The Kallanon Scales (12 page)

The silence
was absolute.

“I know you
are aware of the two natures here. They did not ask for this, they
are not accountable for what happened, and they will be given the
opportunity to choose as adults. Their real accountability
commences after, and they will be held answerable. Until such
necessity arises, I need all here to understand they are integral
to our future.” Torrullin stared into the crowd, meeting eyes
head-on. “Will you thwart me on this?”

No Valleur
went against a Vallorin’s command, it was treason. If there were
doubts, it was permitted to question in public, thus now was the
time to speak. Feet shuffled and eyes swivelled.

Pretora said,
“We thank my Lord Vallorin for the acknowledgement on the subject
of your sons. It lies to rest a plethora of rumours.”

Torrullin
inclined his head.

Pretora
continued, “What guarantee do the Valleur have if one of your sons
chooses to avenge himself on his people?”

“I answer with
this assurance. Taranis, Guardian and Dome Leader, is given power
over my Throne.”

“He is not
Valleur!” someone shouted from the floor.

“Therefore the
perfect choice. He understands the future for these two young men
and in my stead has the right to protect them.”

“He is
biased,” another whispered.

“
I
am
biased, friend,” Torrullin snapped. “As
all
here are biased. Taranis has not
been Dome Leader for three thousand years because he deals in
emotion. You will search hard for one as objective. Is this clear?”
Torrullin gazed around. “You question my judgement, and I
understand that, and you question the shape and form of this future
I allude to. It will be made clearer, but now I require your
faith.”

They did not
deny further, and Torrullin turned to acknowledge his father, who
bowed to the gathered.

“We are here
to celebrate a Coming-of-Age,” Torrullin said. “Let us be positive
on this day.” He looked to his sons. “Tristamil and Tymall, you
need to prove your worth before I call ten witnesses to the table.
Proceed.”

Both young men
faced the golden urns. Tristamil lifted his hand first to wave over
the empty vessel and Tymall followed a beat later. The point was to
prove mastery in sorcery and show respect to their father. They
stepped back into position, eyes downcast. Pretora and Kismet
retrieved the urns and placed the vessels before their
Vallorin.

Torrullin
inserted one hand into Tymall’s urn to withdraw it filled with
sapphires. Tymall collected them with time and patience and stored
them in preparation for the transference sorcery. He proved both
mastery and thought, giving his father a valuable gift.

Torrullin
allowed a last blue stone to fall back and smiled. “Thank you,
Tymall. You may sit now, son.”

Tymall took
his seat, which was no easy task with bindings and beads. A few
sympathetic chuckles aided him into position.

Torrullin bent
to Tristamil’s urn. He was quiet so long that the gathered grew
restive. Both Pretora and Kismet checked that Torrullin was not
doing the sorcery. A father could not bear to see his son fail and
did the required magic; it happened occasionally.

Tristamil
glanced up without lifting his head. He gazed directly into his
father’s eyes.

Torrullin
straightened. From his fingers splinters of bright rainbows hovered
and where it caught the light music sounded. From those tiny darts
of colour little sprites hung, whistling and dancing in the air,
laughing with flailing arms. Torrullin dipped his other hand in and
bought forth more of the wonder. He laughed, a carefree sound few
heard in recent years, and bent to lift the urn. He tossed the
entire treasure into the air. A glorious rainbow spanned the
Throne-room and along it, the sprites danced to fairy music.

Gasps of
pleasure erupted from many throats.

Then they were
gone.

An ephemeral
gift, and beyond priceless. Tristamil told his father he was the
son sensed alongside the rainbow pool after conception. Now there
would never be doubt, but only Torrullin and Tristamil were aware
of that. In addition, Tristamil eloquently revealed to his father
that he loved him despite the intervening years. Tristamil planned
to rip aside masks this day and his twin would not have known
himself revealed.

“Thank you, Tristamil. You may sit now.”
From the bottom of my heart, my son.

Tristamil shivered.
My
son, not simply ‘son’. A telling change.
And mine, father.

Tristamil sat,
his face radiant.

Pretora and
Kismet thumped the dais three times in tandem and Torrullin stepped
forward.

“As per
tradition, I now call ten witnesses.” Torrullin looked upon the
table before him. “Two seats were for Raken and Lycea. I do not
want to cast shadow over proceedings, thus merely state they cannot
be with us.” The observant ones noted the controlled look on
Vannis’ face. “I call Vannis and Taranis to the table.”

Vannis sat at
one end. Taranis took a seat at the other.

“In place of
the absent I call Bartholamu and Gren, although they should not
feel they are last resort.” The two came forward. “Next I call
Quilla and Phet of the Q’lin’la.”

Phet hopped to
it with joyful energy - and much accompanying laughter - while
Quilla approached from a bench near the dais with measured
tread.

“The next name
is someone close to my heart and yours, a personal friend of
Lycea’s, special to us, special to Valaris. Shep Lore, where are
you?”

A squeak of
delight emanated from the courtyard and a purple flash waddled
along the blue carpet to take a seat, but not before bowing low to
his Vallorin.

“Welcome,
Shep,” Torrullin smiled. “The first name I wanted to call this day
was Saska’s. That was not meant and no-one can replace her, but in
her stead I call Krikian.” Krikian was somewhere in the centre of
the Throne-room and made his way forward to backslapping and
congratulations. The dream man was well liked.

There were two
seats open.

“Caballa!”

Silence.

Her views were
radical, her religion non-existent; she was a loner surrounded by
both admirers and detractors. She was beautiful, slender with all
the right curves, which made her a target. Her luxurious hair was
deep gold, sleekly straight.

She possessed
extraordinary eyes, silver-amber, lashes long and dark. Caballa of
the Valleur was an honest woman and a farseer of exceptional
talent.

Caballa came
to him the morning after Saska left to inform him he must not mourn
his wife or harbour anger. He had to wait until the time was right
to find her again. When he turned on her in the fury of fresh loss,
she told him to believe. She returned the following day, to listen,
and a strange friendship was born.

Caballa was
blind, but could see into the hearts of others better than a
sighted person could.

She came
forward to mutterings and whispers, but she paid no heed and glided
to the table. She touched it once and walked around it, feeling the
chairs for occupancy. When she reached an empty one, she sat
gracefully.

“Welcome,
Caballa.”

“My Lord.”

“The final
seat goes to my goddaughter. Skye, daughter of Lanto, please come
forward.”

Lanto, true
friend, passed on eighteen months back. Never a fat man, he began
to waste away five years ago and was diagnosed as an insulin
dependent diabetic. He needed to inject every four hours and one
day left it too late, falling into a coma from which he did not
awake.

Skye confided
she believed he did so deliberately. Lanto lived on in those who
remembered him, and his tales, tall and true, remembered him to all
on Valaris. Lanto won the Bards and Tales Festival many a year.
Skye was the only child of a brief union between her father and a
young woman from Beacon. Her mother chose return to her homeworld,
leaving Skye with Lanto. She was nineteen years old; shy, but
attractive in a freckle-faced way.

After she sat,
Torrullin said, “Valleur! Time for the test! Which four are chosen
for this task?”

Four Elders
stepped forward. A Valleur Elder was not a grey-haired man or woman
of doddering wisdom. Pretora and Kismet appeared no older than
Torrullin, yet were Elders. Valleur showed their advanced age in
the final hundred years.

These four
could disqualify the penitents from autonomy. They could ask
anything and many failed at this juncture. There was a second
chance, a whole year later.

“Camot, Lord
Vallorin, and I will test Tymall.”

“Darian, my
Lord, and I am here for Tristamil.”

“Rillinon, my
Lord, for Tymall.”

“Pianote, my
Lord Vallorin. I am here for Tristamil. Good luck to you, young
lord.”

“In that order
then,” Torrullin said.

Camot stood
before Tymall. “Our Vallorin decided to rename this valley.
Torrullin’s Keep is a mouthful. Please tell us what your father
intends to call this valley.”

Tymall drew
breath. Camot set a true challenge. This was the first he heard of
it. He had to think like his father, that was what Tris said. “I
shall answer.”

Camot gave a
small smile and retreated.

Tymall inhaled. “My father called this valley
Torrullin’s Keep,
using
his name as ownership on first viewing, and I believe that will not
change.
Torrullin
means
Rain of Life
and describes it well. To circumvent a mouthful,
he would shorten it,
Torr
for
Life
or
Llin
for
Rain.
The word for
home
is
ke
. I believe my father would put home and life in one word,
rather than the idea of rain and house in one thought.” Tymall’s
brows knotted. “Either
Ketorr
or
Torrke.
” He gazed up at his father
and smiled. “Torrke.”

Camot
prompted, “My Lord?”

“Camot, surely
I could lie?”

“No, my Lord,
one of us heard you speak the word to the Throne.”

Torrullin
laughed. “My son is right.”

Tymall shouted
his relief and the chamber and courtyard erupted in response.

“I name this valley officially on this day … Torrke!”
Torrullin proclaimed.
Well done,
Ty
. “Proceed, Darian.”

Darian stepped
to the fore. He stood before Tristamil and barked out, “Who was the
forty-first Vallorin?”

“Villnev.”

Darian
returned to his seat. Despite the ease with which Tristamil
replied, it was a difficult question. Vallorins forty-one, two and
three ruled one after the other in the space of one year and were
lobbed together in shame. They were brothers and lost their hearts
to one woman. This woman proceeded to kill them off one by one, and
when the fourth brother took the Throne, he had her killed though
there was no proof of guilt. He went on to rule for a long
while.

“Rillinon.”

“Thank you, my
Lord. Tymall, please sketch in the air the Valla Dragon.”

As a child
Tymall often lay on his father’s chest tracing the Dragon with one
finger. He closed his eyes, raised a finger in the air, and
outlined it from indelible memory, a hazy blue line appeared before
him. It was a true rendition and Torrullin clapped his approval
before Rillinon could question him.

Pianote was
the final taskmaster. “Tristamil, there are fourteen traditions the
Valleur hold sacred. Why fourteen and what are they?”

“Fourteen is
the universal number upon which magic is based. We build fourteen
sacred sites per world in keeping with that philosophy, and that is
the first tradition. The second is the order in which we erect
them. First is the Lifesource, then the Throne-room, thereafter the
rest. The third tradition is the passing of the Dragon from
Vallorin to heir at the appointed time. The fourth is the
safekeeping of the Oracles, the fifth, the scrying of a newborn’s
name and the sixth is this ceremony of today. The seventh is the
learning of sorcery beyond what we inherently know. The eighth is
the absolute autonomy of the Vallorin; we are not, nor were we
ever, a democracy. The ninth is Nemisin’s runes, known only to the
House of Valla, and the tenth is our longevity both natural and
enhanced. The eleventh is our total intolerance of darak …” He
stumbled there, but recovered well. “The twelfth is a belief in
prophecy and the thirteenth? We regard ourselves as
master-builders, and build with heart, soul and magic. The
fourteenth? For as long as one Valleur lives, we were first and
will be last in all things.”

The great
space erupted in a spate of whistles and cheers and Pianote
retreated.

There was one
more hurdle - the test the father set. Sometimes fathers were easy
on their offspring and other times fathers could be notoriously
strict. Generally, Vallorins tended towards a middle road.

Torrullin had
another option and used it. “I shall not test you.” He raised a
hand to forestall comments. “This is within my right and I aim to
employ it. I am offering you a gift, the same gift. You cannot
accept now. You will return to this place in exactly one year and
give answer.”

“And that is
part of the test,” Tymall murmured, staring at his father.

“Indeed it is.
Your reasons for accepting or rejecting will possess the thinking,
feelings, instincts and desires of an adult. I allow a further year
to achieve maturity without jeopardising your autonomy. Thereafter
you will live with your decision, for it is irreversible. Be
certain you make it the right one.”