The Message
The academy had libraries of every type, including virtual reality arcades where students could experience their studies firsthand, soundproofed chambers where they could listen to texts, console rooms where they could jack into library meshes, and traditional stacks with books in shelves. The paper books were exhibits only; they were too valuable to use. It was far easier, anyway, to obtain information from consoles or holobooks.
Soz had two preferences: the virtual library that made her studies seem real and the traditional library, which reminded her of home. Tonight she chose tradition. She adored the vaulted ceilings in the library and the intricate carvings, all those ornate scrolls and scallops on the columns, around the windows, even on the legs and edges of the long tables where cadets could spread out their materials. The library was really a museum, but a student could apply to look at the books if they agreed to a voluminous set of regulations for how they treated the tomes. Soz had applied her first day. She loved to browse the shelves of old books, astonished by their paper bindings and inked script.
Today she sat ensconced in an armchair with her legs up on a table and a holobook in her lap. She wasn’t studying, though. She was thinking of home. The old-fashioned atmosphere here stirred memories of her youth. No building like this actually existed on Lyshriol, though; a people with no written language had no use for libraries. Their records were kept by women known as Memories, those rare scholars who had holographic recall. The anthropologists who studied Lyshriol believed Memories descended
from genetically engineered humans who had colonized the planet five millennia ago during the Ruby Empire.
History had always intrigued Soz. Five thousand years ago, during the Stone Age, an unknown race of beings had come to Earth. They took away a small population of humans and stranded them on the world Raylicon. Then they disappeared, leaving no explanation, no justification for their actions, nothing. Some historians believed a calamity had befallen them before they could complete whatever project they had begun. Whatever the reason, they left the humans with almost nothing. Primitive, terrified, and bewildered, the humans struggled to survive.
Their abductors left behind one clue to their origins, the ruins of three starships on the shores of the Vanished Seas. From those ships and their libraries, over the centuries, the people on Raylicon gleaned enough knowledge to develop star travel. Using technology they barely understood, they went in search of their lost home at a time when humans on Earth were still living in caves. They never found Earth, but they built the Ruby Empire, scattering its colonies across the stars.
With such a shaky foundation, the empire lasted only a few centuries. Then it collapsed, stranding its colonies. A Dark Age followed on Raylicon, continuing for several millennia. During that time, many of the stranded colonies failed. The few that survived backslid into more primitive conditions.
Lyshriol had been one such colony.
Gradually the Raylicans rebuilt their civilization, this time from the ground up, ensuring they understood what they created. When they finally regained the stars, they split into two empires: the Eubian Concord, also called the Trader Empire, which based its economy on the sale of human beings; and the Skolian Imperialate, ruled by an elected Assembly that considered freedom a fundamental right of all humans.
Eventually the people of Earth developed space travel. They were in for a shock when they reached the stars: their siblings were already there, building empires—two thriving but irreconcilably opposed civilizations. The Allied Worlds of Earth became a third power. Although a smaller civilization than the Trader Empire or Skolian Imperialate, the Allieds were strong enough that conquering them would take more resources than either Skolia or the
Traders could spare, given the constant threat of war between the two mammoths. So the three interstellar powers maintained an uneasy coexistence.
Scouts from Earth rediscovered Lyshriol. They christened the planet Skyfall because its blue snow looked like the sky fallen to the ground. That referred to Earth, though, rather than Lyshriol, which had a lavender sky. Earth ceded its claim to Skolia when they realized it was an ancient Ruby colony, but the infernal Skyfall name had stuck.
The Ruby colonists had terraformed Lyshriol five millennia ago. No one now knew why chemicals saturated the biosphere, turning the water, the snow, even the clouds blue. The planet had no axial tilt and an unnaturally circular orbit. Lyshriol had probably been moved there, a feat of astronomical engineering beyond any modern civilization. No one knew if the colonists had engineered the phenomenal recall of the Memories or if it had developed later. Nor did they know why Lyshrioli people had four-fingered hands or seemed incapable of literacy. The answers to those questions had vanished during the Dark Ages.
Soz had some trouble adapting to Diesha. The heat and dry air bothered her. The sixteen-hour days were shorter than the twenty-eight-hour cycle on Lyshriol, and the length of the night varied relative to the day. Usually she slept too little, skipping every other night. Although she understood, in theory, why most worlds didn’t have equal days and nights all year long, it felt strange to live in such a place.
“Don’t go to sleep,” a deep voice rumbled.
Soz looked up with a start. Althor was leaning against a nearby column, his black trousers and pullover a dark contrast to the yellowed wood. He had dark circles under his eyes.
Soz smiled at her brother. “Where did you come from?”
“The dorm.” He walked over, dropped into another chair, and swung his booted legs up on the low table. “I’ve a midterm tomorrow in Quantum Inversion.”
“Good stuff.” Soz approved of any subject related to star travel. She hadn’t yet studied the quantum theories of relativistic inversion, but she looked forward to it.
He grimaced and rubbed his eyes. “I’m seeing equations in my sleep. I’ll be glad when the class is over.”
“You look tired,” she said.
“I’m all right.”
“It’s the air here,” Soz grumbled. “Not enough oxygen.”
“It doesn’t bother me much anymore.”
“I guess I’ll get used to it.” She motioned at her legs. “They hurt. I don’t know why. I’ve never had any problem before.”
He leaned his elbow on the arm of the chair. “Probably the different gravity.”
“It’s lighter. That should make things easier.”
“Your body still has to adjust.” His forehead furrowed. “That’s an odd coincidence, though. I’ve been having nightmares that my legs are broken.”
Soz regarded him uneasily. “A while back, I collapsed on the trail. Something felt really wrong. I thought you might have been hurt, except you said you were fine.”
Althor’s grin flashed. “Thinking about me knocked you out. Admit it, Soz.”
She snorted. “Pah.”
He gestured at her holobook. “What is it you were pretending to study while you were daydreaming?”
“I was not daydreaming.” Soz glowered at him. “I was contemplating life.”
He laughed, a throaty, full sound. “I hope life comes out of that all right.”
Soz couldn’t help but smile. She flicked her finger through a holicon on her holobook. Chemical formulas formed in the air. “It’s for my chemistry class. Boring, boring, boring.”
“You don’t like chemistry?”
“I like it fine. I just know it already.” She snapped her fingers through the holicon and the chemicals disappeared. “I asked if I could take the final tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Althor stared at her. “That chemistry class is a second-year course. How can you be taking the final less than a month into your first term of your first year?”
“The brass put me in there.” She rubbed the back of her neck, working at the stiff muscles. “I just do what they say and go to class. Most of the
courses are boring. My instructors already let me test out of Biomech and Neural Science.”
He looked alarmed. “Novices don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because those classes are killers.”
“Yeah, right.”
Exasperation flashed across his face. “Would you please slow down? The rest of us can’t keep up.”
Soz smiled. “I thought I daydreamed too much.”
“That, too.” When she laughed, he settled back, relaxing. “So what are you taking instead of Biomech and Neural Science?”
Soz actually wasn’t sure. So far the “class” had been odd. They sat around and made up scenarios for Trader attacks and then countered them. It fascinated her, but she had seen no texts or syllabus. “Just something called Military Science.”
Althor blinked. “They put you in a think tank?”
She wiggled her fingers at him as if she were casting a spell. “We do virtual reality simulations where the Traders are winning and then we figure out how to hex their ships.”
He was no longer smiling. “Soz, listen to me. Most cadets never see those classes. Only the best upperclass cadets, the ones ISC expects to become leaders. Those aren’t games you’re playing.”
Soz shifted her weight. “Some of the scenarios are wild. I’ll tell you about them sometime.”
“You can’t. You must know those classes are secured.”
“Well, yes. But you’re my brother. An Imperial Heir.”
“It doesn’t make one damn bit of difference.” He spoke quietly. “Just because you’re smarter, tougher, and better connected than most everyone else here, that doesn’t mean the rules apply any less to you than to everyone else.”
“I know that.”
“Maybe if you knew it better, you would get fewer demerits.”
Well, hell. How did he know about the demerits? She got them all the time, try as she would to follow regulations. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right.” He cocked his eyebrow at her. “You don’t have more demerits than any other student in your class.”
“How would you know if I did?”
“I talk to people.”
“Too much.” She crossed her arms, trying to be forbidding. The effect was marred when it knocked her holobook off her lap and she had to grab for it.
“Heya, Soz,” a cheerful voice said. “Throwing things?”
Flustered, Soz looked up to see Grell, her roommate, coming around Althor’s chair. Grell glanced idly at Althor, then did a double take and froze. “Sir!” Grell saluted, her arms out and crossed at the wrists, her fists clenched.
“You don’t have to salute me here,” Althor said mildly. “The library is a free zone.”
Grell lowered her arms. “Sir! I’m sorry, sir.”
“Oh for flaming sakes,” Soz said. “He’s just my brother Althor. Sit down, Grell.” DMA regulations required novices to Salute upperclass cadets, but the instructors had ruled libraries exempt after juniors and seniors began using the rules to bedevil novices, making it impossible for the younger students to study.
Grell sat down. “My apologies, sir.”
Althor smiled at her. “It’s no problem.”
Grell blushed and averted her gaze. Soz wasn’t sure what flustered her roommate—Althor’s upperclass status, his sinfully good looks, or his resemblance to Kurj. She scowled at him just for good measure, but he only grinned.
“How do you like DMA?” he asked Grell.
She looked up. “It is an honor to be here, Your Highness.”
Soz inwardly groaned. It had taken days to convince her roommates to treat her like a normal human. Living together helped; the glamour fast disappeared when you woke up every morning with bleary eyes just like everyone else or stumbled in covered with sweat after a workout. But here was Grell treating Althor like some glorious prince of the empire. He was, actually, but that made it no less irksome.
Althor smirked at Soz. “You know, contrary to your opinion of brothers as a lesser life-form, we’re actually human.”
Soz reddened. “I never said lesser.”
Grell was watching them, intrigued now. She motioned at the four gold bars on Althor’s shoulders. “So you’re a senior?”
He turned the full force of his dazzling grin on her. “For you, I’ll be anything.”
Grell blushed, and this time Soz did groan. Mercifully, Althor just grinned. As the three of them talked, Grell relaxed, and Althor soon had her laughing. Soz said very little. She was growing angry, but she didn’t want to ruin their good time.
Finally she stood up. “I better go. I’ll see you around.”
“It’s still early.” Grell sounded disappointed.
“I have droid duty.” Soz winced. A pox on whoever dreamed up the concept. They weren’t even real droids. She had to clean the mechbots that tended the academy grounds. By the time she finished her shift tonight, she would be covered in oil and dirt, and exhausted, but she would still have to finish her chemistry, since she had spent her free time daydreaming.
Althor looked amused. “Lovely job.”
Soz gave him a quelling look. “It isn’t funny.”
He didn’t look the least quelled. “Just how many demerits do you have?”
Soz picked up her flat-pack, stuffed in her holobook, sealed up the pack with far more force than she needed, and slung it over her shoulder. To Grell, she said, “See you tonight.” Then she stalked off. She knew she shouldn’t treat them this way, but anger drove her away.
She had almost reached the library entrance when Althor caught up with her. “Soz, wait.” He put his hand on her arm and pulled her to a stop. “What’s wrong?”
Too furious to answer, she just shook her head.
He drew her into a secluded alcove behind several shelves of books. “Why are you angry at me?”
“You were flirting with my roommate.”
“So?”
“It’s fraternization.”
“What fraternization?”
Her anger surged. “You can’t date her, Althor.”
“For flaming sakes, we were just talking.”
“You’re both cadets.”
“I won’t be for much longer.”
Soz clenched her fists. “Grell is my friend. She doesn’t deserve for you to lead her on.”
“What makes you think I was leading her on?”
“Oh, come on, Althor. You aren’t interested in her. Not the way she thinks.”
His expression tightened. “How the blazes would you know what interests me?”
“You going to ruin some woman’s life by marrying her, is that it?” Her voice grated. “Condemn her to a life of disappointment just so our father will let you come home?”
His posture went rigid. “It’s none of your business.”
“No, none of my business.” She lowered her voice. “It’s none of my business that Kurj treats me like a smart-mouthed, cocky cadet he has to cut down to size when I’m the best damn novice here. It’s none of my business that I can’t seem to prove him wrong, because maybe I am a damn smart-mouthed, cocky cadet. It’s none of my business that we talk for hours in that think tank about invasion, and that under their veneer, our instructors are scared to death those scenarios will come true.” Her voice cracked. “One of these days I’ll go out and fight Aristos, defend my people, my family, maybe even lose my life, and goddamnit, my own father won’t even answer my letters.”
Althor exhaled. He said, simply, “Yes.”
Her anger fizzled. “Why am I mad at you? You did nothing wrong. You never do. You’re perfect. The golden boy, literally. Except you gave Father a little shock.” She spoke tiredly. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should try to be what he wants. I hurt him so much. I hate knowing that. What does it mean to defend those we love if we lose their love in the process?”
Althor laid his hand on her shoulder. “He never stopped loving us.
That’s why he’s so upset. He doesn’t want us to give our lives in combat, especially in a war he can’t understand.”
She rubbed the tears gathering in her eyes. Had it been anyone except Althor, she would have left then, unable to let her vulnerability show. He more than anyone understood the pressure of being Kurj’s heir. But how could they talk when that pressure created a barrier between them, the knowledge that Kurj would choose only one as his successor? He set brother against sister, and it created a rift she didn’t know how to bridge. They could no longer trust each other with their concerns, lest it tempt one to use that knowledge against the other in this forced rivalry.
A thought came to Soz, one she hated but couldn’t deny. Kurj had assumed the title of Imperator through the death of their grandfather, Jarac, the previous Imperator. Had Kurj set her and Althor against each other because he feared they would otherwise turn against him, coveting his power? Jarac had died when Kurj joined him and the Ruby Pharaoh in the Dyad that powered the Kyle web. Kurj had made the Dyad a Triad.
The Kyle web existed in Kyle space, a universe outside of spacetime. Any strong psion could access the web, but only the Rhon could power it. Without the web, ISC would lose the communications that tied the military together as an interstellar force and Skolia as a civilization. Without the Dyad, there was no web, and without the Ruby Dynasty there was no Dyad.
The Dyad consisted of two Keys—two Rhon psions: Kurj, the Imperator, and Dyhianna, the Ruby Pharaoh. The Dyad before them had been Soz’s grandparents, the previous Ruby Pharaoh and Imperator. When Kurj joined them, the power had surged catastrophically. Unable to support three such incredible minds, the link had overloaded and destroyed Jarac. In trying to create a Triad, Kurj had instead killed his predecessor and taken his title.
Lahaylia had died several years later of old age, after a life of several centuries. That left Kurj as one of the most powerful human beings alive, perhaps even more so than the elected leader of Skolia, Lyra Meson, the First Councilor of the Assembly. He commanded the Imperialate military, a war machine with no match except ESComm, the Trader military.
Someday that would all go to either Althor or Soz.
Now Soz found herself staring at Althor, the brother she loved as much
today as in their childhood. A wall had come between them. By making them vie for the title of Imperial Heir, Kurj made them into rivals. He had to know they would become warier of each other as the years passed and the stakes rose for the power they had to gain, until someday they might have nothing left but distrust for each other.
Tonight, she and Althor each went their way for the evening, the raveling bond of their kinship repaired for now. But Soz feared Kurj would never choose an Imperial heir, that he would wait for them to make the choice for him. He was wrong if he expected one of them to assassinate the other; she could never harm her own kin. But the war might do it for them. Nothing would remove this wall between them except death itself.
Roca sat at the long table in the breakfast room, her arms crossed on the table, her body slumped, her head hanging down. Footsteps crossed the room, but she was too exhausted to move.
“Councilor?” The voice came at her side.
Roca lifted her head. Brad was standing next to her, dressed in dark trousers and an old sweater, his salt-and-pepper hair curled tightly against his scalp, his dark skin wan with fatigue.
“Is it dawn yet?” she asked. Her words sounded as heavy as she felt. So tired. So very tired.
He nodded, sitting next to her. “Del and Chaniece are loading the flyer with supplies for our search today. The shuttles have already left.”
“They have to be out there,” she whispered. She fumbled for a blueglass tumbler on the table.
Brad poured her a glass of water. “We’ll find them. I swear it.” His voice rasped, though with fatigue or apprehension, she couldn’t tell. Both, she thought. Brad and Eldrinson had been friends for over thirty years.
Roca drank deeply, her arms shaking. She held the glass with both hands to keep from splashing out water. In the past fifteen days, since Eldri’s disappearance, she hadn’t slept a single night all the way through. She paced the castle wall outside for hours, trying to reach her husband with her thoughts, unable to penetrate the static in his mind. He was in pain, terrible pain, but they couldn’t find him, neither she nor Brad nor the
children nor the entire goddamned orbital system. How could ISC have such formidable defenses around this planet and be unable to locate one man and one boy?
“It can’t just be Shannon’s jammer.” She set down her water and sat up straighter, rubbing the small of her back. “ISC should have broken through its interference days ago.”
Brad leaned his head against the high back of his chair. “Colonel Majda is coming down again today to talk with us.”
“I’d like to do a stint in the flyer first, if we have time.”
“We should.” Brad stood up, then paused as Roca rose to her feet. “Denric said he would come with us. Del and Chaniece are riding with the army personnel who came down yesterday.”
They left the breakfast room and headed out. Neither of them spoke. Roca couldn’t voice the dread that grew larger within her each day. Shannon’s jammer might have malfunctioned in some incredible manner to cause this disappearance, or some other extenuating circumstances might exist that they hadn’t accounted for, but the more time that passed, the harder that became to believe. Only ESComm technology could hide someone this well, even from ISC. But surely the Traders couldn’t have taken Eldri or Shannon. It couldn’t have happened.
If even Lyshriol wasn’t safe, where would she protect her family?
The Blue Dale caravan wound through the trees and stirred up the glitter that piled so deeply here, where humans rarely wandered. They had traveled for days, venturing lower in the mountains, until finally they left the Blue Dales. The closer they approached the Rillian Vales, the more uneasy the Archers became. Even the brighter colors of the trees seemed to unsettle them.
All of the Archers rode, the men, women, and children. They passed through the mist as if they weren’t solid themselves. Here in the lower mountains, the fog burned off in the late morning, leaving them unveiled from the sky. It made them uneasy, restless. Vulnerable. Shannon knew that soon they would go their own way, back up into the mountains, and he would follow his insubstantial nightmare alone.
His legs ached constantly now, and though he blamed it on riding for many hours each day, he knew the truth. It came from the dreams that drove him onward, down and down, toward the western fringes of Rillia, those isolated wilds beyond the thriving towns or even the outlying farms.
Elarion rode up alongside him, his silver lyrine large for the Archers but only medium compared to Moonglaze.
“My greetings,” Shannon said. He enjoyed Elarion’s company. “How are you this morn?”
“Hot.” Elarion’s long hair swirled around his body and glistened in the sunlight. Tufted ends of his arrows stuck up out of his quiver behind his back. Shannon had previously used bits of glasswood twigs on the ends of his arrows, but the Archers preferred twists of cloth they wove from flexible hemp-reeds that grew in the upper ranges. He had discovered that such twists gave his arrows better balance. He knew from school that on Earth they used “feathers” from birds. Lyshriol had no birds, besides which, he found it hard to believe such filmy material could be useful for an arrow.
Elarion noticed him staring at the arrows. He reached over his shoulder and pulled one out, a long tube of purple glasswood with a razor-sharp point. He offered it to Shannon. “For you.”
Shannon blinked, confused. “Thank you.”
Elarion smiled. “It is a token. For yesterday, during the archery practice. You shot well.”
“You honor me.”
“Aiya, Shannon,” two musical voices crooned. The trill of sweet laughter followed the lovely sound.
Startled, blushing, Shannon turned around. Two girls were riding by on silvery-blue lyrine, their silver eyes teasing him. They giggled at him and rode on.
“For flaming sake,” Shannon muttered. Why did girls always giggle at him? It was as bad here as at home.
Elarion chuckled at his side. “They like you.”
He slanted Elarion a wary look. “They bedevil me.”
“It is the way always with women,” the Archer said good-naturedly. “The tall, handsome stranger comes into their midst and they vie for his attention.”
Shannon’s face was burning. Elarion couldn’t be serious. He twirled the purple-glass arrow Elarion had given him, turning it around and around in his hand as he looked up the line of Archers. Varielle was about seven riders ahead of him, riding alongside one of her friends.
“They confuse me,” Shannon admitted.
“Who?” Elarion closed his eyes and tilted his face to the sun, letting his lyrine pick the way.
“Women.”
“Ah.” Elarion looked at him. “So it has always been.”
It wasn’t the world’s most useful advice, but he suspected it was all he would get from the taciturn Elarion. Varielle remained a mystery. He had thought she liked him, but now that they no longer needed to ride the same lyrine, she often went with her friends, leaving him alone. Just when he thought she had forgotten him, she would seek out his company. But before he could find the courage to take matters further, she would go off again with her friends. She kept him off balance, off kilter. Maybe his initial impression of her interest had been wishful thinking. Why would a woman such as Varielle spend time with a boy? Although he hadn’t told her his age, he probably came across as young. His height couldn’t hide the truth for long.
“Shannon, bannon,” voices chimed at his side. “Sing a song.”
He smiled as two small boys rode next to him, both on one lyrine, their small faces beaming, their wild gold hair tousled down their necks and around their ears, their upward-tilted eyes full of silver mischief.
“My greetings,” Shannon said.
“Sing the story about the night and dawn,” they chimed.
“It would be my pleasure.” Shannon had sung earlier for the adults as they rode, so his voice was warm and relaxed. He hummed a few notes, then let a ballad flow out of him, using his tenor range:
Ralcon, god of night,
Spreading stars wide,
Spreading stars through the sky,
The dark sky,
Dark as his eyes,
Dark as his hair,
Dark as the night.
The charmed goddess rose,
The goddess of light,
The goddess of Dawn,
Of luminous new Dawn.
Ralcon, god of the dark,
Of fertile, sensual dark,
He brings the Dawn,
The pearly Dawn,
But lives beyond her light.
While he sang, the boys made appreciative chimes with their voices, like music to accompany him. The melody sparkled among the trees. Other riders had pulled closer as Shannon sang, and now they added rills of approval. It made Shannon smile. He had spent many an hour with his father during his childhood learning to sing. He had so loved those days.
His good mood faded. Never again would his father sing with him.
He talked with the boys for a while, but eventually they rode off to explore the woods, away from adults, which apparently included him. Shannon wished he could go with them. He missed running through the Dalvador Plains.
“You are good with them,” Elarion said.
“They remind me of myself.” Shannon’s mood had turned pensive as he thought of his childhood.
“It is good, the things you tell them.”
That surprised Shannon. “What do you mean?”
“It is hard to say exactly.” Elarion paused. “Your words have honor. Your ken has music.”
Shannon rolled the arrow Elarion had given him between his fingers. Then he reached back and pulled an arrow out of his own quiver, a green glasswood beauty he had carved last night. He offered it to Elarion. “For friendship.”
The Archer inclined his head as he accepted the arrow. “May we share it always.” He put the green arrow in his quiver and Shannon slid the purple one into his. In Dalvador, it would never have occurred to him to offer an arrow to express friendship, but here it felt right.
A commotion came from farther up the caravan. Shannon leaned over Moonglaze’s neck, trying to see through the stained-glass trees. The tip of someone’s bow hit a tree-bubble and popped the large sphere, filling the air with glitter that obscured his view. Voices floated back to him, chiming with excitement.
Curious, Shannon urged Moonglaze forward and rode through the veils of glitter dust, brushing it out of his face as it settled over his body. Up ahead, the Elder, Tharon, and several other Archers had gathered around a man on a silver-white lyrine, one of the scouts who had been ranging ahead of the caravan. The trees were too thick here for the caravan to go at any significant speed and still remain well hidden, so they traveled more slowly while their scouts ranged out and kept watch for anyone who might see them.
As Shannon pulled up to their group, the Elder glanced toward him. He thought she would send him away, but instead she motioned him forward. It surprised him. He wasn’t someone she normally included in her counsels. His curiosity piqued even more, he nudged Moonglaze toward her, and the riders stepped their lyrine aside to let him approach the Elder. He drew Moonglaze to a stop in front of her and inclined his head with respect.
She spoke in her melodic voice. “You know the ways of the Vales, yes?”
“Fairly well,” Shannon said. “I grew up in Dalvador, but we often visited Rillia.”
“A man approaches. He appears Rillian. I would ask your help.”
“Whatever I can do. As long as it causes no harm.”
She regarded him with her silver gaze. “I would ask that you lead him away so that he may not know we ride through here.”
Guilt washed over Shannon. They had come this far down in the mountains on his behalf. Now he had put them at risk of discovery.
“I will lead him away,” he answered. He wasn’t sure how, but he could come up with some ideas.
“You have our thanks.” She spoke quietly. “When we are safe, we will make camp. Tomorrow we will return to the Blue Dales.”
Disappointment washed through Shannon. He would miss them. But he understood. “The company of your people has been a joy for me.”
A smile played across her beautiful, lined face. “And for us. You are a pleasure, young man. You are welcome in the Vales should you choose to return.”
Shannon hadn’t expected such a testimony from the Elder. “Thank you.” After they bid him farewell, he rode on with the scout, a man about his father’s age, lanky for an Archer, with silver hair pulled into a knot at the back of his head, a beautifully carved bow on his back, and a quiver full of red glasswood arrows.
They soon left the caravan behind. The wind rustled the trees and puffer-flies hummed through the air, the only sounds besides the muted passage of the lyrine. After about ten minutes, they came out on a tall bluff that dropped away into a vale carpeted in silver-blue reeds tipped by purple bubbles. In the distance, a man was riding across the vale.
Shannon watched the man. “I know him.”
The scout glanced at him. “He is from Dalvador?”
Shannon shook his head. “His name is Tarlin. He’s an officer in Lord Rillia’s army.” He wondered why Tarlin was here alone. Perhaps he no longer had employ with Rillia; the end of the wars had greatly decreased the need for soldiers. They still skirmished with outlaws, but nowadays more often than not they served as city guards or in the retinue of a Bard or his honored visitors.
The scout laid his hand on Shannon’s shoulder. “Rillia’s speed with you, son.”
Shannon clapped his hand over the scout’s knuckles. “My thanks.” Then he set off, looking for a way down the cliff.
On the western end of the ridge, a tangled woods had grown up its edge, almost to the top. Within the trees, the cliff sloped down into a hill. As Shannon followed a worn path down through the forest, disks crinkled on the trees around him. The bow on his back brushed one and it inflated into a red-jeweled orb, translucent and light.
He came out of the woods into a field of reeds so tall that they brushed his legs even though he sat high on Moonglaze. The other rider was well
down the valley, just a small figure now. Leaning forward, Shannon spurred Moonglaze into a run. It was the first time he had given the lyrine his head in days and it felt wonderful. He relished the wind on his face. Reeds slapped at his boots and legs as he closed on the other rider.
Moonglaze lifted his head and whistled, his voice full of exultation. At that sound, the other rider brought his lyrine around, the animal stepping skittishly to the side.
Shannon reined Moonglaze to a stop a few paces away from the other man. “My greetings, Goodman Tarlin.”
“Gods almighty.” Tarlin stared at him. “Shannon Valdoria?”
Shannon smiled. “It’s been a long time, sir.”
“It certainly has.” Tarlin shook his head. “You’re so much older. I didn’t recognize you.”
“Would you like to ride together?” He could lead Tarlin away from the Archer camp. Shannon indicated the woods that bordered the valley across from the ridge where he had parted ways with the Archer scout. “I’m heading into Rillia.”
He expected Tarlin to start riding again, but the other man didn’t move. For the first time, Shannon realized Tarlin was shaking. It hadn’t been obvious from far away, but he noticed now because the reeds that brushed Tarlin’s knees were vibrating.
“Prince Shannon.” Tarlin took a breath. “Your father has been searching for you.”
Shannon froze. Prince? How would Tarlin know he had such a title? He had used the Iotic word; the language of Dalvador and Rillia didn’t even have a word for prince.
“You’ve spoken to my father?” It took all Shannon’s control to stop himself from kicking Moonglaze’s sides and spurring the giant lyrine to bolt. “Is he nearby?”
“No.” Tarlin clenched the reins so hard, his ragged nails dug visible marks into his skin. “He is at a camp deeper in the wilds. He needs help.”
“What happened?” The pain in Shannon’s legs surged and so did the nausea that had started in his nightmares. Gods, could it be his father? “Is he ill?”
“There is a man, a Bard.” Tarlin’s words tumbled out. “I have never heard of his land. Hollina. But he pays a good wage. I had no one to serve after Lord Rillia disbanded most of his army. This Bard came in peace, looking for men to serve on the city guard for his people. They have too few trained men for a full guard, so he searches other provinces. Your father and I met in a sword competition hosted by this Bard. I took it as a good omen. But your father whispered to me that he needed help. I didn’t know what to do. Although I serve a new Bard, I have known your father for many years. We fought together.”
A chill walked up his spine. “Has this Bard harmed him?”
“By Rillia, I didn’t know. I swear.” Tarlin’s face paled beneath the freckles sprinkled across his crooked nose, which had been broken several times. “I made inquiries. A young woman who serves this Bard, she told me. Your father is a prisoner. His—his legs—he is injured. Terribly, terribly injured.” His voice cracked. “He tried to escape and the Bard crushed his legs.”
“No.” The blood drained from Shannon’s face so fast that dizziness threatened. “Surely my mother, her people, someone must have found him by now.”
“No one has come.”
“But how long has my father been a prisoner?”
“Many days. Sixteen, seventeen?”
“This cannot be!” Where was ISC?
“I’m sorry.” Tarlin wound the reins around his clenched hand. “The girl gave me a message from him. Find help. She gave me the titles to call any of you that I found, to let them know the message was real. Like prince. He said you would understand.”
Prince. Shannon’s mind whirled. It was an Imperialate title. His father wanted him to think of his mother’s people. To warn them? He had to help, but he feared he didn’t have what it took. He had failed at so much, especially where his father was concerned. “Did he tell you anything else?”
“Just another name for the Bard. I didn’t understand.”
“Do you remember?”
Tarlin took a deep breath. And then he said the name that made Shannon want to cry to the winds and die for his father.
Vitarex Raziquon.