The Kallanon Scales (39 page)

He did not run
into it with abandon, but entered with awed reverence.

Please let
this be a true reflection of my soul. Please let this be who I am.
I am weary of the desert. I am weary of walking the shifting
sands.

Tristamil
wandered the glorious valley for weeks, never tiring of it, needing
for that time the peace and tranquillity and the sense of wonder
that escaped him before.

He held long
conversations with a particular oak, an unburdening that required
no response, it was sufficient to tell it. He ate well of a varied
diet - fruit, nuts, sweet herbs, tart tubers. He fashioned
comfortable sandals from vines - his boots disintegrated on the
long, hot walk - and spent hours plaiting bangles he wore with
pride.

His streaked
hair grew, as did his beard, and he laughed at the comical sight in
a still pool. He exercised, building on what Camot started, and
fashioned a makeshift sword from green saplings laced with vines to
approximate the weight, and danced with it, learning the footwork,
the thrusts and parries, the weaving that confused an opponent.
Whether he was any good mattered not, nor dared he delve into his
reasons for continuing the regime.

It rained
every three hours, a steady drizzle, but he came to regard rain as
manna, and thus revelled in the periodic wet. He erected a shelter
and used it when he slept. The rest of the time he was outdoors,
content in the gentle freedom, recuperating as if from a long and
debilitating illness.

Mind, body and
soul grew strong and whole.

Then came the
morning when change approached.

He crawled
from his shelter and sat to pull his sandals on.

Smiling a
greeting at his world, he was astonished to see a patch of desert
in the centre of the valley, where yesterday there was a lake.

His smile slid
away and his heart beat unevenly.

The patch
increased, not a great leap, yet a definite and insidious
widening.

He stood,
afraid.

Did he do
wrong? Think a bad thought? Show disrespect to nature?

He sat again, chewing absently on yesterday’s haul of fruit
and nuts. No, he had been true. Eyes never leaving the growing
patch, already a swathe of desert.
I shall
become that again if I continue to hide here. I have been true,
yes, and now I must be true to my future. Stay, and I lose all I
have gained.

Tristamil rose
with decision. So be it. He gathered up his crude basket, his water
vessel - a hollowed coconut shell with a plug of chewed vine - and
walked from the shelter. He did not look back. There was no gain in
wanting yesterday returned. He stopped occasionally to gather
fruits, nuts, and tubers into the basket, replenishing his water,
drinking his fill, as if fortifying himself for a dry road.

Soon he saw it
was unnecessary. Now that he began his journey into the future,
wherever it led, the desert receded. As he walked, the cool green
spread before him, beckoning him forward.

He would take
the fertility with him as he followed his instincts and remained
true.

It was real
magic.

By evening, he
was out of the valley and the green stretched before him, embracing
him. His eyes swivelled east, west, south, and north.

Which
direction led back to his father?

Tell the
truth, traveller, or you create issues hard to overcome later.

~ Book of
Sages

Aboard ship

C
at studied the star charts,
mathematical instruments to hand, but her attention was not
employed in the mapping.

She kept up
the pretence to catch Torrullin alone.

They gathered
in the war-room - thus dubbed by dear, blustery Camot. Tension
mounted, for the time approached to reduce speed. Before long, this
traveller would set down on earth of some kind.

Torrullin
brooded and from where she was she could see his lowered profile.
He caused a minor stir earlier when he arrived for this meeting
with his fair hair cropped short. Personally she did not understand
the boo-ha, it suited him, but the Valleur around the table sat
back in dismay, and Vannis and Taranis glanced at each other quite
significantly.

When Camot
rose, murmuring about setting his troops to seeing to their hair,
Torrullin said it was unnecessary, his was a personal statement.
Camot, poor dear, subsided, deflated really, into his seat and it
took Matt a while to engage the war leader’s full attention. Cat
was intrigued, but she knew no one well enough to ask, except
possibly Skye, but Skye kept Lowen occupied.

Matt rose,
stating he needed to confer with Agen about weapons. Camot left not
long after. Taranis asked her to grant them privacy. She bit her
lip to prevent irritation getting the better of common sense,
placed her instruments on the table with a decided snap, and
left.

What choice
did she have?

“Taranis, I am
sorry,” Torrullin murmured, lifting his head. “About earlier.”

Taranis
smiled. “It is over, don’t worry.”

Torrullin nodded, mouth twisting.
It
was not over, but the words served to smooth over the worst of it.
“Have either of you seen Thundor?”

“Not since
Valaris,” Vannis said.

“Now that you
mention it, I was certain he would tag along,” Taranis mused.

“Thundor has
his own agenda,” Vannis returned, half expecting the tiny Thinnings
to hop into view.

Torrullin also
has an agenda, Taranis realised. This cold man was a stranger,
almost like the man who confronted the Darak Or, and their earlier
words proved it. “Can we help?”

Torrullin
encompassed both men in his next gaze. “The Dragon can speak. Out
of the blue earlier, he started talking to me.”

“Speak?”
Vannis was explosive.

That is why I was thrown out,
Taranis thought, and was relieved in one way and horrified in
another.
Vannis and Quilla were locked out
also.
“What did it say?”

Torrullin
said, “He has a name. Neolone.”

“All gods.
Time’s Timekeeper,” Vannis said.

Taranis sucked
at his teeth, horror overcoming relief.

“The prophecy
is his. He penned it by willing the hand of his host. The priests
were his idea.”

“To protect
the taliesman,” Taranis murmured. “To know at all times where it
was.”

“Nemisin
caused this.” Vannis smacked the table.

“Then let us also lay blame at Q’lin’la feet, Vannis, for
Neolone was sent to find them. Had the birdmen remained in the
Kallanon realm
none
of this would have come to pass.”

“It is far too
late for blame,” Taranis muttered.

“Yes, it
is.”

“What else did
it reveal?” Vannis queried.

“Valleur. The
sect. And not likely to welcome us.”

“Which
Kallanon?” Taranis asked.

“He does not
know either.”

“The twins?”
Vannis whispered.

“We cannot aid
them. They are to find their way out.”

“Why did it
choose to speak now?” Taranis said. “Surely it’s better served
remaining a silent spectator?”

“No spectator,
Taranis, never has been.”

“It desires to
goad, revel and manipulate,” Vannis said.

Torrullin
inclined his head.

“Have you
spoken to Quilla?” Taranis asked.

“I didn’t need
to. He knew, he felt it speak. He blames himself. Every action has
consequence, he claims.”

Vannis
shrugged. “As Taranis said, it is too late for that.”

“What does it
want? What did it want then?”

Torrullin
gazed at his father. “Power.”

“The One’s
power,” Vannis understood. “To become king?”

“High King of
the Kallanon. Margus would pale in comparison.”

Taranis
blurted, “Turn away from this! Don’t give him opportunity!”

“The battle
was enjoined the day I spoke to Kisha and Kylan. I can no more turn
away than you could from Drasso. One way or the other, it ends when
it ends.”

Vannis laced
his fingers together. “Something else draws you to the Zone.”

“Is Neolone
not sufficient reason?”

“He is an
outstanding reason, kinsman, but I know you.”

Taranis looked
from one to the other. Yes, Vannis did know this man better than he
did.

“My problem,”
Torrullin murmured.

“And Thundor
is able to help. A good spy, our little Thinnings,” Vannis
said.

Torrullin
responded to that, grinning. “Isn’t he?”

Thundor, being
Thundor, popped out then. Huffing, he appeared on the table and
strode across paper to rustling accompaniment, kicked a pencil out
of his way and stood accusingly before Vannis, jaunty blue cap
askew.

“Lord Vannis,
are you suggesting the Thinnings are no better than common spies?”
His bright blue eyes glinted in fury and his button nose quivered
with indignation.

If only all
were as unafraid as this little creature. “Forgive me, Thundor, no
insult intended.”

The Thinnings
was mollified. “Apology accepted.” He twirled his tiny form to
Torrullin. “You must not listen to that Dragon, hear me? He is a
liar and a cheat and will fill your mind with ideas you may think
your own.”

Taranis fixed
the Thinnings with an intent look. “Do you doubt its claim about
the prophecy?”

Thundor’s
cheeks puffed out and deflated. “No, that I believe, but he wants
to confuse Torrullin, so the Enchanter will not see it as it
happens.”

“I am not
easily fooled, Thinnings.”

Beady eyes
swivelled back to the Enchanter. “Remember that.”

“Where have
you been?” Vannis questioned.

“Here and
there,” the little man shrugged.

“Listening in,
just like a spy,” Torrullin snapped, and rose. “Thundor, when you
have a moment to spare from eavesdropping, please visit me in my
cabin.” He strode out, slamming the door behind him.

“Well!”
Thundor exploded.

Cat ensconced
herself in an opposite doorway, saw Torrullin slam out, and
followed.

She needed to
talk to him, now, before Tennet intruded. He halted and turned,
stood with crossed arms and raised brows. “You want something?”

“Sorry, it’s
hard to get you alone, you know? I need to talk to you.”

He indicated
she precede him and waited until she passed before falling in
behind. At his cabin door she stopped, uncertain.

“Go in,” he
muttered, and she did so.

The cabin was
neat, but basic and austere. He had nothing personal in his private
space. The narrow bunk was rumpled. Her gaze swept around and
finally rested on him where he leaned against the closed door. He
waited for her, not attempting to put her at ease, but his eyes had
an inward aspect as if he thought on something else.

His gaze
flicked her way. “You have my undivided attention.”

It had been
weeks since she was last near him and in those weeks he changed
completely. She was on quicksand with this man. “Um, maybe this
isn’t a good idea.”

“Usually you
tackle it head-on, Cat.”

“Yeah, I know,
but everything is otherwise now. I find it hard to be my usual
brash, crash in self.”

He pushed from
the door and dragged the chair out from under the small table.
“Sit. What is wrong?”

She sat.

He watched her
for a moment, paced away. “Before you say anything, I must put
matters straight between us.”

Her fingers
twitched in her lap. “You don’t have to.”

“I feel it is
necessary.” He lifted a hand to run through his hair, a familiar
gesture, and seemed shocked when his fingers encountered the
cropped style. “Bugger. My hair.”

She giggled.
“You forgot?”

He stared at
her. “I do not recall doing it.” He resumed pacing. He shook his
head and came to her, sinking onto his haunches. “Cat, forgive me.
I should have spoken to you weeks ago.”

She reached
out to lay her hand against his cheek. He flinched and she withdrew
it. “It’s all right, promise. I understand.”

“You do?”

“Um, I spoke
to Caballa.”

He stared at
her in utter shock, before realising Caballa would not share a
vision personal to him. “I am sure she didn’t hold back. Gods, she
knew?”

She frowned,
knowing something else was briefly in his mind. “She knew, she is a
remarkable woman, but it wasn’t like that. She told me a few
truths, things I should’ve found out before I … you know.”

“Crashed
in?”

“Yup.” Cat
shrugged and looked away.

Long and
silent moments ticked by. “You and I have no future and never will
have. I should have denied you, but, in all honesty, you reminded
me of my wife and that is unforgivable on my part.” He gazed at her
until she looked at him, and he could see the hurt there. He pushed
on. “It will not happen again.”

“I arrived at
the same conclusion.” Her tone was miserable.

“Good,” he
said and touched her cheek. She flinched and he withdrew it. “Very
skittish, the two of us.” He rose.

She managed to
smile. “Tension, I guess.”

He let it
pass, sitting on the rumpled bed. “You wanted to talk to me.”

“About the
crew. Matt should do this, but I know my brother …”

“What about
the crew?”

“Well, they
entered this fiasco blindly. Trust me, fear makes one sharper on a
ship, and they won’t admit it in a million years, but when
confronted with the real stuff out there, they may freeze up. We
could lose the ship, we could …”

“What do you
want me to do?”