Schism: Part One of Triad (27 page)

“It can’t just be Shannon’s jammer.” She set down her water and sat up straighter, rubbing the small of her back. “ISC should have broken through its interference days ago.”

Brad leaned his head against the high back of his chair. “Colonel Majda is coming down again today to talk with us.”

“I’d like to do a stint in the flyer first, if we have time.”

“We should.” Brad stood up, then paused as Roca rose to her feet. “Denric said he would come with us. Del and Chaniece are riding with the army personnel who came down yesterday.”

They left the breakfast room and headed out. Neither of them spoke. Roca couldn’t voice the dread that grew larger within her each day. Shannon’s jammer might have malfunctioned in some incredible manner-to cause this disappearance, or some other extenuating circumstances might exist that they hadn’t accounted for, but the more time that passed, the harder that became to believe. Only ESComm technology could hide someone this well, even from ISC.

But surely the Traders couldn’t have taken Eldri or Shannon. It couldn’t have happened.

If even Lyshriol wasn’t safe, where would she protect her family?

The Blue Dale caravan wound through the trees and stirred up the glitter that piled so deeply here, where humans rarely wandered. They had traveled for days, venturing lower in the mountains, until finally they left the Blue Dales. The closer they approached the Rillian Vales, the more uneasy the Archers became. Even the brighter colors of the trees seemed to unsettle them.

All of the Archers rode, the men, women, and children. They passed through the mist as if they weren’t solid themselves. Here in the lower mountains, the fog burned off in the late morning, leaving them unveiled from the sky. It made them uneasy, restless. Vulnerable. Shannon knew that soon they would go their own way, back up into the mountains, and he would follow his insubstantial nightmare alone.

His legs ached constantly now, and though he blamed it on riding for many hours each day, he knew the truth. It came from the dreams that drove him onward, down and down, toward the western fringes of Rillia, those isolated wilds beyond the tiiriving towns or even the outlying farms.

Elarion rode up alongside him, his silver lyrine large for the Archers but only medium compared to Moonglaze.

“My greetings,” Shannon said. He enjoyed Elarion’s company. “How are you this morn?”

“Hot.” Elarion’s long hair swirled around his body and glistened in the sunlight. Tufted ends of his arrows stuck up out of his quiver behind his back. Shannon had previously used bits of glasswood twigs on the ends of his arrows, but the Archers preferred twists of cloth they wove from flexible hemp-reeds that grew in the upper ranges. He had discovered that such twists gave his arrows better balance. He knew from school that on Earth they used “feathers” from birds. Lyshriol had no birds, besides which, he found it hard to believe such filmy material could be useful for an arrow.

Elarion noticed him staring at the arrows. He reached over his shoulder and pulled one out, a long tube of purple glasswood with a razor-sharp point. He offered it to Shannon. “For you.”

Shannon blinked, confused. “Thank you.”

Elarion smiled. “It is a token. For yesterday, during the archery practice.

You shot well.”

“You honor me.”

“Aiya, Shannon,” two musical voices crooned. The trill of sweet laughter followed the lovely sound.

Startled, blushing, Shannon turned around. Two girls were riding by on silvery-blue lyrine, their silver eyes teasing him. They giggled at him and rode on.

“For flaming sake,” Shannon muttered. Why did girls always giggle at him? It was as bad here as at home.

Elarion chuckled at his side. “They like you.”

He slanted Elarion a wary look. “They bedevil me.”

“It is the way always with women,” the Archer said good-naturedly. “The tall, handsome stranger comes into their midst and they vie for his attention.”

Shannon’s face was burning. Elarion couldn’t be serious. He twirled the purpleglass arrow Elarion had given him, turning it around and around in his hand as he looked up the line of Archers. Varielle was about seven riders ahead of him, riding alongside one of her friends.

“They confuse me,” Shannon admitted.

“Who?” Elarion closed his eyes and tilted his face to the sun, letting his lyrine pick the way.

“Women.”

“Ah.” Elarion looked at him. “So it has always been.”

It wasn’t the world’s most useful advice, but he suspected it was all he would get from the taciturn Elarion. Varielle remained a mystery. He had thought she liked him, but now that they no longer needed to ride the same lyrine, she often went with her friends, leaving him alone. Just when he thought she had forgotten him, she would seek out his company. But before he could find me courage to take matters further, she would go off again with her friends. She kept him off balance, off kilter. Maybe his initial impression of her interest had been wishful thinking. Why would a woman such as Varielle spend time with a boy? Although he hadn’t told her his age, he probably came across as young.

His height couldn’t hide the truth for long.

“Shannon, bannon,” voices chimed at his side. “Sing a song.”

He smiled as two small boys rode next to him, both on one lyrine, their small faces beaming, their wild gold hair tousled down their necks and around their ears, their upward-tilted eyes full of silver mischief.

“My greetings,” Shannon said.

“Sing the story about the night and dawn,” they chimed.

“It would be my pleasure.” Shannon had sung earlier for the adults as they rode, so his voice was warm and relaxed. He hummed a few notes, then let a ballad flow out of him, using his tenor range: Ralcon, god of night, Spreading stars wide, Spreading stars through the sky, The dark sky, Dark as his eyes, Dark as his hair, Dark as the night.

The charmed goddess rose, The goddess of light, The goddess of Dawn, Of luminous new Dawn.

Ralcon, god of the dark, Of fertile, sensual dark, He brings the Dawn, The pearly Dawn, But lives beyond her light.

While he sang, the boys made appreciative chimes with their voices, like music to accompany him. The melody sparkled among the trees. Other riders had pulled closer as Shannon sang, and now they added rills of approval. It made Shannon smile. He had spent many an hour with his father during his childhood learning to sing. He had so loved those days.

His good mood faded. Never again would his father sing with him.

He talked with the boys for a while, but eventually they rode off to explore the woods, away from adults, which apparently included him. Shannon wished he could go with them. He missed running through the Dalvador Plains.

“You are good with them,” Elarion said.

“They remind me of myself.” Shannon’s mood had turned pensive as he thought of his childhood.

“It is good, the things you tell them.”

That surprised Shannon. “What do you mean?”

“It is hard to say exactly” Elarion paused. “Your words have honor. Your ken has music.”

Shannon rolled the arrow Elarion had given him between his fingers. Then he reached back and pulled an arrow out of his own quiver, a green glasswood beauty he had carved last night. He offered it to Elarion. “For friendship.”

The Archer inclined his head as he accepted the arrow. “May we share it always.” He put the green arrow in his quiver and Shannon slid the purple one into his. In Dalvador, it would never have occurred to him to offer an arrow to express friendship, but here it felt right.

A commotion came from farther up the caravan. Shannon leaned over Moonglaze’s neck, trying to see through the stained-glass trees. The tip of someone’s bow hit a tree-bubble and popped the large sphere, filling the air with glitter that obscured his view. Voices floated back to him, chiming with excitement.

Curious, Shannon urged Moonglaze forward and rode through the veils of glitter dust, brushing it out of his face as it settled over his body. Up ahead, the Elder, Tharon, and several other Archers had gathered around a man on a silver-white lyrine, one of the scouts who had been ranging ahead of the caravan. The trees were too thick here for the caravan to go at any significant speed and still remain well hidden, so they traveled more slowly while their scouts ranged out and kept watch for anyone who might see them.

As Shannon pulled up to their group, the Elder glanced toward him. He thought she would send him away, but instead she motioned him forward. It surprised him. He wasn’t someone she normally included in her counsels. His curiosity piqued even more, he nudged Moonglaze toward her, and the riders stepped their lyrine aside to let him approach the Elder. He drew Moonglaze to a stop in front of her and inclined his head with respect.

She spoke in her melodic voice. “You know the ways of the Vales, yes?”

“Fairly well,” Shannon said. “I grew up in Dalvador, but we often visited Rillia.”

“A man approaches. He appears Rillian. I would ask your help.”

“Whatever I can do. As long as it causes no harm.”

She regarded him with her silver gaze. “I would ask that you lead him away so that he may not know we ride through here.”

Guilt washed over Shannon. They had come this far down in the mountains on his behalf. Now he had put them at risk of discovery.

“I will lead him away,” he answered. He wasn’t sure how, but he could come up with some ideas.

“You have our thanks.” She spoke quiedy. “When we are safe, we will make camp.

Tomorrow we will return to the Blue Dales.”

Disappointment washed through Shannon. He would miss them. But he understood.

“The company of your people has beenajoyforme.”

A smile played across her beautiful, lined face. “And for us. You are a pleasure, young man. You are welcome in the Vales should you choose to return.”

Shannon hadn’t expected such a testimony from the Elder. “Thank you.”

After they bid him farewell, he rode on with the scout, a man about his father’s age, lanky for an Archer, with silver hair pulled into a knot at the back of his head, a beautifully carved bow on his back, and a quiver full of red glasswood arrows.

They soon left the caravan behind. The wind rustled the trees and puffer-flies hummed through the air, the only sounds besides the muted passage of the lyrine. After about ten minutes, they came out on a tall bluff that dropped away into a vale carpeted in silver-blue reeds tipped by purple bubbles. In the distance, a man was riding across the vale.

Shannon watched the man. “I know him.”

The scout glanced at him. “He is from Dalvador?”

Shannon shook his head. “His name is Tarlin. He’s an officer in Lord Rillia’s army.” He wondered why Tarlin was here alone. Perhaps he no longer had employ with Rillia; the end of the wars had greatly decreased the need for soldiers. They still skirmished with outlaws, but nowadays more often than not they served as city guards or in the retinue of a Bard or his honored visitors.

The scout laid his hand on Shannon’s shoulder. “Rillia’s speed with you, son.”

Shannon clapped his hand over the scout’s knuckles. “My thanks.” Then he set off, looking for a way down the cliff.

On the western end of the ridge, a tangled woods had grown up its edge, almost to the top. Within the trees, the cliff sloped down into a hill. As Shannon followed a worn path down through the forest, disks crinkled on the trees around him. The bow on his back brushed one and it inflated into a red-jeweled orb, translucent and light.

He came out of the woods into a field of reeds so tall that they brushed his legs even though he sat high on Moonglaze. The other rider was well down the valley, just a small figure now. Leaning forward, Shannon spurred Moonglaze into a run. It was the first time he had given the lyrine his head in days and it felt wonderful. He relished the wind on his face. Reeds slapped at his boots and legs as he closed on the other rider.

Moonglaze lifted his head and whistled, his voice full of exultation. At that sound, the other rider brought his lyrine around, the animal stepping skittishly to me side.

Shannon reined Moonglaze to a stop a few paces away from the other man. “My greetings, Goodman Tarlin.”

“Gods almighty.” Tarlin stared at him. “Shannon Valdoria?”

Shannon smiled. “It’s been a long time, sir.”

“It certainly has.” Tarlin shook his head. “You’re so much older. I didn’t recognize you.”

“Would you like to ride together?” He could lead Tarlin away from the Archer camp. Shannon indicated the woods that bordered the valley across from the ridge where he had parted ways with the Archer scout. “I’m heading into Rillia.”

He expected Tarlin to start riding again, but the other man didn’t move. For the first time, Shannon realized Tarlin was shaking. It hadn’t been obvious from far away, but he noticed now because the reeds that brushed Tarlin’s knees were vibrating.

“Prince Shannon.” Tarlin took a breath. “Your father has been searching for you.”

Shannon froze. Prince? How would Tarlin know he had such a title? He had used the Iotic word; the language of Dalvador and Rillia didn’t even have a word for prince.

“You’ve spoken to my father?” It took all Shannon’s control to stop himself from kicking Moonglaze’s sides and spurring the giant lyrine to bolt. “Is he nearby?”

“No.” Tarlin clenched the reins so hard, his ragged nails dug visible marks into his skin. “He is at a camp deeper in the wilds. He needs help.”

“What happened?” The pain in Shannon’s legs surged and so did the nausea that had started in his nightmares. Gods, could it be his father? “Is he ill?”

“There is a man, a Bard.” Tarlin’s words tumbled out. “I have never heard of his land. Hollina. But he pays a good wage. I had no one to serve after Lord Rillia disbanded most of bis army. This Bard came in peace, looking for men to serve on the city guard for his people. They have too few trained men for a full guard, so he searches other provinces. Your father and I met in a sword competition hosted by this Hollina. I took it as a good omen. But your father whispered to me that he needed help. I didn’t know what to do. Although I serve a new Bard, I have known your father for many years. We fought together.”