Alector's Choice (58 page)

Almost at dawn on
Sexdi, Mykel rode up to the sentries outside the officer’s cell where Rachyla
was held. He was followed by Chyndylt and Fifteenth Company’s third squad—and
one mount saddled and riderless. Mykel had not mentioned his possible promotion
to any of them. No matter what the Submarshal had said, it hadn’t happened, and
there was no point in saying anything until it did. If it did. He dismounted
carefully.

“Overcaptain said to
expect you, sir,” offered the older guard.

Mykel held out the
release document. The sentry barely looked at it. “You taking her back?”

“It seemed best that
way.”

“Be a long ride for
you, sir.” The Cadmian turned and unlocked the door.

Mykel stepped inside,
letting his eyes adjust. As always, i Rachyla was dressed and sat at the stool
before the desk.

She stood
immediately, as if she wanted to step back.

“You’re up.” He
looked at her, taking in the still clear skin, the raven hair, and the deep
green eyes, eyes that recalled something to him, something he could not place.

“I could not sleep. I
felt something was about to happen.” She squared her shoulders. “Tell me,
Captain, and don’t lie to me. You have not lied to me yet. Do not lie now. Are
you here to take me to my death?”

“No. The rebellion
has been crushed. I’m to escort you back to Stylan Estate.”

For a long moment,
Rachyla just stood there, studying him. Then she nodded. “That may be to my
death as well.”

“I have an armed
squad to accompany us.” He laughed ironically. “I thought it might help if you
were escorted by the dagger of the ancients.”

“Do not joke about
that.”

His lips curled. “Why
not? That’s what everyone on Dramur seems to call me.”

Only then did her
eyes drop to his shoulder, rebound under his tunic. He no longer wore the
sling, but there was one in his saddlebags, in case he needed it. “There’s a
dressing under your tunic. How badly were you wounded?”

“Badly enough,” Mykel
replied.

“How long ago?”

‘Two weeks.“

“You almost died, did
you not?”

Mykel flushed, not
certain how he could answer that. The honorable answer was to lie, and the
truthful one was almost boastful.

“I see. You did
almost die. Others would have.”

“I don’t know that.”
He offered an embarrassed smile. “I couldn’t move for a while.”

“What about the evil
one?”

“In the last battle,
both pteridons crashed in flames.” That was true. “Two of the Myrmidons died.
He was badly injured. Any man would have died. He’s walking around now.”

“I said that they did
not belong here.”

“Yes, you did.” Mykel
kept his voice even.

“Why am I being
allowed to go back to Stylan?”

“The seltyrs who
submitted were allowed to keep their lands. You never revolted. Your father
did. Since you did not, you deserve the same treatment as those others who did
not or who submitted.”

“You know how I
feel.” She did not move.

“Yes, I do. That was
not the question. You cannot be judged on what you would have done, only on
what you did do.”

“What will keep
another revolt from happening?”

“It will take a few
years to replace those lost. Over a thousand Dramurans died. There will also be
a full Cadmian battalion here at the compound. It will be commanded by a majer
not from Dramur.”

“You?”

Mykel laughed. “I’m
to be sent back to Elcien. If I’m fortunate, I might get promoted. Overcaptain
Dohark has been promoted to majer. He’s in command here.”

Another nod from
Rachyla preceded her words. “I would like to leave, if I may.”

“You may.” Mykel
inclined his head to the domes on the wall pegs. “Do you…

“No. I will burn what
I wear when I reach Stylan.”

Mykel stepped out of
the cell.

When Rachyla stepped
into the silvery light of the moments before dawn, Mykel gestured to the horse
he had brought, then mounted himself.

Rachyla mounted,
wordlessly.

All decisions worthy
of being called such result in change. Changes never occur without cost and the
greater the decision, the greater the cost. For this reason, all decisions
cause pain and discomfort. An alector who does not understand such should never
be placed in a position where he or she must make decisions. When an
administrator declares that a decision is good because no one is affected
adversely, that alector is either duplicitous or self-deceptive, if not both. A
good administrator determines both the benefits and the costs, both the pleasure
and the pain, that his actions will cause. He will not shy away from
determining what that pain may be, either in loss of life, of lifemass, or of
food or golds for those steers under his care.

With such an
understanding, an alector should also never boast of either the pain or the
gain of his acts or of those required by his decisions. He should not state
either, only that his decision has balanced all factors and is as just as
possible.

Those alectors and
steers who suffer will resent the results of such a decision, while those who
gain will not be able to refrain from telling others of their good fortune.
Such telling will invariably be linked more strongly to the alector’s decisions
if the alector has been the one to announce either gain or loss, and the
resentment of those who suffer will be far greater. In consequence, the
authority and respect for the Archon and his administrators will be thus
diminished.

In this, as in all
matters, those entrusted with the powers of the Archon must weigh fully all aspects
of what decisions they make and how those decisions are declared to those
affected…

Views of the Highest

Hlustra

W.T. 1513

As Mykel had feared,
the ride north was long, and painful. Not until the sun was low in the sky, on
the second day, just above the Murian Mountains, did Rachyla offer more than a
few words at any one time, although she had ridden beside him the entire
journey.

“We should be at the
estate before too long.” Mykel tried not to think about how uncomfortable he
was. His fingers brushed his belt above the concealed miniature dagger. For
some reason, letting the hand of his injured side rest near the ancient weapon
helped relieve the worst of the nagging pain, if but for a time.

“Not only are you the
dagger of the ancients, but you carry one, do you not?”

“You knew?”

“Yes. There is a feel
to one. I always knew when my grandfather carried his. How did you obtain it?
Steal it?”

“No. A chandler in
Jyoha gave it to me. He said I was an honorable man who was his worst enemy. I
paid him good silvers to feed the children in return.”

For a moment, Rachyla
looked at the road ahead, rather than at Mykel. “They say that those who are
the daggers are also like the ancients, that they can feed upon the spirit
within a person, and that they are without mercy.”

“Was your grandsire
without mercy?”

“Many said that he
was. I never saw that. Would you say you lacked mercy, Captain?” The seltyr’s
green eyed daughter looked at Mykel, intently.

“Recently, many could
have said I offered little mercy. That was because they had offered less.”
Mykel laughed softly. “If people acted better, less mercy would be necessary.”

“Then they would not
be people,” replied Rachyla.

“You think highly of
people.” Mykel kept his voice light.

“People are what they
are. So are the alectors. One can change neither. People cannot be changed
because there are so many. Alectors could be killed or removed, for they are
few, if one had the power, but they cannot be changed.”

“From what I have
seen, Lady, alectors are most difficult to kill.”

“Not for a dagger of
the ancients who could become as the ancients were. If the alectors learn what
you are, Captain, they will destroy you far more quickly—and more
painfully—than any you have dispatched. And with less regret.”

Mykel did not know how
to reply to her words. Him? He knew he had some abilities, such as that of
directing bullets he fired, and sensing where people were—but those were
nothing compared to what he had seen from the Submarshal alone.

“You doubt me,
Captain. Do not. I know what I know. You told me that two of the Myrmidons and
their pteridons perished. The evil one did not, but was gravely injured. Do
those events not prove that they can be destroyed? Those who are few in number
and hold great power have little choice but to destroy any who have the ability
to bring them down. Did you not see that with the selryrs of the west? Can you
imagine your mighty alectors as being any different?”

Mykel had not thought
of the parallel, but once Rachyla had pointed it out, he could not deny it. For
a time, he rode without speaking, considering her words.

Ahead, he saw the
gates to Stylan Estate. “There is your estate.”

“It is not mine. It
was my father’s.” Rachyla’s words were clipped, and she looked away. “We will
not speak of that.”

With the coldness of
her words, Mykel decided against saying more.

The road gates were
open, without guards, and they proceeded up the long drive without challenge or
welcome. Not until they had passed through the villa gates and were nearing the
rotunda of the villa did anyone appear, and that was a single older woman who
ran down the steps, then halted as he saw the Cadmians.

“I have returned,
Velenda,” Rachyla said firmly.

“It’s really you,
Mistress? You’re back?”

“I am.” Disdaining
the mounting block, Rachyla vaulted from the saddle and stepped away from the
horse. “Thank you, Captain.” She did not incline her head to him.

Velenda stepped
closer to her mistress and spoke, her voice almost a whisper, although Mykel
heard the words as if he were standing beside them. “Mistress Rachyla, there is
a message for you. From your cousin Alarynt. He said that he will arrive next
Duadi.” Velenda’s eyes were bright. “He said that—”

“I am most certain I
know what he said. We will have time.” Rachyla turned back to Mykel. “Will you
and your men stay upon the estate grounds tonight? There is a separate lodge to
the south. You must stay somewhere.”

Mykel was exhausted,
but he could not inflict more upon Rachyla. “I would not wish to cause you more
difficulties, Lady Rachyla.”

“Your presence, and
that of a Cadmian squad, would inflict less, Captain. No one would dare enter
the grounds with you here.”

“You are the daughter
of a seltyr.”

“Exactly. I was his
daughter. My brothers would have held the estate, save that neither lived to do
so.”

Had Mykel killed
either of them?

“That was something
that had nothing to do with you, Captain.”

“Can we do anything,
Lady Rachyla?” After her last words, Mykel feared he knew what the message from
her cousin had meant.

“For an enemy,
Captain, you are most gallant. No… there is nothing you can do. Nor would I
have you do anything. Will you stay or not?”

“We will.”

He hoped that his
decision was the right one, but he sensed no treachery in her words. Something
else, perhaps concern, desperation? He wasn’t certain.

“You may leave as you
wish. I trust you will not expect to see me again.”

Mykel would have
liked to have seen her one more time, but it was not something he expected, not
at all. “I would not impose further, Lady Rachyla.”

“If you would wait a
moment, someone will guide you to the lodge.”

Mykel watched as she
disappeared through the columns.

“You think that’s a
good idea, sir?” asked Chyndylt.

“We’ll look over the
lodge. If it’s not, we can leave.” Mykel could hear the tiredness in his voice.
Why had he been so determined to escort the woman home? It had been
necessary—that he felt in his every bone—but he did not know why, except that
it was neither love nor lust. His lips curled into a wry smile. He was a man,
and Rachyla was attractive to him. Not lust alone, he reflected.

Dainyl and the two
Myrmidons landed in the headquarters compound in Elcien a glass before twilight
on Decdi. Because it was end day, and late, no one was there, except for
Undercaptain Ghanyr and his squad, since they had the duty. Dainyl was glad for
the duty coach because it would have been difficult to find a hacker near
headquarters late on Decdi afternoon, and his leg was definitely not up to
walking more than a vingt, especially with personal gear.

The sun was barely
above the Bay of Ludel, or rather the rooftops of the dwellings that blocked
his view of the bay, when Dainyl stepped through the front door.

“Lystrana!” he
called, setting his gear beside the door he had just closed.

“You’re back!” She
rushed from the sitting room toward him, as if to wrap her arms around him,
then stopped. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m better. It’s
much better seeing you.” He was the one to step forward and put his arms around
her.

Her arms tightened
around him, but gently. After a time, she eased back slightly, studying his
face with her eyes, and the rest of him with her Talent. “You were hurt that
badly, and you didn’t send word?”

“I got here as fast
as word would have come.”

“You need to sit down
in something comfortable. I’ll get you some of the good red wine, and I’ll see
what we have to eat. The girls won’t be back until late. It is end day.” She
looked at him once more, then kissed him again, before slipping from his
embrace and leading him through the foyer.

“You sit down in the
comfortable chair… right there.”

Dainyl was tired
enough that he didn’t even offer a token protest as he eased himself down into
the chair.

“You’ll need a hot
bath, too.”

“After a bit,” he
replied.

Lystrana hurried to
the kitchen, returning quickly with a goblet half-filled with the dark red
wine.

Dainyl looked at his
wife with both eyes and Talent. Then he smiled. “I had hoped…”

Lystrana bent down
and set the wine on the table beside him. “A daughter.”

Dainyl couldn’t help
but smile even more broadly than before. “She’ll be like you.”

“More like you, I
suspect, but who can tell?” She rose. “I’ll be right back.”

Dainyl lifted the
goblet and sipped the wine, enjoying it, just taking in the comfort of home and
the presence of Lystrana. He had several swallows of the Vyan Grande before she
reentered the sitting room with a small tray, filled with sliced early peaches,
cheeses, and dark bread. The tray went on the side table she pulled over so
that it was between their chairs, and she sat down.

“You said you
couldn’t send word…” she said softly.

“Not any faster than
I could come,” he replied. “We lost both pteridons in the last fight against
the rebels…” He went on to explain, as briefly as he could, in between bites of
the fruit and cheeses, what had happened in Dramur, including the power of the
ancients and what had happened after that. “Captain Mykel came out and found
me. He shot four rebels who would have killed me. The fourth one he took down
after he’d been shot. He almost didn’t live. After that, his squad found us,
and we recovered, but there was no way to let anyone know until the marshal
sent two more pteridons. I left Dramur within a few days of the time they
arrived.” Dainyl offered an embarrassed smile. “I could have sent a message
three days earlier, but… I was asked not to send messages until I returned.”

“You returned late on
Decdi.” Lystrana’s left eyebrow lifted. “I suppose that was coincidence?”

“Novdi was as soon as
I could leave. I did make sure that we would arrive late enough that the
marshal would not expect me. I did want to see you first, and… our daughter. I
had hoped.”

“I had no doubts.”
Lystrana beamed. “I did tell your mother. I couldn’t resist, and I suppose that
means everyone knows.”

“I’m glad she’s a
daughter.”

“Because of your
mother?”

“That’s one reason.”
Dainyl took another sip of the Vyan Grande, enjoying it in the growing dimness
of the sitting room.

“It seems so sad, in
a way,” mused Lystrana. “The landers and the indigens can have as many children
as they want… and so many of them don’t seem to care.”

“The Highest claims
that they rut like animals.”

“Some doubtless do.
So do some alectors,” noted Lystrana dryly.

“We pay a price for
being Ifryns. We bring beauty and culture to a world, and music and soaring
song, but what sustains us means there can never be too many of us.”

“Like on Ifryn now,”
she said somberly. “Have you read the latest dispatches?”

“When would I have
seen…” He laughed. “You’re teasing me.”

“Just a little.” She
cleared her throat, then sipped her wine. “The dissipation point is somewhere
between five and eleven years from now at the current alector population
levels.”

“How many now?”

“Eight thousand.”

“What is the surplus
lifeforce carrying ability here and on Efra at present?”

“Eleven hundred here,
and twenty one hundred there.”

Dainyl fingered his
chin. “Thirty percent survival rate for a world translation is normal, and both
worlds will have greater lifeforce within another year or so. Some will choose
not to try the translation.”

“Most will put it
off, and that will reduce the margins,” she pointed out.

“When will they begin
mass translations?”

“The Archon has…
indicated that key alectors will have to begin translations in six months—if
they want a guarantee of a position here or on Efra.”

“You don’t look
happy, dearest.”

“The Marshal of
Myrmidons on Ifryn attempted a coup, along with several colonels. Almost fifty
alectors died.”

“That won’t help
much;” said Dainyl. “Just a week or so.”

“Dainyl!”

“What do they
expect?” He snorted. “Our forebears took the risk of the translation here when
the success rate was more like fifteen percent. Five percent for the very
first, according to Asulet. Their chances are at least four times that, and for
someone with the ability and lifeforce of a senior alector, it’s more like forty
five percent.”

“Dainyl…” she said
softly.

“Yes?”

“We can talk about
all that later. You’re back, and I missed you.”

“I missed you.”
Dainyl set aside the wine goblet.