Scepters (7 page)

“I
can feel something out there,” murmured Wendra.

The
chill darkness that was overlaid with purpleness grew more and more and more
oppressive as they waited—an unseen wall of stone, an avalanche of disaster,
waiting to fall and sweep them away. Yet… what else could they do but wait,
ready to act? They didn’t know from where the attack might come—or if an attack
would even come. Retreating in ignorance before a Talent-foe was worse than
waiting.

“It
feels evil, like an icy purple,” murmured Wendra. “What do you think is coming?”

“I’d
guess something flying, like wild pteridons, but it could be sandoxes—or
something we’ve never seen.”

With
a sudden
snap
, the silver-green of the very sky
itself flexed—and somehow opened—and flying blue shapes appeared less than
fifty yards to the northeast of the pair. The ten-odd creatures circling in the
air were purplish pteridons, smaller than those once used by the nomads and
without riders. The metallic blue talons that extended from their forelegs
glinted, knife-sharp.

“Start
firing, now!” Alucius lifted his heavy rifle and put his first shot through the
chest of the lead pteridon. The Talent-predator fluttered once, then
cartwheeled out of the sky.

Wendra’s
rifle
cracked
, once, twice, a third time, before a
pteridon spun downward into a quarasote bush. Both bush and pteridon burst into
flame.

The
others began to form into a loose wedge that rose, as if preparatory to diving
at the pair of herders. Alucius fired two more shots. The first missed
entirely. The second caught the edge of another pteridon, which seemed to shake
off the impact.

One
of the pteridons ignored the formation and dived at one of the lead nightrams.
The ram lifted his head, trying to twist his glittering horns to catch the
predator. Both creatures exploded in bluish flame.

Alucius
got off two more shots, one of which struck a pteridon, then switched rifles. “As
soon as you can,” he called to Wendra, “reload!”

The
pteridons circled higher, and as he fired twice more, bringing down yet another
pteridon, Alucius realized something else. The Talent-creatures had not been
specifically hunting them. They’d been startled and surprised, and that might
have been what was giving Wendra and him an edge. Still, they were dangerous
creatures.

Another
of the pteridons swept toward Wendra, Alucius snapped off two quick shots, and
the second caught the beast on the edge of the wing. It spiraled toward one of
the ewes, impaling itself on the much shorter horns of the ewe, then exploded
into a column of blue flame that enveloped both.

Alucius
had one cartridge left in his rifle when he realized that the sky was clear.
His forehead was covered in sweat, and he looked toward Wendra. “Some good
shooting there, dear.”

“Not
as good as yours, but I did help, I think.”

“More
than a little.” Alucius reached out with his Talent. The sense of purpleness
was gone, but a residual of the sorrow remained. He frowned. “We’d better check
the rest of the flock.”

Wendra
nodded.

From
what Alucius and Wendra could tell as they circled the flock, they had lost
only the one young ram and a ewe. While the death of both nightsheep would
hurt, the damage could have been much worse. Except, Alucius reflected, losing
even one nightsheep a week would destroy them just as surely as a sudden
disaster involving all the flock.

There
were no traces of any of the wild blue pteridons, none at all, except for the
black greasy splotches on the soil where each fallen Talent-creature had
burned. No charred scales or bones… nothing except the residue of intense
fires.

Alucius
could sense another problem—the lack of something. In the rough circle below
where the wild pteridons had appeared, there was no life left. Even the
quarasote bushes, although they looked green, were dead and would be brown in
weeks, if not days. And that was the area from where the feeling of sorrow
came.

“It’s
dead, isn’t it?” asked Wendra. “The land around us.”

Alucius
nodded.

“Why…
why did it happen here?” she asked. “Is it us?”

“I’d
like to say it isn’t,” he replied, “but it has to be. I can’t see why, unless
somehow my fights with the pteridons earlier made it easier for them to find
me. But why now? That was two years ago. And you? They never were near you.”

“It
has to be you,” Wendra said. “This is the second time in a month.”

“But
why now?” Alucius asked again.

They
looked at each other. Neither had an answer.

Salaan, Lanachrona

The
angular man in the dark purple tunic leaned over the Recorder’s Table and
looked down into the transparent surface, finger-spans thick, yet so deep that
the ruby mist through which he peered seemed tens of yards. The Table exuded
age, as though it might have been one that remained from the score or more that
had once linked the far-flung domains of the Duarchy of Corus. Only the smooth
and shimmering finish on the dark lorken sides of the Table suggested that the
Table was of more recent creation.

“What
do you see?” demanded the round-faced trader in gray and blue.

“Somewhere,
on Corus, within the former reaches of the Duarchy, years past, a lamaial was
born. It might have been your herder overcaptain.”

“You
can’t tell that? Why not? You said he had Talent.”

“You
know that well, Halanat. All herders have Talent. That is why they can be
herders,” replied the white-faced man with the purple-tinged eyes. “That has
been known for years. The Table, being constructed with Talent, cannot depict
those with such Talent once they have begun to exercise it. You would not want
others using it on us, would you? Thus, a Table can record all steers born with
the potential for Talent—or for even greater use of Talent, as with a lamaial
or a hero—but Enyll never recorded those births except within the Table in
Tempre…”

“Hero
and lamaial—they sound like nonsense,” the trader replied. “They’re just
Talent-steers.”

“Ah,
yes… myths and nonsense, created to maintain a mystery by Recorders like me,
who are translated from Efra merely for that express purpose of being obscure.
The Vault was a myth, and so were the pteridons that destroyed the legions of
the last Praetor, and so are the Dual Scepters.”

The
mockery in the Recorder’s words was so edged that Halanat’s eyes dropped.

The
Recorder of Deeds looked up from the crystal mist of the table, purple-tinged
eyes unblinkingly fixed on the trader. The mist swirling around the scene held
in the Table vanished, and all that remained within the smooth black frame was
an ordinary mirror, save that it was far smoother and more reflective than any
such mirror produced in recent centuries in Dekhron or Tempre or any other city
or town in the whole of Corus.

“All
those,” continued the Recorder, after a long silence, “have reappeared, save
the scepters. For reasons best known to the ancients, there was never a record
of where the scepters were placed, not one that we have been able to find, but
they are not a myth, and they served a great purpose. As for the lamaial of the
Legacy, he will remain concealed until the conflict begins. That is according
to the words once carved in the Vault. Whether the ancients carved it as a
warning or as a prediction, we cannot know. But you must hold in mind that
those with Talent can become more than Talent-steers, and that is something
that we—that you—must prevent.”

“The
Table is useless for that.”

“Exactly.
That is your job. Or have you forgotten?” The Recorder smiled indulgently.

“No,
honored Trezun.” The trader started to gnaw on his lip, then stopped and asked,
“What about this new Praetor?”

“Young
Tyren? You will not need to worry about him. Waleryn will shortly be dispatched
to handle him. And to prepare for the next full translation.”

“But
you can show him in the Table?” The round-faced trader’s words were formal,
stiff, and barely avoided carrying a chill. After he had spoken, his face
became impassive.

The
Table came to life once more, with the ruby mist filling the glass, then
displayed the image of a fair-haired man, barely out of youth, in shimmering
silver and black, striding down a wide corridor flanked with tall goldenstone
columns. A silvery nimbus surrounded him.

“The
silver around him… ?”

“That
shows that he could use Talent but has never called upon it.”

“What
is his Talent? Is it possible to tell?”

The
Recorder shrugged. “The Table will not reveal what might be. We hope to avoid
his discovering it until Waleryn is there to co-opt him. With the translation
and Tyren, we will have two points of power and Pressure.”

The
trader tightened his lips as he leaned forward to study the image displayed by
the Table. “Can you tell me where this is?”

“Only
from what appears in the Table, Halanat. It would seem to be Alustre, but that
is not certain. Still, from the columns and the color of the stone…”

“Does
your Table say whether he is the hero come at last? Or whether he will claim
the Dual Scepters?”

The
Recorder of Deeds laughed ironically. “Every human conqueror of the past
millennium has claimed to be the hero—or denied it. Some have claimed to carry
the scepter, or the Dual Scepters. Others have denied the scepters even
existed. In the end, it has made little difference. Claims or no claims, what
will be will be.”

“That
is a fine sentiment for you,” said the trader slowly, “but even as a trader I
cannot travel all of Corus chasing rumors. If he has something he calls the
scepters, that makes matters worse, because the common folk believe that the
scepters have some power. Great power, not some drizzle of vision in a mirror.
Even belief in the scepters grants power.”

“Vision
is far from a drizzle of power, as you put it. There is much yet that you do
not understand, and for a mere shadow-translation, you presume greatly. As for
the people, they would do the same in any case, if it appears that their ruler
is indeed powerful. This Tyren could be the hero, but any conqueror could or
might be.” The Recorder’s tone turned colder. “In any case, he is a continent
away, and you are not tasked with traveling to Lustrea. Your tasks are closer.
The so-called Regent of the Matrial has two of the crystal knife-throwers and
is about to take back Southgate and everything north of the Dry Coast. The
Lord-Protector has lost his Table and will lose more. You must complete your
work in Hyalt and Dekhron before that time comes. It must come sooner rather
than later.” The Recorder’s purple-gray eyes met the dark-rimmed orbs of the
trader.

After
a moment, Halanat looked away.

Wendra
and Alucius and Lucenda and Royalt sat around the kitchen table in the late
twilight of an early harvest evening.

“…
that both may strive to do good in the world and beyond.” Alucius finished the
prayer.

Wendra
and Lucenda stood and dished out the mutton stew with hot biscuits. Alucius
immediately took some of the fresh harvest honey from the pot.

“They
never grow up,” Lucenda observed to Wendra. “Put honey on the table, and they’re
small boys again.”

“And
you’re never girls again?” Alucius questioned.

“Never!”
replied Wendra, her eyes twinkling.

“You
won’t win that one, Alucius,” Royalt pointed out.

Alucius
smiled, silently agreeing with his grandsire.

Royalt
lifted his glass of ale and took a swallow. “Tastes good after a long day.”

“What
did you find out from Kustyl?” asked Lucenda, looking at her father.

“Ever
since Alucius had that run-in with the bravos outside of Sudon,” Royalt said, “Kustyl’s
been listening even more carefully.”

Alucius
nodded. “He said he thought a trader named Halanat was behind it, except that
he’d known Halanat years ago, and Halanat wasn’t shrewd enough, and that meant
someone was directing him. He never could come up with anything.”

“And
you didn’t want to go back to Dekhron,” Royalt pointed out.

“No,
I didn’t,” Alucius admitted. “I still don’t. That’s a legacy I’d rather avoid.
The place is like a bucket of tar. You put
one
finger in, and before you know it you’re stuck. I’ve already had enough of my
life disrupted by that sort of thing.” He looked at Wendra. “And I’m not too
interested in ending up where I’d be forced to put on the uniform again.
Especially not now.”

“What
did Grandpa Kustyl have to say?” asked Wendra gently.

“He
had a lot to say.” Royalt laughed. “He usually does.”

“He’s
worth listening to,” added Lucenda, looking at her son. “What we do here is
affected too much by Dekhron—as someone once told me.”

Alucius
winced inside, but merely smiled.

Wendra
glanced at him, and Alucius knew she understood how he felt.

“Well…”
Royalt dragged out the word. “Kustyl was telling me that the traders in Dekhron
have gotten a lot smarter. You know they’ve been giving those barrel contracts
to your father, Wendra?”

The
younger woman nodded.

“That’s
because they went around and checked the quality and prices of every cooper
within fifty vingts of Dekhron. He came out the best.”

“He
is the best,” Wendra averred.

“That
was your grandfather’s point. In his whole life, he’s never seen the traders in
Dekhron be that smart. They always gave the business to a friend or a cousin.
They’ve been doing the same sort of thing with the rivermen, checking out barge
transport rates. But… the other thing that’s scary is what happened last month.
A Lanachronan cloth factor decided to open a place in Dekhron and see if he
could bid into the nightsilk trade…”