The Tent
Roca stared out the window by her copilot’s seat, scanning the countryside below. Cultivated patches alternated with forests in a quilt of landscape. The holoscreens in the flyer would let her see the land up close, but she kept looking through the window as well, too agitated to stay still. The longer it took to find Shannon, the worse her apprehension. He had been gone two days now. He could be injured, lost, out of food or water. If only he would turn off the blasted jammer. The orbital positioning system could pinpoint someone on the ground to within less than a centimeter. They also had the flyer and two other ISC shuttles searching. Why the blazes couldn’t they break through the jamming field Shannon had set up? It was ISC equipment. Surely they knew how to neutralize their own gear.
“Still nothing,” Brad said.
Roca turned to see him studying the screens in front of his pilot’s seat. He indicated several red blips drifting across the screen, where the Backbone Mountains met Ryder’s Forest in the north. “Those are riders on lyrine.”
Roca sat up straighter. “Could it be—” She stopped when she saw the glyphs flowing across the bottom of the screen, giving statistics from an implant in the body of one rider. “That’s Denric. The other four riders are probably half the octet that went with him and Eldri.”
Brad’s forehead furrowed. “I wonder why they’re headed south.”
“Eldri should be with him.” She had felt uneasy all morning, though she wasn’t certain why.
“They probably split up.” Brad glanced at her. “They can cover more area that way.”
Roca felt as taut as a drum pulled tight. “Eldri had a seizure last night, the worst in years.”
Brad spoke quietly. “This is probably the worst stress he’s experienced in years.”
Even more than in war. Losing his children was worse to Eldri than going into battle. He could face armed men without flinching, but the thought of injury to his family devastated him. Even with that, last night had been extreme. She rarely discussed his condition with anyone: it was private. But Brad had known him even before her. He was one of the few people who had seen Eldri have seizures.
“This isn’t the first time we’ve suffered family crises,” Roca said. “He hasn’t had an attack that severe in over a decade.”
“Perhaps his treatment needs to be changed,” Brad said.
“He sees the port doctor regularly.” Roca shifted in her seat. “Eldri always downplays his health problems. It’s his damn pride.”
“Dr. Heathland would know if he was covering up.”
“I suppose.” Jase Heathland was the fifth doctor ISC had sent to Lyshriol to care for Eldrinson. They had finally found someone savvy enough to know when Eldri was avoiding the doctor and personable enough to put the Bard at ease. Her husband cooperated because he didn’t want the seizures to return, but he loathed seeing doctors. Heathland was the only who could get past all that with him, and he took no guff from the royal consort. Eldri even seemed to like him.
Brad rubbed his chin as he examined the holomap. “Denric must have gone through the Mirrored Pass. If Shannon went that way, he could be a day’s ride into Ryder’s Forest now.”
Roca’s frustration welled. “We’ve been over Ryder’s five times.”
“We could do it a hundred times and miss him.” Brad motioned at the mountains towering in the north, covered by an endless stained-glass sheen. “He could ride for days through that forest and never see the sky. Which means we won’t see him unless he turns off that damn jammer.”
Roca stared at the holomap, brooding. The peaks of Ryder’s Lost Memory
rose up, taller and taller. Beyond them, the Blue Dale Mountains reached even higher, blending into a haze, capped with blue snow. Above them, Aldan was a dark amber orb eclipsing the large gold disk of Valdor.
“He’s there,” Roca said. “In those mountains. I’m certain of it.” She wished she could go back and redo her last conversation with Shannon. “I knew he was lonely, but I didn’t think he was angry at us.”
“It’s hard to know.” With a rueful wince, Brad added, “At his age, I drove my parents to distraction, always staying out late. I’d get so caught up in making gadgets, machines, whatnot, I’d forget the time.” His voice gentled. “Shannon’s reasons may have nothing to do with anger at you or your husband.”
Roca recalled the scene in the courtyard with Althor. “People think empaths know exactly how other people feel. But that’s not true. I could sense Shannon was upset but not the reason.” Empathy was a curse as much as a gift. It hurt more to know a problem existed when she didn’t understand why. She had learned at a young age to block moods. It was their only defense against the mental onslaught of other minds.
Shannon had fled it all, to the lonely northern mountains.
Eldrinson knelt by the pole in the tent, shifting position, easing the strain on his arms. One of Raziquon’s men had pulled his wrists behind his back and tied them to the post, holding him tight against the violet glasswood column. He had tried every method he knew to free himself, with no success. The rope tightened and readjusted the knots every time he loosened them. Roca would call it a “smart-rope,” a cable with some technology that gave it rudimentary intelligence.
He sagged against the pole, his head drooping forward. His arms ached so much, he had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from groaning. Blood saturated the sleeve of his left arm from the wound he had taken. Although Vitarex’s people had treated the gash, which wasn’t deep, they had done nothing for the pain. But that paled next to his grief over the loss of his men. He couldn’t comprehend how an Aristo had infiltrated an orbital system that ISC claimed was the best in the Imperialate. They were
supposed to protect the Ruby Dynasty. How the hell had one of the monsters fooled those purportedly matchless defenses? Eldrinson wanted to shout his disbelief, that an Aristo was loose and masquerading as a Rillian.
It had been hours since Vitarex and his men had reached this camp in a secluded valley far from any settled area, hidden in the wild country. They had traveled all day, always west. Every step took him farther from Shannon, who must have gone north. When Roca and Brad realized he had disappeared, they were unlikely to look for him here, but surely the satellites in orbit could find him.
The tent flap shifted, crinkling, and one of Vitarex’s men entered. He glanced at Eldrinson, then quickly looked away. He went to a table across the tent and poured a glass of water from a red glasswood pitcher there. The blue liquid glimmered as it flowed into the red cup. Eldrinson’s mouth suddenly felt parched, intensifying his discomfort. They had already given him water, but it wasn’t enough.
“Ahh …” The exhalation came from the entrance.
Vitarex was standing just inside the entrance. The Aristo took a stool there and carried it up to within a few paces of Eldrinson. The Tyroll man gave him the water, then bowed and left the tent. Vitarex sat back, regarding his prisoner with curious arrogance as he idly held the goblet. Eldrinson met his gaze steadily. With hatred.
“You don’t like me,” Vitarex said. He sounded drugged.
Eldrinson didn’t answer.
Vitarex shifted languages. “My presence exalts you.”
Eldrinson froze. Gods almighty. Vitarex had spoken Highton, the language of the ruling Aristo caste. Eldrinson had learned it at the same time he learned Iotic and Skolian Flag, primarily because Kurj hadn’t believed his stepfather could master any languages the royal family spoke. They all knew Highton, just as the Aristos probably all learned Iotic. Know your enemy.
Vitarex wasn’t even trying to hide his heritage. Then again, why should he? Almost no one in Dalvador had ever heard Highton. Vitarex had no reason to assume otherwise of Eldrinson. At least he prayed not. Otherwise this monster would realize the truth, that he had caught a member of the Ruby Dynasty.
In the past, Eldrinson had always thought ISC was demented in the way they obsessively secured any and all images of him and kept them off the interstellar meshes. Now he was more grateful than he could ever say. Vitarex hadn’t recognized him.
Thank Rillia he hadn’t worn the ISC med bracelet and had sent Denric away with the offworld supplies. Or most of them. The syringe was in his travel bag. Vitarex’s men had taken the bags, so they probably had it. The syringe resembled blue glasswood; he hoped they wouldn’t bother Raziquon about an apparently harmless tube. Now if he could just find a way to get it without Vitarex knowing.
“You have no idea,” the Aristo lord was saying in Rillian, his voice more normal now. “You empaths feed us.”
“Us?” Eldrinson asked. Were there more Aristos here?
“You wouldn’t understand.” Vitarex waved his hand. “It is genetics. Magic, to you.”
“What magic?” If he kept Vitarex talking, perhaps the intruder would let slip some clue about how he infiltrated the Lyshriol defenses.
“It has to do with a brilliant man.” Vitarex’s words dripped condescension. “A confused, brilliant man. Hezahr Rhon.”
“I don’t know who you mean,” Eldrinson lied. He had learned the history from Roca. Centuries ago, Hezahr Rhon had established the Rhon project. He had two intents: to develop Rhon psions, the most powerful empaths and telepaths known; and to make them less vulnerable to the onslaught of emotions around them.
That noble goal had become the worst tragedy in history.
“Rhon was a geneticist,” Vitarex said.
Eldrinson pretended ignorance. “A what?”
“Ah, well.” He smiled benignly. “It is too complicated to explain.”
Eldrinson gritted his teeth. “I’m not slow in the mind.” He didn’t have to fake his annoyance; he had plenty of practice dealing with Roca’s people.
“So you can understand genetics, eh?” Vitarex’s eyes glinted. “Rhon altered several of the mutated Kyle genes that create psions. Understand, Dalvador man?”
Eldrinson didn’t answer.
Vitarex laughed. “I didn’t think so. But I will tell you. Rhon intended
to help empaths shield their minds against emotions. But instead he created the most exalted form of life ever known.” He touched his chest. “Aristos.”
Eldrinson snorted. “I see nothing exalted here.”
Vitarex’s expression hardened. With a deliberate motion, he slapped his prisoner across the face. Eldrinson grunted as his head turned and hit the pole behind him. His eyes watered and his vision blurred. It was several moments before he remembered to breathe; then he gasped in a shuddering breath. As his vision cleared, Vitarex’s face came into focus. The Aristo emanated bliss, from his half-closed eyes to his radiant expression. Eldrinson clenched his teeth.
Vitarex slowly opened his eyes. “It is pain, you see. Physical. Emotional. Any kind.” His voice became almost inaudible. “It is transcendence.”
Bile rose in Eldrinson’s throat. He understood far better than Vitarex realized. Aristos were anti-empaths. When they detected pain from their victim, their brains protected them by shunting the signals to their pleasure centers. They called it transcendence. He had heard they sought it with obsessive cruelty, but until this moment he hadn’t really understood what that meant.
“So you see,” Vitarex murmured, “it is why I need you.”
Eldrinson shook his head, then gulped as pain radiated out from where he had struck the pole. “You don’t need me.”
“But I do.” He sighed now. “Empaths project their responses more strongly than other people. It heightens the effect. The stronger the empath, the more I transcend.” He lifted his hand, palm up, as if offering Eldrinson a gift. “When you make it possible for me to reach that exaltation, it exalts you as well.”
Eldrinson was too queasy to answer. Vitarex and his ilk might believe themselves more than human, they might even have built an empire based on that belief, but as far as he could tell, they were nothing more than sadists. For all that he had learned their history, it had never seemed real until this Highton lord sat before him, his face smooth with ecstasy while Eldrinson endured the pain in his body—and his heart. Those men who had ridden with him, fought with him, and died with him, they had wives, children, dreams. All gone now.
With Vitarex so close, Eldrinson felt that suffocating sense of cavity
from his dream, the crushing darkness. In that place where most people had the capacity for compassion, the Aristo had nothing. Eldrinson teetered above that abyss, falling into its lightless void. His nausea surged. Vitarex had come for his family, the Ruby Dynasty. Each time the fear hit him, it struck with renewed force. Why else would the Traders go to the extremes it must have taken to infiltrate ISC defenses on a world that otherwise had nothing to offer a star-faring civilization? The Aristo surely had the backing of ESComm, or Eubian Space Command, the Trader military; it was the only way he could have infiltrated the defenses here.
“What are you thinking?” Vitarex asked. “Emotions flow across your face. Fear? Yes. But more, I think.” He tilted his head. “What must it be like for you, eh? An empath on a world of mundane minds.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Eldrinson said.
“You must sense your differences.”
“How would you know more about me than I do myself?” Over the years, Eldrinson had learned a great deal about his abilities, but if Vitarex believed him ignorant, he wasn’t likely to suspect he had captured Roca Skolia’s royal consort.
“I can feel the presence of an empath,” Vitarex said. “Just being near you, I transcend at a low level.”
Eldrinson clenched his fists behind his back. “What do you want with me?”
Vitarex settled himself on his stool, his boots braced against the hardpacked dirt. “I have bestowed a great honor on you.”
“And what might that be?”
“I have decided to allow you to be my provider.”
“That means nothing to me,” he lied.
“My personal slave.”
“You can’t.” It surprised Eldrinson how calm he sounded. “It is against the law.”
“No matter.”
“What makes you think my friends won’t find you?” Eldrinson asked, curious in a morbid sort of way. “They are well armed and numerous.”
Vitarex waved his hand. “I have means to hide. When I finish here, we shall leave.” He smiled benevolently at Eldrinson. “You may come with me.”
Like hell. “Finish what?”
“You come from the Dalvador Plains, yes?”
“That’s right. I’m a farmer in Starlo Vale.”
“Have you ever been to Dalvador? The capital?”
If Eldrinson hadn’t already known Vitarex wasn’t Rillian, that last sentence would have given it away. No one called the village of Dalvador a “capital.” His people didn’t even have the concept. The only reason he knew its meaning was because Roca had asked him a similar question several decades ago.
“I rarely travel,” Eldrinson said.
Vitarex leaned closer. “Have you heard of Roca Skolia?”
Hearing his wife’s name from this man filled him with anger. It took a great effort of will to appear unaffected. He had to respond like a farmer from Starlo, not the husband of the woman Vitarex dishonored merely by mentioning her name. “The wife of our Bard has a similar name.”
Vitarex wet his lips. “Have you seen her?”
“The likes of me don’t mingle with them.” He hoped Vitarex knew too little about Lyshriol to recognize that lie. Social stratification didn’t exist here. Everyone mingled. Eldrinson’s children played with the other children in Dalvador. People came to him when they wanted a bard or judge, but they otherwise treated him like any other farmer. He was the closest the Dalvador Plains had to a leader, just as Lord Rillia was the closest they had to a king in all the settled lands, but they didn’t think in terms of class. Any distance that developed between his family and his people came about because he had married a woman that the Lyshrioli believed descended from the sun gods. He knew about social classes from Roca’s people, and he had heard Trader hierarchies were even more stratified. Vitarex wouldn’t expect low-level a farmer to associate with the Ruby Dynasty.
“They say she is a great beauty,” Vitarex mused.
Eldrinson bit the inside of his mouth to keep from responding.
Vitarex was watching him closely. “You have seen her, haven’t you? You find her lovely, eh?” An oily smile spread across his face. “Tell me, farmer, do you covet her?”
“Go to hell,” Eldrinson ground out.
Vitarex laughed. “Ah, well, I imagine many men want her.” He
stretched his arms. “I shall have her. Perhaps some of her daughters, too.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose I could also take the men. They would fetch a high price.”
Eldrinson had never hidden his emotions well, but he managed now, knowing the lives of his family could depend on his control. He had to hide his rage, lest he reveal himself to Vitarex. He didn’t know which would be worse, if Vitarex captured another of his family or if the Aristo realized he already had a Rhon psion and escaped Lyshriol with him. It didn’t seem possible Vitarex could take them away, but he shouldn’t have managed to trespass here, either. The irony didn’t escape Eldrinson, that he had demanded Soz stay at home so she would be safe, yet he was the one the Traders captured.
When he didn’t respond, Vitarex yawned. “Intellect isn’t one of your strong points, is it?”
Eldrinson spoke dryly. “Bravery isn’t one of yours, is it?”
“I could execute someone for speaking to me with such insolence.” Vitarex’s voice was languid, probably deceptively so.
“The coward’s solution.” Eldrinson hoped he was gauging Vitarex as well as he thought; otherwise he might have just invited his own death.
“Is it now?” The Aristo smiled coldly. “Tell me, what are you trying to provoke me into doing?”
What indeed? Eldrinson needed a way to signal Roca and Brad. He couldn’t achieve much tied up; but if he could get out into the open he might have a better chance.
“I’ve a proposition for you,” Eldrinson said.
“Do you now?”
“Entertainment.” He thought fast, making it up as he went along. “A sword competition. You’ve surely heard of them. Two men fight until one is disarmed or admits defeat. Winner takes on the next challenger. The rounds go on until only one is left.” He lifted his chin. “Take a chance. Set me against your men.”
“What a strange idea.” Vitarex laughed. “You do intrigue me. Where I come from, providers have none of your spark.”
“I can best any single fighter you have.” The claim was bravado, given his injured arm, but he could probably manage a few bouts.
“Is that so?” Vitarex tilted his head. “Where would a farmer learn such skills?”
Eldrinson pretended astonishment. “You don’t know?” Let this Aristo think he had just made a cultural mistake.
Vitarex flushed. “I asked a question. Answer it.”
“I qualified to train for the army.” Any boy with talent and discipline could learn swordplay in Dalvador. It did tend to be children of betterconnected families, the closest they had to a highborn class. but it wasn’t restricted. Boys came from all over the plains to train. Similarly, girls came to become Memories. The Lyshrioli were illiterate; they had no concept of written language. Memories were their depositories of knowledge.
“You won’t defeat my men,” Vitarex said. “I handpicked them for their expertise.”
“Afraid I will win?”
The Aristo considered him. “What do you think you will get out of this?”
“The chance to move.” He didn’t have to act when he grimaced. “It hurts.”
“I know,” Vitarex murmured. “I can feel it from all over the camp.” He stood up. “I will think on your suggestion.” With that, he strode away, out of the tent, and set its entrance flap swinging.
Eldrinson exhaled. Vitarex was too confident, too sure of himself. He truly believed he could capture Roca, even more of the family, and take them from Lyshriol. Eldrinson had to stop him.
How, he had no idea.