The Price of Silence
Shannon rode into the Blue Dale camp with his companions of the last five days: Tharon, a gifted archer who could bring down a floating sphere from a hundred paces; Elarion, whose white-gold hair reached to his waist; and Varielle, who was surely the most fascinating woman alive. She was an unparalleled Archer. She bested him at every shot, bested all of them, even Tharon.
Shannon’s thoughts turned to Varielle often. Perhaps it was because she was the first woman he had met like himself; he might have reacted this way to any female Blue Dale Archer. He doubted it, though. She fevered his dreams.
No one seemed to realize he was only one octet plus six years of age. He was large for an Archer, and the youthful cast of his face made no difference here; they all had a fey, childlike quality to their appearance. They treated him like an adult. He hoped Varielle saw him that way. She had half an octet of years on him, maybe more.
The days passed in bliss for Shannon, helping him forget why he had fled to the Blue Dales. It disturbed him greatly, however, that he couldn’t find Moonglaze. He had always loved the lyrine, and now Moonglaze had become his family. His only family. Without the lyrine, he had to ride with one of his three companions. Today he sat behind Varielle on her silver mount, his arms around her waist. He held her close and she made no objection. Her head brushed his chin, and the temptation to nuzzle her hair as if he were her lover was almost too much to resist.
He would have been content in the moment-by-moment, except for
the dreams that plagued him, nightmares of agony in his legs and back, always in darkness. He would awake sweating and terrified, unable to rise from where he slept in the forest, rolled in a blanket. Each time it happened, a compulsion urged him back to Rillia, an urge that grew stronger each day. But without Moonglaze, he had no means to ride anywhere except with the Archers.
It astounded him that his companions let him accompany them. The Blue Dale Archers had hidden so well that everyone in Rillia and Dalvador believed them extinct. Yet these three accepted him. He didn’t know how to express what it meant to him, but they seemed to know. They lived in a wash of emotion, letting feelings pour over and through their minds. They weren’t empaths, but they came closer to that state than anyone he knew except his family. He felt right with them. They were bringing him home. That made it all the more wrenching that he would soon have to leave them.
Shannon had no wish to return to Rillia. But he had to go. The dreams grew worse each night. Somehow he needed to find another lyrine. When he did, he would head back to the Vales.
Varielle shifted in front of him, and he rested his forehead against the back of her head. She felt small in his arms, her hair glossy on his cheek. Visions played in his mind of her floating in a pool, her body bare and glistening with water. He wanted her, but he was afraid to let her know, so he just used this excuse to hold her in his arms.
Varielle leaned back, her head on his shoulder. “You have much strength.”
That made Shannon feel taller. He didn’t know how to respond to such a compliment, though, so he said only, “You should meet my brothers.” Immediately he wished he had kept his mouth shut. Women always found his brothers handsome. He had never envied them their conquests before, or at least not too much, but now his jealousy surged. Better Varielle never meet them, especially Del, who had dallied with half the girls in the village.
Blue mist swirled through the dale below them, curling around the stained-glass trees and drifting past tents. Melodies trilled in the air. After several moments he realized the music came from voices calling and children laughing. People were all around them, hidden in the fog. Silvery figures darted from tree to tree, following them, almost invisible in the fog.
“We are causing a stir,” he said.
“Not us.” Varielle leaned against him, her eyes closed, her hands loose on the reins. “You.”
Shannon winced. “A good one, I hope.”
She laughed, a melodic sound. “The women will envy me.”
A sense of fullness swelled inside Shannon. He kissed the back of her head, savoring her soft hair, like silk under his lips.
The trail leveled out and tents shrouded in mist appeared on either side, as blue as snow. The eerie beauty of the place seemed steeped in magic, ready for spirits to step out of legends and come to life. A group of riders formed out of the mist and came toward them. They rode silver lyrine, smaller than a war mount like Moonglaze, more the size of the lavender or blue lyrine most people rode in the Dalvador Plains.
The leader of the group sat tall on her mount, head lifted, her silver eyes surrounded by a nest of lines, her translucent skin creased, her hair silver rather than white-gold. Her authority permeated the air.
They all reined their mounts to a halt and gathered in a restless cluster of lyrine. The leader gazed at Shannon with no welcome in her eyes. She spoke to Tharon, her phrases a ripple of music. Shannon had grown more accustomed to the Archer dialect these past few days, enough to pick up some of their words. The Elder castigated Tharon for bringing a stranger into camp.
Tharon answered in elegant phrases, composing an image that startled Shannon. He described Shannon’s persistence, his kindness to the lyrine, his prowess with a bow, his quiet nature. The Archer spoke of “the music of Shannon’s ken, the flow of his moods, the sight of his heart.” Shannon understood little of what that meant, but the phrases had a symmetry that felt right.
The Elder’s demeanor softened toward Shannon. She spoke to him, slowing her voice so he could better understand. “Is your lyrine a giant animal with a dark coat?”
Shannon straightened up behind Varielle, still holding her in his arms. “Yes. A purple coat. He is a war lyrine.”
“He came here.” This seemed to impress the Elder. “He acted as if he wished us to help someone. We did not know who.”
Shannon’s breath caught. The great animals such as Moonglaze rarely
gave fealty to humans. Although Moonglaze had accepted him, he hadn’t realized the lyrine would make such an extreme effort to save his life, even searching out the legendary Blue Dale Archers. Their help would have come too late if Tharon and the others hadn’t already found Shannon, but what mattered was that the lyrine tried.
Shannon inclined his head to the Elder with respect. “I thank you for sheltering Moonglaze.”
“Moonglaze?” she asked.
“The lyrine.” He didn’t say “my” lyrine. Moonglaze belonged only to himself.
“A fine name for a fine beast,” the Elder said.
Shannon hesitated, unsure of protocols. Varielle was simply waiting, silent in front of him. She hadn’t tensed in his arms, though, which boded well. He hoped. Nor had any of the Archers challenged him for riding into camp with his arms around one of their women. He wished he could hold her for hours, days, many nights. But he couldn’t stay.
“May I see Moonglaze now?” he asked.
“If it is him.” The Elder guided her mount around. It stepped with graceful agitation, like a wraith cloaked in the swirling blue mist. They rode through the camp with the octet of Archers who had accompanied the Elder and now kept watch on Shannon. The fog muted sound.
They soon reached the last of the tents. Among the widely spaced trees beyond, a small herd of lyrine stood in a cluster, most of them nibbling at patches of stub-reeds. They resembled the mist, silvery and slender, indiscernible until Shannon was almost upon them. One stood out from the rest, a huge animal and powerfully muscled, with a dark violet coat. Joy surged through Shannon. He slid off Varielle’s lyrine and landed on the ground with a thump.
Moonglaze lifted his head.
For an instant the lyrine remained still. Then he whistled a long cry to the air, resonant and powerful. He shook his head and walked among the other animals. Many of them stopped grazing and moved aside to let him pass. As Shannon went forward through the herd, several of the lyrine studied him, first with one silver eye, then turning their heads to look at him with the other. Animals in Dalvador did the same. They could see with
both eyes at once, looking forward, but when they wished to scrutinize an oddity or uncertain phenomenon, they observed it from all possible views.
Apparently satisfied that he posed no threat, they went back to nibbling the reeds. Shannon and Moonglaze met in their midst, and Moonglaze snuffled at him, pushing his nose against Shannon’s shoulder. Shannon put his arms around his neck and laid his head against the great lyrine. Moisture gathered in his eyes. Moonglaze whistled and curved his head around, gently butting him. With a laugh, Shannon released the lyrine and stepped back. Moonglaze considered him with one eye, then turned his head and gazed at him with the other eye.
Shannon smiled. “Making sure it’s me?”
The lyrine whistled, a chastising note. Shannon scratched his neck in that place the lyrine liked so much. With a snort of approval, Moonglaze lowered his head and went back to grazing.
“He loves you,” a fluid voice said.
Shannon turned with a start. Varielle stood a few paces away.
“He accepts me,” Shannon said. “I wouldn’t presume more.”
“You should try presuming more,” she murmured, coming forward. She stopped in front of him and looked up into his face. “You will go now, won’t you?”
Shannon wished he could stay. It burned inside of him. But he could only nod. “I’m sorry. I must.”
“I don’t understand.” She motioned around at the camp. “You came looking for Archers. Here we are.”
He spoke unevenly. “I have dreams. Nightmares. They drive me. Something is wrong, very wrong.”
She laid her palm against his chest. “I will go with you.”
“I also,” another voice said. Tharon also came forward, leading his lyrine, with Elarion at his side.
“I, too,” Elarion said.
Shannon’s voice caught. “You honor me. But why?”
“We have seen your worry, your restless slumber, your darkened eyes in the morning.” Elarion’s voice drifted with the mist. “We have also seen your ken of the Dales. You are part of us. We will go for a ways with you.”
Shannon wanted their company; indeed, he longed for it. They made
him feel complete in a way he had never experienced in Dalvador. But guilt tugged at him. He had no idea what he faced. “You have your home here.”
“Our home is the forests.” Varielle’s words chimed. “We never stay in one place.”
So it was true, Archers led a nomadic life. It was probably why they were so hard to find. “But you never go to Rillia.” It was a guess on his part, but probably a good one given that Rillians never reported any definitive sightings of the Archers.
“We may go only partway,” Tharon said. “Tomorrow the camp rides. We will travel with you for a while. Then we will see.”
Shannon inclined his head. “I will be glad for every day we spend together. I would miss your company.”
Varielle’s pale lashes came down halfway over her tilted eyes. “And I yours.”
Shannon suddenly felt warm. He wanted to take her into his arms, but he held back, in part because they had an audience but also because he feared she would reject him.
The Elder and her retinue had remained on their lyrine, back on the path, half-hidden by the drifting mist. Tharon raised his hand, indicating them. To Shannon he said, “Join us for a meal.”
“I would like that,” Shannon said. “Thank you.”
So they gathered for the evening, preparing for a new day when they would ride to Rillia.
Eldrinson’s universe had shrunk to a pallet, to darkness—and to pain.
He could see nothing. He lay in darkness, unable to rise. The boulders had crushed his legs, pulverizing the bones. His backbone remained intact, but it was no blessing, for it meant he could feel. The agony in his broken body never stopped. At times it eased, but later it would surge again. The first day Vitarex had knocked him out with a sedative, giving him a merciful oblivion. He had awoken here, in the tent, laid out on a pile of rugs. And here he stayed, unable to move, hating what he had done to himself, hating Vitarex even more.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. A day? Two? More? He had
suffered several grand mal attacks and numerous minor seizures. The convulsions worsened his injuries. None of it mattered to Vitarex. He deliberately left Eldrinson untreated so that he could transcend.
A shuffle came from nearby. Eldrinson thought someone was kneeling by his pallet. “Who is there?”
A woman answered. “It is Jaliesa.”
Relief spread through him. Jaliesa was the wife in the young couple who served Vitarex. She had been tending him since his fall from the bluff. Her touch soothed and her care eased his pain. He spoke in a low voice. “Have you talked with Tarlin yet?” She hadn’t been certain who Eldrinson meant.
“I know who he is now,” she whispered. “I will speak to him when I can.”
“Please help me.”
She spoke raggedly. “I will try. But I cannot betray Lord Vitarex. We have sworn our oath to him.”
Eldrinson gritted his teeth. “He’s a monster.”
Instead of answering, she said, “Here, Goodman. Drink.” Something scraped, perhaps a lid, and the tantalizing smell of broth wafted around him. As his mouth watered, Jaliesa lifted his head and set a jug to his lips. He pushed up on his elbow, flinching at the pain it sparked in his legs. Holding the jug with his other hand, he drank deeply, grateful for the succor of its soup. When he finished, he lay back down on the pallet, on his back, exhausted by that slight activity. As Jaliesa took the jug from him, a rustle came from the direction of the tent entrance.
“How is he?” Vitarex said. His footsteps approached.
Bile surged in Eldrinson. And loathing.
“He is stronger today,” Jaliesa said.
“Why don’t you ask me?” Eldrinson asked harshly. “My legs may not work, but my throat is fine.”
“Indeed.” Vitarex was nearer now, right next to him, maybe crouching at his side. A hand touched his forehead. “Your fever has receded.”
Eldrinson pulled his head away. He hated that he had to depend on Vitarex for his every need. “I’m fine.”
“Milord,” Jaliesa said. “May I speak?”
“Go ahead.” Vitarex made no attempt to hide the pleasure in his voice as he transcended.
“Will you not fix his legs?”
“I cannot.”
“But surely such a great lord as you can do anything.”
Eldrinson wanted to vomit at Vitarex’s “greatness.” But he knew Jaliesa believed flattering the Aristo would produce the best results. She was probably right.
“I haven’t the resources to mend such damage,” Vitarex said.
Liar, Eldrinson thought. But he feared the Aristo told the truth, that his body was so broken, even offworld medicine couldn’t fix it. He knew too little about their technology. He couldn’t even hope for treatment, lest a medical exam give away his identity.
“He is such a valuable po-po-possession.” Her voice scratched with no lilt at all. It didn’t surprise him that she stumbled on the last word; the idea of one human owning another was anathema to his people. “It is a shame that someone of your magnificence must lose one of such value.”
“This is true,” Vitarex acknowledged. “But in his condition, it would be difficult to take him when I leave here.” He sounded as if he were speaking more to himself than to Jaliesa. “I must take—certain others when I go. I can’t risk the success of our departure by including someone this injured. Were he healthy, that might be different.”
“But he will die without your help,” Jaliesa said.
“I am sorry. I wish I could take him.” Vitarex sounded as if he meant it. Eldrinson even believed him. What the Aristo regretted, though, was losing such a good provider. Eldrinson knew he had only to reveal himself and he would live. Vitarex already realized he was a strong psion. The antiempath couldn’t read him well enough to recognize his full strength, but if he gave Vitarex more cause to wonder, the Aristo would investigate. The moment he revealed his identity, however, Vitarex could leave Lyshriol, having gained one of his targets, a Rhon psion.
It would endanger all of Skolia.
Eldrinson didn’t really understand how it worked, why Rhon psions were so important to the Skolians, but he believed what they told him.
Their description of the Aristos had been true, even understated. Roca’s people claimed if the Traders captured a Rhon psion, it would give them advantage over ISC, enough to conquer Skolia. He didn’t really fathom why the Skolians had instantaneous interstellar communication and the Traders didn’t or why it was so important. He knew the words, but the science remained an enigma. He understood the result, however; if the Aristos captured any member of his family, they would have the key they needed to achieve such communications. And then the Imperialate would fall.
To protect his people, he had only to remain silent—even if it meant his death.