Kelric smiled dryly. "They've raised it to an art."
Then the announcer said, "The Ruby Dynasty."
A flood of children poured out of the cathedral, Kelric's nephews and nieces, grandnephews, grandnieces, and on down the generations. They waved exuberantly at the crowd, who cheered their approval of the dynasty's beautiful progeny. Kelric intended that effect; the more his young kin charmed the public, the better. It was good public relations.
His siblings came next, first his sister Aniece, small and curved, with dark curls and gold eyes. Her husband Lord Rillia walked at her side. Kelric's brother Shannon followed, a willowy Blue Dale Archer, bow and quiver on his back. Then Denric the school teacher. Soz should have been next; since her death, they had left a gap in the Promenade, in her honor.
Havryl walked down the steps next, his bronzed hair tossing in the wind, his toddler nestled in the crook of his arm. His wife came with him, holding their baby. The twins, Del and Chaniece, would have followed, but they had stayed home, tending to family duties. Another lull came in the Promenade, in honor of Althor, who had died in the Radiance War.
A hum sounded behind Kelric. He turned to see Najo by the door.
"Sir?" Najo's gaze was a question.
Kelric's pulse surged. He nodded as if he were ready, even though he wasn't and might never be. But he had set these events in motion and he would never turn back.
Najo tapped his gauntlet and the door whisked open. A woman stood in the archway. She had piled her hair on her head and threaded it with blue beads. Her leather and bronzed clothes evoked the warriors of her ancestors, and a keen intelligence filled her gaze. Her aura of power filled the room.
Kelric walked forward. The tread of his boots on the tiles seemed to echo. He stopped in front of her, absorbing that she stood here, out of context with every memory he had of her, in a place he never expected to see her.
He spoke quietly. "Ixpar." For him, that one word, at this moment, held more meaning than he could ever sort out.
She inclined her head. "My greetings, Husband."
He indicated the window. "Will you join me?"
"It would be my honor."
He felt painfully formal. He knew her so well, yet he barely knew her at all. As they reached the window, exclamations from the crowd swelled over the monitors. The announcer said, "Roca Skolia, Foreign Affairs Councilor," as Roca descended the steps, a vision of gold in rose-hued silk that rippled around her figure.
"That's your mother?" Ixpar asked. When Kelric nodded, she said, "No wonder."
He glanced at her. "No wonder what?"
Her voice had that smoky quality again. "No wonder you were the man whose face launched a thousand windriders into battle."
Apparently she had been reading Earth classics. He crooked a smile at her. "What, it scared them that much?"
"Hardly," she murmured.
It didn't surprise him she knew about Earth; she would never have allowed Jeremiah to study Coba without first studying him and his people. Apparently she found him far less formidable than her Imperator husband. And yet she had come.
"It's not too late to change your mind," he said. He needed her to be sure she wanted this.
She spoke quietly. "I thought a long time before I boarded that ship in the port. Is this a mistake? No clear answer shows itself when I project futures with my Quis. Some patterns evolve into ruin. Others are incredible. Even beautiful." She stopped. He waited, and finally she said, "The time comes when we must take a risk. To decide our own future."
An odd silence fell over the room. Kelric hadn't realized how noisy the crowds were until they quieted. He glanced at the window—and froze.
A robed and cowled figure stood with four guards at the top of the cathedral steps. A Talha scarf wrapped around his head within the cowl, hiding his face, except for his eyes.
Kelric shot a look at Ixpar.
She answered his unspoken question. "Yes."
His emotions swelled, too jumbled to untangle. "I can't see him."
"He's never gone in public without robes," Ixpar said. "He's never even left the Calanya."
Dismay surged within him. "I would never force—"
"He wanted to come." Dryly she added, "Manager Varz was the one who balked. It took a lot to convince her."
It didn't surprise Kelric. The shock was that she had let her Calani travel at all. Apparently the current Manager was more human than the monster he had known.
The announcer hadn't spoken; he was probably reading notes that Kelric's officers had delivered to him as soon as the geneticists finished their rushed tests. Kelric had ordered the tests when Ixpar told him who had come with her. He could almost hear the question whispered among the spectators. Who is that? It had been Kelric's question as well, for twenty-eight years. Finally he would have an answer.
With firm motions, the man pushed back his hood and pulled down his Talha. Kelric barely detected the way his arm shook. He doubted anyone watching but he and Ixpar understood the significance of that action. A Hakaborn prince never showed his face to the public.
The man had dark hair and large eyes. Violet eyes. His hair was as dark as the Hakaborn, but it glinted with metallic highlights. He stood tall and strong, his head lifted. He had a strange look, though, as if he were about to step off a cliff. Kelric knew the courage it took for him to do this, he who had surely never expected to leave seclusion, let along walk before trillions on an interstellar broadcast. It was a quieter bravery than the dramatic acts of the Jagernauts that Kelric had known at that age, but that made it no less real.
The announcer said, "Jimorla Haka Varz Valdoria."
Startled voices erupted among the crowd, and Kelric released a silent exhale. To use the Valdoria name at this point in the Promenade identified Jimorla as his child, as binding a declaration as any legal document. He had hoped and believed it for so long, but he had never been sure. Jimorla wasn't a Ruby psion, so he couldn't use the Skolia name, but he was Kelric's firstborn in every other aspect and would take his place in the line of succession to the Ruby Throne.
Jimorla visibly braced his shoulders. He descended the stairs with his guards and strode along the Concourse, his robe billowing out behind him. For the first time, a Calani walked openly on another world. Coba—and Skolia—were changed forever. Quis would come to the Imperialate.
A strained voice interrupted his thoughts. "Sir," Najo said.
Kelric turned to see his bodyguard standing by the console. Lights blazed all over the station. Najo had that same expression he had worn when Kelric revealed he had spent eighteen years on Coba, the look of a man who knew he stood witness to the making of history.
"People are trying to contact you," Najo said.
"Who?" Kelric could guess: the leaders of an empire. They had just learned they had a new crown prince.
"The First Councilor of the Assembly," Najo said. "General Majda, General Bloodmark, Primary Tapperhaven, your mother, your brothers, your sister, the gene team you summoned, and several Councilors of the Inner Circle."
Kelric noticed the list didn't include Dehya. She had just discovered the existence of a prince who preceded her son in the line of succession, yet she waited. She understood Kelric in a way few others could.
"I imagine they're surprised," Kelric allowed.
Najo looked as if he considered that a monumental understatement. But he said only, "Yes, sir."
Kelric wasn't ready to talk. He wanted these moments for himself. "Tell them I'll contact them after the Promenade."
Voices surged outside, and gasps. With a start, Kelric turned back. A young woman had appeared at the top of the cathedral stairs—a girl whose skin, hair, and eyes shimmered gold.
The announcer said, "Roca Miesa Varz Valdoria—" He took a breath that everyone on thousands of worlds and habitats in three empires would hear, a sound that would become another page of history. Then he added, "Skolia."
Until that moment, Kelric hadn't been certai
n. By using the Skolia name, the announcer revealed the truth: his daughter was a Ruby psion. Someday she would take her place as a member of the Dyad.
She descended the steps alone, without guards, but the defenses of an empire protected her. Her true name was Rohka, the Coban version of Roca. Kelric felt as if he were sundering in two. Rohka, the wonder he and Savina had given life, had come into the world as her mother died. The hours Kelric had spent cradling his infant child in his oversized arms had been the only light in his grief-shattered life. He would be forever grateful to Ixpar for freeing him from Varz, but he had mourned, too, for the Varz Manager had retaliated by denying him his child.
Jimorla had reached the coliseum, and officers ushered him to the area reserved for the Imperator's children. He was the first person to sit there in a century. On the Concourse, Rohka's stride never faltered, though Kelric recognized the overwhelmed look she tried to hide. He had seen the same on her mother when Savina felt daunted but refused to let fear diminish her spirit.
Welcome, Kelric thought to his children. They couldn't reply; even if they had known how to interpret mental input, they were too far away. He didn't even know if his son was an empath or had the rarer telepathic traits Kelric shared with his family.
And yet . . . he felt certain a man's thought answered, distant but clear, the words in Teotecan: It is my honor.
A young woman's thought suddenly resonated in his mind, young and raw, untrained but full of power. And mine, Father.
****
The speaker said, simply, "Kelric Skolia, Imperator, and Ixpar Karn, Minister of Coba."
Side by side, Kelric and Ixpar descended the steps. The crowds had cheered the Houses and the Ruby Dynasty. They remained silent now, whether in shock or respect, Kelric didn't know. He had never been comfortable with public displays; he preferred to stay in the background. But he had waited ten years for this—no, twenty-eight. That was when he had first seen Ixpar, as he awoke in a sickroom on Coba with the fourteen-year-old Ministry successor leaning over him. It had taken nearly three decades to bring that moment full circle, decades that had changed his life more than he would ever have imagined.
After twenty-eight years, he had come home.
****
The story of Kelric's life on Coba appears in the Nebula- nominated novel, The Last Hawk. Jeremiah's story appears in the novella, "A Roll of the Dice," which won the AnLab (Analog Reader's poll), and was nominated for a Hugo and Nebula. The full-length book, The Ruby Dice, will come out in 2007 from Baen books.
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To read more work by this author, visit the Baen Free Library at: http://www.baen.com/library/
Fantasy Stories
Sisters of Sarronym; Sisters of Westwind
Author: L. E. Modesitt, Jr
Illustrated by Kevin Wasden
I
The Roof of the World was still frozen in winter gray, and the sun had not yet cleared the peaks to the east or shone on Freyja when I caught sight of Fiera coming up the old stone steps from the entrance to Tower Black.
I moved to intercept her. "What were you doing, Guard Fiera?"
"I was coming to the main hall, Guard Captain." Fiera did not look directly at me, but past me, a trick many Westwind guards had tried over the years. Even my own sister, especially my own sister, could not fool me.
"Using the east passage?"
Fiera flushed. "Yes, Guard Captain."
"Assignations before breakfast, yet? When did you sneak out of the barracks?"
She straightened, as she always did when she decided to flaunt something or when she knew she'd been caught. "He kissed me, Guard Captain. Creslin did."
Oh, Fiera, do not lie to me. I did not voice the words. "I seriously doubt that the esteemed son of the Marshall would have even known you were in the east passage. It is seldom traveled before dawn in winter. If anyone kissed anyone, you kissed him. What was he doing? Why were you following him?"
Fiera's eyes dropped. "He was just there. By himself. He was walking the passage."
"You're a fool! If the Marshall ever finds out, you'll be posted to High Ice for the rest of the winter this year, and for all of next year with no relief. That would be after you were given to the most needy of the consorts until you were with child. You'd never see the child after you bore her, and you'd spend your shortened life on remote duty, perhaps even on the winter road crews."
This time, my words reached her. She swallowed. "I meant no harm. He's always looked at me. I just . . . wanted him to know before he leaves for Sarronnyn."
"He knows now. If I see you anywhere near him, if I hear a whisper . . ."
"Yes, Guard Captain . . . please . . .Shierra."
"What was he doing near Tower Black?" I asked again.
"I do not know, Guard Captain. He was wearing field dress, without a winter parka. He looked like any other guard." Fiera's eyes met mine fully for the first time.
We both knew that young Creslin, for all his abilities with a blade, was anything but another guard. He was the only male ever trained with the Guards, and yet his masculine skills had not been neglected. He could play the guitar better than any minstrel, and I'd heard his voice when he sang. It seemed that he could call a soft breeze in the heat of summer, and more than a few of those who had guarded his door had come away with tears in their eyes. Fiera had been one of them, unhappily. He'd even called an ice storm once. Only once, after he had discovered he'd been promised to the Sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn.
Shortly, after more words with Fiera, I walked down the steps to the door of the ancient tower to check on what might have happened.
I always thought that tales of love were romantic nothings meant for men, not for the guards—or guard captains of Westwind—although I worried about my younger sister, and her actions in the east passage showed that I was right to worry. Fiera was close to ten years younger than I. We had not been close as children. I've always felt that sisters were either inseparable or distant. We were distant. Much as I tried to bridge that distance, much as I tried to offer kindness and advice, Fiera rejected both. When I attempted kindness, she said, "I know you're trying to be nice, but I'm not you. I have to do things my own way." She said much the same thing when I first offered advice. After a time, I only offered simple courtesy, as one would to any other Westwind guard, and no advice at all.
To my relief, the Tower Black door was locked, as it always was and should have been. There might have been boot prints in the frost, but even as a guard captain, I was not about to report what I could not prove, not when it might lead to revealing Fiera's indiscretion. Besides, what difference could it have made? Fiera had not made a fatal error, and young Creslin would be leaving Westwind forever, within days, to become the consort of the Sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn.
II
Four mornings later, Guard Commander Aemris summoned the ten Westwind Guard Captains to the duty room below the great hall. She said nothing at all for a time. Her eyes traveled from one face to another.
"Some of you may have heard the news," Aemris finally said. "Lord Creslin skied off the side of the mountain into a snowstorm. The detachment was unable to find him. The Marshall has declared mourning."
"How . . . ?"
"The weather . . ."
"He wasn't supplied . . ."
"There are some skis and supplies missing from Tower Black. He must have taken them. Do any of you know anything about that?"
I almost froze in place when Aemris dropped those words, but I quickly asked, "How could he?"
The Guard Commander turned to me. "He does have some magely abilities. He coated the walls of the South Tower with ice the night after his consorting was announced. The ice is still there. None of the duty guards saw him near Tower Black recently, but he could have taken the gear weeks ago. Or he could have used some sort of magely concealment and made his way there."
Not a single guard captain spoke.
Aem
ris shook her head. "Men. They expect to be pampered. Even when they're not, and you do everything for them, what does it get you? He's probably frozen solid in the highlands, and we'll find his body in the spring or summer."
I tried not to move my face, but just nod.
"You don't think so, Guard Captain?"
Everyone was looking at me.
"I've seen him with a blade and on skis and in the field trials, ser. He's very good, but he doesn't know it. That will make him cautious."
"For the sake of the Marshall and the Marshalle, I hope so. For the sake of the rest of us . . ." Aemris said no more.
I understood her concerns, but for Fiera's sake, I could only hope Creslin would survive and find some sort of happiness. Despite all the fancies of men and all the tales of the minstrels, most stories of lost or unrequited love end when lovers or would-be lovers are parted. In the real world, they never find each other again, and that was probably for the best, because time changes us all.
III
For weeks after Creslin vanished, Fiera was silent. She threw herself into arms practice, so much so that, one morning, as ice flakes drifted across the courtyard under a gray sky, I had to caution her, if quietly.
"Getting yourself impaled on a practice blade won't bring him back."
"They're blunted," she snapped back
"That just means the entry wound is jagged and worse."
"You should talk, sister dearest. I've seen you watch him as well."
"I have. I admit it. But only because I admired him, young as he was. I had no illusions."
"You don't understand. You never will. Don't talk to me."
"Very well." I didn't mention Creslin again, even indirectly.
IV
Slightly more than a year passed. The sun began to climb higher in the sky that spring, foreshadowing the short and glorious summer on the Roof of the World. The ice began to melt, if but slightly at midday, and the healer in black appeared at the gates of Westwind. Since she was a woman, she was admitted.
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