Cadmians Choice (57 page)

His fingers dropped
to his belt. After a moment, he removed the dagger of the ancients, both from
his belt and from its sheath. He considered it, both with his eyes and with his
expanded senses. The amber-green “feel” was more golden than the aura he knew
he radiated. Could he emulate that feel, use it to call an ancient soarer? Did
he want to? More to the point, could he afford not to?

He concentrated on
creating a point of light, one that was indeed amber-green.

Nothing happened.

He studied the dagger
once more and tried again— with no success.

Could he strengthen
the aura around the dagger? Would that work?

This time, he tried
to extend his aura to the dagger. That failed as well.

What would work? For
a time, he thought. He had been successful in willing his shots to strike their
targets. What if he merely willed—in the same way—the dagger to glow?

Drawing on the
feelings he had when he used a rifle, he willed the dagger to glow, to send a
pulse of green.

A momentary,
brilliant, flash appeared—one that he sensed, but did not see.

Mykel tried to relax,
to capture the sense of what he had done. He tried once more. This time the
pulse was slightly longer.

How did one summon an
ancient?

The soarer appeared
so abruptly that he barely managed not to jump or grab for the rifle. She
hovered in the air between him and the garrison, suspended in an amber-green
spherical haze, her wings iridescent, and barely moving. Yet bright as that
haze seemed to Mykel, he knew the sentry saw nothing.

You do not need the
dagger.

“You might not. I
seem to.”

It is a material. ..
talisman. Nothing more. You would do better to work within yourself. The dagger
will become ... a crutch now. What did you intend with your... signal?

‘To seek information.”

The soarer did not
reply.

“Do you know what
those creatures are that have attacked us? The flying ones?”

They are incomplete
and damaged beings fleeing the dying world of the Ifrits. Their being is not
strong enough to survive the long journey between worlds. The feeling behind
the unspoken words was close to dismissive.

Mykel moistened his
lips. “Ifrits? What are Ifrits? Are all the alectors Ifrits?”

There are Ifrits and
Ifrits. There are those born here, and those who were not. As they are now,
none belong here. They believe they do.

The alectors came
from another world? “How did they get here? Why don’t they belong?”

Observe them. You
will see.

“You said I didn’t
need a talisman. How can I do what you do?”

You cannot. You can
only do what you can. That should suffice. A clear sense of a laugh followed
the words.

“But how?” Mykel’s
sense of frustration filled the two words.

In turn, the soarer
conveyed wordless puzzlement.

“How?”

You do not see.

“No! I can only see
my own aura, my own being, and the auras of others, if I am close, and I can, I
think, place a little of myself in the bullets of my rifle.”

That will kill the
creatures and the Ifrits. Using too much will kill you. Lifeforce must rebuild
unless you draw from the web.

“The web?” Every time
he thought he had an answer, or a piece of one, something else came up that he
didn’t understand.

The soarer extended a
delicate hand, not quite touching his shoulder.

Abruptly, Mykel was
surrounded by lines of color— thin lines, faint lines, strong lines, all
somehow separate and yet tied together. The brightest—thin and golden— ran from
the soarer into the hillside itself, to the darkness he had sensed below.

Observe yourself.

From his own body
extended a deep but glowing green thread, more like a cord compared to the
soarer’s thread, that arched into the sky to the northeast.

Your cord could link
to the world anywhere, but you have not learned how. That is what you must
master. If not, the Ifrits will destroy you.

“You and the
alectors—the Ifrits—are enemies, aren’t you?”

So are you their
enemy. All who would preserve this world are their enemies.

“What did you have to
do with Rachyla?”

Another expression of
puzzlement.

“The woman who might
be like me.”

We did nothing. If
she is like you, the forces within you will determine what will be.

“What forces?”

Enough. You asked,
and we have answered. Do not seek us again until you have mastered yourself and
become one linked to the world where you are, and not where you were born.

The night around
Mykel was dark again—except for the faint glow from the dagger, and the
stronger glow from himself. The threads had all vanished.

The dagger—a
talisman. Merely a symbol or a charm?

No, it was more than
that. Perhaps a reminder or a hint... or a crutch in the beginning, and one he
needed to do without according to her. And Rachyla... the soarer had no answers
there, either.

Where the soarer had
been clearer, in a way, was when she “spoke” of the web. That web had to be the
web of all living things. He concentrated on what his own lifethread/lifecord
had been. This time, he could indeed sense it, arching from him into the
distance. Yet the soarer had been linked to the darkness below.

Mykel considered.
Should he? He did not want to sever his cord. That was death. Even without any
warning from the soarer, he knew that. How could he link to the blackness
beneath? An additional thread? He began to visualize a new thread, an
additional lifethread, growing from him, seeking nourishment from the darkness
beneath.

The stars above spun
around him, and Asterta seemed to smile coldly down upon him, mockingly—or was
it another soarer? His legs trembled, and he put his head down to keep from
passing out. The dizziness passed, and he raised his head.

Was it lighter? Had
he been unconscious for glasses, until just before dawn? He glanced up to find
Asterta, looking more into the western sky, but the moon of the warrior goddess
had not moved from the zenith. He looked toward the garrison, making out the
sentry, obviously squinting into the darkness in Mykel’s direction.

Good as Mykel’s night
vision had been before, now, in the deepness of night, he was seeing as if he
looked through the earliest of twilight, or even a cloudy afternoon. When he
had first begun to uncover his talents, his night vision had improved markedly,
but it had still been night vision. He paused. Was he really “seeing” now? It
was more a combination of vision and sensing the life-forces of everything
around him.

He almost dared not
to look, but he forced himself to sense his own lifethread.

It was a deeper
green, and it no longer arced into the sky, but ran to the blackness beneath
the hillside.

Mykel shivered,
although the night was far from cold. Slowly, he stood. He replaced the dagger
of the ancients in its sheath and then the dagger and sheathe in the hidden
belt slot. Then he reached out and lifted the rifle off the stone.

For the moment, he
did not wish to think too deeply about what had happened, and what he thought
he had done. Instead, as he walked back toward the compound, he reflected on
what else he had learned. Rachyla had been right. The alectors did not belong.
But how had she and the seltyrs known? Because her grandsire had learned what
Mykel was learning and had given away the dagger—the talisman—when he no longer
needed it? Or had he given it away in frustration?

The soarer had been
clear enough. The alectors were fleeing and had been fleeing a world that was
dying, and they and the soarers were enemies. The soarer had not said that
Mykel was the enemy—or friend—of either, but that the alectors would destroy
him, and Rachyla had said that as well. Yet Submarshal Dainyl had saved him
twice. Why? Because he was a useful tool against the rebels? How long could
Mykel trust the submarshal?

What could he do to
protect himself?

He had just reached
the garrison wall when he realized that his back no longer pained him.

Dainyl slept less
than well, and not because of the way-station pallets, or the field rations, or
even the lack of privacy. Twice during the evening he had sensed flashes of
green Talent, but so momentary that he had no idea as to their source. The
majer? Or one of the ancients? In addition to that concern, he worried about
what he had planned. He also worried about what might be happening with
Shastylt and Zelyert in his absence, neither of whom he trusted fully. Yet he
could see no other real alternatives, not ones without even more dire
repercussions.

He was up at dawn on
Quinti, checking the pteridon he had acquired and getting reports from the
individual members of the squads that had patrolled the area around the
regional alector’s compound during the night. None had seen any visible
activity.

Then he gathered Fhentyl
and the undercaptains— except for Undercaptain Jirana, who was flying in
command of fourth squad.

“The rebels are going
to try to wait us out. For the next few days, we’ll make occasional passes over
the building and the entrance to the cavern tunnels and chambers. That is only
after the squad leader assesses the situation. When those passes are made, each
Myrmidon is to fire at one of the slits—or openings.”

Fhentyl raised his
thin black eyebrows.

“First, it will keep
them from stationing those lightcannon directly behind the slits. Second,
eventually we’ll melt the openings shut.”

“But... they still
have a Table there,” Fhentyl observed.

“That’s true,” Dainyl
agreed, “but it limits their ability to use those lightcannon against us. I’ll
be here for the next few days to establish what we need to do, but it’s
important that you keep up those efforts while I deal with Tempre.”

Fhentyl nodded
slowly. “What if... others ... come from the east?”

“The closest Myrmidon
company from the east is in Dulka. With the terrain, they cannot reach here in
less than three days, and that would be if they lifted off this morning. I don’t
see that happening. Those inside the compound can’t do that much, even with a
Table. Not that many alectors can use a Table on a continuing basis.”

“Sir... alectors
against alectors? I had never thought to see this.” Fhentyl shut his mouth
quickly, as if he’d regretted the words before he had finished uttering them.

“Most of the rebels
are dissidents from Ifryn. They’ve taken Hyalt because it’s isolated. How they
got here, no one seems to know, but how it occurred isn’t our problem. Keeping
the situation from getting out of hand is. If we don’t stop them, they’ll build
more of those lightcannon. That will put a greater strain on the world’s
lifeforce, not that they seem to care, and we’ll face a longer and harder
struggle.” Not that we won’t anyway.

Dainyl also chose not
to mention that at least the main door to the outbuilding had been armored with
lifeforce. Were the lightcannon and such defensive measures as the door a
symptom of why lifeforce growth was slow on Acorus? More likely it was
appearing that lifeforce growth hadn’t been that slow, but that some of that
growth had been bled off and diverted—and most likely in more places than
Hyalt. Who knew or suspected such, and why weren’t they saying anything?

“How could they get
away with that?” asked Under-captain Hyksant.

“If someone bribes a
corrupt recorder on Ifryn, and an alector vanishes from Illustra, is anyone
there going to try a long translation to Acorus to report it or track the
malefactor down? Ifryn won’t last that many more years.” Dainyl could say that,
so long as he didn’t mention just how critical the lifeforce diminution was on
Ifryn. “It’s a hope for those who fear that they won’t be granted a chance—or
those who think they’ll have a much better chance by trying a long translation
early. They can claim that they want to help somewhere, and if they believe
that, seldom will a recorder go beyond that incomplete truth—not given the
dangers with making a long translation. We have few enough alectors here that
there’s always some job to be done.”

“But how ...”

Dainyl didn’t see who
offered the sotto voce comment.

“From our point of
view, that doesn’t matter. Our problem is simple. We have a rebel group that is
clearly bent on squandering lifeforce. We have to stop them before it gets
worse.” After the briefest of pauses, he added, “For the next few days, I’ll be
flying with first squad.”

“Sir?” asked Fhentyl,
his tone somewhere between quizzical and aghast.

“If I don’t, that
will put extra work on the others. Besides, I can’t do anything up north until
the Cadmians reach Tempre. Also, I need to see exactly what’s happening. I’d be
out there as a passenger if I weren’t flying.”

“Yes, sir.” Fhentyl’s
voice was glum.

“Try not to worry
about it,” Dainyl said, although he realized that no company commander could
avoid worrying about his superior being exposed to fire. “It’s my decision, and
you can’t do anything about it.”

“I’d rather not have
to explain that, sir.” Fhentyl’s tone was almost doleful.

Dainyl laughed, then
turned to Hyksant. “I apologize, Undercaptain, but I will take command of first
squad for the interim.”

“Yes, sir.” Hyksant
sounded far less unhappy than Fhentyl had.

Less than a glass
later, Dainyl led first squad west-southwest toward the regional alector’s
compound, early enough in the morning that the low-flying pteridons cast long
shadows, often against west-facing shaded slopes. As first squad neared the
compound, fourth squad turned from its circular patrol pattern and banked back
toward the way-station base.

Dainyl made a
complete circuit of the area, then reversed his path, heading to fly wing on
Hyksant.