Schism: Part One of Triad (Saga of the Skolian Empire)

by Catherine Asaro

  They came out of the forest into the foothills of the Backbone Mountains. Here the ground rolled in gentle swells, but ahead it rose more steeply, and beyond that it sheered up in sharp ridges. In the distance, the peaks rose stark against the sky, spindled like the bones of a gigantic skeleton.

  They followed well-traveled paths here in the foothills. Except for stops to rest the lyrine, he hoped to ride as long as they had daylight, one octet of hours plus six more. With day and night the same length, they wouldn’t need to sleep the entire night and could set off again before dawn.

  It bemused Eldrinson that the length of day and night varied on many worlds. His children’s tutors claimed night and day lasted the same amount of time here because Lyshriol had no axial tilt. Variations in weather came from atmospheric churning or changes in altitude. The scientists who studied Lyshriol seemed to find these qualities odd. They insisted it supported their theory that this planetary system was artificial, that astronomical engineers had moved Lyshriol into this orbit sometime in the past.

  Even having visited other worlds, Eldrinson found it hard to imagine living in a place where the lengths of day and night changed or the climate varied greatly. Surely such an environment would be too chaotic for humans to survive! His children’s tutors insisted otherwise, though, and so did Roca and all those scientists.

  By the time they reached the mountains proper, the air had cooled. The lyrine picked their way up a well-worn path bordered by blue stones. Swaths of blue snow dusted the outcroppings on either side and crusts of darker blue ice edged the boulders.

  Eventually they reached a branch in the path. One fork went north, veering sharply up into the vertebrae of the Backbone. Eldrinson reined in Night Charger and scrutinized the route. He spoke to Denric. “The Mirrored Cliffs are up there.” Shannon loved the sheer cliffs, named for the reflective sheets of ice that covered them. “He might have gone that way.”

  “I can check,” Denric said. “It would only take a few hours.”

  Eldrinson knew Roca would want Denric to stay with him if they split up the group. She always drew family around when she was worried, and his seizure last night had been a bad one. She was one of the few people who knew the truth: in his youth, his condition had been so severe, he hadn’t expected to survive. For his first few octets of life, he had lived constrained by his seizures, in partial seclusion, watched over by his cousin Garlin, his only living kin. He hadn’t expected to survive.

  Then the Skolians had come. Their doctors gave him nanomeds that patrolled his body and interacted with his brain to prevent seizures. Even with that, it had taken years before he genuinely believed he could live a normal life. Yet now he took it for granted. So did Denric. His son had no idea about his convulsion last night. Eldrinson didn’t think the boy had ever seen him have one that serious. It wouldn’t occur to Denric to worry.

  Well, I feel fine now. He could take care of himself. Besides, he would have four men with him, and he had packed the air syringe. It had a comm embedded in its stock for emergencies; if necessary he could summon help even while giving himself medicine. Roca had wanted him to wear yet a second comm on his wrist, but Eldrinson had drawn the line there. He agreed to use one in the syringe because it was a reasonable precaution, however much he disliked it, but he wouldn’t wear a bracelet as if he were a helpless child unable to care for himself.

  He looked up the western trail he would take. It rose gradually to the Notch of the Backbone, a pass visible in the distance as a groove against the sky. Beyond that, the trail would descend the mountains until it reached the lush Rillian Vales. By the time Denric’s group reached the Mirrored Cliffs in the north, Eldrinson could be through the Notch. Denric could take the Mirrored Pass down into the wilds north of Rillia. Shannon might have gone either way; the Mirror trail would take him closer to the Blue Dale Mountains, but the Notch would get him into Rillia faster, where the riding was easier.

  Eldrinson made his decision. “We can regroup tomorrow morning,” he told Denric. “I’ll meet you at the end of the path down from the Mirror.”

  “I think it’s a good idea,” Denric said. “We’ll cover more area that way.”

  They divided up the supplies among their two groups, and Eldrinson sent the ISC equipment with Denric. He pulled up next to his son and indicated the glittering mammoth of a gun Denric had slung over his shoulder. “You take the carbine, too.”

  Denric hesitated. “Are you sure?”

  “I wouldn’t even know what to do with it.” Eldrinson waved his hand at the northern trail, remembering how much Denric enjoyed trekking in the Backbone. “Go on. Get on with you.”

  Denric grinned, his face alight. “I will see you then!” He wheeled his lyrine around and headed up the trail with his men. Eldrinson sat astride Night Charger and smiled, watching him, this sunniest of his children.

  Then he set off for Rillia.

  Shannon rode through the glasswood forest of Ryder’s Lost Memory, ducking his head under dusty clusters of bubbles. He had never ventured this far north. Ryder’s Lost Memory went on in every direction, forever it seemed. He had ridden for over a day now, higher and higher, until the air turned icy. He wore a heavy shirt and double leggings, also a mech-jacket with climate controls, but even with the hood up, cold air cut past its warmth and tingled his cheeks. He hurt everywhere; his feet ached from his heavy boots, which he rarely wore; his legs ached from riding Moonglaze for so long; and his brain ached from lack of sleep.

  Moonglaze had plodded through the night, then finally stopped and slept standing up, with Shannon draped over his back. Shannon awoke only when he started to fall. Dismayed at such treatment of his mount, he had tended the lyrine with solicitous care, grooming and feeding him, cleaning his hooves, and scraping glitter off his horns. Then they resumed their trudge northward through the forest.

  Multicolored sparkles drifted everywhere, making him sneeze. Bubbles constantly rose from the trees and popped, spreading so much glitter that it covered his trail within minutes after he passed. He had lashed his bow and quiver to his travel bags to keep them from stabbing bubbles and showering him with the damnable stuff. He grimaced; enough covered him to make a tree grow on his clothes.

  Shannon exhaled. Running away had made sense last night, after he took the jammer so no one could find him. Now, sagging with exhaustion and hunger, he no longer felt so clear on the matter. He longed for a warm bed and a hot meal. Tree-bubbles weren’t edible, and he had passed fewer and fewer shrubs with fruit, only the sparse and prickly spine-spheres. It could take days to reach the Blue Dale Mountains. He wasn’t sure he would know when he had arrived. He doubted anyone put signs up to welcome visitors.

  He slouched in his seat, the reins loose in his hands while Moonglaze picked the way. The rocky ground kept the trees from growing tall, but they remained thick on the landscape. Blue patches of old snow were melting on the ground or gathered in crooks of trees, all mixed into slush with the glitter.

  Shannon leaned over Moonglaze’s neck. “I’m so hungry.” He tugged the reins, drawing the lyrine to a halt. Aching and stiff, he slid off the great animal, taking care not to jostle the travel packs, one of which held the jammer. He hit the ground in a thump that jarred his legs and torso. With a groan, he crumpled to the ground. Moonglaze whistled and pushed at him with his front horn, the larger of the two on his head.

  Shannon sighed. “I’m so tired.” He lay there, no longer able to avoid the effects of two days without any real sleep. He needed to see to Moon … shouldn’t leave him …

  Slumber covered his thoughts like a blanket … .

  It was well into evening before Eldrinson and his men found a place to camp. They had easily made it through the Notch, but they weren’t far enough down the mountains to reach Rillia before night. Instead they holed up in hollows under a series of overhangs that bordered the trail. Eldrinson wrapped himself in a rug from the travel sack he had slung across his war lyrine.

  Night
Charger crowded into the hollow, blocking the entrance, holding in the heat. With a grace extraordinary for his large size, he folded his legs under his body and settled in for the night. Lyrine often slept standing up, but this wasn’t the first time Eldrinson’s mount had helped keep him warm by resting on the ground. He could just see the sky through the open space above the animal’s back.

  The sounds of the others setting up bedrolls drifted to him in the vast silence of the mountains. He was glad they had sent the extra supplies with the other group; he had always enjoyed camping in the open, without all those gadgets and silly amenities Roca’s people insisted they take. Climatecontrolled tents with plumbing, for flaming sakes. Might as well stay home. In his youth, before the doctors had treated his epilepsy, camping had been a risk he almost never dared to take. Now, with his family and political responsibilities, he rarely had the chance to go off on his own. He enjoyed this trip, though he dearly regretted the circumstances that had led to the journey.

  A head appeared in the twilit patch of sky visible above Night Charger’s back. Jannor. He winked at Eldrinson. “What, no music?”

  Eldrinson stretched his arms out of the rug into the icy air, then pulled them back. “Even if we had room to build a fire here, it’s too cold to sit around one.”

  “Sing anyway,” someone called from nearby.

  Eldrinson waved amiably at Jannor. “Go get your tired old self comfortable.”

  “Tired! Old!” Jannor snorted. “I could haul your backside off a lyrine ten times straight in a tournament.”

  “Better watch out,” Eldrinson said, “I may call your bluff.”

  “Jan, be quiet so he can sing,” one of the other men said.

  “You’re lucky,” Jannor told Eldrinson. “You’re saved from ignominy by the demands of your audience.”

  Eldrinson laughed heartily. “Just in case you believe this notion about knocking me off a lyrine has merit, we will hold a tournament when we get back.”

  Jannor grinned. “Your challenge is accepted, O inglorious Bard.”

  “Inglorious!” Eldrinson said. “You will rue your words.”

  “I rue the day the two of you met,” one of the men called from his nook under the cliff. “The one-upping hasn’t stopped since.”

  “Sing, already!” another said.

  Eldrinson smiled at his longtime friend. “Go on with you, Jannor. Leave me some silence so I can think of what to sing, inglorious or otherwise.”

  “Actually, otherwise,” Jannor said. He disappeared quickly, before Eldrinson could catch him in the compliment.

  Eldrinson sat considering his options. He didn’t usually sing without warming up first, but he doubted they wanted to hear vocal exercises. He hummed a low note, testing his voice. It felt full and clear tonight, so he launched into a simple but popular ballad of the suns.

  Valdor was born first,

  Born first of the two;

  First of the two sons,

  First of the two suns;

  But Aldan came soon after.

  Rillia shot the gourd in the sky,

  Pierced the gourd in the sky,

  Pierced the gourd in two,

  And made the moons,

  The two true moons,

  The Lavender and Blue Moons.

  Rillia made the gift moons,

  Two gifts for the gods,

  The two sun gods,

  Valdor and Aldan,

  The brother suns.

  Then he added a new verse of his own.

  Delighted with his namesake,

  With his namesake true,

  Valdor smiled upon the Bard,

  The Bard of Dalvador,

  The Bard of the great sun gods.

  Valdor sent his sister,

  His incomparable sister,

  His luminous sister goddess,

  To wed the noble Valdoria Bard.

  “Hey!” Jannor yelled. “That isn’t part of the song.”

  Eldrinson laughed and continued. His voice was warming up, so he decided to stretch it a bit. He would begin in his deepest range, a low bass, and work through several octaves, taking the melody higher on each line, until he ended at the highest tenor notes.

  The clouds had come to the ground,

  Come to cover the land,

  Cover the land in snow,

  In blue, cold snow.

  The clouds had come to the land,

  But the suns melted the ice,

  Melted the blue ice and snow,

  Melted the cold ice of Lyshriol.

  The world filled with warmth,

  Filled with a golden warmth,

  A lucid golden warmth.

  It brought forth the people,

  The Lyshrioli people,

  It brought the golden people,

  Golden people into the light.

  He hit a note on “light” one octave above what Roca called middle C and let the word soar, holding it for as long as he had breath. Then, with a smirk, he dropped down two octaves and added a new verse.

  The suns brought light to their kin,

  Golden light to their kin,

  Light to their namesake,

  Their namesake true:

  The glorious Valdoria Bard.

  A snort came from the hollow where Jannor had set up his bedroll, followed by a laugh from farther away. Eldrinson settled back, pleased with the song, pleased with the night, and pleased with the company. Then he thought of why they had come here and his pleasure faded.

  The stars came out and wind whistled through the Backbone like spirits calling. Eldrinson thought of the ancient warrior Rillia, namesake of the Rillian Vales, who had shot his arrow into the night sky and cracked the Double Gourd into the Blue Moon and the Lavender Moon. He had long ago realized the tales of the Lyshriol gods and goddesses were probably myths. He wasn’t sure about the sun gods, though. Roca shimmered like sunlight and she had come from the sky. Yes, he knew about Skolians and stars and astronomy. Even so. The suns might have sent Roca to him. Just to be safe, to make sure they didn’t take her away again, he performed the proper rituals to them once in every octet of days, lighting guardian flames in bowls of oil set on a stone pedestal in the woods, with gem-bubbles floating in the oil.

  He fished the air syringe out of his travel pack and made sure it was set for his medicine. Then he checked the comm in its handgrip. No messages. He pressed in Roca’s private code and waited. A moment later, the syringe pinged and the holo of a tiny bell appeared in the air next to the miniaturized screen that wrapped around its grip. He flicked his finger through the bell.

  “Eldri?” Roca’s voice came out of the comm. “Is that you?”

  He warmed at her voice. “Greetings, Wife.”

  “How are you?” She sounded worried.

  “I’m fine, love.”

  “How is Denric?”

  “Sleeping, I think.” It was a good guess. He had already decided not to mention they had split up. Denric might call her and tell her, or ISC might let her know, since they were keeping track of the searchers by satellite, but he didn’t want to be the one to say it. She would worry too much. He loved her for caring about his health, but he had no need of coddling.

  “Any word on Shannon?” he asked.

  “Nothing, yet.” She sounded tired. “We searched over the Backbone and Ryder’s Lost Memory.”

  “Ah, love,” he murmured. “He will be all right.”

  Her voice caught. “He’s so young.”

  “I don’t think he feels that way.”

  “We will find him.”

  Eldrinson knew she spoke as much to reassure herself as him. “Yes, we will. And he will be fine.”

  “Sleep well,” she said.

  “You also.”

  He flicked off the comm, then leaned against the rock wall and closed his eyes, as worn-out from worrying as from the long ride.

  Eventually he slept. He dreamed that Brad Tompkins came to him, concerned about an inexplicable power sur
ge in webs of energy that crisscrossed the planet. Eldrinson became aware of a hole of darkness. He would fall into it forever, suffocating, suffocating.

  The power spiked.

  Eldrinson woke with a start. Sweat was running down his neck despite the chill air. He shuddered, unable to clean out the sour memory of the dream. It’s only a nightmare.

  He wished it hadn’t felt so real.

  8

  Beyond the Backbone

  Shannon awoke with tinted daylight filtering over him, dim and cool. He rolled painfully onto his back, under a canopy of bubbles, some flat and others inflated, all clustered above him. A lyrine snuffled. Turning his head, he saw Moonglaze licking up the multicolored glitter that had gathered in drifts around the glasswood columns of the trees.

  “Moon?” Shannon’s voice didn’t chime this morning. His words came out rough and rusty. By Rillia’s arrow, he was hungry! He grabbed a handful of glitter and poured it into his mouth. It tasted like flinty dust and had almost no nutritional value, but it was better than starving. After several handfuls, though, he couldn’t force any more down.

  Shannon struggled to his feet and limped to Moonglaze, his legs stiff. His bladder-sack hung from his travel bags. He had to ration his water; he had no idea when he might find more up here. But he was so thirsty, he drained the sack before he realized he had finished.

  Moonglaze pushed his nose against Shannon’s shoulder.

  “I know,” Shannon said. “I could have planned this better.” At least Moonglaze seemed in reasonably good shape.

  As he tended to Moonglaze, he pondered his situation. He didn’t like to analyze, but his reluctance to do so had landed him in this mess. If he turned back now, it would take a day to reach the outlying hills of Rillia, longer to find a village or farm. He hadn’t seen any streams on his way here, which meant he probably wouldn’t on his way back, either. Water had to be here somewhere; these trees couldn’t survive without it. He could probably manage another day without more supplies, but much longer and he would be in trouble. The higher he went, the farther he was from assured food and water. If he continued for another day and couldn’t replenish his supplies, he would be too far to make it back to Rillia in time.