Soarers Choice (47 page)

“More
is expected of a Marshal of Myrmidons than a submarshal or a colonel.”

Dainyl
was seething, so much that he knew Zelyert had no trouble discerning it. “How
did you find Ludar, Highest?”

“Marshal,
Ludar was most informative, particularly since I did not have to deal with the
presumption of subordinates.”

“I
can understand that, Highest,” Dainyl replied, his tone polite. “Presumptions
and questions by those who must bear the burdens and resolve the difficulties
can be particularly annoying.” He shouldn’t have pressed that point, but
Zelyert was beginning to behave just as Shastylt had, and Dainyl had the
feeling that superiors who became excessively secretive were engaged in matters
that were not necessarily in anyone’s interest but their own, and certainly not
in the interest of their subordinates.

“You
are most presumptive, Dainyl.”

“I
suppose that is because, Zelyert,” Dainyl replied, emphasizing the personal
name, “I’m getting exceedingly tired of resolving problems that no one else
could at less cost than anyone else could and then being condemned or
condescended to because matters did not go as you would have wished. The more I
do, the less happy you are, as if you wished I would fail and have been
disappointed when I did not.”

“I
could crush you.” The statement was arrogantly matter-of-fact.

“Perhaps
you could,” replied Dainyl, although he had his doubts that Zelyert was that
much more powerful, “but what is the point of that? Everyone knows you’re
powerful. Then who would you find to resolve the difficulties you face?”

Dainyl
could sense Zelyert beginning to gather Talent-strength and he added, “Is that
your answer, Zelyert? Destroy me because I have the honesty and audacity to
suggest you might be mistaken? Then who will do what you need done? Unlike the
others who might replace me, I’m not scheming for your position, and you should
be wise enough to see that.”

“You
are an arrogant imbecile.”

Dainyl
laughed. “I’ll admit to arrogance. What alector isn’t, at times? I’ll even
admit to making mistakes, but why are you attempting to destroy me? It won’t
solve your problems.”

Zelyert
continued to marshal Talent force, as did Dainyl.

“Destroying
a presumptuous subordinate is never wrong.”

“What
do you gain? Either way, you lose. If I defeat you, you lose. If you destroy
me, you lose, because there isn’t anyone left who can do what I can, and you
will need me and the Myrmidons.” He smiled. “At least, in the near future.”

Before
Zelyert could say more, Dainyl inclined his head. “I have no interest...” He
strengthened his shields and took two steps forward, sensing that Zelyert had
no intention of listening to reason.

He
was within a yard of Zelyert when he was stopped cold by the sheer ferocity of
the barrage of Talent against his shields.

Dainyl
could barely even stand against the bolts of Talent, let alone attack, and he could
feel his shields being eroded.

“You’re
nothing,” Zelyert said. “A trace stronger than many alectors, but hardly
anything to worry about.”

The
superior brute strength of Zelyert’s Talent pressed Dainyl back, enshrouding
his shields with purple. Dainyl interlocked shields within shields, but still
found himself being pressed backward, toward the stone wall behind him.

Another
bolt of Talent energy shivered his shields, adding to the purple aura of air in
the study.

Something
about the purpleness nagged at Dainyl as he shored up his shields, trying to
stand against the onslaught...

Then,
he had it. Talent didn’t have to be purple!

Dainyl
extended a probe to the greenish blackness that lay beneath the Table, not all
that far away.

His
shields strengthened, and the pressure against him subsided. Rather his own
strength, aided by what he drew from beneath, balanced that of the High
Alector.

“You’re
a tool of the ancients ...” gasped Zelyert. “Anyone can see it... the green.”

“I’m
no one’s tool.” Dainyl opened the channel wider, allowing more of the greenish
Talent-strength to flow into his shields. Then he was the one to step forward,
pressing Zelyert backward.

Zelyert
extended his own Talent probe, toward the Table itself.

Dainyl
enveloped it with the greenish black, squeezing it off short of the Table.

The
room exploded into an inferno of unleashed Talent.

Dainyl
hung on to his shields — and the link to the blackish green below. The entire
Hall of Justice shuddered ... and purple and green darkness slammed into
Dainyl, hurling him against the wall.

Then
... there was only darkness.

For
a time, Dainyl lay on the stones of the private study. Every muscle and bone
ached. Then, there was chill — cold compresses on his forehead. He managed to
open his eyes.

Adya
was kneeling beside him, applying the compress. “You’re alive.”

“After
a fashion,” Dainyl whispered.

“I
didn’t think anyone ...” She lifted the compress.

Dainyl
sat up, then slowly stood. Dizzy as he felt, he immediately sat down in the
chair before the table. Only then did his eyes go to the High Alector’s
garments, lying on the stone floor. Empty.

“You’re
... green,” Adya said.

“I
feel green,” Dainyl offered dryly, although he feared he knew what she meant.

“Your
Talent... it’s more like greenish purple, with some black,” she explained.

“It’s
been like that ever since Hyalt. Rhelyn — he was the RA and the recorder —
wounded me with one of the weapons of the ancients.” Dainyl offered a hoarse
laugh. “I’ve been tinted green ever since.”

“They
say the ancients ...”

“Their
Talent is green. It was a weapon forged by their Talent.”

Her
mouth opened. “The records say ...”

“What
do they say, Adya?” Dainyl forced himself to be patient. He needed time to
recover, and he didn’t need anyone upset.

“The
green alector...” She stammered. “I don’t recall. I only heard the Highest
mention it once. He said something about it being a time of danger for
everyone.”

Dainyl
had a good
i.e.
that Zelyert had said much more. He
also doubted that Adya would tell him. Not at the moment. “Zelyert was angry
even before I returned from Dereka. Do you know why?”

“No,
sir. He’d been at the Palace, and he was short-tempered when he returned. He
didn’t say why. He told Dalyrt that he’d have to take the petitions in the Hall
today. The way he said it no one wanted to ask why.”

“He
was in Ludar yesterday. What sort of mood was he in when he came back?”

“I
couldn’t say, sir. He came back after I left for the day. Dalyrt was the one
who had to wait.”

Dainyl
was still lightheaded, although he could feel some Talent-strength returning.
“Could I persuade you to get me something to eat and drink?”

“Yes,
sir. I can do that.”

Her
acquiescence was frightening, almost as though she couldn’t wait to leave the
study.

Dainyl
took a deep breath. He had to get his thoughts together. He supposed he needed
to tell Khelaryt. But what could he, what should he tell the Duarch? And was it
wise to appear Talent-tinged in green in the Palace?

Could
he conceal some of the green? Turn it inside, and leave the purple outside?

He
concentrated, attempting not to change what he was, but only the outward
radiation of the mixed Talent he seemed to embody. By the time he finished, he
was even more lightheaded, and he lowered his head into his hands for several
moments, straightening up only when he sensed Adya returning.

“You’re
looking much better, sir. Most of the green’s faded. Not all, but most.” She
carried a wooden tray, on which were a small loaf, a wedge of white cheese, and
a beaker.

“I’d
think it should fade over time.” Dainyl was beginning to have doubts about
that. Exactly what had been in the weapon Rhelyn had used? Or had the ancients’
healing of him made him more susceptible to showing the green? It couldn’t just
have been the result of his recent drawing on the black-green Talent. He’d had
a tinge of green before.

Dainyl
ate the entire loaf of bread and the cheese and drank the whole beaker of
cider. He did feel more clearheaded when he finished, and far better than he
ought to have, given what he’d been through.

Adya
stood waiting, as if fearful of leaving.

Dainyl
didn’t even know the protocol for seeing the Duarch. In the past, he had only
responded to requests and sent reports, but what had happened merited more than
a report, and it couldn’t wait, especially if what he feared might be
happening.

“Adya,
is the Highest’s coach here?”

“Yes,
sir. I think so.”

“I’ll
need a ride to the Palace.”

“Let
me check, sir.”

No
sooner had Adya scurried off again than Chastyl appeared in the doorway. “Might
I come in?” Dainyl nodded.

The
recorder’s eyes dropped to the shimmersilk garments still on the floor, then he
looked at Dainyl, clearly comparing the marshal’s plain blue and gray
shimmersilk uniform to the richer raiment of the late High Alector. “Ah ... who
... will you ... ?”

“I
have no idea, Chastyl. I asked Adya to find the coach so that I could report
Zelyert’s unfortunate death to the Duarch.”

“You
... intend to do that personally, sir?” The recorder’s tone suggested the lack
of wisdom in such a course.

“How
else? If the Duarch finds my self-defense unacceptable, what would be the point
of telling him indirectly? Indirection has never been my strength, Chastyl.”

“Ah
... no, sir. I’ve observed that.”

“What
should I know, Chastyl? You had something to tell me, I’d wager.”

Chastyl’s
eyes dropped once more to the garments that had been Zelyert’s, as if the
recorder could not believe what had happened. “Ah ... yes, sir ... I think,
sir. You’d mentioned that you’d thought that the Highest had gone to Ludar. He
did, but he was furious when he returned, the kind of anger he walled away, but
so great not even his Talent could hide it.”

“Do
you know why?”

“No,
sir. When he left the Table, he said, ‘Beware those who know everything and
understand nothing.’ That was all, except for one thing. Almost as an
afterthought, he added, ‘The marshal knows nothing, yet understands almost
everything. That makes him all the more dangerous.’ After what’s happened, I
thought it might make sense to you.”

“I’ll
have to think about that. I appreciate your letting me know.” Dainyl had the
feeling he did in fact understand. That suggested even more that he needed to
talk to Khelaryt before anyone else did.

“If
that’s all, sir, I’d better be returning to the Table.”

“I
won’t keep you. Thank you.” Dainyl managed a smile he hoped was pleasant as
Chastyl inclined his head and backed out of the study.

As
though she had been waiting in the corridor, which she had been, Adya stepped
into the doorway. “The coach is ready for you, sir.”

“I
appreciate your finding that out for me.” Dainyl stood and walked deliberately
to the inner stairs and up them.

A
cold mist filled the air and continued to seep out of the lowlying clouds as
Dainyl left the Hall of Justice and walked down the wide stone steps to the
waiting coach.

“To
the Palace, sir?”

“The
Duarch’s entrance, please.”

“Yes,
sir.”

Dainyl
climbed into the coach. Was he the imbecile Zelyert had suggested, or merely
foolhardy, as Chastyl had hinted? Neither, he tried to convince himself.
Fleeing or delaying would only make matters worse, not only for him, but for
Lystrana and Kytrana.

The
coach ride was short, and in fact, Dainyl could have walked the distance, but somehow
walking up to the Palace did not seem to fit the occasion — and riding was
quicker, if not by that much. He stepped out of the coach onto the wide marble
mounting block.

“Would
you like me to wait, sir?” asked the driver.

“I’d
appreciate that.” With the mist thickening, Dainyl glanced from the Palace to
the north, where a wall of gray bore down on Elcien, the first of many winter
fogs, he suspected. Then he turned and strode through the archway and past the
pair of guards armed with lightcutter sidearms. As he had suspected, Bharyt
appeared almost immediately.

“Marshal
Dainyl...” The functionary’s forehead creased into a puzzled frown. “I do not
recall...”

“I
was not summoned, nor do I have an appointment, Bharyt. I’m here to see the
Duarch on a matter of great urgency.”

“Might
I tell him in general terms?” asked the slender alector, his words more
suggestion than question.

“This
time, no. I’d also suggest that you would not wish to be the one to do so,”
Dainyl replied.

Bharyt
stood for a moment, then nodded. “I will tell him that you’re here, sir.”

Dainyl
watched as the other alector turned and made his way along the corridor flanked
by goldenstone marble columns, goldenstone doubtless quarried generations upon
generations earlier in Soupat. Bharyt vanished through one of the doors, then,
after several moments, reappeared and walked swiftly back until he faced
Dainyl.

“He
will see you.”

“Thank
you.”

As
he followed the functionary, Dainyl’s boots clicked on the green and gold
marble tiles, a sound muted somewhat by the gold-trimmed dark green velvet
hangings. As they neared the library, Bharyt stepped back and motioned to the
door. “You may go in.”

Dainyl
opened the door, stepped into the library, and closed the door behind him. He
was well aware of the finality of the metallic click of the latch.