Scepters

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Alucius was fortunate to bear within him that Talent—more than fortunate, for the life of a herder suited him. That he also knew. With his crooked smile, he let his impatience flow out, spreading across the flock, chivvying the animals eastward. They needed to graze on the lands near the Aerlal Plateau—the nearer the better—if their wool were to be prime.

  The nightram’s black undercoat was softer than duck down, cooler than linen in summer, and warmer than sheep’s wool in winter, but stronger than iron wire once it was shorn and processed into nightsilk. The wool of the outer coat was used for jackets stronger and more flexible—and far lighter—than plate mail. Under pressure, the fabric stiffened to a hardness beyond steel, hard enough to serve as armor of sorts, although its comparative thinness meant that bruises to the body so shielded were not uncommon—as Alucius well knew from his personal experience in the militia, then the Northern Guard.

  The wool from the yearlings or the ewes was equally soft, but not as strong under duress, and was used for the garments of the lady-gentry of such cities as Borlan, Tempre, Krost, and Southgate. Nightsheep could make a herder a comfortable living in Iron Stem, if they and their predators didn’t kill him first.

  Alucius urged the gray eastward across the ground where little grew except the quarasote bushes, on whose tender new stalks the nightsheep fed. After a year’s growth, the lower shoots of the bushes toughened, and after two, not even a maul-axe with a knife-sharp blade on the axe side could cut through the toughened bark, and the finger-long thorns that grew in the third year could slice through any boot leather. In its fourth year, each bush flowered with tiny silver-green blossoms. The blossoms became seedpods that exploded across the sandy wastes in the chill of winter, and then the bush died, leaving behind dead stalks that contained too much silica to burn or to break or cut. Yet they too succumbed to the wasteland, and to the shellbeetles that devoured them. That was the harsh way of the lands beneath the Plateau and the reason why few liked Iron Stem, even those living there.

  Some complained about the wind, the way it blew hard and hot through the summer and cold and bitingly dry through the winter. Some said that each wind was different and none were to be trusted. Others complained about the dryness, because little but quarasote and an occasional juniper grew in the Iron Valleys.

  The same people complained that in winter there was no heat in the sun except where it struck the eternastones of the high road that ran from Eastice in the far north down through Soulend and Iron Stem and then Dekhron, and across the River Vedra, and far into the south of Lanachrona. There were other high roads, too, and while they had been traveled heavily in the days of the Duarchy, most times now only a handful of traders or travelers could be found on any of them.

  Some thirty vingts to the east stood the mighty Aerlal Plateau, whose stone ramparts ran straight upward six thousand yards or more. All who had tried to climb the Plateau failed long before they reached the top. Most vanished, their bones occasionally discovered by Alucius or some other herder.

  In the last years of the Duarchy, the Duarches had dumped the malcontents and worse in Iron Stem to work the iron mines and great mill, guarded by the Cadmians with their lightning-shaped blades. Later, after the Cataclysm and the fall of the Duarchy, the mines played out over the millennia, and Iron Stem withered from a small city into a small and struggling town. Then, for a long time, all that sustained Iron Stem had been the herders from the north, the lumber mills in Wesrigg, and the dustcat works. There Gortal’s scutters gathered the dustcat dander and processed it into the dreamdust, which was worth more than nightsilk in the Lanachronan cities of the south—and far more even than that for the little that traveled the ancient roads back to Lustrea in the east.

  His concentration returned to the lead nightram, even as he wondered why the soarer had seemed to look at him and whether Wendra had sensed the winged marvel. With a rueful smile, he shook his head and urged the gray to catch up to the lead rams, his eyes checking the bushes and the hummocks for traces of wolves. Sanders left neither tracks nor traces.

  As Alucius’s mount carried him eastward, his eyes flicked back toward the long ridge that separated him from his stead—and from Wendra. After more than three years of marriage, skilled and Talented as Wendra was, Alucius still fretted about leaving her.

  3

  Dekhron, Iron Valleys

  The two men were seated in wooden armchairs before a desk in a study. On the serving table between the two were tall beakers of ale, half-full. The summer sun beat through the glass of the closed windows, but both men wore heavy tunics and trousers.

  “I worry about the herder, still,” observed the round-faced trader in the blue tunic trimmed in dark gray. His voice was so low that no one more than a fraction of a yard away could have heard the words. “Have you followed him, Tarolt?”

  “He returned to his stead two years ago. He has built up his flock and devoted himself to his wife and family. Has he once shown an interest in what lies beyond his stead and Iron Stem?” replied the older-looking man, his words equally muted.

  “No, but he destroyed the Matrial, as well as Aellyan Edyss and more than ten pteridons. Then he traveled the Tables and killed one of ours, and came back and obliterated the Table in Tempre—although it was close to failing, in any case. And after that, he single-handedly killed more than twenty bravos who tried to ambush him. With the four hundred golds that cost…”

  “They were only coins, Halanat, and a pittance compared to what we have gathered and will gather.” The white-haired man smiled coldly. “I do believe he got the message. It took him nearly a month to recover from that, and he has, as you noted so well, scarcely looked beyond his own stead in almost two years. In that time, we have accomplished much. We have a working group here, and a new and fully functioning Table now in Salaan. We have assisted the Regent of the Matrial in finding informers, although she knows it not. We have more and more true believers, or, if you will, followers of the True Duarchy. Adarat will soon strike the first blow in the south. These followers will grow and create the necessary distraction and dissension all across Corus, all in places well away from where we operate. And we have also made a healthy profit in dealing with Adarat. Before long we will even control the Regent of the Matrial. With all that, we will be able to build more Tables and translate more true Efrans, and this world will once more be ours, as it should have been for the past millennium.”

  “What if the herder discovers what we have accomplished? It took much lifeforce to wrench the Table into place in Salaan, and we have not solidified…”

  “When he has not been south of Iron Stem in two years? That was one reason why we ensured that his wife’s father is now receiving orders for his barrels. They’re better and cheaper than those our traders can get here, and they will keep the herder’s wife from pushing him into looking beyond their own needs. Besides, who would call us to his attention? Especially with all the other problems arising in Corus?” Tarolt’s laugh carried an ironic tone.

  “The older ones, the hidden ones. Or the side effects of the translations. Or sheer ill chance.”

  “There are few of the hidden ones, and fewer every year. In less than a handful of years, all will be gone.” Tarolt frowned. “As for the translation effects…there is little we can do about those, would that we could, for each is a failed translation. There is always the likelihood that one will find him, because they are drawn to Talent. Still…he has seen sanders and soarers and sandwolves, and it may be that, even if he sees such, he will not draw the right conclusion. Or that he will wait. Remember…he is a man who will do what is necessary—but not unless he is forced to act. That is his greatest weakness. All we need do is to ensure that he is not forced to act. That is one reason why we have avoided…activities…near the herder steads.”

  “Can we continue to keep him from acting?” asked Halanat. “Especially if there are more and more wild translations around him? We must have more support from Efra. And
with him that close to the Plateau and with that meddler Kustyl…?”

  “Kustyl could be removed.”

  “That would force the herder to act. Kustyl is his wife’s grandsire.”

  Tarolt shook his head. “You make your point. Removing Kustyl would merely alert the herder. I think you have something else in mind. Exactly what?”

  Halanat smiled. “The Lord-Protector is getting more and more concerned about the state of Lanachrona. The Regent of the Matrial is retaking the southernmost towns bordering Southgate. Now…matters are unsettled in Deforya, and it will be a season at most before the Landarch is toppled…Waleryn could suggest to the Lord-Protector that a most able commander would be able to put down the revolt in Hyalt. A particular and most able commander.”

  “Why would we send him against what we are building there? That makes little sense.”

  “You know that it is not important whether Adarat and the Duarchists succeed in the coming revolt against the rule of the Lord-Protector. What is important is the amount of destruction and disruption there. Sensat shadow-matched Adarat when he traveled there last year, and Adarat is convinced that he is of Efra. He does not believe he can be bested by any Corean steer, even a Talent-steer.”

  “What of it?” asked Tarolt.

  “The Lord-Protector will think he is facing a local revolt. The Regent will see an opportunity to weaken Lanachrona, and between Adarat and the herder, there will be more disruptions…”

  “That would put the herder overcaptain well out of the Iron Valleys and would reduce the chance of his seeing too much because he will be far too involved in trying to put down the revolt, as well as worrying about his wife? That far south, even should the ancient ones try to reach him, they would not be able to, few and failing as they are.” Tarolt frowned. “But the Lord-Protector would scarce listen to Lord Waleryn, and if he did, he would hesitate to believe him. If he knew that Waleryn was no longer his brother, but a shadow-Efran, he would never believe Waleryn at all.”

  “He does not know that and never will. Waleryn can ensure that dispatches and information reach Marshal Frynkel and Marshal Alyniat. He can suggest to them that the Lord-Protector request the overcaptain—as a majer—take command of the forces to put down the revolt in Hyalt. The overcaptain is known to be able to do much with little, and that will appeal to Marshal Wyerl.”

  “You don’t want Waleryn talking to Wyerl, do you?”

  “I do not wish Waleryn to spend much time with any of the marshals, but he should not meet with Wyerl at all. Wyerl sees too much,” Halanat replied. “It is also likely that the overcaptain will meet with the marshals. We would not wish him to perceive any…influence, but especially with Wyerl.”

  “You think the herder overcaptain is that perceptive?”

  “More so, I fear, but if he meets with the marshals and sees nothing…”

  “He will not see our influence.” Tarolt nodded. “There is also a good chance he will not be able to surmount Adarat, but if he does, the disruption will only benefit us, and by then…it will be too late for him to change what must be. And if he fails, then we have fewer worries.”

  “Exactly.”

  4

  When Alucius began to herd the flock back down Westridge, the sun was almost touching the quarasote flats to the west, its green-gold glare backlighting the stone-walled and slate-roofed buildings of the stead so that the walls looked almost gray, rather than reddish, and the roofs black, rather than the dark gray they truly were. With his Talent, Alucius could sense the web of lifethreads, the thin black-gray lines of the nightsheep, the yellow-gold of his mount, and the scattered thin threads that were grayjays and scrats. With a nod affirming that there were no disruptions in that web of life, Alucius began moving the flock toward the main shed.

  He finished settling the nightsheep into the shed for the night, having closed and bolted the shed door, then stabled the gray. In the second stall, he was finishing grooming the gray in the gloom that was no hindrance, not when herders could see almost as well in low light or night as in full sunlight. At that moment, Wendra slipped into the stable.

  “How was your day?” he asked, sensing the vital green lifethread of her presence even before she stepped into sight at the end of the stall.

  “The spinnerets jammed twice. I only lost about a yard of thread that couldn’t be reprocessed. Your mother checked them. They may last for the summer, but we’ll need another set of the control valves before harvest. If we’d known…”

  “You could have had Grandsire order them while he was in town?”

  Wendra nodded.

  Alucius stepped out of the stall, closed the half door, and hugged his wife for a long moment, feeling the slight bulge of her abdomen as he did. “It’s always good to see you. I’ll be glad when the spinning’s done and you can come out on the stead with me.”

  “There’s still the looming,” she pointed out after they released each other. “And I don’t know how much longer I can ride for a full day.”

  “Another season, according to Mother, and I can tell if there’s a problem.” He laughed. “So can you, remember? And you can certainly take a day from looming now and again. The fresh air would be good for the two of you. I know you can’t leave the spinning. The thread’s got to be watched all the time.” He paused as he waited for her to step outside the stable. Then he closed and fastened the door. “How are we doing on the solvents?”

  “We should have enough for this year.”

  “You’re letting—”

  “Your mother won’t let me near them, or even in the processing rooms.”

  “Good,” Alucius said firmly, taking her arm.

  They walked toward the east-facing porch of the stead dwelling. Alucius looked eastward toward the Aerlal Plateau, watching as the crystals on its high west rim caught the rays of the setting sun. Directly above the crystals of the Plateau, almost lost in their radiance, was the small green point of light that was Asterta, the moon of the ancient horse goddess—or the moon of misery. Selena, the larger moon, had not yet risen.

  “Where up there do you think the hidden city is?” Wendra asked.

  “It’s somewhere along the western edge, but it could be as far south as the part near Emal or as far north as opposite Soulend—or even Eastice. It was cold there, but that could have been because it’s so much higher.”

  “That’s hard to believe,” Wendra mused.

  It was almost as hard for Alucius, and he’d been the one trapped there, recovering after nearly being killed by the ifrits, then being taught by the soarers, so that he could understand and use his Talent to greater effect. “It is, until…”

  “I know.” She squeezed his hand.

  “What’s for supper?”

  “Leftovers. We made a fowl casserole from what was left from last night.”

  “You didn’t let her put—”

  Wendra laughed. “There’s no prickle in it. Plenty of other leftovers, but not prickle.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  They made their way up the steps to the porch and to the north door, and then to the washroom. Alucius used the hand pump to fill the basin for Wendra, then washed up when she left to finish helping his mother. He glanced in the mirror, the reflection showing his silver-gray eyes flecked with green and the dark gray hair that had been his from birth.

  By the time he was washed up, everyone else was seated at the table, and Alucius hurried to sit down.

  “Which of you two?” asked Lucenda, looking at her son and then at Wendra.

  “Wendra,” suggested Alucius.

  Wendra grinned ruefully at her husband, giving a slight shake to her head that shivered her lustrous brown hair.

  The four bowed their heads.

  Wendra spoke clearly. “In the name of the One Who Was, Is, and Will Be, we thank you for what we have, and for what we have received, and for this food before us. May this blessing fall upon both the deser
ving and the undeserving, and may both strive to do good in the world and beyond…”

  Once she had finished the blessing, Wendra stood and began serving the fowl casserole onto the platters, handing them out, first to Royalt, then Lucenda, Alucius, and herself.

  “The bread’s fresh baked,” Lucenda offered. “Wendra said there ought to be something that wasn’t a leftover.”

  “There wasn’t enough for supper, anyway.” The younger woman’s eyes sparkled as she looked at Royalt.

  “Was hungry when I got back from town,” grumped Alucius’s grandsire. “Long hot ride. Hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast.”

  “He did get a half barrel of southern rice,” Lucenda said. “That will help this winter.”

  “And some of the hard green apples that keep,” added Wendra.

  “Ferrat had the replacement shear plates ready. Cost two golds for each.” Royalt shook his head. “Last time was only a gold.”

  “That was almost four years ago,” Lucenda pointed out.

  “Prices shouldn’t double in four years. Kustyl was telling me that a bunch of growers near-on killed a usurer down in Dekhron. Not the one who’s one of Mairee’s cousins, but another fellow. One who clips coins before lending them.”

  “That sounds like Ceannon,” remarked Lucenda.

  “Was him, now that I recall,” said Royalt. “Never even had to worry about usurers before. This union with Lanachrona…was supposed to keep tariffs and prices down.”

  “One out of two isn’t bad,” suggested Lucenda. “The Lord-Protector has kept our tariffs low.”

  “That was because of Alucius, wasn’t it?” asked Wendra innocently.

  Alucius knew the question wasn’t innocent, but a gentle reminder.