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

by Asaro, Catherine

  Nothing had actually happened yet, so perhaps their alarms hadn’t triggered, but surely they had ways to tell if he faced potentially mortal danger. It would do no good for them to arrive after this Tyroll person ran him through with a sword; he would be dead before they showed up. Yet he saw no sign they had concerns. Maybe Roca’s people weren’t as advanced as they insinuated when they subtly, or not so subtly, denigrated his “primitive” culture.

  His concentration narrowed to the angular man coming at him and to a second closing in at an oblique angle. The first man lifted his hand, a gesture so slight that Eldrinson almost missed it—but the Tyroll octet responded, lunging at the Dalvador warriors.

  Eldrinson had no time to think; he immediately parried a swing from the man who had given the signal. As they fought, the second warrior closed in, forcing him to defend against two of them at once. He was aware of Jannor at his right side, battling two other swordsmen. A lyrine’s haunch crashed in Night Charger’s hindquarters, staggering him—

  One of his men died.

  Eldrinson screamed as a sword lanced through the man’s chest. His empath’s mind felt it as clearly as if it had happened to him. After so many years as an empath, he had enough experience in combat to keep fighting, but this death caught him even more than most. In past battles, he had at least been prepared. Now he wavered and one of his opponents slashed his sword arm. With a grunt, Eldrinson struggled to recoup, to focus on his challengers.

  Another of his men died.

  “NO.” Eldrinson strained to parry, but his blade felt as if it had doubled in weight. Blood ran down his left arm and soaked his shirt. One of his opponents raised his sword. Eldrinson tried to counter, but he couldn’t move his injured arm fast enough. It felt too heavy—

  A third man in his group died.

  Eldrinson shouted in fury and heaved up his sword. It struck the blade of his attacker hard and the recoil vibrated along Eldrinson’s arm to his shoulder. He felt nothing except a curious deadness in his arm. No pain.

  Not yet.

  His two opponents worked together with practiced efficiency, attacking from both sides. He was faster than either of them individually, but he couldn’t keep up with his sword arm injured. One of the men whipped his blade toward Eldrinson, distracting his concentration. Eldrinson tried to block the thrust, but he only deflected it. His attacker’s sword plunged toward his chest—

  Another sword hit the blade of the Tyroll warrior and sent it flying. Eldrinson whipped his head around to see Jannor’s triumphant grin. In that instant, one of Jannor’s attackers slashed in close. In nightmarish slow motion, Eldrinson saw the sword slide into Jannor’s chest, straight through his heart.

  Jannor stared at him with a startled look, as if he didn’t believe a pleasant morning’s ride could end this way. Then slowly, so very slowly, he toppled from his lyrine. His dying moment shattered Eldrinson with more force even than the other deaths, as if his own heart broke open. He cried out, barely aware of a Tyroll warrior knocking his own blade from his hand. Warm liquid ran down his arm and dripped off his fingers. He raised his uninjured arm to defend his head, knowing a blade would slice down to hack him apart.

  The blow never came.

  After an eternity, Eldrinson lowered his arm. His injured limb hung by his side. He stared dully around. Four of the Tyroll men lay crumpled on the ground, unmoving—as did his four men. The other warriors had surrounded him. Bile rose in his throat and an ache spread through him that had nothing to do with his injury. He had brought these men to their deaths, men he had fought beside, fathers with families. And Jannor. His lifelong friend, dead, because of him. In the same way that the pain in his arm was finally registering, so the grief in his heart made itself known.

  “Well fought,” a languid voice said.

  Eldrinson turned his head. The false Rillian sat on his giant lyrine a short distance away. He had a strange blissful expression and a look of possessive satisfaction that scared the hell out of Eldrinson.

  “You should have killed me,” Eldrinson said, his voice flat, with a hatred that gave it an intensity far beyond his usual timbre. Night Charger stepped nervously, ready to run. “For I’ll never rest until I’ve exacted payment for what happened here.”

  “Indeed.” The stranger seemed perversely gratified. “It does truly grieve you to lose these friends of yours.”

  Eldrinson said nothing.

  One of the Tyroll men dismounted and picked up Eldrinson’s sword. Gritting his teeth, Eldrinson held still while another man removed his sword belt. A third took the travel bags off Night Charger and draped them over his own mount.

  The false Rillian rode over, surveying Eldrinson as if he were a valuable acquisition. His men took up formation around Eldrinson, creating a barrier between him and their leader, a man either so confident of their abilities or so unconcerned for them that he had ridden away while they did battle.

  “What do you want with me?” Eldrinson asked.

  The man’s gaze never wavered. “You please me.”

  Eldrinson had to make a conscious effort not to clench his jaw. “Does it please you to tell me your name?”

  “I suppose. We will be together for some time.”

  Eldrinson knew otherwise. It couldn’t be long before ISC found him. This trespasser would be no match for the forces that protected Lyshriol.

  Then the man said, “I am Vitarex Raziquon.”

  Eldrinson froze.

  Raziquon.

  It was a Trader Aristo name.

  9

  The Tent

  Roca stared out the window by her copilot’s seat, scanning the countryside below. Cultivated patches alternated with forests in a quilt of landscape. The holoscreens in the flyer would let her see the land up close, but she kept looking through the window as well, too agitated to stay still. The longer it took to find Shannon, the worse her apprehension. He had been gone two days now. He could be injured, lost, out of food or water. If only he would turn off the blasted jammer. The orbital positioning system could pinpoint someone on the ground to within less than a centimeter. They also had the flyer and two other ISC shuttles searching. Why the blazes couldn’t they break through the jamming field Shannon had set up? It was ISC equipment. Surely they knew how to neutralize their own gear.

  “Still nothing,” Brad said.

  Roca turned to see him studying the screens in front of his pilot’s seat. He indicated several red blips drifting across the screen, where the Backbone Mountains met Ryder’s Forest in the north. “Those are riders on lyrine.”

  Roca sat up straighter. “Could it be—” She stopped when she saw the glyphs flowing across the bottom of the screen, giving statistics from an implant in the body of one rider. “That’s Denric. The other four riders are probably half the octet that went with him and Eldri.”

  Brad’s forehead furrowed. “I wonder why they’re headed south.”

  “Eldri should be with him.” She had felt uneasy all morning, though she wasn’t certain why.

  “They probably split up.” Brad glanced at her. “They can cover more area that way.”

  Roca felt as taut as a drum pulled tight. “Eldri had a seizure last night, the worst in years.”

  Brad spoke quietly. “This is probably the worst stress he’s experienced in years.”

  Even more than in war. Losing his children was worse to Eldri than going into battle. He could face armed men without flinching, but the thought of injury to his family devastated him. Even with that, last night had been extreme. She rarely discussed his condition with anyone: it was private. But Brad had known him even before her. He was one of the few people who had seen Eldri have seizures.

  “This isn’t the first time we’ve suffered family crises,” Roca said. “He hasn’t had an attack that severe in over a decade.”

  “Perhaps his treatment needs to be changed,” Brad said.

  “He sees the port doctor regularly.” Roca shifted in her seat. “Eldri a
lways downplays his health problems. It’s his damn pride.”

  “Dr. Heathland would know if he was covering up.”

  “I suppose.” Jase Heathland was the fifth doctor ISC had sent to Lyshriol to care for Eldrinson. They had finally found someone savvy enough to know when Eldri was avoiding the doctor and personable enough to put the Bard at ease. Her husband cooperated because he didn’t want the seizures to return, but he loathed seeing doctors. Heathland was the only who could get past all that with him, and he took no guff from the royal consort. Eldri even seemed to like him.

  Brad rubbed his chin as he examined the holomap. “Denric must have gone through the Mirrored Pass. If Shannon went that way, he could be a day’s ride into Ryder’s Forest now.”

  Roca’s frustration welled. “We’ve been over Ryder’s five times.”

  “We could do it a hundred times and miss him.” Brad motioned at the mountains towering in the north, covered by an endless stained-glass sheen. “He could ride for days through that forest and never see the sky. Which means we won’t see him unless he turns off that damn jammer.”

  Roca stared at the holomap, brooding. The peaks of Ryder’s Lost Memory rose up, taller and taller. Beyond them, the Blue Dale Mountains reached even higher, blending into a haze, capped with blue snow. Above them, Aldan was a dark amber orb eclipsing the large gold disk of Valdor.

  “He’s there,” Roca said. “In those mountains. I’m certain of it.” She wished she could go back and redo her last conversation with Shannon. “I knew he was lonely, but I didn’t think he was angry at us.”

  “It’s hard to know.” With a rueful wince, Brad added, “At his age, I drove my parents to distraction, always staying out late. I’d get so caught up in making gadgets, machines, whatnot, I’d forget the time.” His voice gentled. “Shannon’s reasons may have nothing to do with anger at you or your husband.”

  Roca recalled the scene in the courtyard with Althor. “People think empaths know exactly how other people feel. But that’s not true. I could sense Shannon was upset but not the reason.” Empathy was a curse as much as a gift. It hurt more to know a problem existed when she didn’t understand why. She had learned at a young age to block moods. It was their only defense against the mental onslaught of other minds.

  Shannon had fled it all, to the lonely northern mountains.

  Eldrinson knelt by the pole in the tent, shifting position, easing the strain on his arms. One of Raziquon’s men had pulled his wrists behind his back and tied them to the post, holding him tight against the violet glasswood column. He had tried every method he knew to free himself, with no success. The rope tightened and readjusted the knots every time he loosened them. Roca would call it a “smart-rope,” a cable with some technology that gave it rudimentary intelligence.

  He sagged against the pole, his head drooping forward. His arms ached so much, he had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from groaning. Blood saturated the sleeve of his left arm from the wound he had taken. Although Vitarex’s people had treated the gash, which wasn’t deep, they had done nothing for the pain. But that paled next to his grief over the loss of his men. He couldn’t comprehend how an Aristo had infiltrated an orbital system that ISC claimed was the best in the Imperialate. They were supposed to protect the Ruby Dynasty. How the hell had one of the monsters fooled those purportedly matchless defenses? Eldrinson wanted to shout his disbelief, that an Aristo was loose and masquerading as a Rillian.

  It had been hours since Vitarex and his men had reached this camp in a secluded valley far from any settled area, hidden in the wild country. They had traveled all day, always west. Every step took him farther from Shannon, who must have gone north. When Roca and Brad realized he had disappeared, they were unlikely to look for him here, but surely the satellites in orbit could find him.

  The tent flap shifted, crinkling, and one of Vitarex’s men entered. He glanced at Eldrinson, then quickly looked away. He went to a table across the tent and poured a glass of water from a red glasswood pitcher there. The blue liquid glimmered as it flowed into the red cup. Eldrinson’s mouth suddenly felt parched, intensifying his discomfort. They had already given him water, but it wasn’t enough.

  “Ahh …” The exhalation came from the entrance.

  Vitarex was standing just inside the entrance. The Aristo took a stool there and carried it up to within a few paces of Eldrinson. The Tyroll man gave him the water, then bowed and left the tent. Vitarex sat back, regarding his prisoner with curious arrogance as he idly held the goblet. Eldrinson met his gaze steadily. With hatred.

  “You don’t like me,” Vitarex said. He sounded drugged.

  Eldrinson didn’t answer.

  Vitarex shifted languages. “My presence exalts you.”

  Eldrinson froze. Gods almighty. Vitarex had spoken Highton, the language of the ruling Aristo caste. Eldrinson had learned it at the same time he learned Iotic and Skolian Flag, primarily because Kurj hadn’t believed his stepfather could master any languages the royal family spoke. They all knew Highton, just as the Aristos probably all learned Iotic. Know your enemy.

  Vitarex wasn’t even trying to hide his heritage. Then again, why should he? Almost no one in Dalvador had ever heard Highton. Vitarex had no reason to assume otherwise of Eldrinson. At least he prayed not. Otherwise this monster would realize the truth, that he had caught a member of the Ruby Dynasty.

  In the past, Eldrinson had always thought ISC was demented in the way they obsessively secured any and all images of him and kept them off the interstellar meshes. Now he was more grateful than he could ever say. Vitarex hadn’t recognized him.

  Thank Rillia he hadn’t worn the ISC med bracelet and had sent Denric away with the offworld supplies. Or most of them. The syringe was in his travel bag. Vitarex’s men had taken the bags, so they probably had it. The syringe resembled blue glasswood; he hoped they wouldn’t bother Raziquon about an apparently harmless tube. Now if he could just find a way to get it without Vitarex knowing.

  “You have no idea,” the Aristo lord was saying in Rillian, his voice more normal now. “You empaths feed us.”

  “Us?” Eldrinson asked. Were there more Aristos here?

  “You wouldn’t understand.” Vitarex waved his hand. “It is genetics. Magic, to you.”

  “What magic?” If he kept Vitarex talking, perhaps the intruder would let slip some clue about how he infiltrated the Lyshriol defenses.

  “It has to do with a brilliant man.” Vitarex’s words dripped condescension. “A confused, brilliant man. Hezahr Rhon.”

  “I don’t know who you mean,” Eldrinson lied. He had learned the history from Roca. Centuries ago, Hezahr Rhon had established the Rhon project. He had two intents: to develop Rhon psions, the most powerful empaths and telepaths known; and to make them less vulnerable to the onslaught of emotions around them.

  That noble goal had become the worst tragedy in history.

  “Rhon was a geneticist,” Vitarex said.

  Eldrinson pretended ignorance. “A what?”

  “Ah, well.” He smiled benignly. “It is too complicated to explain.”

  Eldrinson gritted his teeth. “I’m not slow in the mind.” He didn’t have to fake his annoyance; he had plenty of practice dealing with Roca’s people.

  “So you can understand genetics, eh?” Vitarex’s eyes glinted. “Rhon altered several of the mutated Kyle genes that create psions. Understand, Dalvador man?”

  Eldrinson didn’t answer.

  Vitarex laughed. “I didn’t think so. But I will tell you. Rhon intended to help empaths shield their minds against emotions. But instead he created the most exalted form of life ever known.” He touched his chest. “Aristos.”

  Eldrinson snorted. “I see nothing exalted here.”

  Vitarex’s expression hardened. With a deliberate motion, he slapped his prisoner across the face. Eldrinson grunted as his head turned and hit the pole behind him. His eyes watered and his vision blurred. It was several moments bef
ore he remembered to breathe; then he gasped in a shuddering breath. As his vision cleared, Vitarex’s face came into focus. The Aristo emanated bliss, from his half-closed eyes to his radiant expression. Eldrinson clenched his teeth.

  Vitarex slowly opened his eyes. “It is pain, you see. Physical. Emotional. Any kind.” His voice became almost inaudible. “It is transcendence.”

  Bile rose in Eldrinson’s throat. He understood far better than Vitarex realized. Aristos were anti-empaths. When they detected pain from their victim, their brains protected them by shunting the signals to their pleasure centers. They called it transcendence. He had heard they sought it with obsessive cruelty, but until this moment he hadn’t really understood what that meant.

  “So you see,” Vitarex murmured, “it is why I need you.”

  Eldrinson shook his head, then gulped as pain radiated out from where he had struck the pole. “You don’t need me.”

  “But I do.” He sighed now. “Empaths project their responses more strongly than other people. It heightens the effect. The stronger the empath, the more I transcend.” He lifted his hand, palm up, as if offering Eldrinson a gift. “When you make it possible for me to reach that exaltation, it exalts you as well.”

  Eldrinson was too queasy to answer. Vitarex and his ilk might believe themselves more than human, they might even have built an empire based on that belief, but as far as he could tell, they were nothing more than sadists. For all that he had learned their history, it had never seemed real until this Highton lord sat before him, his face smooth with ecstasy while Eldrinson endured the pain in his body—and his heart. Those men who had ridden with him, fought with him, and died with him, they had wives, children, dreams. All gone now.

  With Vitarex so close, Eldrinson felt that suffocating sense of cavity from his dream, the crushing darkness. In that place where most people had the capacity for compassion, the Aristo had nothing. Eldrinson teetered above that abyss, falling into its lightless void. His nausea surged. Vitarex had come for his family, the Ruby Dynasty. Each time the fear hit him, it struck with renewed force. Why else would the Traders go to the extremes it must have taken to infiltrate ISC defenses on a world that otherwise had nothing to offer a star-faring civilization? The Aristo surely had the backing of ESComm, or Eubian Space Command, the Trader military; it was the only way he could have infiltrated the defenses here.