U
seless.
Kurj had been in the web too long; it took a great toll on the body and mind to spend days submerged in that alternate space. Stalking the mysteries of another universe, searching its endless twists, became his reality, until he forgot he lived as a man of flesh and blood.
Intravenous lines fed him. He blamed his melancholy on having spent so long here, in the web, without rest or solid food. But he continued to search. Today he sifted through inconsequential nodes on fringes of the web so far from the centers of activity that he wondered why he bothered.
Even here, he found reviews of Roca’s dancing. People chatted about her performances, giving opinions on her artistry, style, and technique. Most comments were positive, glowing even, but not all. Kurj deleted the disparaging reviews. He knew it was foolish; people had a right to dislike his mother’s dancing. They were idiots if they couldn’t see her genius, but that wasn’t his problem. Even the critical reviews were courteous, without the sexually explicit or violent material he had incinerated in the cyber-slums and slave dungeons. But what the hell. He deleted the bad ones anyway.
He was preparing to leave the web when one of his Evolving Intelligence spiders spun up, whirling like heated copper.
Yes?
Kurj asked.
I have found another reference for Cya Liessa.
I will look tomorrow.
This one may be important.
Why?
It dates from after her disappearance.
Kurj shrugged.
So do all of these.
This person claims to have seen her.
He froze.
Show me.
Kurj strode into the office of his security chief and slapped a holosheet on the man’s desk. “I found this message in a rickety old network, one so dated, it had only one link to the Kyle webs. It’s from someplace called Capsize, wherever the hell that is.”
His startled chief picked up the sheet. Kurj knew the message on it by memory:
You won’t believe who I saw last night at the port. Cya Liessa! The dancer. She’s even prettier in person.
“Saints almighty.” The chief gaped at him. “This is nowhere near where we thought she had gone.”
“Follow it up.” Kurj planted his huge palms on the desk, his adrenaline surging. “Run down every flaming damn link to this message.
I want the location of that starport.
”
“There.” Eldri pointed down at Avaril’s army, which filled the flat area before the castle.
Roca pulled up her hood against the cold. The rich smell of its fur lining inundated her, so familiar now. She and Eldri were outside, in the tiny lookout area of the highest tower. The Backbone Mountains sheered up on all sides, a sharp and jagged range, surreal in its spindled peaks. Snow covered the higher summits, but only a dusting remained at Windward. The drifts from so many months ago were long melted and gone. The path to the plains had become a conduit for Avaril’s men to bring in supplies. Roca tried not to think about how depleted the castle stores had become.
“There it is again!” Scowling, Eldri pointed at a group of men by a campfire. “Can you make out anything?”
Roca focused, using her enhanced optics. “What did you see?”
“A flash, like metal.”
She scanned the camp, resolving details. One man was cooking over the fire and two were sitting, talking. “Someone is rubbing a sword, cleaning it maybe.”
“That wasn’t it.” Eldri shifted restlessly. “It was larger than a sword.”
Another man walked into the scene—and Roca gasped.
“What is it?” Eldri asked.
Roca squinted at the man. “You.”
A pause. “What did you say?”
She watched the newcomer sit with the warriors at the fire. “A man down there looks like you.” She studied the fellow. “Same hair, though with some gray. About your height and build. His face is similar to yours.”
“Does he have a scar?” Eldri’s voice had become strained. “It stretches from his left eye to his chin?”
Roca studied the man. “Yes, actually.” She turned to Eldri, seeing only a blur. “Do you know him?”
“He is my cousin. Avaril Valdoria.”
“Gods, Eldri.” As her eyes readjusted, her new husband came into focus. “You could be brothers.”
“Brothers shouldn’t try to kill each other.” His face creased in lines of tension. “I gave him that scar not long ago, when his men ambushed mine in the foothills.”
Knowing that the man who wanted to kill her husband looked so much like Eldri made it worse, leaving no doubt this was kin against kin. She thought of her own family, so full of love and anger, tenderness and violence. “I wish I could help.”
“You can’t. But I thank you for the sentiment.” He gestured toward the plain. “You saw nothing unusual? No metal?”
“I’ll look more. Maybe it moved.” Roca peered down at the army again. When she magnified the scene, it decreased her field of view, so she widened her search.
The settlement had become a village. At first only men had lived there; apparently women didn’t fight in armies here. It seemed odd to Roca, who descended from the queens of the Ruby Empire, where men had been owned and never went into combat. Modern Skolians considered their culture egalitarian, but remnants of its ancient roots remained even in this modern age.
From what Roca understood, the population here had suffered a high mortality rate among female babies thousands of years ago, creating an imbalance of men and women. Eventually it had evened out, but during the era when men outnumbered women, they had assumed more authority, giving the culture both matriarchal and patriarchal elements. Inheritance of titles went through the male line; land went through the female line. Only women were scholars; only men served as judges. Men never danced, but it was a great achievement to sing well. A woman’s ability to dance commanded great respect, but she would sing only for fun, never as a vocation. When the women and men combined their talents, they created a remarkable beauty of motion and music.
The protocols of life here seemed less formal, without rigid social distinctions. As the months of the siege had passed, women had filtered into the camp below, girlfriends and wives of the warriors perhaps, or camp followers.
“Did you find anything?” Eldri asked.
She scanned the camp. “The women are gone.”
“You are sure?”
“I don’t see any.”
“This is not good.”
Roca turned to him. “Why would Avaril send them away?”
“I would if I planned for my army to attack.”
She pressed her hand against her abdomen, instinctively seeking to protect her child. “But how? They can’t get in here.”
Eldri glanced at her swelling abdomen, his face taut. “I cannot say. You saw nothing else unusual?” When Roca shook her head, he frowned. “I am certain something new was there. Metal.”
“I’ll try again.” Turning back to the camp, she surveyed its layout. “Nothing. Just a lot of—good gods, what is that?” A large structure stood half-hidden against a cliff. She had missed it the first time because it was set so far back and made from the same stone as the mountain. Solid and round, it stretched as long as three people. Metal bands encircled its girth.
“What?” Eldri asked. “What do you see?”
Roca described it. “They must have brought materials up from the plains. They haven’t been cutting that rock out of these mountains. We would have noticed.” She pulled back and focused on him. “Does it sound familiar?”
“Yes.” Eldri spoke grimly. “A battering ram.”
No one expected Roca and Brad to stay out of war councils anymore. Roca sat next to Eldri at the table, and Brad sat near Garlin. Shannar, the military expert, was next to Channil, the senior midwife at Windward and the closest they had to a chief physician. Shaliece, the Memory, also sat with them, focused and attentive.
Over the past months, Roca had come to respect these people. Life here was rough and uncompromising, but it also had an integrity she valued. She wished she could distill its positive qualities and pour that essence into the cold, glittering Imperial Court. The man the Assembly had intended her to marry, the reputedly incomparable Prince Dayj, could learn a lot from these people. Not that he would; Roca knew her former intended would never view Eldri’s people as anything more than inferior beasts. The irony was that Eldri probably had the blood of the ancient Ruby queens and kings flowing in his veins, far more than Dayj.
It had taken her a while to realize how much Brad disconcerted the inhabitants of Windward, who had never met him before. He apparently resembled a god from Lyshrioli mythology, a fertility prince no less. The god’s hair was the night sky, so the people here found nothing strange in the idea that he came from “the stars.” None of them had dark hair, skin, or eyes, and his coloring fascinated them. He took it in stride, though he seemed flustered to be considered the incarnation of a deity. Roca could imagine that with his good nature, good looks, and reputation for fertility, he hadn’t had any trouble wooing his girlfriend in the village.
Right now, however, he was scowling at Eldri as he spoke in Trillian. “Yes, the port is only one house. But it represents something much larger. If Avaril’s men murder a Ruby heir, the repercussions will be so severe, you can’t begin to imagine them.”
Garlin regarded him dourly. “Would you care to tell Avaril?”
Eldri’s frustration was so strong, it felt like fog against Roca’s skin. “You make dire proclamations,” he told Brad. “But you offer no viable alternatives.”
“We’re working on the explosives,” Brad said.
“Do they explode?” Garlin asked.
Brad grimaced. “Not much. Yet.”
Although Roca didn’t speak Trillian well, she had improved over the past months. “What about other idea—tunnel through chasm walls to escape into northern mountains?”
The Memory held up her hand. When Eldri inclined his head, she said, “I have retrieved my Memories of every route mapped over the ages. Avaril’s mountain climbers have blocked them all.”
“I do not understand this ‘mountain climbing.’ ” Shannar glared at Brad as if he had invented the activity rather than just given them the terminology. “What sane person would hammer spikes in a wall and swing from them on a rope?”
Eldri cocked an eyebrow. “It works, Shannar. Cousin Avaril may be a harsh man, but he is not stupid.”
Roca’s baby suddenly gave a hearty kick. She rested her hand on her abdomen, aware of a pain with no connection to the child’s robust activity. It devastated her to know how much death threatened his incipient life. “Have we news of the plains?” she asked. “Maybe the Dalvador army comes here now.”
“We’ve seen no one on the trail,” Garlin said.
“If only we had a carrier pigeon,” Brad muttered.
The Lyshrioli looked at him blankly.
Shaliece lifted her hand. “Could you repeat ‘pije’?”
“Pigeon,” Brad said. “A bird. It carries messages.”
“What is ‘bird’?” Eldri asked.
“A small animal that flies,” Brad said.
“Perhaps we could build one,” Roca suggested.
Brad pushed his hand through his hair, which had grown out in fluffy curls. “I’ve been thinking for a while about how I might cobble something together. If I cannibalize my palmtop and smart-knife, I could provide computerized direction to several small fliers. But I would hate to lose my equipment.”
He had already mentioned the idea to Roca, and she understood his hesitation. Without his palmtop, he couldn’t communicate with the port, and he wanted the knife for protection. But the time might be coming when they needed to take desperate chances.
“What would be the purpose of such fliers?” Garlin asked.
“To carry messages to your people in the plains,” Brad said. “According to the computers at the port, no one has read the ones I’ve sent there.”
“What new could these fliers tell anyone?” Shannar demanded, crankier than usual. “That we need help? I imagine they already know that. They haven’t heard from us for ages. They don’t come because they are fighting the rest of Avaril’s army. It is the only explanation.”
Eldri frowned at him. “Shannar, it is not a bad idea. Brad wishes to help.” Dark circles showed under his eyes. “Maybe the battering ram won’t work.” He didn’t sound hopeful.
“Maybe it will.” Shannar stood and began to pace. “It is time to destroy the bridge to Windward.”
“Easily said,” Garlin told him. “Not easily done.”
Shannar glared at Brad. “What about your ‘bombs’?”
“We can try,” Brad said. “I doubt the explosives we’ve made so far are strong enough to destroy something that massive.”
“I cannot allow this.” Eldri crossed his arms on the table. “I am the one Avaril wants. I should give…give myself…” His voice faded.
Shannar frowned. “Are you suggesting a surrender?”
Eldri stared at the table, his eyes glazed.
“Bard Eldrinson?” Shannar asked.
Garlin lifted his hand, palm out. “Wait. The sun gods speak with him.”
Shannar raised his eyebrows and Shaliece shifted in her seat. Brad started to speak, then stopped when Roca shook her head. She suspected everyone at the table knew perfectly well no deities were involved here.
Eldri slowly raised his head and looked around. He stared for a long moment at Garlin, as if trying to recognize his cousin.
“Eldri?” Garlin’s voice was gentler than when he spoke to anyone else.
“I am…fine.” Eldri rubbed his eyes.
It tugged at Roca to see Eldri’s bewildered expression. She wanted to protect him, to take him away from these people and their impossible demands. But she held back, knowing his pride wouldn’t allow him to acknowledge what he considered a frailty.
Garlin resumed their discussion as if nothing had happened. “No surrender. Avaril won’t take prisoners.”
Eldri didn’t answer, he just rubbed his eyes, still dazed. Shaliece seemed uncertain about whether or not she should record this. Roca’s unease grew. Usually Eldri recovered faster, at least enough so he could listen while others talked. He seemed lost now, unable to respond at all.
In the same moment that Roca laid her hand on Eldri’s arm, to suggest a break, Garlin stood. “Thank you all for your counsel,” he said. “I will let you know when we will consult again.”