When Soz reached his console, she stood stiffly, aware of the mess she presented compared to the other cadets, her face sweaty, tendrils of her hair hanging out of her braid and curling wildly about her face, her foot covered in oil, her clothes torn and crusted with sand.
Kurj’s inner lids came up for some reason, so she could see his eyes, with their gold irises and black pupils. He spoke quietly. “Still think you’re ready for the academy, Valdoria?”
She met his gaze defiantly. “Yes, sir.”
“You failed in the mission I set you.”
Screw him. “Yes, sir.”
“Why then, should I let you stay at this academy?”
Foxer was staring at Kurj with undisguised shock. It gave Soz a modicum of satisfaction. She spoke evenly. “Because I’m the first novice in ten damn years to complete the Echo on my first try.”
One of his eyebrows quirked. “So you are.”
Soz waited, wondering what the bloody binges he wanted.
“How is your father?” he asked.
So. They came down to the chase. “I don’t know, sir.”
“Why not?”
She spoke flatly. “He disowned me.”
That clearly caught him by surprise. “Good gods, why?”
Why do you think? She was painfully conscious of everyone listening. “For coming here.”
He let out a long breath. Then, incredibly, he said, “Soz, I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what she had expected, but that wasn’t it. Her voice almost cracked. Almost. But she held it steady. “So am I.” That barely touched what she felt.
He spoke in an unexpectedly gentle voice. “Dismissed, Cadet.”
Soz saluted and went on, out of the common room. The other novices watched her with curiosity. She hid her turmoil. Bad enough she had failed Kurj’s test in front of everyone; now she had admitted her exile as well. The Echo didn’t matter compared to the scab Kurj had picked off her emotions by asking about her father. His sympathetic response confused her. Apparently the mighty Imperator wasn’t as much of an impassive machine as he would have people believe.
They had time for lunch now, but Soz had no desire to go to the canteen with her classmates. Instead she went to the dorm. In her room, she dropped into her bunk and lay on her back, too exhausted even to change her clothes. She stared at the bottom of the bunk bed above her.
“What the holy hazoo was that all about?” a voice said.
Soz turned her head to see Grell sitting on her bunk across the room, her newly cropped red hair sticking up the way it did after she had exercised, making her look like an urchin.
“Hazoo?” Soz blinked. “What is that?”
“I dunno,” Grell admitted. “Everyone says it back home. And you’re avoiding the subject. What happened with Imperator Skolia?”
Soz mentally shuttered her mood. “It’s nothing.”
Jazar appeared in the doorway. “Nothing?” He came inside and touched the wall panel, closing the door. “I’ve never heard of him going after a cadet that way.”
Soz wondered what her father would do if he knew she was bunking in the same room as two men. Probably have heart failure. He would never believe the truth, that they never violated the ban against fraternization. As if cadets had either the time or the energy even to look cross-eyed at each other, let alone misbehave.
“It’s a long story,” Soz said.
Grell leaned forward. “He acted like he knew you.”
“Unfortunately,” Soz muttered.
“You mean he does?” Jazar looked alarmed.
Soz wished she could hide somewhere. “Yes.”
“How?” Grell asked.
Soz didn’t want to go into it, so she said nothing.
They weren’t letting her off that easy. “Why did he bring up your father?” Jazar asked.
“They don’t like each other.”
Grell watched her with concern. “Do you think Imperator Skolia means to force you out of the academy?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Soz put her forearm over her eyes, wishing she could disappear. “He just doesn’t want me to think I’ll have an easy time of it.”
“Why would you think that?” Jazar asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Soz said.
“Soz, come on,” Grell demanded. “Give.”
“Nothing to give.”
“I’ve never met anyone who knew members of the Ruby Dynasty,” Grell said. “Don’t they intimidate you?”
Soz couldn’t help but laugh. She lowered her arm and sat up, taking care with her bruised torso where the rebounders had pummeled her body. “They exasperate, drive me crazy, and fill my life with light, but no, they don’t intimidate me.”
Both Grell and Jazar looked at her, waiting.
Ah, hell. “Imperator Skolia’s father knew my mother.”
“Really?” Grell’s eyes danced with excitement. “How?”
Dryly Soz said, “They were married.”
It took them a while to absorb that. Finally Jazar said, “Gods almighty.”
Soz glared at him. “You start treating me like I’m some sort of something, I’ll toss you into the Echo.”
“Some sort of something?” He smiled. “Soz, ever the poet.”
Grell spoke slowly. “If you have the same mother as the Imperator, that would be Roca Skolia. Unless she has another life the public has never heard about, that means your father is the King of Skyfall.”
Soz groaned. “The planet is not called Skyfall. It’s called Lyshriol. Skyfall is the name some sleezy resort planners gave it. And my father is not the king of an entire planet. He’s not even the king of part of a planet. He’s a singer.”
“Oh, gods,” Grell said. “Holy hazooing gods. You’re a member of the Ruby Dynasty.”
Soz couldn’t help but laugh. “Hazooing? Where do you get these words?”
“I can’t believe it.” Grell didn’t look as if she knew whether to be horrified or thrilled. “My roommate is a Ruby heir.”
“Grell, enough.” Jazar was watching Soz closely, his smile gone. He spoke quietly to Soz. “Your father disowned you for coming here?”
Soz just shook her head. She couldn’t talk about it. “Don’t tell anyone who I am, all right. Swear. Both of you.”
Jazar didn’t hesitate. “Sworn.”
“No one?” Grell asked. “Not even Obsidian?”
“No one,” Soz said. “I’ll tell him if it comes up.”
“All right.” Grell sighed. “I swear.”
Jazar grinned, his handsome face lighting with the flash of his teeth. “Heya, Soz, you’re a princess.”
“I’ll princess you.” Soz gave him her most formidable scowl, the one that made the youths in Dalvador blanch and avoid her. Either that, or they tried to kiss her, like Ari at the lake, which had never made a lot of sense to Soz, but had been fun. It would have been a lot better if he hadn’t immediately hopped off to kiss some other girl. If she ever saw him again, she would be tempted to heft him over her back like the last time.
Jazar didn’t look the least bit intimidated. He came over and sat next to her on the bunk. “Can’t, Soz. You have to be female to be a princess.”
“Go sit on your own bunk,” she growled.
“I can’t,” he said sensibly. “It’s above yours. If I went up there, how would we have this wonderful discussion, with you grousing and glowering at us so mightily?”
“Grousing!” Soz reached back on her bed, grabbed the regulation pancake that DMA claimed was a pillow, and whacked him over the head with it. Grell laughed and threw her own pillow across the room. Within moments, pancake pillows were flying through the room amid laughter.
It lasted about two minutes before the clarion for afternoon classes blared, cutting through their tumult. Grell stood in the middle of the room, her arms full of pillows, including Obsidian’s, the only one of them who had been sensible enough to eat lunch.
Grell sighed. “Time to get back to work.”
“I guess so,” Soz said. She enjoyed their company despite their having spent the last two minutes hitting her with pillows. These two people shared her dreams in a way no one at home ever had, except perhaps a few of her brothers, but they had been constrained by the differing expectations for men and women there. Besides, they were, well, her brothers. She loved them even at their most exasperating, but it wasn’t the same. She had never had friends like this. It eased the ache inside, the knowledge that she had given up a part of her family to come here, a part of herself.
But the loss could never be replaced.
14
The Price of Silence
Shannon rode into the Blue Dale camp with his companions of the last five days: Tharon, a gifted archer who could bring down a floating sphere from a hundred paces; Elarion, whose white-gold hair reached to his waist; and Varielle, who was surely the most fascinating woman alive. She was an unparalleled Archer. She bested him at every shot, bested all of them, even Tharon.
Shannon’s thoughts turned to Varielle often. Perhaps it was because she was the first woman he had met like himself; he might have reacted this way to any female Blue Dale Archer. He doubted it, though. She fevered his dreams.
No one seemed to realize he was only one octet plus six years of age. He was large for an Archer, and the youthful cast of his face made no difference here; they all had a fey, childlike quality to their appearance. They treated him like an adult. He hoped Varielle saw him that way. She had half an octet of years on him, maybe more.
The days passed in bliss for Shannon, helping him forget why he had fled to the Blue Dales. It disturbed him greatly, however, that he couldn’t find Moonglaze. He had always loved the lyrine, and now Moonglaze had become his family. His only family. Without the lyrine, he had to ride with one of his three companions. Today he sat behind Varielle on her silver mount, his arms around her waist. He held her close and she made no objection. Her head brushed his chin, and the temptation to nuzzle her hair as if he were her lover was almost too much to resist.
He would have been content in the moment-by-moment, except for the dreams that plagued him, nightmares of agony in his legs and back, always in darkness. He would awake sweating and terrified, unable to rise from where he slept in the forest, rolled in a blanket. Each time it happened, a compulsion urged him back to Rillia, an urge that grew stronger each day. But without Moonglaze, he had no means to ride anywhere except with the Archers.
It astounded him that his companions let him accompany them. The Blue Dale Archers had hidden so well that everyone in Rillia and Dalvador believed them extinct. Yet these three accepted him. He didn’t know how to express what it meant to him, but they seemed to know. They lived in a wash of emotion, letting feelings pour over and through their minds. They weren’t empaths, but they came closer to that state than anyone he knew except his family. He felt right with them. They were bringing him home. That made it all the more wrenching that he would soon have to leave them.
Shannon had no wish to return to Rillia. But he had to go. The dreams grew worse each night. Somehow he needed to find another lyrine. When he did, he would head back to the Vales.
Varielle shifted in front of him, and he rested his forehead against the back of her head. She felt small in his arms, her hair glossy on his cheek. Visions played in his mind of her floating in a pool, her body bare and glistening with water. He wanted her, but he was afraid to let her know, so he just used this excuse to hold her in his arms.
Varielle leaned back, her head on his shoulder. “You have much strength.”
That made Shannon feel taller. He didn’t know how to respond to such a compliment, though, so he said only, “You should meet my brothers.” Immediately he wished he had kept his mouth shut. Women always found his brothers handsome. He had never envied them their conquests before, or at least not too much, but now his jealousy surged. Better Varielle never meet them, especially Del, who had dallied with half the girls in the village.
Blue mist swirled through the dale below them, curling around the stained-glass trees and drifting past tents. Melodies trilled in the air. After several moments he realized the music came from voices calling and children laughing. People were all around them, hidden in the fog. Silvery figures darted from tree to tree, following them, almost invisible in the fog.
“We are causing a stir,” he said.
“Not us.” Varielle leaned against him, her eyes closed, her hands loose on the reins. “You.”
Shannon winced. “A good one, I hope.”
She laughed, a melodic sound. “The women will envy me.”
A sense of fullness swelled inside Shannon. He kissed the back of her head, savoring her soft hair, like silk under his lips.
The trail leveled out and tents shrouded in mist appeared on either side, as blue as snow. The eerie beauty of the place seemed steeped in magic, ready for spirits to step out of legends and come to life. A group of riders formed out of the mist and came toward them. They rode silver lyrine, smaller than a war mount like Moonglaze, more the size of the lavender or blue lyrine most people rode in the Dalvador Plains.
The leader of the group sat tall on her mount, head lifted, her silver eyes surrounded by a nest of lines, her translucent skin creased, her hair silver rather than white-gold. Her authority permeated the air.
They all reined their mounts to a halt and gathered in a restless cluster of lyrine. The leader gazed at Shannon with no welcome in her eyes. She spoke to Tharon, her phrases a ripple of music. Shannon had grown more accustomed to the Archer dialect these past few days, enough to pick up some of their words. The Elder castigated Tharon for bringing a stranger into camp.
Tharon answered in elegant phrases, composing an image that startled Shannon. He described Shannon’s persistence, his kindness to the lyrine, his prowess with a bow, his quiet nature. The Archer spoke of “the music of Shannon’s ken, the flow of his moods, the sight of his heart.” Shannon understood little of what that meant, but the phrases had a symmetry that felt right.
The Elder’s demeanor softened toward Shannon. She spoke to him, slowing her voice so he could better understand. “Is your lyrine a giant animal with a dark coat?”
Shannon straightened up behind Varielle, still holding her in his arms. “Yes. A purple coat. He is a war lyrine.”
“He came here.” This seemed to impress the Elder. “He acted as if he wished us to help someone. We did not know who.”
Shannon’s breath caught. The great animals such as Moonglaze rarely gave fealty to humans. Although Moonglaze had accepted him, he hadn’t realized the lyrine would make such an extreme effort to save his life, even searching out the legendary Blue Dale Archers. Their help would have come too late if Tharon and the others hadn’t already found Shannon, but what mattered was that the lyrine tried.
Shannon inclined his head to the Elder with respect. “I thank you for sheltering Moonglaze.”
“Moonglaze?” she asked.
“The lyrine.” He didn’t say “my” lyrine. Moonglaze belonged only to himself.
“A fine name for a fine beast,” the Elder said.
Shannon hesitated, unsure of protocols. Varielle was simply waiting, silent in front of him. She hadn’t tensed in his arms, though, which boded well. He hoped. Nor had any of the Archers challenged him for riding into camp with his arms around one of their women. He wished he could hold her for hours, days, many nights. But he couldn’t stay.
“May I see Moonglaze now?” he asked.
“If it is him.” The Elder guided her mount around. It stepped with graceful agitation, like a wraith cloaked in the swirling blue mist. They rode through the camp with the octet of Archers who had accompanied the Elder and now kept watch on Shannon. The fog muted sound.
They soon reached the last of the tents. Among the widely spaced trees beyond, a small herd of lyrine stood in a cluster, most of them nibbling at patches of stub-reeds. They resembled the mist, silvery and slender, indiscerni
ble until Shannon was almost upon them. One stood out from the rest, a huge animal and powerfully muscled, with a dark violet coat. Joy surged through Shannon. He slid off Varielle’s lyrine and landed on the ground with a thump.
Moonglaze lifted his head.
For an instant the lyrine remained still. Then he whistled a long cry to the air, resonant and powerful. He shook his head and walked among the other animals. Many of them stopped grazing and moved aside to let him pass. As Shannon went forward through the herd, several of the lyrine studied him, first with one silver eye, then turning their heads to look at him with the other. Animals in Dalvador did the same. They could see with both eyes at once, looking forward, but when they wished to scrutinize an oddity or uncertain phenomenon, they observed it from all possible views.
Apparently satisfied that he posed no threat, they went back to nibbling the reeds. Shannon and Moonglaze met in their midst, and Moonglaze snuffled at him, pushing his nose against Shannon’s shoulder. Shannon put his arms around his neck and laid his head against the great lyrine. Moisture gathered in his eyes. Moonglaze whistled and curved his head around, gently butting him. With a laugh, Shannon released the lyrine and stepped back. Moonglaze considered him with one eye, then turned his head and gazed at him with the other eye.
Shannon smiled. “Making sure it’s me?”
The lyrine whistled, a chastising note. Shannon scratched his neck in that place the lyrine liked so much. With a snort of approval, Moonglaze lowered his head and went back to grazing.
“He loves you,” a fluid voice said.
Shannon turned with a start. Varielle stood a few paces away.
“He accepts me,” Shannon said. “I wouldn’t presume more.”
“You should try presuming more,” she murmured, coming forward. She stopped in front of him and looked up into his face. “You will go now, won’t you?”
Shannon wished he could stay. It burned inside of him. But he could only nod. “I’m sorry. I must.”
“I don’t understand.” She motioned around at the camp. “You came looking for Archers. Here we are.”
Schism: Part One of Triad (Saga of the Skolian Empire) Page 19
