Schism: Part One of Triad (17 page)

“I wish we had more to eat than glitter.” He was so sick of the stuff, just the thought made him nauseous. He had enjoyed the puffles yesterday morning, but they were long gone.

Shannon sank to the ground. He had no idea if he had reached the Blue Dale Mountains. He saw no dales and nothing looked blue except the snow crusted on the trees. This part of the country had even less wildlife than down in the plains. Akhough Dalvador had relatively few animals compared to what Shannon had read about other worlds, small creatures flitted through the air or scampered in the reeds. Whatever lived up here hid itself well. Too well.

“Moon,” he said. His parched mouth didn’t work well.

The lyrine snuffled.

“We might die of thirst and hunger.”

Moonglaze looked down at him with one large eye.

“I could turn off the jammer.” They might not be looking for him, given the trouble he had caused. They ought to just

let him leave. He knew his parents, though; they would probably search even when they shouldn’t.

Shannon lay on his back and gazed upward. Tree tubules crisscrossed above him, blue, green, deep red. In the plains, where trees grew tall and hale, their jeweled colors glowed. Here, they looked as tired as he felt. He had eaten almost nothing for two days. The sparse snow, saturated with glitter, did little to slake his thirst. He couldn’t continue this way. If he turned back now, it would take three days to reach the Rillian Vales, maybe longer in his weakened state. The pool with the puffle-wogs was closer, but he wasn’t sure he could find it again. Even if he turned off the jammer, he had no guarantee anyone would find him. With a surreal calm, he comprehended that he really could die.

“Moonglaze,” he whispered. “We have to go back.”

The lyrine edged closer. He surveyed Shannon with one silver eye, then turned his head and looked at him with the other eye. He whistled, high and urgent.

“I’m all right,” Shannon said. “I’m not dying.” At least, he didn’t think so.

He had a curious floating sense, as if his mind had detached from his body. He should get back on Moonglaze and search for that pool. The lyrine might find it; he had an amazing sense of direction, better even than Shannon, who took to the wilds with ease.

Shadows under the trees darkened. The suns would be sinking behind the mountains, always doing their orbital dance around each other. He contemplated their celestial mechanics until he no longer felt hungry. He was part of the fading sunlight.

His mind sailed over the mountains, leaving his body behind.

Vitarex reclined in a lounger in the tent, watching Eldrinson. His servants waited on him, a young man and woman, a married couple from a distant village. He didn’t treat them like staff, though; he acted as if he owned them. They averted their eyes from Eldrinson when they passed him. His aching arms were still bound to the pole behind him, but he had managed to shift into a sitting position.

The woman set up a black lacquered stand next to Vitarex’s lounger. The man poured wine into a goblet of green glasswood and set it on the stand. They bowed to Vitarex, an odd gesture Rillian people normally never used. The Aristo waved his hand, dismissing them, all the time watching his prisoner.

They withdrew silently from the tent.

Eldrinson had a hard time concentrating; the ache in his arms and legs had worsened until he could hardly focus. He had spent over a day tied here. He could move a little, enough to stretch his legs, but that put more strain on his wrists.

Vitarex sipped his wine. He had that blissful look Eldrinson had come to hate this past day. One Lyshrioli day, three octets plus four hours; he counted the moments, knowing he was probably off in his estimate, but needing something, anything, to distract him from the pain.

“A sword,” Vitarex said. “You may have a sword.”

Eldrinson stared blankly at his tormentor. “What?”

“For the competition.” Vitarex took another swallow of wine. “You may have a sword. And the clothes you are wearing.”

“You want me to fight?”

“Yes, I think so.” Vitarex smiled. “I will tell my men to go easy with you.”

Hope sparked in Eldrinson. If he could get outside, he might have a chance to warn Brad and Roca or the ISC shuttle. “I’m stiff,” he said. “I can hardly move. It won’t be entertaining for you if I fall over.”

“Perhaps.” Vitarex tasted his wine. “Very well. I will have you freed now. The competition will take place this evening. You can have until then to recover your mobility.”

Thank Rillia’s Arrow. Eldrinson barely kept the gratitude’ from flooding his voice. “All right.”

Vitarex’s gaze hardened. “Understand me, empath. If you speak one word to anyone during the competition or give any indication that you are other than my honored guest, I

will have you quartered alive and send your remains to whatever family you have. And when I am done with you, I will start on them.”

Eldrinson didn’t doubt he meant it. He wondered what rot-worm had spawned Vitarex. Apparently no one here except the young couple and Vitarex’s bodyguards knew what the Aristo was doing to him. If the men in camp learned the truth, they might help him; to treat a Dalvador visitor in this manner would appall most any Rillian.

However, if these men followed Vitarex, they had sworn loyalty to him, possibly even by the Ritual of the Blade. Although the ceremony had become less common since the war ended five years ago, men continued to vie in competitions, keeping fit for any skirmishes they might end up fighting.

They might support Vitarex even against a Bard. Or they might come from Tyroll. Vitarex’s bodyguards had murdered Eldrinson’s men with no provocation and no sign of remorse.

“I will say nothing,” Eldrinson said.

“Good.” Vitarex tapped his long finger against a gold leaf embedded in the lacquered stand. A bell chimed. A moment later, the young woman who served him entered and bowed.

Vitarex waved at Eldrinson. “Free him.”

The woman nodded, her face composed, but Eldrinson sensed her disquiet. As she approached, her mood jumped out to him: distress at his pain, confusion about the situation, fear of Vitarex. From her whispered comments to her husband, Eldrinson knew she hesitated to refuse the Aristo. She and her husband had sworn fealty to him. They owed him their loyalty. And he paid well, in semiprecious stones; without that income, their family might starve and they would be unable to build a house where they could live instead of sleeping in the forest. It wasn’t her nature to go back on an oath, nor did she want to endanger her family, but she was finding service to Vitarex miserable.

Eldrinson’s pain dismayed her.

She knelt by him, her violet eyes downcast, and fumbled with the ropes knotted around his wrists. He gritted his teeth

as pain shot up his arms. She kept straggling with the knots until finally he groaned, his eyes tearing up from the agony. Her alarm washed over him. She was so upset, her hands shook.

Vitarex sighed.

The woman let go of the knots and turned to the Aristo. She spoke in a soft voice with no chimes at all. “I cannot free him, Lord Vitarex.”

Lord? Eldrinson gritted his teeth. Only Bards carried the title “Lord,” and he didn’t believe for one instant Vitarex was a Bard. He might be a lord among Aristos, but if he insisted his staff call him “Lord” here in Rillia, he was putting himself on the same level as the Rillian Bard, a grave insult. True, Lord Rillia was a terrible singer, but no one ever mentioned mat nor let it affect their respect for his leadership.

“How odd,” Vitarex murmured, watching Eldrinson. “It seems your bonds don’t want to come off.”

Eldrinson knew the semi-intelligent ropes were resisting any attempt to loosen them. He met Vitarex’s stare. “Coward.”

“What was that?” Vitarex asked politely. “I didn’t hear it.”

Eldrinson regarded him steadily. “I said you are a coward. It is easy to torment a bound man.”

The Arista’s eyes glinted. “You should learn more respect.”

Eldrinson desired only to learn how many ways he could punch mat superior look off Vitarex’s face. He clenched his jaw and held back his words, lest the wrong ones come out and defeat his purpose. When he had control over his anger, he said, “I can’t fight anyone tied up tins way.”

“I suppose not.” Vitarex extended his long finger to the lacquered stand and tapped its scrolled border.

The cords around Eldrinson’s arms fell away. He froze, expecting a trick. When nothing happened, he lowered his arms with great care. Pain stabbed his muscles anew, and he squeezed his eyes shut, struggling not to cry out.

Vitarex was a fool to consider giving him a sword. With half a chance, he would turn it against the Aristo.

Eldrinson opened his eyes. The young woman was kneeling at his side. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Enough!” Vitarex said. “Come here, girl.”

The woman rose to her feet and went to stand before Vitarex, her hands folded before her body, her gaze averted. He considered her, his eyes narrowed, and for one sickening moment Eldrinson thought he intended to make her kneel. He felt the Aristo restrain the impulse and stay in his guise as a Lyshrioli man.

Eldrinson doubted Vitarex realized how powerful an empath he had captured or he would have guarded his reactions better. Or perhaps he just couldn’t fathom how an empath could read moods.

“Pour me some wine,” Vitarex told her.

She bowed deeply to him. Then she crossed to a table where they kept the wines in bottles of vivid, stained-glass colors. Eldrinson began the laborious process of stretching out his legs. He wanted to groan as aches stabbed ttirough his knees, but he barely even grunted. Damned if he would let Vitarex hear his discomfort.

The woman brought Vitarex his wine, a ruby-red liquid in a blue goblet. He idly waved his hand. She apparently understood the gesture, for she moved around and took up a position behind the lounger, standing, silent and waiting.

“So.” The Aristo drank his wine as he watched Eldrinson. “Think you will be ready to fight this evening?”

“Yes.” Eldrinson doubted diat were true, but he didn’t intend to give Vitarex any excuse to tie him up again.

“Ah, well.” Vitarex rose languidly to his feet and stretched his arms. He turned to the woman, towering over her. “You will tend to his needs. See that he is fed and rested.”

She nodded. “Yes, milord.”

Eldrinson wanted to snort. Milord indeed. No one here used that title. He knew it only from Roca. Her people called him all sorts of strange things, including “Your Highness,” as if he were in the mountains, “Your Majesty,”

which made him want to laugh, and “Milord,” which perplexed him. Apparently he was “Your Highness” as Roca’s consort and “Your Majesty” as the purported King of Skyfall. He had given up trying to make them stop and just answered to whatever they felt was appropriate.

After Vitarex left, the woman came back over and settled gracefully next to Eldrinson. “I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault” This was his first chance to speak with her alone.

Perhaps she would help him—

Eldrinson froze. Ah, no. An all too familiar queasiness spread through him.

His fingers twitched. Not now…

“… wrong!” The woman cried. “Please, what’s wrong? Can’t you hear me?”

“Wha—7” Dizziness rolled over Eldrinson in waves. He was disoriented, nauseated, confused. And so very tired.

After a moment his head cleared enough for him to think. The young woman was leaning over him, her face flushed and concerned. He must have experienced a seizure, a minor one he thought. He just blanked out during the small ones and stopped responding. He knew only because people told him; he never remembered the seizure himself, though he could feel it coming on. The small ones caused no real injury, but they served as a warning.

Apprehension swept over him. Gods, don’t let it start again. It had been years since he had suffered any serious problems. The big seizures, the generalized tonic clonic attacks, had stopped altogether. He rarely even had the small ones. Yet in the past few days he had suffered one of each. Yes, he had been under strain, but this wasn’t the first time. In the past, he had ridden to war, been injured and in pain, fought with adrenaline pumping, and had no attacks. The treatments for his epilepsy no longer seemed to be working as well.

Eldrinson spoke raggedly. “In my travel bags—there was a long tube… ?” He needed his air syringe.

“I don’t know.” She seemed close to tears. “A guard has your bags.”

“Do you know which one?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Goodman Shannar.”

“Shannar?”

“This is not your name?”

He started to tell her, then stopped. Eldrin wasn’t a common name, and people knew the Dalvador Bard was called the son of Eldrin. He said only, “You just surprised me. How did you know?”

“You spoke it in your sleep. I asked if it was your name and you said yes.”

He suspected he had been having a nightmare about Shannon being hurt. Her misunderstanding protected him. Vitarex knew his prisoner might give a false name while he was awake, but people didn’t lie in their sleep.

She indicated a pile of rugs across the tent. “Would you like to rest?”

Eldrinson nodded, grateful. He had hurt too much to sleep much, and when he did manage to doze, he dreamed of Shannon trudging through snow saturated with dusty glitter, plowing on and on, his hair tangled, his body gaunt. He didn’t know if the nightmare came from his condition or if he had picked up his son’s distress. Was Shannon wandering, lost and hungry, dying? The pain caused by that thought went far deeper than any ache in his body.

Surely they had found Shannon by now. ISC knew how to nullify a jammer field.

They had done so the last time one of his sons absconded with one of the blasted things. Vyrl had “borrowed” a jammer when he ran off with Lily. A battle cruiser in orbit had finally penetrated the shroud it created, but that had taken over a day, more than long enough for the two young people to marry.