Cadmian's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Abruptly, he was surrounded by a haze of green.

  The soarer was more beautiful—and less human—than he recalled. Hovering there before him, slightly more than half the size of an adult woman, she had green eyes that took him in and looked through him. Her hair was golden green, but he could not tell how long it was because it merged with the halo of power around her. For all the apparent light she created, he could see no shadows, and the air around her was cool, despite the warmth of the night.

  She said nothing.

  “You summoned me…or suggested I should come here,” Mykel finally said, his voice low, barely above a murmur. Yet his words seemed to boom out.

  You ignored that call almost too long.

  “I didn’t know what it was. At first, I thought I was just dreaming.”

  We are not dreams. If you would survive and prosper, you would do well to understand the difference between what you sense and what you imagine.

  “Why did you call me?”

  Mykel gained an impression of laughter.

  Why not? Our interests are the same, although you do not know that. Why that is so we leave to you, but you will not learn that unless you learn more about your talent. There was a pause. How did you know to come to this spot?

  “I followed the green glow.”

  You glow far more brightly than do we, for any who would look. You must learn to cloak what you are.

  “A dagger of the ancients?”

  That is only a name. The invaders, the ones you call alectors, will kill you if they sense what you are. They wish no rivals to their ability. They think of you as wild and untrained, a wild talent.

  Mykel started to retort, then swallowed. The last phrase had been the very words used by the alector who had tried to kill him.

  “But…why?”

  You have seen how we and ours must feed. We take but a small portion of what they require. They will bleed the world dry long before its time.

  Mykel wanted to protest, but decided against it.

  You Cadmians are their herding dogs, to keep order among the steers.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Why not? If you learn to conceal what you are and watch and listen, you will understand. If you do not, you will die at their hands and weapons, as did the other. We would prefer to help those who will preserve the world, rather than destroy it.

  “How am I supposed to conceal what I am, and how is one person supposed to do all that?”

  Concealment is merely making sure that you do not send forth the energy of your being. One does not have to shout to the world that one exists. Just exist.

  “One person?” prompted Mykel.

  One person? In time you must find another like yourself…. If not, what will be…will be….

  The glow and the soarer vanished, and Mykel found himself standing alone in the darkness—except he could see that there was another glow. It came from him. Had it always been there? Had he just not recognized it? Or had the soarer done something to make him aware of it?

  What could he do? Why did he have to do anything? Because he had no choice. Borcal had done nothing and died—that was the implication of what the soarer had told him. What “other” could there have been? But why did the alectors hate landers like him and Borcal?

  They did. That was certain. He still recalled the image of fear and hatred on the face of the alector who had found him.

  A grim smile crossed his lips as he began to walk slowly downhill. How could he just exist? How could he damp a glow when he didn’t even know what caused it?

  56

  At a quarter past the second glass of the afternoon on Quinti, Dainyl left his study, wearing on his upper left sleeve the crimson armband that signified alector misconduct or blood wrongly shed, or both. The administration of justice was scheduled to begin at the third glass. As often before, the marshal had left Dainyl fully in charge of the proceeding.

  Captain Ghasylt was waiting by the duty desk, where he was talking to Undercaptain Yuasylt. He stopped, straightened his crimson armband, and stiffened. “Submarshal, sir.”

  “At ease, Captain. Is fourth squad ready to escort the prisoner?”

  “Yes, sir. They all have their sidearms and armbands. The prisoner was brought in two glasses ago. He’s in the holding cell. The duty coach is standing by at the Hall of Justice. One of the Highest’s assistants will be standing in for him.”

  Dainyl didn’t like that at all, because the assistants weren’t as Talented as the Administrator of Justice, and that would drag out the agony of the proceeding. Still, he nodded to Ghasylt. “Stand-ins all the way around.”

  “You’re taking the marshal’s position, sir?”

  “Today.” With a smile he hoped wasn’t too ironic, Dainyl walked down toward the north end of the building to check the holding cell and fourth squad.

  Finally, at a quarter before the third glass, Dainyl stepped out into the courtyard behind the headquarters building under high clouds that had kept the summer day from being as hot as usual. The breeze off the bay made the courtyard almost too cool. Fourth squad would be escorting the prisoner, but the three remaining squads of First Company and their pteridons—less the Myrmidons flying dispatches—had begun to form up south of the flight stage.

  Dainyl studied the flight stage, a circular gray stone platform in the center of the courtyard behind headquarters. It stood a yard and a half above the paved courtyard and also doubled, if infrequently, as the site for the administration of justice to alectors. The top of the platform was empty, except for the justice stand—a crossbar affixed atop a single post—set in place for what was to come.

  After several moments, Dainyl turned to face south and the three squads of Myrmidons, ranked as closely as possible. Even so, each squad took a square thirty yards on a side, with the five Myrmidons lined up before their pteridons, blue wings folded back.

  “First Company stands ready, sir.” Ghasylt’s eyes met Dainyl’s.

  “It won’t be long.” Dainyl took a last survey of First Company. The pteridons of fourth squad were ranked at the back, without their riders, since fourth squad would be undertaking prisoner escort duty. The area on the north side of the landing stage had filled with reluctant alectors from across Elcien, and at one side were three aides to the Duarch, doing their duty of noting all those alectors who were present—or more precisely, those who were not.

  Among those present was Lystrana. Dainyl was less than pleased to see her. He worried about the impact on Kytrana, but Lystrana wasn’t far enough along in her pregnancy to be excused. Another four or five weeks, and she wouldn’t have to view any administration of justice until Kytrana was a year old.

  He looked at his wife, and, from across the courtyard, she returned his look with a smile. He couldn’t help smiling as well, if but for a moment.

  Finally, Dainyl turned. “Myrmidons, ready!”

  “First Company, present and ready!” declaimed Captain Ghasylt.

  After receiving the official report, Dainyl turned, standing at attention.

  A last group of alectors hurried into the courtyard just before the third glass of the afternoon. All in all, Dainyl judged close to a hundred and thirty alectors—in addition to the Myrmidons—filled the area north of the flight stage, waiting.

  Three deep chimes issued from the headquarters building, and the silence dropped across the courtyard.

  The senior assistant of the High Alector of Justice stepped from the headquarters building. Acting in place of the High Alector as Administrator of Justice, he wore both purple tunic and trousers, with the black trim required for administration of justice. His upper left sleeve bore a crimson armband identical to the ones worn by the Myrmidons. Across his chest was a black sash. Behind him were two assistants, attired in a similar fashion, except without the sash. The first, an alectress, carried the lash, its black tendrils tipped with razor-sharp barbs. The younger elector who followed held the Mace of Justice.


  The Administrator of Justice walked deliberately up the steps and onto the stone stage, setting himself three yards behind the empty justice stand.

  “Bring forth the malefactor!” The Administrator’s voice, barely a baritone, was nearly lost in the vastness of the courtyard, but the rear doors of the headquarters building opened. Undercaptain Chelysta emerged, two Myrmidons immediately behind her. A barefooted alector in shapeless dark red trousers and shirt walked behind them, his hands manacled behind his back. Two more Myrmidons followed the malefactor.

  Not a single murmur disturbed the courtyard as the Myrmidons escorted the malefactor onto the stage up to the justice form.

  The Administrator of Justice watched intently as the Myrmidons unshackled the prisoner. While the Highest’s assistant had considerable Talent, it was nowhere near the immense presence of Zelyert himself, but it was doubtless enough to deal with the malefactor, if necessary. The malefactor seemed volitionless as his wrists were clamped to the frame. Then, Chelysta placed the red hood over his head. The Myrmidons stepped back behind the threesome about to administer justice.

  The Administrator took three steps forward and to the side, facing the prisoner. “We are here to do justice. You are here to see justice done. So be it.” He addressed the alector strapped to the frame: “Sukylt of Elcien, you have abused those who trusted you. You have betrayed the trust placed in you by the Archon and the Duarches. You have deceived, and you have cheated all who live upon Acorus by your acts. For your crimes, you have been sentenced to die.”

  Almost without pausing, the Administrator turned to accept the lash from the assistant, who then stepped back. The other assistant brought forward the Mace of Justice, raising and then lowering it.

  “Justice will be done.” The Administrator of Justice raised the lash, and struck.

  The barbs on the lash were sharp enough to shred normal cloth and flesh with one stroke. The lash was symbolic as much as physical because, as the lash struck, the Administrator used his Talent and the crystals concealed within the Mace to rip lifeforce from the malefactor, funneling it toward the pteridons formed up in the courtyard.

  The direction of that lifeforce was sloppy, Dainyl sensed, in a fashion that the Highest would not have appreciated, but Dainyl was not about to report that.

  The Administrator needed a good ten strokes of the lash—twice what the Highest had ever required—before the figure in the T-frame slumped forward. Blood was splattered not only across his back and over the shredded remnants of the red garments, but across the stones of the stage as well.

  Dainyl had stayed himself against the agony radiated across the courtyard, and still found himself close to retching. He could sense Lystrana’s discomfort as well, and more than a half score of watching alectors had collapsed.

  One last stroke of the lash followed before Dainyl sensed the emptiness that signified death, a relief after the extended flogging.

  “Justice has been done.” The Administrator nodded to the assistant with the Mace.

  The assistant stepped forward and directed the Mace at the figure in the frame. Pinkish purple flowed over the dead alector, who was already turning to dust—another bit of sloppiness. A flash of light followed, and only the empty frame remained.

  Immediately, the Administrator walked off the flight stage, followed by the pair of assistants. Chelysta and the Myrmidons waited a long moment before following.

  Dainyl turned to face Captain Ghastylt. “First Company, dismissed to quarters.”

  “Yes, sir. First Company stands dismissed to quarters.”

  Dainyl turned and walked toward headquarters.

  Most of the alectors who had watched the dreadful ceremony had left, but Lystrana remained, standing beside the courtyard doors to the headquarters building. Her face was as pale as it was possible for the face of an alector or alectress. Dainyl moved toward his wife slowly, so that they were nearly alone by the time he reached her. The Myrmidons had all returned to quarters or the pteridon squares with their pteridons.

  “Are you all right?” asked Dainyl.

  “I will be.” She paused, then added, “That…was terrible. You could have done a far better job.”

  “I don’t know that I’d ever want to.”

  “If it has to be done, it should be quicker.”

  “Maybe the Highest doesn’t want it that way,” replied Dainyl in a low voice. “He may well want it done in a terrible fashion upon occasion. People don’t always understand if things are too easy or painless.”

  Lystrana nodded slowly. Some of the color had returned to her face. “If he dragged out the administration of justice, he’d seem incompetent or willfully cruel and sadistic.”

  “I had that thought,” admitted Dainyl.

  “It still bothers me.”

  Dainyl’s stomach remained knotted, but there was little point in saying so. Lystrana could sense that. “Will you be late tonight?”

  “Not that I know. My highest is in Ludar. They all are, even Khelaryt.”

  Dainyl frowned.

  “I know. It doesn’t seem wise, but perhaps he feels that it is a way of showing strength.”

  “Or he’s doing it now because it would be more dangerous later. That way, he can request the next meeting of all the High Alectors and Duarches be in Elcien.”

  “If Samist refuses then…it might erode some support.”

  “It might.” As he spoke Dainyl doubted that he would ever be able to calculate such intricacies of position and power—or want to do so.

  “I need to go, dearest.” Lystrana extended her hand.

  Dainyl took it, then offered his arm. They walked around the headquarters building and toward the front gate.

  “You’ll be all right walking back?” he asked when they reached the gate.

  “The walk will do me good.” With a smile, she stepped back, but not before squeezing his hand.

  He stood and watched her still-lithe form for a time as she walked along the boulevard back toward the Palace of the Duarch. Then he turned. He hoped that the rest of the operations reports had arrived with the latest dispatches, although whether they would tell him anything of value was problematical.

  57

  Three long days had passed since Mykel had met the soarer in the darkness near the hilltop to the west of the old garrison. The days had been quiet, with no sign of strange creatures in the quarry for nearly a week. The new compound was coming along well enough, with the major work near completion on the barracks. Mykel had even designed and drawn an emblem for the two Hyalt companies, one that both captains did not dislike.

  For all that, Mykel remained uneasy.

  In thinking over what had happened with the ancient soarer, he had realized just exactly what Poeldyn had not said on the day Mykel had first met the two craftmasters. Poeldyn had said that the hilltop was unlucky. Close as it was to Hyalt, with a view of both the town and the hills farther to the west, and even of the low mountain above and behind the regional alector’s compound, Mykel should have realized earlier that more than ill chance was associated with the hill. From what he could tell, the soarers generally appeared in the heights. Although the hilltop behind the old garrison was not all that high, it was the highest point near Hyalt on a gentle ridge that extended in both directions, gently sloping back under the town to the east and into the rolling hills to the west. As he reflected, Mykel realized it was really the only hill or ridge that ran east to west, another fact he should have considered and hadn’t, probably because it did not stand out in height or ruggedness.

  The other problem Mykel had was what the soarer had suggested—that Mykel had the same interests as the ancients, and that his own interests would not be served by the alectors. How could he trust that? Yet…after having been attacked by the strange alectors, and after Rachyla’s warnings, and after what he had seen in Dramur about how the alectors manipulated landers and seltyrs, how could he not be wary of alectors, even those in the Myrmidons? Yet…it was li
kely that Submarshal Dainyl had saved him not once, but twice.

  In the end, one thing was clear. The soarer had been correct about his talent before he had recognized it for what it was, and her advice about concealment made sense, no matter what else happened. The only problem was that after three nights Mykel had made little progress in discovering how to damp the greenish glow that emanated from him. The night before he had walked back up the hill, but there had been no sign of the soarer—only the faintest hint of her amber-green and all too much of his own deeper and brighter shade of green.

  He was more than a little worried, because there was no telling when he might next encounter an alector, and because of the strange creatures, the battalion’s companies had to continue their patrols, although he had told his captains to give a wider berth to the area around the regional alector’s compound, on the grounds that the RA had the ability to protect his own area and that Third Battalion had been dispatched to protect Hyalt specifically.

  Even so, that would only purchase some time.

  In the darkness of his temporary quarters, Mykel held the dagger of the ancients in his hand. Perhaps, if he could find a way to damp the glow of the miniature ancient weapon, he could apply that technique in some fashion to himself. The dagger was only metal, and yet it held an amber-green feeling, almost as if it were alive, with an obvious glow emanating from it, if only to his senses.

  Except it had not been obvious just to him. Rachyla had been able to feel it as well. Did that mean that she had a talent similar to his? Surely, she should have known that. He shook his head. She might, and she might not. That could wait. With more and more alectors around Hyalt, he needed to concentrate on the task at hand.

  First, he concentrated on sensing the dagger, what it was, and what it was not. It felt like steel, in a fashion, and yet it felt partly alive, and the sense of green issued from whatever about it generated the feeling of life. That realization, too, was more of a feeling that anything he could have described.