Then she stood and embraced him again. They kissed for another long moment before she turned slightly and pressed the black crystal of her ring against the crystal of his herder’s wristband. For an instant, warmth and closeness enfolded them, and they clung to each other.
Wendra stepped back to let him finish dressing, but did not sit down, standing at the foot of the bed. Once he was dressed, he reached down and shouldered the saddlebags, then lifted the rifle from the high wall rack. Except for what he had on, and his personal toiletries, he’d packed the saddlebags the night before.
He wore the heavy cartridge belt over his militia winter parka. While he did not expect trouble, if he encountered it, he’d need the cartridges in easy reach. The rifle was his—but met militia standards, which meant that it was designed for use against sanders and sandwolves, with the magazine that held but five cartridges, each thicker than a large man’s thumb.
Wendra accompanied him out of the house, carrying the basket of travel fare. As they walked through the darkness toward the stable, a darkness that was more like early twilight to Alucius, she said quietly, “It’s colder than yesterday. You’ll be careful?”
“I’m always careful, dear one. Even in Madrien I was careful.”
“I worry.”
Alucius worried, too, although he had less reason to do so than he had when he’d first been conscripted years before in the middle of a war. Still…Corus was an unsettled place, and there were raiders and brigands, even if there were no battles. Yet.
After saddling Wildebeast and slipping the food from the basket into the top of his saddlebags, he turned to Wendra and wrapped his arms around her. “Just another four seasons, and I’ll be here all the time.”
She did not speak, but lifted her lips to his.
After the embrace and kiss, Alucius pulled on the skull mask of nightsilk that shielded his entire head, with only eyeholes and slits for nose and mouth.
“You look dangerous in that,” she said with a faint smile.
“I don’t know about dangerous, but the nightsilk keeps my face from freezing. I’ll have to take it off at sunrise, or someone will think I’m a brigand.” He led Wildebeast out of the stall and then from the stable out into the chill air of a winter morning three glasses before sunrise.
In the west, just above the horizon, the green-tinged disc of Asterta was setting. The larger moon—Selena—had set a glass after sunset the night before. Alucius closed the stable door and mounted. “I’ll walk you back to the house.”
“I can—all right.” She turned and began to walk back to the house, Alucius riding beside her.
Once Wendra stood on the porch, Alucius turned Wildebeast.
“You will be careful,” Wendra said again, looking at her husband.
“I will,” he promised. “You take care as well.”
Wendra nodded, as if she dared not to speak.
After a long moment, of just looking through the darkness at her, he turned his mount toward the lane, heading southwest, swallowing as he did.
He understood her fears, her concerns.
So much had happened. Three years earlier, he had been conscripted into the Iron Valleys Militia. He’d served in the militia as a scout, then had been captured at the battle of Soulend by the Matrites and forced by the Talent-torque welded around his neck to serve as a captive trooper in the Matrial’s forces. He’d discovered his own Talent-abilities, broken the power of the torques, and returned to the Iron Valleys at the head of a company of other captives—only to discover that the price of freedom was to become a militia captain over that company. Now, after a little more than a year of service since his return, in command of the Twenty-first Horse Company, he had just less than a year before he could return to the stead, and the life of a herder—and to Wendra.
As he rode past the outbuildings, he turned and looked back at the stead house. Wendra still stood there watching. He waved, not knowing whether she might see his gesture in the darkness, and he could not tell whether she did or not.
He had ridden less than a vingt from the stead buildings when he sensed the others. There were four men—none with Talent, for his Talent revealed that the being of each was blackness without the flashes of green that revealed herder Talent or the flashes of purple that revealed the only other kind of Talent in people that Alucius had come across.
He slowed Wildebeast into a walk, letting his Talent-senses reach out to locate those who waited. They were waiting in the low wash less than two hundred yards from where the stead lane met the old high road that ran from Eastice south through Soulend, then through Iron Stem to Dekhron. Two were on the north side, and two on the south, all of them less than twenty yards from the road—a clear ambush.
Alucius could also sense the grayish violet of the sandwolves, doubtless waiting to see if there would be carrion left for them. Alucius smiled grimly behind the skull mask. There would be carrion.
He continued to ride until he was less than two hundred yards from the ambush site. In the darkness, far enough away in the now-moonless night that none of the men would see him, he reined up, dismounted, and tied Wildebeast to one of the posts marking the stead lane, then took the rifle from its holster, holding it in his left hand.
Moving as silently as only could a man who had been both herder and scout, he slipped through the quarasote, using his night vision and Talent-sense to make his way to the wash on the north side of the lane.
He hoped he could use his Talent to stun the men, then sever their lifethreads, rather than using the rifle. But he had to get within yards to use Talent that way, and there was every chance that one of them might hear him. So he held the rifle ready as he eased toward the northernmost of the ambushers. When he reached the edge of the wash, only about a yard and a half deep, he slid down onto the lower ground and began to follow the wash south.
He froze as he heard the faintest of sounds. Remaining silent, he listened.
“…thought I heard something…”
“…scrats probably…”
“…not at night in winter.”
“…quiet…he’ll be along…”
Alucius edged along the chest-high miniature bluff toward the men, rifle ready, still hoping not to use it, especially not at first.
A good half glass passed before Alucius reached a gentle curve in the edge of the wash, a position from where he could sense the nearness of the closest man. He paused. Then he reached out with his Talent-senses—and struck with full force at the man’s yellow-brown lifethread—a thread invisible except through Talent-senses.
There was but the faintest gasp, then a muted thump, and the reddish-tinged void that signified death washed over Alucius.
“Silyn…you there? Silyn?”
Ignoring the whispered inquiry, Alucius kept moving, until he was less than ten yards from the second man, where he once more extended his Talent and struck, wincing as the death-void swept across him.
Then, for several moments, Alucius stood silently, shuddering, and feeling the perspiration gathering beneath the skull mask, despite the chill and the light night wind that swirled around him, with the iron-acrid scent that always accompanied any wind on the stead that came out of the northeast and off the Aerlal Plateau. Finally, he took a long and slow deep breath, then crossed the ten yards of the wash to the western side, where he climbed out and silently began to circle west and south toward the remaining two men.
The second pair were far closer together, less than three yards apart and lying prone behind quarasote bushes on the edge of the far shallower section of the wash south of the depression, where the stead lane dipped and ran through the infrequent watercourse.
Neither even turned as Alucius Talent-struck.
Alucius had to sit down, with his legs over the crumbling edge of the wash, breathing heavily and shuddering. He’d killed with his Talent before—but never more than one person at one time. He’d had no idea that the effort was so great—or the reaction so violent. B
ut it explained why those with Talent didn’t make that much of an impression on the world, especially since there were few who had great Talent. He doubted that he could have used his Talent against a fifth man—not if he wanted to remain conscious.
After a time, he stood, slowly, and walked back to the first pair of dead men, rifling through their wallets and winter jackets to see if there happened to be any sign of anything that might say why they had tried to attack him. All he found that indicated their motivation was five golds in each belt wallet, in addition to some silvers and coppers. He took the golds, but left the lesser coins. Then he trudged back to the first pair, where he found nothing revealing, except five golds more in each wallet.
He took a deep breath and made his way through the darkness toward Wildebeast, his Talent-senses still extended. The sandwolves were closer, perhaps a vingt to the west, across the ancient eternastone high road. Only when he reached the stead road, and Wildebeast, did he concentrate on the image of carrion, of food for the sandwolf pack. Then, with a grim smile, he mounted.
He frowned. His Talent indicated someone was riding toward him—quickly. He relaxed slightly as he sensed the green-shot blackness that was his grandsire. Rather than ride on, he waited.
Within another quarter glass came a voice.
“Alucius?”
“I’m here. I’m all right.”
“I can tell that now. Wasn’t sure what had happened until I was headed out here. Was certain something had. Could feel you were worried. So did Wendra. We both caught that. Not like you. You just called the sandwolves,” Royalt observed, reining up on the stead road. “I didn’t know anyone could do that.”
Behind the skull mask, Alucius grinned raggedly. “Someone told me not to tell anyone. Herders don’t tell, remember?”
“You can do more than that.”
Alucius ignored the statement. “There were four of them. I don’t think the sandwolves will leave much. They’re hungry.” He eased Wildebeast toward his grandsire and the gray that the older man rode, then extended his hand. “They’d been paid in gold. Five golds each. Use it for the stead.”
The twenty golds clunked into the older man’s hand.
“I left the silvers and coppers in their wallets,” Alucius said.
“What do you think about their mounts?” asked Royalt.
“They’re tethered. Leave them where they are. I thought you and Kustyl could find them and the bodies—or what’s left of them—early tomorrow. I was going to ride back to the stead and tell you, but you’ve saved me the trip. I’d guess that the four, whoever they were, were travelers who got lost in the dark and had the misfortune to run into hungry sandwolves.”
“That’s what Kustyl and I will say. But I’ll get the mounts now. Wouldn’t want to lose them to the sandwolves. Waste of good horses.” After a pause, Royalt asked, “Do you know who it could be?”
“If Dysar were still alive…” Alucius said slowly. “But I can’t think of anyone else. You said Wendra felt it, too?”
“She wanted to come. I thought it was better she didn’t.”
Alucius nodded. “She has Talent. She might show more. You ought to take her out with you.”
“I will. I’d thought about it.”
Left unsaid was the understanding that the stead needed a herder, and, in Alucius’s absence, should anything happen to Royalt, there would be no one else to herd the nightsheep—unless Wendra could. The last woman herder had been Royalt’s mother, the last woman with Talent in Alucius’s family. Alucius didn’t know—or hadn’t asked, he corrected himself silently—about any female herders in Wendra’s family.
After another silence, Royalt said, “You’d better get going, before the sandwolves get here. Kustyl and Wendra and I…we’ll take care of things.”
“Thank you.”
Once more, Alucius turned Wildebeast westward, leaving his grandsire behind once more.
In less than a fifth of a glass, he was traveling southward on the ancient high road. The gray eternastones, laid down at least a millennium before, remained unmarked by the passage of time or traffic. Within a day, any few scars that might mar the gray stone surface vanished. In the darkness the gray stone emitted a faint glow perceptible only to those with Talent, a line of illumination that ran straight as a rifle barrel from Soulend to Iron Stem.
As he rode, Alucius pondered the attempted attack. Why would anyone wish him harm? He was the most junior captain in the Iron Valley Militia. His death would not turn the stead over to anyone outside the family, not while his grandsire and mother and Wendra still lived. He had never been involved in trade. His only skill was that he was perhaps the best battlefield captain in the militia. He was certainly the most experienced, if not through his own desires.
Yet there was no war, and, so far as he or Royalt knew, none in sight. From the brief words he had heard, the would-be killers had either been from the southern half of the Iron Valleys, from Deforya, or from Lanachrona. While the Lanachronans might wish a less effective militia in the Iron Valleys, Alucius couldn’t see how his death would affect anything. He’d been a captive Matrite trooper when the militia had repulsed the Matrites—if with some earlier help from him and the Lord-Protector of Lanachrona.
All Alucius could come up with was the idea that the ambush meant he was in a position to do something, or to stop something—or no one would have bothered with trying to kill a lowly captain. The question was whether he would recognize whatever it was before it was too late, and that might be difficult because he hadn’t the faintest idea of what he was looking for.
A glass passed before, in the darkness, he could sense the dustcat works, the long wooden sheds that confined the animals, kept and groomed for the dander that provided exquisite pleasure when inhaled—and which made gold and gems cheap by comparison. He’d only met Gortal a handful of times, and not in years. Even when he had been much younger, Alucius had found the man who confined the captured dustcats and sold their dreamdust to the traders of Lanachrona cold, almost without spirit, for all of Gortal’s manners and fine clothes.
The scutters who labored for Gortal would do almost anything to be around the big cats, just to inhale the vagrant dreamdust, and it was said that the women scutters made those who served at the Pleasure Palace seem virtuous. It still amazed Alucius that people would destroy themselves so—and that Gortal could accept the golds that came from such degradation.
Then, he reflected ruefully, golds affected everyone. The traders of Dekhron had pressured the Council to reduce the size of the militia in previous years, almost inviting the Matrial of Madrien to attack, all because they had not wished to pay the tariffs necessary to support a strong militia. In the end, they’d paid more by having to expand and equip the militia rapidly—and they’d been forced to borrow the golds—a debt it appeared they could not repay. And, once more, right after the war, they’d pressured the Council to reduce the size of the militia—and the tariffs that could have serviced that debt.
Were there those on the Council so much like Gortal that they would do anything for a gold? In the chill, Alucius snorted. From what he’d seen, there was little difference, except that Gortal was probably more honest.
4
Alustre, Lustrea
The workshop walls were of pale green marble, but the floor was polished pink-gray granite, as were the pillars. There were no wall hangings, and the windows were but narrow slits in the walls. Set well away from the workbench was a solid black square table, sturdily constructed of lorken, and upon the table was a thick glass mirror, also rimmed in lorken.
Sweat poured from the face of the thin young man who looked over the silver-rimmed circular mirror set in the middle of the table. As he concentrated, the silver of the mirror was replaced by ruby mists, which swirled.
“Well?” asked the man in silver and black, standing over the table—and the engineer.
“This is but makeshift, my lord Praetor. It is not truly a Recorder’s Table.
There are none left in the east.” The man did not meet the older man’s eyes. “I said it might function as one.”
An image swirled into being out of the mists, the image of a young man dressed in silver.
“That is Tyren,” stated the older man.
Another image appeared—that of a slightly younger man, with silver-blond hair and wearing the blue leathers of an Illegean and mounted upon a white stallion. This image was silvered, and wavered in and out of focus. A third and fainter image appeared, almost a shadow image of a third figure, one wearing some type of herder garments. After a moment, a fourth image appeared—the face of a young woman or a girl, but, it too was shadowed and even fainter than two that had preceded it.
Then…the last three images vanished—all at once.
Almost as suddenly, the mirror shattered, spraying fragments around the room. A thin line of blood appeared on the forearm of the younger man, and the older man carefully picked several shards from the folds of his silver cloak.
“What does it mean, Vestor?” There was a pause, and a hard laugh. “Besides showing your limited ability?”
“Compared to the accomplishments of the ancients, Praetor, my abilities are limited, but that is because I am young and have not had the time or the resources to enhance them on your behalf. No one now alive could have turned a mirror into a replica of one of the ancient Recorder’s Tables, albeit a poor replica.”
“Is there not one Table left anywhere in Corus? Of the score the records recall?”
“There is one. I can sense it.” Vestor lifted his thin shoulders and dropped them. “Where it might be, that I cannot say, except it is likely to be somewhere to the west of the Spine of Corus.”
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