Cadmians Choice (78 page)

Mykel inclined his
head to her. “I defer to your judgment, Lady.”

“I am not a Lady. Nor
will I ever be one, and I would suggest that you not refer to me in that
fashion.”

“Then I will not,
Chatelaine. Again, I must thank you for your kindness and care.” Mykel meant
the words, and not with any sarcasm. He had his doubts about whether he would
be recovering at all, particularly given the submarshal’s concerns and Mykel’s
own growing Talent, had he not been under Rachyla’s protection.

Rachyla looked at
him, then shook her head. “You grant me too much, Majer.” Abruptly, she turned
and walked away.

Mykel watched her. He
could not sense what she felt, but he had to wonder how much sadness she held
within. But there was nothing he could do, for all too many reasons.

Dainyl had hoped to
leave headquarters and return home relatively early to be there when Lystrana
arrived, but drafting the dispatches and all the administrative details
concerned with his becoming marshal took far longer than he expected. But then,
he reminded himself, as he signed the last dispatch, he had neither a
submarshal nor an operations chief to assist him.

He didn’t like making
it a habit, but he had decided to take the duty coach home.

When he walked out of
headquarters, into a light rain that had followed the earlier fog, he carried
his flying jacket over his arm. Rain or no rain, the afternoon was too warm and
muggy to wear it. Wyalt, the junior Myrmidon in First Company, and duty driver
until a pteridon became available, jumped up from where he had been sitting on
the sheltered stone entry way. “Marshal, sir?”

“You can take me
home, if you would, Wyalt.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dainyl climbed into
the coach and settled onto the hard seat. It had been a long day, but he was
looking forward to seeing Lystrana. He just hoped she wasn’t off somewhere.

As the coach traveled
eastward on the boulevard, Dainyl looked to the south, at the Palace of the
Duarch. How did Khelaryt feel, knowing that the decision to move the Master
Scepter to Efra had in effect already been made? Was that part of the conflict
Dainyl had sensed when he had met with the Duarch—that he was being required to
carry out acts and policies that were unrealistic because decisions had already
been made that invalidated those policies?

Questions swirled
through his thoughts, so much so that he did not even move for several moments
after Wyalt brought the coach to a halt outside his house. Then he scrambled
out, turning to the driver. “I appreciate the ride, Wyalt.”

“My duty, sir, and my
pleasure. It was an awful thing about Marshal Shastylt, sir, but it’s good to
see that you’re marshal now, sir.”

“Thank you.” With a
smile, Dainyl inclined his head to the driver, men turned and started up the
steps to the front door. He had just put his hand out to the door lever when it
opened.

Lystrana stood there,
and a broad and relieved smile crossed her face. Immediately, she said, “You
were hurt. I could sense it. You’re still—”

“I’m fine.”

“Not completely.”

“I will be.” He
stepped forward. ‘ Only then did her eyes go to Dainyl’s collar and the new
green-edged gold stars there. Her mouth opened, but she said nothing for a long
moment. Finally, she asked, “You’re Marshal of Myrmidons?”

“Stranger events have
occurred.” Dainyl found himself grinning.

She smiled
quizzically. “That was your urgent mission?”

“No, that just
happened this morning. As a result of the urgent mission.” He stepped forward
and put his arms around her, dropping the flying jacket as he did. He could
feel the swell of her body against him, and sense the growing presence that was
their daughter.

Their lips met.

Much later, they
settled across the table from each other, wearing dressing robes. Dainyl just
looked into her perfect violet eyes, without speaking.

Zistele set the
serving dish on the trivet, along with the basket of bread, while Sentya placed
the goblets to one side, with a pitcher of cider and a bottle of wine. Both
serving girls retired to the kitchen.

“It’s a simple fowl
casserole. I hadn’t planned on your being here for supper,” Lystrana pointed
out.

“This is fine. I’m
just glad I’m here. I didn’t have a chance to let you know in advance, and ...”

“It wouldn’t have
been wise,” she concluded. “I still don’t know what you’ve been doing for the
past month.” She smiled. “Except that it was urgent and secret enough that you
couldn’t say and no one else would.”

“Where should I—”

“Wherever you think
makes the most sense,” she replied. “I know some of what happened, but not all.”
She offered a sardonic laugh, “I am certain that what has been reported in
Elcien is far from all of what happened.” She took the serving spoon and ladled
a healthy helping of the casserole and noodles onto his plate, and then an
equally generous serving onto her own.

“Cider?” asked
Dainyl.

“I’ll have that with
the meal. I might have a sip of the wine later.”

Dainyl poured her
cider and wine for himself, then lifted his goblet. “To us, and to Kytrana.”

Lystrana lifted hers
as well. “I’m glad you’re home safely.”

“As am I.”

“I worry about that
greenness around your shoulder.”

“I thought it would
be gone by now, but it doesn’t hurt, and I feel as strong as ever.”

Lystrana flushed.

After a moment, so
did he. “That’s not what I meant,” he finally protested.

“I love to see you
blush. You so seldom do.”

Dainyl shook his
head. What else could he do?

“You haven’t told me
what your urgent mission was,” she prompted. “There were Myrmidons in Hyalt and
Tempre, and both Rhelyn and Fahylt have suffered fatal mishaps of one sort or
another.”

“It all began when
Majer Mykel sent a dispatch to me personally.”

“The lander who might
have Talent? The same one?”

“The very same one.
He noted that there were alectors in the black and silver of the east in Hyalt,
using lightcannon ...” Dainyl went on to tell Lystrana everything, even about
his time with the ancients, concluding with “... and Zelyert said that no one
else could be marshal, and that everyone would deny that what had happened was
anything but a local problem with Rhelyn and Fahylt.”

“The Master
Scepter... going to Efra.” Lystrana tilted her head, then looked at Dainyl. “That
explains so much. I was going to tell you, but you doubtless have deduced much
of this already. Samist and Khelaryt meet but infrequently. My Highest says
that when they do, little is said, and they cannot agree on the distribution of
resources between the east and the west.”

“The shadowmatches
keep them from being overtly hostile to each other, or from acting directly
against each other.”

“They do not keep
those around them from being hostile—as you have discovered,” Lystrana pointed
out. “What do you think will happen?”

“What do you think?”
he countered.

“Things are just
going to get worse here in Elcien and in Ludar. If the Duarches are not removed
by the Archon, those like Zelyert and Brekylt will scheme to replace them, and
they will rule without the constraints of the shadowmatches.’’

“It’s too bad you can’t
be a regional administrator. There are a few vacancies,” he said with a laugh.

“I’m not ruthless
enough, dearest. That is what it will take to maintain order in the seasons and
years immediately ahead.”

“And I am?” Dainyl
had his doubts about Lystrana’s self-assessment. She would do what was
necessary.

“You’re not ruthless
to everyone. You can be hard to those who are cruel and oppressive to others,
and to those who scheme and plot, but you exercise judgment, and you do look
for solutions that are fair to everyone. You worried about the Cadmians, and
you protected them and their majer.”

“How could I not?
They followed my orders, and without the majer’s observations and understanding
and their sacrifices in stopping Fahylt’s rebels, we would be in the midst of
an all-out rebellion, with Myrmidons fighting Myrmidons, and the Duarches
helpless to do anything. The Duarches can do little enough, it’s clear, but
their image restrains many. And I still worry about the majer. He knows more
than he should, and he has gained more Talent. I told Fhentyl that he might not
survive, but that I would deal with the majer later if he did live.”

“He has been helpful
to you.”

“I can’t help
thinking about what the ancient said. Somehow, it seemed ... unwise to follow
the policy.”

“Trust your feelings,”
Lystrana said softly.

“I have, but I worry.”
He paused. “I have to say that I’m also worried about the ancients. I can still
recall the one, the ancient one, telling me that I or we needed to change to
survive, that we could not survive without the landers and indigens and that
they could not survive without us.”

“We already know
that.”

“This was different,”
Dainyl said slowly. “She was saying that unless we had ties directly to this
world we would die. It wasn’t a boast, and there was an absolute sad certainty
behind it. I’ve never felt such sadness and certainty together in anyone.”

“She could be
mistaken.”

“She could.”

“You don’t believe
she was, do you?”

“No, and that
troubles me.”

“Do you think they
have that much power that they could do now what they would not when we were
weak and few?”

‘The weapon that
Rhelyn used against me? She said that it was not an effective weapon, and that
it was their responsibility. She said almost no one wounded even slightly by it
survived, and yet that all my strength would not suffice to save me if I did
not change.”

“How are you supposed
to change?”

“Somehow, I think, to
break the ties to the dual scepters and the Master Scepter and tie myself
directly to Acorus.”

“Did she tell you how
you were supposed to do this?”

“She said I knew ...
and she refused to say more.” Dainyl looked down at the empty wine goblet. He
hadn’t remembered drinking it all.

“That troubles you
more than all the unrest, and all the plotting, doesn’t it?”

He nodded. “Whatever
happens with all the plotting, it’s something we have a chance to address. I
don’t get that feeling after meeting with the last ancient. They are planning
something. Whenever I’ve mentioned the ancients to Shastylt or Zelyert, they’ve
made some statement about how we can deal with the ancients. I told them both
about the ancient sword, and it made no impression at all. None.”

The two sat across
the table from each other in the darkness, saying nothing.

Finally, Lystrana
rose, gracefully. “We can do little more tonight, dearest. Tomorrow will bring
what it will, and we will face it.”

Dainyl stood, then
took her hand. He squeezed it gently.

With Lystrana ... he
could face whatever lay ahead. With her.

Mykel studied himself
in the mirror. He had to admit he still looked pale, but he couldn’t stay at
Amaryk’s villa any longer, for all too many reasons. He’d slept well enough,
although he’d awakened several times, but he hadn’t seen or sensed anyone, not
that he would have sensed Rachyla. Then, he had probably awakened hoping that
he would see her, unlikely as that ever would have been.

Outside, two glasses
past dawn, the sky was overcast, with thickening dark clouds that hinted at a
storm to come. He hoped that the rain would end before the next day, so that he
could begin the long ride back to Hyalt with the three companies. That might be
pushing matters, given his condition, but even if he waited several days, he
wouldn’t think about Rachyla quite so much in the compound, not so much as when
he knew she might be around any corner.

What could he do? It
seemed as though she would always consider him her enemy—or the enemy of her
dead father, at the very least, and he hadn’t even been the one to kill the
seltyr. He’d done his best to save Rachyla, and that had gained him only
contempt, or so it sometimes seemed.

His fingers dropped
to his belt, not quite touching the dagger of the ancients. Perhaps ... perhaps
...

He nodded. It was a
wager of the greatest odds, but the only one left for him to play. As a mere
Cadmian majer, he had few enough options, and fewer still in the future, he
suspected. Do you want to risk it?

What risk was there, given
what had already happened?

He took a deep but
slow breath and looked once more at the uniformed Cadmian in the mirror, a
blond and green-eyed officer with dark circles under his eyes, healing bruises
splotched across his face. He tried a smile. It looked more like a grimace.
Without looking at his reflection again, he turned and walked back into the
bedchamber, where he clipped his scabbard to his belt.

After checking the
chamber to make sure that he had not left anything, he picked up the cloth bag
that Fabrytal had used to deliver his personal items and stepped out into the
upper hallway. It was empty. He walked down the wide steps to the entry
hallway, also empty.

Would Rachyla just
let him walk out? He could not let that happen. One way or another he had to
force the issue, to see her a last time. What else could he do besides what he
had planned? Courtesy, kindness, interest—they had made no impression on her.

He chuckled
mirthlessly, silently. She never showed whether anything made an impression on
her, and because he could not sense what she felt, unlike others, he had no
idea what lay behind her reserve, her measured antagonism. Yet, somehow... he
could not just walk away. The more fool you, then.