“The predator is one that dates back to the time of the ancients. It feeds on lifeforce…” Dainyl summarized the rest of what Asulet had told him, not that it took long, since Asulet had been brief to the point of being cryptic.
Shastylt frowned. Then he pulled at his chin. “Asulet was telling the truth?”
“Yes, sir. He was worried, and he didn’t want the word spread. He said Brekylt and Alcyna would find out, sooner or later.”
“Did he tell you why this was happening now? Does he have any ideas?”
“He might have ideas, but he declined to share them. Politely, but firmly.”
“The ancients are behind this. Do you think that Brekylt has worked out some sort of alliance with them?”
Dainyl didn’t know what to say. The idea was preposterous, given his experiences with them. But he certainly couldn’t share that knowledge with the marshal. After a moment, he replied. “Brekylt would seek an alliance with anyone or anything that furthered his ambitions. From the reports I’ve studied, and what little I’ve seen, and from what Asulet has told me, the ancients see us all as enemies. Besides, how would they even communicate?” Dainyl felt much safer phrasing the last concept as a question, rather than stating it as a fact.
“There is that…but those two are inventive.”
“I would agree with that, but Alcyna directed her Myrmidons to attack them, and the rankers were telling the truth about the attacks. I can’t see the ancients allowing that.”
Shastylt pursed his narrow lips before replying. “No. They would not.” After a time, he focused his eyes directly on Dainyl. “What do you think about it?”
“I think the ancients are planning something. We have not seen them in hundreds of years, not really, and now, within two seasons, they’ve destroyed six pteridons, and now there’s a lifeforce predator that no one’s seen in a thousand years. That’s not coincidence. It also suggests that they know the time for the transfer of the Master Scepter is near, or at least that more alectors will be coming to Acorus.”
“More alectors have already been translating here. They could have noticed that,” mused the marshal. “I want you to watch for any other signs…anywhere. Don’t report them. Just tell me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dainyl returned to his own study, closing the door. He needed time to think. First, somehow he needed to get word about the giant ice-wolf predator to Zelyert in a way that wasn’t obvious to Shastylt, and before long. He also wanted to think about what the ancients had said about him not changing enough. Had he changed at all? How? Was that good?
He couldn’t help but recall the near-casual way that the small soaring creature had used her power to hurl him back into the translation tube. Yet, if they had the kind of power that he had seen and experienced, why hadn’t they just attacked? Or was it because there still were so few of them? He wished he knew more—or how to find out more without putting himself at the mercy of creatures who had shown themselves to be powerful and dangerous.
His eyes drifted to the window and the clear silver green sky beyond. Not even a sign of a storm, but he knew that the times and the weather could change quickly.
32
The hired carriage drove through the open gates of one of the villas in the center of Southgate, carrying Mykel, Overcaptain Sturyk, and the overcaptain’s wife, a brunette a good fifteen years younger than Sturyk, Mykel judged.
Mykel wore his better uniform, clean and with everything polished, but without his sabre. He had been persuaded to accompany the couple in a rented carriage, because Sturyk had insisted, telling Mykel. “Arriving on horseback is just not acceptable, sir.”
Mykel hadn’t felt like arguing about that. If his taking a carriage made Sturyk more comfortable and resulted in better relations between the Cadmians and the factors and high landers of Southgate, then that was a small price to pay.
“This is Seltyr Elbaryk’s place,” offered the overcaptain. “Every year the ball is in a different villa. If I’m commander long enough, Sheranyne and I might get to see them all.”
“Are all those who own the villas seltyrs? I thought some were factors.”
“Oh…that’s the rank title. Some are factors. Some own lands. Several have ships, and some of those probably smuggle goods.”
“The same title is used in Dramur, but all of the seltyrs there are large landholders,” offered Mykel.
“Most of the seltyrs here have family or trade ties to Dramur. They’re a close-knit bunch.”
The carriage came to a halt under a covered, but open portico.
Mykel stepped out of the carriage, onto the mounting block. He would have held the door for Sheranyne—the overcaptain’s wife—except that a footman in spotless light gray already had opened the carriage door and held it.
“Welcome to Villa Elbaryk.”
“Thank you.” Mykel nodded and glanced westward, where the sky was still held a faint shade of silver from the earlier sunset. Only Asterta was visible in the early-evening sky, a small green disc high in the eastern sky.
“The ballroom is straight ahead through the main entry and then up the grand staircase to the left.”
The three walked abreast, Mykel to the left of Sheranyne, Sturyk to the right. Mounted on every white granite pillar was a brass lamp polished to a fine luster, with light radiating through glass panels showing neither smudges nor soot. The walkway was covered with a thick black-carpeted runner, fringed with white and gold. The spring evening was warm, with a hint of flowers, but also with a touch of dustiness in the air.
The main entry was a vaulted stone enclosure, windowless, that soared a good three stories, lit by an enormous crystal chandelier. Mykel wondered if the oil for each miniature lamp was fed down through a tube in the heavy links of the twined brass chains supporting the chandelier, or if each lamp had its own reservoir to be filled.
“Impressive, is it not?” asked Sturyk.
“Rather,” murmured Mykel. The villa was more like a palace, like something he would have imagined for one of the Duarches.
Two couples walked up the staircase ahead of them. The staircase circled up and around the side of the entry, its carpeted steps each a good five yards wide. One of the women half-turned to say something to the younger woman behind her. While her gown was cut low enough to reveal that she was shapely and extremely well endowed, it covered her shoulders and upper arms. The younger woman’s gown left her arms and shoulders bare, although she wore a filmy silver shawl over them.
Mykel suspected that either woman’s gown cost more than several years of his pay as a majer, and he didn’t want to speculate about the worth of the jeweled choker worn by the older woman. “The couple ahead…a seltyr and his wife?”
“Oh, no. That’s Orefyt. He’s a cloth factor, one of the larger ones, but certainly not so wealthy as a seltyr. Everyone does wear their best to the ball.”
“If they are not seltyrs,” added Sheranyne, “their very best.”
At the top of the grand staircase was another foyer, only larger than any officer’s mess Mykel had ever seen, and on the far side was an archway hung in deep green velvet, trimmed with silver. At one side stood a tall man in a formal gray shimmersilk tunic who announced, “Ser Orefyt, Madame Orefyt, his daughter and son.”
Did formality in Southgate require everything be linked to the man?
Mykel tried not to be obvious as he squared his shoulders, but he felt as though he headed into a skirmish—without weapons. As the three of them stepped through the archway, the functionary in gray shimmersilk tunic bowed, then declaimed, his deep bass audible above the strings of the quintet playing on a dais in the left-hand corner of the chamber, “Majer Mykel, Overcaptain Sturyk, Madame Sturyk.”
Mykel could sense the eyes upon him, even though he did not see anyone looking directly at them, and the mass of so many auras and their lifeforce pressed at him.
The ballroom was a good thirty-five yards across, with a domed ceiling that rose so
me ten yards above the center of the chamber. The archways to the adjoining anterooms were set off by double columns. The walls and the inside of the dome were silver-white, the effect dimmed by the low light from the brass lamps set in wall sconces and by the heavy dark green velvet hangings trimmed in silver. The floor was comprised of alternating green and silver tiles in the shape of diamonds. About fifty couples were dancing, each pair careful to remain clear of others, moving not quite sedately to the music.
Mykel let himself be guided by Sturyk toward a short line of four people. Both men wore tunics and trousers of brilliant white shimmersilk, with white boots polished to a reflective shine, unlike the others in the ballroom, who seemed to be wearing all variety of color. The wives of the two men wore shimmersilk gowns of deep green, and stood a half pace back, partly behind their husbands’ shoulders.
Sturyk halted before the first man. “Seltyr Benjyr, my wife Sheranyne.” Then he half-turned. “My superior, Majer Mykel, commander of the Third Battalion.”
Mykel bowed slightly. “I am honored.” Before he finished his words, he noted that Sturyk and his wife had nodded to the second couple and passed on, leaving him alone with the four in the receiving line.
“No, Majer,” replied the seltyr, a black-haired and almond-skinned man almost as tall as Mykel, “I am the one honored. We seldom see high-ranking Cadmians here in Southgate, and it has been years since one has been able to attend our ball.” With a nod slightly more than polite, he nodded to the next man. “Seltyr Elbaryk, this is the distinguished, and, I might add, deadly, Majer Mykel.”
“We have heard much of you, Majer. It is indeed a pleasure to see you in the flesh. May you enjoy the ball and the hospitality of my home.”
“I am certain I will, and I thank you.”
As Mykel stepped away, he could not help but hear the words between the two.
“He is young for a dagger…”
“But far sharper…best to let him go his way, for that will serve us best.”
Mykel was more than certain he had been meant to hear the last words.
Sturyk and Sheranyne stood, slightly apart from the others, their attire far less ostentatious than that of those around them.
“I take it that Seltyr Benjyr is the first among equals?” asked Mykel.
“They don’t even pretend they’re equal,” replied Sturyk. “He is the Seltyr of Seltyrs. No one questions him. You should be complimented. He spent more time with you than many of the wealthier factors.”
“I hope that’s favorable notice.” Mykel laughed. He wasn’t about to explain why he’d received the attention.
“Better that than being ignored. Now all you have to do is enjoy yourself. The younger women with the bare shoulders and shawls are the ones who are not married.”
“They’d be very flattered if you asked them to dance,” suggested Sheranyne. “But ask their parent or escort, not them.”
Mykel thought he understood why. “I’m not good at dancing.”
“It doesn’t matter,” replied Sheranyne with a gentle laugh. “Some will like you for yourself, and the others will use you to make their suitors jealous. The parents of every eligible girl you ask to dance will be grateful as well.”
“Because it grants them attention and because they can’t possibly marry a Cadmian officer?”
“It’s unlikely,” replied Sheranyne, with a mischievous smile, “but it has happened.”
Mykel felt like swallowing both boots. He bowed. “I beg your pardon, Madame.”
She laughed, good-naturedly, half-turning to Sturyk. “You see, dearest. He understood with only a smile.”
Sturyk laughed as well.
To cover his embarrassment, Mykel gazed across the ballroom for a moment. He tried to shut out the welter of personal auras, the feel of so many people, and just look at the dancers and those standing around the edge of the ballroom.
“There are refreshments in the adjoining salons,” said Sturyk, “but it’s considered poor manners to retreat there immediately upon arriving, and particularly without having danced at least for a time. I can see several of those I know observing us.”
Mykel permitted himself a wry smile as he looked back at the overcaptain. As soon as Sturyk had mentioned refreshments, Mykel had thought about slipping away.
“If you will excuse us.” Sturyk and his wife eased out among the dancers.
Mykel envied the grace with which they moved. He scanned the dancers, and those standing at the edge of the dance floor. After a time, he found his gaze being drawn to the far side of the ballroom, to a black-haired woman in a plain, but flattering, pale green shimmersilk gown. She wore a shawl. He realized that she was the only young woman he had seen without a male escort or a parent beside her. There was something…
Mykel stiffened, standing stock-still. The woman was Rachyla. He would have known her anywhere. What was she doing in Dramur? How can she have gotten to Southgate so quickly? He feared he already knew why.
Finally, he walked toward her, stepping around the edge of the dance floor, avoiding the couples moving to the music in a step he did not know or even recall seeing.
She watched him, neither overtly encouraging nor discouraging him. As he drew nearer, he could sense her aura—almost totally black, shot through with faint traces of green, unlike any other he had seen. Was that because she was a seltyr’s daughter? No…none of seltyrs had felt that way.
“Lady Rachyla.” He bowed slightly as he stopped a yard short of her. “I cannot say how surprised I am to see you here.”
“Then, I suggest you do not try.” She laughed, in the ironic and musical way that Mykel could only recall for the instant afterward. “I see you are a majer now. I had not expected to see you, either, but then I heard that you would be here, and I found that I was not surprised.”
“Unlike me.”
“It is good to see you surprised, Majer. I saw that so seldom.”
“How did you come to Southgate?”
“By ship, of course. Is there any other way from Dramur?” Her deep green eyes fixed on him.
“I meant…”
“I know what you meant, Majer. Have you come to ask me to dance? To make the obligatory appearance and flatter your ego that you may choose any of the women, and none will refuse you?”
“I know little of dancing, and I can see that you have changed little.”
“I have changed more than you know, Majer, and so have you. You were not afraid to take a dagger of danger…yet you fear to dance with a woman who has nothing?”
Mykel smiled. “I did not say I feared to dance. I said I did not know much about it, and your feet may suffer.”
Rachyla shook her head, then held out a hand. “Let us dance.”
Mykel stepped forward and took her hand. He held her lightly, if firmly, trying to follow the steps of the others and to keep his boots away from her slippered feet, as the small orchestra played an unfamiliar air. He couldn’t help wondering how he had ended up dancing with the daughter of a seltyr of Dramur in Southgate.
“For a man with two right feet, you do not dance badly.”
“I just follow your lead.”
“Would that more had.”
“You have relatives here?” Mykel finally offered, barely avoiding stumbling—and another couple.
“You did not know? Elbaryk is a cousin. His mother and mine were sisters. He must bear a certain…responsibility.”
“So…your maternal cousin must assist you, while your paternal cousin takes everything your father left?”
“Few would state it so directly.”
“Including finding a husband?”
“Majer…who would wish a wife with no property? Of those who would, who would I, or my cousin, find acceptable?”
“I would not close off that possibility. I recall your telling me something like that once.”
She laughed, once. “You would use my own words.”
“Better than mine,” he returned.
After a silence, she spoke again, her voice low. “You would not have killed my father that day.”
“No. I would have had him imprisoned.”
“You are too honorable to be a Cadmian, Majer. It will destroy you—or you will destroy all that you now support.”
Mykel didn’t have an answer to her comment.
“It is said you are going to Hyalt.”
“Yes.”
“And you will kill more who rebel against the evil ones?”
“Only if they shoot at us.”
“How can they not when you are the tool of the Duarches? Can you not see that?”
“I can be honorable and see what can be done.”
Rachyla laughed, yet it was not a mocking expression, but one more of ironic sadness.
The music stopped with a flourish.
Mykel inclined his head to Rachyla. “Thank you, Lady Rachyla. Might I have—”
“If you have the slightest regard for me, Majer, do not ask me to dance again,” she murmured.
Mykel concealed a wince.
“Not until you have danced for at least several glasses with others. And do not call me ‘Lady,’” she added in an even lower voice. She inclined her head to him. “Thank you, Majer.” Her thank-you was louder and clear to those nearby.
Mykel bowed again. “My thanks and gratitude to you. Might I escort you…”
“My cousin’s wife is there by the double column.”
Mykel offered his arm. Rachyla took it, but with the tips of her gloved fingers barely resting on the forearm of his uniform tunic. They walked to the edge of the dance floor
Madame Elbaryk smiled politely as Mykel bowed once more, both to her and to Rachyla. Then he stepped back and turned.
“Mykel?”
He looked to his left and saw the overcaptain and his wife at the edge of the dance floor, less than three yards away. He joined them, not looking back, much as he would have liked to.
“That didn’t take you long,” observed Sturyk. “Is she some relative of Elbaryk’s?”
“His cousin,” Mykel replied.
“She dances well,” added Sheranyne.
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