Soarers Choice by L. E. Modesitt Page B

almost
did here in Hyalt and again in Tempre.”
    “In
Tempre, I had no i.e. that the lower level of the
alector’s building would explode.”
    “Maybe
not, but everything was fine until you went first. You’ve led from the front
for enough years that the men won’t mind if you do something to assure that you
stay alive. The squad leaders and junior officers might even prefer keeping
their commander.”
    Mykel
winced. “It’s hard. I’m not trying to be a hero or anything. I just don’t like
asking them to do what I won’t.”
    “Majer...
look at it this way. You’ve done more than any of them have to lead from the
front. You’ve been wounded something like five times — if not more — over the
past two years. You’ve also proved that you lose fewer men in fights. So ...
they know you’re willing to put yourself on the line. Now, they’d prefer that
you stay alive so that you can keep more of them alive.” Rhystan paused.
“Probably not all the newer Cadmians know that, but all the senior rankers and
squad leaders do, and they’re the ones who count.”
    Mykel
looked down at the still polished wood of the new table, then finally lifted
his eyes. “It makes sense, but it’s hard.”
    “Mykel...
there are all kinds of courage. Sometimes, it takes more courage to let someone
else lead, especially if you’re the kind of commander who feels for his men.
And you are.” Rhystan stood abruptly. “By your leave, Majer?”
    Mykel
looked’at the older man, then smiled. “Good night, Rhystan ... and ... thank
you.”
    “Thank
you, sir.”
    Mykel
sat alone in the officers’ mess for a time, thinking.
    Why
had he had such a hard time seeing what Rhystan had pointed out? The older
officer had earlier hinted at what he had said so bluntly, and Mykel had
thought he had understood, but he’d still risked himself at times that he should
not have. There were other times when there had been no real choice. At the
very least, he needed to make those distinctions.
    But...
how could he truly know whether he was making an accurate assessment, or
deluding himself? Had he really needed to lead the way down to the Table in
Tempre? No. Had he needed to scout out the rebel alectors in Hyalt? Probably.
Should he have led the charge against the rebels in Tempre? No. In fact, he
might have saved more of his men by holding back and shooting more alectors.
    Then
there was Rachyla. Had he acted fairly and honestly in giving her the dagger of
the ancients? Or had he done so out of mere desperation, because he was drawn
to her, and knew he had to do something extraordinary to reach her?
    For
those questions, he had no answers.
    Finally,
he stood, crossed the small room, and blew out the lamp. He walked slowly back
up to the visiting officers’ quarters he had taken.
    Once
inside, he lit the sole lamp, then sat on the bunk and pulled out the map of
Corus he had taken from the black chest in the alector’s Table chamber. He
opened it carefully, feeling the smooth surfaces. When he laid it out across
his knees and thighs, there were no creases where it had been folded. He took a
corner and flexed it. While he did not actually try to rip the corner, he could
sense that it would take tremendous pressure to tear or cut the map. The map
was not drawn on paper, or not on any paper Mykel knew, and yet it was not
cloth, either. Nor was it imbued with the lifeforce essence that Mykel had
sensed in the Myrmidon uniforms or those of the rebel alectors.
    He
studied the depiction of the continent carefully, deliberately, but what he saw
was certainly not any different in outline or overall shape than any map he had
seen before. He continued to peruse the map, noting that fourteen cities all
were marked with tiny green octagons. Each octagon was framed by a colored
border edged in purple. Two of the octagons were Tempre and Hyalt. Others were
Elcien, Ludar, and Alustre. That suggested that each octagon had to be the
location of a Table. The one in