by Sharon Lee
He nodded. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Lady, and glad of an explanation of how your corps operates.”
“Ah. Then I may proceed?”
“Please.”
“So. Our colleague Lute and his dominant have determined that it may be possible for them and for those dramliz of like mind, to insert themselves into the fabric of the universe as it decrystallizes and to exert their wills in such a way as to—form a bubble universe in which life might thrive, surrounded, yet apart from, the sheriekas eternity.”
There were few enough times when Cantra had reason to think kindly on her schooling—and this was one of those rare occasions. She neither blinked nor laughed, and was confident that her face hadn’t changed expression. A quick glance to the side showed Jela doing pretty well, too, though he did raise a hand, signing clarification.
“Yes?” the lady said, none-too-gentle.
“I wonder why they think this is possible,” Jela said mildly, which was as fine a bit of understatement as Cantra’d heard lately.
The lady glared, apparently finding Jela too dim for conversation, for it was once again Rool Tiazan who answered.
“They see it merely as a return to a more efficient former state, M. Jela, and anticipate little difficulty in re-crystalizing a life-friendly universe from some portion of decrystallized matter.”
“I . . . see,” Jela said carefully. “What about you—do you think this is a reasonable plan?”
There was a short pause, then the lady sighed.
“Wingleader, you must understand that what the sheriekas attempt—what they are accomplishing at an ever more rapid rate—is . . . unprecedented. The dramliz—we are pushing the edge of what we know to be possible, and while we may be closer to the enemy in kind and talent than any living thing, we are as children.”
“That being so,” Cantra heard her own voice ask, “you’re still talking in terms of escape?”
The lady turned to look at her, amber eyes serious.
“We—Rool, Lute, my sister and I—we seek escape. We believe that escape, in one form or another, is possible. There are others of us who believe that the sheriekas can be defeated.”
“Can they?” Cantra asked, fascinated despite herself. Deeps knew, the Enemy was a threat to everything in the path of themselves or their works—had been for all her life, and all of Garen’s too. But the notion of—descrystallizing, whatever that was meant to say—the known galaxy in the hopes of creating one better, out of will and cussedness alone—
“M. Jela,” Rool Tiazan said, so soft he might have been a part of her thoughts, “has a good bit of the math which describes the process, Lady Cantra.”
She glared. “Read that right out, didn’t you?”
He smiled at her, and glanced down at the top of his lady’s head.
“Neither I nor the majority of the philosophers among the free dramliz believe that the sheriekas may be defeated,” the lady said in her prim, serious voice. “Not by the dramliz, nor by the forces of humanity, nor even by those forces combined.” She glanced aside, down the room to where Jela’s tree stood tall in its pot, leaves at attention.
“Had we a dozen worlds of ssussdriad at the height of their powers, with legions of dragons at their call—we do not believe even that would be enough to defeat the sheriekas.”
“But there are dramliz who are going to engage the enemy, even knowing they’ll fail,” Jela said, more like he was checking facts than questioning the sanity of the proposition.
“There are those who must fight, M. Jela,” Rool Tiazan said gently. “As to failure—all we attempt, as a force and individually, may yet end there.”
“We hope that it will be otherwise,” his lady added.
“Right.” Jela shifted a little in his chair, eyes on the farthest corner of the tower.
“What I see, from soldier’s eyes, is that your corps has a dual-pronged campaign on the board: A group of fighters to draw the enemy’s attention and forces while those with Ser Lute attempt to capture and keep a reduced territory. The question comes back: What do you want from us?”
He moved a hand, enclosing himself, the tree and Cantra in the circle of “us,” which was cheek—or maybe not. She’d eaten the damn’ nuts, hadn’t she?
There was a small silence, as if Rool Tiazan and his lady took lightning counsel of each other on a level not available to the rest of them.
“Wingleader,” the lady said, “we have, in fact, a three-pronged plan. For our part, Rool and I have determined to liberate the mathematician Liad dea’Syl, whose work has continued to evolve and now transcends that with which you are familiar.”
She closed her lips and refolded her hands, as if that explained all.
Cantra sent a glance to Jela, only to have it bounce off ungiving black eyes. Right.
She looked back to the dramliza.
“I’m not following,” she said to the lady.
The prim mouth opened—and closed. Her thin red brows pulled sharply together.
“Rool?”
“Indeed,” he murmured. His eyes were open, but Cantra was willing to lay steep odds that he wasn’t seeing anything like Dancer’s piloting tower.
“What is it?” That was Jela, quiet, so as not to startle the look-out.
“A hound has discovered us,” the lady said softly, shifting around on the jump seat so that she faced her mate. “It may be possible—”
“Neutralized,” Rool Tiazan said, in a flat, distant voice. He took a breath, his focus coming rapidly back to the present, the tower, his lady.
“The absence will be noted,” he murmured, looking down into her eyes. “Soon.”
“What did they see?” the lady demanded.
He moved a hand, the stone on his forefinger throwing out flickers of black lightning.
“The maelstrom of the luck. Our ally the ssussdriad obscured much, but in the final moment the lady knew me.”
“So,” the lady squared her thin shoulders. “We to play decoy, then. Locate an appropriate scenario.”
“Yes.” He closed his eyes, and Cantra was abruptly aware of a sense of absence, as if the essence of the being known as Rool Tiazan had departed the common weal.
The lady twisted, coming off the jump-seat in a flurry of gray and spun to face Jela.
“Wingleader—your mission!” she snapped, a mouse giving orders to a mountain.
Jela moved his shoulders, but— “Tell me,” was all he said.
“You, the pilot and the ssussdriad will proceed to the world Landomist, where Revered Scholar Liad dea’Syl is confined with all honor to Osabei Tower. You will gain his equations which describe the recrystallization exclusion function. You will then use them as you see fit, for the continuation and the best interest of life. We will draw off the sheriekas lord who now has our enterprise under scrutiny. The hound did not see you—only us.” She paused, her thin form seemed to waver, to mist slightly at the edges—then she was as solid as the decking on which she stood. Solid as Jela, who sent a long black glance at her, and said nothing at all.
“Wingleader, I require your word,” the lady said softly.
Jela spun his chair to face the tree; spun back to face the lady.
“You have my word. I will do my utmost to liberate Scholar dea’Syl’s equations and use them in the service of life.”
The lady turned to face Cantra, who pushed up from her lean, ready to resist any demands for her oath—
“There are two,” Rool Tiazan said, in that flat, distant voice, and held out a hand.
The lady altered her trajectory, and landed at his side, her hand gripping his.
“We will diminish,” he said.
“Diminish holds a hope that extinction does not,” the lady answered. “Proceed.”
“Nay, look closely . . .”
“I see it,” she snapped. “Proceed!”
Wreathed in mist, he opened his eyes.
“M. Jela—your choice! A death in battle or of old age?”
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Jela was on his feet. “What are you doing?” he demanded, but Rool Tiazan merely repeated, on a rising note.
“A choice, M. Jela! Time flees!”
“Battle, then,” Jela said, calm as if he was deciding between beer and ale.
Across the chamber, Rool Tiazan smiled, and raised his lady’s hand to his lips.
“So,” he said softly. “It is done.”
The mist was thicker around the two of them. From the midst of it, came the lady’s voice, calm and sounding distant.
“This world tectonically active, and there will soon be an earthquake of major proportion. It would be well if you were soon gone. The confusion will cover your departure.”
There was a sudden toothy howl of wind, harrying the thickening fog, the temperature plummeted, the mist shredded—
The dramliz were gone.
Cantra spun to the board, slapped it live, initiated a self-check, and spun back to glare at Jela.
“Tell me you saw that,” she snapped.
“I saw it,” he answered, and gave her a long, deep look. “I believe it, too.”
“So, you’re for Landomist.”
“I am,” he answered. “I thought we all three had our orders.”
The board beeped readiness; the tree sent an image of dark clouds and lightning, with more and worse towering behind . . .
The ship trembled a moment, rocking on the tarmac. Alarms lit the board in yellow, orange, and red.
Swearing, Cantra hit the pilot’s chair, yanking the webbing tight.
“Strap in,” she snapped at Jela, “this is gonna be rough.”
END
AFTERWORD:
On Growing Old,
or at Least, Old Enough
WE STARTED WRITING Crystal Soldier in 1986. Sharon was working at the University of Maryland’s Modern Languages and Linguistics Department at the time and the overruns and too-light copies came home with her to become “first draft paper.” First draft paper was something we needed when using actual typewriters, if you want to know how far back that really was.
We still have three attempts at a beginning for what we were then calling Chaos and the Tree, typed on the backs of dittoed Spanish 101 vocabulary sheets and mimeographed Russian Lit exams.
To place this as nearly as possible: We’d already written Agent of Change, Conflict of Honors, and most of a third novel, pieces of which would become Carpe Diem; as well as an astonishing number of fragments, sketches, scenes, and word lists. It was a time of frenetic creativity, where one idea would smack into another, and dozens of child-ideas would spin off in all directions, like some cosmic game of pool. Needless to say, darn few of those ideas sank neatly into side pockets and waited patiently for retrieval. It was all we could do note down trajectories and intentions, and hope to be able to get back at some less frenzied future time for more details.
It was during the pool game phase of our careers, then, that we realized we were going to have to write the story of Val Con’s many-times-great-grandma, the smuggler, and the origins of Clan Korval, so, with the brass-plated confidence of complete ignorance, we began. . . .
. . . and stopped.
And began . . .
. . . and stopped.
And began . . .
. . . and realized that we were too young in craft to do justice to the story we could feel building, like a long towering line of thunder heads, just beyond the ridge of our skill.
Having realized that we were yet too young to write about Jela, Cantra, and what befell them, we put the story aside, with a promise to the characters that we would not forget them; that we would come back when we were old enough and tell their story as it was meant to be told.
We had plenty to keep us busy in the meantime, what with one thing and another. There was a delay in the publishing, a major move, cats to feed. Along the way we’d have requests from readers wanting to know more about Clan Korval’s roots. So we made a promise to the readers that we’d try to tell the beginning of the story, if we could.
Over time, we finished out the story arc concerning Cantra’s trouble-prone descendants, and, when Stephe Pagel asked us what we’d be writing for him after Balance of Trade, we said that we thought we were now old enough to make good on certain promises of our youth.
Herewith, is the first of two installments, which will fulfill those promises. We hope you’ve enjoyed it.
Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
August 3, 2004
CRYSTAL
DRAGON
Book Two of the Great Migration Duology
A Liaden Universe® Novel
To absent friends
SORCERER
PROLOGUE
In the Hall of the Mountain Kings
I
THE ZALIATA PINWHEELED across the aetherium, painting the void with bright strokes of energy. Rapt, she moved closer to the barrier—and closer still, until the weaving of the containment forces flared.
She retreated until the barrier faded from her awareness, and once again only the zaliata were visible. Power and grace. Unimaginable power, for these were zaliata at the height of their considerable abilities, captured, contained, and exploited by the Iloheen—and no concern of hers.
Despite this—and the fact that it was . . . theoretically . . . impossible for those who wore flawed and fallible flesh to behold the sacred servants without the intermediary sight of an instructor, she came as often as she might to the aetherium, the folded space at the edge of what was, to watch the play and the power of the wild ones, the rebels; those who had contended as equals against the Iloheen—
And lost.
Of course, they had lost. No one and nothing could stand against the Iloheen. So she had been taught, and so she believed. But knowing that each zaliata contained within the aetherium had striven, flame to ice, against one of the Iloheen—that knowledge excited a brilliant emotion in her, as the beauty of their gyrations dazzled her senses, leaving her—
There!
There it was—her favorite of the wild dancers: Not so large as some, but densely structured, the pattern of its emanations controlled, it colors deep and cunning, resonating through every spectrum she was able to sense, and surely well beyond. It suited her fancy to style this one Iloheen-bailel—Lord of Chance—in all ways fit to serve the Masters of Unmaking. Indeed, when she had not seen it at once, she had supposed that its master had required it elsewhere. That it was free and dancing—pleased her.
Not that her puny pleasure was to be set against the necessities of the Iloheen. Surely not. The whole purpose of her existence was to serve the Iloheen as they instructed her, for while they were invincible, their numbers were not limitless, and so they required servants to perform certain of the lesser tasks of conquest.
She was herself scarcely trained, and, according to her teachers, barely trainable. Yet, she had passed living through the first two Dooms, while others of her cohort had not, and even now a vessel formed from her DNA and shaped by her skill grew in the birthing room. Soon, it would be ready to receive a download. And, oh, she thought, her eyes on the Iloheen-bailel as it tumbled and shone in its dance through the clusters of its fellows, if only—
But such was not for her.
Putting away longing and regret alike, she watched the zaliata dance, taking comfort from the intricate, subtle patterns that emerged—and suddenly came to full attention, all her senses a-tingle, as she sought to analyze those so-subtle movements.
The Iloheen-bailel was feigning random action, but close analysis revealed that it was passing near each and every one of the dancers in the aetherium, mingling its energies with those others in the way of zaliata communication. There was nothing overtly wrong in this—if the Iloheen had not wished their servants to communicate, they would simply have forbidden it. But the attempt to conceal the communication engaged her interest—as did the fact that the others were becoming . . . agitated, condensing their essences until they were nearly as dense as the I
loheen-bailel, their auras held close and studious.
Engrossed in her study, she again came too near the containment field, and for an instant, the dancers were hidden from her. When her senses cleared, she saw that the seven strongest of the captives now danced in pattern near the center of the aetherium, while the rest kept orbit about them, tumbling with abandon, energies bright and zealous.
Rapt, she observed them, her entire attention on the double dances—the inner pattern formal, laden—laden with intent; the outer heedless and dazzling. She ached; her senses so tightly engaged that she did not perceive the approach of the Iloheen until its very Shadow fell across the aetherium.
Poor student she might be, but she had not survived two Dooms because she was a fool—nor because she lacked resources or awareness. She had once come to the attention of the Iloheen; twice was more than any student might survive.
Immediately, she damped her output, coalesced, and plummeted through the levels to the physical plane, gritting her teeth to keep the cry locked in her mouth as the dancers, the aetherium, the Shadow itself—vanished from her perceptions.
She breathed, deep and deliberate, and slowly increased her heartbeat, keeping herself centered on the physical plane. Her envelope had become chilled; she warmed it, uncurled and sat up. At the last, she opened her eyes upon the stone-walled dormitory, the ceiling black and secret. Curled naked on the rocky floor were five identical sleepers, which was all that was left of her cohort.
Carefully, she allowed her senses to expand, reading emanations left upon the air by the immediate past—and found nothing but the sleeping auras of her sisters.
Satisfied that her absence had not been noted, she curled down on the cold, sharp rock, closed her eyes and willed her body into slumber—and found resistance, though not from her pliant vessel. Memory it was that would keep her wakeful, and different, and thus subject to scrutiny.
