“What would invalidate their testimony?”
A paused, working. “If monitoring determines that any of the parties are lying; if one or more of the parties has a previous contract that precludes the marriage; if the contract violates Skolian law; or if any of the parties involved are mentally incapable of agreeing to a contract.”
“Interesting.” Kurj swiveled his chair around to look through the window that took up the entire wall behind his desk. Far below the window, Ground sloped away, rolling down to City, which glowed like a gem in the distance. The sight soothed him, all the more so because his mood had lifted.
He knew how to rid their lives of Eldrinson Valdoria.
Windward lay in ruins.
Eldri and Garlin spent the morning walking through the castle with Shannar and the Memory, taking stock of the damage. Eldri felt as if he were withering inside. He had lost everything: Roca, his son, Windward, and so many of his men that he hurt every time he thought of it. In the five days since the battle, he had gone through the motions of life, but his existence seemed like a barren plain, a place that would never again see joy.
A group of people entered the courtyard through the broken gateway. Eldri frowned, squinting at them. His warriors were escorting several unfamiliar men. His stomach dropped when he recognized the man in their center. Avaril Valdoria.
Eldri stopped, his hand going to his sword. He touched nothing, of course; he had no weapon at the moment. In truth, it mattered only to his pride. His men wore swords, disk mail, and armor, all of them well equipped to defend him. Even that wasn’t necessary; one of Avaril’s men had tied a red scarf to his staff, the traditional request for a truce.
Eldri glanced at Shannar. “I would see my godsforsaken cousin leave Windward.”
“He will soon be gone,” Shannar said. “His army is broken.”
“So is ours,” Eldri muttered. “He will rebuild.”
Garlin drew in a weary breath. “And so will we.”
Shaliece spoke. “Shall I accept their request for truce?”
“Yes, I suppose.” Eldri nodded to her. “Take extra care in recording all he says and does.”
She inclined her head. Then she pulled off the violet scarf around her waist and raised it high, making the cloth ripple in the wind.
They fell silent as the warriors escorted Avaril to them. Eldri’s men kept their hands on the hilts of their swords, but no one drew a weapon. To do so after both sides had raised their colors would have been unforgivable.
Avaril regarded Eldri with undisguised distrust. The wind blew back his hair, showing more of the gray. “Cousin.”
Eldri only grunted. He had no intention of making whatever Avaril wanted to say any easier.
Avaril’s mouth tightened. “Must we continually fight?”
Eldri crossed his arms. “It is you who chooses to fight.”
“It is you who usurps the rightful heir.”
“Our grandfather chose his heir,” Eldri said. “You may hate that choice, but nevertheless, he was within his rights.”
Avaril started to reach for his sword, then took a breath and relaxed his arms. “You can argue your supposed rights forever. It will not change the truth.”
“I don’t need to change any truths,” Eldri said tightly. “No matter how many of my men you murder, your claim will never be valid.”
Avaril’s gaze flashed. “You have no shame. The immorality of stealing a title is not enough? You suborn the very queen of the suns to your debauched cause.”
Eldri made a conscious effort not to grit his teeth. “My wife has nothing to do with this.”
“Your wife’s kin destroyed your castle. The gods have made their displeasure clear.” Avaril swept out his hand, indicating the ruins. “Relinquish the title, Eldrinson, before you bring this disaster to all of Dalvador.”
“You go too far.” Although Eldri would never admit it to his cousin, he feared Avaril spoke the truth, that the sun gods had turned their disfavor on his union with Roca. The last person he wished to discuss it with, however, was Avaril.
“Valdor and Aldan took vengeance on your army.” Eldri glowered at him. “They destroyed you because you threatened their queen. Now take your men and be gone. I give you two days.”
“And if I don’t?” Avaril asked. “You have no more men left than I do.”
Eldri lowered his arms, his fists clenching. “I will defend my home. Know this. Whatever I have to do, I will.”
“Do not think you have won.”
“Two days,” Eldri said. “Then the truce ends.”
Avaril’s jaw visibly clenched. He moved his palm outward, a formal and forbidding gesture of farewell. Eldri did the same, their hands almost hitting. Then Avaril turned on his heel and strode toward the shattered gates, escorted by his warriors and Eldri’s defenders.
Garlin spoke heavily. “He will return. Probably not for years, with his army broken. But he will come back, Eldri. He will never rest until one of you is dead.”
“Would that it could be different.” Eldri rubbed his eyes. “He is our only other kin.”
Garlin laid his hand on his shoulder. “Come. Let us see to the repairs.”
Eldri nodded, his gaze downcast. Accompanied by Shannar and Shaliece, they continued their appraisal of the castle. He felt queasy. In the days since Roca had gone, and his dreams with her, he had suffered several convulsions, including one Garlin had told him went on and on. Eldri knew only that it left him bruised and sore, and also groggy for longer than usual. He had begun to question why he bothered to keep going at all.
He knew the answer as soon as the thought came to him, knew it every time the survivors of Windward looked to him for help, succor, and leadership. Even if he couldn’t find the will to live for himself, he had to be strong for them.
Nor could he forget Roca’s words, spoken with desperation as her people swept her away. She had promised she would return. Eldri swore to Valdor and Aldan, the sun gods, that he would be more diligent than the most devout acolyte in performing the proper rituals. If there was more to this business of sun deities than he had believed, perhaps they would forgive his earlier impiety and let his wife come home.
But he had to stop dwelling on this. Shannar was speaking.
“The northern towers are solid.” Shannar indicated a wing of the castle far from where Avaril’s men had battered the gates. The graceful turrets of three towers reached to the sky. Their foundations also remained solid, but the rest of Windward had fared worse. Avaril’s men had only destroyed the gates; the minions of the sun god had brought down the entire front of the castle, sheering through the stone with swords of light. Eldri shuddered, unable to blank the vision from his mind.
Nor could he escape his guilt. Despite his recent seizures, he had suffered far fewer of the big attacks since he started the salts. By chasing the demons from his body, he may have let their human incarnations loose among his people. It was one of two possible explanations for what had happened. The other was that the sun god had come to avenge Roca. Or perhaps the gold man had been a war god. Either way, Eldri knew it was his fault. He had brought her here, daring to love a goddess he had no right to claim in marriage.
Wife. She was his wife. She had carried his son. He thought he would break inside with their loss. The gold man had taken both Roca and Brad, but Eldri had no idea where. He couldn’t find out anything. They weren’t anyplace he or his men had searched in the five days since Dalvador had “won” the battle. The port remained empty, with the strange droids taking care of it. Eldri had never been easy around those little metal creatures, and now he found them positively eerie.
“We can rebuild a portion of the main keep,” Garlin said. “But the rest—it seems impossible. How did our ancestors raise these incredible walls and towers?”
“The gods weren’t angry at them,” Eldri said darkly.
Garlin shrugged. “I don’t think any gods attacked Windward. Just men.”
“And women.” Shannar looked alarmed. “Many of those warriors were women.”
Shaliece, the Memory, pointed southward. “Look. The metal flyer from the port.”
Eldri squinted. A familiar sliver sparkled against the sky, one far more innocuous than the killing vessels from five days ago. His hope leapt. “Perhaps Brad has returned and fixed it.”
The flyer grew in size, until they could see it clearly. As it sailed over the mountains, the light of the suns reflected off its silver body, highlighting the blue symbol that indicated it belonged to the Allied Worlds of Earth, whatever that meant. In any case, it was the only flyer on Lyshriol.
Eldri couldn’t fathom why Brad liked these “symbols.” He had once shown Eldri a most remarkable cup, a mug made out of a material that resembled glasswood, but was more brittle. Brad claimed the symbol on the mug matched the one on his flyer. But it didn’t. The one on the flyer was larger and a different shade of blue, and had many other differences despite what Brad deluded himself into believing.
These “holobooks” Brad liked were even worse. He had actually tried to convince Eldri that the marks in them formed patterns you could use to speak. It was crazy. Those symbols couldn’t hold meaning, all so different, even those that Brad claimed “spelled” the same “word.” They weren’t the same. They were in different places in the book and surrounded by different patterns. How could Brad think they were the same? It made Eldri wonder if Brad might be a bit strange in his mind about these books.
The flyer floated toward Windward, skimming over the nearby peaks. It settled in the open area before the traitorous bridge that had given Avaril’s men access to Windward. Eldri left the courtyard with Garlin, Shaliece, and Shannar. They were crossing the bridge when the flyer opened and Brad stepped out. Eldri’s heart leapt to see his friend. Even after having known Brad and his odd ways for so long, though, it still unsettled him to see the flying machine disgorge a man.
Brad looked more like himself now than he had during the siege, when they had all become ragged and tattered. He had shaved his beard and cut his hair in that peculiar style some offworlders favored, so short it capped on his head. He also wore slacks and a “turtleneck” sweater. Brad had shown him images of turtles and explained the name, which he claimed dated back centuries, but Eldri couldn’t fathom the resemblance between them and Brad’s clothes. He just couldn’t see it. Out of respect for his friend, however, he refrained from saying he thought it absurd.
Brad hadn’t come alone. Several unfamiliar men and women descended from Brad’s flyer, all in severe clothes. Their garb resembled the coveralls Brad sometimes wore, except these outfits were crisp and snug, giving an impression of authority. They had symbols on the shoulders and chests, not blue, but gold and black. The newcomers all wore boots, sturdy and finely made. Although their apparel would be poor protection in a battle, their manner made Eldri think they were soldiers.
Eldri’s group met their visitors at the end of the bridge. Brad nodded with respect and spoke in English. “I am gratified to see you well, Eldrinson.”
Eldri wondered at his uncharacteristic formality. “And I you.” It was true. He would have mourned even more if Brad had died in the battle.
Brad indicated the people with him, who watched Eldri with disquieting intensity. “This delegation comes from Imperial Space Command of the Skolian Imperialate.”
Eldri wondered if he was supposed to know what that meant. “I see.”
Brad didn’t look happy at all. “Eldrinson, they are military officers from your wife’s people. They have inquiries about you. They’ve asked me to act as an interpreter.”
Eldri froze. The war god had sent emissaries. He felt chilled, then hot and flushed. He nodded stiffly, knowing he had to ask the question that had tormented him since the star warriors had taken Roca. “Is my wife all right? And our child?” Please, he silently begged the deities he had so neglected during his short life. Please let them be all right.
Brad’s voice gentled. “She is fine. And you have a strong, healthy son. Your wife named him Eldrin Jarac Valdoria, after you and her father.”
The relief was so overwhelming, Eldri thought he would grab Brad right there and hug him in front of everyone. He managed to hold back only because his fear of the war god’s minions tempered his rash behavior. They continued to watch him, except one woman who was waving her finger over an object in the palm of her hand. It reminded Eldri of Brad’s “palmtop,” except this one was gold and black instead of blue.
Eldri inclined his head to the minions, and they nodded back. From their minds, he could tell they found him…interesting. It made him uncomfortable, as if he were wild prey they wanted to trap. He wished they would leave, but he didn’t dare send them away.
So he invited them into his ruined home.
Bewildered, Eldri turned from the strangers and their magicked “holos.” The strange pictures floated in the air, diaphanous and untouchable, yet appearing solid. He, Garlin, Brad, and the visitors were sitting at the table in the dining hall. The woman next to him had unrolled a flat screen. Holos moved above it, odd shapes in different colors, pretty but meaningless.
Eldri gave Brad a beseeching look and spoke in English. “I don’t understand what they want. Why won’t they tell me about Roca?”
Brad seemed troubled. “I think they’re giving you an IQ test. It measures intelligence.”
Garlin frowned. “Intelligence is not sand or water, that you can measure it.”
“I will ask.” Brad’s mood of foreboding disquieted Eldri. Nor had he realized Brad knew so many languages, though perhaps he should have guessed it from how fast Brad had picked up Trillian. The Earth man spoke to the Skolians in their language, and they answered in short sentences. Eldri could tell, from their minds, that they were guarding their responses.
Brad turned back to Eldri. “They want you to find the patterns in the holos.”
Eldri was growing angry. “They have no patterns. Why do these people keep asking me such bizarre questions?”
Brad’s look was unnerving, as if he were watching Eldri fling himself off a cliff. “The pattern is easy. Can’t you see it?”
Eldri glared at him. “If you see it, then tell me, I will tell them, and you can translate.”
“They’ll know. They’re recording this session.”
“Recording?”
Brad indicated the woman with the screen. “She is a Memory.”
Finally Brad said something that made sense. Eldri nodded to her with respect, but his unease was growing. These strangers were studying him. He felt it. They analyzed his every move.
“I think they understand English just fine,” Eldri told Brad. “They pretend otherwise because they think it will make us careless with our words, so we might reveal useful information.”
Brad spoke dryly. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Eldri turned to one of the soldiers, a man with short, dark hair. “Do you understand me?”
The man glanced at Brad. After Brad translated, the man spoke in his own language. To Eldri, Brad said, “Major Bass can pick out some of my English words because he has a spinal implant with a language module, but he can’t follow your speech at all because of the harmonics created by your vocal cords.”
Eldri glared at him. “Whatever you just said, I am certain I don’t believe it.”
Garlin let out an explosive breath. “Brad, it never makes sense. All these words—do you mock us with them?”
“No. I swear, no.” Brad sounded miserable. “Eldri, I’m sorry. You must answer his questions. I’m not sure why, but it is important.”
“Very well.” Eldri gave the Skolians his most implacable look. “Proceed.”
They started over, asking him to “identify patterns.” Frustrated, he gave up trying to understand and answered according to games he played with each symbol. He grouped them in eights and imagined them reflecting, inverting, and translating through their centers. He varied his respo
nses according to how the images changed color. It made sense to him, though he doubted it was what they wanted.
So they continued.
21
Children of Flame
Roca sat in the dark, rocking Eldrin. Her chair responded to her movements, making her comfortable. She cuddled her sleeping child and sang as she went back and forth. In the three weeks since she had returned to the Orbiter, she had come to love this routine with her son.
She dozed for a while, then stirred enough to put Eldrin in his cradle by her bed. As she tucked him in, the front door chimed. She kissed Eldrin’s cheek, then left the room, pausing in the doorway to look at him. He was an angel, sleeping so peacefully. Already she saw his father in him. She missed Eldri so much, it was a fissure in her life.
The chime came again. Roca sighed. Rather than asking the house EI to screen the visitor, though, she went to answer herself. This valley where her family lived was one of the best-guarded places in the Imperialate. No one could enter without clearance. Supposedly that meant no one in Valley posed them any danger, though Roca had her doubts. Security could protect them from outsiders, but no one could protect them from one another. Their passions injured their hearts.
She opened the door to find a slender, dark-haired woman outside in the twilight, the breezes of Valley rustling her hair.
“Dehya! Saints almighty.” Roca grasped her sister’s arm and hauled her inside. “When did you arrive on the Orbiter?”
Dehya laughed and hugged Roca, her head against her sister’s shoulder. “Gods, we were so afraid.”
Roca embraced her, grateful to see her. After several moments, they parted and Dehya stood back, wiping tears off her face. “Ah, Roca, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. But when you vanished, we all feared something terrible had happened.”
“It did.” Roca touched a panel on the wall, making the door shimmer closed. “The Assembly voted to start a war.”