Schism: Part One of Triad Read Free

spoken languages without thinking, and Skolian “base tea” numbers came easily to him. He could even see why they counted that way instead of in octets. They had five fingers on each hand instead of four.
    Their hand structure was odd, with no hinge that let the palm fold lengthwise, so two fingers on each side could oppose each other. Instead, they had a fifth digit, a “thumb.” So their base ten made sense. But so much else about them didn’t—their reading, science, literature. That some of his children learned it so easily never ceased to impress him.
    But why did he think of mat now? “By Rillia’s arrow,” he suddenly said.
    Del and Kelric turned to him with identical expressions, their foreheads creased in puzzlement
    “Can’t you feel it?” Eldrinson asked. Surely they must. They, too, were empaths.
    Del tilted his head. “Something …”
    “Yes!” Kelric cried. “Is it him?”
    “Who?” Del squinted at their visitors, who were halfway to Dalvador now. Then he answered his own question. “Oh, I see.”
    Eldrinson stood straighter, filling with joy and uncertainty.
    Althor had come home.

2
    Warlord’s Legacy
    o one saw Soz enter the Bard’s Hall. Today she preferred it that way. She slipped behind the stone columns that lined its walls. The ceiling arched overhead, high and vaulted, with stained-glass skylights. Sunlight poured through the tall windows and slanted across the hanging tapestries, which showed scenes of Archers in green tunics and leggings. They sat astride lyrine, animals with prismatic horns and hooves and silver coats. The polished floor stretched out ahead of Soz, tiled in pale blue and lavender stone. At the far end of the hall, two great stone chairs sat on a circular dais.
    The Dalvador Bard, her father, stood on the dais, dressed in blue trousers, knee-boots, and a white shirt fastened with thongs. He had donned his ceremonial sword belt with its finely tooled sheath, the leather worked with gold and gems. Amethysts glinted in the hilt of his sword. Sunlight lit up his clothes and hair and surrounded him with a nimbus. But he wasn’t the only sight that enthralled the people gathered around the hall, the staff of the house and Soz’s family.
    A gold giant was kneeling before the Bard.
    The man went down on one knee with his head bowed, his elbow resting across his bent leg. His stark black uniform contrasted with the jeweled colors of the hall. Conduits threaded his pullover, gleaming rings of silver circled his huge arms, metallic studs packed with components glinted on his trousers, and the heavy gauntlets on his wrists glittered with lights. The black bulk of a Jumbler hung low in a holster at his hip.
    Althor had come home.
    One moment Soz longed to throw her arms around the brother she had always admired; the next moment she wanted only to hang back. It had been three years since he had gone offworld, and she no longer felt at ease with him. His skin and hair were metallic gold, inherited from their mother, but he had their father’s violet eyes, though metallic lashes fringed them. His massive physique and great height not only dwarfed the men of Lyshriol, it made him large even among Skolians. He exuded power, authority, and menace. Her brother had become a stranger.
    Her father drew his sword and it glittered in the sunlight. When he raised it over Althor, Soz tensed. Even knowing he would never harm his son, she felt her pulse leap as the blade came down.
    Had a Lyshrioli warrior knelt before him, Eldrinson would have cut off a lock of the man’s shoulder-length hair. Althor had cropped his hair short, so their father only razed off one gold curl. It fell to Althor’s shoulder and floated to the ground. This was the Ritual of the Blade, where a Bard accepted or refused the fealty of a warrior. By drawing his sword, he challenged the man’s courage. If the Bard refused a lock of hair, he spurned the supplicant. Nor did the warrior always survive; a Bard could