Skyfall Page 4

  “Ho!” A young man in the front called to Brad. “You lost your chess match to Garlin! You owe us much chocolate.”

  Brad gave him a cocky grin. “I will win a match with you, Bard.”

  The man smirked. “I play not, man with the name of Bard misspelled in his own language.”

  Brad laughed. “So you’ve finally learned to spell my name.”

  The other fellow turned smug. “I am clever, eh?”

  An older man was sitting on an animal next to the Bard. He spoke dryly. “And humble.”

  “Hello, Garlin.” Brad waved at the older man. “You’re the one who told him about the spelling, aren’t you?”

  The Bard glared at Garlin. “Don’t tell him.”

  Garlin cocked an eyebrow at Brad. “It seems I have nothing to say.”

  “Ah, well,” the Bard said. “Maybe Garlin did tell me. I’ve no time for spelling.” He grinned again, unabashed and unrestrained, his face alive with pleasure. Roca felt his joy. His mind poured over hers, incredible, like a waterfall. Even with her family, who were all psions, she never picked up their moods this well.

  Roca moved closer, trying to see this Bard more clearly. His odd coloring startled her. He had thick hair the hue of burgundy wine, but streaked gold from sunlight. His violet eyes were large and round. She couldn’t be certain, but she thought freckles sprinkled across his nose. Although she supposed he had a handsome face, he wasn’t her type. She preferred tall, dark, somber men. It was hard to resist his light and laughter, though. He mesmerized, drawing her nearer.

  His mind glowed.

  Why Roca dropped her mental shields, she didn’t know. She had never experienced anything like his mind. It flowed into her with the power of an ocean and the gentleness of a breeze, like warmth and spring all mixed together.

  The young man suddenly went still. Then he tilted his head, his forehead furrowed as if he were listening to a distant voice. Turning to Garlin, he spoke in a language Roca didn’t recognize, persisting when Garlin shook his head. She loved the musical quality of his voice. Deep and resonant, it chimed. She could easily believe what Brad had told her, that this man was an extraordinary singer. The waterfall of his mind poured over her, sparkling, bracing, invigorating. Entrancing.

  Suddenly the youth yelled, jarring Roca out of her trance. Dismayed, she realized she had walked out of the house. The riders jolted into motion again, spurred by his shout, rearing their animals as they added their own yells to the din. In her sensitized state, she reeled under the onslaught of noise and emotions. She stumbled back, confused, but she went off somehow and missed the doorway, backing into the wall instead.

  “Jeri!” Brad’s shout came through the din. “Over here!”

  Roca saw him in the doorway a few meters away. She edged toward him, but too many riders were in the way. She had no idea what they were trying to do. One animal reared much too close to her, its translucent hooves pawing the air. She gasped, putting her hands above her head. The animal came down, slamming the ground with its hooves, and she glimpsed the Bard astride its back, his face wild. Holding up her arm to protect her face, she pressed back against the wall.

  The Bard leaned down, hanging off his animal, and grabbed her arm. Someone else yelled and another animal reared so close that Roca felt its motion like a wind.

  “No!” Roca fought to pull away from the Bard. She stumbled against the animal and its hair scraped her face, far less soft than it looked, its musky scent filling her senses. She lost her balance when the animal stamped its feet, but before she could fall beneath its hooves, the Bard dragged her up its side. With a great heave, he hefted her up so she was sitting on the animal in front of him.

  “Stop it!” Roca yelled. As she struggled, she started to slide off, unable to adapt fast enough to the unfamiliar gravity. Even knowing how far it was to the ground, with so many other animals pounding the reeds around them, she kept fighting. No one touched her this way.

  The Bard caught her before she fell, but as he grabbed her waist, his agitated mount reared again. Roca froze as their height above the ground more than doubled. The animal trumpeted its call to the sky, and another animal answered, then another. As the Bard’s mount came down, he gave a shout of triumph. Leaning forward with his arms around Roca, he spurred the animal into a run.

  With that, the entire party took off, thundering across the plains—taking Roca with them.

  3

  The Broken Path

  The plains went by in a blur. Roca jabbed her elbow into the ribs of the man behind her. When he grunted, she kicked her heel into his leg, then raked her fingernails up his arm. She didn’t need to understand his vehement words to know he was cursing.

  “Ai! Stop!” He finally spoke in English, shouting above the drumming hooves of the animals. “Don’t do that.” His mount had a remarkably smooth gait, much more so than a horse, enough to let him speak despite their fast pace.

  “Take me to port!” She whacked his leg hard.

  “Ow! Stop!”

  “Back to port!”

  “We cannot.” He leaned closer so he could speak near her ear instead of shouting. “Garlin says I must learn to understand you port people better. I didn’t want to, but I changed my mind. You must teach me about your people.”

  “Pah. You are rude boy. I make no diplomacy for you.”

  His hold shifted into an embrace. “But you have such wonderful passion.”

  She pushed off his arms as if they were a plague, making him lose his grasp on the reins. “Not for you.”

  “Hey!” He flailed for the reins. “I need those.”

  “I rather fall.”

  As he struggled to regain control of his animal, an unexpected sight startled her. His hands. He had no thumbs. His four fingers were about the same length, longer than hers and unusually thick. A hinge ran down his hand, starting between the second and third fingers and going all the way to his wrist. To hold the reins, he hinged his hand, folding his palm so his first and second fingers opposed the fourth and third, respectively. It worked with such efficiency, she thought the structure must have been engineered.

  Roca peered at the other riders. Those she could see well had hands like the Bard. They all had violet eyes, too, and gold, platinum, or burgundy hair. It was odd. The people of the Ruby Empire had been dark-haired and dark-eyed, as were many modern Skolians, especially the nobility. It helped Roca hide her identity; her gold coloring didn’t fit the imperial ideal. But the reflective skin, hair, and eyes she had inherited from her father served a purpose similar to the darker coloring of her mother’s people; it protected against bright sunlight. Perhaps the settlers here had decreased their pigmentation because their world received less light. The human eye could adapt to a wide range of intensities, so the streaming golden sunshine didn’t seem dim, but the amount was probably below the human norm.

  None of that made this situation less alarming. “Bard,” she said. “You break law. Take me back.”

  “Your English is hard to understand.”

  She snorted. “You understand fine.”

  Another rider pulled alongside them, the man Garlin. He resembled the Bard, but his features had an edgy, gaunt look and his hair was dark burgundy, streaked with gray instead of gold. Had he had access to treatments that delayed aging, Roca would have guessed him to be well into his second century of life. But according to Brad, these people had no health sciences. If this man had never known the benefits of modern biotech, he could be much younger, even in his forties.

  Garlin spoke tightly in his language, his words directed to the Bard, though he was obviously angry at Roca as well. His mood came through to her with unusual strength, making her suspect he too was an empath, though nowhere near as strong as the Bard. He regarded her with antipathy, as if it were her fault that this hotheaded person had hauled her off under the bizarre pretext of improving Allied-Skyfall relations. Gods only knew what they would do when they found out she wasn’t an Allied citi
zen.

  “You Garlin, yes?” she asked. She wished she spoke English better, with more nuance.

  Garlin gave her a chill stare.

  “Of course he is,” the Bard said. “He used to be my regent. He is also my cousin, the son of my mother’s sister.”

  That puzzled Roca. Her node defined “regent” as someone who raised a child sovereign and performed his duties until the child reached adulthood. Yet Brad claimed this man wasn’t a king.

  She considered Garlin. “You guardian for Bard?”

  He turned forward, guiding his mount across the plains.

  “Garlin, you are rude to our guest.” The Bard sounded annoyed.

  The older man answered in their language. Roca had a feeling he better understood the trouble they had created for themselves by taking her. She wondered if Garlin had sensed that moment of mental recognition between the Bard and herself back at the port.

  Aside from her family, the Ruby Dynasty, Roca knew of no one else with a mental signature as strong as this Bard. Such powerful psions were rare almost to extinction. Scientists had yet to determine why incubating them in vitro almost always failed. The more powerful the psion, the higher the fatality rate. But her people desperately needed Ruby psions. Only an analysis of this man’s DNA would verify if he had the full set of Ruby genes, but certainly he had many. He might be a vital resource to the Imperialate, their most valuable find in decades. How she dealt with this situation could have far-reaching effects, particularly if he was a leader among his people.

  This Bard was an enigma, one possibly dangerous to her. She needed to understand him, to compare him with her family, the only other psions with such power. She thought of her father, Jarac. The Imperator. As the hereditary leader of Imperial Space Command, he led the Skolian military forces. A stoic and kind man, he had an immensely powerful mind, but he lacked the finesse to detect subtleties in moods and thoughts. The Bard had less strength, but his mind felt robust, healthy, strapping, with a youthful quality and perhaps more finesse than Jarac.

  Roca’s mother, Lahaylia, the Ruby Pharaoh, had plenty of subtlety—and also an edge. Where Jarac was temperate, Lahaylia was fierce. Jarac relaxed now and then, but Lahaylia never rested. She loved her family deeply, without compromise or condition. A direct descendant of the ancient Ruby queens, she had founded the Skolian Imperialate. In contrast, the Bard seemed to have little sense of his power. It was instinctual with him.

  Roca’s sister, Dehya, had enough finesse for ten people. She had inherited their mother’s dark hair and exotic eyes, but not her ferocity. Dehya was a thinker, lost in equations, a genius at the webs. As the older child, Dehya was first in line for the Ruby Throne, but Roca had always suspected her sister would have rather become a math professor. Dehya was too different from the Bard to compare the two.

  There was Kurj, Roca’s son. He and his grandfather Jarac were both huge and metallic gold. They had similar minds in their power and lack of nuance, but their personalities differed. Aggressive in his ambition, Kurj seethed with an anger Roca only partially understood. He had hardened after the violence with Darr, but it wasn’t until his years as a Jag pilot that his rage crystallized and the barriers separating him from Roca became insurmountable.

  Roca had no good comparison—but wait, she had left out someone: herself. She took after her father, tall and robust, gold instead of dark. She had inherited some of his mental power, but leavened with her mother’s subtlety. Her interest in politics tended toward her mother. Her artistic bent probably came from her father, though he claimed to have the artistry of an iron brick. Although both her parents enjoyed her dancing, he seemed to understand more how it made her feel.

  She might come closer in mental style to this Bard than the others in her family, but she hadn’t found a good comparison. It left her without a way to understand him. He descended from stock that had evolved independently of hers, producing a psion unlike anyone in the Ruby Dynasty.

  Roca became aware of the Bard behind her. He knew she was studying him. That startled her. Neither Kurj nor Jarac would have realized it. If Kurj had somehow guessed she was analyzing him, he would have tried to influence her conclusions. The Bard made no such attempt; he had just waited patiently.

  “You are quiet for a long time,” he said.

  She leaned back so he could hear her better. “Why you tell me nothing about yourself?”

  “You never asked.” He traced his finger over her ear.

  It unsettled Roca to realize she liked it when he touched her. She knew why; psions produced pheromones targeted for other psions. Nature compensated for their high mortality by driving them together with chemical cocktails, spurring them to make babies. But knowing that in theory and dealing with it in practice were two very different matters. Disconcerted, she pulled her head away from him.

  Disappointment came from his mind, but he answered her unspoken question. “I am Eldrinson Althor Valdoria.” After a pause, he added, “You may call me Eldri.”

  “I am Roca.” Too late, she caught her mistake. Odd that she was so flustered. “I mean Jeri.”

  “Roca is a good name.”

  “Jeri.”

  He laughed. “Roca. I know.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “I do indeed. I know when people lie.”

  That piqued her interest. “How?”

  “I just do.”

  “Something they do? Their voice?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “So how you know?”

  He shifted behind her. “It doesn’t matter how.”

  Roca had no doubt he felt it in their minds, especially hers, given the bond they were forming. She didn’t think he realized what he was doing, though. “You have good English,” she said.

  His laugh rolled out, deep and chiming. “Better than you.”

  “True.”

  “Why can’t you speak your own language?”

  “Is not mine. I am Skolian.”

  “I have never heard of Skolians.”

  Roca frowned. The Allieds had better be able to answer for this, moving in here without telling the natives their origins. From what she understood, the Allied port had been here for three years. That was plenty of time to inform her people about this rediscovered colony.

  It occurred to her that Eldri must have developed his fluency in English in only three years. Or less. “How speak you English so well?”

  “I listen to Brad, the Reversed-Bard.” He laughed at his joke.

  “I listen to many. For years. I not speak like you.”

  “Why do you ask how I know things? I just do.”

  Softly she said, “Psion pick up language fast.”

  “Psion? I don’t know this word.”

  “Empath. Telepath.”

  “I don’t know those, either.”

  “Empath feel emotions. Telepath read thought from emotion.”

  His grip on the reins tightened so much that his knuckles turned white. “It is not true!”

  His vehemence surprised her. She indicated Garlin, who was riding up ahead. “You feel when he has anger, yes?”

  “Always.” Now he sounded amused.

  “You feel my mind at port, yes?”

  Silence.

  “Eldri?”

  “No! I am not different!” His thoughts surged, erratic and upset—and his mind opened to her. For one moment she felt the deep-seated pain that caused his reaction. Then his natural barriers snapped back into place. Roca didn’t understand what had just happened. She wanted to know more, but she held back, afraid if she persisted, she would alienate him.

  They had been riding toward a line of needled mountains in the northwest. Looking back, she saw clouds of bubbles floating in the air, released by the riders as they crossed the plains. Glitter dusted the animals and people. It made her hair and Eldri’s eyelashes sparkle.

  “We go back to port,” she said.

  He spoke with reluctance. “Very well.”<
br />
  Relief washed over her. “Now, yes?” She didn’t want Eldri to leave, though. “You stay a little, yes? We visit with Brad.”

  Eldri snorted. “He is too busy for visits. His flying machine broke again. He must fix it.” He shifted her in his arms. “Come visit my home in the mountains.”

  “Why mountain? Village closer.” Also safer.

  Sadness came over him. “It is only a ride.”

  His response puzzled her. She picked up no more from his mind except his conviction that he couldn’t reveal the truth. She didn’t think it had anything to do with Brad or his flyer, but that was her only lead. “You no help Brad’s flying machine?”

  “We don’t know how.” Eldri brushed her hair back from her face. “But we would if we could. He is a friend. Besides, he lives in Dalvador. That makes him my responsibility, even if he thinks he belongs to this Allied Skolia of yours.”

  She blinked at his tangle of misunderstandings. “Brad come from Allied Worlds of Earth. I am Skolian. Is different.” She checked her node for the words she wanted. “And if you are his liege, why you bedevil him?”

  He chuckled. “We don’t. We just play with him.”

  Roca doubted it amused Brad to have a Skolian citizen hauled out of his port. “Eldri. Tell this animal take us back.”

  “Lyrine.”

  “Say you again?”

  “The animal. It is called a lyrine.”

  “Tell lyrine take us back. Brad worry.”

  To her surprise, he reined the lyrine to a stop. She twisted around to look at him, maneuvering her leg over the animal so she was sitting sideways. That would make it easier to jump down if he started up again. She was aware of the other riders gathering around them, milling among the drifting bubbles, but she couldn’t stop looking at Eldri. Nor did he disguise how much she unsettled him. Or maybe she knew it from his mind; she was becoming so sensitized to him, she had trouble separating his moods from his behavior. She told herself it was pheromones, but she suspected her response went deeper than chemicals.

  “Why stare you so?” she asked.

  “I am sorry.” Eldri brushed her cheek. “I have never seen a woman with gold skin or gold eyes.” His touch on her eyelash was so tender she barely felt it. “They glitter. But they are soft. Not hard like metal.”