Darknesses

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The captain and the squad leader rode along the shoulder until they were at the head of the double-filed column that was first squad.

  Once first squad was settled back into an easy pace westward, Alucius turned in the saddle and looked at Zerdial. “What do you think?”

  “They came up here for water. That’s at least an extra glass of riding each way.” Zerdial frowned. “It would spare them the time it would take to chop through the ice, but why couldn’t they just stop for water at one of the hamlets on the other side?”

  “Why indeed?” asked Alucius.

  “They didn’t wish to be seen, sir?”

  “That would be my guess, Zerdial.”

  Alucius had figured that aspect out almost immediately, but what bothered him was that he couldn’t figure out why the riders hadn’t wanted to be seen. The tracks made it clear that they had come from Lanachrona, and none of people in the hamlets on the Lanachronan side would have cared or said anything if the riders were Southern Guards. That meant that they weren’t—or that they weren’t in uniform. But brigands would have had far easier pickings to the south, and, despite the warnings from Dekhron, Alucius had trouble believing that Deforyan raiders would have traveled almost three hundred vingts—through the coldest section of the Upper Spine Mountains in winter—to raid some of the poorest hamlets in the Iron Valleys—or the one town with a militia garrison. He also didn’t like the idea of Southern Guards not being in uniform.

  Neither possibility was one that he liked, and that meant that, if the tracks continued, winter or not, he’d have to shift the patrol schedules to before dawn to see what he could find out.

  7

  Tempre, Lanachrona

  The Lord-Protector, his face appearing a good ten years older than when he had taken office three years before, walked briskly into the plain marble-walled room, hidden deep beneath the palace, a structure erected generations earlier with great care not to disturb the ancient room and what it contained. He glanced at the Table of the Recorders, a device appearing more like a dark lorken-framed table than the artifact from the Cataclysm that it was. The Table’s shimmered surface appeared but to be a mirror. It was not.

  The silver-robed Recorder stood on the far side of the Table, waiting.

  “You said you have finally discovered something about the mysterious officer whom you thought had brought down the Matrial,” offered the Lord-Protector.

  “I will call forth what I have discovered, Lord-Protector. You may be both surprised and amused.”

  “Amused? Is anything amusing in these times?” The Lord-Protector frowned, but stepped to the Table and looked down.

  The Recorder cleared his throat softly, then concentrated on the ancient glass. The mirrored surface that appeared but fingerspans thick was replaced by ruby mists that looked yards in depth, mists that swirled before dissipating to reveal an image.

  A tall and broad-shouldered officer in the black of the Militia of the Iron Valleys rode along a snowy road, flanked by two squad leaders. Although the captain was only slightly larger than the others, his presence, even through the Table, conveyed an impression of authority and command, making him seem far larger and older than he was. In addition, around his image flickered an aura of green and silver, and at times, he vanished entirely.

  “He is in yet another uniform. Is he a mercenary?”

  Before replying, the Recorder took a deep breath and allowed the image to vanish, to be replaced by a mirror that but reflected the ceiling. “I think not, Lord-Protector. For whatever reason, he was captured by the Matrites. From what I can discern through the Table, he was born the heir to a herder family in the Iron Valleys, and, because of his Matrite service, involuntary as it was, has been required to serve more time in the militia. He currently commands a horse company at Emal.”

  “And their Council of idiots does not know this?”

  “No, Lord-Protector. He has doubtless used his Talent to avoid their discovering such.”

  “I do not like that he is a militia officer. Can you do anything through the Table?” The Lord-Protector went on, answering his own question. “Of course not. The Table is useful for gathering information, and that is all.” He looked down at the blank surface, then back at the Recorder of Deeds. “Continue to watch him, and let me know should he accomplish anything that I should know.”

  “Yes, Lord-Protector.” The Recorder inclined his head slightly, then straightened.

  “It is better not to act when it is not necessary, but…we may have to act otherwise. We may indeed.” Without another word, the Lord-Protector stalked from the small marble-walled chamber.

  The Recorder glanced at the blank silver surface that had once more become a mirror. His face was impassive, despite the darkness in his eyes. Once the Lord-Protector had left, he again beheld the Table, his face bathed in a faint purple glow that radiated from the images he had called forth.

  8

  Outside the headquarters building, a howling wind blasted what otherwise would have been a light snow against the stone walls and shutters. Every so often, a particularly violent gust pushed cold air and puffs of white past the windows and inner and outer shutters.

  On that dreary Duadi, barely into yet another winter week, Alucius sat at the table in the officers’ and squad leaders’ mess, looking at the stack of papers before him. There was a sheet—or more—on each man in his company, and the company captain had to make a seasonal report on each, then send the reports to militia headquarters in Dekhron. Since winter was already more than half-over, despite the snowstorm outside, and since Alucius was not sending out any patrols in the blizzard, he had decided to use the time to work on the seasonal reports. With the stepped-up patrols he had in mind, time for reports would be scarce in the weeks ahead. Even short handwritten statements took time when the company captain had to write a hundred on the troopers and five on the squad leaders—except that since Twenty-first Company was understrength, Alucius only had to write ninety-four reports on troopers.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Sir,” said Longyl, the senior squad leader, “you sent word for me?”

  “I did.” Alucius gestured to the chair on the other side of the small mess table, waiting until the older squad leader had seated himself before speaking. “I’d like your thoughts on Reltyr. I’ve already had a few words with Faisyn.”

  “I’d rather not say much, sir.”

  “Neither did Faisyn, and I can understand that,” Alucius said quietly. “He’s got a wife outside of Wesrigg, doesn’t he?” He was trying to use his Talent to pick up feelings…clues. While he could have talked to Reltyr directly, he disliked going around both the senior squad leader and Faisyn, his third squad leader. “She’s worrying him.”

  “Yes, sir, but he’s a good trooper.”

  “Most of the time. Unless someone baits him about her? Is that what happened? Or didn’t she expect him to return from Madrien?”

  “Both, sir,” Longyl admitted.

  “You don’t think discharging him will help, then?”

  “No, sir. More likely he’d kill her and the fellow hanging around her.”

  “What have you and Faisyn told Reltyr?” asked Alucius.

  “Told him that he still had a job to do, and that he had a choice. He could stay until his term’s up and get his pay and mustering-out bonus, or he could stay in and get the re-up bonus. Or he could walk out now, get caught and flogged for abandoning duty, maybe shot dead for desertion.”

  “You think he’ll stay in line?”

  “For now.”

  “Do you want me to draw him aside and tell him that I know times are hard for him, but that he’s a good man, and that we need him?”

  Longyl fingered his chin, squared the broad shoulders that topped a stocky, barrel-chested torso, then spoke. “I’d not be suggesting, Captain…”

  “But it might help because he knows I’m married, and you’re not, and he mig
ht feel I understood?” Alucius added, after a moment, “I’d have to tell him that we’d discussed his situation.”

  “Still might help. Might tell him that you’re watching.”

  “I’ll talk to him this afternoon.” Alucius concealed the sigh he felt. In the end, so much came down to fear. He was the captain who had the reputation of seeing more than he did, of surviving more than he had, and of being the one no one wanted to anger or upset—for all that he’d never raised his voice in anger or ever violated militia—or, in the past, Matrite—regulations. Of course, he’d bent more than a few. “What about Ashren? How is his arm doing?”

  “Much better, sir. Looks like it will heal fine.”

  Alucius only had questions about two of those in third squad, but that was two more than in the first two squads, because he’d been forced to watch the first and second squads more closely. Faisyn, Egyl, and Sawyn were experienced squad leaders, and Longyl had been a great help. Alucius looked at the older man for a moment, then asked, “What do you make of the tracks across the river?”

  “Someone’s scouting.” Longyl pulled on his left earlobe for a moment.

  Alucius waited.

  “I’d say it has to be the Southern Guard, but they don’t want anyone to be able to prove it’s them. If we were fighting, I’d say that we’d be seeing an attack.” Longyl studied Alucius.

  Alucius smiled, faintly, knowing that Longyl wanted Alucius’s opinion, but didn’t want to ask—a sign that Longyl wasn’t absolutely certain. “They’re scouting, and they’re probably Lanachronan—or paid by the Lord-Protector.”

  “Sir, there was a message about Deforyan raiders…” ventured Longyl.

  “That was sent from headquarters almost a month ago. No one’s actually seen either the riders or the scouting parties.” Alucius nodded. “Is third squad up to a patrol before dawn? Tomorrow, if the snow lets up?”

  “I’ll tell Faisyn to have the men ready.”

  “He might want to inspect their rifles. If we run into these brigands, or whatever they are, they may need them.” Alucius grinned momentarily. “Don’t have him tell them that, yet. Just that the captain expects their rifles in working order whether they’re riding in a blizzard or a downpour.”

  Longyl grinned back. “Yes, sir. What time?”

  “Three glasses before dawn. First squad will accompany us as well. I’ll tell Zerdial shortly. You get to hold the post.”

  Alucius could sense the squad leader’s resignation…and acceptance. Although riding out before dawn in winter was miserable, Longyl preferred action to post duty, but someone had to be in charge of the squads not on patrol. And since the early-morning, midday, and late-afternoon patrols hadn’t found anything but cold trails, Alucius needed to take the patrol this time. “If we don’t find anything, I’ll have fourth squad out the next dawn, with second squad…” He stood.

  So did Longyl. “I’ll pass the word, sir.”

  “Make sure that they’ve all got their scarves and full undergarments.” Alucius paused. “If you’d ask Egyl and Zerdial to come over?”

  “Yes, sir.” The squad leader nodded, then turned and left.

  Alucius reseated himself and took out the sheets that held the past reports on Egyl’s fourth squad. Outside of the vague reports on nonexistent Squawt raiders to the west and the supposed Deforyan raiders around Emal, neither he nor Feran had received any more information or instructions from militia headquarters. He feared he understood why. Given the uneasy peace between Lanachrona and the Iron Valleys, the Council certainly wouldn’t want Colonel Clyon sending out messages warning about hostile Lanachronan activities, but Clyon did what he could to alert his all-too-few captains and companies.

  Then, if Alucius happened to be reading the veiled messages correctly, and if he did run into Lanachronan Southern Guards in Deforyan or brigand guise…

  The young captain shook his head. If…if that happened, he’d decide when he had to, based on the situation.

  9

  Lyterna, Illegea

  Deep within the Vault of Lyterna, two men stood before the wall—a creation that few had seen over the past millennium, and one that fewer still would have believed could exist, for it was both a relief sculpture and a mural, the brilliant and varied colors seeping from within the very stone, rather than having been painted over the marble. Yet the wall appeared to have been carved from a single block of stone, for there were no lines that revealed joints.

  The scene depicted a squadron of twenty Myrmidons, each of the ancient enforcers of justice seated upon his blue-winged pteridon, each pteridon flying below high clouds, each pteridon’s beak of glittering blue crystal, and each Myrmidon carrying a blue metal skylance. From each lance, a ray of blue light shone down upon the ranks of an army drawn up upon the grasslands. And flames created by those rays of blue light were consuming all the soldiers of that massive army.

  The younger man—the white-blond man in blue—studied the wall silently for a time before speaking. “It is truly a work of art. So lifelike. So perfect. One could imagine it had been created yesterday.”

  “It represents what was…and what might yet be, Aellyan Edyss,” replied the white-haired councilor and guardian of the Vault. “If you have the will to make it so.”

  “If I have the will?” Edyss’s voice was not shrill, nor querulous, but inquiring, not quite humorously. “How should I present my will, then, to make it so?”

  “Address your desire to the wall, Aellyan Edyss, as directly as you can.”

  The younger man squared his shoulders and, eyes open, looked directly at the ancient flight leader of the Myrmidons. He did not speak, but his figure shimmered, silver-clad.

  Abruptly, a section of the wall silently swung back, revealing a passageway.

  Edyss looked at the dark opening, then at the older man. “A test?”

  “All life is a test.”

  The warleader inclined his head to the councilor. “If you would, Councilor?”

  The older man stepped through the oblong opening a yard wide and two high, and the nomad warleader followed. Once Edyss had passed the opening, it closed behind him, and the two walked in total darkness for a moment, until the councilor flicked on a light-torch and then handed a second to the younger man.

  At the end of a marble-walled passage—also without seams—the two stepped into a vast dark hall. Edyss pointed his light-torch upward. The narrow beam revealed a smooth and flat stone ceiling, without detail, that looked to be more than forty yards above. He turned the beam to the right wall, playing it slowly away from him. The wall appeared to consist of featureless blue-tinged marble, within which were set at regular intervals a series of recesses, each roughly ten yards wide. Set back in each recess a yard was a flat expanse of what appeared to be blue crystal. The crystal rose but five yards, and the space above the crystal was empty all the way up to the high stone ceiling.

  “If I might ask…Honored Councilor?”

  “It is the Hall of the Last Myrmidons—or the first.” The white-haired man’s steps echoed softly in the vastness as he turned toward the first recess on the right.

  Without questioning, Edyss followed, until the two stood before the flat crystal.

  “Shine the light-torch and see what you will see.”

  Aellyan Edyss turned the light-torch upon the crystal wall. The crystal had looked far darker in the dimness and from a distance, but it was almost clear, and only lightly shaded with the merest hint of blue. On the left side was a small alcove, set into the crystal itself, an alcove roughly the shape of a man, but without any figure inside. Farther back in the solid blue crystalline mist, embedded within it, was a shape, one with massive blue leathery wings folded back, and with a long cruel blue crystal beak. The eyes were also of blue crystal, and they glittered like gemstones—or the blued crystals that had powered the lost skylances of the original Myrmidons. For all their glitter, for all their stillness, they held a dark intelligence. Set just below the thi
ck neck and above the shoulders that anchored the wings was a blue leather saddle.

  “Is this a mausoleum?”

  “No. Just before the Cataclysm, the head of the Myrmidons created this. The crystal blocks the passage of time, of anything. When the crystal is dissolved, the pteridon will be as alive as it ever was, waiting for his new master and rider.”

  “How do I release them?” Edyss turned to the councilor.

  “You must agree to bind yourself to the pteridon, as its master and rider, for so long as you both shall live. That is all.”

  “And none have agreed to do that?”

  “None have united both Illegea and Ongelya before you, and there has been no need. As the guardians of the grasslands, and the protector of the Vault, we do not wish to see Lyterna fall under the Praetor and the iron bootheels of Lustrea—or the Lord-Protector of Lanachrona. There may be another such as you, but he has not come forward to claim the heritage, and you have.”

  Another item caught the attention of Edyss. “Is that…a skylance of the Myrmidons?” He gestured to the shimmering blue length of metal set in a holder beside the arrested figure of the pteridon.

  The white-haired guardian smiled. “It is. Each skylance can only be borne and used by the pteridon’s rider. It draws its power from the sun and the world, but the ancient texts state that it will take several weeks to regain its full potency.”

  “What of…” Edyss frowned. “Do pteridons mate?”

  “The texts are silent on that, but I would judge that they do not, but are creatures created by the ancients from beyond.”

  “Not by the Duarches or their minions?”

  “The Duarches used what they found, and they used it as wisely as they knew how, but most was a legacy from the ancients. All that has endured is what they created anew—the high roads, a few buildings—”

  “Except for these pteridons,” Edyss stated. “Are there any more?”