Darknesses

Darkness

L.E.
Modesitt Jr.

The Corean
Chronicles Book 2

For Lara and Van

Tempre,
Lanachrona

F
ive
men sat around a circular table.
The tabletop was of rose marble, the
carved and elaborate pedestal legs of oiled and carved lorken so dark that it
could have passed for ebony. Three of the men wore the blue-and-cream uniforms
of the Southern Guard. The fourth wore the silver vestments of the Recorder of
Deeds. The last was the Lord-Protector, who wore a tunic of violet blue,
trimmed in cream, similar in cut and style to those of the officers.

The
cold silver light of a winter sun flowed through the tall and narrow windows on
the south side of the room, windows whose lorken casements were framed by rose
marble columns. Under a white-plastered vaulted ceiling, rose damask covered
the walls between the pillars framing the windows, but failed to impart warmth
to the conference room.

“You
have all heard and understood what the Recorder of Deeds has said, have you
not? You know the limitations of the Table?” asked the Lord-Protector.

“It
cannot show what will happen, and it can display only what is happening or what
has occurred recently. Is that not so?” Marshal Wyerl paused and cleared his
throat, then brushed back a short lock of light brown hair. Despite the lines
radiating from his eyes, his clean-shaven face conveyed boyish charm. As almost
an afterthought, he asked, “How recently?”

“Two
or three days past are most clear,” replied the older man in the silver
vestments. “Most happenings can be recalled for a week. If an event has great
impact on what will be, then it can be discerned for perhaps a month, even a
year, but it is impossible to predict what events the Table will regard as
having great impacts.” The Recorder added, “It will usually not show anyone
possessing great Talent, and even the results of their actions will show in
silver shadows only for a few glasses or a day at most. Of course, by what is
not shown, one can at times deduce the use of Talent by one’s enemies.”

The
younger blond man, also wearing the uniform and insignia of a marshal in the
Southern Guard, asked, frowning slightly, “Why does it not show those with
Talent?”

“The
Tables were designed and created at the height of the Duarchy by those with
Talent. I would rather imagine that they did not wish it used against
themselves.” A dryness infused the Recorder’s words.

“Do
we face anyone with such Talent?” Marshal Wyerl inquired.

The
Recorder of Deeds smiled faintly. “There are always those with Talent in Corus,
but they are few indeed. The Matrial was the only one that the Table could not
focus upon directly. Others may arise, but for the moment, all those with some
vestige of Talent who oppose us can be discerned in the Table.”

“Such
as Aellyan Edyss?”

“The
nomad warleader appears clearly in the Table,” the Recorder affirmed.

The
Lord-Protector cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Wyerl. “You were
about to report, Marshal?”

“Yes,
Lord-Protector.” Wyerl squared his shoulders. “The Regent of the Matrial has
fortified Dimor as well as the high road approaches on the south side of the
South Branch of the River Lud and placed at least ten regular horse companies
there. There are five foot companies, and possibly as many as another ten
Auxiliary companies. They retain the terrible crystal spear-thrower.” The
marshal inclined his head toward the younger marshal. “Marshal Alyniat can
provide more detail on the situation in Zalt and Southgate.”

The
Lord-Protector—the youngest man at the table by at least a decade—nodded.

“Lord-Protector,”
began Alyniat, “in one respect, we were most fortunate. Because the Recorder of
Deeds discovered the crystal spear-thrower, we could alter our tactics. The
siege of the fort at Zalt was effective in forcing the Matrites to retreat, but
the Matrites were careful to use the spear-thrower to cover that withdrawal. We
now hold Zalt, and it is largely intact, as is the fort there, which we have enlarged
and reinforced. However…all those in Zalt have settled in Dimor and put their
energies to strengthening it. With those forces, and the crystal spear-thrower
remaining there, it is most unlikely we will be able to take Dimor in the next
several years without an extraordinary commitment of troopers and supplies,
and…” Alyniat paused, as if he knew his next words would not be well received.
“I would strongly recommend against any such effort.”

The
Lord-Protector laughed. “You have delivered Zalt and Southgate when those
before you failed. I accept your recommendation.” His next words were slow and
deliberate. “So long as we continue to hold Southgate.” A brief smile followed.
“Now, what of the seltyrs there? The ones who remained?”

“Seltyr
Benjir vanished in the final attack on Southgate. None have seen him or his
sons in the year since. The new advisory council to the Lord-Protector remains
under the control of Seltyr Sinyen. They have accepted the rule of Lanachrona,
and the change in tariffs. As you know, we had to execute several of the
seltyrs and some of their families before they grasped the concept that bribing
tariff collectors was no longer acceptable. Those who have accepted the rule of
law, as opposed to the rule of coin, are prospering, and they will soon control
most of the commerce of Southgate. We have been most careful to spare the women
and to insist that they receive the same treatment as women do in Lanachrona.”
The blond Alyniat shrugged. “That also required some executions, but the women
are most kind to our troopers and merchants, and, over time, we will have a
most loyal province.”

“My
lady, and indeed, most of the women in Lanachrona, will find that pleasing,”
the Lord-Protector replied, before turning to the sole submarshal, a thin-faced
older man with graying hair. “What of the shipyards and commerce?”

“We
captured the shipyards without great damage, and to date we have completed
three deep-ocean trading vessels. Two were already under construction. The
first warship will be ready within the season, and we can build five more in
the next year, if the coins are available.”

“How
many will be required to take Dramur?” asked the Lord-Protector.

“More
than we can build in ten years,” replied Submarshal Frynkel.

“We
will also have to develop a school or a system for training officers and crews
for sea war.”

The
Lord-Protector frowned. “The problem of Dramur will not vanish, but we must
also consider the growing strength of Aellyan Edyss. Already, we are receiving
protests about the tariffs he is levying on trade along the Lost Highway. He is
also beginning to take over sections of Ongelya with his new Myrmidons.”

“That
will take years,” Frynkel pointed out. “Ongelya stretches over a thousand
vingts from the northwest to its southeast border. His Myrmidons can only
travel so fast on horseback.”

“He
has conquered all of Illegea in but a handful of years,” replied the
Lord-Protector.

“He
now holds the northern third of Ongelya, and I would not doubt he will hold all
of it within a year, if he so desires. There is little of worth in the south,
not compared to, say, Deforya.”

“Yet
we hear of his depredations in the south,” offered Frynkel.

“He
may be spreading such reports to lull us into believing that, while he moves
elsewhere,” suggested Marshal Wyerl. “Most likely into Deforya. Why else would
the Landarch have consented to sell his note from the Iron Valleys Council to
the Lord-Protector?”

The
Lord-Protector frowned.

Ignoring
the expression, Wyerl continued. “Edyss already controls the Lost Highway. If
he moves into Deforya and takes Dereka, he will gain control of the Northern
Pass high road—”

“And
all land trade with Lustrea.” The Lord-Protector nodded. “By tariffing both
high roads, he can expand his coffers and purchase arms…But who would sell him
arms? Certainly not the Praetor of Lustrea. We would not.”

“Ah…Lord-Protector,”
interjected the Recorder of Deeds, “like the Iron Valleys, the Landarch of
Deforya has iron mines. Unlike the Iron Valleys, the Landarchs have always
maintained a foundry and an arms manufactory. Their weapons are excellent.”

“But
the Deforyans do not fight so well as the Iron Valleys Militia,” added Marshal
Alyniat.

“What
would you four suggest, then?” The Lord-Protector’s voice contained equal
measures of amusement and exasperation.

“Just
a message of support to the Landarch,” replied Wyerl, “one perhaps hinting that
the Lord-Protector stands by his friends, and that is why you relieved him of a
nonproducing note with hard golds. But wait for Aellyan Edyss to act first. All
view us with suspicion. If we act or press ourselves upon the Landarch, he may
turn to Edyss as the lesser of evils. Also, his forces and the mountains that
surround Deforya may defeat the nomad warrior. If so, then you are free to
address whatever enemy is the most pressing. If not, and the Landarch requires
support, send enough forces to be meaningful, but not so many as to look as if
you plan to turn them against him.”

“What
of the Iron Valleys?”

“All
the traders of Dekhron wish is the freedom to trade and gather golds. All the
herders of their north wish is to herd and to be left in peace,” said Wyerl
slowly. “Surely, there must be a way in which those needs could be met honestly
and fairly. Since you hold their note for, what, six thousand golds plus
interest, you might even forgive most of it if they agreed to become a
Lanachronan province.”

“You
think our Traders’ Guild would accept them as equals?”

“One
trader is like another. Our lands speak close to the same tongue, and neither
their traders nor ours wish higher tariffs to support a war.” Wyerl smiled.
“You might even suggest that an additional tariff of but one part in twenty—or
fifty—is a small price for both sets of traders to pay for avoiding a war, and
that you will pledge that the same laws that apply in Tempre and Borlan will
apply in Dekhron, and, further, that no Southern Guards will be placed anywhere
in the Iron Valleys, save upon the request of the Traders’ Council of Dekhron.”

“And
what do we gain by such?”

“More
tariffs, Lord-Protector, and the ability to move many of the Southern Guard
companies to the eastern borders. You also avoid the cost of a war with the
Iron Valleys, and that cost could be most high, as the late Matrial
discovered.”

“And
what if they reject such?”

Wyerl
smiled. “Then perhaps someone else should attack them, and you will offer
condolences…and wait. You might also suggest that few will want to trade with
them if they do not honor their debts.”

The
Lord-Protector laughed—explosively. “Bring me a plan, Marshal, and we shall
see.”

“As
you request, Lord Protector.”

The
faintest trace of a sad smile played around the mouth of the Recorder of Deeds
as the Lord-Protector stood to end the meeting.

T
wo
men rode on each side of the nightsheep flock
as they guided the animals
back to the eastern side of Westridge, toward the stead that lay beyond the
western edge of the ridge that was too long and too gentle to be a hill, and
too high not to be. The winter sun had already set, and the silver-green sky
had rapidly begun to fade into a deep purple-green. To the east, the quartz
outcroppings on the edge of the Aerlal Plateau—looming over the rolling rises
of the stead—shimmered in the last light of the sun. The light snow of two days
earlier still dusted the red sandy ground and the quarasote bushes that dotted
the rises.

The
lead ram tossed his head, if slightly, and his razor-sharp horns glinted in the
fading light, his black wool and face standing out against the snow where he
paused before continuing to follow the ancient trail across the lower section
of Westridge, the flock behind him.

The
younger man was Alucius. Riding in the black nightsilk and leathers of a herder
felt strange to him after the years of wearing first a trooper’s uniform, then,
for the last year, a militia captain’s uniform. A gust of wind, acrid and
bitter, blew out of the northeast, ruffling the hair that was a dark, dark
gray—not the gray of age, but of a shade that was close to black, but was not.
His silver-gray eyes, flecked slightly with green, continued to study the flock
and the quarasote bushes, which were all that grew in the red sandy soil of the
stead.

With
the force of experience and habit, Alucius guided his mount—Wildebeast—around a
dying quarasote bush that had already seeded. He didn’t see any seedlings, but
those would not appear until spring. In the meantime, Alucius avoided the bush,
as he would any quarasote, since all had spikes able to rip deep into the flesh
of almost any animal, except the nightsheep, who foraged on the newer shoots.
The nightsilk—for all its smoothness, apparent softness, and
flexibility—stiffened into a mail-like hardness under pressure—one reason why
Alucius wore nightsilk undergarments, especially when on duty in the Iron
Valleys Militia.

The
older man, Alucius’s grandsire Royalt, eased his mount around the laggards and
toward his grown grandson. “You’ve seen most of the stead while you’ve been on
furlough. What do you think?”

“It
was dry last year. Not so many new shoots, except near the plateau. Was there
more rain there—or more snow last winter?” Alucius tilted his head, taking in
what his Talent revealed. He could sense the gray-violet of sandwolves
somewhere to the north, along with the faintest hint of the red-violet of
sanders, but the sense of the sanders was so faint that he could not discern
where they might be—except that they were not close to the nightsheep.

“More
snow, mostly. I’ve kept them closer to the plateau than I would have liked, but
their wool is coming in strong. Despite everything, be a good year.”

Alucius
glanced toward the lead ram—young for the role—but wise beyond his years.
Absently, with his Talent-sense, he studied the nightram, noting that even the
ram’s lifethread linked him to the land close to the stead, a thread, like all lifethreads,
that, if severed, would result in death.

“He
even looks like Lamb,” offered Royalt.

“He
does. I miss Lamb, though. I’d hoped to see him once more.”

“He
was close to twenty—long life for a nightram.”

“I
had still hoped,” Alucius said.

“The
young one takes to you like his sire. I can see that.”

“I
wish I were here, rather than at Emal.” Alucius remained uncomfortable whenever
his grandsire even hinted that Alucius would be the herder before long.

“You
have but ten months before your obligation’s met.”

“We’ll
see then.” Alucius was all too aware of what could happen in ten months. In
less than three, once, he’d been a scout for the militia, captured by the
Matrites, collar-slaved, and retrained. In another two-month period, he’d
broken the collar torques of the Matrial, formed his own company from escaped
captive troopers, traveled six hundred vingts, and returned to service in the
militia as a captain—and managed to keep anyone from knowing the extent of his
Talent. In some ways, he reflected, the last had been the hardest task of all,
but the silence about Talent was one of the strongest herder traditions,
because, on it, in a fashion, rested the fate of all herders in the Iron
Valleys.

“It’s
been quiet. Even Kustyl says so,” Royalt offered.

“Sometimes,
that’s the time to worry.” Alucius laughed, ruefully.

“Someone
once told me that.”

“Use
my own words against me, would you?”

“Not
against you. I just worry.” Alucius shifted his weight in the saddle as
Wildebeast reached the crest of Westridge. The stead buildings lay a good
vingt—two thousand solid yards—due west and perhaps fifty yards lower than the
ridge crest.

“You
worry more now that you’re married.”

“Wouldn’t
you?” Alucius quickly added, “Didn’t you? You didn’t stay in the militia long
after you and Grandma’am were married. Not from what Mother said.”

Royalt
chuckled. “Let’s just say that being a herder suited me better, especially
after the traders started begrudging every gold spent on the militia.”

“Like
now?” questioned Alucius.

“Worse,
then. Right now, they still fret a bit about what happened. Been less than two
years since the Matrites were in Soulend, and they’d still be there if the
Lord-Protector hadn’t wanted Southgate.”

“That
may be, but there’s been no real fighting in more than a year, and the
Council’s cut the militia to twenty-one companies, from close to thirty.”

“Be
only twenty, weren’t for you.” Royalt gestured toward the outbuildings of the
stead, now less than half a vingt ahead of them. “Let’s get them in the shed.
We can talk more at supper.”

Alucius
nodded, and eased Wildebeast back to the east and south to make sure that the
stragglers followed the lead ram into the nightsheep shed. One of the older
ewes lagged, as if she wanted to remain in the open air. Alucius projected a
sense of sandwolf, and the ewe closed the gap with the rest of the flock.

Once
all the nightsheep were in the shed, Alucius dismounted and tied Wildebeast to
one of the posts of the lambing corral. Then he checked the shed a last time.

Wendra
appeared at the shed door as Alucius slid the last flange bolt into place. She
was wearing a herder’s jacket that Alucius’s mother Lucenda had tailored for
her and given to her on her birthday. Both her generous mouth and her
golden-flecked green eyes smiled as Alucius turned. She was wearing the green
scarf he had brought from Zalt—the only thing of value he had brought back from
Madrien.

They
just looked at each other for a long moment, then embraced. After a time, they
separated, but Alucius could sense how their lifethreads entwined whenever they
were close.

“Why…how…?”
Alucius wasn’t quite sure how to phrase the question. He untied Wildebeast.

Wendra
laughed. “Your mother practically ordered me out of the kitchen when we saw you
coming down Westridge.” The laugh died away. “She said you were leaving
tomorrow, and she wouldn’t allow me to make the mistakes she did.”

Alucius
nodded soberly. His father had been a militia captain who had ridden out when
Alucius was less than three and never returned. “I still have to take care of
Wildebeast.”

“I’ll
come with you. Your grandfather’s already finished with his mount—while you
took care of the flock.”

“He
deserves that. He’ll have to go back to doing everything tomorrow.”

“I
know,” Wendra said quietly.

The
herder who was also a militia captain could sense that his wife was upset and
trying to hide it. “What happened?”

“It’s
nothing.” Wendra’s breath was a white fog in the winter twilight.

Alucius
looked hard at Wendra. “I don’t think so.”

“It
really is. It shouldn’t bother me at all. Father sent out a half barrel of good
weak ale. Korcler and Mother brought it. We asked them to stay for supper, but
Mother said they had to get back. They’d been delivering barrels to Gortal at
the dustcat works.” Wendra paused. “Father wishes he didn’t have to sell to
Gortal, but without his orders…”

“He
couldn’t keep the cooperage going,” Alucius finished her sentence as he led
Wildebeast into the stable, then into the third stall.

Wendra
nodded, pausing at the end of the stall. “It seems so…unfair…so wrong. Father’s
a good cooper, and he wasn’t lucky enough to have the Talent to be a herder. He
works hard.”

“He
does.” Alucius began to unsaddle Wildebeast, then to groom him. “You have to
wonder, if there is the One Who Is, why there is so much evil and unfairness in
the world.” Thinking of the torques of the Matrial, he added, “And so often, it
seems like the efforts people make to redress one evil just create another.”

“You’re
thinking about Madrien, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You
look at things differently, now.”

“Is
that bad?” Alucius offered a laugh.

“No.”
Wendra shook her head. “It’s still hard to believe that one person controlled
the collars of every man in Madrien.” She looked at Alucius. “And you’ve never
said anything much beyond a word or two except the one time.”

“There’s
no reason to say more, is there? You and Grandfather and Mother know, and no
one else should.” Alucius put down the brush and patted Wildebeast on the
shoulder. “There, fellow. Now for some grain.”

“But…when
the collars failed, why…why didn’t the troopers all revolt?”

“Some
did. Some joined my company. But they were all former captives. Why would the
others revolt? I suppose some did, but not that many. Life wasn’t that bad
there, and everyone had a good place to live. The only really bad thing was
that Talent officers could kill anyone who wore a collar from a distance, and
most of those with collars were men. With that gone, and men having more say in
matters, why would people want to leave their homes or destroy things? They
might even learn to fight better without the collars.”

“It
bothers you,” Wendra offered.

“What
does?”

“You’ve
talked to me about how much better most people lived in Madrien and how shabby
Iron Stem looks.”

Alucius
left the stall and closed the half door behind him. “I’d like to think that
people would treat others better, but the place where they were treated best
used force to require it. It doesn’t give me the most hope.” He took Wendra’s
arm after he closed the stable door, and they left the stable and began to walk
back toward the stead house, arm in arm. Even though it was almost night, the
way was bright enough for a man who had the night vision of a herder, so that
even full dark, without either moon in the sky, appeared as early twilight
might to others.

“I
don’t want you to go back,” she said quietly. “I know you have to, but I
worry.”

“I
worry, too.” Alucius laughed. “It’s been quiet, except for raiders and
bandits.”

“Grandfather
Kustyl says that the Reillies who left the Westerhills are moving back in, and
that, before long, they’ll be raiding steads again.”

Alucius
nodded. Wendra’s grandfather knew a great deal. As one of the closer
neighbors—close being over ten vingts to the north—Kustyl often stopped by to
chat with Royalt, and had for years.

“They
might, but there are fewer of them, and they probably won’t have to raid for a
few years. By then, it might be some other poor captain’s problem.” He stamped
his boots on the porch to remove the thin dusting of snow, then used the boot
brush, first on Wendra’s boots, then on his own.

Once
inside, they cleaned up in the washroom, where the hand pump squeaked with
every downstroke, and where the water was cold enough to leave Wendra’s hands
bluish.

When
they entered the kitchen, Royalt was already sitting at one end of the long
table. He looked at Lucenda, standing by the heavy iron stove. “Told you they
wouldn’t be long.”

Alucius’s
mother smiled indulgently before she seated herself at the table and inclined
her head to Alucius. “If you would…”

Alucius
bowed his head. “In the name of the One Who Was, Is, and Will Be, may our food
be blessed and our lives as well, and blessed be the lives of both the
deserving and the undeserving that both may strive to do good in the world and
beyond.” The words of the ancient blessing disturbed him, although he’d come to
understand more of their import. Even at his age, he’d seen enough to discover
that it was often hard to determine who was deserving and undeserving, simple
though it might appear at first glance. The Matrial had brought prosperity and
peace to the entire western coast of Corus, after more than a thousand years of
bloodshed and anarchy. But it had taken more than four generations of
oppression of men, and the use of silver torques that could kill a man at the
whim of any woman with Talent. Who had deserved what, for how long, and why? He
still was uncertain.

Lucenda
stood, as did Wendra. Wendra began to hand platters and dishes from the serving
table, while Lucenda ladled a sauce that simmered on the stove over a large
platter.

“Marinated
stuffed fowl with the orange sauce and lace potatoes! You’re giving Alucius
quite a send-off supper,” Royalt said.

“He
deserves it,” Lucenda said. “Wendra and I decided he ought to have a meal to
remember on that cold ride back to Emal.”

Wendra
smiled sweetly at Royalt, though her eyes twinkled, and added, “And you won’t
enjoy it at all, I imagine.”

Alucius
almost choked on the mouthful of ale he was swallowing.

“Alucius,”
Royalt protested, “once you leave, I’ll be at their mercy. I’m but a poor
herder.”