Schism: Part One of Triad (2 page)

Closer by, Soz stood on the walkway outside that topped the wall, her back to them as she gazed out at the port. Atypically, she wore a dress today, one of the bright, swirling affairs most girls in Dalvador adopted. Usually she preferred breeches and shirts. He had never fathomed why such a beautiful girl wanted to dress like a boy, but arguing with her never achieved anything. This daughter of his was a force of nature that couldn’t be denied.

Eldrinson didn’t understand Soz. He loved her, but she was a mystery. Offworld technology fascinated her. As a child, she had taken apart her brother’s laser carbine and put it back together before Eldrinson even figured out what she was doing. He couldn’t keep up with her razor-sharp mind. Most of all, he dreaded the distant look that came into her eyes when she gazed at the night sky with its brilliant, cold stars. She was slipping away from him and he didn’t know how to bring her back.

Kelric pushed open the window and leaned out, crowding Del. “Hey, Soz!”

Eldrinson hauled him back inside. “Careful. You could fall.”

The boy flashed him an intense look, half apology, half frustration. Then he turned back to the starship. It tore at Eldrinson to see his rapt expression. How long before the wanderlust took Kelric away, too?

“Look!” Kelric waved at the ship. “People are coming!”

Eldrinson peered where he pointed. Two people in dark clothes had left the Jag and were crossing the tarmac. A woman came out of a port building holding some object, probably a holofile, though he couldn’t be sure from so far away. She conferred with the visitors, handed one of them the hie, waited while he did something with it, then took it back and returned to her house.

“That looked routine,” Del said.

“They don’t seem to be threatening anyone.” An odd feeling tugged at Eldrinson, an anticipation he didn’t understand. Why? Perhaps he was picking that up from Kelric.

The visitors headed toward Dalvador, walking through the thigh-high reeds, except on them, the reeds barely came

above their knees. One was an unusually tall man, but Eldrinson wasn’t sure about the other. A woman possibly, given the curves of her body, except she was as tall as the man. He had become used to such women among his wife’s people; Roca was his own size, and he was above average for a man on Lyshriol.

But this person would tower even over Roca.

“Are those soldiers?” Del asked.

“They’re Jagernauts!” Kelric said. “Real ones.”

Eldrinson hesitated. “Skolian warriors, you mean?”

“Fighter pilots!” The boy beamed at him. “Like Althor will be someday.”

“Ah.” Eldrinson nodded. His second oldest son, Althor, had gone offworld three years ago to study at a military academy.

Althor had never had trouble with Skolian disciplines. It gratified Eldrinson, because he couldn’t learn to read and write. His people had only oral traditions. He picked up spoken languages without thinking, and Skolian “base tea” numbers came easily to him. He could even see why they counted that way instead of in octets. They had five fingers on each hand instead of four.

Their hand structure was odd, with no hinge that let the palm fold lengthwise, so two fingers on each side could oppose each other. Instead, they had a fifth digit, a “thumb.” So their base ten made sense. But so much else about them didn’t—their reading, science, literature. That some of his children learned it so easily never ceased to impress him.

But why did he think of mat now? “By Rillia’s arrow,” he suddenly said.

Del and Kelric turned to him with identical expressions, their foreheads creased in puzzlement

“Can’t you feel it?” Eldrinson asked. Surely they must. They, too, were empaths.

Del tilted his head. “Something …”

“Yes!” Kelric cried. “Is it him?”

“Who?” Del squinted at their visitors, who were halfway to Dalvador now. Then he answered his own question. “Oh, I see.”

Eldrinson stood straighter, filling with joy and uncertainty.

Althor had come home.

2

Warlord’s Legacy

o one saw Soz enter the Bard’s Hall. Today she preferred it that way. She slipped behind the stone columns that lined its walls. The ceiling arched overhead, high and vaulted, with stained-glass skylights. Sunlight poured through the tall windows and slanted across the hanging tapestries, which showed scenes of Archers in green tunics and leggings. They sat astride lyrine, animals with prismatic horns and hooves and silver coats. The polished floor stretched out ahead of Soz, tiled in pale blue and lavender stone. At the far end of the hall, two great stone chairs sat on a circular dais.

The Dalvador Bard, her father, stood on the dais, dressed in blue trousers, knee-boots, and a white shirt fastened with thongs. He had donned his ceremonial sword belt with its finely tooled sheath, the leather worked with gold and gems. Amethysts glinted in the hilt of his sword. Sunlight lit up his clothes and hair and surrounded him with a nimbus. But he wasn’t the only sight that enthralled the people gathered around the hall, the staff of the house and Soz’s family.

A gold giant was kneeling before the Bard.

The man went down on one knee with his head bowed, his elbow resting across his bent leg. His stark black uniform contrasted with the jeweled colors of the hall. Conduits threaded his pullover, gleaming rings of silver circled his huge arms, metallic studs packed with components glinted on his trousers, and the heavy gauntlets on his wrists glittered with lights. The black bulk of a Jumbler hung low in a holster at his hip.

Althor had come home.

One moment Soz longed to throw her arms around the brother she had always admired; the next moment she wanted only to hang back. It had been three years since he had gone offworld, and she no longer felt at ease with him. His skin and hair were metallic gold, inherited from their mother, but he had their father’s violet eyes, though metallic lashes fringed them. His massive physique and great height not only dwarfed the men of Lyshriol, it made him large even among Skolians. He exuded power, authority, and menace. Her brother had become a stranger.

Her father drew his sword and it glittered in the sunlight. When he raised it over Althor, Soz tensed. Even knowing he would never harm his son, she felt her pulse leap as the blade came down.

Had a Lyshrioli warrior knelt before him, Eldrinson would have cut off a lock of the man’s shoulder-length hair. Althor had cropped his hair short, so their father only razed off one gold curl. It fell to Althor’s shoulder and floated to the ground. This was the Ritual of the Blade, where a Bard accepted or refused the fealty of a warrior. By drawing his sword, he challenged the man’s courage. If the Bard refused a lock of hair, he spurned the supplicant. Nor did the warrior always survive; a Bard could kill with impunity during the ceremony.

In reality, Althor served Imperial Space Command, not a supposedly barbarian king on a backward planet. When Althor graduated next year from the Dieshan Military Academy, he would become a fighter pilot in the J-Force, one of the four branches of the Skolian military, along with the Imperial Fleet, Advance Services Corps, and Pharaoh’s Army. Nothing required him to swear fealty to Eldrinson. That he did so anyway spoke eloquently, for all to see, of his esteem for his father.

Soz couldn’t hear them, but the Bard must have spoken, for Aithor rose to his feet, towering over their father. Someone drew in a sharp breath, and Soz glanced around to see several housemaids watching Aithor, their violet eyes wide and appreciative. Even through the shields she raised to protect her empath’s mind, she felt their desire, how much he impressed and attracted them. Pah. The concept of her brother being the object of female desire was just too much. Not that he had ever seemed interested in Dalvador girls.

Her father and brother embraced. Soz suspected Eldrinson had tears in his eyes, but he would hold back, too proud to cry in front of everyone. To have his son descend from the sky in such a dramatic display and then kneel before him had to feel incredible. It touched her heart that Aithor chose to greet him this way. If only that could take away the pain. Although their father had always encouraged Althor’s dreams, he refused to hear the same from her. It wasn’t Althor’s fault, but it made being around him difficult. Would he be willing to take her offworld? Her hastily conceived plan had become even more complicated.

Two men were coming forward from the columns behind the dais. No, one was eight-year-old Kelric, already as tall as an adult. Del walked with him. The woman who had come with Aithor stayed behind, unobtrusive, half hidden by a column.

Kelric took the six stairs of the dais in two big lunges and ran to his brother. Aithor pulled him into a hug. Even from here, Soz could see Del’s grin as he slapped Aithor on the shoulder.

“He’s even taller,” a voice said, with a chime on uie second word.

Startled, Soz turned. Her brother, Shannon, stood next to her, slender and supple, his eyes level with hers. She had always wondered what it was like for him, living in the shadow of such giant brothers. He had the silver eyes of a Blue Dale Archer. Somewhere in the distant past, one of their ancestors must have had a child with an Archer. The traits could lie dormant for centuries and still run true when

they manifested. Shannon might be one of the few Archers left; no one had heard from them in centuries.

“My greetings, Shani.” She had been so absorbed in the scene on the dais, she hadn’t felt his pensive mood earlier, but now it came through to her.

He tilted his head toward Althor. “He is magnificent.” His words flowed like clear water in a stream.

Soz smiled. “Hero worship? Surely not.”

“You feel it, too.”

It wasn’t how Soz would have put it, given her conflicted emotions toward Althor. “I admire what he has achieved.”

“Do you envy him?” Shannon pitched his words low, so only she would hear.

“Envy? Why?”

“Father won’t let you become a warrior. Women cannot.”

A familiar anger stirred in Soz. “Of course we can. ISC has more women in the military than men.” Dryly she added, “It used to be a matriarchy, Shani.”

“That may be.” His voice had a singsong quality. “But not here. Father will never let you go offworld.”

“How is he going to stop me?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “He wants you to marry Lord Rillia.”

“Oh, for flaming sakes.” Soz put her hands on her hips. “I’m not marrying anyone, let alone a man more than twice my age who can’t read or write.”

“It doesn’t bother Aniece.”

“She’s eleven years old. She doesn’t know what she wants.”

“Thirteen,” Shannon murmured, giving their sister’s age in octal instead of decimal.

“Eleven. And no matter how you count it, she’s too young to marry Lord Rillia and I’ve no intention of doing so.”

Shannon’s lips curved upward witii that otherworldly beauty of his. “Gods help Lord Rillia if Father did make you marry him.”

“Very funny.” Soz turned to watch Althor, who was talking with Del and Kelric. Her brothers never stopped lamenting poor Lord Rillia’s dire fate, destined to marry her. Soz had other plans.

Eldrinson entered the Hearth Room flanked by his sons, Al-thor on one side and Del on the other. Kelric came, too. A sense of light filled Eldrinson.

Althor’s arrival had been a fine moment, a fine moment indeed.

A flurry of motion erupted across the room as Roca swept into the hall, surrounded by people. Tall and vibrant, she riveted his attention even after all these years. Her creamy skin had gold highlights and her eyes resembled liquid gold. Her hair fell down her shoulders, arms, and back, gold, bronze, and copper, all those curls he loved to play with at night. Her face and body had inspired an uncounted number of literary works, symphonies, and other art across the Imperialate. During her years as a dancer with the Parthonia Royal Ballet, she had dazzled audiences. Now she dazzled him.

One of their other sons arrived with her, Vyrl. Roca said the name Vyrl should be pronounced Vahrielle, with an Iotic accent. Eldrinson had never mastered the accent; he drawled Verle just like everyone else in Dalvador. His son’s mane of hair curled to his shoulders, gold and bronze, with metallic glints, but he had die Lyshrioli violet eyes. He was a good head taller than his father, with a muscular, graceful physique honed by years of dance training.

It bewildered Eldrinson that Vyrl loved to dance. Mercifully, for now the boy had chosen Lily and farming over going offworld to become a performer like his mother. Men in Dalvador never danced. Although Eldrinson understood that no one looked askance at a male dancer among Roca’s people, here it would be a terrible scandal. People would consider such a man female. Well, supposedly. Lily knew and she didn’t seem to mind.

In any case, it warmed him to see the young couple. And they had brought the grandchildren. Hallie, their three-year-old, skipped through the room, her curls flopping around

her shoulders, her eyes bright, her cheeks plump and rosy. Lily carried the two-year-old, and Vyrl cradled the baby in his arms.

“Althor!” Roca threw her arms around her son. He gathered her into a hug, both of them glimmering in the light from the lamps in the Hearth Room. Then they separated and Roca tilted her head back to look up at him. “Honestly, you’ve grown again.”

He grinned at her. “Ten more centimeters.”

Roca’s laugh sparkled. “You will increase the gravity of Lyshriol.”

Eldrinson slapped Althor on the back. “So he will.” He motioned everyone toward the end of the hall, where sofas and chairs stood around the bluestone hearth. Hallie ran away giggling, chased by Keltic, and the rest followed, Vyrl bouncing the baby.

One discord jangled in their harmonious gathering: Tahota, the woman who had accompanied Althor, a tall Skolian with gray-streaked hair. She stayed in the background, silent. Her clothes had a military aspect, dark blue tunic and trousers with gold insignia on the shoulders and chest He recognized only the symbol of the Imperialate, an exploding sun within a circle; the other markings meant nothing to him.