Skolian Empire - Skyfall Part 3

"The villagers?"

"You got it."

Roca blinked. Got it? Her node had trouble with that one. Nor was she sure why villagers would come to the ship. Surely it didn't provision the native population. Even if people here had somehow acquired the credit to buy offworld goods, selling to natives was of questionable legality. Under Skolian law, it would tangle Brad in a mora.s.s of complications. She knew less about Allied laws, though.

"They come for supplies?" she asked.

"Some." Concern showed on his ever-changing face. "Medicine mostly." Then he paused. Even if she hadn't been an empath, she would have known he realized he had said too much. Awkwardly, he added, "And I, uh, can't provide them with medicines, of course."

Her voice cooled. "Of course." Well, it wasn't her affair. This was an Allied port, none of her business.

"If not for medicine, why they come?"

His tension eased. "Chocolate."

"Chocolate?"

He chuckled. "A drink."

"Ah." Roca had never heard of the substance.

"Their Bard likes it. So I treat him to it."

"Bard?" The similarity to his name gave her pause. "A singer?"

"That's right. The Dalvador Bard." His smile morphed into a scowl. "The resort marketers call him the King of Skyfall because he lives in that castle in the village. They claim it adds 'romance' to the setting.

But to name him a king, especially of an entire world, is absurd."

Remembering the idyllic castle, she could see why the planners had jumbled their cultural cues. "But he sings?" She wondered if he and Brad ever mixed up their names.

"He keeps the history of his people in ballads. I guess you could call him a singing archivist. His voice is incredible." Pleasure suffused Brad's mood. "With formal training, I'll bet he could walk into a job at any major opera company."

That piqued Roca's interest. "I regret I no hear him sing."

"You might." Brad had to raise his voice to be heard above the rumbling now. "He sometimes comes with Garlin to pick up the supplies." He paused. "The, uh, chocolate."

"Chocolate." Her tone cooled. This had nothing to do with her, but it troubled her to think that he so flagrantly broke the law. For all Brad knew, medicines that helped his people could kill the natives here.

As the rumbling surrounded the house, Brad stood up. His smile had vanished. "You disapprove."

She also rose to her feet. Her voice came out like ice. "Why I disapprove of chocolate?"

"Tell me something." He regarded her steadily. "Have you ever had to watch someone you care about die because you didn't have enough medical care to save them?"

"And if someone die from wrong care?" She met his gaze. "Or because expected supplies never come?"

He frowned. "I would never take resources meant for someone else. Nor would I dispense medicine without precautions."

"You are doctor?"

"I have some knowledge."

"Is not same."

"Tell that to the mother whose baby dies in her arms." His fist clenched at his side. "Tell the screaming farmer who has neither antibiotics to stop the infection in his injured leg nor anesthetics to knock him out while the town blacksmith saws it off."

Roca flinched. No mental shield, no matter how strong, could block his fierce emotions. He had witnessed the scenes he described. She spoke quietly. "I am sorry."

Brad loosened his fists. "I shouldn't have unloaded that on you." He tried to smile, but it barely qualified.

"I really do give them chocolate. They will be disappointed to find I've none today." He started toward the door. "Come on. Meet the locals."

His regret flowed over Roca. As she went with him, the thunder outside grew even louder. Her pulse leapt. The walls were vibrating. She hung back as Brad opened the front door and stood framed in the entrance, his hands on his hips.

Outside, a blur of color sped past. Many boisterous people appeared to be riding large animals around the house. Brad started tolaugh,for flaming sakes, as if the tumult were all a great show. He didn't seem the least concerned.

The riders congregated in front of the door, their mounts stamping and snorting. The animals looked like horses that had been bioengineered into a new species, an extraordinarily graceful one. Two clear, crystalline horns on their heads refracted the sunlight like prisms, sending sparks of color everywhere.

They had hooves made from the same substance, and their coats shimmered, either blue or lavender. The lovely creatures were much more refined than she had expected given all the noise they made.

She had more trouble seeing their riders, so she moved closer, standing right behind Brad. The men wore simple clothes, white shirts and rough trousers dyed dark colors, either blue or purple. Embroidery bordered their collars and cuffs. All had on knee-boots. Their hair, neck length or longer, stirred in the breezes.

"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 c.o.c.ky 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."

"h.e.l.lo, 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 c.o.c.ked 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. Rocafelthis 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, itchimed.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 sc.r.a.ped 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 onetouched 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 leghard.

"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 pa.s.sion."

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 n.o.bility. It helped Roca hide her ident.i.ty; 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. G.o.ds only knew what they would do when they found out she wasn't an Allied citizen.

"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 a.n.a.lysis 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 s.p.a.ce 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.