Schism: Part One of Triad (14 page)

Eldrinson had to make sure me 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 me 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 mey 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 diem so vehemently mat 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 die mountains.

It was afternoon when Eldrinson and his men reached the Rillian Vales. Short, stubby reeds covered the rolling hills. The plants produced little fruit, but the scant bubbles they did grow were larger than the tiny reed-bubbles 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, Ty-roll, 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, he 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 man Lyshriol. But how could a Skolian be here? A ship couldn’t land without permission the Ruby Dynasty 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 if 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 then-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 me 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.

Nothing had actually happened yet, so perhaps their alarms hadn’t triggered, but surely they had ways to tell if he faced potentially mortal danger. It would do no good for them to arrive after this Tyroll person ran him dirough with a sword; he would be dead before they showed up. Yet he saw no sign they had concerns. Maybe Roca’s people weren’t as advanced as they insinuated when they subtly, or not so sub-dy, denigrated his “primitive” culture.

His concentration narrowed to the angular man coming at him and to a second closing in at an oblique angle. The first man lifted his hand, a gesture so slight that Eldrinson almost missed it—but the Tyroll octet responded, lunging at the Dalvador warriors.

Eldrinson had no time to think; he immediately parried a swing from the man who had given the signal. As mey fought, the second warrior closed in, forcing him to defend against two of them at once. He was aware of Jannor at his right side, battling two other swordsmen. A lyrine’s haunch crashed in Night Charger’s hindquarters, staggering him—

One of his men died.

Eldrinson screamed as a sword lanced through the man’s chest. His empath’s mind felt it as clearly as if it had happened to him. After so many years as an empath, he had enough experience in combat to keep fighting, but this death caught him even more man most. In past batdes, he had at least been prepared.

Now he wavered and one of his opponents slashed his sword arm. With a grunt, Eldrinson struggled to recoup, to focus on his challengers.

Another of his men died.

“NO.” Eldrinson strained to parry, but his blade felt as if it had doubled in weight. Blood ran down his left arm and soaked his shirt. One of his opponents raised his sword. Eldrinson tried to counter, but he couldn’t move his injured arm fast enough. It felt too heavy—

A third man in his group died.

Eldrinson shouted in fury and heaved up his sword. It struck the blade of his attacker hard and the recoil vibrated along Eldrinson’s arm to his shoulder.

He felt nothing except a curious deadness in his arm. No pain.

Not yet.

His two opponents worked together with practiced efficiency, attacking from both sides. He was faster than either of them individually, but he couldn’t keep up with his sword arm injured. One of the men whipped his blade toward Eldrinson, distracting his concentration. Eldrinson tried to block the thrust, but he only deflected it. His attacker’s sword plunged toward his chest—