Skyfall (28 page)

Suddenly Jarac’s mind receded. Kurj didn’t understand—and then realization hit him: his grandfather had relinquished his hold on life. He would let himself die so Kurj could live.

“No!” Kurj strode forward, knowing now, too late, that his grandfather meant more to him than the power of the Imperator. He wanted Jarac to live, wanted it with an intensity that burned.

Jarac sank to his knees, his great back bending as he lowered his head. Dropping next to him, Kurj grabbed his shoulders. “You must not give up! We will find a way to coexist.”

“It is not possible.” Jarac lifted his shaggy-maned head. “We are too alike.”

“No.” Kurj felt as if a band were constricting across his chest. “You are a better man than I.”

“Greatness is in you. You must find it now.”

“You must live.” Kurj would do anything, even beg the fates, to stop Jarac from dying. “You must.”

“I am too old.”

“But you don’t know. I found files about my birth.”

Jarac answered with infinite, agonizing gentleness. “I know. I see it in your mind.”

The words wrenched out of Kurj. “You are my father.”

Jarac took a deep, shuddering breath. “I cannot forgive what the Assembly has done. But I am as proud to have you as a son as a grandson.”

“You must live!” Kurj would say it a thousand times, until Jarac heard.

“Do you know their minds?” Jarac asked.

“Whose?” But Kurj felt it, what his grandfather meant. The minds of the Ruby Dynasty were linked, all of them. He, Jarac, and Lahaylia flared in a triangle of fire. Less intense, outside the Triad but still bright, the Ruby Dynasty burned: Dehya, intellect instead of force, sensitive, fragile, beautifully luminous; Roca, a blaze of vitality and health, with a love for her family that knew no bounds; young Eldrin, glowing within the circle of her light, unformed, full of promise, so very, very treasured.

And yes, Eldrinson was there, distant but full, a great swelling ocean of light. Kurj wanted to weep for the purity of that radiance, the untouched beauty of a mind that for all Eldrinson’s physical suffering had remained unscathed.

Jarac clenched his forearm. “The baby. He has not our strength. Protect.”

Kurj felt the wash of Eldrin’s terrified impressions. The child was panicked, cowering from the inferno of the Triad, his mind huddled against his mother’s, his thoughts instinctively fleeing toward love and warmth, desperate for the father Kurj had denied him. Eldrin was so enormously vulnerable. Jarac’s dying, this agonizing pain, could devastate Eldrin the same way the deaths of Eldrinson’s family had so traumatized Eldrinson in his infancy. Kurj reached out, swaddling Eldrin’s mind in layers of protection, buffering him from the agony killing his elders.

“You feel them.” Jarac struggled to speak. “They are yours now. You are the Fist of Skolia. The protector. Lahaylia and Dehya, they are the Mind. And know this, Kurj. Eldrinson and Roca are its Heart. You cannot deny them.”

“Father—”

“You must care for them, betraying none.” Jarac’s voice rasped. “Promise you will do this.”

“You are not going to die.”

“
Promise.
You will never betray any of them.”

Kurj took a shuddering breath. “I promise.”

Jarac sagged forward, and Kurj grabbed his shoulders, trying to stop him. But like a great tree falling, Jarac settled onto his side, then on his back. Kurj knelt next to him on the transparent deck, bathed in starlight, moisture gathering in his eyes.

“I cannot heal the wounds that ravage your heart,” Jarac whispered. “But I can give you a gift.” His massive chest rose and fell with his strained breaths. “Know the family we love…as I know them.”

And then he opened his mind.

Jarac’s thoughts, emotions, hopes, memories, fears, longings, knowledge, loves—it all rolled into Kurj’s mind. His brain, so much like Jarac’s, imprinted with the neural pathways that formed Jarac’s personality. Kurj remained himself, aware of the pain in his heart, but in that instant, he also became his grandfather.

Kurj’s voice caught. “Forgive me.”

“Yes.” His father took a final breath. “I do love you.”

Then Jarac Skolia, Imperator of the Skolian Imperialate, passed from life into death.

L
ahaylia Selei sat on the floor in her bedroom, against the wall, unmoving. After an age, or perhaps only a few moments, a man paused in the doorway. She made no move to look at him, speak to him, acknowledge him in any way.

Then he spoke. “Lahya.”

“Ah, gods.” She
knew
that voice. She couldn’t help herself; she turned—and saw her husband in the doorway, his posture, his expressions, even his mind so achingly familiar.

Except it wasn’t him.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “I can’t bear it.”

Kurj came to her and knelt on one knee. He spoke in a low voice. “I thought I knew his love for you, but I had no idea, no hint of how deep it went.” His voice cracked. “I am sorry.”

Lahaylia wanted to hate him, to cast him out of her sight. But she couldn’t. She saw Jarac in his every word and gesture.

“I cannot live with this,” she said.

He started to reach for her, but when she stiffened, he dropped his hand. He spoke quietly. “In time, the part of me that is Jarac will recede, I think, and integrate with Kurj.”

Her voice caught. “The Assembly has much to answer for.”

“Yes.”

“You have made yourself the most powerful individual alive, Kurj. None can match what you have done.” She regarded him steadily. “Now you must take responsibility for it.”

Kurj took a deep breath. “If I can.”

“You must.” Her gaze darkened. “Otherwise you will destroy us all.”

Roca cradled Eldrin.

He slept in her arms, nestled against her, his eyes closed, his face finally peaceful. She leaned back on the couch, too exhausted to move. The grief was too big. She had nowhere to put it. She wished she could be like Eldrin, able to sleep when the storm abated.

Her console chimed.

Roca lifted her head. “What is it?”

The house EI answered. “Imperator Skolia is at your door.”

She froze. “
Who?
” Her father had just
died.

“Kurj Skolia.”

She took a ragged breath. Of course. Bitter grief filled her. The son had killed the father and assumed his throne. By joining the Triad, Kurj had bypassed her in the line of succession, wresting the title away from her. She hadn’t held any great desire to lead the military, but never would she have wished for this. Damn the Assembly. Damn the Traders for their relentless brutality that drove people to such desperate wrongs. Damn them all.

“Let him in.” Roca sat up, shifting Eldrin carefully so he didn’t wake up.

A man appeared in the shadowed entrance of the room. Roca drew in a sharp breath. It wasn’t Kurj. His walk, his posture, his face—it was Jarac. But he wore Kurj’s clothes and had Kurj’s hair.

Son, brother, father: to her, he was all three.

He sat on the other end of the sofa, his elbows on his knees. “How is Eldrin?”

“All right.” Roca smoothed the baby’s wispy hair.

“Did he suffer when—?”

Roca thought of her father’s death. “No. He cried, but that was all.” Kurj had protected his half brother, doing for Eldrin what no one had been able to do for Eldrin’s father, protecting him against the ravages of his family’s deaths. Eldrin would live without the torments Eldri had endured all his life. Roca wanted to reach toward Kurj, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it, knowing the price they had all paid for his fury.

Kurj looked at his hands. “I have made a decision.”

“Yes?”

“I will call another vote on the invasion.” He raised his gaze to her. “As Imperator, I can do so.”

She went very still. “And?”

“I will vote for the negotiations.”

Hotness filled Roca’s eyes. She had finally achieved what she had intended when she escaped her bodyguards and tried to reach the Assembly so long ago. But the price was so terribly, terribly high. A tear ran down her face. “I am glad.”

For a long time he said nothing. Then he broke his silence. “Mother—go to your husband.”

Surely she had misheard. “To Eldri?”

“Yes.” He spoke with difficulty. “I don’t know if I can ever accept him. But Jarac was right. You must go.”

Eldrin stirred in her arms, nestling closer, his face smoothing out in sleep.

“Thank you,” Roca whispered.

“But you must come back.” Now he sounded like Jarac. “We will see you in the Assembly and on stage?”

“Certainly the Assembly. I have much work to do.” She bent her head over Eldrin. “But I think not the stage. I would like to have more children.”

“Mother—”

She raised her head. “Yes?”

He struggled with his words. “I am sorry.”

Roca knew then that no punishment any judicial body could mete out to him would equal the guilt tearing him apart. The Assembly would fear to take action against him, lest it destabilize the web they all depended on with such desperation. And those who knew what had happened thirty-five years ago would be terrified to do anything that might anger him, lest he reveal their crimes.

But for the rest of his life, her son would live in the hell of his own remorse.

Roca stood in the doorway, gazing at the darkening Valley long after Kurj had left. Eldrin continued to sleep in her arms. She didn’t go back inside; she couldn’t bear the solitude of her house, not now, not after all they had lost.

Gradually Roca realized someone was approaching. The figure took form out of the night, a woman with dark hair and a graceful walk.

Roca waited until the woman reached her. “Mother.”

Lahaylia nodded. “My greetings.”

“I am glad you came.”

Her mother spoke with a softness she rarely showed. “I thought, if you would allow—I would visit with my grandson.”

Roca’s voice caught. “Yes. I would like that.” She moved aside. “Please come in.”

So the Ruby Pharaoh acknowledged her second grandson.

E
ldri walked through the rubble piled around the edges of the courtyard. The work crews had said they would move it, but now they were gone and it was still here. He would have to enlist some people to help him carry it out.

He raised his head, inhaling the crisp air. Ever since his nightmare fifteen days ago, he had been in a daze, certain that Roca and Eldrin had died. He had sent riders to ask Brad if he knew anything, but they had yet to return.

Garlin was walking toward him from the rebuilt castle. It looked exactly like Windward, reproduced from “satellite images,” whatever that meant. But it had lost an indefinable essence, a sense of age and history he had always loved, though he had never realized it until that elusive quality was gone.

Garlin’s smile quirked. “Why do you scowl at me?”

“My apology.” Eldri grimaced. “I am contemplating carrying rocks.”

“An excellent reason to frown.”

“Yes, indeed.” A dark speck in the sky caught Eldri’s attention. “What is that?”

Garlin squinted. “I believe it is Brad’s flyer.”

“Maybe he has news of Roca!”

His cousin laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t put your hopes too high.”

Eldri turned away, unable to bear Garlin’s compassion. It felt like pity. He had put his hopes too high over and over, every time one of the offworlders visited. And every time they dashed his hopes. No one would give him news of Roca and Eldrin.

The flyer came on, soaring through the sky, visible now as a silver craft. Eldri walked with Garlin out under the portcullis. As they crossed the bridge, he looked into the chasm that surrounded Windward. He couldn’t see far enough down to locate the remains of the battering ram that he and his men had pushed off this arch of stone.

Brad’s flyer landed in the open area beyond the bridge, the place where Avaril and his army had camped. Eldri stood back with Garlin, shielding his eyes with his hand as the craft settled down. He tried to contain his agitation, but it seemed forever before the machine rumbled into silence.

Eldri started forward, his heart beating hard. Then the hatch opened. Brad jumped out and waved, a great smile on his face. Eldri blinked. Although Brad always seemed to enjoy his visits, at least when he wasn’t starving in a siege, he had never looked this happy to see Eldri and Garlin before.

Eldri came up to him. “Hello, Brad.”

“Hello.” His smile widened. “I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” Eldri asked, perplexed.

A woman appeared in the hatchway of the flyer.

In that moment, for Eldri, the world stopped. He didn’t feel the wind blowing or the sunlight on his face; he didn’t see the towering mountains or the sky above them; he didn’t taste the air. He knew only the sight of the woman.

Roca.

Eldri ran forward as Roca jumped down from the flyer. He almost threw his arms around her, then jerked to a stop when he saw the bundle she carried.

A baby.

“By the suns,” Eldri said. “What beautiful child have you there?” His eyes suddenly brimmed with moisture.

Roca extended the baby to him. “Your son.”

He took the boy into his arms, holding him the way he had held so many children of his friends and servants. His son looked up at him and gurgled.

“He smiled!” Eldri gave a shaky laugh, his heart filling with an indescribable emotion. “He smiled at me.”

A tear ran down her face. “I saw.” She came forward, and he moved the baby in his arms so he could hold both his son and his wife. As he hugged Roca close, his tears mingled with her hair.

His family had come home.

Roca and Eldri relaxed on the rug before the fire in their bedroom, Eldri with his arms around her waist and Roca reclining against him. Eldrin was curled in her lap, playing with a ball of polished blue glasswood.

Eldri was finally content. He had been torn in two; now he was complete. But he ached for the tragedy that had devastated Roca and her family. He didn’t comprehend all its nuances, but he understood that the truth could destabilize her government. A new Imperator ruled. The Assembly called her father’s death an accident, letting the story spread throughout their realms. Her family had to be preserved, lest it weaken this “Kyle web” that held their empire together. But speculation ran wild: the grandson had killed the grandfather to take his throne. Given what Eldri had seen of his wife’s firstborn son, it didn’t surprise him that no one wanted to naysay that great, metallic warlord.

Roca had been restrained since she came back, mourning for her father, who had somehow died and not died. Eldri wished he could heal the wounds in her heart.

“Will your family be all right?” he asked.

“Someday.” She spoke softly. “It will take time.”

He bent his head over hers. “If only I could help.”

“You do, just by being here.”

So they enjoyed the warmth of the fire. After a while, she said, “ISC is going to build a medical clinic near Dalvador.”

He still couldn’t untangle the mess of relations between her people and Brad’s. “ISC is the Skolian army, yes?”

“That’s right.”

“Lyshriol is part of Brad’s Allied Worlds.”

“His people have agreed to relinquish their claim.” Dryly she added, “It will take much debate and bargaining to settle on terms.”

He thought of the Dalvador Plains where he had lived all his life. “Will the starport stay in the same place?”

“I think so. ISC will probably buy or lease it. Brad has asked to stay on, as a liaison for your people and mine.”

“I am glad. I like him.”

“I too.” She hesitated. “What will happen with Lord Avaril?”

He grimaced, acknowledging the unease he hid from everyone else except Garlin. “He has gone away for now. I fear though that someday he will return.”

“You’ll be ready for him.” She closed her eyes. “My people can help. We can do a lot for your people.”

He tensed. “You must not change Lyshriol.”

“We won’t. You will oversee anything we do.” She traced her finger along his arm. “Perhaps someday we can understand your people, why you are so different from us.”

“These psychologists ask many questions.” He sighed. “They say odd things, that we are a living ‘computer.’ They want to know why we interpret symbols differently than your people, why we can do math but not read. I don’t understand a lot of it.”

Roca laughed softly. “They don’t, either, yet. Pieces are there, like the way you count in octal instead of decimal, or the binary aspects of your world: two suns, two moons, two sets of opposing fingers.”

“Do you think they will make sense of it?”

“Someday.”

It would be interesting if they did, but Eldri wasn’t holding his breath. “Well, perhaps that will make them happy.”

She smiled. “Perhaps.”

They relaxed for a while, watching the flames. Every time Eldri looked at his son, he marveled anew that this boy was his. Surely no child had ever been so fine. Even his hands were normal, with a hinge and four fingers.

“Tell me,” he murmured to Roca. “How many children would you like to have?”

A hint of her mischief sparkled. “A hundred.”

“Ai, Roca! It would be bedlam.”

She laughed. “Perhaps so. How about ten?”

“Ten. Yes.” Although he could tell she was joking, he liked the idea. Among his people, ten wouldn’t be unusual. He contemplated a family full of laughing children with gold hair and eyes. “What should we name them?”

“Althor for the next boy, after you.”

“If it is a girl, we must name her Roca.”

A memory stirred in her mind, one so vivid, Eldri picked it up: the statue of the warrior goddess in the corridor outside his suite, the one Roca had run past when she had gone to Brad’s suite during the battle and sent off the fliers.

“Her name should be Sauscony,” Roca said. “After your goddess of arrows.”

“Not Roca?”

She shook her head. “But I would like her to have my mother’s name. Lahaylia.”

“She will be strong and beautiful.”

“That she will.” Roca tickled her finger along the back of his. “Pick another name.”

He considered. “For a boy, Kelricson.”

She smiled. “Who is Kelric, that our son should also be his?”

Eldri nuzzled her ear. “The god of youth.”

“Ah. I like that.”

“Roca?”

“Hmmmm?”

Eldri spoke with care. “We must name our children after your family, too.” He made himself say it. “Including Kurj.”

Her mood turned somber. “Thank you.”

“Why?”

“For not hating him.”

He brushed back her hair. “I cannot hate those you love.”

Roca turned to him, with Eldrin cradled between them. Her voice gentled. “You are my life, Eldri.”

“As you are mine.”

So they sat together, symbols for an empire that had seen too much death, offering instead, in simply their existence, a promise of new life and a future for their people.