For the first time in centuries, the Blue Dale Archers rode to Rillia.
17
The Red Haze
They arrived at twilight.
In the growing dusk, they crested the ridge above the wild forest that sheltered Vitarex’s camp. They lined up, twenty silvered Archers hidden in mists that curled around the trees and their nodding spheres. In the camp below, a few fires burned, but it otherwise remained quiet. No one expected the Blue Dale Archers to visit.
Shannon rode between Varielle and Elarion. He talked to no one and no one intruded on his reserve. Several times Archers rode alongside his lyrine to speak with him, but they took one look at his face and withdrew. Shannon didn’t know how he appeared, but if it reflected his growing pain, their response was no surprise.
He hurt. The agony in his legs had grown worse until he could barely endure it. He had to barrier his mind, protect it from the pain tearing apart his father, or he would never be able to fight for his father’s life. But if he blocked out the beacon of Eldrinson’s mind, he couldn’t locate his father in the camp below.
They rode down the ridge under the cover of trees. The twilight had deepened into a foggy darkness with no moonlight to show the way. It didn’t matter. Moonglaze knew. Shannon wasn’t certain how; he couldn’t pick up much in the moods of an animal, even one with the intelligence of a lyrine. But he could tell Moonglaze sensed from him the presence of the man they had come to rescue.
He had turned the jammer back on, hiding from Vitarex now. Archer scouts drifted among the trees, indistinguishable from the shadowdrenched forest. Shannon could see how they had remained hidden for so many generations; they blended with the land, with the trees and the hills, until they were no more than wraiths.
A scout took form out of the mist and rode to the Elder, who was up ahead on her lyrine. When the Elder motioned to Shannon, he spurred Moonglaze forward and joined them. The scout was small even for an Archer, with a braid of platinum hair that hung to her waist. The steel of her gaze belied her fragile appearance.
At the Elder’s nod, the scout spoke to Shannon. “Many sentries guard the camp.”
He swore softly. A group of travelers gathered together by the prospect of employment had no reason to post more than a few guards, if any. But Vitarex knew better.
“How many?” the Elder asked.
“Enough to complicate our work,” the scout said. She spoke to Shannon. “We can get you into camp. But we’ve no idea where you should go once you’re in.”
“As we get closer, I can—I can feel—” He took a shaky breath. “I’ll know where to find him.”
“Can you lead a party there?” the Elder asked.
“I think so. He is in a tent. But I can’t be sure. His pain swamps it all.”
The Elder watched him, her face shadowed. “I do not understand this sensing of minds.”
“Imagine what you call the music of your ken.”
“Yes.”
“It is like that, but more so.”
“And you will recognize his music when you are near?”
A deep tremor passed through Shannon. “It is no music, now. He screams with pain, though he makes no sound at all.”
The Elder’s face creased. She motioned Varielle and Elarion forward, then spoke to them and the scout. “Go with Shannon. The rest of us will create diversions.”
The scout inclined her head. “So we shall.”
Shannon’s voice caught. “My thanks.”
The Elder touched his shoulder. “May you find him surcease.”
“I hope so,” he whispered.
They headed through the fog, southward, and his awareness of his father increased. He could barely stay on Moonglaze now, he hurt so much.
A skeetel-puff hummed. Shannon raised his head, trying to see the drifting bubble, a small creature that could fit in the palm of his hand. Its body resembled a tiny version of the stained-glass spheres on the trees. He saw nothing, but the skeetel droned again. With a start, he realized Elarion had made the sound. Other calls came from farther away, eerie whistles he had never heard before. The uncanny cries floated through the woods, moving northeast, and the hairs on Shannon’s neck prickled.
A shout came from nearby, then another. He pulled Moonglaze to a stop. When he realized they were by a yellowglass tree, he nudged the lyrine forward, slowly, so his hooves made no sound, and stopped at a purpleglass tree that blended with Moonglaze’s coat.
His companions faded into the mist. Shannon hadn’t wanted to wait until night, but he knew it was easier to hide, especially in these wilds where mists wreathed the tangled woods after the day cooled into night. But every moment they waited was excruciating. It meant another moment of agony for his father.
The ghost calls beyond the camp drifted away and faded into the distance. Shannon started up again, concentrating on his tie with his father. A tent loomed in the fog, pale and dim, peaked, with large tassels hanging off the edges of its roof. No. Not here. He rode by. His fist curled tightly around the reins. He couldn’t bear the pain. He had to shut it off. But when he blocked his mind, his awareness of the Bard receded. He had to release the block or he would never find his father.
The pain returned.
Snoring came from within the second tent they passed, deep and coarse. A man stood by a tree on its other side, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his gaze directed toward the other edge of camp, where calls continued to echo. Shannon and his party passed behind the tent like phantoms of mist.
A third tent formed out of the fog. Shannon froze, becoming so still that Moonglaze stopped. Plumes of condensation rose from the lyrine’s nostrils.
Shannon slid off Moonglaze. The other three Archers drew alongside him and Varielle dismounted, but the scout and Elarion remained on their lyrine, bows nocked and ready. Varielle had hers as well, her hand gripped firmly around the molded glasswood. Shannon didn’t speak, he just tilted his head toward the tent. She nodded, understanding. Then she touched his face. Until he felt her wipe away the moisture, he hadn’t realized he was crying. He hinged his four fingers around hers and she squeezed his hand. Then they moved toward the tent like ghosts in the fog.
No alarms sounded. Shannon hoped his jammer was serving its purpose, hiding them, that this wasn’t an attempt by guards here to lull them into a false sense of security. He knelt by the tent. He had hoped they could lift the bottom and crawl under, but its floor joined smoothly to its wall. While he worked to separate the two, Varielle kept watch. He pulled the dagger out of his belt and tried to cut a hole, but it did no good. He recognized the tent cloth; nanontubules threaded it, strengthened the material, and repaired damage.
Finally he sheathed his dagger and stood, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Worried, he motioned to Varielle. They padded around to the front of the tent—and froze. A warrior stood at the entrance, a large man in heavy disk mail with a sword at his hip.
Varielle quirked an eyebrow at Shannon, but he didn’t understand. With no more warning, she darted out into the woods, kicking up the remnants of crushed tree spheres.
The guard jerked up his head. “Who is there?”
That was smart, Shannon thought to him. Warn your enemy that you heard them and that you have no idea who they are, all in three words. He waited in the shadows. He hoped it didn’t alert anyone else.
A wraith flickered in the woods, a beautiful but otherworldly woman. She disappeared with a musical laugh.
“Rillia’s arrow!” The man went after her. “Come back here.”
Shannon shook his head as the warrior jogged into the woods, leaving his post. This fellow had more bulk than brains. Shannon didn’t want Varielle in the way of harm, but she had given him the opening he needed. He edged along the tent to the entrance. Excruciatingly aware that the guard could come back any moment, he lifted the flap and ducked inside.
Pain.
Even with his barriers up, Shannon couldn’t block it out. Darkness surrounded him
. Someone breathed in a rasp nearby. His suffering filled the tent, unbearable, and yet it had to be borne.
As Shannon’s eyes adjusted, he saw a shadowy figure lying on the ground, the only other person in the tent, it looked like. He went over and silently dropped to one knee by the figure. Or he thought he had been silent. The man rasped three words—and nearly stopped Shannon’s heart.
“Let me die.”
Shannon’s whisper shook in the dark. “Father?” He would have recognized that voice anywhere, no matter how hoarse.
“Shannon?” His father’s voice cracked. “Gods, no.”
“Vitarex didn’t catch me.” He spoke low and fast. “He doesn’t know I’m here. Tarlin found me. I came with the Blue Dale Archers.” He felt around the pallet. “I’m going to take you away.” Perhaps he could drag his father on these rugs.
Eldrinson caught his arm. “You must escape this place.”
“I won’t leave you.” Tears slid down Shannon’s face. He strained to pull the rugs toward the entrance. Had he been one of his indomitable brothers, no doubt he wouldn’t have cried. He would have done this all with great power and strength, undaunted. But he was no mighty warrior, he was just Shannon.
“Aii …” His father’s cry of pain was almost inaudible, but it screamed in Shannon’s mind. It dismayed him to hurt his father, but he couldn’t go any easier. They had to leave as fast as possible or they would never go at all.
As Shannon dragged the pallet, he asked, “Do you have your air syringe?” He could dial in a painkiller.
“Vitarex … took it.”
A chill went through Shannon. “Does he know it was yours?”
“Y-yes.”
The blood drained from Shannon’s face, leaving him cold. He stopped at the entrance and ducked his head outside, verifying the guard was still gone, undoubtedly searching for Varielle, tormented by silvery visions of an elusive wood nymph. It terrified Shannon that she put herself in such danger, for he had no doubt what the warrior would do if he caught her. That she risked herself for his father filled him with gratitude and fear.
He maneuvered the rug outside, his mind blazing with the renewed pain it gave his father. Shannon felt his father struggling not to scream. As he towed the pallet around the tent, Elarion and the Archer scout appeared, both on foot, leading their lyrine. Eldrinson lay still, his eyes squeezed shut, his face contorted, his legs hidden by a blanket made from lyrine hair.
Clutching a handful of straps, the scout was pulling a sturdy framework of glasswood poles. While Elarion kept watch, Shannon and the scout painstakingly lifted the pallet with Eldrinson onto the frame and fastened it to the poles. Every slight motion jarred the Bard, sending pain rolling through him and so also through Shannon. Yet incredibly, his father made no sound.
Eldrinson never looked directly at any of them. When Shannon tried to meet his gaze, he couldn’t seem to connect. Surely it was because of the dim light out here, where faces became pale ovals in the dark. That had to be the cause. It had to be.
Eldrinson spoke in a low voice. “Son?”
“We must hurry.” Shannon wanted to say so much, tell his father of his remorse for all the trouble he caused, of his love, of his grief. But they had no time. He looped braided reed-straps over the rugs, securing the pallet in place.
“Shannon, listen.” Eldrinson caught his arm. “If I never have another chance to tell you—”
“Don’t say that!” Shannon whispered.
“I am sorry,” Eldrinson said. “Whatever I did to hurt you, I am so terribly sorry. I never meant to drive you away. You are my joy.” His grip tightened. “I always have and always will love you, my son.”
A weight lifted from Shannon. Softly he said, “I have much to apologize for. But know I love you, too.”
The scout tied a last strap and stood up. “We must go.”
Shannon rose to his feet. “Please take him back to the caravan. Care for him. Help him.”
Elarion’s forehead furrowed. “You are not coming with us?”
“Shannon, no.” His father’s voice rasped.
“You must come with us,” the scout murmured.
Shannon knew what he had to do. “Go,” he told them. “Save the Dalvador Bard. An empire will thank you.”
Then he headed back into the camp.
He crept among the tents, seeking a nightmare. He had no trouble finding Vitarex; the darkness of the Aristo’s mind threatened to swallow him in its suffocating need. Shannon had gone beyond dismay, beyond anger. He knew only the agony his father endured. Vitarex had done that. The Aristo had invaded their sanctuary. It astounded Shannon that his father still lived. He would never walk again. Nor could he deny the other truth any longer, what had been obvious but he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. The Dalvador Bard was blind.
What burned through Shannon was like nothing he had known before. Flames consumed him, a fire of rage, yet he was cold inside. He crept through the camp, Moonglaze at his side. Condensation curled from the lyrine’s nostrils. Shannon had looped ropes into his belt, and the jammer hung in his travel bags. He stalked the cavity of Vitarex’s mind. Nothing could hide the Aristo from him. Red hazed his vision until the mists themselves seemed to turn crimson.
In the distance, the eerie calls of the Blue Dales Arches trilled and whistled as if spirits drifted among the trees. They were still drawing away the guards, but Shannon knew he didn’t have much time. He had to hurry before one of Vitarex’s men came back and caught him here.
He drew near to his quarry.
A tent blocked his way, pale in the fog. Shannon crept along the side. A warrior guarded the entrance, a man who held his sword in his right rather than left hand. It made no difference. Most Lyshrioli were left-handed, but among all the Valdoria princes, only Shannon and Del-Kurj were. Their brothers took after their mother, using their right more than the left. Shannon had spent his life training against right-handed opponents.
Hidden in the fog, he left Moonglaze behind the tent and edged closer, his tread as silent as a Blue Dale Archer, as silent as it had been all those nights he slipped from his home and wandered through Dalvador so late at night, he was the only person out, always restless, always seeking what he couldn’t find, his own people. So he moved now.
The guard never knew anyone came up behind him until Shannon hooked his right arm around the man’s neck and pressed hard. As the guard struggled, he grabbed at Shannon where a left-handed assailant would have caught him. Instead of getting Shannon’s hand and wrist, the man’s fingers scraped his elbow. All the time, Shannon choked him, holding his own wrist with his other hand, added leverage to cut off the man’s air. The guard gave one last strangled grunt and collapsed, unconscious.
Shannon took a ragged breath. He quickly bound the guard, then drew his sword, the blade whispering in its sheath. He stepped closer to the tent, silent in the carpet of crushed glitter, and paused at the entrance, his hand touching the flap. Light leaked around its edges. Nothing but the music of night came to him: the whistle of lyrine; a rustle of wind in the disks hanging from the trees; strange calls in the distance, which only he knew were as the Blue Dale Archers.
Shannon stepped inside.
The light wasn’t bright enough to blind him, but he had to squint. A man was sitting at a carved table, his attention focused on a silver and black device that resembled the communications equipment in Brad’s starport office.
Vitarex.
Shannon knew. Vitarex disguised himself as a Rillian, his hair yellow and lavender, his eyes violet, his clothes and disk mail authentic. He had even altered his hands into the hinged structure. But nothing would change the Aristo perfection of his face or his aura of arrogance. Without the disguise, he would have shimmering black hair and red eyes.
Vitarex turned his head. He considered Shannon with a bemused expression but no surprise, as if wild-eyed youths broke into his tent all the time. He spoke in Highton. “Well, you’re quite the provider, aren’t
you?”
Shannon’s pulse stuttered at the insinuation, that he was no more than a slave for Vitarex to torture. He had no doubt the Aristo spoke Highton to see if he would react; on Lyshriol, only members of the Ruby Dynasty knew the language. Vitarex was probing. He had to have realized Shannon was a psion; just as he recognized Vitarex from the cavity in his mind, so this Trader lord would know him as a psion from the completion his mind provided.
When Shannon said nothing, Vitarex switched into perfect Trillian. “What did you do with my guard?”
Shannon walked forward and raised his sword.
“You can’t kill me, Princeling.” Vitarex touched a cluster of bubbles engraved in the table. A rumbling buffeted Shannon, so low in pitch that he felt more than heard it. The vibration shook his bones and made his stomach lurch. Distracted, he poked at his ear.
“Amazing,” Vitarex murmured. “You shouldn’t hear that.”
Gritting his teeth, Shannon headed toward him again. The sensation grew worse, but he forced himself forward another step, his sword clenched in his hand.
Vitarex rose to his feet. “I will be leaving soon. With your father.” An oily smile spread across his too-perfect face. “You may come with us.”
Shannon’s temples ached with the vibrations. This was more than just sound. He shook his head, but nothing helped. The room blurred and tilted around him.
“Your balance goes next,” Vitarex commented. “The effects you feel come from a tangler field designed to disrupt neural impulses in your brain.” His smile turned cold, matching his gaze. “It works particularly well on psions, with all those extra neural structures of yours. The sensations grow more and more unpleasant.” Bliss washed across his face. “For you. I’m protected from it.”
Shannon thought of what the Blue Dale Archers called the music of his ken, what he had come to realize was the trance he submerged into when he ran through the plains, curled in the warmth of Moonglaze’s stable, or wandered in the woods, the trance he had gone into high in the Blue Dale Mountains when Moonglaze thought he was dying. He closed his eyes and blanked his mind, submerging into the trance.