Scepters

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  8

  Alucius stood in the shadows beside a long purple hanging draped from a stone pillar that was golden throughout—not merely gilded. Overhead, at least fifty yards above, arched a ceiling of pink marble, so precisely fitted that even his Talent could detect no sign of a join or of mortar. The same pink marble comprised the walls. Stretching a hundred yards to his right, the floor of the hall was of octagonal sections of polished gold and green marble, each section of green marble inset with an eight-pointed star of golden marble, the narrow arms of the star outlined in a thin line of brilliant metal that was neither gold nor brass.

  A man stood on the dais, a tall figure with flawless alabaster skin, shimmering black hair, and deep violet eyes. He wore a tunic of brilliant green, trimmed in a deep purple, with matching trousers. His black boots were so highly polished that they appeared metallic.

  Two smaller figures—a man and a woman—stood before him as he spoke. They looked like children in comparison to him, though neither was short.

  Alucius listened.

  “You understand nothing. More than two thousand years have passed since we departed, and you have built nothing that rivals what we left. Even with the dual scepters we left, and the libraries and the Tables, you have learned nothing. You squabble among yourselves like spoiled children. All around you were wonders, and from them you have only found ways to squander your lives.”

  The man lifted his head and spoke, but Alucius could not hear his words.

  The ifrit in green laughed, long, melodiously, then shook his head. “There is no such thing as inherent ‘right’ or justice among all the worlds of the universe. The universe does not care. Its rules reward survival—and power. If you would have what you call justice, you must have the strength and the will to create it and to enforce it.”

  The woman spoke, and again Alucius could not hear the words.

  The ifrit smiled, condescendingly, before replying. “We create grandeur and beauty, and grace. We create peerless art where there was none before. Out of mud and squalor we build such as you see. There is a price for everything. A world can live forever and be nothing—or it can become a paragon of splendor and art—and shine in brilliance for a shorter time.”

  The man said a few words.

  “You had the chances, and you did not take them. You, like all your kind, squandered what you were given. It takes more than luck and pedestrian skill to bring your will to bear, to change what is degradation and squalor into valor and splendor. That is especially true in a world of petty and jealous men. You had the choice between being the child of the Duarchy, the one who would restore it, or the lamaial. You chose neither path, and that is a choice to do nothing…and nothing accomplishes nothing…”

  Then, the great hall began to spin, and the walls began to move, closing in…tighter…and tighter…

  Alucius sat up in the double-width bed, shivering, sweating profusely. After a moment, he blotted his steaming face.

  Wendra put her hand on his shoulder. “It was only a dream. Only a dream.”

  “It was one of those dreams,” Alucius said hoarsely. “One where an ifrit was explaining how we—I—had failed. I haven’t had one of those…not since…the hidden city, and before.”

  “It was only a dream…” But Wendra’s voice did not hold certainty.

  9

  Alucius and Wendra rode downhill, eastward into the gray of a late summer morning before dawn, a grayness that would soon be flooded with the golden green sun of dawn against a silver-green sky. To the west, the half-disc of Selena was paling as the sky lightened. Asterta had long since set. The flock had not spread that much so far, and that meant that, for the moment, they could ride close to each other. Before long there would be nightrams investigating away from the flock, and ewes and younger nightsheep browsing and straggling, while the farther they traveled from the stead, the greater was the likelihood of sandwolves and sanders.

  Alucius looked at Wendra and couldn’t help smiling.

  She turned. “I like it when you look at me that way.”

  “I’m glad.” Then, he’d looked at her that way for years, ever since he’d seen her serving ale and punch at a gathering on the porch of her grandsire’s stead.

  They rode for another hundred yards before Alucius guided his gray closer to Wendra’s chestnut. “You know how I talked about doing something to the cartridges we used against the wild pteridons,” Alucius said. “I mean when I was coming back from Deforya.”

  “You told me,” Wendra replied. “We’d talked about it, and how the soarer had showed me something like that. You haven’t talked about that in over a year. Why do you bring it up now? Was it the dream?”

  “The last time I had dreams like that was before I ran into the ifrits.”

  “You think they might reappear?”

  “I don’t know. If they do, or if we see wild Talent-creatures…I wanted to make sure you knew how to fight them off.”

  “I already did…remember?”

  “I know,” he said. “But…I’m worried. I should have gone over it with you before. That way I’d know, and it would be something I wouldn’t fret about as much.” Alucius frowned, then continued, “When I think about it, it bothers me, though.”

  “Because we’re using lifeforce?”

  “Yes. It doesn’t take that much, and we can draw a little from everywhere. At least, I think—I hope—that’s what I did.”

  “Show me. I’ll watch.” Wendra glanced forward at the flock, then back at Alucius.

  Alucius extracted a cartridge from the Northern Guard belt he had taken out that morning—for the first time in years. He held up the cartridge. Then he began to infuse it with the same kind of darkness that had brought down the pteridons so many years before. Once he felt that the cartridge was charged, he leaned toward Wendra and handed it to her.

  She studied it, then handed it back. “It didn’t seem to take much.”

  He passed a second cartridge to her. “You try.”

  Wendra took the cartridge. Seemingly effortlessly, she eased the darkness of lifeforce into the bullet, even making sure that none was wasted in the area of casing and powder.

  “Have you been practicing that?”

  “Me?” The corners of her mouth quirked. “Only a few times.”

  Alucius shook his head. “I didn’t need to worry about that.”

  “I’m glad that you worry. I just don’t want you to worry too much.”

  He laughed. “You’re very good at salving my pride.”

  She grinned. “You’re good at recognizing it.”

  Alucius couldn’t help but smile in return, even as he hoped that she wouldn’t need the skill with the cartridges anytime soon. Unhappily, he had the feeling that was a vain hope.

  The slightest frown crossed his brow.

  “Did I do something wrong?” asked Wendra.

  “No. I was just wondering. About the darkness. I’m drawing it. So are you.”

  “Do you feel that we’re taking it from something living? Can you tell if there’s any lifeforce missing from around us?” asked Wendra.

  Alucius studied the area around them and around the flock. He could not feel any difference. Then, he worked on infusing the cartridge in the rifle’s firing chamber with the lifeforce darkness, trying to sense from where he was drawing that darkness.

  “It’s coming from everywhere, a little bit from everywhere,” observed Wendra. “I’ll try it again, and you watch.”

  As Wendra charged another cartridge, Alucius observed.

  “From what I can feel,” he said, “you’re right.”

  “So that means you shouldn’t worry. Not too much. I’d wager that some of that lifeforce regenerates itself within a few days, just like we do when we work hard and get tired, then sleep and eat and feel better.”

  Alucius glanced at the lead nightram, but the flock had not spread too much. He looked back, but the trailing ewes weren’t straggling that much, not yet. “
But the Talent-creatures sucked it right out of everything. Or they seemed to.”

  “Could that be because they’re not from Corus? They’re not linked to the land the way we are, or the way anything that grows here is.”

  “It must be.” Her suggestion made sense, and he couldn’t think of a better explanation. That also might be why there were so few ifrits. But the soarer had suggested that there had once been far more, hundreds of them, if not thousands.

  Alucius shivered at the thought of ifrits and the wild Talent-creatures from elsewhere sucking the very life out of Corus. Yet…at the moment, what could he do? He didn’t even know if there would be more of the creatures appearing in Corus…or where that might happen. There was certainly no reason for them to appear on the stead, not that he knew of.

  “You look worried.”

  “I was just thinking about the ifrits. Not that there’s anything we can do now.” He looked forward, then stood in the stirrups. “One of the young rams has headed off. You want to check the stragglers?”

  “I’ll take care of them.”

  Alucius eased the gray forward. Talk of ifrits and Talent-force would have to wait.

  10

  Tempre, Lanachrona

  The warm golden light of late afternoon poured through the west-facing window of the Southern Guard headquarters building. Three men sat around a modest circular table. The bare tabletop was inlaid with the design of a plumapple flower, and the single central pedestal leg was of aged and golden oak. The two older men wore the blue-and-cream uniforms of the Southern Guard.

  The third man, younger and stockier, wore a maroon tunic cut conservatively, trimmed in black. His dark hair was smoothed back from his pale white face, and his brown eyes looked from one officer to the other. “I had heard that there has been…some unrest in Hyalt. When I heard that, I requested a few moments with you.”

  The blond marshal raised his eyebrows. “You seemed to know of the…unrest in Hyalt nearly as soon as we did, Lord Waleryn.”

  “I have my sources, Marshal.”

  “And what would you have of us?” asked the darker marshal, his right eye twitching twice. “Congratulations on those sources?”

  “Congratulations on mere competence, Marshal Frynkel? That would be vain, would it not?” Waleryn smiled ruefully. “No…you can believe it or not, but I am concerned about Lanachrona. That is why I asked to see you both.”

  Neither marshal bothered to conceal a look of disbelief.

  Waleryn laughed. “You see? Now…if you most worthy officers have that view of my concerns, how then would my brother the Lord-Protector feel about what I am about to say? Assuming that he would even grant me an audience?”

  “Under the circumstances, perhaps we should hear your words first,” suggested Alyniat. “If you would care to enlighten us?” The fingers of his left hand tapped slowly on the wood of the conference table.

  “My brother is far more noble than I am. All know that. At times, he might even be too noble.” Waleryn shook his head. “I am not going to suggest anything ignoble. I do know that your forces are hard-pressed, and that the Northern Guard can offer little help to the Southern Guard. Nor will increased recruiting or conscription provide sufficient lancers and foot, not in time to deal with the unrest in Hyalt. Nor are there any mercenaries trustworthy enough to hire, even were there coins enough to pay them. Is this not true?”

  “Generally,” admitted Alyniat, “but should you repeat that, under the circumstances, we will deny such.”

  “I am not playing with words, worthy Marshals. I do not intend to use words to wound or to cause my brother or Lanachrona trouble. It has occurred to me that there is a way to deal with the unrest in Hyalt that will not weaken our forces defending Southgate and the southwest or those charged with defending Harmony.”

  “Oh?” Frynkel’s single word expressed great doubt. The tic in his right eye twitched again.

  Alyniat did not bother to speak, but his finger tapping slowed.

  “My brother would not think of such, and you will see why when I explain. You may recall a certain overcaptain of the Northern Guard…the one who defeated ten thousand nomad barbarians with but five companies, taking over command when all above him perished?”

  “Overcaptain Alucius? The Lord-Protector released him from duty in gratitude. He cannot be called back.”

  “What you say is absolutely correct, Marshal. But…what if he were requested to return to duty? As a favor to the Lord-Protector. Perhaps promoted to majer.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Waleryn smiled. “Because…if the Southern Guard must deal with Hyalt, the defenses of Lanachrona against the Regent of the Matrial will be weakened. Already, the Northern Guard is hard-pressed. There are not enough young men left in the Iron Valleys for more companies to be raised, not without weakening the merchants and crafters and breaking the promises the Lord-Protector has made. Now…I am not suggesting that the Lord-Protector break those promises. That would be most unwise, for many reasons. But surely, someone could suggest to the herder overcaptain that the Lord-Protector faces an impossible situation…”

  Alyniat looked to Frynkel. The junior marshal nodded slightly.

  “All we can say, Lord Waleryn,” Alyniat said, “is that we will consider your suggestion. If upon consideration we find it has merit, we will bring it to the attention of Marshal Wyerl.”

  Waleryn bowed. “That is all that I could ask, Marshals, and all I sought. I trust you understand why I brought it to you. I wanted the idea considered on its merits, not upon whether it was good or bad because of its source.”

  “We will consider it,” Alyniat repeated.

  After another bow, Waleryn turned and departed.

  “What do you think?” Alyniat asked after the door to the study had closed behind the departing lord.

  “I worry about his sources. I would that we knew who they are.”

  “You think they’re the ones supplying information to the Regent of the Matrial?”

  “They might be. They might not be. We don’t know.” Frynkel shrugged. He placed the edge of his palm against his right eye for a long moment. “And Waleryn makes a crooked road look direct. That’s true. But…he’s right about our situation. If anything, it is more difficult than he has said.”

  Alyniat glanced toward the window and the sun low in the west. “The other thing is that Overcaptain Alucius is known to be not only an excellent commander, but one who can train lancers well and quickly. We could perhaps include some partly trained companies in his force…”

  “You’d have to give him his own company back. Under him, that is.”

  “They’d probably be happy to serve under him.”

  “But would he agree to serve? Even as a majer?”

  “He’s not stupid. If his choice is to protect the Iron Valleys by serving or let them fall to the Regent, after what he’s been through, he’ll agree. He may not like it, but he will.”

  “What about the Lord-Protector? How do we convince him?”

  “We don’t have to.” Alyniat laughed. “Wyerl has to. We just have to give Wyerl the reasons to present to the Lord-Protector.”

  Frynkel laughed as well, but there was an ironic bitterness in the sound.

  11

  After the trip that Alucius and Wendra had made into Iron Stem, another week passed, ten long days on the stead, and Tridi dawned gray and colder than normal, more like late harvest or even fall, with gray clouds swirling in from the north, racing straight south from the Ice Sands and the Moors of Yesterday, clouds filled with water thrown as spray against the Black Cliffs of Despair and picked up by the winds. Only once had Wendra ridden out with Alucius, and the end of summer and the beginning of harvest loomed less than two weeks away.

  As Alucius rode the gelding away from the stead and to the northeast up the long and gentle slope of Westridge, he found it hard to believe that more than two weeks had passed since he had seen the soarer. He had also not
seen or sensed any signs of sanders, and, according to Kustyl, neither had anyone else.

  Not only was he worried about what the soarer meant, but also about the dream he had had. While he did not trust anything about the ifrits, the words of the dream bothered him. Had he squandered time when he should have been doing something? But what? He couldn’t very well have ridden across all Corus, using his Talent to see if people were ifrit-possessed. He had neither the time nor the golds to try such. It was not as though he possessed one of the ancient Tables, even had he dared to risk its dangers.

  Because stormy weather sometimes emboldened the sandwolves, Alucius had taken two rifles with him, using the double saddle case he hadn’t used more than a handful of times since he’d left the Northern Guard. He hoped he didn’t have to use the rifles, but he’d rather carry them than worry because he hadn’t brought them.

  Once more, he studied the Plateau, then the lower hills to the north. So far, the wind was little more than a mild breeze, but the dark clouds moving in from the north suggested that before long that would change. Still, it was summer, and he couldn’t afford not to graze the nightsheep, not when they needed the quarasote to produce premium nightsilk.

  The wind continued mild, even after he had the flock on the eastern downslope of Westridge and headed due east through the section that had not been grazed for nearly a month. He kept the flock moving until they had covered another four vingts from the eastern edge of the long, low ridge. All the time, Alucius checked the clouds—and the wind—both with his senses and his Talent.

  The flock had not been grazing the more recent, if not fresh, quarasote shoots for more than half a glass when the lead nightram lifted his head. Alucius could feel the animal’s apprehension and eased the gelding forward. The gray picked his path carefully through the widely spaced quarasote bushes. While the shoots were flexible enough, the spikes at the base of those shoots could rip through hide and flesh.