Abendau's Heir (The Inheritance Trilogy Book 1)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Where to start? Every book had a lot of input, the first more than most. This one has had so much I can't possibly name everyone - for any omissions, my apologies.

First, my long-suffering family. My children, Becky and Holly, who cheer when it's needed, and hug when that's needed. My husband, Chris, for brainstorming, and keeping the house hygienic during writing bouts. One of us has to. My mum for putting up with me being more than a little obsessive. Also, Peter for hosting and building me a website, for interest and support. Linda, for an early beta. The support has been endless, from the wider family too. It is all so appreciated.

And then the writers. I can't mention everyone who has read Abendau although I thank you all. Suffice to say, the entire aspiring writing community at sffchronicles.com get a thank you - without their patience, support and cake, there would be no book. Some, though, need a special thanks: Jim Kane, for teaching me something about military leaders; Em Tett, who cheerled from the beginning and made me believe my characters had enough in them to keep going; Bryan Wigmore for great comments and help with cover musing and sundries. Special thanks go to my long, long suffering writers' group, the Hex-men: John J Brady for awkward, awkward questions that were the right ones to ask; Anna Dickinson for the most pearly sharp teeth; Suzanne Jackson for the eye for detail that makes a novel keep making sense. I am totally in your debt.

And the professionals. Gary Compton, for taking a gamble with a new writer. Sam Primeau for her wonderful copy-editing. Last and very not least, Teresa Edgerton, who is more than an editor but a mentor and inspiration, who knew what was needed, when, and what was absolutely not needed, where.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialog are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 Jo Zebedee

Published by Tickety Boo Press

www.ticketyboopress.co.uk

Edited by Teresa Edgerton

www.teresaedgertoneditor.com

Copy-edited by Sam Primeau

www.primoediting.com

Cover Art by Gary Compton

Book Design by Big River Press Ltd

Abendau’s Heir

By Jo Zebedee

For Chris, Becky, and Holly. You are everything to me

Other Space Opera Books by Tickety Boo Press

Endeavour – A Sleeping Gods Novel

by Ralph Kern

A Prospect of War – An Age of Discord Novel

by Ian Sales

The Last War – The Noukari Trilogy

by Alex Davis

www.ticketyboopress.co.uk

Water dripped down the rock behind Ealyn. He strained, trying to turn his head to lick the wall, but his chains prevented him, the magnetic binding on his wrists too strong to be broken. His captors knew him well enough to use subtle things to torment him: the sound of water, so blessed on the hot, dry, Abendau; the prism on its thin chain catching sunlight from a small window and sending rainbows darting; the slow build of pain in muscles held firm, a pain that went deep, full of despair.

To hell with them: he was staying where he was, aware of who he was, even if his jaw ached from gritting his teeth and his hands had blistered from gripping his chains. Whatever she sent his way, whatever temptation, he’d take it and spit in her face. He closed his eyes against the dancing light.

Footsteps sounded, clipped, not the boots of the guards. He tried to move back, but there was nowhere to go; he was already tight against the wall. He tensed at the hiss of the cell opening. The footsteps stopped, right in front of him; he could feel her watching him.

Oh, gods.
He waited, head down
. Please let her leave.
He clenched his fists, ears alert, his breathing shallow. She was coming so often now, not giving him time to build his strength.

“Tell me a vision of my future,” said the Empress. Her first touch whispered its way past his resolve and he whipped his head to the side, trying to force her away. Once he’
d been strong enough, he was sure of it, but after his months held in the cell, this time she held firm. Pain built, deep in his head, a white pain that obscured his thoughts and left only the core of him: the power she wished to use.

“
No
.” His wrists jerked in their manacles, the magnets’ hard edges rubbing the broken skin beneath. The clean, sharp pain made his mind a little clearer. “No.”

“Tell me.” Her voice demanded obedience.

His eyes opened to a slit. He fought, willing them closed, but his eyelids were forced up. The prism’s light danced across the walls, inescapable, but he willed his focus away and back to the Empress. Her smile chilled him to the bone; she knew he was close to the end, that she was wearing him down. She knew and she enjoyed it, sadistic bitch that she was.

“Give me what I want,” she said, “and I’ll leave you in peace.”

He licked his lips, tongue rasping. She lied: she would come again. He knew better than any that the future was a drug, even for those who only heard it. He shook his head, the effort draining him, and whispered, “No.”

“Look at the prism, Ealyn-Seer.”

He couldn’t stop himself. The light caught his eyes and he fell into the future, moving from the cell, up, up, through the palace to the grand entrance hall. He tried to hold onto the reality of the cell, focus on the pain in his wrists, fill himself with the hatred and anger that had held him to this point, but found himself standing before a stone arch. On a dais to the side a woman and man stood, wearing long acolyte’s gowns, like those of the tribal people of the plains. He was forced to his knees before them. Their minds invaded his, their joint powers– greater than the Empress’, greater than his had ever been– took his thoughts for their own. Rebel, they said, close to him, echoing each other. He ducked his head, trying to hide. Seer, they said, mocking his attempt:
rebel-seer-father
.

“Look at them.” The Empress’ voice rang out, and he lifted his head. Their eyes were his green. The woman had the sharp chin and high cheekbones of the Empress, the man dark hair falling over a pale face that could be Ealyn’s own.
Rebel-seer-father.
He looked between them and, finally, sickeningly, knew why he’d been taken.

A wave of exultation ran from the Empress, and he could feel life within her, tiny, not even babies yet. She’d got what she wanted: children born of their combined powers, shaped and moulded to further her empire. Who knew how she’d done it, taken what she needed from him– he’d had a whole series of medical tests when he’d first been captured. It didn’t matter how, only what it might mean. He watched, helpless in his future, as his children pronounced judgement and sentenced him to the torture chambers of Omendegon.

The vision faded. His head sank forward, drained of all energy. Dimly, he was aware of the Empress leaving and the cell door closing, and could feel only relief. The light danced on the rock ground before him, pin-pricks of promise. It would be easy to focus on it, wander the paths ahead and release himself from the hot, dry cell. It was what the Empress wanted: to trap him, his sanity lost, fit only to give her the knowledge her own psyching couldn’t find. To hell with her; he might not be able to stop her, but he was damned if he’
d make it easy.

A parrot’s screech startled him. The cell became dappled in warm sunlight. He tried to fight the vision but nothing worked: not pain, not the dripping water. He faded into the future, one where he stood on a jungle-encroached path. Holbec, he decided, near the Banned base. He drew in a sharp breath; if he was back with the Banned, there was a chance he’
d get out of the cell. Something buzzed close to his cheek and he lifted his hand to swat it, but the chains of his past self stopped him. The sound of laughter drifted up the path. He turned a corner and two children walked ahead, dark heads together as they talked.

“Hey!” His words were croaked from thirst.

They turned, their green eyes meeting his, the girl’s smile wide, the boy’s fringe dark over his laughing eyes. Ealyn drew in a sharp breath, and spun out of the vision.
His. They were his
. Just as the cold adults in their acolyte’s gowns were. Two futures, not the same. Hope flared, from somewhere he’d been sure was too buried to come alive again.

Around him the rainbows danced. He could take another look to be sure. He closed his eyes, fighting temptation. That path, the Seer’s path, led to madness; he’d seen it often in others.

But the children had been happy in the jungle, not sad and used and cruel. Somewhere, there was a path to that future. It didn’t matter what it did to him; it didn’t matter if it drove him to his death or madness: he had to find it, not let the Empress ruin his lost children. Decided, he lifted his chin and focused on the prism, seeking the path he needed. And when he didn’t find it the first time, he looked again. And again, leaving the dry cell to walk the paths of time, hope carrying him where nothing else could have.

PART ONE: EALYN - EIGHT YEARS LATER

The cruiser came into Ealyn’s view. It stayed just beyond his Control range, making him sit forward and take notice. No one should know his ship was being piloted by a Controller: the skill was a rare one, even amongst psychers.

He drummed his fingers on the arm of his pilot’s chair. The cruiser was similar to the one in the port two days ago, seen during a supply run pre-arranged with the Banned. That run should have been secure. Even if the Empress knew he’d fled to the rebels after stealing the twins, the chain of communication ran from him to Darwin, and no one else. But he’d lasted this long because of a level of paranoia that ground at his insides, burned acid in his throat, and left his nerves shredded and jumpy. The Empress
was
still looking, covering every planet and sector of the empire. When he’d stolen her children– her heirs– he’d seen to that, and it wasn’t as if she could have any more, not after the horrific birth.

He cast out and let the sense of the space fill his senses, the knowledge of how things moved within it, the heat of the stars shaping in his mind. A small fleet of freighters, not far out and closing, moved in tandem with each other. If they were linked to the cruiser, they could easily close off his chance of escape. He took his time, assessing how they flew: nothing more than a Space Roamer convoy, judging by their formation and grace. In which case, they’d avoid him.

He sat straighter. The Roamers no longer flew in their painted ships, the proud planets and stars decals on their finials. They, too, were fugitives from the Empress, trawling space as discreetly as they were able, fighting to remain independent. He looked back at the cruiser, assessing. It had closed on him, its trajectory taking it into his vector. He checked its size and dimensions. It
was
the same ship that had been docked at the port, he was sure of it. He punched in a trajectory away from the cruiser. If it shifted course, he’d know for sure.

A moment later the bigger ship came round. Hell. Ealyn thrust to port. The cruiser was large enough to have a tractor beam and, if they did know it was him, that’s what they’d use. Not because they wanted him– he was under no illusions what awaited him in Abendau’s palace– but because of the twins. Speaking of which: he swung his seat round and shouted down the access corridor, “Kids! Strap in. It’s going to get rocky.”

An answering shout was all he needed; the twins were space veterans, they didn’t need their hands held like most seven year olds. Hell, they were more able than most adults.

He sent the ship streaking across space, relying not on his instruments but the feel of where he was. His ship banked at an angle no non-Controller would attempt, and he closed the gap between him and the Space Roamers. If there was an entity looking after desperate pilots, he needed the fleet to be Roamers,
and
to ensure they’d recognise his ship as the flotsam of a space fugitive and no threat to them.

The cruiser had picked up its speed, closing the distance easily. Its pilot was good– no Controller, by the pedestrian movement of the ship, but more than competent. He’d be lucky to pull this off. He sped up, twisting, darting, trying to ensure there was no rhythm to his escape, no easy trajectory to predict and cut him off along. He had only a few minutes’ lead now: not enough.

He gritted his teeth and increased speed. The engines whined, but he ignored them– where it mattered, in speed and endurance, the ship had more than enough. He thrust hard and something in the back of the ship crashed. He paid no heed, his eyes on the oncoming space fleet. The vector alarm sounded but he flew on. Let the Roamers pick up he was a Controller, let them trust him not to wipe out the fleet. He sent out the thought and picked up the tiniest pulse in return, the sense of the weak Roamer powers that allowed them to know space but nothing else.