The Nemisin Star (52 page)

Only Caballa
and Kismet stood with him at the last. “It is time to go.”

Both nodded.
Neither moved.

“Kismet,
Caballa, you would not survive it. My people need you with them.
Tristamil will need your help; he is young.”

Kismet said,
“Then I shall wait for Tristamil and Mitrill.”

Torrullin
managed to smile. “Yes, well, I need to convince him.”

The Elder
pursed his lips. “Perhaps I could be of help.”

Torrullin
wiped his drawn face with a hand that was decidedly unsteady.
“Maybe. Fine, Kismet, a final boon; you have until morning. I grant
this upon the promise you will leave then. I am mighty glad to have
you with me a while longer.” He shifted his attention to
Caballa.

“Are you
looking at me?”

“You know I
am,” he murmured, watching her sightless eyes with internal
amusement.

“I need to
talk to you, my Lord.”

“Caballa, you
are an Elder now. Your place is with your charges.”

“I know and I
shall give to them willingly. Now, however, I must speak with you
in private.”

A beat of his
heart and then, “Kismet, join the others at the Keep. I will be
along in a while.”

The Elder
inclined his head and left.

Torrullin
wearily descended the stairs and took Caballa’s arm. “Walk with
me.”

They walked
and as they did he glanced into abandoned homes.

In some lights
burned and he left them on. He could change nothing now, not
anymore. In others priceless works of art stood in solitary
accusation, objects of beauty, and these, too, he was forced to
leave, although he muttered a brief enchantment that would protect
items from the ravages of time.

Caballa saw
through his eyes and sensed how taxing it was to be confronted by
this hurried abandonment; his people had left, had moved on. As
would he, and the reunite was in the present a far-off dream.

Finally she
stopped him.

They halted in
a ruined square, one not yet repaired after the Dinor battle, and
it was fitting. Here he could concentrate and perhaps feel some
measure of vindication in what he had foisted upon his people.

Caballa did
not speak.

“Twenty-five
years I waited to counter one of my sons,” Torrullin said into the
silence. “Years of hell within the joy of loving my boys. And what
came to pass, Caballa? A host of enemies, from Tymall to Neolone,
an army of Murs and the same Darak Or. I cannot count how many have
died since my reawakening from Rayne, and I am sick of it.”

“The plague
did not help.”

“That was the
deciding factor, yes. He used my talent for healing against
me.”

“I did not
link that, but it makes sense.”

“No more
games. One last spectacular event, and no more death.”

“Neolone had
nothing to do with Margus, my Lord.”

“It is linked.
They are all monsters of worlds and I bind them. Never mind. You
wanted to talk to me.”

“I have had a
vision.”

He barked a
laugh. “As have I.”

Caballa drew
breath. “Will you share yours with me?”

He looked at
her curiously, as if seeing her for the first time. “It deals with
the invisible realms and has no bearing in this reality.”

“Do you
understand what you saw?”

“Unfortunately.” That was as much as she would get out of him.
“Speak, Caballa.”

“This … event,
the one you described to us this morning, this I have seen,
although not as fully as young Lowen - I really need to take her
under my wing - but that future should no longer be of concern to
you.”

“It is.”

“It cannot be,
for you will diverge the timeline. Let it go; we are fit to deal
with the consequences.”

“Yes.” Wise
Caballa.

“I have also
seen, Goddess help us, that the humans of Valaris will turn on us.
In the end they will blame all on the Valleur. We may restore
Torrke, but we shall not be permitted to hold it, or Menllik,
after.”

“I am at
fault.”

“No, and stop
that. It is self-defeating. I tell you this only so you do not look
for us in Torrke when you return, and to bear in mind the kind of
prejudice in place when you arrive.”

“What have I
done to my people?”

Caballa
straightened. “My Lord, that is a dead end. You are not the only
Vallorin to bring us to the point of extinction, and you will not
be the last. Think Vannis, Nemisin … and think Dantian, for pity’s
sake, who did not fight back in the Rift.”

“Like to them,
I am the Vallorin. As you recall those terrible times in history,
thus my name is added.”

“Margus is the
culprit. He grew into what he is long before you were even a
thought in your mother’s mind, and he brought himself to us through
Nemis and Dantian, but mostly through Vannis, if you want to
apportion blame. Not you. He used us, hurt us, and much else
besides, as he did to Valarians everywhere, and as he recently did
with the Dinor and all those on other worlds in chasing you. You
stopped him once and brought us peace, and now you are to do so
again. Do not lay blame, my Lord, where it does not belong.”

“I adore your
passion, but are you not being simplistic? I was born, formed and
moulded for this. I am what I am because of him and he has become
what he is now because of me. All the prophecies tell of this, even
Neolone’s, and all name me. Mark that, Elder, and when you try and
defend me, remember it well. They name me. The One. Enchanter,
Dragon, Walker and …” Abruptly he bit his words off. “Had I changed
my fate along the way, I would have changed the fate of all.”

Caballa shook
her head. “Changing your fate would have left us without a champion
and when the Darak Or came - and he would have, whether or not you
were in the universe - he would have had free rein. We would not
now be talking and nobody would be doing their best to save lives.
He would be in control, with us his army of soltakin. Stop it - the
Valleur know the truth! And if the humans cannot see it, then I
blame it on their short lives and equally short memories.” She
stamped her foot.

His lips
twitched. “I stand corrected.”

“I am
serious.”

“I know and I
thank you, for there is truth in what you say. It does not,
however, alter the situation of today. This battle is personal,
this one you lay at my door, Caballa.”

“There you go
blaming yourself.”

“When it
becomes personal, as this is …”

“Thank all the
gods for that!”

“Pardon?” She
had surprised him.

“Do you not
see? You kept him here; you brought him back,
here
. Only
Valaris has thus far suffered the full brunt of his rage, because
of you! The people of Valaris may look back and get it wrong, but
the wide and wonderful universe still functions in freedom, because
of a personal relationship. My god, what a priceless gift to all
life. No one,
no one
, can ever,
ever
, repay
that.”

He stared at
her in wonder.

“Torrullin,
you berate yourself, you think of yourself as a harbinger of doom,
the carrier of the Dark, a devil, but to us, to billions and
billions of others, you are the
Light
. You shine bright, my
Lord, so very bright. We are blinded by you into eternity.” Caballa
choked on a sob - she wholly believed in her words - and he could
say nothing. “I had a vision, Torrullin, a little boy listening to
his father tell him of the One, Torrullin was his name, the father
said, the Immortal who brought hope and joy and peace, and would
one day return when he was needed …” Caballa burst into tears.
“That little boy had every child’s face … and … and I wish beyond
all else I shall see you come back!”

“Does the
Light win?” Torrullin asked.

“It wins, my
Lord.”

“Yet I am in
pain,” he whispered.

“What you
feel, having watched your people go, is the sorrow that comes only
with knowing the Light, my Lord. Were you the devil you would be
laughing now.”

Silence and
then, hoarsely, “Was that the vision?”

Caballa
inhaled a few calming breaths. “That was the future beyond this
one. I needed you to know.”

“It has made a
huge difference.”

She smiled,
her face aglow. “I am glad.”

“Now, Caballa,
give me the real reason we are standing here where no other can
hear us.”

She kneeled
before him and took his hands as he frowned down at her. “My Lord
Vallorin, I must tell you something you will find extremely painful
to hear.”

He gripped her
hands, his face changing. No words came.

Her head sank
low and he knew she hid her face; he pulled her up. Still holding
onto her hands, he commanded, “Tell me.”

Her sightless
eyes bored into his and he understood she saw him, using her mind,
her exceptionally strong will. “Tristamil will not be Vallorin …”
She held onto his hands when he moved. “No! Listen! Tristamil’s son
will be Vallorin.”

He shook his
head and forcibly removed his hands.

She allowed
her arms to dangle. “My Lord, Mitrill is pregnant; it is a boy, and
Tristamil knows this already. It is his gift to you, your host to
aid swift return.”

Torrullin was
ashen.

“Tristamil
will die before the baby is born,” Caballa went on, committed at
the last, “and will therefore not father another. He will present
this dubious gift and knowing what you know, you can deny him.
There can be no temptation, my Lord.”

She soldiered
on in the face of his white and expressionless appearance. “The
Valleur will be without a Vallorin until the boy comes of age, and
you, and this pains me to say, you cannot return in him if that is
the way of return. The Valleur would be torn apart in that kind of
loyalty struggle, not to mention the pitfalls of ethics and
morality. I understand why Tristamil did this, but he did not think
too far ahead, for had all been equal and there were other
children, a return in this manner would be too soon after Torrke’s
demise.”

“My son dies?”
Torrullin said, not caring for morality or anything else. “Has this
been for naught? Nothing is written in stone, Caballa! You are
reading it wrong …” She did not reply to that - she was never wrong
- and he burst out, “Did I reach this place, this dying, to be told
it was for nothing? Did I wait all these years to know my true son
to have him taken from me?” He paced away, and stopped. “But I was
leaving him, wasn’t I? Who is the fool now?” He raised his head and
glared at the stars. “He is Valleur, though, and we would have been
reunited …” His head dropped back and he strode to her. “If what
you say is true - will I see it?”

“I do not
know.”

He delved into
her to find if she held anything back, but could not penetrate.
“Thank all gods I am leaving!” His features set and became entirely
unreadable. “How?”

How would his
beloved son die? She did not want to tell him. She shook her head
as if ignorant.

“Do not lie to
me, not now. How?”

“Tymall.
Suicide.”

He closed his
eyes.

“I am
sorry.”

“Tymall. Was I
too hard on him?” It was rhetorical, for he shook his head
dismissively. “There will be nothing left for me here. Caballa,
please leave me now.”

She understood
his need to be rid of her - the bringer of ill tiding - and bowed
low before him. “As my Vallorin commands.”

He nodded
stiffly. “Go well, Caballa. Serve my people well until a Vallorin
is among you again.”

“I shall, my
Lord,” she whispered, but did no desire to leave on a formal note
with this great cloud of doom hanging over them. She loved this man
more than as her sovereign, had once shared his bed, and cared
deeply for him as a friend also. “Torrullin, please.”

His eyelids
flickered and his gaze rested more kindly on her. “I know,
beautiful Caballa, but I dare not think now. Please go with my
blessing and my love.”

“May you find
peace, Lord Vallorin,” she said formally, and vanished.

His anguished
cry rang unheard and unanswered through the dead city and there
could be no answer even had a thousand been listening.

Torrullin was
finally in every way alone; his exile had already begun.

The harsh
metallic sound of his sword grated against stone as he vented his
anger, his grief, his pain and loneliness forcefully on that in his
path. It eased nothing - how could it?

His sword
broke eventually and he tossed the remaining shard from him.

Years later
someone would discover the pieces - a known hand - and in
recognising them would carry them away to a safe place, there to
reforge the blade stronger than before. It would lie in waiting for
its owner, in much the way many tales tell of other swords and
other charismatic leaders, and a legend would spring up around
it.

One day, the
tale would go, the Enchanter Vallorin would return to claim it. A
simple tale of hope that would prove extremely complicated.

But that time
was yet to come.

Kneel before
your maker, sinner, and repent.

~ Unknown

White
Palace

T
orrullin stood before the White Palace and could not recall
how he got there or how long it was since Caballa left him alone in
the city of ghosts.

This was the
sacred site that was Mantra’s home, Vannis’ first wife, a beacon of
light to travellers from afar. Torrullin met her once, but that was
before he was aware of his blood and heritage, and she was merely
the remnant essence of a young Mantra, long dead in reality by the
time she encountered her grandson. A clever woman, but lonely, as
Vannis was until he met his fiery Raken.