The Sleeper Sword (38 page)

“Fay?” He
spoke softly, not to startle her.

She came out
of her reverie and glanced at him. “I’m okay. Did Mother send
you?”

“You know how
she is,” Caltian smiled.

“No, I’m not
sure I do. Is she worried about me or is she worried I have upset
her beloved Enchanter?”

Caltian’s lips
tightened. Not this, not now. “Fay, please.”

“I’m less in
his eyes because I chose freedom over the bloodline?”

“He was
surprised, that’s all. You can explain it to him properly.”

“He reacted as
if I stung him.”

“Don’t. You
have no right to judge him.”

“He has no
right to judge me!”

“He didn’t.
You judge yourself and today I think you regret your decision.”

She stared at
her father and then looked away. “Maybe.”

Or maybe, my beautiful daughter, the Enchanter’s magic works
on you already. God help you if that’s true.
“Walk with me. I’m trying to put two millennia into five
minutes. I could use your help.”

“Like a
report?”

“Yes, insolent
child, like a report.”

Byron snored
and Marcus envied him.

He could not
sleep despite exhaustion. Looking south over the ocean as dawn
arrived, he reflected how his belief system was turned inside-out,
trampled into the dust. He knew he could cope with change, but
wondered if he should not step down for a more liberal leader to
deal with what he foresaw.

Byron said it
was not a good idea; folk would look to him for continuity, as
their mouth and simply as a barometer. If he, conservatism itself,
showed he was ready to deal with the Valleur and the Enchanter,
then they could. Byron had a point, but could he deal with the
Valleur?

Ingrained
prejudice was hard to overcome in a night.

He shuddered,
recalling the pants-wetting fear when Tymall revealed himself. He
had no previous measuring stick with which to quantify evil, but
that man was clearly it.

Pressing his
face against the glass, he closed his eyes. They would need the
Enchanter before long, he suspected. This evil was why he came, and
it no longer mattered who was the bait, for it was now reality.

But their
saviour was also a father. Could a father separate himself from the
Enchanter?

Marcus bit at
his lip and began to pray.

Tannil paced
outside the little hut.

He was edgy,
nervous, impatient, and a host of other tangles.

The time came
and the time passed.

The Enchanter
was back.

He gazed
around him. Was he meant to come to a hut in a garden? He glared at
Caballa’s back, inside, envying her calm. She gave the sword a
final polish. Elsewhere, Kismet chivvied kitchen staff, the
Electan, curse him, slept and … and - he snapped.

“Valleur!” he
roared with voice and mind, causing Caballa to twitch around. “To
the Palace!”

He glared
again at Caballa and then turned on his heel to stalk through the
garden back to the Palace. His grandfather deserved a hero’s
welcome, not this insipid waiting.

“VALLEUR!
Come to the Palace and
greet the Enchanter! He comes! He comes this
morning!
”

Five minutes
later Valla Island was crowded.

The Valleur
who remained in the west long held the suspicion there was more to
the emigration policy.

The consensus
to date was about pressure from the mainland. A few speculated
about Torrullin’s return, but most considered that wishful
thinking.

Until now.

Tannil’s call
reached all and everyone came. Retainers mingled with farspeakers,
teachers with fishermen, guards with the highborn, and all were
equal in their breathless anticipation. The lawns were soon
trampled in the excitement of many feet.

Gulls gave the
island a wide berth, frightened by the shouts deafening the
heavens.

And then,
glorious day, auspicious morning, Torrullin of the House of Valla,
Enchanter, was on the balcony overlooking the wide sweep before the
western façade of Tannil’s Palace.

He was
unmistakable.

Roars of
welcome. Joyful weeping.

With one mind,
the Valleur of the Western Isles knelt and absolute silence
reigned.

From the oval
balcony came the Enchanter’s voice, strong and sure, and hands
clutched at hearts as if they would burst.

“
Valleur!
Our exile is at an end! We return to Menllik!”

The resultant
acclaim probably reached the outer layer of the planet’s
atmosphere.

He could have
said anything, made a formal speech, thrown himself at them like a
hero or been humble in his arrival, but he gave them the one thing
they desired most, and they adored him for it. He gave them their
pride and restored their birthright.

The Enchanter
had returned.

Watch out any
who dared stand in the path of a Valleur with new purpose.

Torrullin
watched them shout and weep, silvery traces marking his cheeks.

Their voices
bade him more welcome than the smell and beauty of Valaris herself.
He was home.

Many minutes
passed and he granted it freely.

He retreated
eventually when the noise outside showed no sign of abating, and
who could blame them?

Standing atop
the stairs, he looked around as if looking for someone, a pull at
his senses.

Vannis. How I
wish you were here.

He battled his
thundering heart. He was home. Without Tristamil. Without Vannis.
Where was Saska?

A breath, and
he descended into the Throne-room.

They were
waiting for him. He reached the floor and was assailed. Hands
touched, voices asked questions, smiles flashed, hugs came and
went, and through it all he smiled, spoke and managed not to shout
at everyone to leave him alone.

Gods, at this
moment he would rather be on the Plane with Margus. It was unfair
and said more of his withdrawal from society than the intentions of
his people. They had missed him and this day belonged to them. It
belonged more to them than it could to him. His was personal,
theirs universal.

Thus, with
serenity, he made his way through the throng until he reached a
smiling Tannil.

Tannil rose
from his throne. “My Lord, please,” he said, gesturing at the
wooden seat.

“No, thank
you, Tannil.” He stood before his grandson and they were of a
height. Yellow eyes bored into yellow eyes. “I mean no offence, but
no symbolism this day. I don’t want to be Vallorin, no matter how
the Throne behaves.”

“And I want no
oath from you.” Tannil lifted a hand to lay it across his chest.
“Here you are my Vallorin.”

Torrullin’s
eyes crinkled, although he did not smile. “Very well, we agree to
disagree.”

Tannil did
smile. “I can live with that.”

“Thank you …
for this.” Torrullin threw his hands wide.

“I know it
must be overwhelming.”

“It is, but
also an affirmation of a new time, and that cannot now be
denied.”

“I am
glad.”

Torrullin
lifted a hand to Tannil’s neck, then dragged the willing man into
an embrace.

Valla Island
erupted anew.

A lull came
and Tannil used it.

The
Throne-room was noisily cleared of all but the pertinent players
and he suggested they go through to the dining chamber for
breakfast.

He did not get
that far.

Marcus, boiling over, shook himself loose from Byron’s steely
grasp. “I will
not
shut up.”

Tannil
sighed.

Torrullin
glanced at his grandson, who gave a weary nod.

“Electan.”

Marcus
stiffened.

“Please, Mr
Campian, come forward.”

“See what you
got me into?” Marcus hissed at Byron.

White brows
shot up. “Me? You get yourself into the soup, old friend.”

“Mr Campian, I
am not about to dematerialise you. Please share your concerns with
us.”

Marcus turned
to meet the Enchanter’s unnerving gaze. “It’s Marcus, my Lord.”

“And I am
Torrullin.”

Marcus’s
shoulders straightened. Maybe the man was not all bad.

“Marcus, this
can wait,” Byron snapped. “Even you must be hungry.”

Mitrill
laughed, while Samuel shook his head.

“It can’t
wait,” Marcus said. “Did you not hear what he said?”

“
He
is
right here,” Torrullin murmured. “Please address yourself to me and
we shall eat after.”

Belun snorted
a laugh.

“I am not an
object of amusement!”

Torrullin
paced forward. “No, Electan, you are the leader of Valaris
continent and you find yourself concerned over the pronouncement of
imminent return to the city of Menllik.”

“Yes.”

“In your
position I would be also. However, while you are not personally to
blame for the last two thousand years, I shall state now
unequivocally my people have more claim to Valaris than do
yours.”

Marcus paled
considerably.

Torrullin went
on, “We do not want it all, Electan. We desire Menllik, a city
built and inhabited only by Valleur, and Torrke. Torrke is mine.”
Marcus spluttered and Torrullin fixed him with a grim stare and
repeated in a lower tone, “Torrke is mine. We also desire the right
to travel freely between our sacred sites.”

Marcus drew
breath. “It will not go down well.”

Torrullin
closed in to tower over the man. “I don’t care, Marcus. We are
either here to aid you against Tymall or you are on your own. Which
is it to be?”

Marcus glanced
at Byron and found no help there. “And when it’s over?”

“We stay on
the continent.”

Marcus shook
his head. “I could sell a temporary influx, but a permanent
arrangement?”

“Then perhaps
someone else should sell it, Electan.”

“You threaten
me?”

“I threaten
nobody. I state fact. Those areas lie deserted now; the Valleur
re-inhabiting them will usurp no one.”

“And the
sites?”

“They would be
uncloaked to the advantage of all; surely the right to visit them
should not be curtailed?”

“It is but a
short step to overall control.”

A stubborn
man, but a good heart. “Marcus, there’s a planet in the Forbidden
Zone and it is a Valleur world. Millions of Valleur. Tannil could
have invaded you a long time ago and we are able to do so now,
without bloodshed and without sorcery. We could simply overwhelm
you with numbers, and do it between the space of a cup of coffee
and a slice of toast, today. We prefer a peaceful return,
sanctioned by you, retaking only that I have named, no more, no
less. Which is it to be?”

Marcus was
ashen. “I must think on this.”

A silence and
then, “I am sorry, but I must have your answer now.”

Marcus
swallowed. To look about him now would appear uncertain, a cry for
help … when nobody could help him. He bowed. “You and yours are
welcome on the mainland.”

Torrullin
smiled. “The Valleur thank you, Marcus Campian.” He cast about
until his gaze found Kismet. “Kismet, if you will, please escort
the Electan back to Galilan. He has an announcement to make to the
general populace.”

Kismet’s grin
threatened to split his face in two. “It will be a pleasure, my
Lord!” Wait till he told the others how the Enchanter bowed the
sour little man to his will, by god.

Torrullin
focused on Byron. “Byron Morave, correct?”

“Yes, my
Lord.”

“You are a
sorcerer.”

“Of the
Society of Sorcerers, my Lord.”

“You kept that
going despite anti-Valleur sentiment?”

“I believe it
was initially deemed … safer.”

Torrullin’s
lips quirked. “Ah, yes. I am happy to hear not all gains were
lost.”

“We do good
work,” Byron smiled.

“Excellent. Do
you have farspeakers?”

“Regrettably,
no.”

“We have
telephones,” Marcus muttered and Samuel choked with laughter.

“Lines can be
cut and satellites brought down,” Torrullin said. “Technology has
always been highly dispensable - by god, you let that crap loose on
this world?” He held his hands up immediately in a conciliatory
gesture. “Forgive me; I have no call to judge … yet. Farspeakers
will aid us better in the days to come, I believe. Would you agree,
Mr Morave?”

“Byron,
Enchanter, and I most wholeheartedly concur. Hate all gadgets
myself!”

Torrullin
grinned. He was going to like the big sorcerer. He noticed Caballa
near Samuel. “Caballa, round up twenty farspeakers and accompany
them and Byron to the Society. Train …”

“I doubt we
have twenty in the west, my Lord.”

“Then recall
from Luvanor.”

“I prefer to
stay here.”

He was not
Vallorin, he reminded himself; he had no right to command her. He
could ask Tannil to do so, but all three would then lose face.

Torrullin
wondered briefly how to be tactful and said, “You are upset at
present, Caballa, and you may not be entirely objective. I ask that
you go to the mainland and assist Byron in setting up a
communication network Tymall cannot interfere with. Institute an
accelerated training program. I ask, for I know you have expertise
in this field and I give you a task to restore your balance.”

She stared at him.
I need to talk to
you.

Not today,
Caballa. I shall come to you.

She nodded,
bowed for Tannil, who nodded his permission, and strode out into
the celebrating crowds outside.

“Byron, you
had better go after her,” Torrullin said.