The Sleeper Sword (12 page)

Caltian drew
breath. “We tried. It wouldn’t budge.”

“I know …
what’s the matter?” Buthos asked, realising how tense Caltian was.
He held his hands up. “Never mind - I think I can guess.”

Caltian
grinned and felt better. “I suppose my situation isn’t unique.”

“My friend,
men and women, sorry, no easy answer.”

Caltian stood
next to the Siric. “Why do you think this happened?” He gestured at
the throne.

“I sometimes
think it’s symbolic.”

“Meaning?”

“The west is
not your home. This is exile. Perhaps the Throne’s refusal to budge
symbolises that.”

“We tried
moving it to Luvanor also,” Caltian pointed out. “That is not
exile.”

“The Forbidden
Zone myth remains in place. For good reason, I understand, but the
Throne would be hidden there behind an illusion. Had Tannil been
born on Luvanor, the situation might be different.” Buthos paused
and glanced at Caltian. “Saska told me what happened when Torrullin
fused with the Throne’s power and if it can do that, it’s sentient.
I believe, and I may be wrong, it chooses not to go into exile or
hide within myth’s veils. It regards Torrke as its home.”

Caltian
pondered. “I never thought of it that way.”

“I have,”
Tannil’s voice intruded. Returning from the Temple he entered to
overhear the conversation. “That’s why I eventually halted the
recall process.” He clasped hands behind his back. “It took me a
while to understand and then I thought there was nothing to gain by
recalling the Throne to stand alone in an empty valley.”

“Ah,” Buthos
said, enlightened.

“I wonder now
if I was wrong. I wonder if the Valleur wouldn’t have been welcomed
on the mainland due to its benign influence.”

Buthos gave a
sour grin. “I’ve seen much of humankind, Tannil, and I tell you
they’d have turned on you no matter what.”

“Pity,” Tannil
murmured.

“Fact,” Buthos
returned. “Do you aim to maintain the status quo?”

“You’re
thinking it’s time we tried again? Quilla seems to think so.”

“You’re going
to recall it to Torrke?” Caltian questioned and was aghast.

“I’m not
advocating recall,” Buthos frowned. “You read me wrong, Tannil. I’m
saying we need to know whom or what is responsible for ill tidings
universe over; only then should we give thought to the Throne’s
necessity. Why stir it up if there’s no real threat?”

“Quilla
believes there is real threat,” Tannil said.

“Quilla is
over-excitable. We must establish how far it goes, all of us,
before you even consider making such a bold move.”

Tannil turned
his gaze to Caltian, saw fear there, and met the Siric’s gaze anew.
“Then it’s time to try again.” He turned to swiftly exit the Palace
once more.

Buthos and
Caltian stared at each other.

Caltian
cleared his throat and voiced the thought, “Tannil knows … he
already knows.”

In the early,
dark hours of the morning Caltian wandered the silent Palace.

His anger had
long gone, replaced by the enigma of Tannil.

For the first
time he saw his stepson objectively.

A Valleur male
in the prime of life. A Vallorin of a divided people, though the
divisions were geographical, not in thought and goal. He thought of
Tannil as a son, or as close as he could be within the constraints
of the Valla traditions, and loved him as a son, but this night
Tannil reminded with sorrowful words he was also Vallorin. He was
aware of certain facts no one else would be privy to, carried
burdens no one could share.

Caltian left
the Palace and made his way to the shrine on the other side of
Valla Island. It was near the bridge to the Lifesource and he
noticed Tannil veer off the path towards it.

It was a small
building hidden among trees. A gravel path led to it and Caltian’s
footsteps were loud, crunching the stones. The building was of
stone and glass, unprepossessing, round with a narrow entrance. The
door was open and light glowed inside. It was a shrine to
Torrullin, to Vannis, to Tristamil and to Taranis. Their personal
possessions, awaiting Torrullin. And among those possessions was
the Sword of the Sleeper.

Tannil bent
over that very blade when Caltian entered. He glanced over his
shoulder and murmured, “I heard you coming.”

“Am I
intruding, son?”

The sword lay
on a flat rock pedestal in the centre of the round chamber and
Tannil straightened from his study of it and turned. “You’re
welcome. I’m trying to see the joins, can you believe that?”

Caltian
inclined his head. “I’ve looked many a time.”

Caballa found
the pieces in Menllik. More correctly, she knew them for what they
were when the shards were brought to her; in blindness, she knew.
She revealed Torrullin broke his sword when he learned his beloved
son was to die and she was the bearer of ill tiding that night,
although she had not witnessed the act of destruction. Caballa
lovingly fused the pieces together and Quilla’s magic restored it
strength.

She told them
then of a future where Torrullin would return to claim it; those
were the days and weeks and months after the destruction of Torrke,
when visitors from all over came to Menllik and to the islands to
hear reasons, and they left one and all with the tale of the
Enchanter who would return to save them again. They would know him
true when he reclaimed his sword.

Of course,
there were other tales of this nature, but those belong to a
distant past - this was a legend of the future, the legend of the
Sleeper.

“Caballa comes
daily to polish it,” Tannil murmured. “I sometimes wonder who waits
with the greatest expectation, and then I know it is Caballa.”

“No, it would
be Quilla,” Caltian said. He reached out and ran his fingers over
the cold metal.

“Or is it you,
Caltian?”

“Me? I
wouldn’t presume …”

“Why not? Many
have. You’ve placed him on the kind of pedestal he sought to avoid
and you allowed him to cloud your relationship with my mother.”

Caltian took a
step backward. “Where does this come from?”

Tannil pinched
his nose. “Forgive me, I haven’t the right.”

Caltian
straightened. “You have something to say, say it. If I am to take
on a different future, it must transpire in truth. Go ahead.”

Tannil stared
at him and then, “Certain revelations of recent caused me to guard
my thoughts on certain issues, while on others I’ve lost my sense
of tact. Forgive my boorishness.”

“Why do you
stall now? I gave you leave.”

“I merely
wonder if you’re ready.”

“Neither of us
can know that.”

Tannil
hesitated a moment longer.

“You were
meant to kill the Dragon-man - you were born for that. First guilt.
You believe you should’ve known that Dragon-man and Enchanter
Vallorin were one and you can’t trust even now he understood and
forgave you immediately. Second guilt. The night the Dinor attacked
Menllik you were elsewhere - not your fault, for you were a
stranger on a new world - but that night Taranis died. Third guilt.
Then Torrullin sacrifices himself and Torrke while you’re on
Luvanor - by his design - but you’d rather have been there to die
with him. Fourth guilt. You never had the opportunity to thank or
tell him how you revere him. Fifth guilt. You weren’t present when
I was born, a great day for a leaderless race, and you hate
yourself for that. I was and am, after all, his grandson. Sixth
guilt. Then, gods forbid, you fell in love with my mother. A Valla
herself and Tristamil’s widow. Seventh guilt. All this stands in
the way of having a normal relationship with my mother. Torrullin
stands in the way. You need him to return to expunge your guilt and
you aim to end it with her to appear blameless, so you’re allowed
to ask forgiveness with a clearer conscience, and this despite the
fact you love your wife. You need him to return to find your way
again.”

Caltian was
white and speechless.

Tannil shook
his head and whispered, “I’m sorry, perhaps I went too far.”

After a
moment, “You’re right. You’ve been thinking this for a while.”

Tannil
shrugged, choosing not to answer.

“I love him,
Tannil. I can’t help that.”

“You love him
too much, Caltian!” Tannil burst out. “It clouds your perceptions!
He wouldn’t want this for you.”

“Your mother
can’t let him go either!”

“No! My mother
has no guilt over Torrullin. She is saddened daily that I don’t
know him, true, but she thought you’d be a good father to me …
gods, are you blind? She loves you! She can’t get through your
barriers!”

“I wasn’t a
good father to you?”

Tannil rubbed
his face with both hands. “That came out wrong. You were a good
father, but the Valla constraints were in your mind. Not a soul
would think it strange for me to call you Father and for Teroux to
call you Grandfather. You put up barriers for us, too. We love you
as you are, can you not see that? Torrullin would never stand in
the way in person - why let him do it in absence?”

“You didn’t
know him,” Caltian whispered, hearing the chimes of bells tolling
truth.

“I didn’t, but
others did. In particular our Quilla. Torrullin was seriously
complicated, but he loved his people, he loved his son, his family,
you. He wasn’t vindictive and desiring peace would’ve desired it
for others. Let him go, Caltian.”

“How?” Caltian
asked, sinking to his knees.

“Forgive
yourself.”

“I have.”

“I don’t think
so,” Tannil whispered.

Caltian stared
up, his face filled with a variety of emotions. “Maybe not enough,
but it’s easy to say …”

“… easy to do,
too. Really, really want it and reach for that peace. You must do
this, father-of-my-heart, or you’ll not be able to face him. And
that guilt will drive you insane.” Tannil knelt. “Torrullin comes
soon. At the most within four or five weeks, or he could walk in
this minute …”

Caltian paled
anew. “What?”

“Feel that
reaction. Trepidation? Fright? Or is it fear? I think no elation.
What does that tell you? Will you have the wherewithal to face him
were he standing behind you right now?”

Caltian shook
his head and his eyes rolled trying to see behind him without
moving his head.

Tannil smiled
and placed his hands on Caltian’s shoulders. “He’s not there, not
yet, but he comes, and this is no ploy. Let him go, so you are free
to look him squarely in the eye on the day.”

“Your mother
…”

“Loves you. It
isn’t too late; my word on that. Forgive yourself, Caltian.” He
squeezed those shoulders and rose to quietly leave.

Hours later
Caltian rose stiffly.

He stumbled
out, blinked at the bright sunlight - so long? - and went down the
gravel path, taking the turn to the beach.

She was there
and appeared to be waiting for him.

He approached,
unsure of his reception, and halted before her. “I don’t want to
end our marriage, Mitrill.”

“I don’t want
that either.”

“I let him go,
I don’t know if that makes sense … or have you spoken to
Tannil?”

“I haven’t
seen my son since dinner last night, and I know you’re telling me
you realised Torrullin is … is …”

“… gone.” He
sank to his knees in the wet sand. “Can you forgive me?”

Her face
twisted. “Caltian, you must forgive yourself.”

“I have. I
really have. I need your forgiveness; I love you, Mitrill, and
unless …”

“I forgive
you,” she said and kneeled into his arms. “I love you, my husband.”
She began to cry, hard, wracking sobs, a cleansing, a release.

Tears slid
over Caltian’s cheeks as he held his wife with everything he
was.

He was free at
last.

Thank you,
Tannil.

Chapter
15

Where do you
see this lightning ball? The drink has addled your brain!

~ Tattle’s
Blunt Adventures

Samuel, Byron
and Marcus arrived at Emerald Sound Harbour with the approach of
evening, having suffered a train journey that proved slower than
usual.

It was a
tourist train and the thing stopped at any point of interest along
the way.

Tired and
hungry, they nevertheless made enquiries about available ships,
only to find the next vessel due to leave port was leaving at noon
the following day, going east. No degree of persuasion could sway
the captain. His passengers were offworlders and paid in
advance.

He suggested
they hire a smaller vessel and then could not suggest one.

Frustrated,
the three crowded into a tiny room, one they managed to procure
because the Electan threatened to close all business along the
Sound.

Sleep was
elusive.

The next
morning was equally frustrating - more so.

Ships due to
harbour were already booked for outgoing voyages. The Electan was
powerless and hated it.

As they sat in
a crowded tearoom watching the eastbound vessels leave amid much
fanfare, they were at a loss. The beach overflowed with offworlders
in bright garb and outlandish headdresses. As did the tearoom, and
the babble of many tongues were heard.

Samuel’s
astonished gaze flitted from one face to the other endlessly.

The Sound was
beautiful. A huge crescent-shaped beach of white sand stretched
from the volcanic rock on the northern side to the isthmus cliffs
to the south. The ocean was indeed a brilliant emerald and the bay
a deep, natural harbour. Trees of both desert and tropical variety
threw welcome shade, competing for supremacy in this, a region in
transition between the tropics and nearby desert. It was early
spring, but already the temperatures here in the south assailed the
gauges.