The Final Key: Part Two of Triad (Saga of the Skolian Empire)

by Catherine Asaro

  The endless blue stretched forever, as natural to the Bard as breath in his lungs, as thoughts in his mind, as natural as the love for his family, or the legendary music of the Blue Dale Archers that had almost vanished from the world.

  The forever blue.

  He had come home.

  16

  The Ocean of Elsewhere

  The withdrawal was killing his patient.

  Doctor Lane Kaywood had worked most of his career in rural areas surrounding Selei City. He had never encountered anything like this. The youth writhed in agonized seizures. He clutched Kaywood’s arm, his four-fingered hands hinged like claws, his gaze lost to whatever hallucinations haunted him. Caught in his private hell, he had gone beyond any treatment they could give him here.

  Suddenly the man gasped and his spasms released. He collapsed onto the deck, shaking. Kneeling at his side, Kaywood murmured comfort and brushed hair out of his patient’s eyes. He felt so damn helpless. When the youth had been coherent, he had described a medicine dispensed to his wife, one he had taken without permission. Kaywood didn’t understand how any doctor could have allowed him access to a drug that produced this horrendous withdrawal.

  He had almost killed his patient earlier. Desperate to calm the youth’s wildly palpitating heart, Kaywood had given him a tranquilizer. Although his pulse had slowed, his cries turned even more frantic. Then his body had stiffened in a generalized tonic-clonic seizure, a grand mal attack, an attack even worse than his others, one that kept going. For three excruciating minutes Kaywood had hovered over him, horrified he had killed the man.

  Mercifully, the seizure had ended. After that, Kaywood dared no other medications. Now, finally, the youth slept, though he continued to twitch with whatever nightmares haunted his mind. Kaywood sat cross-legged next to him, his head hanging, his hands clasped in his lap. They had been confined in this slow-traveling freighter for more than three days, and the youth had been in withdrawal during all of it. For the first time since the trip began, Kaywood rested.

  He was dozing when a hand touched his shoulder. Raising his head, he squinted at the elderly woman leaning over him. She was the one who had come in search of a doctor.

  “Here.” She pressed a hot mug into his hand. “Soup.”

  “Thank you.” He raised the mug to his lips. The thick soup ran down his throat and spread warmth in his body.

  She pushed gray hair away from her face. “Good, eh?”

  Kaywood lowered the mug. “Very good. Do you have some for the boy? When he wakes?” He would save his food if they were short on supplies. His patient needed to eat; he had kept almost nothing down for several days.

  The woman sat next to him, her work clothes loose on her gaunt build. “We’ve enough.” She regarded the young man with concern. “Will he live?”

  “I can’t say.” Kaywood didn’t know much about “node-bliss,” but in the few cases he had heard about, the patient died from the withdrawal. Phorine affected the Kyle centers of the brain. This young man was obviously in good physical shape, but to survive he would also need a phenomenal strength of will.

  “I hadn’t thought he would survive this long,” he admitted. “But he is strong. Healthy.”

  She scowled. “Then why was he taking such medicine?”

  “I’ve no idea.” He didn’t add what had undoubtedly occurred to everyone, that the youth might be an addict who claimed his fixes were “medicine.” Kaywood didn’t think so, though. Over the years of his practice, he had developed an intuition for people. His patient genuinely believed he had been taking medication. Gods knew, if he had suffered a hint of this withdrawal before, it was no wonder he thought he was ill.

  With his limited resources here, Kaywood could do only a rudimentary analysis, but it was enough to tell him that phorine was an odd chemical. Its effect was neurological. He questioned whether the drug would even show up in a routine physical exam. To detect its effect, a doctor would have to compare the youth’s neural discharges with his neural map when he wasn’t affected. It would be an involved process, one they would need a reason to perform.

  Kaywood took a swallow of his soup. He knew too little to treat his patient, but he could watch over him, provide food and water, and protect him from injury during the convulsions.

  Whether that would help the young man survive, Kaywood didn’t know.

  The Bard limped down the Lock corridor toward the War Room. Light inundated him. Kyle space filled his mind.

  They were here, in his mind. Dehya. Kurj. Alive—but in trouble. He felt Kurj’s battle for life against the ravages he suffered in the assassination attempt. And Dehya. Something was wrong, very wrong, but he couldn’t tell what. She was in pain yet not in pain; in anguish yet untouched. The essences that defined Kurj and Dehya floated in a great sea, one of light rather than water. He, Eldrinson, was the sea. He would hold them up on his swells. If he raised his arms, surely the universe would flood with that endless, exquisite radiance.

  He reached the end of the corridor and stopped. Lights scintillated within the transparent columns that held up the archway there. What purpose to all those gears? They caught his mind like bright toys and whirled his thoughts around, around, around; so satisfying, so very, very right. The blue of Kyle space filled him, and his mind reached everywhere.

  The corridor was flush with the dais, but he knew ISC could lower the dais if they wished, knew it as clearly as if he had taken that fact straight from their secured meshes. Perhaps he had. Imperator Majda and her officers were waiting at the table, standing by their chairs. Staring at him. Their faces had paled. Taquinil alone showed no fear. The boy understood. He felt the glorious power of the blue.

  Someone had turned up the light in the War Room. Everyone on the dais was lit up brightly. The Bard looked up to see where the light came from. Robot arms were suspended above the amphitheater, each with a telop in the console cup. The operators were watching him, their faces bathed in radiance. Everyone was staring at him, all the techs, officers, and pages, and all the many people in the rows of consoles beyond the dais. Everyone seemed stunned. Was it truly so startling he returned alive? Yes, it was that surprising. He, himself, had doubted it would happen.

  Imperator Majda spoke. At least, her mouth formed words. An echo vibrated in his ears, unintelligible.

  Then Taquinil said, “Grandfather?”

  Eldrinson smiled at the boy. More than ever, he felt the luminous purity of his grandson’s mind.

  Taquinil. stepped toward him. Before the boy could go any farther, Majda and the Abaj on Taquinil’s other side grabbed the boy, each of them grasping one of his arms to hold him back.

  “Let me go!” Taquinil protested.

  “Prince Taquinil,” Majda said quietly. “You must wait.”

  The boy looked up at her. “He won’t hurt me.”

  Eldrinson didn’t understand what was wrong. Of course they should let his grandson come to him. He had just spent several days looking after the boy.

  “Let him come,” Eldrinson said—the words thundered in the amphitheater.

  “Gods almighty,” someone said.

  Eldrinson froze. Why amplify his voice? And where did that light come from? He looked behind him. The corridor was brighter than before, with more lights flashing in the columns, but nothing to create the radiance that bathed the amphitheater. It had to originate from someplace near where he stood.

  Eldrinson looked down.

  It was him. He radiated the light.

  Saints above. He thought he had spoken aloud, but the words echoed only within his mind.

  Eldrinson realized Taquinil was watching him, unafraid. The Bard walked toward his grandson, and his light poured over the boy, the table, the officers. He was aware of Majda approaching, but it wasn’t until she spoke that he realized she had stepped between him and his grandson.

  “Your Majesty.” She faced Eldrinson, flooded with his light, her face drawn. “You must not hurt Prince Taquinil.” />
  “I would never harm him.” His voice was quieter now, but it echoed with that powerful resonance.

  “Not intentionally.” Her face was pale but her gaze never wavered.

  “You must trust me.”

  She stood unmoving. The Abaj guarding Taquinil had their hands on the Jumbler guns at their hips. Eldrinson waited.

  Majda took a deep breath—and stepped aside. When the man holding Taquinil glanced at her, she nodded, giving him leave to release the boy.

  As soon as they let him go, Taquinil walked over to Eldrinson. “You are very bright, Grandfather.”

  “So are you.” Eldrinson pushed his glasses into place and took Taquinil’s hands, bathing the boy in his light.

  Majda had a strange look on her face. “So the gods wear spectacles,” she murmured.

  Eldrinson didn’t know what she meant—or perhaps he didn’t want to know. He was a man, neither as lacking nor as powerful as they alternately seemed to think.

  With reluctance, he released his grandson’s hands. He looked up, beyond the consoles above his head, into the holodome. At the end of a robot arm, a massive chair waited. He had thought this amphitheater had no Dyad Chair, only a command chair, an immensely powerful station built by modem technology, but just a machine, not an intelligence. Now, though, that command chair had vanished and a Dyad Chair waited, a throne five thousand years old. The War Room had gone shadowy around him, until he questioned whether he and the Dyad Chair were even fully present.

  But no—this wasn’t a Dyad Chair.

  It was a Triad Chair.

  I am your Key, he thought.

  Its response came at a level below conscious thought, but with perfect clarity:

  YES

  “Can you help us?” Majda asked Eldrinson, standing with him and Taquinil, close enough that she hadn’t faded with the rest of the War Room.

  He refocused on her. “I will do my best.”

  She bowed to him. Then she spoke into her gauntlet comm. “Secondary Belldaughter, His Majesty will go to the Chair now.”

  A robot arm lowered to the dais, its engine growling. The sharp scent of lubricant tickled his nose. The arm terminated in a console cup big enough to hold several people. A woman in the black leathers of a Jagernaut stood within the cup, Belldaughter apparently.

  The Jagernaut bowed to Eldrinson. My honor at your presence, Your Majesty. Her voice echoed in his mind.

  He inclined his head, trying to recall why she was familiar. She brushed a panel on her console and a gate in the side of the cup opened. Eldrinson came forward and touched the Luminex. It thrummed with energy. Bemused, he stepped into the cup with Belldaughter, certain he should know her. He raised his hand to Taquinil, and the boy waved.

  Belldaughter touched another panel and the cup closed into a smooth surface. With a surge in the hum of its engines, the arm rose into the air, carrying them upward. Eldrinson clutched the edge of the cup as the amphitheater receded below.

  We’re safe, Belldaughter said.

  Have we met before? he asked her.

  Her answer came with sadness. I knew your son, Althor. I flew with Blackstar Squadron.

  His grief welled and he instinctually closed his mind. But no, that wasn’t what he wanted, not with the last person who had ever spoken to Althor. She had been Tertiary Belldaughter then, instead of Secondary.

  He eased down his mental barriers. You brought my son home.

  I wish I could have done more. She had a kindness in her manner he had never associated with Jagernauts. His last thought to me was this: Tell my family I love them.

  Moisture came into his eyes. Thank you.

  They had reached the holodome. The Bard adjusted his spectacles and faced the Chair. The massive throne waited, close enough to touch, huge and silent.

  Alive.

  COME TO ME.

  I come, he thought.

  The cup stopped in front of the Chair and opened so his legs were at the level of its seat. Eldrinson stepped forward and slid onto the throne. As he settled into the blocky chair, the console cup with Belldaughter lowered back down to the War Room. She lifted her hand, palm out, and stood that way as she descended.

  Eldrinson laid his forearms on the armrests. He was aware of Dehya and Kurj in the same way he sensed the Chair, even himself, as presences so inextricably wrapped up with Kyle space that they couldn’t distinguish where their minds left off and it began. Neither had died, but he could feel them both on the edge. He didn’t know how to help, or if he could do anything at all.

  A spider mesh fitted to his head and an exoskeleton clicked psiphons into his ankles, wrists, and spine. He had never wanted biomech in his body, but he had wanted even less to be crippled and blind. Now he was grateful, for it would let him help his family.

  A realization hit him. Despite the immense powers flooding his mind, he had suffered no seizures. None. For the first time in his life he was fully within his natural habitat. How truly strange. He closed his eyes as the visor lowered. Then he let his mind spread into the blue …

  Blue …

  Blue …

  Blue …

  His thoughts drifted as his trance deepened.

  He opened his eyes. And blinked. For some reason the Chair had lowered to the dais. It faced the oval table across from the Lock corridor. Odd. He had felt no vibration of motors. Even stranger, Majda and her advisors had left. In fact, the entire War Room was empty. Why would they all go? He had never heard of such a thing.

  But wait. A woman was walking toward him, coming out of the point of perspective within the Lock corridor.

  Roca! Joy flowed from Eldrinson. Suddenly she was here, coming past the table. With every step, she became more radiant. Her golden hair drifted about her body.

  She stopped at the side of the Chair. My greetings, love.

  I thought you had disappeared. He wanted to reach for her hand, but the exoskeleton held his arm to the armrest.

  I am gone, she said.

  Gone? Something was wrong here. The ISC brass claimed Roca had vanished, yet here she was. True, she could have showed up, safe and sound, even asked to be alone with him, but given Majda’s desperation that he fix the web, it was hard to believe they would just leave him chatting with his wife.

  This wasn’t Roca. It was the Chair. What are yon trying to tell me?

  I would like my mind back.

  Roca., don’t talk in riddles. What must I do to help?

  Find me. Take me home. Her body turned misty blue. while I have a mind to bring home.

  Roca, wait! He strained to pull free, but the Chair wouldn’t let him go.

  His wife faded into nothing.

  Roca!

  Dehya suddenly appeared at his side. My greetings, Eldri.

  What! Eldrinson would have jumped if the Chair would have let him move. I thought you were going to Safelanding.

  She folded her arms on the armrest. You’re in the wrong chair. I am?

  This isn’t a Dyad Chair.

  Dehya was never this casual. The advent of a Triad would evoke a multitude of emotions in her, but nonchalance surely wasn’t one of them. This couldn’t be her.

  I thought it was a Triad Chair, he thought.

  Either way, it shouldn’t be here. The War Room has only a command chair, powerful, yes, but without sentience

  Then why did Majda have Belldaughter take me up here?

  She didn’t Dehya began to fade.

  Dehya, you mustn’t leave, Eldrinson thought. Always you do this, saying abstruse, confusing things and then going off without explanations. Maybe you know what you mean, but no one else does.

  She faded into nothing.

  The War Room was gone.

  The universe was blue mist.

  Eldrinson closed his eyes, fighting vertigo. He was no expert on telop chairs, but he had used them with Roca’s help. This was like none other he had known. He was sure he was in the Triad Chair, not the War Room command chair. He didn’t know
how to interpret these scenes.

  Another figure was walking through the mist. Eldrinson saw him even with his eyes shut. As the figure came closer, he took on more definition. A man. No, a youth.

  Shannon? Eldrinson opened his eyes and peered into the blue. Is that you?

  His son stopped ten paces away, partially obscured by mist. my greetings, father.

  How are you here?

  in trance.

  Although Eldrinson had never fully understood what his son meant by trance, it felt right to him. He, too, had let his mind drift into meditation. But into Kyle space? Surely not. This felt different than what had happened with Roca and Dehya. They had been easy to hear, easy to see. He could barely make out Shannon. Yet this felt real. He had no doubt it was his son.

  father. Shannon’s thought lilted. Behind him, many figures showed indistinctly. it is hard to come here without help of the meshes.

  How did a trance bring you? Eldrinson asked.

  with the Blue Bale Archers.

  Into Kyle space?

  yes. Shannon and the figures behind him faded.

  Wait. Eldrinson doubted they could hold the link much longer. Help me look for your mother. See if you can find her the way you found me. We must help her!

  i will. Shannon paled until nothing remained but blue shadows.

  Eldrinson wasn’t certain what these visitations meant. He knew only that he had to accomplish what he had come here to do or his family would suffer, even die. He had to fix the webs. Well, fine, but how?

  A memory came to him of toys his children had played with in their youth, meshes that winked and glinted as they twisted into ever more complicated shapes. The Bard tried to imagine such a web in Kyle space. Then he envisioned his mind freeing its tangles and mending its rips. The blue lost its misty quality—

  Suddenly an ocean stretched in every direction, all the way to the horizon. Blue! Sky arched overhead, blue instead of lavender. Blue everywhere. He was the ocean, rolling, swelling, deepening. There! In the water. A mesh floated, buoyed by the sea. Pieces of it were everywhere, damaged, torn and ragged. Huge sections had fallen apart. Raveling, disintegrating—