The Sleeper Sword (33 page)

“The Valleur
must be keeping it a secret,” he murmured.

Lazar pinched
the bridge of his nose. “Do you trust this Declan?”

Foreboding. “I
do.”

“He had me up
against a wall later, demanding of me what my intentions were, and
I told him enough truth in order to hear truth.”

A nod.

“He told me
categorically Cat Dalrish did not give birth.”

A searing
pain. “No link, then.”

“Not necessarily,” Lazar murmured. He hurried on when the
Enchanter loosed a dangerous stare. “This is where the uncertainty
lays. Your
goddaughter
apparently gave birth - it was the only birth Declan knew of
in the time frame we were discussing - but he also said she severed
all ties to the Valleur and he knew nothing more. Something about
her wanting to raise the child in human society. He said she never
told the Elders.”

“Skye?”
Torrullin whispered. “How does Declan know, if she withdrew?”

“Someone
called David, a long ago mayor? She told him, after, and this David
let it slip to Declan, who was sworn to secrecy.”

“Gods. My poor
Skye.” Then Torrullin smiled, a whimsical thing of longing. “How
like his father my son was, after all.”

“Declan only
suspected Tristamil was the father.”

“Skye was the
only woman Tris truly loved, Lazar. He married another for reasons
I won’t go into, but Skye had his heart and on the final day of his
life he took her home to make his farewells. Gods, now I understand
that look in his eyes.”

“You’re
sure?”

“I am.”

“Then we have
established the likelihood of a link.”

Torrullin
laughed. “More than that! My son’s child, one born only of love.
Half-human, half-Valleur, like me.”

Lazar was
cautious. “I found no proof of subsequent …”

“I feel it!”
Torrullin splayed a hand across his chest. “Here. Now. I feel my
son’s blood here, alive and vital.”

Lazar released
his inner tension. “Then we have no problem.”

The words of
his grandmother Mantra came to him that night, as he lay
sleepless.

‘…
for your blood will take many
forms … far into the future.’

Yes.

She said I
would forget her words and I did, until the time came again to
remember.

It was her
last words, however, he mulled over and over.

‘…
reach out to him, take his hand,
for he will make you whole and he will return to you the essence of
the other one; he whose loss you will know to the end of
days.
’

He whose loss
you will know to the end of days.

Deep into
night, dark and still, Torrullin rolled over onto his stomach … and
finally mourned his beloved son.

Chapter
34

Day Nine:
Bystanders

400 - 200
years ago

He knew it was
near, and found he was not as ready to return as he thought he was,
not as he felt the need yesterday.

It was his
ninth day on the Plane, a brief sojourn in the wheel of time. Days
could not compare to the centuries elapsed for Valaris. More than a
thousand years, in fact; he would return not only in a different
time, but likely to a different world.

Differences
had already been pointed out to him. Valleur and human, again at
odds, if not at war or persecution - well, was that different,
really? Had it not ever been that way, and worse, since the
sentience of humankind sent out tendrils into Valleur territory?
The exception was that brief time, the small breath on the wheel
when he was Vallorin. The current dilemmas were ancient and
familiar.

Yet there
would be other differences, as alien perhaps as the Plane felt to
him. Yes, he sighed, and that was what he intended. Had he erred?
He had not wanted the old ways and the older ways might have caught
up. He wanted change to come in the wake of his passing, and
nothing was new.

Dear god, I
miss it. I miss the old and familiar faces. Selfishness has come
back to bite me hard.

Nine days. A
blink of the eye.

Some of those
familiar faces he would never again rest his gaze upon, other than
in memory, and it would grow indistinct with time. Nine days was
forever. Skye. Matt. Le Moss. Many others. Forever gone.

He told them -
Quilla, Vannis, Saska - he needed the distance time afforded; he
was wrong. They were given that distance - except Vannis, of
course, who moved onto another realm to his beloved Raken - while
he lived with their faces fresh in his mind. Every time he closed
his eyes.

Would they
want to know him again? Had he changed so much, for them, that he
would be unrecognisable, recognition that had nothing to do with
appearance? Or had they changed beyond his ability to find
them?

And Cat.
Forever lost now. He told her some inane crap about peace in
separation from reality - and with her he was most honest - and he
found no peace. He lied. To her. To himself. Who was the fool?
Instead of peace and distance, here he was plagued by questions,
burdened with uncertainties. He hated not knowing what had befallen
them; he needed to know about Cat. He was afraid of what he would
find. He could have made her happy; they could have raised a child
…

… no.

And it was not
Cat who drew his thoughts, not really.

He needed to
know about Cat, for he cared, then, now, always, but never saw a
future with her, although he would have loved the child.

It was another
who drew his thoughts and whom he shied from.

Lowen
Dalrish.

She became a
famous seer, as expected … and then?

Lowen.

His nemesis.
He forced his thoughts away.

He turned his musings to Tannil.
Man
of Words
. He sighed again.
My words
. The prophecies
couched in simple language, both written and whispered to a tiny
new life inside his mother’s womb. When they scried his name they
should have chosen Tannisin, Man of Prophetic Words, for his
grandson lived in awareness of tellings and put his life on hold to
see them come to pass.

Torrullin scrubbed at his face. Another legacy he now wished
he could retract. Had Tannil married? Had he fathered a child?
Yesterday’s revelation from Lazar denied it, but this morning it
was two hundred years later. Then again, had there been a child, he
would not be tarrying on the Plane, and if the child was born
shortly …
then Tannil prepares or will
prepare … as I do.

Lying on the sweet grass, he allowed the morning sun to wash
over him, to renew …
renew? It is too late
for renewal. The only hope now is a second chance.

He would not
go this day, of that he was certain, for some things were
unfinished. Like Margus.

There is no Valla heir, not yet, and therefore Tannil waits,
turning words over in his mind.
Was he
impatient? Frightened?

His thoughts
turned to the other Valla, the one who would be his link home. If
Skye broke all ties with the Valleur, then there was a real chance
he or she would not know of the blood tie. Generations had passed
and time did funny things to truths preserved for the future.
Perhaps there was a host of unaware Vallas on the mainland … no,
that felt out of sync. One, maybe two. A father and a son. Yes …
and tomorrow? Would there be another father and son? A
daughter?

No one?

Chance favours
the prepared mind. He had to prepare for the eventuality, in the
space of this day and the next, the human Valla line could cease.
He would then break out in another manner, even if it warped the
Plane.

Then Mantra’s
words surfaced anew.

I am not alone
in this quest.

He stared up
at the blue sky. To the end of days.

That was why
he was not ready. Tristamil. His memories of his son were fresh,
too fresh, and he was afraid he would discover Valaris too altered
to support them, and he was, conversely, afraid it would be the
same. Mourning gifted some release, but the absence of one loved
could not be covered over in a mere nine days.

Maybe there
will be closure when Margus finally pays for his sins.

He rolled onto
his stomach, chewing on a stalk, and there was new distance to his
gaze. It was the unknown he balked at, the unknown within.

And then …
Saska, where did life
take you, my love?

Later that
morning he healed the Darak Or.

When Margus
opened lucid blue eyes, he said, “We need to talk.”

Margus sat and
leaned against the bare plaster. He glanced around, shaking his
head at the bars. “A cell, Enchanter?”

“You created
havoc.”

“As did
you.”

Torrullin
lifted a shoulder. “I won.”

“You didn’t
seem to mind havoc.”

Silence, but
only for a moment. “It felt good. Our previous engagements were too
short.”

“Unsatisfying
is the word you’re looking for.”

“Maybe. Still,
as much as you gave, I noted you held back.”

Margus
grinned. “To the point where self-preservation kicked in. I held
back so you would.”

Torrullin
nodded, his expression serious. “We would have achieved little.” He
raised his hand when Margus made to retort. “I’m not here to
dissect a battle, especially one you lost.” He paused and then let
it out in a rush. “I have found the way back.”

“Ah.” The
Darak Or looked at the ceiling in resignation and managed an
insolent shrug. “We get to it at last.”

A long
silence.

“I am taking
you with me,” Torrullin said.

Margus closed
his eyes, but other than that he did not react. “Why?”

“I feel safer
with you at my side. To leave you unattended is courting new
disaster.”

Margus did not
move. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

“I don’t fear
for myself.”

“True.”

Torrullin sat
on the hard floor. He slumped against the cold wall and closed his
eyes as well. Long silent minutes ticked by.

The Enforcer
guard further down the cellblock shook his head in amazement.
Archenemies, he heard, and yet they acted like friends. In fact,
they were more like long-suffering brothers - not quite crazy about
each other, but with mutual respect that prevented outright
dislike.

Margus
laughed. “Well, will you look at us?”

Torrullin
smiled without opening his eyes. “We know each other, and it is
almost comforting.”

“No more
pretence, Torrullin?”

The Enchanter
opened his eyes. Something there in Margus’s voice. “No more.”

The Darak Or
leaned forward, eyes snapping open. Intense, watchful eyes.
Torrullin shivered. This was the Margus who had to be stopped.

“I have
something to tell you.”

Torrullin
maintained his relaxed pose. “Yes?”

“Answer this
first - when you say you are taking me along, how far do you
propose to do so?”

“As far as the
netherworld doorway, which I am told may be accessed from the
tunnel between here and our realm.”

“I thank you
for your honesty. If you had lied or intended to take me all the
way back to Valaris, I would have said nothing further.”

Torrullin grit
his teeth and waited.

Margus smiled,
seeing the tension. “You need me to return to Valaris with
you.”

Not an eyelid
flickered. “Why?”

“I have an
ace, my friend. You see, I was never too concerned over a final
parting of ways.”

“You wanted me
subservient.”

“Well, yes,
but beyond that. An ace, in the event you were more slippery in
death than I assumed, and, of course, you were.”

“I knew there
would be a last ditch trick.”

“Not last
ditch. Planned and executed before we left Valaris.”

Torrullin’s
hands clenched unseen on his lap. “What did you do?”

Margus took a
breath and exhaled. He straightened thereafter to sit in an attack
position - a highly defensive move. “I visited him before you
restored the magic to Torrke that final night,” he stated, and his
fingers twitched in readiness.

Torrullin
started laughing, a harsh, uncomfortable sound. “And what did you
set in motion?”

Nonplussed,
Margus stared, and fingers fell lax to knees. “His suicide was
already written …”

“I know
that.”

Margus relaxed
further. “I told him how to hold onto his essence, and his hatred
for you then was so overpowering, he listened. He listened
well.”

“Of course he
did; he’s a Valla and we do not surrender.” Torrullin was harsh and
yet he did not raise his voice. “Rebirth? Reform? How?”

“That would
depend on where he went. I had no control over that.” Margus
inclined his head. “Although at the time I thought there was only
the one realm.”

Lips pulled
back like a wolf about to spring. “Surely you knew there was
more?”

“Granted, yes,
but the good place. I thought for us, you included, for you are no
saint, there was only one place.”

“The
netherworld.”

“No, I thought
it a myth. I had in mind the bodiless realm of thought. A blind
world, where time is eternal, while little time passed in
reality.”

“And thus you
told him how to hold onto his essence there.”

“He had been
there before with me as guide; it was simple enough to fill him in
about the rules.”

“And if he
went elsewhere?”

“The rules are
adaptable.”

“Nothing
beyond death is that generic.”

Margus
shrugged. “Neither is he stupid, Torrullin, and hate is a driving
force.”