in his right arm and shoulder. But purpled flashes? Was it from something the alectors were doing?

  Mykel glanced back in the direction of the Aerlal Plateau, although he could not see it because of the trees. He felt that it had somehow become amber-green, yet when he had glimpsed it, the distant ramparts had only appeared dark gray.

  “Do you think it’ll be long before they attack, Majer?” asked Fabrytal. “It is Decdi.”

  “I’m not sure I’m the one to ask,” replied Mykel, with an ironic laugh. “I thought they would have attacked long before this, but I doubt they would care whether it was an end-day or not.”