Not even you, little Ancient, can stand against the power of the scepter.
Mykella did not speak, but kept channeling, almost begging, or pleading for more and more of the green from the depths that was simultaneously brighter than the sun and darker than black.
Nature is not enough, little one.
The scepter rose in the Ifrit’s hand so that the brilliant jeweled tip pointed in Mykella’s direction. Yet she noticed that for all the size and strength of the massive white-faced and black-haired Ifrit, his arm trembled slightly.
Immediately, she launched an arrow of green toward his huge violet eyes.
The scepter lifted, and purple flared from it. The chamber roared with the impact of purple and green.
Before the Ifrit could aim that scepter at her, Mykella created another green bolt, this one aimed at the Ifrit’s knees.
Purple and green again met, and the stone walls of the chamber seemed to shake.
The Ifrit stood a step from the archway into the chamber, using the power of the scepter to press Mykella and her green shield back.
A purple bolt from the scepter crashed into her shields, and she was forced back another step, even as she tried to draw more green from the depths.
Another series of bolts, and she again had to retreat.
Before the Ifrit could summon another bolt, she unleashed her own flurry of green arrows. While they halted his progress, she was unable to make him retreat, and she was forced back another step with his next attack.
From somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard a voice, a memory … channel the green against the device … Trying to ignore the purple bolts that felt as though they were shivering her shields, Mykella began to channel the green from the depths, not through her, but up through the stone directly under the scepter, trying to build up a massive concentration of the green that she could direct to clamp around the scepter all at once.
As she built up more and more green beneath the stone, she found herself moving backward more and more quickly. Soon, she would be against the wall.
With a wide smile, the Ifrit raised the scepter. Farewell … Ancient …
Mykella clamped all the green around the scepter—just as a massive surge of purpled pink flared from the jeweled tip of the scepter.
Holding her shields, she flattened herself on the stone floor as waves of power collided, and so much sound and force exploded around her that she saw and heard nothing.
The absolute quiet woke Mykella.
She opened her eyes. She couldn’t have been out that long because the last purple shining dust motes were flicking out of existence around her.
Lying on the stone floor, Mykella lifted her head, yet reverberating from the explosion that had engulfed the chamber. A shroud of greenish black still encircled her, dimming her view. Just inside the Table chamber, less than a yard from where the huge Ifrit had stood and aimed all the power of the scepter at her, the scepter lay, appearing like a plain silver and black scepter, nothing more.
There was not a single sign of the Ifrit.
The Table had vanished as well. Had that been part of the massive explosion?
Mykella could not believe it. Nothing could damage a Table. What power had the combination of green and purple Talent forces unleashed? Or had they been amplified by the scepter and the apparent explosion of the Table. The very walls of the chamber had been splintered and broken … and thin stray rays of early-afternoon light arrowed into the chamber through cracks in the stone ceiling, providing a twilightlike illumination.
Those walls had taken punishment from the huge flare guns and from time itself—and had held … but not against the scepter and the power of the green depths.
Mykella slowly rose to her feet, exhausted, looking around the chamber. All that remained of the Ifrits and the Table was fast-vanishing purplish dust. Yet the scepter remained untouched, undamaged.
You have prevailed. You must return the scepter to its case. Now!
Mykella sensed the arrival of the Ancient, but she was so spent that she could not even turn her head at that moment.
All she could do was pant from all the exertion. She looked at the scepter, lying on the stone less than two yards away. She wondered if she could even lift it, given how hard the Ifrit had struggled with it. Yet she knew that if she picked it up, it would seem like a feather. She tried to stop panting but couldn’t. Her lungs were starved for air. So she just waited.
So did the soarer.
“Why now?” Mykella finally asked.
Every moment that it is outside its case, it unbalances the [????]. All Corus suffers … before long … in places the earth will begin to tremble …
Mykella looked at the soarer. “That’s not true. You’re afraid of something else. What will keep them from coming back, time and time again?”
There was no answer, only the sense of a smile, not that Mykella could see it, only feel it.
“What?” Mykella would have snapped, had she not been so tired.
You have destroyed the Table. They will be unable to locate the scepter from their world if it is replaced in its case. Nor will they be able to travel to this point on Corus without a Table, only by foot or mount, if they can even find it from afar.
With what the soarer said, Mykella realized that the Ifrits would not be able to reach the scepter in Dereka, for there was no Table there, either. “So why must I replace the scepter?”
So that it cannot be found. More of import, it does unbalance all that lies beneath Corus. In time, the very land will twist.
“But … things won’t change that fast, will they?”
No. The admission was like lead. But before long the last of us will die, and in time, so will you. Few like you are born. No one will be left to guard the scepter or replace it.
The stark honest desperation of that cut through Mykella. “But I could be very powerful with it?”
Not any more powerful than you could be without it—if you work at mastering your Talent. Drawing from the scepter is easier, but you would come to look like them. Worse, you would begin to act as they do.
Yet, without even asking, Mykella knew she would live longer, far longer …
She looked at the scepter.
All will fear you. None will enter your heart. You will cease to be who you are. The scepters corrode the strongest of wills and Talents. Even the Ifrits feared using them except to maintain the pink Table web. Why do you think they were so protected and cased?
“Without a Table…”
Neither scepter is near a Table, and that absence will weaken their web and protect the world—if you replace the scepter.
After several moments, Mykella took one step, then another.
Behind her, the green-shrouded figure of the Ancient did not move.
Mykella bent and lifted the scepter. It was not so heavy as she recalled. Was that because only a trace of purpleness remained.
It will rebuild its force, and soon. Replace it.
The last words were not so much command as plea.
Mykella walked slowly to the last chamber. There she had to set the scepter on the strange table-desk and move the chair so that she could climb up to the still-open case that had held the scepter. Then she eased the scepter into position so that it rested against the proper brackets and fittings.
Only then did she take a last look at the seemingly harmless silver and black scepter and close the heavy cover, making sure that it was firmly in place. What about the key?
After several moments, she turned it, but left it in place.
If any Ifrit can get here now, the key would make no difference. Besides, if you change your mind, you can always come back and remove it.
Then, for the second time, she returned the chair to where it had been, before walking back to rejoin the soarer.
Close the door.
“How?”
Twist the light-torch bracket back to its proper position.
Mykella almost
laughed. She did not, fearing the sound would come out close to hysterical. Such a simple matter, and she’d never even considered it. She had to stand on tiptoes to do so, then watched as the stone slid into place, showing no sign that an archway had ever graced that stone wall.
In turn, she looked at the vacant depression that had once held a Table. She couldn’t even see what was happening in Viencet. Had the fighting begun. Was it over? Were they all still positioning themselves.
She turned and looked to the soarer.
The old Ancient looked back at the young Ancient.
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Mykella looked to the soarer. “I’ve saved your world—”
It is more yours than ours … and will be more so in the ages to come.
“I’ve saved the world, but I need to save my land.” If I can. After a moment, she added. “You can at least guide me to the point on the black paths closest to where the princes have massed their forces.” Guidance would save her strength somewhat for what was to come. She hoped.
We can do that … and more …
We? wondered Mykella. “You know where they are east of Viencet?”
Not knowing is your shortcoming. Ours is different. Gather as much of the green to you as you can. Hold it to yourself.
“I thought I was supposed to channel it.”
Now that no longer matters, Lady [???].
The term that followed the word “Lady” made no sense to Mykella, but it conveyed a certain respect. Grudging respect, Mykella suspected. She did not argue, but tried to draw more deeply of the green and bind it to herself. As she did so, her tiredness diminished. But at what price later?
Two other soarers appeared, superficially the same as the one Mykella “knew.” Yet they were different, and one felt much younger—and somehow sadder, although neither communicated anything through “word” or gesture.
Think of where you wish to be.
Mykella obliged, concentrating on the rolling hills to the south of the eternastone highway and west of Viencet where doubtless two forces were drawn up facing each other—unless the fighting had already begun, or worse, she feared, ended.
Please let me arrive in time … please. She did not even know to whom or what she addressed that plea … or what exactly she would or could do once she joined the Southern Guards forces.
Then they dropped into the depths, or the depths rose and carried them downward. The chill felt welcome, refreshing, and Mykella was almost sorry when she sensed they were rising.
They emerged above a line of hills, with a soarer on each side of Mykella and one above her. Barely beneath them were the tips of trees, mainly evergreens,. She glanced back, seeing the thin line of silver that was the River Vedra, then looked forward once more to realize that the air around her shimmered a faint green, doubtless the effect of being transported by the soarers.
The day was no longer afternoon either, but morning, late morning.
“It’s not afternoon.”
Lysia is far to the east.
Mykella should have realized that, but she’d never traveled that far—not when she’d been able to see the sun.
As they crossed another half-treed rill, Mykella caught sight of the eternastone highway no more than a few vingts away. Were there forces formed up on the south side?
… only a little more …
Even Mykella could sense the strain as she could feel and see herself descending into an open space. When her boots touched the reddish rocky ground, amid clumps of grass and creosote bushes, with but a few low and scattered pines here and there, she looked to “her” soarer.
We can carry you no farther.
“Thank you.”
We repay as we can, Lady-[???].
Then the three faded into the hillside as they also headed back northward, toward the lifeweb of greenish black that bound the world together. Even after they were nowhere to be seen, though, the air around Mykella seemed to hold a faint greenish tinge. She shook her head. The green remained.
All that dealing with the green must have affected the way you see.
She looked to the south, searching for what she had thought she had seen from the air. From where she stood, across the grass and its scattered piñons and junipers, Mykella could make out the two forces on the rolling rises on the south side of the eternastone highway. To the west, all across a low ridge, spread the combined armies of Northcoast and Midcoast, although the green and yellow of Northcoast seemed twice as numerous as the maroon of Midcoast. To the east was the much smaller body of the Southern Guards, occupying a slightly higher—and smaller—rise. She judged that she had not quite two vingts between where she stood and the edge of the highway, and half a vingt beyond that, if up a gentle slope, to the edge of the coastal forces.
She began to walk, quickly. Running would only leave her exhausted, and she would need all the strength she could muster when she reached the enemy. She hoped she could reach the forces of the princes—and Cheleyza—before the battle broke out.
She had covered about a hundred yards through the grasses when she came to a ravine, almost concealed by the grass. She had to walk westward for a good fifty yards to find a place narrow enough that she could jump across. That took far less effort than using Talent when she could not easily draw upon the darkness.
Dealing with Cheleyza and the coastal forces would be so much easier if they’d been kind enough to attack where you could do that.
Of course, she could have let them attack Tempre—but that would have resulted in hundreds, if not thousands, more deaths and destroyed Lanachronan power in another way.
She turned toward the southwest again, angling back in the direction of the northern flank of the enemy forces. After traversing two smaller ravines and ground more uneven than it had seemed when she started walking, she was finally within a few hundred yards of the highway and breathing more heavily. Areyst had been right about the grass concealing uneven terrain, but the last hundred yards was relatively level.
She was less than fifty yards from the highway when she caught sight of three lancers, riding quickly toward her. Belatedly, realizing she hadn’t even raised her shields, she did so, but kept walking, if more slowly, to catch her breath.
The mounted lancers rode toward her, then stopped on the stone pavement a good ten yards away, their eyes wide.
“An Ancient…” murmured one.
The second looked to the first, as if puzzled.
“Leave her … if she is, we should do nothing. If she is not, we need do nothing.”
“But—”
“Leave her.”
The second rider glanced at the third, who nodded. All three remained where they had reined up.
Mykella did not look at them but continued to walk, crossing the stone of the highway, trying not to wince at the intrusiveness of the Ifrit purple that bound the stone and somehow burned at her feet even through the soles of her boots.
She continued up the north side of the long ridge, aiming her steps at the center of the green-clad formation—where Cheleyza and Chalcaer had to be. The hill seemed steeper than it had looked before she had begun to hike up it. Ahead was a small contingent of foot troopers, and beyond them, the mounted forces.
Until she was within yards of the foot troopers, most seemed not to have noticed her, or, if they had, they ignored her presence. Then, several men on the north end of the formation moved back, leaving a space for her, lowering their rifles slightly. Mykella did not acknowledge the movement or look to either side, but kept walking.
“Hold that line!” bellowed a voice.
An angular squad leader—from the insignia on his shoulder—hurried forward, brandishing a blade. “You! Get out of here!”
Mykella kept walking.
The squad leader moved toward her and jabbed the blade at her, not a killing blow, or even one meant to hit her, but it struck her shields and rebounded slightly. The trooper flushed, raising his blade. “You stop, or you’ll die!”
Mykella ignored the command and continued onward.
The squad leader ran after her and slammed his blade against her shields.
Without looking back, Mykella reached out with her Talent and undid his life-thread node. The squad leader pitched forward onto the matted spring grass and bushes.
She kept walking uphill.
As murmurs preceded her up the gentle slope, and a handful of rankers rushed toward the fallen squad leader behind her, the remaining footmen parted. Beyond the foot soldiers, some two hundred yards from the center of the formation, she encountered the first of the heavy cavalry.
“Little woman! You don’t belong here!” called a voice.
Mykella ignored those words, boosted her shields slightly, and kept walking.
A rider reined up directly in front of her.
Mykella stopped and looked up, then gathered a trace of light to her, except it came out greenish, rather than gold or white.
The squad leader paled. “You can’t do this … Ancient.”
Mykella said nothing and kept looking at the squad leader in his green uniform.
“Squad Leader! What’s the problem?”
The second rider was a green-clad Northcoast officer, a captain, Mykella judged, who reined up beside the squad leader. The squad leader said nothing but pointed to Mykella.
The captain frowned. “What was she doing?”
“Walking up the hill.”
The captain pursed his lips, looked at Mykella, and finally said, “There’s going to be a battle here. Even you could get hurt.”
Mykella said nothing.
The two men exchanged looks.
Finally, the captain turned back to the squad leader. “Escort her where she wants to go. See if she’ll just walk where she’s going. They haven’t started an attack yet. I’ll talk to the majer and tell him about her.” He paused. “From what the legends say, if you don’t harm them, they don’t harm you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Both men eased their mounts from Mykella’s path, and she resumed walking, angling her path toward the center of the formation, where she felt Cheleyza had to be. She did not question that feeling, accepting it.
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