“How large an area could you protect…”
“Why should we trust you…”
“What protections would we have…”
Mykel noted that Amaryk occasionally murmured words to Gheort, asked no questions, but listened intently as Mykel replied to the inquiries.
When the last of the questions died away, Mykel smiled again, then looked at Gheort. “Would you care to offer the first draft of the agreement, or would you prefer that I do?”
“Several of us will present a draft to you by Septi.” Gheort’s voice was cool, and Mykel sensed the calculation behind it.
“It seems to me,” Mykel replied politely, “that I have laid out the duties required of the Protector of Tempre clearly, as well as the level of tariffing required. Those duties and powers cannot be less. Nor can the costs of operating what will be a government. What would be most helpful is a structure of how you suggest tariffs be structured, in a way that is fair to you, as well as to smaller merchants and crafters, and a listing of what you believe to be the rights of all who live in Tempre.”
Surprisingly, that statement elicited nods from most of those present. Even Amaryk nodded.
Mykel listened as they left, but heard only a few scattered comments.
“…going to be Protector…like it or not…”
“…might work…can’t hurt to try…”
“…who does he think he is?”
Mykel smiled at the last.
Once the front courtyard was empty, Mykel walked up the wide stone center steps to the upper level of the building and to the corner study that had once been the regional alector’s, and where cases of files remained, with judgments and reasons for them. He had the feeling that he’d find them very useful—assuming matters did work out.
Rhystan was waiting.
“How was your morning?” asked Mykel.
“Sendryrk caught the brigands who’d been lurking to the west of the piers. Most of them used to work the river.”
“Could we put them on some sort of work gang to rebuild the damage? We’ll need the piers before too long.”
Rhystan laughed. “You’re already acting like the Protector of Tempre.”
Mykel sank into the overlarge chair that had been used by the regional alector and looked at Rhystan. “They’ll agree. They won’t be totally happy, but they’ll all see that the alternatives are worse.”
“That’s more encouraging than in some places.”
Mykel laughed. “We’re just giving them back a familiar structure. They’ll complain, but they’ll adapt to it.”
“Just so long as you’re strong and fair.”
“So long as we are. You’re going to need some more recruits. We’ll need to fill out Fourth Battalion and add at least one more battalion. That will give some heft to the Southern Guard.” Mykel had wondered about the name, because there were other parts of Corus more to the south, but Tempre was south of the Vedra, and anything that was had always been considered “southern.” He also had to look ahead.
“Two more by the end of next year,” suggested Rhystan. “More than that if you want to expand the area we protect.”
“We really need to include the whole square—Krost, Syan, Hyalt, and Tempre—and probably Borlan,” mused Mykel.
There was a knock on the door. “Sir?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know someone called Viencet? He claims he’s your brother.”
“He probably is,” Mykel replied. “I do have a brother named Viencet.” Or I did.
Rhystan put a hand on the hilt of his sabre.
Mykel stood and moved beside the wide table desk. “Have him come in.”
The door opened.
The young man who walked into the study was clad in shabby work trousers, boots almost without soles or heels, and a stained brown jacket. His long blond hair was bound up behind him in a sloppy braid.
Mykel immediately sensed that he was indeed Viencet. “Viencet…I wasn’t sure…I heard about Faitel…” He smiled warmly. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Mykel…Mykel…I knew you’d make it.” Viencet straightened. “You’ll put things right for me, won’t you?”
“What about Mother? Father?”
Viencet shook his head.
“Sesalia…the children?”
“They were all too close…half of Faitel…it exploded…there’s a big lake filled with black water. It steams.”
Mykel stood silently for a time. He’d had that feeling, and he’d tried to push it away. Now, all he had left of his family was the last letter from his mother…and Viencet. Finally, he asked, “How did you…?”
“I was in Naerton…not more than a hamlet…”
“A work gang?” asked Mykel.
“You would ask that. Your own brother.”
Rhystan edged forward.
Mykel repressed a sigh. He’d been glad to see Viencet—for a few moments—until he realized that nothing had changed.
“I need coins, Mykel. Surely, you’ve got silvers. You’re in charge.”
“I think we can find you a job here in Tempre, Viencet. There’s a lot to be done. Or you can join the Southern Guard.”
“You’d…make me work? Your own brother?”
The outrage flowed out, so obvious to Mykel’s Talent-senses that it turned his stomach. He took out his wallet and handed over four silvers. “That’s what I have, Viencet. You may have it all. None of us has been paid in more than a month. Before long, we’ll be back on a better schedule, but for now, that’s all there is.”
“You should make all the fat merchants pay.” Viencet stuffed the four silvers into his wallet.
“They can’t pay because I need coins or you do.”
“But you’re in charge!”
“I have to work within the rules, Viencet. Everyone does.” And you never saw that, or wanted to.
“You could change them. You’ve always been good at that.” Viencet smiled hopefully.
Mykel could sense the calculation behind the smile. “No. I’ve been able to work within the rules, and sometimes improve them, but even when you’re the one who sets up rules, you need to follow them.”
“You’re just like Father and Sesalia. There’s always a reason. You’ve never understood. You never will.”
“Viencet…I think you’d better go. Anytime you want me to help find you a position, I’ll be here.”
Viencet’s eyes widened. “You’d turn me out…like that?”
“You want everything handed to you. You always have. I’m here because men trusted me, and some even lost their lives following my orders. You don’t even want to work for coins. How can I ask men to follow me and then turn around and give you coins for doing nothing? Tell me, Viencet.”
“But I’m your brother.”
“You are. That’s why you should know better.”
“Some brother you are.”
“I think you’d better go,” Mykel said again. “If you want to earn your coins, I’ll be here.”
“I’m sure you will be, in your cozy study, while I’m in some hovel.” The sense of entitlement and anger was even more violent than Viencet’s words.
“That’s your choice.”
Without another word, Viencet turned and walked out, leaving the door ajar behind him.
Rhystan closed it, silently.
What had happened to Viencet? He’d always been self-centered, but…now? Mykel walked to his right and looked out the window, watching, as Viencet slouched out the main entrance below and to his left, then walked across the front paved area, spitting once on the stones. He did not look back. Before long, his brown jacket disappeared into the park across the boulevard.
Mykel turned.
Rhystan smiled sadly. “We all have some in the family like that. My cousin Vyrn would have said the same things. He did. He came to my father and told him that he had to take care of him, that my father owed it to his older brother.”
“He’s t
he only one left…but…what else could I do?” If he’d taken Viencet in, Viencet wouldn’t have changed. He’d just have spent silvers and then golds—or Mykel would have had to have thrown him out later.
Rhystan said nothing, but Mykel understood what Rhystan felt as though he had, and the answer was that Mykel, being who he was, could have done nothing else.
Mykel forced a rueful smile. “Worrying isn’t going to get us through the next week. Can we cut back on the boulevard patrols now?”
“I was going to suggest that. Loryalt also thought that we ought to arm the local patrollers with truncheons as well as those shortswords. There are times when you need force, but you don’t want to run someone through. They’ll let a cutpurse or a grifter go rather than do that.”
“We could try that…”
Rhystan stayed for another glass before leaving, and Mykel continued to work on trying to figure out how to structure the tariff agents so that they didn’t divert coins, but so that he didn’t have to pay people to watch other people.
Abruptly, Mykel got up from the table desk and walked to the window. He could feel…something. Outside, the sunny morning had given way to a gray and cloudy afternoon, one that threatened snow or a cold rain.
A carriage rolled up to the entrance, but so close to the steps and mounting blocks that Mykel could not see who stepped out. One of the factors?
He turned, wondering even if whoever had come was there to see him, but why else would anyone come at the moment?
He looked out at the clouds, but it would be a while before it rained…or snowed.
“Majer, sir?” said Roryn, one of the wounded rankers who was serving as an orderly in the outer study. “There’s a…someone…You’d better come out, sir.”
Who could it be? Certainly not Viencet. Not so soon, and not in a carriage. Possibly one of the factors or seltyrs trying to cut a deal of some sort? That was most likely. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, then stepped to the door and opened it.
Rachyla stood there.
He stood there, frozen. He had hoped so much…yet until he was Protector of Tempre…a man of power and substance…he would not have dared to approach her, not until he was certain he could fully protect her.
“Won’t you ask me in?” Her voice carried a trace of humor, but behind it was a tightness. Apprehension?
“Certainly. You’re always welcome.” Mykel bowed, then gestured for her to enter. Why had she come? Amaryk?
He closed the door.
She walked to the window and gazed out, not immediately looking at him.
As always, he could not sense what she felt, and that worried him.
“You have a good view from here, Majer. Or should I say, ‘Protector’?”
“I don’t think that’s been settled, Lady.”
She laughed, and melodic as the sound was, Mykel thought he heard nervousness in it. Rachyla, nervous?
“They’re always self-centered, and often fools, but they are not complete idiots. They would not tell you, but already they had worried about how to protect themselves. Gheort had looked into expanding his private guards, but the cost would have destroyed him had the others not done the same. They will send you a document, and it will try to protect all that they wish, but so long as you are close to reasonable, they will accept your terms and changes.”
“Were you sent to tell me that?”
“No one sent me.” Rachyla turned from the window. “Once…once…someone of great power came to me and offered an apology and asked a favor.” There was a pause. “I…I would do the same.”
“You do not owe me any apologies, Lady. I will do you a favor, if I can.”
She stepped forward and extended the sheath that held the dagger of the ancients. “Would you take this back? Or take back the words with which you called me an enemy?”
“I don’t have to, Lady. I never was your enemy. You declared that you were mine, and I was forced to acknowledge that, against my will and my desires. I am not your enemy, and you have never been mine. That I will affirm. If you still wish, I will take the dagger, but only if you wish.”
“Then…I will keep the dagger…for now.” She slipped the dagger into her belt and took another step closer.
Mykel forced himself to keep from swallowing.
“You understood my words when you last left Tempre, didn’t you? Your letter seemed to indicate that.”
“I believe so. Especially those about children. That is one reason, one hope, behind my attempt to become Protector of Tempre. That and your message about my injuries. How did you know that?”
“I felt something the first time, in Dramur. It was worse when you were injured here. The pain was almost unbearable this last time.” Rachyla offered a low laugh. “You think of me often, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I had…thought so…hoped so.”
Mykel waited. He wanted to hold her. More than anything.
“Even Amaryk cannot complain about my wedding the Protector of Tempre. In fact, he said that he would not oppose such a marriage.”
“Your marriage?” Mykel thought he knew what she meant, but after so long, he feared that he might be disappointed.
Rachyla lowered her eyes and then her head. “Mykel…do not make me beg. I will if I must, but…”
He remained motioneless, mute. She had never used his name, not alone, not without a title. “Lady…you do not have to beg. From me, you will never have to beg.”
“I am no lady—” She looked up.
The shock of seeing those deep green eyes so close went through him like a blade, as did the warmth of her presence.
“If you wed the Protector of Tempre, and he loves you, how can you not be a lady?” My lady. He smiled, then took her hands in his, and gently, he bent and kissed her cheek, daring no more.
She turned her head. “For so long…I had so hoped…”
This time, their lips touched.
Outside, the first snowflakes of winter began to drift by the window.
EPILOGUE
Dainyl stood in the door way, listening, as Lystrana hovered beside the railed bed set in the small room. Outside, the wind whispered, and heavy spring snow fell across the holding he had begun to build, not that he had ever expected to be a herder, but the nightsheep were more tractable than pteridons, and only those with Talent could manage them. Only a former alector to whom the soarers had given the specific knowledge on how to turn that wool into a fabric softer than linen, yet more durable than shimmersilk, and more precious than gems.
He listened to the lullaby.
Londi’s child will know fair faces.
Duadi’s child will form life’s graces.
Tridi’s child will cross the years,
but Quattri’s must conquer fears.
Quinti’s daughter will prove strong,
while Sexdi’s will set right from wrong.
Septi’s child will find new lands,
but Octdi’s will meet their hard demands.
Novdi’s child must find the able,
while Decdi’s child will yet rule the Table.
You, precious child, I praise the most,
for you will be the future’s host,
to raise bright banners high
under the green and silver sky.
Dainyl waited until she turned. “You have to go, don’t you? Again.”
The soarer who had been his wife nodded. I cannot come often, for the lifeforce and the web are weak, and weaker still for me here. They will be for many years, but they will recover, now.
Soarers did not cry, but he felt the sorrow as she turned from the bed and the sleeping child.
In moments, she was gone.
Dainyl slipped out of Kytrana’s chamber and outside onto the narrow porch. There, for a time, he stood looking eastward through the darkness in the direction of the Aerlal Plateau. Although it was shrouded in clouds, he could sense its solidity, and the flickering presence o
f the remaining ancients, a presence that included one who had been an alectress, and one who had survived through her Talent and bequeathed most of her lifeforce to her daughter.
The ancients had made their choice, and in turn Lystrana had made hers, for the sake of Kytrana—a soarer’s choice.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
SOARER’S CHOICE: THE SIXTH BOOK OF THE COREAN CHRONICLES
Copyright © 2006 by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Edited by David G. Hartwell
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Modesitt, L. E.
Soarer’s choice / L. E. Modesitt, Jr.—1st ed.
p. cm.—(The Corean chronicles; bk. 6)
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN: 978-0-765-31647-9
1. Corus (Imaginary place)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3563.O264 S63 2006
813'.6—dc22
2006005914
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