Roca stopped with Eldri and Brad. Garlin also stayed, standing at Eldri’s side. The four of them were alone now in the trampled snow of the courtyard.
Although Roca answered Eldri’s question, she spoke to Brad. “Yes. Skolia is my name.”
His face paled. “Roca Skolia?”
“Yes.”
“This is significant?” Garlin asked.
Brad was staring at her. “Gods, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why do you think?” she said.
He narrowed his gaze. “It is an unusual claim.”
“One punishable by death, if false,” Roca said. The Assembly guarded its Ruby psions with a tenacity that bordered on obsession.
“If you truly are Roca Skolia,” he said slowly, “then I am in one blazing mess of trouble.”
“You have done nothing wrong,” Roca said.
“Why would you be in trouble?” Eldri asked.
“Roca Skolia is a queen among her people,” Brad said.
“Queen?” Eldri put his hands on his hips. “Like this ‘king’ your resort planners call me?”
“Something like that,” Brad said.
“Good.” Eldri grinned at Roca. “Then we are well matched.”
Brad spoke carefully. “Eldrinson, I don’t think you understand.”
“Lady Roca.” Garlin waited until she turned to him. “When the resort planners call Eldri a ‘king,’ they give the impression that a true sovereign would have a great deal more power than anyone here possesses. Is this true among your people, too?”
She understood what he was asking: did she have that kind of power. She said, simply, “Yes.”
“Oh, God,” Brad said. “I’m dead.”
“Administrator Tompkins.” Roca used his formal title, trying to jar him out of his panic. “No one will blame you.”
“Like hell. I’ve watched your father and son on the news holos. And yes, now that I look for it, I see the resemblance.” He took a deep breath. “It’s just not anything I would ever have imagined for a visitor to my port.”
“Can you help me?” Roca asked. “I must return to Parthonia.”
“My communications work at light speed. It would take years for a message from here to reach another world.” Brad raked his hand across his tight curls. “I was chosen for this position with the understanding that I could adapt to life here without much support until our presence became better established. It was expected I could go for long periods on my own.”
“We must have some recourse,” Roca said. “Some way to access the webs.”
“Can you create a Kyle web node?” His excitement jumped at the thought.
“Only a member of the Dyad can do that.”
“Dyad.” Despite the cold, he was perspiring. “You mean the Imperator and Ruby Pharaoh, yes?”
“That is right.”
“Your parents.”
“Yes. My parents.” As much as she disliked revealing herself, it might be the only way to convince him they had to try every extreme to get her off Lyshriol. She had hidden her trail too well; the same twists and turns that freed her from Kurj’s scrutiny had also stranded her.
Roca dreaded what Kurj would do to Eldri if he found her here. At best, her son had a controlled animosity for the men in her life. No one could match his memory of his father, Tokaba Ryestar. He considered no man good enough for his mother, especially after Darr.
The closer she and Eldri grew to each other, the more she feared for his life.
11
Warlords of the Snow
Roca danced with the other women in an exquisite hall, a room with onion-shaped arches everywhere, all adorned by carvings that resembled frozen lace. Intricate mosaics designed from glasswood covered every surface like stained glass, but deeper in hue, less translucent. Roca whirled and spun, exuberant, letting herself go as she hadn’t done for years. The women wore dresses today, with blue or violet skirts that swirled when they turned.
She didn’t understand their speech, but she read their tone, body language, and moods. They drew her into ever more complicated steps, their voices trilling with delight that she learned fast. Although she could handle the gravity better now, she misjudged some of the steps and lost her balance, flailing her arms. Laughing and teasing, the others caught her, making it into a game. They called out with approval when she kicked her leg higher or arched her back farther than anyone else.
Over and over the dancers broke into four pairs, eight women in a set. The patterns were all based on powers of two. In fact, now that she thought about it, everything on Lyshriol came in pairs: two suns, two moons, two sets of two opposing fingers on two hands, two sets of two opposing toes on two feet. She smiled, thinking of Eldri and herself. Two lovers.
The men stood around the edges of the hall, watching, drinking, and laughing among themselves. Musicians in one corner played drums, reeds, bells, chimes, and harps. Other folks sat at round tables, intent on a game that involved rolling small bubbles of various colors. Children ran through the hall, shaking rattles at one another and bouncing hardened bubbles.
Sometimes a woman in the dance would tease one of the men, waving a scarf at him until he waded in and pulled her out of the crowd, stealing kisses from her. Sometimes he took her out of the room altogether. Roca hoped the men would join the dancing, but they showed no inclination to do so. Searching for Eldri, she caught sight of him standing under an archway with Garlin and several other men. He waved, but stayed put.
So Roca danced, abandoning herself to the sheer pleasure of movement. It touched her deep inside, as it had her entire life. Her Assembly duties may have forced her to curtail her dancing, and the grind of the Parthonia Ballet may have dulled her joy in performing, but the love of her art would always be in her heart. This magical time became a warm place in the cold reality of her life, a reality that could all too easily freeze this lovely but vulnerable dream.
Eldri and Roca lay sprawled on his bed, still in their finery from the dance, eating sweet-poms, small blue bubbles that tasted like heaven. Roca gazed dreamily into the fire in the hearth, where glasswood rods burned with red, blue, and green flames.
Eventually she laid her head on the quilt and closed her eyes. Having two sets of visitors in only a few days, first the Bard showing up with his people, then the non-Bard and his party arriving yesterday, had sent Windward into a whirl of parties. It was fun, but exhausting. She ought to rest now; tomorrow they would head back to the starport to see what could be done about this frustrating mess of her being stranded here.
Eldri nuzzled her cheek. “You are an incredible dancer.”
“You should dance with me.”
“What?” He sounded scandalized. “Do not make such jokes.”
She opened her eyes halfway, her lashes shading them in a gold fringe. “Don’t men dance here?”
“Of course not. What a question.”
She smiled drowsily. “You look as if I just suggested you run naked through Windward.”
“Better that than dance,” he growled.
“Really? Why?”
He seemed bewildered by the question. “That is like asking why a man isn’t a woman. A man who dances is—well—female.”
“I think it’s sexy.”
“Please do not tell me that men dance among your people.”
“All the time.” She yawned. “The Parthonia Ballet has more male than female dancers.”
His mouth fell open. Then he snapped it shut. “No wonder you must come here to find a genuine male person.”
Roca laughed. “It is just different customs.” She snuggled closer to him. “But you most certainly are a genuine male person.”
“Come dance for me some more,” he murmured.
A knock came at the door.
Eldri ignored it, pulling Roca against him. Another knock came, louder than the first.
“Bah,” he muttered, letting her go. “Enter,” he called in his own language.
 
; An older man opened the door, his face creased with lines. As he spoke, his voice sharp, Eldri went rigid. Roca caught little of what the man said, but she recognized the word “lyrine.”
Eldri moved off the bed, fast and urgent. “I have to go.”
“What has happened?” Roca asked. She stood up next to the bed as Eldri strode to the tube-narrows that held his clothes. “What is wrong?”
He yanked out the boots he wore with his disk mail. “A party of riders comes up the mountain.”
Roca felt the blood drain from her face. “From Dalvador, I hope.”
“I don’t think so.” He swung around to her. “Not hundreds of men in armor astride war mounts.”
Roca stood with Brad atop the highest tower of Windward. Late afternoon sunlight slanted across them, bringing no warmth. They were in a lookout, an area only a few paces across, protected by merlons carved in the shape of bubble reeds. Freezing wind pulled at their heavy clothes and the hoods of their jackets. It was hard to believe that only yesterday she had stood here with Eldri, watching Brad come up the mountain.
Their new visitors terrified her.
Hundreds of warriors astride dark lyrine were climbing the path, the only viable approach to—or escape from—Windward. Cliffs to the east and west would block the army from surrounding the castle, which meant they could only occupy the barren plain in front of it. However, on the other side of the castle, more warriors were descending the supposedly inaccessible mountains. With her augmented optics, Roca saw men rappelling down the cliffs, anchoring their ropes with spikes they hammered into the stone. It had shocked Eldri; apparently mountain climbing was unheard of among his people. Until now. Lord Avaril had just invented it.
The men on the cliffs had no access to the castle, but their presence also made it useless for Windward’s inhabitants to try bridging the chasm behind the keep. If Eldri’s people found a way to sneak out the back, the invading army could just as easily break inside. Avaril had thoroughly trapped them.
People were running across the courtyard below, battening, locking, and securing everything. She wished she could help, do anything, but when she and Brad had offered, everyone politely urged them to stay back. They claimed it was because Roca and Brad were incarnations of Lyshrioli deities, the Suns and Night, and as such had to be protected and revered. Roca suspected it had more to do with her and Brad getting in the way because they had so little experience with castle operations.
She studied the massive wall around Windward. Several meters thick and many stories high, it was topped by protected walkways, with towers at the corners. Although it differed from castle walls she had seen on other worlds, it served the same basic function, to protect its inhabitants and keep out hostile armies. She prayed it performed its purpose well.
“I need to do something,” Brad muttered.
She felt the same way. “They want us out of the way.”
“I can’t believe this is happening.” He dug his hands deeper into his pockets. “An interstellar leader shows up at my port and what do I do? Get her caught in a local war.”
“You did nothing wrong,” Roca said.
He gave her a dour look. “Tell that to your Imperial Space Command when they show up.”
Roca knew he was right; if she died here, Kurj would raze Windward to the ground, along with half the mountain range. Brad would be history. “Can you reach the port with your comm?”
He didn’t look optimistic. “I can contact the EI there. I’ve already sent a message. But Avaril has probably also invaded Dalvador, and even if he hasn’t, Eldri’s people aren’t likely to look for any message from me. They don’t understand my equipment and wouldn’t trespass in my home anyway.”
Roca nodded, disheartened but unsurprised. Eldri’s men were taking positions on walkways and in towers, concealing themselves while they studied the enemy forces. “How will they fight?”
“I can’t say.” Brad hunched his shoulders against the cold. “Even if I knew ancient warfare, which I don’t, they probably have their own strategies here.”
“The strategy is the same everywhere,” she muttered. “Kill.”
To their left, on a large tower, several people walked out onto a balcony. They gazed at the approaching army as it poured between the two statues guarding the end of the path up from Dalvador. The balcony was lower than where Roca stood with Brad, and far enough away that she couldn’t pick up the mood of the people there. But it took no telepathy to guess their thoughts; Avaril’s army far outnumbered the forces at Windward. The castle’s best defense was its impregnability, but Avaril could wait them out until Windward’s people starved or surrendered.
“I hope we have enough food,” Roca said.
“Maybe they will come to a truce, eh?”
“Maybe.” She doubted it, though, given Avaril’s advantage.
Eldri and Garlin joined the group on the balcony, both of them in leather armor and disk mail. Compared to the cybernetic armor Roca was used to seeing on soldiers, theirs looked excruciatingly fragile. They were holding their helmets, which were designed like wild beasts and would cover their heads and upper faces, with openings for the eyes.
As Avaril’s army spilled onto the plain, a man separated from the general mass and headed to the castle. He wore armor and mail similar to Eldri’s men, except the leather was dyed red. Stopping at the foot of the bridge, he waved a red scarf over his head.
“What does that mean?” Roca asked.
“I haven’t a clue,” Brad said.
On the balcony, one of Eldri’s men waved a purple flag.
“Maybe they’re challenging each other,” Brad said.
“I think they want to talk.”
He looked doubtful. “Why?”
“The women dance with scarves.” She recalled the party this morning. It seemed an eternity ago now. “When they want to catch a man’s attention, they wave it at him.”
“This is no courtship,” Brad said dryly.
Garlin was leaving the balcony; below, Avaril’s man waited at the bridge. Several meters back, a taller man stood in the midst of several warriors, his head held high and his gaze narrowed at the group of people on the balcony. He had wine-colored hair of the exact same shade as Eldri, and he seemed about Eldri’s height.
A discordant grinding echoed through the mountains, the sound of the portcullis raising, then lowering. A moment later Garlin appeared in view on the bridge.
Brad swore. “Is he nuts? They could kill him.”
“I think they’re going to negotiate.” Roca watched as Garlin crossed the bridge to Avaril’s man.
“I hope so,” Brad said. “But we need a backup plan.”
Roca studied the scene below. “If Eldri’s people destroy that bridge, no one can reach us. The chasm is too wide to jump.” Twisting around, she indicated Avaril’s warriors in the northern mountains. They had gathered in clumps on snowy ledges and the snow-drenched valley behind Windward, but none had tried crossing the chasm to the castle. “They can’t manage it even with their ropes and spikes.”
“But then we couldn’t leave.”
“We could build a drawbridge.”
Brad considered the thought. “It might work. But they would need explosives to destroy the bridge down there. I don’t know if they have them.” He rubbed his chin. “I might be able to help.”
Roca smiled. “You blow things up?”
“Actually, usually just the opposite. I’m an engineer.” He studied the bridge where Garlin and Avaril’s man were talking now. “You’re right that the bridge is our weak point. Avaril’s men could bring across a battering ram and smash their way in here.”
Roca leaned out to see better. The tower was high enough to let her peer over the castle’s outer wall, but the portcullis was directly below, making it hard to see. “It would be difficult, I think. But not impossible.”
Brad hauled her back, his face alarmed. “Don’t do that! I get hives thinking of you falling.”
“I won’t.” She hoped it was true. “I doubt they could bring a battering ram up the mountains. They would have to make it here.”
“Nothing up here but snow and rock. We’re above the elevation where plants grow.” Brad indicated the people working in the courtyard below. “They have to carry in all the food.”
Roca tried not to think about those limited stores. “Avaril’s people might throw boulders at the castle.”
“They would need a catapult, a big one, which has the same problems as a battering ram.”
Roca scowled. “None of this makes sense. What does this keep defend? Not Dalvador. Avaril’s army came up from that side of the plains. It would be easier for them to reach Dalvador than here.”
“Dalvador has its own defenses.”
“Then why attack this castle? Why is it here?”
Brad spoke slowly. “I’m not certain, but I believe it’s more a temple than a fortress. It stands on the border between Dalvador and the Rillian Vales like a—” He paused, thinking. “Like a sentinel that watches over both sides of the world, at least the world as the people here know it.”
Roca remembered how Eldri had taken her to the reed temple. “So if Avaril captures Windward, it gives him symbolic dominion over Eldri’s people.”
“Yes.” His voice quieted. “Windward is hallowed to these people. I’ve been on Lyshriol for three years and never been invited. This is my first visit.”
Roca understood what else he was telling her, how much it had meant for Eldri to bring her here. She hoped the Dalvador Bard didn’t live—or die—to regret his decision.
Garlin was returning to the castle, while Avaril’s man headed back to the army. As Garlin disappeared from view, the portcullis rumbled. Roca dug her hands into her pockets. “I know what else Windward has that Dalvador lacks.”