Legacies (3 page)

The Duarchy of Corus blessed all the lands with peace and prosperity, for generation upon generation, from the times of the Forerunners onward. Never was there so fair a realm, so just a world, and so blessed the peoples of a world.

The Myrmidons of Duality and their pteridons controlled the heavens, and they conveyed dispatches, orders, and messages from one end of Corus to the other, from the northern heights of Blackstear to the warm waters of Southgate, from Alustre in the east to mighty Elcien in the west, all so that the peoples of the Duarchy might prosper, and that their children and their children's children might do so as well.

Likewise, the Alectors of Justice and the Recorders of Deeds made sure that evil gained no foothold in any city, not even in the courts and chambers of the Duarches, nor in the meanest of city quarters, for without justice, nothing endures for long.

The Engineers of Faitel created the mighty eternastone highroads that crossed Corus from west to east, and south to north, excepting only the Aerlal Plateau and the Anvils of Hel. Upon these highways moved all manner of goods and travelers, each secure in the knowledge that all were safe from any manner of harm.

Even the oceans fell under the sway of the Duarchy, with the fleets of the Duadmiralty built of dolphin ships so swift and fierce that no pirate and no brigand could contest or escape them, and the ways of the seas became as highways upon the waters, bringing goods and travelers to all manner of places.

The sun shined its favors out of a silver-green sky and blessed the Duarchy and all its peoples through all five seasons of each year, every year.

Then came the Cataclysm, and the old ways and webs weakened, and the world changed for all time…

—History of Corus
[fragment recovered from the Blue
Tower at Hafin]

Mist sifted from the clouds overhead, and fog covered most of Westridge, bringing with it a faintly acrid scent of damp quarasote mixed with that of nightsheep dung. The supply wagon stood outside the stead stable. Wearing his oiled leathers and a battered brown felt hat, Royalt held the leads to the dray horses. He sat on the left side of the wagon. Beside him, slightly more to the middle of the wagon seat, was Alucius, who wore an oiled leather cloak over his nightsheep jacket.

“It's miserable weather to go to town.” Lucenda stood bareheaded under the slight overhang of the stable eaves.

“Best weather to go,” replied Royalt. “We don't miss grazing time. We need the salt, and the flour. Your mother's not up to taking the team…”

Alucius sensed that his grandma'am might never be up to taking the team. Something about her leg hadn't healed right. He felt that he should have been able to do something. Not that he hadn't tried…when no one was paying attention. Sometimes, she felt better, but it never lasted.

Lucenda looked at her son under the oiled leather cloak that was too big for him. Alucius returned the gaze with a calm smile.

“Alucius will be fine. He needs to get off the stead more, daughter.”

“I suppose he should,” Lucenda replied. “You be good for your grandfather, Alucius.”

“Yes, Mother.” Alucius smiled. “I'll be good.”

Lucenda flushed. “I don't know why I say that. You're always good.”

Royalt flicked the reins, and the pair of dun horses moved forward. “Should be back around supper time.”

Neither the man nor the boy spoke until the wagon was on the narrow track that led southwest, through the treeless expanse of low and barely rolling rises, covered with scattered quarasote, toward the main road.

“You take it to heart, don't you, boy?”

“Take what?” Alucius wasn't sure he understood.

Royalt laughed. “I could be wrong. Let me ask you something. Do you remember what your father said before he left?”

“He said to be good and to take care of Mother.”

“That is what I meant,” Royalt said.

Alucius turned in the wagon seat and looked at his grandfather. “Did I do something wrong? You sound angry.” Except that wasn't right. Alucius could feel it wasn't anger behind the words.

“I'm not angry.” Royalt shook his head, and a strand of light gray hair flopped across his forehead. He brushed it back absently. “No, Alucius. You haven't done anything wrong. You never have. That was what I was talking about.”

“I threw stones at the grayjays.”

The grandfather laughed. “That wasn't wrong in the same way I was talking. You didn't mean to hurt them. You listen. Suppose that's what comes from growing up without any brothers or sisters and so far from other steads.”

Alucius nodded. “I have you and Grandma'am and Mother. You play leschec with me.”

“You're already better than I am, young fellow.”

“That's because I can think about it more,” the youngster said solemnly.

Royalt laughed.

The wagon bumped and jolted along the track from the stead for two vingts, and it seemed like it had taken glasses to cover the distance when Royalt finally spoke. “Here we are—the old road. Don't have to worry about sinkholes, washouts…and it's a smoother ride.” Once he had the wagon headed south on the gray stone road, Royalt shifted his weight in the seat and smiled. “Good roads. Have to admit the ancients built good roads.”

The ever-present red dust had drifted into piles beside the road, now dampened by the mist, and in places, encroached slightly on the gray stones that, even when scratched or cut—and that was hard to do—showed no trace of damage by the next day. The road ran straight as a rifle barrel from north to south between Soulend and Iron Stem. That much Alucius knew. He also knew that not many people lived in Soulend, and that it was much colder than in Iron Stem or in any of the more southern Iron Valleys.

The boy glanced back over his shoulder. The clouds had lifted some, and the mist-blurred Aerlal Plateau scarcely looked any smaller or any farther away, even after two vingts of travel. If the clouds did not descend again, the plateau would look almost the same from Iron Stem, he knew. His eyes went to the empty gray stone road ahead.

“This is a good road, isn't it, Grandfather?”

“That it is, lad.”

“Not many people travel it.”

“When it was built, back before the dark days, there were more people in the world, and it was a road many people traveled.”

“The dark days were a long time ago,” Alucius pointed out, hoping that his grandsire would offer more than his usually clipped explanation.

“That they were.” Royalt paused, glancing sideways at the boy. “So long ago and so terrible that we can't count exactly the years.” He paused again. “They were dark years, because everything changed. Some of the legends say they were dark because the sun did not shine for a year. Others said that was because the Duarchy ran dark with the blood of men and women who fought demons from beyond the skies. Still others claimed that those days were so terrible that no one will ever know what happened except those who died or lived through them.” He cleared his throat once more before continuing. “Life changed. We know that. Iron Stem—do you know where the name came from?”

“From the iron mines and the mill, you said. That's all you said.”

“Iron Stem had the mines and the big mill, and the mill used to make iron ingots as big as a man, and they put them on huge wagons and drove them down to Dekhron and put them on barges. The barges carried the iron to Faitel, and the artisans and engineers there formed the iron into tools and weapons and beams that held up buildings all over the Duarchy.”

“An iron ingot as big as a man?”

Royalt nodded. “Some were bigger than that. I saw one, when I wasn't much older than you. They found a stack of them, buried under clay, coated in wax or something. Looked as if they'd been formed maybe a year before.” He laughed. “Took a double team to move each one. Sold them to the Lanachronans. Town had golds for years.”

“What happened? Why did the mill stop?”

“The weather changed. That's what they say. Some say the soarers did it. Whatever caused it…it takes lots of water to make iron, and it stopped raining. We used to have forests here, like the big trees on the river. You have to have rain for that. People needed the trees and cut them, but new trees didn't grow. It was too dry. The air got bad in the coal mines, and then there were creatures there, like black sanders…” Royal shrugged. “No coal, no water…and for a long time, no one needed much iron. So many people died everywhere that there were tools and weapons enough for anyone left.”

“That's sad,” Alucius said.

“Well…we wouldn't be herders if it hadn't changed,” Royalt pointed out. “Nightsheep need the dry and the quarasote bushes. They say there weren't any quarasote bushes before the Cataclysm—and no nightsilk anywhere. There's little enough now. That's why the Lanachronans pay well for our nightsilk. They can't raise nightsheep there.” He snorted. “That's also why we need a militia. Didn't have one, and they'd be here, taking everything we have.”

“Did the dark days change anything else?” asked Alucius.

“They changed plenty.” The older herder pointed. “There's the tower. Won't be that long now.”

The first building that was considered part of Iron Stem was the ancient spire that loomed over the Pleasure Palace. Its brilliant green stone facing could be seen from several vingts to the north. Alucius flushed as he recalled the first time he had asked about the name.

After they had crossed several low rises, the long wooden sheds of the dustcat works appeared to the left of the road, a warren of enclosures, all sealed to the outside.

“Have you ever seen a wild dustcat?” Alucius knew the short answer, but hoped Royalt would say more.

“Not since I wasn't much older than you. You know that.”

“They aren't many, you said.”

“There are more than most folk think. The dustcats aren't stupid. They know people are trouble, and want to capture them, and they've moved into the rock jumbles just below the plateau or into the deeper swamps of the Sloughs. They still hunt people, but they only do it in packs, and they won't attack unless they can kill, and make sure that the hunters won't survive.”

“Are they that smart?”

Royalt frowned, then replied. “Old man Jyrl used to say that the soarers warned the cats when hunters were around. Claimed he'd seen it happen. Said that was why he never hunted them again, that any man who had both dustcats and soarers against him was as good as dead.”

“But people still hunt them, and they keep them in the sheds there.”

“And the cats kill one or two scutters a year.”

“I don't understand. Why do people work there if they are going to be killed.”

Royalt sighed. “It's hard to see it when you're young. But the dust—it's dander really—that comes off the cats makes some people feel…well, the best they've ever felt, better than a good meal, better than…lots of things. That's why the scutters work for so little. They're around that dust all the time, and they never think about anything else except gathering the dust. Gorend and his son Gortal sell the dust to the Lanachronans—and anyone else who will pay good golds for it, and they'll pay ten or twenty golds to hunters for a cat that's healthy. Ten golds is more than most crafters make in a year, Alucius. It's a huge amount of coin.”

“Do you make that much?”

Royalt laughed. “We don't bring in the kind of coins Gorend does, but we make enough.”

“I don't think I'd like caging the dustcats like that.”

“Good, because I don't think much of those that do. But keep that between us, boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

Before long, the wagon rolled over the low rise and past the empty green stone tower and the lower building next to the road. Despite its brilliant color-faced stones laid in an alternating pattern, the structure looked more like a nightsheep barn, garishly colored, and was only fifteen yards in length, with almost no windows. The five lower courses were of alternating blue and green stones, and the six above had blue alternating with a faded yellow.

The tower stood alone, fifty yards north of the smaller building, its gutted interior empty.

“Grandfather?” Alucius asked tentatively. “The people who built the building in front—” He didn't feel he should use the term “Pleasure Palace,” especially since it was anything but a palace. “Why didn't they just alternate the yellow, blue, and green stones from the bottom?”

Royalt laughed. “Asked myself that very question for years. I can't tell you, boy, because the place was old when I was your age.”

“Are the same…people there?”

“Sanders, no. The women there change, they say, sometimes as often as the wind shifts the sands around the plateau. Some stay. Most don't. I wouldn't know, for sure.” Royalt cleared his throat and went on quickly, “Hope Hastaar has some of those sweet yams they bring up from Dekhron. Your grandma'am would really like them.”

Alucius understood. “I hope he has some of the early cherries. They're good.”

Royalt kept the wagon moving toward the center of Iron Stem, past the empty vingt or more separating the Pleasure Palace from the nearest cottage. Despite the chill and the mist and rain, the reddish brown shutters were half open, as were the shutters of the cottages closer to the square.

Alucius leaned to one side, watching intently as they neared the metal shop. He listened for the hammermill, but the mill was silent, although the odor of hot metal and a line of smoke rose from the forge chimney. The road flattened into an absolutely level stretch more than a hundred yards from the square. The buildings around the square were all of two and three stories, and although boardinghouses, all were well kept and swept, if not always painted so well as they should have been.

On one side of the square were the trade buildings—the cooper's, the chandlery, the silversmith's. On the corner adjoining was the inn, with its blue-painted sign, showing the outline of the old mining mill. Alucius had only seen the mill once, a cavernous and empty set of walls on the far west side of Iron Stem.

In the center of the paved eternastone square was a short line of carts and wagons, several with canvas awnings to protect either produce or goods from the threatening weather. Alucius wondered why. Even the worst storms produced little rain, just winds that were more likely to damage the awnings than the goods.

Royalt eased the wagon over to one of the stone posts on the west side of the square. After setting the wagon brakes, he climbed down and threaded the restraint ropes through the iron rings on the back of the harness of each dun dray horse, then tied both the ropes and the leathers to the big iron ring on the posts. Then he took out the two watering buckets and motioned to Alucius, who had just finished folding the cloak and slipping it under the wagon seat.

“You can water them, can't you? The public pump's right there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll be over checking to see if Hastaar's got any of those yams. Likely be from last harvest, but he sometimes brings 'em.”

After taking the buckets from his grandfather, Alucius pumped what he felt was enough water into one bucket and then the other, and carried them back to the horses. He set the buckets before them, and then stood back.

“Don't see how you herders do that,” came a voice from beside him. “I'd risk having them kick it over.”

“They won't do that.” Alucius turned and looked up at the older man in a shapeless gray jacket, wearing a battered gray felt hat.

“You're Royalt's grandson, aren't you.”