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

by Asaro, Catherine

  The pain in his temples receded.

  Slowly he opened his eyes. Vitarex raised an eyebrow. He appeared composed, but unease flowed from his mind. He had expected Shannon to be writhing on the floor by now.

  Shannon took another step. His entire body felt as if it were an improperly tuned musical instrument playing discordant notes. But he kept going. Another step. Another.

  Vitarex frowned and edged closer to the table. He tapped another of its carvings and the vibrations rumbling through Shannon’s body increased. But for all his discomfort, Shannon felt wrapped in a cocoon that protected him from the worst effects. He didn’t know why Blue Dale Archers differed from other Homo sapiens, whether they resulted from genetic drift or a deliberate attempt to breed another type of human, but whatever the reason, the fields of Vitarex’s weapon didn’t affect him as they would a normal man.

  Shannon stepped to within striking distance of Vitarex. He swung his sword at the Aristo, slicing the air at waist level. Vitarex jumped back, more startled than threatened. He hit a high-backed chair and it toppled to the floor.

  “You should be screaming in pain,” Vitarex said. He sounded annoyed.

  Shannon spoke through gritted teeth. “So should you.” He wanted nothing more than to flee this pressure on his mind, but he couldn’t relent. Nothing would stop him.

  “All I have to do is shout for help. My men will be here within seconds.”

  A lie. Vitarex’s men were chasing wraiths and nymphs. But the Aristo wasn’t worried. Why? He wouldn’t sit here unprotected. True, he had safeguards that would work against most people, but Shannon didn’t believe the Aristo had no other options than the tangler. It made no difference. No matter what Vitarex threw at him, he would keep going.

  Vitarex folded one arm across his torso, rested the elbow of his other arm on it, and tapped his chin. Then he indicated a finely carved chest a few paces away. “I could go over there and get my EM pulse rifle. I would reach it before you reached me. A projectile from my gun would kill you immediately.” He sighed. “But what an unforgivable waste of your glorious Rhon mind.”

  Shannon had trouble hearing. The tangler was affecting him, it was just taking longer than expected. He swayed as his balance deteriorated. He wanted to close his eyes and concentrate on his trance, but he couldn’t risk it with Vitarex so close to the gun.

  The Aristo stepped back. Shannon followed—and nearly fell. He had to act fast; soon he would be incapacitated. If Vitarex wanted him alive, the Aristo needed to wait only a little longer to make the capture.

  Shannon swept the tent with his gaze, searching for the source of the tangler field. Tapestries hung on the cloth walls, above furniture engraved with glasswood bubbles. Rugs lay several layers deep. Crossed swords hung above the brazier in one corner, and a standing lamp with a rose-glass shade stood by the table. Vitarex was circumspect about his technology; Shannon couldn’t locate any source for the tangler. He doubted it was in the table where Vitarex had pressed the carving, but that was his only clue. He lunged and swung his sword, but at the table rather than Vitarex. By now, he had so little control over his body, he missed and hit the standing lamp instead, severing the top from its glasswood pole.

  Night enveloped the tent.

  The lamp used a more advanced light source than oil. Nothing caught fire. Nor was the darkness complete. Braziers burned in two corners of the large tent, shedding a dim red glow across Vitarex, making him resemble Shannon’s conception of the demons he half believed invaded his father’s body during epileptic seizures.

  Shannon still felt the tangler effects. He took another jerky step, driven by his rage. Vitarex seemed more amused than concerned. He backed up to the chest and threw it open while Shannon lurched the last few paces that separated them. He swung at Vitarex, but he could no longer control his sword, and the Aristo easily dodged the clumsy attack.

  Vitarex grabbed a weapon out of the chest.

  Shannon knew then that he was going to die. Vitarex wasn’t holding a pulse rifle, though; it looked more like an air syringe pistol. Shannon had no time to think—he just let his legs crumple, collapsing as Vitarex fired. The shot missed his chest, but it hit him in the shoulder. Numbness spread down his arm. Clutching his sword, he struggled to his feet only a step away from Vitarex.

  “Gods,” the Aristo muttered. “What do they feed boys on this planet?” He fired again, hitting Shannon square in the chest. “That ought to stop someone twice your size.”

  Shannon swallowed. His torso was going numb. He could barely raise his sword, but he managed, clenching it until his knuckles hurt. Vitarex made an exasperated noise and blocked the wavering strike with his gun, knocking the blade out of Shannon’s hand. In that instant, when Vitarex’s overconfident attention was focused on the sword clattering to the ground, Shannon drew his dagger with his other hand. As numbness overtook his body, he let himself topple forward. He smashed into Vitarex and they fell together, and slammed into the floor. Shannon’s breath went out with a whuff while his mind lurched and spun. Vitarex made an odd gurgle that abruptly cut off.

  Everything became still.

  Shannon was lying half on top of Vitarex with one arm trapped between their bodies and the other flung over his head. His heart pounded in his chest. He didn’t know what had happened to his dagger; he was still clenching the hilt, but his fist was flush against Vitarex’s chest.

  Slowly, Shannon rolled to the side. His hand remained clenched on the dagger and the movement wrenched his arm, but he felt no pain. His body was numb, but he could move. With a groan, he strained to pull his arm free. After several fruitless seconds, he realized he had to release the dagger. When he relaxed his grip, his arm fell away from Vitarex. Still the Aristo didn’t move. His eyes remained closed.

  Shannon stared at his hand, the one that had held the dagger. Even in the dim light from the braziers he saw the blood that covered it and soaked the sleeve of his tunic. He pushed up on his elbows and leaned over Vitarex.

  No response.

  He put his fingers against a vein Vitarex’s neck, then his hand in front of the Aristo’s nose, seeking a pulse or an exhalation.

  Nothing.

  It was then that he realized blood was no longer pumping out of the wound in Vitarex’s chest. Shannon suddenly felt chilled all the way through, and bile rose rose in his throat.

  He had just murdered a man.

  His hands started to shake. Gods help me. For all that he had trained with a sword and dagger all his life, it had been a sport to him. He had never expected to use the skills in violence. But since the instant he had felt what Vitarex had done to his father, he had thought only of revenge. Now that he had answered that driving anger, now that the red haze was clearing from his vision, dismay flooded him.

  “No,” Shannon whispered. He dragged himself to his sword, fighting the effects of the tangler field and whatever Vitarex had shot him with. His arms and torso were leaden. He barely managed to pull his legs under him so he was kneeling on the rug. He fumbled his sword into its sheath, and his bloodied hand slipped along the hilt, leaving dark streaks. Then he crawled to the carved chest and leaned against it as he pushed up onto his feet. He swayed, his balance ruined by the tangler. If he didn’t get out of the tent now, he might never make it. The guards would discover him with the murdered Vitarex, a mute testimony to his guilt.

  He forced himself forward. Step. Step again. It was the longest walk he had ever taken, but finally he reached the entrance of the tent. He could barely push aside the flap. As he lurched outside, he stumbled on the unconscious guard and almost fell. He thought he might be in shock; his mind felt as numb as his body. He staggered through the woods. Any moment a sentry could discover that the spirits haunting this forest were Blue Dale Archers. He had to escape this place, and fast, though he could hardly walk.

  A low whistle came at his side and an animal pushed its head into his shoulder. Moonglaze. Shannon gave a choked sob as the lyrine nudged hi
m again, a sign he wanted Shannon to mount.

  “I can’t,” he whispered, sagging against the animal. “Help me.”

  Moonglaze knelt slowly, folding his powerful front legs under his body. When he had gone all the way down, Shannon dragged himself onto his back and collapsed forward, his arms around the lyrine’s neck, his hands clutched in his mount’s thick hair.

  With a whuff of air, Moonglaze struggled back to his feet. Shannon wanted to scratch his neck, praise him, show his gratitude, but he could neither speak nor move now, only hang on. The lyrine walked among the trees with the smooth, silent tread of an experienced war mount. Shannon clenched Moonglaze’s hair until the hinges of his hand ached, but he couldn’t loosen his grip. If it bothered Moonglaze, he gave no hint, just kept going, his pace increasing as he neared the ridge where they had descended into the camp with the Archers.

  As they rode beyond reach of the tangler field, Shannon began to recover his equilibrium. Lifting his head, he peered into the darkness. The camp continued to sleep. A few voices called in the distance, but none here. Anyone close to Vitarex’s tent would be affected by the tangler, except perhaps Archers; if Shannon had partial immunity to its effects, a full-blooded Archer probably had even more. At least he hoped so. He didn’t want them hurt.

  As they climbed the ridge, leaving the camp behind in the fog and the night, Shannon finally loosened his grip on Moonglaze’s neck. The lyrine whistled, as close to an expression of relief as he would express. Shannon sat up slowly. Although he still felt clammy and sick, his dizziness had receded. His mind spread into trance state, holding off the guilt that hovered within him. He would soon have to face what he had done, but he had to survive first and make sure the Archers were taking his father to safety—if any safety existed anywhere.

  Shannon didn’t know how long Moonglaze carried him through the night. He sat with his head hanging down, only half aware of his surroundings. Gradually he became aware of a shadowy figure riding near him in the fog, a darker patch in the darkness. He stiffened, lowering his mental barriers, and reached out with his mind. His thoughts joined a swirling pool of emotion …

  Blue Dale Archer.

  Moonglaze snuffled.

  “Shhh.” Shannon patted his neck.

  The other rider spoke in a low voice. “Shannon?”

  “It is me.” He hesitated. “Elarion?”

  “Yes.” The Archer came in closer to ride at his side.

  Alarm surged through Shannon, disrupting the precarious calm he had attained during trance. “My father! You must take him—”

  “He is safe,” Elarion told him, soothing. “He is up ahead, in the caravan.”

  “The caravan came out of the mountains?” That they had even accompanied him out of the Blue Dales into the less massive range known as Ryder’s Lost Memory had stunned him. Never in an octet of eons would he have expected them to enter Rillia.

  “Don’t you know where we are?” Elarion asked.

  Shannon hesitated. During his trance, he had let Moonglaze go where he would, trusting the lyrine. Belatedly, he realized they were climbing more steeply now rather than walking through the rolling hills of Rillia. “Are we in Ryder’s Forest?”

  “It is Ryder’s, yes.”

  Fear caught at Shannon. “And Varielle?”

  “She is fine.”

  He whispered what he feared most to know. “And my father?”

  Silence.

  “Tell me,” Shannon said. He couldn’t bear to know but he had to hear.

  Elarion answered softly. “I’m sorry.”

  Shannon’s world seemed to end. “He died?”

  “No. He lives.”

  “Why are you sorry?”

  “He is—hurt. We can move him no more. It would kill him.” Fear washed through his mood. “We are only a few hours’ ride from the Rillian camp. They could still find us.”

  “Tarlin will bring my mother and ISC.” Shannon said it as much to reassure himself as Elarion. “No one on Lyshriol can stop Imperial Space Command.” Except they were too late.

  If Elarion had doubts about Shannon’s claim, he kept them to himself. Instead he asked, “And Bard Vitarex?”

  “He is dead.”

  Elarion let out a long breath. They rode in silence.

  A skeetel-puff hummed. Shannon saw nothing, but the skeetel buzzed again.

  Then Elarion hummed exactly like a skeetel. Another buzz came through the night, much closer now. Two riders took form out of the darkness like spirits coalescing in front of them in the foggy night. Archers. They joined Shannon and Elarion, and rode at their sides without a word.

  Shannon didn’t even see the caravan until they were within the camp. The Archers had kept the tents dark and lit no fires. More sentries paced among the trees than Shannon had previously seen in his time with them. He hated that he had brought this danger to them, his newfound people, but he would be forever grateful for their help with his father.

  They led him toward the center of the camp. When they stopped before a small tent, Shannon slid off Moonglaze, better able to move now, though he remained stiff and sore. Dried blood flaked off his hand. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat.

  Varielle was waiting at the entrance of the tent, her bow in her hand. She touched his cheek as he came up to them, her gaze solemn. He took her hand and hinged his palm around her four fingers. He couldn’t speak. He could barely breathe. She squeezed his back, then let him go. Steeling himself, he lifted the flap and entered the tent. The only light inside came from the dim glow of a brazier in one corner. It cast almost no light over the pallet a few paces away.

  His father lay there, unmoving.

  18

  The Node

  Roca raced to the starport, through orb-tipped reeds and the overcast night. Tarlin ran at her side. He seemed stunned, even in shock. He had ridden hard and fast over the mountains, making in less than a day. He could have killed himself thundering through the upper ranges of the Backbone at such speeds.

  He had her eternal gratitude.

  She spoke into her wrist comm. “Brad, is the flyer ready to go?” She was sprinting so hard, the words came out in gasps. Reeds snapped against her legs.

  “Yes.” Brad’s voice came back sharp and fast. “I’m cold-starting it now.”

  The reeds thinned out as Roca and Tarlin neared the port. The flyer waited on the brightly lit tarmac, glittering gold and black. Tarlin hesitated at the edge of the field, his face pale. Roca doubted he had ever seen anything like the flyer nor touched a material like the tarmac. But he faltered only a moment and then picked up speed again.

  They reached the flyer within seconds, and Brad grabbed Roca’s hand as she reached up to him. Without missing a stride, she jumped up into the cabin. Tarlin swung up behind her, his ashen face the only indication he was dealing with technology that had to look like magic to him. Her respect for him went up another notch. Eldri had always chosen his friends well.

  “You’ll need to strap in,” Roca told him as she dropped into the copilot’s seat. “The webbing will fold itself around you. Don’t be alarmed; it’s for safety.” Even as she spoke, her own webbing was folding its silver mesh around her body. She fastened the catches.

  Tarlin lowered himself into a seat set slightly back between the pilot and copilot’s chairs. He copied her actions, strapping the webbing around his body. Roca knew what it took for him to accept all this. The Lyshrioli lived the same, year after year; change disturbed them. Yet he never flinched.

  The comm crackled. “Dr. Tompkins, this is Colonel Majda on the Ascendant. We still don’t have a lock on either King Eldrinson or Lord Vitarex.”

  Brad spoke into the mesh. “We’re headed out now. Do you have a fix on us?”

  “To the centimeter,” Majda said. “The shuttles are on their way. ETA in six point three minutes.”

  “Understood, Colonel,” Brad said. “We will meet you at the Archer camp.”

  Just hearing t
he word “Aristo” made Roca ill. The Traders had violated her most treasured retreat, the haven for her family. They had brought great agony to her husband. No mercy existed in her now. The Aristo would pay. She was the Foreign Affairs Councilor of the Assembly, her life dedicated to dealing in diplomacy with other governments, including the Traders, but right now she could think of only one thing, that she wanted him to pay long and hard and forever, to suffer the same torments he had inflicted on her husband.

  First they had to reach Eldri—before his injuries ended his life.

  Eldrinson floated in a drugged sea. He never lost consciousness, but he drifted in and out of awareness. The pain had receded. The hot beverage these strangers gave him to drink hazed his mind and dulled the worst of his agony.

  After many hours, or perhaps only a moment, he became aware of someone nearby. He struggled to focus. A man was speaking, softly, brokenly, tears in his voice.

  “ … don’t die,” he pleaded. “Please. You must live. I beg you.” His voice broke. “I couldn’t bear it if you died.”

  Eldrinson tried to speak, but no words came. He wet his lips and tried again. “Shannon?” It was barely a whisper.

  “We’re bringing help.” Shannon’s words were ragged and earnest. “Tarlin went for Mother. Help will come.”

  Eldrinson knew it was too late. His life was slipping away now. He was too tired. But somehow, incredibly, he had achieved his goal. He had kept his secret from Vitarex long enough to stop the Aristo from taking him off Lyshriol.

  A hand touched Eldrinson’s forehead, a hinged palm cool against his fevered skin. “Father, can you hear me?”

  “I hear,” Eldrinson whispered. “I am—glad you are here.” He paused, gathering his energy. “I don’t want your mother to see me—see me like this. To see … my death.”

  “You won’t die.” Shannon brushed back his hair.

  “Can’t see … .”

  “We’ll fix it,” Shannon whispered. “We’ll make you better.”