Kurj took a deep breath, trying to calm his thoughts. Chances were Roca would show up at the Assembly, angry at him but very much free and alive. He would see to it she never evaded his security again.
Settling behind his desk, he activated its screen and chose a holo from thirty years ago, when he had been five. The image formed above the desk, luminous and three-dimensional, a tableau of his parents standing together, smiling. His father, Tokaba, held his five-year-old son in his arms, Kurj, a laughing boy with curly gold hair who in those days had rarely lowered his inner lids.
The image soothed Kurj. Tokaba had been the finest man he had ever known. When Kurj’s anger threatened to explode or his wish for vengeance against the Traders became too intense, he found peace by thinking of his father.
He brought up a new holo, one of his mother dancing. She was balanced on one foot, high on her pointe shoe with her other leg straight out behind her. She stretched one graceful arm forward and the other to the side, her head held high. Her formfitting costume started out dark blue at the feet, turned into the pinks of a rising sun up her leg, and blended into yellow on her torso and arms. Her hair was flying out behind her, streaming along her body, so many shades of gold and bronze, with a metallic luster, incredibly thick, grown for decades. She had been performing Loss of the Sun, a solo choreographed for her by the artistic director of the Parthonia Royal Ballet.
Kurj switched off the holo, unable to face the conflicts it caused him. Looking at her, he saw a lovely woman. As a small boy, he had loved her the way a child adored a loving parent. He wanted that innocence back. He despised himself for noticing her beauty. Nor would he ever forget the last time she had danced Loss of the Sun. After the performance, she had come home and found her second husband and her son trying to kill each other.
As much as Kurj had loved his first father, so he had hated the second. Darr Hammerjackson. Roca had met Darr when Kurj was eight. Before the marriage, Darr had made himself everything a lonely widow would want; afterward, he had shown the truth, a monster hungry for Roca’s power. Even at such a young age, Kurj had seen how Darr threatened, manipulated, and strove to control Roca, and through her, the immense power she wielded. He knew the games Darr played with violence and with her emotions, building on her conviction that her duty as a Ruby heir bound her to him. No divorce. No disgrace.
Kurj had lain in bed at night, supposedly asleep, while Darr hurt his mother. The memories seared. She had thought she protected her child by shielding her mind, but his empathic link to her had been too strong. He had lived every painful blow, every hateful word.
He remembered vividly the day he realized he had grown taller than his stepfather. Kurj had been clumsy then, shooting up fast, struggling to adapt to his large body. Darr was berating him more than usual, ridiculing him for knocking over a vase. Agonized from knowing how Darr brutalized his mother, Kurj had finally snapped and attacked his stepfather, first with his fists, then with shards of the vase. He had felt Darr’s anger that his unwanted stepson dared defy him, felt Darr’s bitter jealousy that Roca loved her son more than her husband. Kurj fed on that rage, driven into a fury fueled by shame. If he had just been a little stronger, a little faster, a little smarter, he could have killed Darr.
He would never forget what Darr had said to him that day: You’re a sick, dirty boy. You want her for yourself, don’t you? You want to fuck her, you bastard. You should leave and never come back. Go, before your sickness corrupts everything decent. That moment had devastated Kurj’s life, ruined the innocence of his love for his mother, and haunted him from that day forward.
He could do nothing more to Darr; his stepfather had died in prison. But Kurj would purge the universe of the Trader Aristos, who thought it their gods-given right to treat mass numbers of humans the way Darr had treated Roca. No matter what it took, even if it killed him, he would destroy the Traders. No one would hurt his mother again.
Especially not her own son.
6
Hidden in Blue
Roca drifted awake, content. Her face felt icy, but the rest of her was warm. She stretched under the heavy covers—
And rolled into a warm body.
Sweet memories of the night washed over her, vivid and sensual. Pressing sleepily against Eldri’s back, she put her arms around his waist.
“Ummm…” He turned over and gathered her into an embrace. “You really are here.”
She kissed his chest. “So are you.”
He gave a drowsy laugh. “This is my castle, after all.”
“A beautiful castle.” Just like its owner. “Do you think it stopped snowing?” Her node had been at work while she slept, updating her facility with English.
“I’ve no idea.” He nudged her onto her back and slid along her body, pulling the blankets over his head. Then he began to suckle her breast.
“Oh…” Roca closed her eyes, her hands entwined in his long hair. When he slid his palm lower on her body, she groaned. What he did with those hinged hands ought to be outlawed. Anything that felt that good couldn’t be legal. His desire flooded her mind, until she couldn’t separate it from her own.
Eldri kept at it until Roca lost control. Their minds were already blended and her peak burst over them both, intensified. He struggled to hold back, but then, suddenly, he pulled himself up along her body, bringing his hips between her thighs with a powerful thrust. Almost as soon as he entered her, he cried out. She felt his release as strongly as her own, a wild burst that took away her thoughts.
As Eldri collapsed on top of her, Roca gulped in breaths. She had forgotten how good it felt to be that crazed with desire and have it so soundly satisfied.
“I am glad I soundly satisfy you,” he murmured smugly.
Her face flamed. “Stop listening.”
“Listening to what?”
“My mind.”
“Don’t know what you mean.”
“Then how did you know how I felt?”
“It is obvious.” Mischief flared in his voice. “How could you not be pleased with me?”
She thumped his head. “This is certainly swollen.”
Eldri laughed. “That’s because you make me feel as if I could take on the whole world.” His voice softened. “You are no ice queen, Roca. Not in your heart. Under that armor, you burn.”
Roca didn’t know how to answer. She had never before experienced such an intimate link with anyone, not even Tokaba, her first husband, whom she had loved deeply. Eldri scared her. After Darr, she had never risked opening her heart again. She wasn’t ready for this. Her link with Eldri existed on many levels, sexual, yes, but emotional and mental as well, and less defined qualities she barely understood. She needed time to stop fearing the nascent connections they were discovering with each other. More than ever, she wanted to stay.
But nothing had changed: she had to leave.
They held the memorial service outside Windward.
The snow had stopped, and the overcast sky pressed down like a lid of blue-gray pewter. Dark blue fog wreathed the castle. The riders from Dalvador and the residents of Windward gathered in a ten-branched star pattern on the bridge that arched across the chasm to the castle. Roca stood in one branch with Eldri, Garlin, and a Dalvador couple.
A woman in a long red robe spoke the service, her voice like wind chimes. She wore her hair in a coil on her head, but when she finished, she took down the coil and let the wind whip the long tresses around her shoulders, a tribute to the rider who had lost his life while on the way to what the Lyshrioli also called the Castle of Winds.
Garlin spoke next, his voice deep and melodic. He stood at the edge of the bridge, with only a stone rail separating him from the chasm. Roca knew Eldri’s people could never have carved that perfectly cylindrical rail. Its ancient supports rose straight out of the bridge, all one solid piece with no seams.
When Garlin completed his eulogy, Eldri went to stand with him. He cast a handful of glittering dust over the chasm, in pl
ace of ashes from the body, which they had been unable to retrieve. The glitter drifted down, sparkling dimly in the overcast day. Only the keening wind broke the silence.
Then the Lyshrioli began to sing.
Fifty people joined in the hymn, singing in the incomparable Lyshrioli language, their voices rising in the clear mountain air, chiming like bells, caressing a bittersweet melody so beautiful, it brought tears into Roca’s eyes.
And when they finished, Eldri sang alone.
Roca knew then that even Brad’s extravagant praise hadn’t come close to describing the vocal gifts of Dalvador’s Bard. Eldri’s voice soared into the air, filling it with such purity, such incredible clarity and power, that no ecstasy they shared in bed could match this moment.
It would be a crime for anyone—including her people—to contaminate the rare splendor of these people.
Eldri pulled his fur-lined jacket tighter around his body. “Garlin forbids us to leave.” His breath condensed in the air of the stable, making puffs of blue.
Leaning on the half door of a stall, Roca rubbed the nose of the lyrine butting her hand. “How can Garlin forbid us to leave? Do you not rule here?”
He crossed his arms on top of the half door. “Rule?”
Roca wished she could go inside the stall, where the animal had made a nest out of the softened stalks of glasswood piled there. It had pulled the stalks up around itself in a way a horse could never do, and now it stood surrounded by their warmth.
“Your title of Bard,” Roca said. “It means you lead, yes?”
Eldri’s forehead furrowed. “I sing. I keep our history.”
“These people treat you as their leader.”
“Not leader. Judge.” He rubbed the lyrine’s nose. “They bring me disputes. I try to settle them. Garlin did it until a few years ago. He still advises me.”
Dryly Roca said, “I’m sure he does.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“He troubles me. Why does he dislike me so?”
Eldri hesitated. “I am not sure. He wanted me to take you back to the port right away.” His face reddened. “He says I let my loins think for me.”
“Your loins?” When her node provided the translation, she blushed. “Never mind.”
His laugh tickled her ears. “Perhaps we should go back to my room and investigate what he means.”
Much as she would have liked to, she couldn’t banter with him now. “Eldri, we must return to the port. The snow has stopped. We should leave as soon as possible.”
“Garlin says to stay. And he is wise.”
She scowled at him. “Garlin wants you to think he is wiser than you. That way, he retains power.”
“You say I should not trust Garlin.” He leaned closer, his lips near her ear. “He says I should not trust you.”
Roca sighed and moved into his arms, though their heavy jackets kept them from coming too close. “I have to go back.”
“I do not understand why it is so important.”
She searched for the right words. “If I do not vote, my people may have a war. A terrible war. Many would die. Millions. Perhaps billions.”
He pulled back and regarded her uncertainly. “I do not understand ‘millions’ or ‘billions.’”
“Think of how many people live in Dalvador and the Rillian Values.”
“Very, very many.”
“Yes. Very. Now imagine five times as many as that.” She wasn’t sure if he could; she had no idea what mathematics he knew.
He only paused for a moment. “All right.”
“That is a million people.” Her breath made plumes in the air. “Double, triple, quadruple that number and you still won’t have all the people who might die. Do you begin to see?”
He blanched. “It is too many.”
“Yes. Too many.”
“And you can stop this?”
“I think so. But I must be there. Otherwise my son will vote to go to war.”
“Your son?” His embrace turned rigid. “Where is his father?”
Softly Roca said, “He died.”
“Ai, Roca, I am sorry.” Relief also came from his mind.
“It happened many years ago.”
“Is the boy all right? I didn’t mean to keep you from him. I had no idea.”
“He is no boy.” Roca thought of her indomitable firstborn. “He is a man, grown and strong.”
Eldri’s forehead furrowed. “You are not old enough to have a son that age.”
So. Here it came. She had to tell him sooner or later. “I am older than I look, older than Garlin, even.”
He gave her an uncertain smile. “You play with me.”
Roca shook her head. Then, remembering he might not recognize the gesture, she added, “My people age differently than yours.”
He looked doubtful. “This son, he is a warrior?”
“A warlord. A great one.” She shivered, though her jacket kept out the cold. “I love my son, Eldri, but he also terrifies me. I must return home before it is too late.”
“It sounds so strange.”
“Please help me.”
He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “Garlin says it may snow again.”
“It isn’t snowing now.”
“I do not comprehend all you say.” He held her shoulders. “I understand only what I see and touch. But I know you speak truly when you talk about this desperation you feel.”
Her voice caught. “I wish it could be otherwise.”
“If you leave now, you must come back.” Longing filled his voice. “We have so much to discover about each other.”
She took his hands, afraid she was giving him hope where none existed. “I will try.”
He took a deep breath. “Very well. We shall go.”
The first flakes fell when Eldri and Roca had ridden a third of the way down the mountains. The storm rapidly grew worse. Snow drifted down and the world became a wash of blue, all the sky, air, and ground. Soon it was impossible to see either the cliff rising to their right or the drop-off on the left. Cold seeped into their clothes, through their leggings, socks, trousers, fur-lined shirts, jackets, and gloves. It seemed to penetrate Roca’s bones. The lyrine slowed until it was barely moving through the swirls of blue. Finally it stopped and would walk no more.
Sitting behind Roca, Eldri rested his forehead against her head. “We can go no farther. It is not safe. If we try, we will join Jacquilar.”
She couldn’t accept defeat. “The snow may stop again.”
“It may.” Eldri lifted his head. “But it is too thick on the ground now. It would be dangerous to go even if it stopped.”
Roca knew he was right. With reluctance, she said, “I have more than a day yet until the ship comes. If we cannot go today, then perhaps tomorrow morning.”
“It may clear enough by then.”
She could tell, from his mind, that he had doubts. She twisted around to look at him. “What do we do now? Return to Windward?”
“I am not certain. I have never been caught out in snow like this before.” Reaching back, he checked the ropes and spikes fastened to the saddlebag across the back of the lyrine. “I have survival equipment, but in this weather it won’t be enough.”
Roca tried to imagine what else they might do. “The path becomes narrower back up the mountain, yes?”
“Yes. It does.”
“Is it safe to go that way now?”
“Probably not.” He brushed at the snow that had gathered on the fur of his hood. “The Eira Lysia Meadows are to our north.”
“Can we get there from here?” Meadows sounded far more secure than this path.
“The lyrine knows the way, I think.” He paused. “I remember an old cottage. It is a ruin, but it might protect us from the storm.”
“We can try.” Roca turned back around and scratched the lyrine’s neck. “Can you take us to safety?” she murmured.
Eldri put his hand over hers, offering comfort, then
took the reins and urged the lyrine forward. At first it refused to move. Then Roca felt Eldri’s thoughts, a gentle pressure directed toward the animal. She doubted he realized what he was doing, but the lyrine responded, stepping forward.
So they went, continuing in the blinding wash of blue.
They were moving in a trance, lost in a universe without definition, two people and a lyrine amid swirling blue snow. The wind had risen, Roca wasn’t certain how long ago. Eldri kept his arms around her waist, his hands clenched on the reins. He offered no hint that he recognized the way. The lyrine seemed to know, though how it could tell, Roca had no idea. She understood so little about the animals.
A dark patch in the whirling snow formed in front of them. They came up against the mounded ruin before Roca even realized they had reached a building. She stared numbly through the storm as Eldri jumped off the lyrine. Rousing herself, she slid down next to him, stiffly, her body aching. Gripping the reins and Roca’s hand, Eldri led the way forward, past a crumbling wall.
The wind suddenly died. For the first time in hours, since the blizzard had started, Roca could see farther than a few hand-spans. The daylight was dim, but enough to show they had entered the remains of an empty cottage. It had three walls, a roof, and most of its fourth wall. Snow had piled up against the walls, but they gave welcome relief from the storm.
Eldri pulled his jacket tight, shivering. Blue ice encrusted the hair that had escaped his hood. “I was beginning to wonder if it was here anymore.” He tried to grin. “Do you like my new castle?”
Roca managed a bow. “It is lovely, Your Highness.”
“Highness?” He laughed unevenly. “What does that make us in the plains? Lownesses?”
She smiled. “I never thought of it that way.”