The Sleeper Sword (40 page)

As the Siric
pondered, Torrullin spoke, “The Guardians will be needed
elsewhere.”

Buthos swung
around, irate. “Torrullin, we are …!”

“Old friend, hear me. They
will
be needed elsewhere - he will
ensure that.”

The Siric
backed down. “That little snake.” He shook his head. “Sorry.”

“He will
merely keep you busy; his fight is not with you.”

“Then why are
we involved in this?” Belun demanded.

Tannil
answered. “It was to open my eyes. And to make the deadline. The
presence of Guardians lent weight to the tale.” He glanced at
Samuel.

The man
shrugged. “I’d have reached out no matter where I was.”

Torrullin said
nothing, but knew how true that was.

Tannil was
wry. “Had I thrown Samuel, Byron and the Electan in a dungeon we
would now be at war with the humans. A civil war. That, naturally,
had to be avoided.”

“Surely a
civil war will aid Tymall?” This from Lucan.

Torrullin
murmured, “Control. It is about control.”

He did not
clarify, he did not need to. A civil war was a monster with a life
its own, something even a sorcerer of outstanding talent would be
hard-pressed to orchestrate. Tymall had, no doubt, in bringing the
Guardians into the fray, prevented a civil war for exactly those
reasons. He could better use the control afforded by alliances.

Mitrill asked,
“How soon are we to return to Menllik, Enchanter?”

He glanced at
her. Enchanter, was it? Not Torrullin? Why did she place that
subtle difference upon their relationship? Distance, but why she
needed it he could not fathom.

“Today,” he
replied, looking at Tannil.

Tannil smiled.
“Today it is.”

Kismet watched
as television cameras were set up in Marcus Campian’s opulent
office.

He leaned
against the wall in the far corner and watched the lights and booms
shifted and tested until everyone, including Marcus Campian, was
satisfied. The man had an egotistical streak, Kismet thought.
Despite his reluctance to do this thing, he desired that his image
and voice go out into homes and places of work in near
perfection.

A radio
broadcast was scheduled to air simultaneously with the television
sending, and radio technicians fiddled with and tested various
microphones. The large office was crowded and stuffy and Kismet was
ignored, which suited him fine.

He was
surprised by the Electan’s decisive actions from the instant they
materialised in his home-cum-political headquarters. Marcus’s
secretary, Mr Jackson, took one peek at the mode of their arrival,
and the golden visitor, and fled into his own office, with his boss
barking orders like a machine gun making mincemeat of a sitting
duck.

Kismet almost
pitied the poor man. His estimation of Marcus Campian climbed. The
Electan and his sidekick made things happen.

Coming out of
makeup, Marcus marched around his desk. His eyes flicked over every
piece of equipment and impaled every technician before he sat. He
nodded at the director, who checked his watch and began to count
down. Apparently they would cut into normal programming and a
teaser had already aired.

“… three …”
and the director’s fingers silently gave the “two, one” and
pointed.

Marcus went
into action. “Good morning, you good people of Valaris …” Kismet
winced. “… I apologise for interrupting your viewing, but today is
a day of change and you need to hear of it from your Electan
without delay. This message will be rebroadcast on the hour, every
hour, for the next forty hours and is simultaneously being sent out
via every radio station.”

Kismet thought
that a stroke of genius. Those who did not hear it now, would tune
in because friends and family tell them to, and many would listen
again and again until the message lost its sensationalism.

Marcus leaned
forward with arms on his desk as if seeking greater intimacy with
his audience. The consummate politician, Kismet thought.

“Last night,
my friends, I was honoured to be present at an extraordinary event
…” Marcus paused, looked at his hands, and appeared to come to a
decision, a gesture to put the good folk on his side. “My friend
Byron Morave and I witnessed the coming of a legend and in that
honour we were joined by a number of others, among those Tannil,
Vallorin of the Valleur.”

You could have
heard a feather drop in that office as every technician listened in
amazement, and the same likely happened in every household and to
every listener wherever they were. If the Electan’s face and voice
had not guaranteed attention, the firm statement of Tannil’s name
certainly had.

Marcus continued, “Yes, friends, you heard me right. I
said
Tannil
. What
I have to add now will not be easy to accept and had I not seen it
myself, I would be the first to name myself delusional …” He paused
there a moment. “Please hear me now and trust my words. I tell you
true that last night we witnessed the coming of the
Enchanter.”

“I don’t
believe this!” the director shouted.

Marcus smiled
at the camera. “There you have the first evidence of disbelief, my
friends, and who can blame you? However, I assure you I speak no
untruth. I saw the Enchanter Torrullin last night and this morning
I had words with him.”

“What crap!” a
technician said, unable to control himself. Nobody looked at him as
if he was crazy - they stared at the Electan.

“I see this
will be no easy matter to accept,” Marcus said, “and thus I shall
invite someone to join me before the cameras …” Kismet groaned. “…
and while he is not proof of the Enchanter, he certainly underlines
a new connection to the Valleur.”

Marcus turned
and beckoned at the corner where Kismet hid. All eyes turned that
way, lights and cameras forgotten.

“Kismet,
please. Your Enchanter needs you to do this.”

The man was
right. Kismet shook himself free of drapes and sorcery and stepped
into the glare of the lights. Audible gasps. A Golden was
unmistakable. Kismet stood behind Marcus’s seated form, offering
himself as proof to a disbelieving public.

The director
realised he was broadcasting the story of a lifetime and hissed at
the crew to correct camera angles.

“People of
Valaris, this is Kismet. He is an Elder attached to the Valleur
court. He knew the Enchanter two thousand years ago and was present
at last night’s incredible event. He witnessed the Enchanter
return.”

Kismet stared
stoically over everyone’s heads.

“We may debate
and we may laugh and we may resort to insults and even fear, but
change is upon us and I am here to tell you that the Enchanter
asked permission to return his people to Menllik and Torrke … and
it was given him.”

“Aaru!”
someone blurted, and the director glared at the offensive
individual.

“I shall speak
to you again once the forty hours of first telling has elapsed, but
for now I urge you to stay your anger and prejudice. The Valleur
will commence the return to what is historically theirs before this
day is over. I ask that you allow them to achieve this in
peace.”

He smiled at
the cameras, and ended the broadcast.

“Thank you for
listening.”

“Cut,” the
director said and swung away, gripping a mobile.

Pressing the gadget to his ear, he said, “Did you get that?
Good. Get a crew to Menllik
now
!”

Declan
appeared in the Throne-room.

When he saw
Torrullin he halted in wonder. He approached with hands stretched
out. “Enchanter!”

Torrullin
gripped those hands. “Declan, it is good to see you.”

“When did this
happen?”

Torrullin gave
a grin. “Last night.”

“This will
reverberate throughout the universe!”

Torrullin
laughed. “You flatter me.”

The Siric
shook his head, also laughing. “No flattery! Gods, what a contrary
time we find ourselves in again if joy and disaster stand
side-by-side.” He was abruptly serious, remembering why he came. He
turned his head, seeking his leader. “We should be
celebrating.”

“We knew
contrariness would rear. The only celebration I need is breathing
again the air of my home.”

Declan studied
the face before him. “I guess so. We need to talk.”

An unreadable
expression. “Lazar?”

“Yes,” Declan
replied as Buthos closed in.

“Soon.”
Torrullin was as quiet.

The Siric
leader was there. “Disaster?”

Declan
belatedly bowed to Tannil and included everyone in his report.
“There are darklings on Yltri, Ceta and Kashdar, many darklings, as
if summoned. Nobody is prepared for the onslaught.”

Buthos swore.
He glanced at Torrullin. “You were right.”

“I did not
expect darklings.”

Tannil was at
the knot around Torrullin. “Buthos, you better go. Our thoughts
will be with you.”

A moment more,
and then Buthos and Declan bowed and were gone.

Belun stalked
forward. “I guess I must go where I am needed more.” He looked at
every person in the chamber, resting glorious orbs on the
Enchanter. “Be careful.”

“And you,”
Tannil and Torrullin said together.

Belun
flourished a bow, transformed into Centuar form, and vanished.

Tannil and
Torrullin faced each other. “We have some time. Tymall is offworld
if he organises darklings to draw attention away from Valaris. We
must be in Menllik before he returns.”

Tannil nodded.
“Is it Tymall organising darklings?”

“I suspect so.
I admit it comes as a surprise.”

Tannil glanced
at his sister and said, “This may be Fay’s missing army.”

Torrullin was
grim. “I’m afraid you may be right.”

The Society of
Sorcerers, while headquartered in Gasmoor, conducted their talents
in a marvellous warren of stone buildings erected a thousand years
back on the western shores of Ren Lake, nestling amid a spectacular
forest of flourishing trees.

Caballa stared
in wonder, her eyes that of a newborn, drinking in tall, evergreen
spires, spreading branches of spring buds, tapered figures rustling
like new silk, and found a measure of peace. Valaris possessed
extraordinary beauty and now she could see it and discover it for
herself.

Smiling, she
followed the kindly giant that was Byron Morave into the old stone
that exuded magic in a magical setting. Some things could feel so
right, it hurt.

She was made
welcome without reservation, for magic had a tendency to bridge
divides. Caballa was an exceptionally beautiful woman and endured
that drawback her entire life, an easy target, soon dispelled, but
here, in this place, filled mostly by men, some attractive, her
beauty was secondary, and for that she was gratified.

In conditions
such as these she could function. Add to that the challenge of
training farspeakers and she was close to Aaru.

Torrullin
chose well, and she acknowledged his foresight.

She introduced
her Valleur farspeakers, and minutes later the first session
began.

Torrullin
smiled for no apparent reason, arresting Tannil’s discussion with a
number of Valleur regarding the mass transport to Menllik.

“My Lord?”

Torrullin
looked at him, not understanding. “Did I miss something?”

“I’m thinking
I may have,” Tannil murmured.

Torrullin
frowned, cast his mind back, and then, “Ah. No, all is well.” He
rose, thinking of Caballa, sensing peace steal over her, and went
to the birdman to draw him aside. “I find I need your talents, my
friend.”

“The Temple?”
Quilla asked, brightening.

“Indeed.
Samuel, will you accompany us?”

The three left
Tannil to his practical considerations - Caltian and Mitrill were
involved also - and made their way through the jubilant crowd
outside.

It took time
to reach the bridge, they were waylaid that much, and Torrullin was
kissed and hugged and shaken and pounded a thousand times before
they managed to set foot to it.

It was a great
day.

Torrullin
looked back as he strode across the bridge. An island teeming with
life and noise, and by nightfall it would be a graveyard, as
Menllik had been a graveyard for over a thousand years.

He wrought
change swiftly. Perhaps too swiftly.

Would Tannil
cope?

Chapter
41

Be careful,
adept. Lumin power is wonderful, but it can be as addictive as
darak. A sorcerer worth his weight knows to hold back, always.

~ Ancient
Oracles

There was an
hour of wandering, the first quarter with Quilla and Samuel, and
then alone as had been his wont in the past.

It was
different, as though two millennia subtly altered the Lifesource.
Perhaps, without the waters of life gushing from living rock on the
doorstep of the Temple, it forewent something intrinsic.

Torrullin
wandered aimlessly and felt the magic, and knew it as less. The
wild beauty of the Temple’s original site was the real magic. No
lightbridge suspended here over an abyss, ethereally solid, and
there was no angelic music, that and the bridge a profound
symbiosis, and there was no eastern portal through which to witness
the rising of the sun and moon while suspended by magic alone.

When he joined
Quilla and Samuel in the chamber where the two armchairs squatted,
Quilla raised a questioning brow and did not have to ask.

“It’s not the
same.”

The birdman
sighed. “No. Time, place, condition … and absence. Yours and
mine.”