Schism: Part One of Triad (Saga of the Skolian Empire)

by Asaro, Catherine

  Shannon didn’t want to turn back. He hated giving up. Besides, people might be searching for him. If he went to Rillia, he could run into them. They would take him to Dalvador, where he had no place. They could call it epilepsy from now until the suns fell out of the sky, but he knew his behavior had invited demons to attack his father. His love for his family had kept him home when the urge to wander prodded him onward. Now he knew the truth: denying his nature only hurt the people he loved. It was time he found his own kind. If they didn’t exist, he had to know. He needed the Blue Dales, even if he had to live there alone for the rest of his life.

  “What do you think, Moon?” he asked. “Turn back or keep on?”

  Moonglaze whistled at him.

  “What, you think I can’t find my way out of my own house?” He laughed amiably. “I might be better at it than you think.” He motioned northward, where the forest grew even more densely, some of the glasswood trees close enough that a boy could touch both if he stretched out his arms. “You see the way those grow?”

  Moonglaze watched him with one large, silver eye, his head sideways. Shannon motioned at a line of trees. “Those arcs all curve to the northeast. They do that when they’re following runoff patterns. I’ll bet you anything we’ll find a lake or river that way.”

  The lyrine regarded him first with one eye, then turned his head and watched him with the other. Then he snuffled.

  Shannon laughed. “So be skeptical. I’ll show you.” He wasn’t as certain of finding water as he claimed, but it seemed a good bet.

  He mounted the lyrine and started off, following the arcs of trees, ducking his head to ride under their tubule branches. Dusty spheres floated through the forest and burst when they hit other trees, Shannon, or Moonglaze. The lyrine plodded through drifts of glitter. Shannon soon fell into a trance, brought on in part by fatigue, but more because he liked to stop thinking when he rode.

  Gradually a burbling penetrated his daze. Water sounds. He didn’t have to guide Moonglaze; the lyrine was already heading in that direction.

  “Good Moon,” he rasped. His voice had lost its lilt.

  The trees soon thinned out. Then Moonglaze walked into a small hollow. Water trickled over a stone ledge about Shannon’s height and gathered in a bowl formed by overlapping plates of rock, smooth and eroded, with long, narrow cracks. Trees grew around the tiny pool and on the ledge above it, mostly emerald and sapphire glasswood, though a few ruby trees poked their branches through the bubble foliage. A patch of lavender sky was visible above them, a deeper, more vivid hue than down in the plains.

  Shannon jumped off Moonglaze even before the lyrine came to a stop. He dropped on his knees by the pool and scooped up handfuls of water. He drank so fast, he choked and almost vomited it up again. Coughing, he sat back on his haunches. He took a deep breath and wiped the back of his hand over his face, smearing his cheeks with more glitter. Then he drank more slowly and slaked his thirst.

  Shannon rested by the pool, then washed himself and tended Moonglaze, cleaning away as much glitter and sweat as he could manage. Then he searched the hollow. He found a nest of puffle-wogs, small animals in yellow shells that fit the palm of his hand. He disliked killing them, but they were edible and even tasted good. He cracked their shells with his dagger and devoured his fill, relieved to appease his hunger. When he offered Moonglaze some puffles, the lyrine gobbled them up and snuffled a hearty approval. Shannon had read in one of his holobooks that horses only ate plants. Lyrine were much less picky; Moonglaze had no qualms about killing small animals for food.

  After filling his bladder-sack with water and his travel bags with puffles, Shannon swung up on Moonglaze and rode back into the forest, headed north. The ground slanted steeply but the trees were thinning out.

  So he climbed farther into the mountains with no clue what he would find—if anything.

  Sunlight on his face woke Eldrinson. He opened his eyes to a lavender sky framed by the rock overhang. Night Charger and several other horses stood a few paces away, nibbling at silver-blue reeds that sprouted around bluestone boulders by the trail. Jannor was holding a reed-hemp pouch for his lyrine while the animal drank.

  He crawled out and stood up, stretching his back, working out the kinks. Ah, yes. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with sweet, pure air. Two of his men were packing up their bedrolls and preparing to ride, and the fourth was cleaning his sword.

  Jannor looked up at him. “So, sleepy head, you woke up.”

  Eldrinson ambled over to him. “A fine morning to you, too.”

  Jannor smiled and went back to tending his lyrine.

  After greeting Night Charger and making sure all was well with him, Eldrinson took a trail cake from his bag and walked to the ledge beyond the cliffs where they had slept. The trail sloped steeply down from his feet, stark with gray and blue stone, but in the distance it leveled out into lush hills carpeted with silvery-green reeds. The Rillian Vales spread out beyond in a pretty haze of patchwork fields brightened by bubble crops in gem colors.

  The five of them were soon on their way. As they rode, Eldrinson mulled over the past few days. In the clarity of this morning, everything looked different. He forced himself to admit the truth; he had pushed Soz and Althor away because he was denying how much he feared they would suffer or die far from home. It seemed impossible either of them would ever have a family or a life such as he knew. Perhaps he was simplistic in what he wished for them, but his family gave him joy. He wanted that for them, too.

  He had been wrong to accuse Althor about Shannon. Whatever confusing relationship those two had, Althor would treat his brother with honor. In his anger and fear, Eldrinson had spoken words he could never take back. What if Soz or Althor died or became prisoners of war? Their last memory of him would be the moment he banished them from their home.

  Eldrinson knew what he had to do. First he would convince Shannon to come home or else make sure the boy was safely escorted to the Blue Dales. If Shannon’s instincts drove him to the home of his ancestors, he had to go, but he was too young to do it alone, especially the way he had left, with no plans or preparation. He could end up injured, starving in some desolate place. Eldrinson had to make sure the youth had proper gear and riding companions.

  After that, Eldrinson would return to Dalvador, contact Soz and Althor, and apologize. It wouldn’t be easy; he had the same problems with their choices now as before. Nor did he like Kurj’s influence over them. But he had sworn to himself even before they were born that he would love them unconditionally, always, forever. They were adults now, regardless of what Skolian law claimed. He had to accept their decisions even if he disagreed with them so vehemently that it made him ill.

  The day was warming as they descended into the fertile hills. It would all be set right again. Soon.

  The flyer rumbled overhead, its engines loud, which probably meant it was cruising at a low altitude. Shannon reined Moonglaze to a stop, hidden under the trees. He twisted around and twitched open his travel bag, which hung against the lyrine’s side. Inside, lights glowed on the jammer, a chunk of equipment about the size of the hardened bagger-bubbles Shannon and his brothers used to play stub-ball. The lights were all green, which meant the jammer was operating as expected, hiding him from sensors.

  The rumble faded. Shannon spurred Moonglaze onward and resumed his cautious journey. Unlike in the Backbone, he had no trail here to follow. The lyrine picked his way over fallen glasswood columns and around rocks half-buried in faded glitter and crushed bubbles. He kept going north, always higher into the mountains.

  It was afternoon when Eldrinson and his men reached the Rillian Vales. Short, stubby reeds covered the rolling hills. These plants produced little fruit, but the scant bubbles they did grow were larger than the tiny reedbubbles in Dalvador. Rather than iridescent in hue, these glimmered translucent blue. Barrel vines dotted the hills with big, robust bubbles, red, blue, and violet. The sky arched overhead, clear and vast, as lavender
as the filmy spheres on water-flute plants. Night Charger trotted through the lovely countryside, his violet coat shimmering in the sunlight. Jannor rode at Eldrinson’s side, but the other men ranged through the hills, always searching for clues that Shannon had come this way.

  Eldrinson knew they would probably make the best time if they rode out of these foothills and didn’t turn north until they reached the flatlands. Now they were descending into a secluded valley. Hills rose up on either side and cast shadows across the land, bringing a chill.

  A flash to the north caught his attention. Several riders on stocky gray lyrine were approaching them. He slowed down, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. The peoples of Rillia and Dalvador had always been friendly, but it didn’t hurt to be careful.

  The group was an octet plus one, eight riders around an imposing figure on a dark lyrine. Two men came in front of the central man, two to his left, two to his right, and two behind. The formation suggested the central man commanded great respect. However, the octet fanned out as they approached Eldrinson and his four men. It disquieted him; for a friendly approach, they would remain with their leader. This maneuver had a long tradition in Dalvador, Rillia, Tyroll, possibly even among the Blue Dale Archers. It symbolized caution, perhaps a prelude to hostilities. Eldrinson couldn’t see why these strangers would respond this way, unless they had mistaken him for someone else.

  Few lyrine were as fast as Night Charger; the mounts his men rode didn’t have the same speed. Nor did they know this territory. It was too late to run, anyway; the newcomers were surrounding them, hands on the hilts of their sheathed swords. His muscles tensing, Eldrinson reined Night Charger to a stop. Jannor and the others surrounded him, a four-point bulwark separating the Bard from the octet closing in on them. No one had made any overtly hostile moves. Yet.

  Their leader rode forward on a mount as large as Night Charger. He was one of the tallest men Eldrinson had seen among his people, about the same height as his son Vyrl, who at six-foot-three towered over his friends and father. Men native to Lyshriol rarely grew so large. This person was clearly Rillian, however, with violet eyes and yellow hair streaked with lavender, worn in a shaggy mane to his shoulders. He held the reins with four-fingered, hinged hands.

  The man’s finely chiseled features hinted at an arrogance Eldrinson had never associated with people in Rillia, however. His men were rangier than most Rillians and darker in the wine-color of their hair. They could be from Tyroll.

  The tall man reined to a stop. “Good morn.”

  “And to you,” Eldrinson said warily.

  The man looked them over. “You’ve come through the Backbone.”

  Eldrinson hesitated. The stranger spoke Trillian, the language of both Rillia and Dalvador, but it sounded wrong somehow. He couldn’t pinpoint why. His instincts warned him against revealing their true purpose. “We’re from Dalvador. We’re headed to a wedding in the town of Rillia.”

  “Indeed.” The stranger continued to appraise him.

  Eldrinson suddenly realized why the man’s speech bothered him. No vibrato. No lilt. When Lyshrioli women spoke, their voices chimed. For men, it was more of a rumble, a deep vibration. It happened several times a sentence, unless they deliberately suppressed it. Why this man would hold his back, Eldrinson didn’t know, but given that a flat tone indicated wariness, fatigue, or hostility, he didn’t like it.

  More uneasy now, Eldrinson kept track of the other men in his peripheral vision. They had gathered on all sides, blocking escape. If they wished to take his group prisoner, they could probably manage. But why would they do so? They looked neither poor nor desperate. By custom, the people of Rillia offered hospitality to visitors from Dalvador, and vice versa.

  They didn’t seem to recognize him. He didn’t know if it would be to his advantage or disadvantage to reveal his identity as the Dalvador Bard, arguably its highest authority, though his people had few governmental hierarchies compared to the convoluted, arcane structures of his wife’s people. His men would take their cue from him; if he didn’t reveal his identity, they were unlikely to give it away.

  Eldrinson spoke carefully. “A fine morn to ride.”

  “So it is.” The man continued to study him, ignoring everyone else. Then he made an odd sound, almost inaudible, a groan. Eldrinson wasn’t even sure he heard it. The stranger didn’t look uncomfortable; he came across as relaxed, even blissful. Something was wrong here, very wrong. This man evoked his nightmare from last night, that terror of falling into blackness. The day no longer seemed bright nor the air warm.

  Courtesy seemed advised. “Might I ask who I am speaking with?” Eldrinson asked.

  “You might, my dear empath,” the man said.

  A chill went through Eldrinson. He was aware of Jannor at his side, edging his lyrine in closer. How did a complete stranger know he was an empath? He rarely if ever talked about it, even to his closest friends. It made people uneasy. He was both a telepath and an empath, and they feared it meant he knew all about their thoughts. He didn’t; psions only picked up moods, and it didn’t happen with regularity. Much more rarely, they might catch a surface thought if it was strong enough. Of his men here, he had told only Jannor, years ago. This stranger shouldn’t have known.

  Eldrinson didn’t believe the man was Rillian. Too much didn’t fit. Yes, he had the right appearance. But he had too many other differences. He didn’t even try to hide them. It suggested he believed them to be natives who lacked enough knowledge about offworlders to suspect he came from elsewhere than Lyshriol. But how could a Skolian be here? A ship couldn’t land without permission from his family and clearance from the Skolian military. The orbital defenses prevented unauthorized visits, and he had heard nothing about permissions for someone such as this.

  He thought of his syringe. ISC had provided him with an advanced model for this trip. Its warning systems could bring in help if he ran into trouble. He didn’t even have to activate them; they monitored his condition and transmitted updates to ISC if they judged that he needed aid.

  Eldrinson feigned ignorance. “I don’t recognize this word, empath.” He was aware of his men drawing closer around him.

  “No matter.” The false Rillian smiled, his assumption of superiority obvious. To his men, he said, “Our friend from Dalvador will come with us.”

  Eldrinson spoke quickly. “We must be on our way.”

  “People are expecting us,” Jannor said. His lyrine stepped restlessly, causing Eldrinson’s mount to shake its head and whistle.

  “Then I expect they will wonder why you’ve vanished.” The stranger spoke as if he didn’t believe them—or didn’t care. “Come. Let us go.”

  Eldrinson stayed put—and the strangers drew their swords, the blades whispering out of their tooled sheaths, glinting in the sun. He reached across to his right hip with his left hand and pulled his own sword, slow and easy, a demonstration rather than a threat. He heard his men pulling out their weapons, metal scraping on leather. This had become a challenge, still not overt hostilities, but close now. He couldn’t imagine Rillians taking such a stance; this party had to be from Tyroll. He didn’t dare let them know they had caught the Dalvador Bard. Avaril Valdoria led the Tyroll forces—Avaril, his cousin, who had coveted the title of Bard all his life.

  Eldrinson narrowed his gaze at the false Rillian. “You fear us truly, that you need an octet of men to threaten five of us.”

  “I fear none,” the man said. “Least of all an empath.”

  Eldrinson motioned at the challengers around them with bared swords. “Apparently enough to believe you need these.”

  The stranger laughed, a cold sound. “Your attempts to have my men disarm are transparent.” He pulled on his reins, guiding his restless lyrine to turn around. Then he rode away, ignoring Eldrinson and his men, his back to them as he moved out of range. The stranger’s octet remained in a circle around Eldrinson and his group. He sensed no pity in them; they would obey their leader even i
f that meant harming visitors from Dalvador.

  Night Charger stamped under Eldrinson. Jannor and the other Dalvador riders were agitated as well. Their lyrine surged forward, then stepped back, constrained and restive, the five of them backed into a star formation, facing their eight opponents.

  “Disarm,” one of the Tyroll men said.

  Eldrinson tried to read the man’s impassive expression, but his features and eyes revealed nothing. He was simply doing his job. The riders sat on their mounts, Eldrinson and his men facing outward, the Tyroll warriors facing inward, all with swords drawn. One of the Tyroll men tossed his sword in a circle, flipping it neatly through the air and catching the hilt.

  Jannor swore under his breath.

  Eldrinson spoke in a low voice. “Looks like we’ll get our tournament sooner than expected.”

  The man who had flipped his sword prodded his lyrine forward, moving with a contained energy that made Eldrinson think of a geyser ready to erupt. Night Charger snorted and lowered his head until his horns pointed at the approaching animal.

  “Easy, Night,” Eldrinson murmured, intent on the approaching Tyroll warrior. Sweat ran down his neck and soaked his shirt. He had no mail, no shield, no bow, arrows, or spear. He hadn’t expected trouble; indeed, he should have no reason to worry. ISC ought to be keeping track of his actions. They were always telling him, when he chafed at their surveillance, that they had a duty to protect the Ruby consort. Roca stood second in line to the Ruby throne, after the pharaoh’s firstborn son; someday Roca could conceivably become pharaoh. They watched her consort as stringently as they watched her. It wasn’t just the syringe; they had put monitors in his body to alert them in emergencies.