The Sleeper Sword (43 page)

“Don’t worry,
he’ll keep hidden until I say otherwise.”

“He must be
hungry,” Tannil muttered.

“He has
food.”

Tannil was not
quite comfortable with the situation, but he saw Torrullin’s
concentration was centred elsewhere.

Torrullin
caught that. “I’m not so distracted I can’t listen.”

Tannil rose to
pace. The two of them were upstairs in Tannil’s private sitting
room waiting for the tailor. A bottle of red wine was open on the
table along with two untouched glasses.

“Guilt, my
Lord,” Tannil confessed. “I’m guilty of hiding certain things and
also of hiding from others, and had I not I would’ve prepared a
more adequate welcome.”

“I hate
fanfare.”

“Reverence,
grandfather.”

Torrullin
leaned back, linking his hands behind his head. “This is how it is
meant. I came as I left on the other side, in a hurry, on the spur
of the moment, unprepared. And, Tannil, my family was there. What
greater welcome can there be?”

Tannil
inclined his head.

“You even had
a Dalrish - where is Lucan? I want to talk to him.”

“He’s with
Quilla, investigating the legendary Temple of Reversal - his
words.”

“Say
what?”

Tannil
grinned. “Universe over the Lifesource is known as the Temple of
Reversal.” He laughed. “I only heard it myself this morning.”

“I’ll grant
it’s fitting. Now, Tannil, let it go. I am here and you are here,
and that means I am blessed.”

Tannil sat and
lifted his glass. “To the future.”

Torrullin
reached for his. “To Tristamil, for giving the Valleur an
astonishing gift in his son.”

Tannil was
overcome. “My Lord.”

“Torrullin.
I’m not your overlord and I certainly don’t feel decrepit enough to
be grandfather at every turn. Tannil, look at me.”

Tannil could
not. He had something on his mind, a burden that needed release,
and only this man would understand. “Tymall told me he would
return.”

Torrullin
replaced his glass with a soft thud. “When?”

“The night he
died. I was frightened, I forgot, and dreamed …”

“… and could
not recall when awake?”

A nod.

“And you feel
guilty for not remembering? Do you honestly think knowing long in
advance would have made a difference, except to drive you insane in
the waiting?”

Tannil
sighed.

“Tymall can be
frightening; do not fault yourself.”

There was a
knock at the door.

“Come!” Tannil
called, and an older man entered followed by an entourage of
younger apprentices. Tannil raised an eyebrow. “Thank you for
coming, Listor. I leave my grandfather in your capable hands.”

He rose and
made his way to the door, looking over his shoulder to see a
resigned expression of Torrullin’s face.

Laughing to
himself - he hated fittings also - he left them alone.

It was growing
dark when Samuel knocked on the door to the Enchanter’s suite.

He waited,
heard nothing. Knocking again, he called, but still no sound.
Uncertain, he wondered what to do. The Enchanter asked to be called
and he offered to do the duty- was the man asleep?

Dare he
intrude on what was much needed rest?

He tried the
handle and the door opened. He entered. The sitting area was in
gloom, but Samuel saw piles of clothes draped over the couches.
Breeches in one pile, tunics in another.\

The tailor
chivvied his apprentices along to achieve the impossible; not only
ready within hours, but also quite a choice. No doubt a bit of
magic aided nimble fingers.

Samuel closed
in to finger the rich cloth. He bent to see through the darkening
light. Black. Everything was black. There were boots placed beside
the couch, soft leather, also black, and a cloak was draped over
one of the armchairs.

“Curiosity,
Samuel?”

Samuel
whirled. “My Lord!”

Torrullin
brought forth light. Muted lamps. Samuel noticed his hand resting
over a switch on the far wall. Torrullin approached the clothes
covered only in a loincloth.

His hair was
damp having come out of the shower - trying unsuccessfully to wash
away his sins.

“What have we
here?” He rummaged among the breeches. “Listor was quick, I see.
Poor man, I think I scared him a bit, and disappointed him.” He
slipped into a pair and it fit perfectly.

Samuel headed
for the door, embarrassed.

“Stay; you
have something on your mind.” Samuel halted, turned. “Listor had
such grand ideas, many colours.” Torrullin sat and waved Samuel to
a seat. “I wonder if he left socks …”

Samuel passed
a leather satchel over, trying not to let his mouth hang open.
Torrullin was somehow different.

“Contrary, is
what Quilla would say,” Torrullin muttered, reading that. “I’m
over-tired, hungry, have had a fill of welcome, am trying to
assimilate another realm with this one, and tension builds. I must
ensure Marcus Campian holds to his word when I virtually coerced
him into it, and I must give thought to Tymall, worry over Caballa
- and Fay - consider Tannil’s dilemma, Mitrill’s sudden distancing,
and I wonder where my wife is. There are other matters, not least
of which is the feeling folk pussyfoot around me. I am overloaded,
I feel I am being selfish … and thus I get, well, contrary.”

Samuel’s mouth
did hang open.

Torrullin
flicked him a glance as he pulled his boots on. “Relax, I have
reserves.”

“Any help I
can give is yours.”

So will many others, and I can scream.
“Thank you.” He laced up and stood. “Now, what bothers
you?”

Samuel felt
stupid. His concerns were small compared with the host listed.
“It’s nothing really.” He watched the fair man grip a tunic at
random and slip it over his head. Another perfect fit. “It suits
you.”

“The clothes
or the colour?”

“I thought
wearing black would be morbid, but it suits you.”

“Ah, the
colour.”

“You
are
being contrary.”

And there you
show the spark I have been waiting for.

“Vannis and
Taranis often took me to task on the issue. I never explained it to
them; they were too close to my devils back then. Now? The day I
move back into Torrke I shut up; I choose to speak now. In my
previous incarnations I was forced to do a lot of sidestepping.
Folk I needed to avoid, places I could not avoid, running from
other immortals, running from the law on other worlds and so forth.
Grey may be the ultimate colour of concealment, but black is
sorcery friendly. I could vanish without having to leave a
signature, and thus it became my choice. Today it is part of me.”
Torrullin shrugged. “And I am egotistical enough to realise the
impact I make. Try it.”

“That’s
okay.”

“Humour me.
See how it feels.”

Samuel
shrugged and did as bid. He disrobed and donned the black. When he
was done Torrullin urged him to a full-length mirror in the
bedchamber. The sheepish grin vanished from Samuel’s face when he
saw himself. He appeared powerful.

In the mirror
he met the Enchanter’s yellow gaze. “My god.”

Torrullin was
no longer concerned with that. “Now you really look like him.” His
voice was very quiet. “Tannil is his firstborn, but he inherited
Vannis’s colouring; you are the image. Samuel, watch yourself. If
you look like Tristamil, you also look like Tymall. Watch your
back.”

Samuel paled
and turned from the mirror. He removed the clothes with alacrity,
tossed them on the bed and strode out.

Torrullin
touched the clothes.

Dear god,
Tris, I miss you.

He rounded the
bed, lifted his empty scabbard from the floor. Buckling it on he
resolved to request a sword from Tannil. He left the bedchamber and
found Samuel dressed and at the window.

“It was not my
intention to scare you.”

“But you’re
right,” Samuel said without turning. “My life is truly inside out
now. I can’t go back to what was.”

“Not as the
man you were, no.”

“I make
jewellery! What can I do against a creature like Tymall?”

“You are
Valla.”

“How does my
Valla blood make me worthy?”

Torrullin
chose silence.

Samuel turned.
“Stumped? Even you can’t answer.”

Torrullin
paced closer. “This is why you came to me?”

“I guess. I
feel unnecessary.”

Torrullin
halted before him. “Do you want to hear what I have to say?”

A forced
laugh. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“My answer may
not satisfy you. The future is open. I prefer not knowing what lies
ahead, but I have the power to see. I am a seer. And if you want to
know, I would look.”

“No!”

A grim smile.
“Not comfortable, is it? I have seen this - you are a leader and
you have a task, do not doubt that.”

“I am too
scared to ask.”

Torrullin
debated and then, “I cannot predispose you, but you will know your
path before long. Your son Tristan and Tannil’s son Teroux, they
have a future together and part of your task is to teach them.”

“Teach?” Samuel echoed.
What have I
done to Tristan?

“You will
know.”

Torrullin
snatched the cloak up and headed out, leaving Samuel to follow at
his pace.

Chapter
43

“
My pride
broke it. My rage broke it. I’ve lost for all time the ancient
sword of my fathers …”

~ The Legend of
Excalibur

Tannil led
Torrullin and Samuel to the hut in the garden.

His
grandfather had asked for a sword - he would give him one.

He wished it
was not the start of Dark Moon this night, an augury some would
remark on negatively later, but knew there was no time like the
present. This day, moon or not, was special.

Smiling,
therefore, with anticipation, he hurried ahead.

He entered the
hut and lit a number of fat candles. The place was romantically
aglow by the time Torrullin and Samuel caught up.

Tannil stood
framed in the doorway.

“Is this a
forge?” Torrullin asked, amused.

“Wait,” Tannil
murmured. “Something needs to be in place first.”

Torrullin
inclined his head, crossed his arms and waited. He heard suspicious
rustling behind him, but did his grandson honour in not turning. A
grateful look shot his way; he exercised patience to earn it.

Samuel,
meanwhile, did look. His eyes went round as hailstones.

The rustling
ceased.

“Look behind
you,” Tannil commanded, eyes alight.

Torrullin
inhaled and first saw a number of retainers congregated in the
vicinity of the mysterious hut. Lucan Dalrish. Quilla.

He turned
more.

Elders.
Barring Kismet and Caballa, the full complement of Elders was in
attendance, all the way from Luvanor. They swept full courtesies
when his gaze fell upon them.

Tannil’s
welcoming, the one he felt guilty over? Torrullin frowned as his
head lowered in a return bow to the Elders, but when he raised his
head again his face revealed nothing.

He turned all
the way and froze in astonishment.

Ambassadors.
They were recognisable by the ornate chains of office they wore
proudly upon their chests. Beacon, Yltri, Pleses, Dinor, Ymir,
Ceta, Kashdar, Xen III … many others. In ranks, like soldiers.
There were Brothers in their spun robes from Luvanor’s Academia of
Truth, religious representatives of varied faiths, sorcerers from
many worlds, and others, their profession and race a mystery.

Caltian was
there, fresh from Menllik, grinning like an idiot. Even Marcus
Campian. He noted a lone Senlu, standing stoic beside Caltian. No
Guardians, but then they were otherwise occupied.

All watched in
silence.

Torrullin
forced himself to bow to the gathering. As one, they returned the
obeisance, with Caltian trying hard to be serious.

Torrullin
swung back to Tannil. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Word went out
to those corners and curves, my Lord Enchanter. The wide universe
is aware of your return. There is a prophecy and tonight is the
night it will be fulfilled.”

“Explain,
Tannil,” Torrullin … requested.

“Simply this, my Lord.
There is a
legend of a Sleeper who will one night awake to claim the sword of
previous awakenings. We await.
”

Tannil
shrugged, beginning to realise Torrullin was taut as a
bowstring.

Torrullin
looked up at the star filled heavens. “That sounds like
Teighlar.”

“Indeed, and
only the Emperor and I knew the source.”

“I’m going to
wring his neck,” Torrullin muttered. “I am the Sleeper?” It
occurred to him what Tannil meant. “My sword? Trezond?” He stepped
forward. “How? I broke it.”

“Caballa found
the pieces. Together she and Quilla re-forged it.”

Torrullin
smiled for the first time since this was sprung on him and smiled
wider over at Quilla, who clapped his hands.

Tannil stepped
aside from the doorway and bid the Enchanter enter. The watchers
crowded closer.

“Once
re-forged, the blade resisted all attempts at lifting, never mind
wielding. It did permit stroking and polishing, but we were forced
to build this around it, here.”

Torrullin was
drawn first to the other objects in the hut. He stilled.

Taranis’s
diary, the one a father had written for his son and enchanted to
his gaze alone. Vannis’s leather armbands. Tristamil’s jewelled
belt. Taranis’s sword. Raken’s ornate little earring chest, she who
loved all things bright.

Torrullin
swallowed. Reminders of those gone, those who fought at his side
over two thousand years ago, those he loved dearly.