Blue Dales
The Dieshan Military Academy had stood in the foothills of the Red Mountains for over two centuries. Desert bordered it to the north and south, and in the east the towers of HQ City lifted into the red sky. Soz and Althor strode up the wide, white walkway to the academy entrance, to those famous soaring arches supported by columns three stories high. Its crenellated watchtowers reminded Soz of home, though on Lyshriol they fought with bows and arrows instead of intelligent missiles and antimatter beams.
The stark white stone glittered, accented by black marble borders on the windows in the face of the building. The age and grandeur of the place felt tangible. She had seen it in holos, memorized every detail, read all she could, but none of that seemed real now. This was no holo. She had reached the academy.
Althor walked at her side dressed in his Jagernaut blacks, the trousers, pullover, and boots of their everyday uniform. The cadet’s insignia flashed on his shoulders.
He caught her looking at him and grinned, his teeth a flash of white in his gold face. “So what do you think?”
“It’s incredible.” The words hardly did justice to what she felt. She paused as they reached the bottom of the stairs that led up to the colonnade. The steps stretched out on either side of them all the way down the building, white and brilliant in the harsh sunlight. Fifty people could have walked these stairs abreast. She and Althor started up, crossing a threshold that existed as much in her mind as in the real world.
They entered the academy through a massive pair of arched doors that swung slowly inward in response to Althor’s slight push. Although the doors looked antique, wood and stone with no visible mechanism, they swung far too easily to be moving purely on their own momentum. Soz thought she heard the hum of an engine, but it was almost inaudible.
Inside, a few meters on the left, a woman in Jagernaut blacks stood behind a white console-podium. She was speaking with a young woman about Soz’s age, taking ID it looked like. This was the second time Soz had noticed a human touch in the automated city, both cases dealing with military personnel. It bemused her; she had always thought of soldiers as the tougher side of humanity, making their way in less humanized, less hospitable areas than the loved ones they protected. That certainly described warfare on Lyshriol.
Here in HQC, though, the reverse seemed to be true; the more deeply involved a person was with the military, the more humanized their treatment. Perhaps it was an attempt to keep a balance, to account for the inhuman conditions of the war they fought. The definition of “less hospitable” changed in space, describing combat fought by machines at accelerations that obliterate unprotected humans. Battles spread across vast areas of space and throughout the shadowy information universes created by the information meshes that spanned the stars.
Althor waited with Soz behind a glowing white line to the left of the entrance. When the woman behind the console finished with the other girl, she sent her on into the building and then motioned to Soz and Althor.
As Soz and Althor walked forward, Soz inhaled deeply. Even the air here seemed laden with history and tradition. Actually, it was rather dusty. She bit her lip. What if they had no records for her? Tahota said DMA had approved her admission, but in Soz’s experience nothing ever happened among her mother’s people without endless and onerous documentation, none of which she had even begun let alone sent to Diesha.
When they reached the podium, the woman spoke briskly. “One at a time, please.” She nodded to Soz. “You can wait behind the line.”
“We’re together,” Althor said. It apparently wasn’t a typical response, given the way the woman frowned at him. Before she could say more, he clicked a small disk out of his gauntlet and handed it to her.
With an impatient huff, the woman scowled at him. When he just met her gaze, she shook her head. But she did snap the disk into a slot on her console. The flat holoscreen in front of her glimmered and holos appeared, flowing through the air, going by at the wrong angle for Soz to make out details. They looked like hieroglyphics in Skolian Flag, a structured language developed as a common tongue by the many and varied peoples of the Imperialate. Then a set of more elegant glyphs appeared. Those she recognized: Iotic. It was spoken as a first language only by the noble Houses and Ruby Dynasty.
The woman stared at the holos, her mouth opening, her face flushed. When the display faded, she looked up again. Her frown had vanished. She spoke in a subdued voice. “You may proceed.” She made no attempt to verify their identities. No questions, no checks, nothing.
Althor nodded, seeming subdued himself. He took the chip she handed to him and clicked it into his gauntlet. “Thank you.” To Soz he said, “Come on. Let’s go.”
Soz wasn’t sure what had just happened, but she doubted it was routine. She hurried to catch up with her long-legged brother as he strode out into a huge lobby. Its domed ceiling curved so far overhead, their entire house at Dalvador could have fit inside here, even its towers. Fluted columns bordered the lobby. White tiles patterned the floor, and also the insignia of the Skolian Imperialate in blue and gold, several meters across, the silhouette of an exploding sun within a circle.
“Wow.” Soz gaped at the place as they walked. “It’s even more impressive in real life.”
“It’s supposed to be.” Although Althor laughed, his voice had an odd, edgy quality.
Soz stopped gawking. “What’s wrong?”
“That disk had our identities on it.” After a moment he added, “Including that we were Kurj’s heirs.”
Gods. “No wonder she let us through so fast.”
“I don’t want special consideration.”
Soz agreed. Their dynastic family name was Skolia, but she wouldn’t use it here. She would loathe having people believe she gained admission
through nepotism rather than merit. No one would recognize the Valdoria name. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“I don’t.” He lifted his hands and then dropped them. “It doesn’t help. He comes to the academy sometimes. As soon as we’re together, everyone knows we’re related.”
Soz could see what he meant. It wasn’t only that he and Kurj looked so much like each other, but also that they looked like no one else. Their kin ties were obvious. The same wasn’t true in her case. She didn’t resemble Kurj at all. Perhaps no one would guess the relation.
“Has it caused you problems?” she asked.
“People are more careful around me than they should be.” He tapped his finger on his gauntlet. “I won’t use that chip again.”
“Neither will I.”
Her brother grinned. “You can’t. I have it.” When she glared, he smirked. “I’m older, Soz. Got seniority.”
She crossed her arms and turned her head away rather than deign to accept that answer.
Althor laughed. “You’re too easy to bait.”
“Pah.”
“Soz, look.”
Curious despite her intent to be aloof, she looked. An archway stood ahead of them, leading out of the lobby. “What about it?”
“That’s where new cadets go.”
A thrill went through her, followed by alarm. “Me.”
“Yes.” His teasing smile faded. “I have to use another entrance.” He drew her to a stop. “From here on, you’re on your own.”
Suddenly she wasn’t annoyed at him anymore. “Thank you for coming with me. And for being my support.”
“I don’t know, Soz.” Although he tried to appear dour, mischief danced in his gaze. “DMA might not thank me, after you whip through here like an exploding antimatter plasma.”
She laughed and grabbed him in a hug. He embraced her, laying his cheek on top of her head. They stood that way for several moments and then released each other.
Althor gave a self-conscious grin. “Good luck, eh?”
“You, too.” She glanced toward her entrance, feeling as if an invisible cable were pulling her.
“Go on,” Althor said. “I’ll see you.”
Softly she said, “And I you, my brother.”
They went on then, each to their own doorway into the universe of ISC, the massive interstellar machine that someday one of them—and only one—would command.
“Come on. Drink.” The voice ran over Shannon like liquid, with such a lilt and so many chimes, he barely understood the words. “Drink,” it coaxed. Cool, smooth pottery touched his lips.
He tried to swallow. It didn’t work. He tried again, and a trickle of water ran down his throat. Relief spread through him, and a certain satisfaction. Opening his eyes, he looked up into the silver irises of a man with a pale, almost translucent skin. White-gold hair framed the man’s face. He looked like a—
Blue Dale Archer.
“Hai!” Shannon sat up with a jerk and knocked the man’s arm. The glazed jug spun out of his grip, splattering water as it flipped through the air and thunked into a drift of old glitter.
“Ah, no!” Mortified, Shannon grabbed for the jug. Or tried to grab. His arm just barely lifted, sluggish and heavy, and then dropped back again. Dizziness swept over him and he swayed. Before he embarrassed himself by toppling over, though, someone grabbed him and eased him to the ground.
The man with the white-gold hair moved aside. Another took his place, exactly like the first, except he had longer hair, down to his waist. A third appeared, his face next to the second. He could almost have been a twin to the first two, except somehow he looked like a girl. He—she?—had a small nose and a fey quality about her face. Her eyes slanted upward, fringed with long lashes. The two men crouched behind her, studying him.
Shannon squinted at them all. He was fairly certain the first two were men, but they were smaller than he was and less muscled. For the first time
in his life he experienced what his brothers must feel all the time, being larger, heavier, and less graceful than the people around him. It was an odd experience. Pleasant, though.
He tried once more to sit, struggling to pull himself upright. The Archers moved closer, nudging him back, pushing on his arms, his shoulders, his legs. It took all three of them to hold him down. Bewildered, he closed his eyes, too tired to fight. Then he opened them again. The Archers remained.
“You’re real.” Shannon’s voice came out in a rasping whisper. He was lucky these people had found him; otherwise, he might have died. Except he had never believed in luck. He wet his lips and spoke again. “You’ve been following me, yes?”
They spoke among themselves in low tones, their melodic voices flowing over him like sparkling water. He barely understood their dialect, though he felt certain that if he could listen a little harder, a little longer, it would become clear. He tried sitting up yet again, and this time he resisted their attempts to stop him, even weakened as he was by lack of food and water. He picked up the blue-glazed jug and peered inside. It still had water. Holding it up, he turned a questioning look toward the Archers.
“Drink,” the man with long hair said, his voice chiming.
Relieved, Shannon put the jug to his lips and tilted back his head. The water went down his throat smooth and cool, a blissful respite from his thirst. He drained every drop. When he finished, he lowered the jug and took a deep breath. His fascinated audience watched, kneeling around him, staring with their tilted silver eyes.
“My greetings,” Shannon said. His voice cracked. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He had dreamed all his life of finding the Blue Dale Archers, but he had never believed it would happen. Yet here they were. Whether or not they would accept him was another question altogether.
The second man, the one with waist-length hair, spoke slowly. “Why are you here?”
“Searching for you,” Shannon said.
“Why?” That came from the first man.
“To find my own kind.”
“You are not one of us,” the second man said.
“You are too big,” the first one added.
The third Archer spoke. “Your eyes are wrong.” She touched her eyelashes. “They glitter.”
“They do?” That surprised Shannon. His siblings had metallic eyelashes, inherited from their mother; in comparison, his hardly glittered at all. Compared to these people, though, he supposed his were unusual.
“Is that why you hid from me?” Shannon asked. If he hadn’t gone into a trance, making them think he was dying, he suspected they would have remained hidden.
“You are a stranger,” the second Archer said.
The first one added another comment, but it sounded like a melody of chimes rather than words.
“Say again?” Shannon asked.
“You are not welcome here,” the first man said.
That felt like an arrow into his gut. Shannon answered with difficulty. “I am not welcome among my people. If you refuse me, I have nowhere to go.”
“You are exiled?” the woman asked.
“I caused my father to banish my brother.” Shannon wanted to stop, but the truth needed telling. If they accepted him, it would be despite his shortcomings, not because he hid any wrongs he had done. “I left then.”
They regarded him with unreadable faces. The long-haired man asked, “How did you cause your brother’s exile?”
Shannon wasn’t all that clear on it himself. “I went to talk with him one night.”
They waited. The second Archer studied Shannon with what might have been a frown, though their faces were so ethereal it was hard to read their emotions. Nor could he sense their moods well; he hesitated to lower his mental barriers with strangers.
When it became clear Shannon would say no more, the long-haired Archer said, “Why did this lead to banishment?”
“I am unsure,” Shannon admitted.
“Is your father a Blue Dale Archer?” the first asked.
“No. He is from Dalvador.”
“Ah.” The woman inclined her head. “The people of Dalvador and Rillia
are odd.” The others nodded, apparently accepting this as sufficient explanation for the behavior of Shannon’s father.
The first Archer spoke too fast for Shannon to understand.
“Again?” Shannon asked.
The man spoke more slowly. “If your father is of Dalvador and your mother has eyelashes that glitter, why do you look like a big Archer?”
Shannon smiled. Big indeed. “One of my father’s ancestors was an Archer.”
“Who is your father?”
“The Bard of Dalvador.”
A murmur went among them and they conferred together, their voices soft and lyrical. Shannon caught a few words, but they spoke too fast for him to pick up much.
Finally the first man said, “The Dalvador Bard is an important man. As his son, will you not be the next Bard?”
“I am the sixth son.”
“Ah.” They seemed satisfied with that answer. A second or even third son might entertain some prospects of inheriting a portion of his father’s work or his mother’s land, but a sixth was unlikely to receive much of anything.
“Have you a name?” the Archer with long hair asked.
He hesitated. “Shannon.”
“Shannon.” They murmured his name together.
He waited, uncertain. His family had never understood his hesitation to reveal his name, and he had difficulty articulating why. To give a name was an implicit appeal for acceptance, one neither casually offered nor taken.
The Archers sat watching him. Unease prickled Shannon.
Then the first one said, “I am Tharon.”
A man’s name. Shannon inclined his head in greeting.
“I am Elarion,” the long-haired Archer said.
Another man’s name. Shannon nodded, disappointed, though he didn’t analyze why.
“I am Varielle,” the third said.
His pulse leapt. A woman. He suddenly felt shy.
“Can you shoot a bow?” Tharon asked.
“I have some small skill.” Shannon had bested every one of his brothers, even his father, as well as all the other boys.
“Yet you have no bow,” Elarion said.
Shannon blinked. Of course he had a bow. He had strapped it to his travel bags.
It finally struck him what was missing. Moonglaze. He looked around the woods, frantic. “Where is my mount?”
“It went in search of water, we think,” Elarion said. “That is why we came to help.”
“He guarded you for many hours,” Varielle said in her musical voice. “He tried to awaken you. Finally he left.”
Perhaps he had been in worse shape than he realized. “Do you know where he is now?”
Tharon answered. “We were not here when he left. We were hunting. When we returned, you were alone. We stayed to see if you would awake. When it became clear you would not, we awoke you.”
Anger at himself sparked in Shannon. He should never have put Moonglaze in that dilemma, uncertain whether to stay with his rider or seek help. Had the lyrine headed back to the Rillian Vales? He wouldn’t realize that Shannon would die long before he returned with aid.
A disturbing thought struck Shannon. A shattering thought. Moonglaze had the jammer. If he had left, then nothing hid Shannon now. Yet no one had come for him. His family had stopped searching. Or perhaps they had never begun. As much as he knew it was right and proper that they let him go, deep inside he had believed they would look for him. He had secretly thought they would want him back despite everything.
Just as suddenly, hope stirred. Perhaps he hadn’t been free of the jammer long enough for anyone to find him. “How long since my lyrine left?”
“Two circles of the suns,” Tharon answered.
His hope died. It took three and a half hours for the suns to complete an orbit. He had lain here for seven hours. If his parents had been searching with ISC help, which they surely would do, they could have located him
within an hour without the jamming field to hide him. He could think of reasons it might have taken longer, but seven hours was too long to justify.
They weren’t trying to find him.
Tears gathered in Shannon’s eyes. He truly was exiled. The father he loved, the man he had looked up to all his life, who had loved him for so many years, would no longer see him. Why should the Dalvador Bard harbor a son who brought demons against his own father? It was right Shannon had gone, but nothing could stop his grief. The tears ran down his cheeks.
The Archers watched, their beautiful faces unreadable. Even so, it felt right, more bearable than the compassion his family would have shown when they had loved him. He would never recover from this. Perhaps someday he would learn how to bear the loss, but he couldn’t see how right now.
“Come.” Tharon extended his hand. “We must feed you.”
Shannon grasped the offered hand and let them help him stand. When Varielle put her arm around his waist so he could lean on her, his heartbeat increased. She felt slight against him; for the first time in his life, he felt strong and large.
“You must recover your bow,” she said. “A man cannot be an Archer without one.”
Shannon bit his lip, unable to respond, caught with an emotion he didn’t understand, both joy and sorrow all rolled together. He could neither call himself an Archer nor a man, having never used his bow except for practice or hunting for his own recreation, nor had he yet to enjoy his Night of Moons, the coming of age ritual for young men and women. Yet with her words, she accepted him into their group, however small it might be. He would become a Blue Dale Archer, one of a dying breed.
It was all he had left.