The Nemisin Star (28 page)

“Power will
avail me nothing, Lian, if he returns.”

“Only a true
immortal can enter and exit to do what you seek, old friend. I
cannot help you.”

Tristamil
said, “My father is immortal.”

“What?” Lufer
snarled.

“Shut up!”
Ophuls snapped.

“Immortals are
not infallible, young man,” Lian said. “If I send your father into
the Realms he would die there.”

Tristamil
paled. “Father? You cannot!”

Torrullin rose
from his seat. He leaned onto flattened hands and stared at his
son.
What do you mean, a bound slave across space and
time?

Tristamil
paled further.
Saska told me while you were at the Temple.
Margus told her on the battlements that night, thinking she would
be dead before she could say anything. He is not content to simply
kill you, for therein lies no challenge. He desires to take you
with him wherever he goes in the future, so that you may witness
his evil first hand into eternity. That will be his real revenge,
ultimately.

Lufer growled
at the long silence.

“I am sorry,
there was no right time to tell you,” Tristamil said, but he spoke
in Valleur, and had Lufer rising …

“You must
watch yourselves,” Lian said, and she spoke in the common tongue.
“Stupid move, you are scaring them with your private communication,
and now I threaten the balance by speaking this language.”

Torrullin
straightened and bowed to Ophuls. “My apologies, Sire. My son
possessed a piece of intelligence I was unaware of.”

“You
communicate telepathically?” Lufer growled again.

“Yes,”
Torrullin said, and ignored the resultant outburst from that
quarter.

“Was that the
common tongue?” Breem squeaked at the Priestess.

She nodded.
“Now that you know I was out there, there is no longer reason to
hide it.”

Ophuls roared,
“Enough of this dilly-dallying! I want to know if we can assist
Torrullin in stopping this Margus!”

“You want me
to help him, Uncle?”

“That is
exactly what I want. I shall now rely on my instinct and it tells
me these men speak the truth.”

“But they are
magicians and the Good Lord tells us …”

“Protection
Master, it appears to me that the Good Lord is pretty powerless
against this Darak Or. We should thank him, however, for gifting
certain folk the ability to do something about it, on his
behalf.”

“That is
blasphemy!”

“Oh,” Ophuls
blurted, “just shut up.”

Mia
giggled.

Lian faced
Torrullin and waited until he sat. “I can help you, but you must
know the dangers. Not only could you die in the Realms, but you
must die physically to enter.”

“No!”
Tristamil shouted.

“Peace,
son.”

“Father!”

“Tris! I am
speaking!”

Tristamil
subsided, his face ashen. Mia’s hand stole over his, patted it. He
turned a twisted face to her.

“He can kill
you in there,” Lian said. “It is suicide, Torrullin.”

“I am seven
times born.”

It was her
turn to lose colour. “Sweet God, why?” He did not respond and she
drew a shuddering breath, “Then we do not have a problem. I can
help you, side-stepping the safeguards.” She stood, her gaze
unreadable. “Do you want to start now?” She faced her uncle. “Do we
need to discuss more?”

Torrullin
stood as well. He glanced at Ophuls.

The king
sighed. He would love to discuss it further. “Perhaps we will have
time later.”

Lian nodded.
“With your leave?”

“Keep me
abreast of progress.”

“Goddess,
father!” exclaimed Tristamil.

Lufer
growled.

Seven times
born means I can no longer die from a fatal wound as other
Immortals can. It also means Margus cannot touch me in the
etheric.

She says you
must die physically!

There may be
another way. And I shall return in this form when I have dealt with
him.

Tristamil’s
face was white.
How do you die physically if you cannot be
killed? And how long do I wait for you to return? A day, a thousand
years? How long do I hope to
see
you again before
I
die?

We shall speak
of this back home.

Tristamil
withdrew to stare moodily out of the window.

Torrullin
forced himself to turn away. “By your leave, Majesty.”

“You have
it.”

I did not
require safe passage, Ophuls. You cannot hold us if we choose to
leave; I hope you have realised this. I shall keep my promise about
the park before we go.

The king
stared. “Before you go, I would know how you are addressed on your
world.”

“I go by many,
but on my world I am Lord Vallorin, ruler of the Valleur.”
Torrullin looked down at Lufer. “I am a king, Protection Master,
and you are fortunate indeed that I did not tear your heart from
your ribcage for your lack of respect … as I have dealt with
others.”

The man was
ashen.

Torrullin gave
a smile and followed Lian from the chamber.

“Wow,” Mia
whispered.

Ophuls turned
to Breem. “You are dismissed, linguist. Know that you are under
threat of execution if one word of what transpired here this
morning gets out.”

Breem nodded
and fled.

Ophuls turned
to Lufer. “I have had enough of your blatant disregard for
authority. You are transferred to the industrial sector. I do not
want to see your face again. And if you breathe a word … well, you
know the drill. You may leave.”

Lufer stood,
face blotchy with suppressed fury, but controlled it,
self-preservation shouting at him, and strode out.

“Mia, escort
our young guest to the suites. I need to be alone.”

Mia touched
Tristamil on the arm and when he looked at her, she whispered he
was to come with her. They left more subdued than the others,
leaving His Majesty alone. Ophuls sat on for hours.

Everything was
different.

A forest is a
lake is a mountain is the sky. This cannot be, you say. Why, you
ask. My answer hinges on a feeling, friend. A forest is a lake is a
mountain is the sky because each engenders in your soul the same
awe.

~ Awl

Lian’s
Suite

L
ian’s
chambers were functional, with white walls and blue ceilings that
made them light and airy.

On one wall of
each room there was a painting of a landscape, which contributed to
the subdued atmosphere of peace. Upon entering, there was a sitting
room and dining area combined. From there a short passage led to
three small bedrooms and a large bathroom. It was a family suite,
but Lian lived alone.

Torrullin
asked first to use the bathroom and by the time he returned to the
sitting room he saw that someone had delivered his pack.

“It has not
been interfered with, but by now all who have handled it knows
about the sword … x-rays, hmm?”

He shrugged
and sat on the plain white sofa, leaning back wearily to close his
eyes.

“You must rest
a while before we begin, I insist. Come, I will show you to a
bedroom.”

Yes, he did.
He followed her. There was a huge bed and a side table with a lamp,
and that was all. She left him there, closing the door on her way
out. He removed his boots, shrugged off the heavy jacket he donned
against the cold of Cèlaver, and dropped it on the floor. Loosening
his breeches and tunic, he lay fully clothed on the coverings.

Sleep took him
moments later.

He sat nursing
a cup of coffee, listening to her.

“I will assume
you have entered the invisible world as a sorcerer aware of where
you were. You know full well the confusion that can master you if
you think too rationally; it will be the same when you die and the
first rule you must hark to, is to rely on your senses, not
thought. That comes later. I speak, naturally, not of the
three-dimensional senses, but the extrasensory. Again, I assume you
are familiar with that process, but stop me if I am wrong at any
time. Now, I would like you to tell me what you recall of your last
transfer, so I may know from what point to build from.”

“Is there no
other way to enter besides a physical death?”

“Not that I
know of.”

“Why did you
agree to this?” he asked.

“You saved my
life once and I had a bit of a crush on Reno. I guess in a way I
owe you … and there is still trust between us.”

“You made a
lovely human, Talia.”

“And now I am
ugly.”

“You are
Cèlaver; that is different, not ugly.”

“Yes, well.”
She drew breath. “Would you be attracted to me in this form?”

“No,” he said,
“but a male from this world is sure to be.”

She shrugged.
“Whatever. Now, concentrate. Tell me what you remember.”

He inhaled.
“Mine is a delayed reaction. I choose my host and bring about my
death nearby. My soul transfers and I recall nothing until the host
reaches thirty-four years. The time I spend in the etheric is so
brief I cannot tell you much.”

“Consider
yourself extremely lucky. It could have gone very wrong. It may be
easier to have someone with you to assist to new awareness as soon
as you transfer.”

“No.”

“Listen and
hear. You just told me your host was nearby, therefore the transfer
was easily achieved, but if you go through with this etheric
battle, your return will certainly be delayed, and if there is
nobody to guide you back …”

“I shall
return.”

“After how
long? It is not simple to find a host from the other side,
Torrullin. Be realistic.”

Torrullin
pushed his cup away, half drunk. “There will be no host for I am
beyond that now, and perhaps it suits me to return later.”

“When all you
know and love may have changed beyond recognition?”

“I shall know
them, for they are, for the most part, immortal. And, yes, I hope
to move away from them.”

She stared at
him. “My God, you are carrying many demons.”

“That is not
your concern and I am to do this alone.” Torrullin rose to study a
painting - a forest scene - but it was a ploy to turn his back on
her sympathy. “Rebirth is rare out there, and I will not be the one
to bring it to general attention.”

“A little bit
of help doesn’t equate to earth shaking change in perception,” she
said with asperity. “And, by the way, it is rare here as well.”

He was
surprised and she laughed.

“A change in
perception? Come, you have attained the ultimate state, the
theoretical Immortality that is truly deathless, and tell me true
whether that fills you with joy or even a sense of achievement? I
bet you would like to die for real if you could. Well, here we do
not permit more than five cycles for, by the third return,
disillusionment entrenches. Nothing really changes despite time,
place, people being different, wouldn’t you agree? And it transfers
- that disappointment and negativity.

“Five hundred
years ago only six percent of the population opted to return - a
low figure even then. A century ago it dwindled to less than two
percent, and those were mostly teachers and technicians we needed
to keep the habitat in good order. It was a time of civil strife
underground. Soon we shall lose this strange and controversial
knowledge and I believe few will bemoan its passing.

“Last year six
rebirthed. Four we had to persuade into it due to their unique
skills. This year, with two months left? Not a one.
I
will
not go through it again, I have promised myself that, and I foresee
that within fifty years all those presently returned will die
without passing their knowledge to others.”

“I thought it
was part of your religion.”

“Lord, no,
although it is cloaked thus - therefore this priesthood. You must
realise that rebirth is not a saintly achievement, even when masked
thus, but is in reality either a purely selfish desire or a need
that must be filled. It will not be missed.”

Torrullin
lifted a finger. “There is no religious overtone? You do not invoke
a deity during the process or return only those of good
character?”

“None of the
above.”

“And yet it
is
a supernatural process.”

“There is no
God involved; you must know that. There is no God.”

“Do you then
regard it as magic?” he asked.

“That would
not be a term in our vocabulary, but I guess that is exactly what
it boils down to.”

“I thought you
would say it is science.”

“Playing with
souls? Unlikely. But the magic is dying, and not just here and not
just this magic. Soon folk will rely only on reality and be content
with the little time they are allocated, as it should be,” she
said.

“That is utter
bull and I cannot fathom how you can make that narrow judgement
when you
have
been beyond the confines.”

“Folk like you
will be dinosaurs one day soon.”

“What is
reality? The tangible, the controllable? Fate, death? The three
dimensions your senses deal in? What, then, is a sunset? Nature’s
spectacle, the reality of scientific factors colliding, yes, but
what does it invoke in those who stop to experience? Do they merely
accept the scientific reality or are they moved, awed, uplifted,
romanced?

“Not one of
the five senses there; no touch, no taste, no hearing, no smell, no
sight - no sight, for even in blindness can it be, and cause
emotion. That is magic. Why does a man stand in the first rains
after a dry spell? Is he checking that it is real, is he giving
thanks to his deity - which is magical also - or is he out there to
glory in the wonder of the water that is life? He cries, he revels,
he dances, he kneels.