Skyfall

by Catherine Asaro

  Brad glanced at her. “What?”

  “The Dalvador Bard.”

  His expression turned bleak. “He is the only one between Avaril and the title.”

  “Why is Avaril so intent on killing Eldri’s family?” Roca curled her fists in her pockets. “Is he really such a monster?”

  Brad squinted at her. “Actually, one might argue that Avaril has more of a claim to the title than Eldrinson.”

  That gave Roca pause. She wanted to hate the man who threatened her lover, and she couldn’t imagine Eldri trying to kill anyone’s family. But she was hardly an unbiased observer. “Why would Avaril have more of a claim?”

  “Avaril’s father was the oldest son of the man who served as the Dalvador Bard two generations ago. Eldrinson’s father was the second son.” His voice took the cadence of a storyteller. “Many years after the Bard lost his wife, he fell in love with a younger woman. Then his oldest son betrayed him. He impregnated the woman and demanded her hand in marriage. His enraged father disinherited him, which made his second son the heir. That was how Eldrinson’s father became Bard. The older son did marry the woman, but she died in childbirth, leaving him even more embittered. He taught his rage to his child—Avaril.” Brad exhaled. “And so Avaril Valdoria swore to avenge his parents.”

  Roca pulled her jacket tighter. “Your people have a saying, yes? The sins of the father—?”

  “Shall be visited upon the son. Yes.” A grimace creased his face. “Let us hope this castle is as unassailable as it looks.”

  She shivered. “Let us hope.”

  People filled the dining hall: Garlin, Eldri, soldiers, women and men from the castle. Young people moved among them, serving food and drink. Everyone wore heavy clothes, fur-lined boots, and jackets or cloaks. Only a low fire burned in the great hearth; they were already rationing the glasswood they used for everything but couldn’t grow here. Roca and Brad waited on a bench against the wall, out of the way, a few meters from the long table where Eldri and Garlin conferred with several advisers.

  Roca crossed her arms. “We should be over there.”

  “Garlin refused,” Brad said.

  She rose to her feet. “Garlin needs to trust us more.”

  At first Brad looked as if he would caution against interfering. Then he stood next to her. As they approached the table, Garlin glanced up and frowned at them. Following his gaze, Eldri looked too.

  Roca stopped at the table. “We would like to help.”

  “This concerns Windward,” Garlin said. “Not you.”

  “We are here, also,” Roca answered.

  He waved his hand at the room full of people. “So are they. I do not see them interrupting us.”

  “We have knowledge they don’t.”

  Garlin scowled at her. “This is not about offworlders.”

  “It is about defense,” Eldri said mildly. “Theirs, too.”

  “We might be able to offer insights,” Brad added.

  “I think they should stay,” Eldri said.

  Garlin’s urge to send them away was almost palpable, so much so that Roca wondered everyone in the room didn’t feel it. But apparently Eldri’s wishes superseded his. He motioned curtly at two chairs across the table, set back from his group. “Be seated then.”

  As Roca and Brad settled into the chairs, Roca looked around. Three other people were at the table: an older man with gray hair and a craggy visage; a portly woman, also with graying hair, though surely she was only in her early thirties; and Shaliece, the Memory in the red robe. Shaliece watched them all, her concentration never wavering. It unsettled Roca; she felt as if a holovid camera were recording her every move.

  The others resumed their discussion. They spoke in Trillian, but Brad translated for her. The two of them were far enough away from the others that as long as he kept his voice low, it didn’t disrupt the conversation.

  “They are shocked by Avaril’s army,” he said. “They knew he was gathering men, but they had no idea he had so many.”

  She felt their bewildered dismay. “What did Avaril’s man say?”

  “He gave Garlin terms for surrender.”

  Roca scowled. “Why should we surrender?”

  Brad indicated Eldri, who was gesturing with vehemence as he spoke. “He asks the same question. It is a standoff. We can’t get out and Avaril’s army can’t get in. They wonder if Avaril can breach the walls.” He paused. “Personally, I think he would need flyers to get in here or some other technology they don’t possess.”

  “What do they say?”

  Brad waited for an appropriate opening, then spoke to the others in Trillian. The older man responded, and Brad translated for Roca. “The walls are strong, probably enough to keep out Avaril.” He paused. “They measure time differently here, but I think he is saying they have enough stores to last about a standard year, and that only with careful rationing.”

  “A year?” She held back her apprehension. “Surely Dalvador will send reinforcements before then.”

  He relayed her question and translated the answer. “Apparently Avaril has other forces that have engaged the armies of Dalvador and Rillia. Or so his man claims. We have no way to verify it.”

  Garlin spoke to Brad in English. “Can you ask your port for help?”

  “I’ve sent messages.” Brad tapped the palmtop on his belt. “With a good line of sight from a tower, I can reach the computers. Unfortunately, no one in Dalvador knows to check for messages or how.” He glanced at Roca. “I sent a message offworld, but it won’t travel any faster than light speed.”

  The Memory held up her hand. She spoke to Brad in a melodic trill; then, in perfect English, she said, “But it won’t travel any faster than—” and tilted her head.

  Brad spoke slowly. “Light speed.”

  She nodded and folded her hands on the table.

  Roca smiled at Shaliece. “You speak English well.”

  Everyone at the table froze. The older man rose to his feet, his lips pressed in a line. Eldri spoke quickly, putting his hand on the man’s arm, nudging him back into his chair.

  Roca glanced at Brad. “What did I do?”

  It was Eldri who answered, his voice gentle. “The Memory will not speak unless her hand is up. It otherwise disrupts her memory of events.”

  Roca spoke to all of them, with Brad translating. “Please accept my apologies. I am new here and meant no offense.”

  Eldri’s face lit in a smile. “None taken.” Then he added, “The Memory doesn’t actually know English, but she can replicate what she hears perfectly. Sometimes when she hears new combinations of sounds, she needs to check their pronunciation.”

  Garlin leaned toward Roca. “What does light speed mean?”

  “It means,” she said dourly, “that it will take years for Brad’s message to reach anyone.” It sounded even more depressing out loud.

  “I don’t see what good that will do,” Eldri said.

  “Neither do we,” Brad admitted. “But we must try.”

  Eldri inclined his head in acknowledgment. As he and the others resumed their discussion in Trillian, Roca spoke to Brad in a low voice. “Did you bring any weapons to this planet?”

  “An EM pulse-gun.”

  She sat up straighter. “Do you have it with you here?” He could fight off a good number of warriors with such a weapon, as long as its ammunition and charge lasted.

  He shook his head. “Garlin, Eldri, all these people—they’ve been my friends for years. I would no more draw that gun on them than on my own family.”

  “So you left it at the port.”

  “Yes.” He rubbed his eyes. “I thought of bringing it, but I knew I didn’t need a pulse-gun to make Eldri behave.” He tapped the pocket of his jacket. “I did bring my smart-knife. But it won’t help much against an entire army.”

  Although his response didn’t surprise her, she wished he had thought to bring the gun. It was true, a pulse-gun was far more than he would need under most c
ircumstances here, but someone in his position had to look at every possible danger. She glanced over the hall, so full of people who hoped Eldri and Garlin had a solution. “What do you know about this Avaril fellow?”

  “Eldri’s people don’t like him. They don’t believe he has any right to a title his father lost.” Brad paused. “He is a personable man if you can get past his hatred of Eldri’s family. But the Dalvador people love Eldri. The thought that Avaril would kill their Bard horrifies them.”

  It horrified her, too. “I wish we had your gun.”

  Brad spoke quietly. “Lady Roca, I would do my utmost to defend you and the people here. But attacking Avaril’s men is another story. It violates so many interstellar contact laws, I can’t even count them.”

  Roca gave him a sour look. “You Allieds have too many rules. Those warriors want to kill us. I would shoot them now and worry about interstellar contact laws later.”

  “Yes, you could kill a good number of them before they caught you or the gun ran out of power. Then what?” He spoke in a low, intent voice. “One pulse-gun can’t destroy an entire army, even one armed with only swords and bows. You would be lucky to escape with your life, and it would be like stirring a hornet’s nest out there.”

  Roca winced at the image. She indicated Eldri and his advisers. “What are they saying?”

  “That we must prepare for a siege.”

  She made an incredulous noise. “This is surreal.”

  “No kidding.”

  Roca wasn’t sure what he meant, but his tone mirrored what she felt. “Why is Garlin frowning?”

  “He and Shannar are talking about blocking the bridge.”

  “Shannar?”

  He indicated the older man. “Shannar Ervoria. He knows military procedures better than anyone else here.”

  “Have they considered destroying the bridge?”

  Brad leaned forward to catch their notice. When Eldri inclined his head, Brad spoke in Trillian. Shannar answered, with Brad translating. “The bridge is too solid to break.”

  Roca considered what she had seen. Eldri’s people knew how to smith metal swords and tools. She knew too little about forges to guess if the one here would have anything useful, but it was worth checking. As much as she hated the thought of destroying that extraordinary bridge, they had to consider it. “Can they make explosives?”

  After Brad translated, much discussion took place. Finally he said, “It doesn’t sound like it.”

  “Perhaps you can help them make some.” Roca said. “Gunpowder, maybe?”

  “What is ‘gunpowder’?” Eldri asked in English.

  “For a bomb, sort of,” Roca said.

  Garlin frowned. “And what is ‘bomb’?”

  “You know,” Brad said. “Boom. Rocks and people go flying.”

  Garlin arched an eyebrow at him. “‘Boom’?”

  “We could pour burning oil,” Eldri said. “Or drop boulders.”

  With Brad translating, Shannar said, “Oil might have uses. But we have no boulders here large enough to affect that bridge.”

  “I cannot see my people starve!” Eldri pressed his palm against his breastbone. Then his eyes glazed and he stared into space, his face blank.

  The gray-haired woman leaned forward, her forehead creasing as she addressed Eldri in Trillian. He showed no sign of hearing. Shannar started to speak, but Garlin held up his hand, motioning for silence. They all waited.

  Brad spoke under his breath in a voice only Roca could hear. “What the hell just happened?”

  “He had a seizure,” she murmured.

  Eldri blinked several times and looked around. Garlin and the others resumed their discussion, making an obvious effort to act as if nothing had happened.

  “He has seizures?” Brad asked.

  Roca nodded. “How well do you know Eldri and Garlin?”

  “Garlin, well. We often play chess.” He paused, rubbing his chin. “Eldrinson comes by much less often. He lives in seclusion, except when he sits as a judge or sings at festivals. His people say he is—” He spoke a Trillian word. It sounded flat, without the chiming of Lyshrioli vocal cords. “It means something like ‘touched by the gods.’”

  She sighed. “That seems to be what they call it here.”

  “Call what?”

  “Epilepsy.”

  His gaze widened. “You think he has epilepsy?”

  “Yes. I do.” She watched Eldri, who was listening now while the others talked. “A few days ago he had a generalized tonic clonic seizure.”

  “Good Lord. You mean a grand mal attack?”

  She checked her node for English, but “grand mal” was under French. Big sickness? She found a better explanation in her medical files. “Yes, that is right. But that term isn’t used by your doctors now.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “His condition looks serious to me, maybe life-threatening. I’m not certain he can survive without treatment.”

  “I feel so damned helpless. We have the technology to do wonders for these people, but our hands are tied.”

  Roca felt her face flush. “I am sorry for my comments at the port about the, uh—the chocolate.”

  “Ah, well.” He looked weary. “You had a point, even if I didn’t want to see it. If we gave Eldrinson medicines without fully understanding his condition, we could do more harm than good.”

  She knew he spoke the truth. But that mattered little right now. It could be a long time before they had any means to help Eldri. Avaril might not have to kill the Bard at all.

  Eldri’s own body might do it first.

  Part Two:

  Siege

  12

  Miracle of Snow

  The days passed, one after another, melting together for Roca into a dreamlike routine. Windward went on strict rationing. They lit few fires and never shed their heavy clothes. Everyone ate sparingly. Instead of dreading the snow, Roca hoped for it now, to replenish water for drinking and washing. Everyone waited, barricaded within the castle while Avaril’s army camped outside. They prayed for the Dalvador army to come to their rescue, while no doubt Avaril’s men prayed for its destruction.

  Even if Dalvador could have sent an army, Roca doubted it could reach Windward; Avaril’s men controlled the path up here from the plains and probably any other approaches as well. If the Dalvador army cut off his supplies, his climbers could bring them in through the northern mountains. Roca was developing a healthy respect for Avaril Valdoria; he was all too successful at this business of siege.

  Yet for all the deprivations and fear, the days also brought joy. She and Eldri laughed, shivered, and made love, ensconced under the quilts on his bed. She loved his mischief, his teasing grin, the sensual way his lashes lowered when he wanted her. Their minds blended so easily. He had become part of her, an oasis in the loneliness she had lived with for so long that she had stopped seeing it.

  He had no more grand mal seizures, but he experienced the less drastic type, blanking for a minute or two, then coming out of it, disoriented and dazed. For the most part, though, he seemed well, making her hope she had overestimated the severity of his condition.

  Today he had gone to see Brad’s group working on explosives. So far very little had come of the effort; Brad had too few resources and too little knowledge on the subject. But he and his people kept trying. Roca didn’t go with Eldri, though. She had barely forced herself through her dance exercises this morning. Now she sat in the dining room with several women, dully poking at her lunch. She was truly weary of bubbles. People ate nothing else here. The food came in every color and consistency, sweet, sour, big, little, soft, hard, but it was all bubbles. What she wouldn’t give for a big, thick steak.

  One of her companions spoke, a friendly girl of about twenty with pink hair streaked by gold. To Roca, her speech sounded more like wind chimes than words. She wasn’t sure what the woman said, but it had to do with food.

  Roca gave her a wan smile and struggled to co
mmunicate in her fractured Trillian. “I no bubble know.” She had meant to say she wasn’t used to the food, but from their baffled expressions she gathered she hadn’t succeeded. Trillian sounded so flat when she spoke it anyway.

  One woman was watching her with particular concern, Channil, the gray-haired matron who served as an adviser to Eldri. She laid her hand against Roca’s cheek, then felt her forehead. Roca couldn’t understand her, exactly, but she thought Channil was asking how she felt. Roca didn’t know how to tell them she couldn’t keep eating their food. What could they do? They had nothing else. If a diet of bubbles made her sick, too bad.

  Channil clucked at her and stood up, taking her arm. Roca let them lead her upstairs. They changed her into a nightshift and tucked her into bed, convinced she was ill. Roca supposed she was, though she had no cure for food poisoning, other than her nanomeds, which apparently couldn’t deal with this constant diet of bubbles…

  It was dark when Roca woke. She just made out Eldri in the dim light, changing for bed. Muddled, she rubbed her eyes. “Is it late?” She lapsed naturally into English with him.

  “Very.” He came to the bed. “How do you feel?”

  “Tired.” She closed her eyes. “I don’t think I can eat your food, either.”

  He sat on the bed, still in his trousers and a green shirt with belled sleeves. “Tarla says you have missed your menses.”

  “Who?”

  “Tarla. The woman who cleans our rooms. She says you have had no cycle since coming here. It has been enough time, hasn’t it?” His voice sounded odd, as if he didn’t know whether to be frightened or elated.

  Roca sat up slowly. “I can’t be pregnant. My nanomeds prevent conception.”

  He began to unlace his shirt. “Nanomeds. You use all these words that make no sense. When men and women make love, Roca, they have babies.”

  She touched his cheek. “I can’t.”

  He pulled off his shirt and set it on the table. “Then why no menses? You have this sickness. And you are tired.” His voice caught. “Will you give me a child?”