Scepters

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Alucius got off two more shots, one of which struck a pteridon, then switched rifles. “As soon as you can,” he called to Wendra, “reload!”

  The pteridons circled higher, and as he fired twice more, bringing down yet another pteridon, Alucius realized something else. The Talent-creatures had not been specifically hunting them. They’d been startled and surprised, and that might have been what was giving Wendra and him an edge. Still, they were dangerous creatures.

  Another of the pteridons swept toward Wendra. Alucius snapped off two quick shots, and the second caught the beast on the edge of the wing. It spiraled toward one of the ewes, impaling itself on the much shorter horns of the ewe, then exploded into a column of blue flame that enveloped both.

  Alucius had one cartridge left in his rifle when he realized that the sky was clear. His forehead was covered in sweat, and he looked toward Wendra. “Some good shooting there, dear.”

  “Not as good as yours, but I did help, I think.”

  “More than a little.” Alucius reached out with his Talent. The sense of purpleness was gone, but a residual of the sorrow remained. He frowned. “We’d better check the rest of the flock.”

  Wendra nodded.

  From what Alucius and Wendra could tell as they circled the flock, they had lost only the one young ram and a ewe. While the death of both nightsheep would hurt, the damage could have been much worse. Except, Alucius reflected, losing even one nightsheep a week would destroy them just as surely as a sudden disaster involving all the flock.

  There were no traces of any of the wild blue pteridons, none at all, except for the black greasy splotches on the soil where each fallen Talent-creature had burned. No charred scales or bones…nothing except the residue of intense fires.

  Alucius could sense another problem—the lack of something. In the rough circle below where the wild pteridons had appeared, there was no life left. Even the quarasote bushes, although they looked green, were dead and would be brown in weeks, if not days. And that was the area from where the feeling of sorrow came.

  “It’s dead, isn’t it?” asked Wendra. “The land around us.”

  Alucius nodded.

  “Why…why did it happen here?” she asked. “Is it us?”

  “I’d like to say it isn’t,” he replied, “but it has to be. I can’t see why, unless somehow my fights with the pteridons earlier made it easier for them to find me. But why now? That was two years ago. And you? They never were near you.”

  “It has to be you,” Wendra said. “This is the second time in a month.”

  “But why now?” Alucius asked again.

  They looked at each other. Neither had an answer.

  14

  Salaan, Lanachrona

  The angular man in the dark purple tunic leaned over the Recorder’s Table and looked down into the transparent surface, finger-spans thick, yet so deep that the ruby mist through which he peered seemed tens of yards. The Table exuded age, as though it might have been one that remained from the score or more that had once linked the far-flung domains of the Duarchy of Corus. Only the smooth and shimmering finish on the dark lorken sides of the Table suggested that the Table was of more recent creation.

  “What do you see?” demanded the round-faced trader in gray and blue.

  “Somewhere, on Corus, within the former reaches of the Duarchy, years past, a lamaial was born. It might have been your herder overcaptain.”

  “You can’t tell that? Why not? You said he had Talent.”

  “You know that well, Halanat. All herders have Talent. That is why they can be herders,” replied the white-faced man with the purple-tinged eyes. “That has been known for years. The Table, being constructed with Talent, cannot depict those with such Talent once they have begun to exercise it. You would not want others using it on us, would you? Thus, a Table can record all steers born with the potential for Talent—or for even greater use of Talent, as with a lamaial or a hero—but Enyll never recorded those births except within the Table in Tempre…”

  “Hero and lamaial—they sound like nonsense,” the trader replied. “They’re just Talent-steers.”

  “Ah, yes…myths and nonsense, created to maintain a mystery by Recorders like me, who are translated from Efra merely for that express purpose of being obscure. The Vault was a myth, and so were the pteridons that destroyed the legions of the last Praetor, and so are the Dual Scepters.”

  The mockery in the Recorder’s words was so edged that Halanat’s eyes dropped.

  The Recorder of Deeds looked up from the crystal mist of the table, purple-tinged eyes unblinkingly fixed on the trader. The mist swirling around the scene held in the Table vanished, and all that remained within the smooth black frame was an ordinary mirror, save that it was far smoother and more reflective than any such mirror produced in recent centuries in Dekhron or Tempre or any other city or town in the whole of Corus.

  “All those,” continued the Recorder, after a long silence, “have reappeared, save the scepters. For reasons best known to the ancients, there was never a record of where the scepters were placed, not one that we have been able to find, but they are not a myth, and they served a great purpose. As for the lamaial of the Legacy, he will remain concealed until the conflict begins. That is according to the words once carved in the Vault. Whether the ancients carved it as a warning or as a prediction, we cannot know. But you must hold in mind that those with Talent can become more than Talent-steers, and that is something that we—that you—must prevent.”

  “The Table is useless for that.”

  “Exactly. That is your job. Or have you forgotten?” The Recorder smiled indulgently.

  “No, honored Trezun.” The trader started to gnaw on his lip, then stopped and asked, “What about this new Praetor?”

  “Young Tyren? You will not need to worry about him. Waleryn will shortly be dispatched to handle him. And to prepare for the next full translation.”

  “But you can show him in the Table?” The round-faced trader’s words were formal, stiff, and barely avoided carrying a chill. After he had spoken, his face became impassive.

  The Table came to life once more, with the ruby mist filling the glass, then displayed the image of a fair-haired man, barely out of youth, in shimmering silver and black, striding down a wide corridor flanked with tall goldenstone columns. A silvery nimbus surrounded him.

  “The silver around him…?”

  “That shows that he could use Talent but has never called upon it.”

  “What is his Talent? Is it possible to tell?”

  The Recorder shrugged. “The Table will not reveal what might be. We hope to avoid his discovering it until Waleryn is there to co-opt him. With the translation and Tyren, we will have two points of power and pressure.”

  The trader tightened his lips as he leaned forward to study the image displayed by the Table. “Can you tell me where this is?”

  “Only from what appears in the Table, Halanat. It would seem to be Alustre, but that is not certain. Still, from the columns and the color of the stone…”

  “Does your Table say whether he is the hero come at last? Or whether he will claim the Dual Scepters?”

  The Recorder of Deeds laughed ironically. “Every human conqueror of the past millennium has claimed to be the hero—or denied it. Some have claimed to carry the scepter, or the Dual Scepters. Others have denied the scepters even existed. In the end, it has made little difference. Claims or no claims, what will be will be.”

  “That is a fine sentiment for you,” said the trader slowly, “but even as a trader I cannot travel all of Corus chasing rumors. If he has something he calls the scepters, that makes matters worse, because the common folk believe that the scepters have some power. Great power, not some drizzle of vision in a mirror. Even belief in the scepters grants power.”

  “Vision is far from a drizzle of power, as you put it. There is much yet that you do not understand, and for a mere shadow-translation, you presume greatly. As for
the people, they would do the same in any case, if it appears that their ruler is indeed powerful. This Tyren could be the hero, but any conqueror could or might be.” The Recorder’s tone turned colder. “In any case, he is a continent away, and you are not tasked with traveling to Lustrea. Your tasks are closer. The so-called Regent of the Matrial has two of the crystal knife-throwers and is about to take back Southgate and everything north of the Dry Coast. The Lord-Protector has lost his Table and will lose more. You must complete your work in Hyalt and Dekhron before that time comes. It must come sooner rather than later.” The Recorder’s purple-gray eyes met the dark-rimmed orbs of the trader.

  After a moment, Halanat looked away.

  15

  Wendra and Alucius and Lucenda and Royalt sat around the kitchen table in the late twilight of an early harvest evening.

  “…that both may strive to do good in the world and beyond.” Alucius finished the prayer.

  Wendra and Lucenda stood and dished out the mutton stew with hot biscuits. Alucius immediately took some of the fresh harvest honey from the pot.

  “They never grow up,” Lucenda observed to Wendra. “Put honey on the table, and they’re small boys again.”

  “And you’re never girls again?” Alucius questioned.

  “Never!” replied Wendra, her eyes twinkling.

  “You won’t win that one, Alucius,” Royalt pointed out.

  Alucius smiled, silently agreeing with his grandsire.

  Royalt lifted his glass of ale and took a swallow. “Tastes good after a long day.”

  “What did you find out from Kustyl?” asked Lucenda, looking at her father.

  “Ever since Alucius had that run-in with the bravos outside of Sudon,” Royalt said, “Kustyl’s been listening even more carefully.”

  Alucius nodded. “He said he thought a trader named Halanat was behind it, except that he’d known Halanat years ago, and Halanat wasn’t shrewd enough, and that meant someone was directing him. He never could come up with anything.”

  “And you didn’t want to go back to Dekhron,” Royalt pointed out.

  “No, I didn’t,” Alucius admitted. “I still don’t. That’s a legacy I’d rather avoid. The place is like a bucket of tar. You put one finger in, and before you know it you’re stuck. I’ve already had enough of my life disrupted by that sort of thing.” He looked at Wendra. “And I’m not too interested in ending up where I’d be forced to put on the uniform again. Especially not now.”

  “What did Grandpa Kustyl have to say?” asked Wendra gently.

  “He had a lot to say.” Royalt laughed. “He usually does.”

  “He’s worth listening to,” added Lucenda, looking at her son. “What we do here is affected too much by Dekhron—as someone once told me.”

  Alucius winced inside, but merely smiled.

  Wendra glanced at him, and Alucius knew she understood how he felt.

  “Well…” Royalt dragged out the word. “Kustyl was telling me that the traders in Dekhron have gotten a lot smarter. You know they’ve been giving those barrel contracts to your father, Wendra?”

  The younger woman nodded.

  “That’s because they went around and checked the quality and prices of every cooper within fifty vingts of Dekhron. He came out the best.”

  “He is the best,” Wendra averred.

  “That was your grandfather’s point. In his whole life, he’s never seen the traders in Dekhron be that smart. They always gave the business to a friend or a cousin. They’ve been doing the same sort of thing with the rivermen, checking out barge transport rates. But…the other thing that’s scary is what happened last month. A Lanachronan cloth factor decided to open a place in Dekhron and see if he could bid into the nightsilk trade…”

  Alucius had a feeling he wouldn’t like what was coming.

  “…just before he had the place ready, it caught fire. He died in the blaze. Kustyl started asking around, quietlike. Been five fires like that in the past year and a half.”

  “Sounds like the traders are getting organized and finding ways to kill people who get in their way,” Alucius admitted. “But they’ve always put golds ahead of people’s lives. That’s what got us under Lanachronan rule.”

  Royalt shook his head. “It’s not the same. They tried to run Dekhron the way they wanted, and sometimes they wasted golds doing it. They’re not doing foolish things anymore, and there’s another thing. They’ve started a cooperative wagon run to Borlan and down the high road to Krost. Maybe farther. Sharing the cost. They’re bringing back Vyan Hills wines cheaper, and they’re running them out to Dereka once a season.”

  “If they’d been that smart five years ago—” began Lucenda.

  “It wouldn’t have worked with the tariffs between the Iron Valleys and Lanachrona,” Wendra said. “Father looked into it, because he heard the cost of barrels was so high in Borlan and Salaan. The tariffs cost more than the barrels.”

  “Kustyl told me one more thing,” Royalt said slowly. “Several of the old-line traders—they’ve died in the past year. Three or them. Died in their sleep. Kustyl said it didn’t feel right.”

  When a herder said something didn’t feel right, he was almost always correct, Alucius knew, and Kustyl, old as he was, was certainly a herder who was no one’s fool.

  “Is someone trying to take over the old traders’ council?” asked Lucenda.

  “He doesn’t know,” Royalt admitted. “He just says the whole city feels strange.”

  Alucius’s stomach tightened, but he didn’t comment. All too many things were feeling strange around the Iron Valleys.

  Royalt finished a large mouthful of stew before glancing at Alucius. “Lucenda said you two took the flock well east. No more creatures?”

  “We didn’t see or feel anything. Not a hint of anything. Haven’t in more than a week. We told you that.”

  “You did…but we’ve never seen any Talent-creatures here, except soarers and sanders.” Royalt frowned, then asked, “How are the shoots there?”

  “They’re good. Didn’t see any sanders or sandwolves,” Alucius replied. “We probably ought to take them there more in the next few weeks.”

  “Good idea, but we’d better have two of us with them.” Royalt nodded. “Feel like it’s going to be another dry winter. Been too many lately.”

  “How’s the ramlet?” Alucius asked his mother.

  “He’s doing fine—for a lamb born six months too late to a mother who’s got no milk. I’d appreciate it if you’d crush some more of the quartz in the morning, and if you could get it really fine. He can tell the difference.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Alucius offered.

  “I’ll feed him in the morning,” Wendra promised. “You both wanted to get to town early, didn’t you?”

  “That would help,” Lucenda admitted. “The rest of the barrels are supposed to be ready, and that way Royalt and I could get one of them filled with flour at the mill…”

  Alucius relaxed more as the conversation drifted back to the nightsheep and the stead.

  Less than a glass later, after dishes had been done and the nightsheep and stables checked, Alucius closed the bedchamber door and eased off the nightsilk-covered herders’ vest, slipping it into place on the clothes rack in the corner.

  Wendra sat on the side of the bed and looked up at her husband. “You’re worried, aren’t you?”

  “I am. The last time something started to look this bad, I ended up spending four years in the militia and Northern Guard.”

  “You didn’t say much about it looking bad,” she pointed out. “Not tonight. Why not?”

  “You know why, dear one,” he said gently. “We have Talent-creatures and soarers showing up. We haven’t seen them in years, and some are the kind no one has seen before. Now…something strange is happening in Dekhron as well, a different strangeness.”

  “You think they’re connected?”

  “I feel they are, but I don’t know why.”
r />   “And because you don’t…you think this will all go away?” Wendra asked, again gently.

  “No. Things like this don’t go away. But I don’t have an answer. The last time, when the Matrites invaded, at least we could see the problem. I wasn’t all that smart. I was going to save the Iron Valleys and be a hero so that I’d be respected. Well…my mother was right. I was a hero of sorts, and the more I did, the more people wanted to kill me. Almost all of my time in the militia and Northern Guard was away from you. I nearly got killed at least five times, and Dysar wanted to have me executed for desertion because I didn’t commit suicide after I was wounded and the Matrites captured me. I guess I’m worried, too, because I feel selfish. I’d like to be a herder, a long-lived one, and spend my life with you. I’ve lost interest in being a hero.”

  “You couldn’t have had this time with me,” she said quietly, “not if you hadn’t done what you did. We’d all be slaves to those…ifrits…” She paused. “You think that they might be behind this…?”

  “I…” Alucius almost said that he didn’t know, but there was no point in that, because Wendra’s Talent would tell her that he was lying. “…I’m worried that they are.” He shrugged. “I still have the feeling I should do something, but…what? Just running back to Colonel Weslyn and saying there’s a problem, and throwing on a uniform…what good will that do? Besides, I’m not sure that Weslyn isn’t part of the problem. He certainly wouldn’t do anything to solve it, not if it might cost his trader friends any golds.”

  “Could you go to Dekhron with Grandpa Kustyl and look around? That might tell you something.”

  “It might,” Alucius conceded, easing off his undertunic.

  “I could go, if you—”

  “No! You have to think…” He glanced at her midsection. “I’ll go the next time he heads down there. I will. I promise.”

  “You don’t…” Then she laughed. “Sometimes it’s hard, isn’t it?”

  “When you don’t want to tell the truth? And you know the other person will know you’re lying?” he asked. “Yes…it can be.”