Schism: Part One of Triad (31 page)

What burned through Shannon was like nothing he had known before. Flames consumed him, a fire of rage, yet he was cold inside. He crept through the camp, Moonglaze at his side. Condensation curled from the lyrine’s nostrils.

Shannon had looped ropes into his belt, and the jammer hung in his travel bags. He stalked the cavity of Vitarex’s mind. Nothing could hide the Aristo from him. Red hazed his vision until the mists themselves seemed to turn crimson.

In the distance, the eerie calls of the Blue Dales Arches trilled and whistled as if spirits drifted among the trees. They were still drawing away the guards, but Shannon knew he didn’t have much time. He had to hurry before one of Vitarex’s men came back and caught him here.

He drew near to his quarry.

A tent blocked his way, pale in the fog. Shannon crept along the side. A warrior guarded the entrance, a man who held his sword in his right rather than left hand. It made no difference. Most Lyshrioli were left-handed, but among all the Valdoria princes, only Shannon and Del-Kurj were. Their brothers took after their mother, using their right more than the left. Shannon had spent his life training against right-handed opponents.

Hidden in the fog, he left Moonglaze behind the tent and edged closer, his tread as silent as a Blue Dale Archer, as silent as it had been all those times he slipped from his home and wandered through Dalvador so late at night, he was the only person out, always restless, always seeking what he couldn’t find, his own people. So he moved now.

The guard never knew anyone came up behind him until Shannon hooked his right arm around the man’s neck and pressed hard. As the guard struggled, he grabbed at Shannon where a left-handed assailant would have caught him. Instead of getting Shannon’s hand and wrist, the man’s fingers scraped his elbow. All the time, Shannon choked him, holding his own wrist with his other hand, added leverage to cut off the man’s air. The guard gave one last strangled grunt and collapsed, unconscious.

Shannon took a ragged breath. He quickly bound the guard, then drew his sword, the blade whispering in its sheath. He stepped closer to the tent, silent in the carpet of crushed glitter, and paused at the entrance, his hand touching the flap. Light leaked around its edges. Nothing but the music of night came to him: the whistle of lyrine; a rustle of wind in the disks hanging from the trees; strange calls in the distance, which only he knew were as the Blue Dale Archers.

Shannon stepped inside.

The light wasn’t bright enough to blind him, but he had to squint. A man was sitting at a carved table, his attention focused on a silver and black device that resembled the communications equipment in Brad’s starport office.

Vitarex.

Shannon knew. Vitarex disguised himself as a Rillian, his hair yellow and lavender, his eyes violet, his clothes and disk mail authentic. He had even altered his hands into the hinged structure. But nothing would change the Aristo perfection of his face or his aura of arrogance. Without the disguise, he would have shimmering black hair and red eyes.

Vitarex turned his head. He considered Shannon with a bemused expression but no surprise, as if wild-eyed youths

broke into his tent all the time. He spoke in Highton. “Well, you’re quite the provider, aren’t you?”

Shannon’s pulse stuttered at the insinuation, that he was no more than a slave for Vitarex to torture. He had no doubt me Aristo spoke Highton to see if he would react; on Lyshriol, only members of die Ruby Dynasty knew the language. Vitarex was probing. He had to have realized Shannon was a psion; just as he recognized Vitarex from the cavity in his mind, so this Trader lord would know him as a psion from the completion his mind provided.

When Shannon said nothing, Vitarex switched into perfect Trillian. “What did you do wfth my guard?”

Shannon walked forward and raised his sword.

“You can’t kill me, Princeling.” Vitarex touched a cluster of bubbles engraved in the table. A rumbling buffeted Shannon, so low in pitch that he felt more than heard it. The vibration shook his bones and made his stomach lurch.

Distracted, he poked at his ear.

“Amazing,” Vitarex murmured. “You shouldn’t hear that.”

Gritting his teem, Shannon headed toward him again. The sensation grew worse, but he forced himself forward another step, his sword clenched in his hand.

Vitarex rose to his feet. “I will be leaving soon. With your father.” An oily smile spread across his too-perfect face. “You may come with us.”

Shannon’s temples ached with the vibrations. This was more than just sound. He shook his head, but nodiing helped. The room blurred and tilted around him.

“Your balance goes next,” Vitarex commented. “The effects you feel come from a tangler field designed to disrupt neural impulses in your brain.” His smile turned cold, matching his gaze. “It works particularly well on psions, with all those extra neural structures of yours. The sensations grow more and more unpleasant.” Bliss washed across his face. “For you. I’m protected from it.”

Shannon thought of what the Blue Dale Archers called the music of his ken, what he had come to realize was the trance he submerged into when he ran through the plains, curled in

the warmth of Moonglaze’s stable, or wandered in the woods, the trance he had gone into high in the Blue Dale Mountains when Moonglaze thought he was dying.

He closed his eyes and blanked his mind, submerging into the trance.

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 man 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 man Vitarex. By now, he had so little control over his body, he missed and hit the standing lamp instead, severing me 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 mat 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 mat abrupdy 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, yet 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 mat he had answered that driving anger, now mat me 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 him 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, 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.