The Sleeper Sword (44 page)

“It’s a
shrine.”

He wandered
slowly, touching things, lifting some, merely staring at
others.

An urn,
ornate.

He stared at
it until his eyes hurt.

Tristamil’s
ashes.

He drew
breath, and hoped he would not scream.

It hurt. It
really, really hurt.

For them,
those outside, those who erected this shrine, two millennia. For
him, eleven days. His memories were so fresh he had to bury them or
find himself overwhelmed with grief.

Dear god, how
do I accept this with equanimity? How do I say thank you without
wanting to tear them apart for reminding me?

Concentrate on the sword, my friend,
Quilla chimed, his tone soothing.

Take them
away, take them all away. I do not require witnesses.

They need to
witness. This is the test of validity, Enchanter. Many came,
particularly in the early days after your disappearance, to see the
sword, to lift it unsuccessfully. You know how legends are wont to
take on autonomy. They need to see it in your hands and then they
will go out and renew your gift to the universe.

My gift?

The Light.

Torrullin
snorted.

Two millennia
of unprecedented peace, Torrullin. Not a war, not a skirmish, no
darklings, no evil. Abdiah took the blade of your sons and the tale
and entered every corner to spread the Light, as you bid her do.
What did you expect? An empty gesture? She took it back to the
Kallanon homeworlds and told there of the battle for the Light.
Peace ensued, here, there, everywhere. It was a Gift unparalleled.
Now, a time of renewed strife, probably hardship. New evils. And
here you are once more. They need to see this happen, so they may
take hope away. That was your Promise.

Torrullin was unmoving.
And the
sword is the symbol?

It is more
than that. It is a legend and a promise. It is Hope.

They need
proof.

Unfortunately.

Torrullin
stood then before the pedestal, caressing the shiny blade with his
gaze, diving into its presence. He stood long, one by one shutting
out the objects in the hut, until they were indecipherable.

And found
strength.

He reached
out. An instant tensing of atmosphere, as if the whole world waited
on him and, by extension, the universe.

Tannil,
patient within the door without blocking the view to the watchers,
drew a breath.

The Enchanter
curled his fingers about the hilt and then swiftly drew it up and
out with a metallic hiss. He swished it, testing its strength, and
the re-forged blade kissed the air lovingly.

He smiled
then. His sword. He laughed softly and ran his hand along the edge.
Sharp.

An excellent
repair, Quilla.

Thank you.
Caballa had an equal share in its restoration.

Caballa, who
was there in the moments before he broke it. Caballa, who presented
him with the reason for breaking.

Torrullin
turned, smiled at Tannil, and left the hut with the sword raised.
Coming to a halt before the crowd, he threw it into the air and
caught it deftly.

“My sword,
gentlemen, ladies.” And he bowed.

The acclaim
was deafening and then everyone wanted to touch him, to ask a
question, to introduce him or herself, to share a word. Torrullin
endured, but anger simmered below the surface.

He had not
realised how important he was, and liked it not. It was a pedestal,
like the one the blade rested on, like the one he occupied in the
past, the reason he wanted to leave this reality for a time. To
escape expectation.

After all and
everything, he had not escaped. Not on the Plane. Not here.
Expectation created pressure. Did these people not understand that?
Did they not realise how dangerous that was?

One day soon
he would reach the point where he would deliberately disappoint
them, every last one of them, and then all gods help the
universe.

Beware.

Chapter
44

I had a vision,
a little boy listening to his father tell him of the One, Torrullin
was his name, the father said, the Immortal who lived long ago and
brought hope and joy and peace, and would one day return when he
was needed …

~ Caballa’s
words to the Enchanter before the destruction of Torrke

The alchemist
was good.

Bespectacled
and bent, he was nimble and soon had a number of solvents readied
in shallow dishes. And he asked no questions. The joy of the job
was sufficient - and a few coins hastily secreted.

Wearing
protective gloves, he wielded a sturdy set of tongs as if about to
commence battle.

Saska smiled
behind her hand and then heeded him when he snapped at her to stand
back. Poisonous chemicals, he said, dangerous.

He rotated his
shoulders, shook his head from side to side, and then quickly
hopped forward. Like a war dance, she thought, but dared not laugh.
It was not amusing anyway. She needed to know what she dealt
with.

The gnarled
scientist lifted the blackened coin from the tin she brought it in.
He had not attempted to touch it, had taken her word it burned, but
was intrigued. Sorcery, he said, and shall we clean it up to see
more clearly? She nodded dumbly, as she now watched.

He dropped it
in the first dish. Nothing happened. Stronger, he muttered, and
lifted it out to drop into the second dish. A slight fizzle, a
metallic scraping. Stones, he said, removing stones from the
grooves.

Grooves? Yes,
he replied, exasperated. Always grooves on a sorcerical device.

A nagging
feeling interrupted her concentration. She felt she should know
what it was, this device as the alchemist called it. But how?
Where, when she had never been to that dead world before, and
despite the undeniable pull she experienced, still did not know
it.

A louder hiss
and the crazy little man hopped and then hissed in tandem.

She craned
closer. The beginnings of shine. Definitely gold. Forgetting for
the moment preoccupation with her inner voice, she watched as he
lifted the object into a fourth dish …

She stumbled
back.

Dear gods.

The Maghdim
Medaillon.

It was night
on Valaris and the forest was agleam with silvery shafts.

There was no
moon, but stars were plentiful and bright, seeming so close they
could be picked off like apples from a tree.

Caballa
wandered through rich smells that bespoke fertility and nature
awakening to a new season. Her eyes were the tools that served to
absorb for her soul, always thirsty. An evil man took something of
who she was from her when he did this altering, but he also gave
her an extraordinary gift; it was hard to justify, yet sight proved
a greater astonishment than she could have believed.

She was alone,
having slipped past the sleeping guard. She needed to be alone and
the threat had not escalated to the point where she would soundly
berate the man for his lack of attention. She would, however, be
sure to mention it to Byron in the morning.

All man-made
things were left behind; it was just her, the stars and the night
shrouded forest.

Caballa.

She halted,
not frightened, and put a hand to the old trunk next to her.

Torrullin.

He appeared
before her, a god in the quiet.

“My Lord, what
are you doing here?”

I am not here,
Caballa.

She stepped
away from the tree; put a hand out to touch him. It passed through
his form. She closed her eyes and turned away. A trick of her
mind.

No trick
, his voice sounded in her
head.
A separation. I have many places to
be.

She turned
back. Not legerdemain, rather a genuine part of his subconscious.
It would use much of his reserves, and yet he chose to do this for
her.

Do not tax
yourself in this way, Torrullin.

I seek to thank you, Caballa.
He put
his right hand to his side, lifted his sword from its scabbard.
Starlight glinted briefly and then he released it.
You healed Trezond. I thank you for
that.

She smiled.
I had help.

I know.

Trezond? It
has a name?

He grimaced.
I erred tonight. I
revealed it to too many.

She cocked her head at him.
You
never treated it as anything other than a blade, any
blade.

Yet you,
Quilla and Teighlar elevated it to legend.

You are
displeased?

I am not
certain how I feel, but this sword is special. Perhaps it chose its
destiny.

Caballa leaned against the tree, the bark rough in her
back.
How long have you had it?

His gold eyes
were silvery in the night, the eyes of her memory, the images of
sightlessness. He lowered his lids over them as if he knew what she
thought or, more precisely, felt.

I wandered
Valaris after Millanu died, and found it. A Valleur sword, Caballa,
when my people were long gone. I named it Trezond, for it became
that to me, and kept it close. Every time I readied for rebirth I
would hide it, retrieving it when awareness came back. It is not
special in the sense of value or the hand that wielded it before
me, nor has it magic, but it is my link and an old friend.

A
catharsis.

Pleased, he nodded.
Indeed.
Trezond.

It has magic
now.

No doubt the testing of it will come soon enough.
He bowed.
I must go, but
before I do - why an urn for Tris? Why not burial?

We thought you
would prefer him with Millanu and Taranis in the Graveyard, but
until Torrke awakened …

I
understand.

It hurts.

Yes, but I
thank you for the opportunity to find closure. When I find the
courage. Now I must go. Too many clamour for my attention.

Where are
you?

Menllik. Our
people are home, Caballa. It is a great day, but …

…
the price
we are to pay may prove expensive, I know. We believe in you, my
Lord.

His silvery eyes bored into her.
A
pedestal, Caballa. The land of shadows does not welcome
it.

The land of
shadows?

One of many
titles, and the sum total of the realms I carry within. If all
could see me as a man, my task would be made simpler.

You are not
merely a man, my Lord.

He sighed.
No.
He was gone.

With leaden
feet, Caballa turned and left also.

Anton pushed
his way through the crowds before Linir’s steps calling out,
“Enchanter! Lord Vallorin!”

Behind him a
cameraman butted his way to his side, lifting the heavy piece of
equipment to his shoulder. Thus far they had no luck at a decent
close-up of this historic arrival. Anton was close to tearing his
hair out.

Tannil and
Caltian were deep in conversation and did not hear his call, but
Kismet leaned sideways to whisper in the Enchanter’s ear. A few
seconds later Torrullin looked over his shoulder, caught Anton’s
hopeful gaze, and said something to Tannil, breaking into that
animated conversation. Tannil also glanced over, and nodded.

Anton held his
breath, his cameraman sucked at his teeth, and then the Enchanter
turned to descend the steps.

He halted on
the second to last and waved Anton closer.

“Are you
rolling, Raddin?”

“Got it all,
boss,” came the excited reply.

Anton turned a
brilliant smile on. “Sir, if we may have a few words? This is a
historic occasion and we have many thousands watching …”

“Kismet tells
me you were the director at this morning’s broadcast to the
nation,” Torrullin interrupted, lifting his brows.

“I was.” He
would have to edit that out.

“You are a
reporter also?”

“Well, no,
this is not my usual detail, but …”

“… you were
curious and you trusted no one to do the job perfectly.”

“Um, right.”
He was the one being interviewed. “A few words, sir? A question or
three, if I may?”

Torrullin
shifted his weight to one leg. “Fire away.”

Anton was
tongue-tied. “I thought you would say no … not prepared …”

“Why would I
say no? You said yourself this is a historic occasion, and this one
day I choose to be at the disposal of all.”

“Meaning you
won’t be tomorrow?” Anton jumped in.

“Ah, the
thought processes work again. Meaning tomorrow is a new day and
other things may require my attention.”

“Are you
prepared to be transparent?”

“The Valleur
have already opened their doors, as you and yours have opened the
way. Transparency will halve our problems, if it is achieved and
seen to be achieved from this day.”

It was an
adroit sidestep, Anton thought. The Enchanter neatly turned the
focus of his reply from him personally and Anton did not dare press
him. The night moved on and a deadline loomed. Anton took his
courage in both hands and asked a different question.

“Why have you
come, Enchanter, and why choose this day to return to Menllik?”

“It is the day
after.”

“Excuse
me?”

“It is the day
after my return to my homeworld.”

Anton chewed
at his lip. He sidestepped again. The Enchanter was an old hand, if
not at television interviews, then certainly at answering in a
manner where pressing would appear boorish.

“Valarians are
surprised you did. Your tale is two thousand years old, more legend
than expectation.”