Darknesses (3 page)

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.

Alustre,
Lustrea

T
he
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.”

“And
you cannot construct one that might last more than a fraction of a glass?”

“They
must be linked to nodes within the earth, Praetor, and I have yet to find where
such a node might be or how to create such a link.”

“Then…this
must do. For now.” The Praetor’s cold glance fell on the engineer. “So tell
me—instead of saying how great you will be—what meant all those images.”

“I
could but guess, Praetor.”

“Then
guess.”

“Young
Tyren is indeed fated to find and carry the dual scepter and to lead Alustre to
greatness in reestablishing the Duarchy in power over all of Corus, but…he will
face challenges from the other three.”

“Shadowy
challenges? Or faint ones? Why were their images so indistinct?”

“Because,
I would surmise, that all may have the ability to call up Talent. They have
not, or I could not have summoned them in the mirror. They may never, but they
have that ability.”

“We
must find them and eliminate them.
You
must find
them.”

“One
wears the leathers of a rider of Illegea. I would surmise, although it is but a
guess, that it is Aellyan Edyss. The second is a herder, possibly from the Iron
Valleys, although he could be anywhere in Corus. The third—and faintest—is a
girl, perhaps a young woman. She may not even have been born, so faint was that
image.” Vestor’s eyes met those of the Praetor but did not flinch from the
glare he received.

“You
will
create another mirror, and you will watch for
those dangers.”

“Each
one will shatter after use, I fear.”

“No
matter. You will only use them when I am here, then.”

“And
what of the golds for the equipment for your armies?”

“Oh…you
will have that.” The graying Praetor smiled coldly. “We will need them to
conquer Illegea, Aellyan Edyss or not.”

A
lucius
glanced back over his shoulder,
looking westward in the twilight along a
snowswept road that was visible only because of the three-yard-tall black poles
on each side, each pole a hundred yards from the next. He could see no one
following him, not that he expected to, since his Talent-senses revealed
nothing living nearby—except for him and Wildebeast.

He
looked at the way ahead, guiding Wildebeast to the right as the road made a
sharp turn southward for the last two vingts before it reached Emal, descending
through a natural cut in the river bluffs that followed the curve of the river.

After
removing the skull mask, Alucius wrapped his black wool scarf more tightly
around his face as he rode into the chill section of the road where direct
sunlight reached but for a few glasses in winter. The sun had already set
behind the river bluffs to the west, flat stretches of grasslands in four of
the five seasons, but in winter an expanse of snow swirled into drifts by the
unrelenting wind off the Aerlal Plateau, less than twenty vingts to the north.

Most
of the troopers returning from furlough would travel the lower road along the
river, but Alucius preferred the bluff road, cold as it was, because it took a
full day and a half less than riding south to Dekhron and then taking the river
road back east-northeast to Emal. As it was, even by the bluff road, the ride
from the stead to Emal was a hard three-day ride, and could be as long as five
days, if the roads were muddy, because once Alucius left Iron Stem and the
eternastones of the high road, the way eastward was by the local clay roads.
Winter travel did offer one advantage. The roads might be rough, but they were
frozen as hard as the stones of the high road.

After
Alucius passed through the cut and reached the flat section of the road below
the bluffs, he could see the town less than a vingt away to the south, perched
on a higher section of ground, a low bluff overlooking the now-frozen River
Vedra. The arched stone bridge that crossed the narrows to the matching bluff
on the south side was the only safe crossing of the river, except in winter, in
the more than three hundred vingts between the point where the river gushed
from beneath the head-wall of the Aerlal Plateau—some one hundred and twenty
vingts generally east-northeast of Emal—and Dekhron itself. The Lanachronan
community of Semal, that clustered around the south end of the bridge, was
scarcely more than a hamlet, and the Southern Guard had stationed but a single
squad there to guard the bridge—mainly to collect tariffs from what few traders
there were. The pale off-white limestone walls of the hundred or so dwellings
at Emal faded into the snowy backdrop of the fields on the bottomland barely
above the flood levels of the river. On the other hand, the steep-pitched slate
roofs—stark and dark—stood out, almost floating on an endless sea of white.
Thin trails of smoke wound into the darkening silver-green sky.

Alucius
rode past houses shuttered tight against the cold and the bitter wind off the
plateau, acrid-iron bitter—as always. Glimmers of light escaped through cracks
in the shutters, and the smell of burning coal made the northeast wind even
more bitter. As Wildebeast carried Alucius down the main street, his hoofs
crunched on the packed snow, snow that was more than knee high beside the houses.

The
militia outpost stood at the south end of Emal, just above the river, on the
low bluff that passed for a headland, guarding the high-arched and narrow stone
bridge that spanned the Vedra. The outpost itself—unlike those in the north—was
walled. The walls were not of finely dressed stone as in Madrien, but rather of
crude blocks of all sizes and colors wedged and mortared in place. The
ironbound oak gates of the outpost were open, and a single sentry from one of
the two squads of the Third Foot stationed at Emal stood watch in a guardhouse
just outside the gates.

The
ranker stepped out of his shelter as Alucius neared the gates, his eyes peering
through the dimness, then catching the militia winter parka.

“Captain
Alucius…” Alucius slowed Wildebeast and took in the other, catching his
self-identity, and adding, “Nyllen, isn’t it?”

“Ah…yes,
sir. Couldn’t see you in the darkness, sir.”

“Have
you seen anyone from Twenty-first Company?”

“Three
or four came back today, sir. Senior Squad Leader Longyl came in, too. They’re
in the barracks.”

“Good.”
Alucius nodded and rode past the gates toward the stables.

A
squad leader walked out of the duty room at the end of the barracks and across
the end of the courtyard to the sentry.

“It
was Captain Alucius, sir,” Nyllen said to the squad leader, adding in a lower
voice that Alucius should not have been able to hear. “Does he recognize
everyone?”

“Pretty
near, Nyllen.”

Alucius
reined up outside the closed stable door and was about to dismount when the
door slid open. He dismounted and led Wildebeast into the comparative warmth of
the stable while the ostler closed the door behind them.

“Cold
evening it is, sir,” offered Vinkin, the head ostler at Emal, both for
Twenty-first Company and for Fifth Company. “Some wondered as whether you’d be
making it tonight. I said you’d be here. Weather doesn’t stop an officer who’s
a herder.”

“Not
this time, anyway,” replied Alucius with a smile.

“There’s
grain and water waiting, Captain.”

“Thank
you, Vinkin.” Alucius projected the slightest sense of gratitude and
appreciation.

The
ostler bowed his head in response.

Twenty-first
Company had the stalls on the north side of the long stable, with the first
stall being the captain’s. At times, Alucius definitely appreciated that
perquisite of rank. This was one of those times.

Wildebeast
shook himself, then
whuffed
when Alucius led him
into the stall and started to unsaddle him.

“I
know. It was a long and cold ride. Let’s hope we’ll have a few days before
someone wants a patrol.”

Wildebeast
didn’t respond to the comment, not that Alucius expected that of the stallion.

Once
he’d finished with his mount, Alucius shouldered his saddlebags, picked up his
rifle from where he had leaned it against the stall wall, and closed the stall
door. He crossed the stable, nodding to Vinkin as he neared the small access
door to the courtyard. Once he closed the door behind him, he started across
the frozen clay of the courtyard toward the headquarters building, scarcely
larger than a small sheep shed, for all that it contained rooms for three
company officers, two rooms for visiting officers, and a conference room, a
common washroom, and a kitchen and small mess for officers and squad leaders.

He
stamped his feet on the porch, but since there was no boot brush, that was the
best he could do to get the snow off his boots and trousers before stepping
inside into the entry area. A single oil lamp cast a dim glow.

Another
officer, wearing a black wool sweater over his tunic, appeared in the archway
on the far side of the entry hall. “Glad to see you, Alucius.”

“Good
to see you, Feran. I’m glad the journey’s over. It’s cold out there.”

“You
took the bluff road, didn’t you?” Even in the dimness of the hall, the lines
radiating from Feran’s eyes were deep enough to show his age—a good fifteen
years older than Alucius.

Alucius
nodded as he moved toward the hallway where Feran stood and along which his own
quarters were located.

“You
herders. If I took that road, they’d find me in a block of ice come spring.”
The career militia officer smiled ruefully and shook his head.

“It’s
two days shorter. That’s half a week more I can spend with Wendra.”

“Lucky
man, there.”

“Anything
happening I should know about?”

“We
got a dispatch from Majer Weslyn on behalf of the colonel—something about the
need to watch for raiders from Deforya sneaking over the river to the east.”

Alucius
raised his thawing eyebrows.

“I
know,” said Feran, with a laugh. “What’s there for raiders to take east of
here? But that’s what it said. Nothing else, really. Not that affects us. There
was a notice that there had been several Squawt raids west of Rivercliff.”

“There
haven’t been any Squawts there in generations.” Rivercliff was some sixty
vingts downriver from Borlan, and the Squawts had been driven west and north
generations earlier. Rivercliff had even remained well within the borders of
the Iron Valleys at the height of the Matrite War. “Sounds like Lanachronan
raiders under Squawt colors.”

“You
don’t think it’s a Matrite tactic?”

Alucius
shook his head. “They don’t think or operate that way. They wouldn’t send out a
raiding party of all men right now. They’d worry that some would defect. Even
when the collars worked, they almost never had scouting parties of less than
eight.”

“Don’t
like that…Lanachronans, I mean.”

“I
don’t, either.” Alucius paused. “When are you getting furlough?”

“Tomorrow—if
most of your company gets back. The colonel wants all outposts at full strength
before the turn of spring.” Feran stretched.

“I’d
better let you get settled. You look sanded.”

“I
feel sanded,” Alucius admitted. With a nod, he headed for his small officer’s
room.

His
spaces were all of three yards by four, with a bunk against one wall, a narrow
wardrobe, two footchests—one for his clothes and one for records, an armless
straight-backed wooden chair older than Alucius himself, and a cramped writing
desk. The single narrow window was shuttered tightly, but the edges of the
shutters were dusted with frost, and Alucius’s breath steamed in the chill
room.

After
using the striker to light the lamp in the wall bracket, with a little boost
from his Talent, he unloaded the rifle and placed it in the wardrobe, then
unpacked the saddlebags and smoothed out his clothes, hanging his three sets of
uniforms in the wardrobe. While he unwound the scarf and loosened the winter
parka, he did not take them off.

Then,
Alucius sat down at the small desk in his tiny room to write a letter to
Wendra. There might not be a messenger headed west for days, but that didn’t
matter. He’d learned that he needed to write when he had time, not when
messengers were there. As it was, the messenger would have to leave the letter
at Kyrial’s cooperage in Iron Stem, and that meant it might be weeks before his
words reached his wife.

He
took out the copper-tipped pen from his kit, and the portable inkwell. After a
time, he began to write.

Dearest Wendra,

The ride here
was long and cold, but I was fortunate in not having to brave a winter storm.
Already, I miss you and wish we were yet together, walking, or even working on
the stead…

While
Alucius had little news for her, he recalled all too well the years when he had
had much news and no way to write.