The Sleeper Sword (51 page)

“Indeed, but
anything else is between us.”

“What news of
Valaris?”

“She is a
jewel, bright as ever. The Valleur have returned to Menllik, the
Keep has re-risen and the valley has put forth its magic again; it
barely tolerates me - I feel it every time I set foot to ground
there.”

“I knew it
wasn’t entirely whole. It awaited him. And have the others
come?”

“They are all
there, Valleur, Siric, Q’lin’la, Centuar and human, and a Dalrish.”
He added the latter name as an afterthought.

There were
dark shadows in her eyes. “Of course a Dalrish, Darak Or. It
wouldn’t be complete otherwise.” She looked away as she asked,
“Male or female?”

He chuckled.
“Male.”

It did not
matter, not really, and yet she was relieved. Twice there had been
another woman; dare she hope this time it would be different?

Margus watched
the shadows grow in those emerald eyes and wondered how much had to
do with the Enchanter’s roving gaze and how much had to do with the
secret she hid deep. He did not know what she hid, but something
was there, and it could potentially result in the ruination of the
Enchanter’s love for her.

Something to
do with the Dalrish.

Chapter
49

How many fools
does it take to play a game of chance? At least two.

~ Tavern
Lore

A month had
now passed, the Valleur were entrenching on the mainland, but
reservation was rife among Valarians.

That was a
crucial nuance, expected, and it would change soon. The enigma of
the Enchanter would swiftly be immaterial as they grew to revere
his gifts.

There was
tension among the Vallas, particularly between two rulers, a nuance
that could be manipulated to his advantage if handled smoothly.

Tymall smiled.
He felt almost sorry for Tannil.

One other
nuance gripped his attention and it was not insignificant. It could
potentially alter a number of strategies, and he knew well how to
adapt to the flow of a changing current. The first few stones were
tossed into the swift current and soon its ripples would lap onto
fertile shores. Ripples that may become waves of destruction.

Tymall put a
hand to his stomach.

There was a
new churning there and it was not only tension and
anticipation.

It took
Torrullin most of a day to break Fay’s hypnosis of Anton and then
the hours of darkness were spent trying to plan for the
confrontation.

In the end he
realised Fay herself would determine the way of it.

Thus he
alighted before the cottage in the early morning when all was
breathless and fraught with possibility. It was a good time to
offer up an olive branch. Would she accept it?

There was no
movement within the cottage, but she was there, on the shore of the
lake in the distance.

He sat on the
deck and waited and did not at first watch her. She moved away, but
would turn back eventually. She seemed at ease, he could tell.

How long had
she been here? Seventeen days? It was a long time for someone with
a busy mind to remain idle, but perhaps idleness was what she
needed. He could understand, not having had an uninterrupted minute
since his return. Had she visitors here or casual intruders into
her space?

He cast his
mind out, but sensed no one else in the vicinity, not now.

It gnawed at
him. Fay could have struck out on a path none of them were aware
of. And maybe he was paranoid.

He dozed when
she showed no immediate sign of returning. The silence of lapping
water soothed him and his eyes closed.

Mist choked
him, blinded him, invaded every pore, every sense. He stumbled and
then froze. Horsemen. They found him.

The screech of
an eagle snapped him awake. Cold sweat beaded his brow. The eagle
cried again and he looked up to follow its graceful soaring over
the silvery water, and then noticed Fay returned. He could not look
away.

It was not
attraction, but appreciation. Fay was beautiful. Unaware she was
observed, she was relaxed and unaffected. She trailed along the
sandy shore in a feminine gait that knew no cares, no time, and her
hair streamed out behind her, golden, catching the sun,
occasionally blowing forward to obscure her face. Tan cotton
trousers were rolled up to her knees, with a matching top tied in a
knot above her navel, the colour blending with her golden skin
tones until she appeared a nymph unclothed.

For the most
part she gazed ahead, far past the cottage, either deep in thought
or so relaxed her eyes could fix on nothing.

Torrullin
moved into the shadows, unwilling to startle her with his presence
as she approached, but the moment came when she knew she was no
longer alone. Close to the cottage she stopped, her gaze focusing
to rake the building. She was not perturbed; in fact, she seemed
expectant.

He stepped to
the rail. Her lips tightened and he had the clearest feeling she
expected another. She climbed the steps in the grassy verge to
approach from the side and joined him at the rail to stare
unseeingly into the water.

“It took you
awhile.”

“You expected
me?”

“Eventually.”
She scuffed her feet against each other, dislodging fine sand, and
tucked her hair behind her ears. “Leave me here. I prefer my own
company.”

He nodded
without looking her way. “I know the feeling well.”

“Then you
understand. Please go away.”

“I cannot do
that, Fay. You’re too vulnerable alone.” He turned to her then.
“Tymall will come for every Valla, one at a time, and he will find
you as well.”

She gave a
smile that was either wry or secretive. “I am sundered.”

“It doesn’t
exempt you.”

“I pose no
threat.”

He was silent
and then, “If you were the last Valla, Fay, what would you do,
whether it is for duty or love?”

She wrenched
her eyes from his. “I don’t know.”

“You do
know.”

She swallowed.
“I would conceive of an heir for the Valla longevity.”

“Do you see?
You remain a threat and he would come for you.”

She held
herself still and he could not help wondering what went on in her
head, for he knew instinctively she did not reason along accepted
patterns. She was closed to him, as few people were; only Vannis,
really, defied mind reading this completely.

Then she
turned and went indoors. A while later she came out dressed in dark
green breeches, brown leather boots, a navy turtleneck and a
scarlet and green waistcoat to complete the ensemble.

No more gowns,
he noted, and was relieved. It signified a state of preparation and
did not detract from her beauty. Her hair was tied back with a dark
ribbon, the ends trailing over her shoulders. She dumped a valise
on the deck and eyed him.

“Tannil is
worried about you. And your parents.”

She had the
grace to be ashamed. “I couldn’t talk to them.”

“You can talk
to me. I may bite your head off, but I would give you honesty every
time.”

She looked at
him, but said nothing.

He let it go;
she would not trust him yet. “We must go.”

“Where
to?”

“Your choice,”
and grinned when she raised her brows. “All right, let me qualify,
Torrke or Menllik.”

“Why not Valla
Island?”

“A beacon by
name alone and too unattended.”

She snorted
and then, “Torrke.”

His turn to
lift his brows, in surprise. “Not what I expected.”

She smiled.
“That’s why.”

He hesitated.
“Fay, I’m sorry …”

“Spare me the
speeches. By now you’ve been told of the whys and wherefores and
you think you know. I understand your reaction, given your
chequered past. I even think you are as sorry as you look right
now, but I don’t like you and I think you’ll prove the undoing of
us. That’s why I choose Torrke, to keep an eye on you, expose you
if necessary.”

She stared at
him and he did not refute her words.

“Shall we
go?”

“What, no
rejoinder? No you have me all wrong?”

“You read me
correctly.” He bent and lifted her valise. “And you know what else?
You are trouble.” He vanished.

Shocked, she
drew a deep breath and then, furious, she followed.

Torrullin had
word from Declan regarding the nine planets - five revealed
nothing, with four to go - and was on his way to discuss it with
Tannil - a much happier Tannil, now that Fay was around - when
Kismet arrived in the courtyard, his manner urgent.

“My Lord, a
space traveller went down in the Vall Peninsula.” Kismet spoke
directly to Torrullin, when he should acknowledge his Vallorin
first. “I have no details, but the field of debris stretches many
sals.”

“Where is the
Electan?”

“I’ve already
ferried him north and he sends for you. My Lord, they are in
desperate need of a healer.”

“Say no more.
Go to the city with the news. Tannil? Quilla?”

“Right behind
you,” they responded in unison.

It was
carnage.

Twisted,
blackened metal scattered among hundreds of ruined and burning
homes. Thick plumes of black smoke billowed from various points,
plunging the scene of destruction into surreal, choking night.
Screams everywhere, plaintive cries for help. Mothers cried in
dazed stupor searching for their children and the dead lay in
broken remains wherever one dared look.

Tannil sprang
into action. As Valleur began pouring in from the city, he turned
to Torrullin. “Find a likely place beyond this and we’ll ferry the
wounded to you and Quilla.”

Torrullin was
already moving, with Quilla urgent behind him.

Tannil
shouted, “Valleur, to me! Organise teams of four and I need
volunteers from the hospital in Galilan for …”

Tannil was out
of hearing.

A dirty figure
appeared from out of the smoke and halted before the Enchanter.
“Will you help?”

“Until we can
do no more,” Torrullin said. “Marcus, we need a place to do
healing. Anything come to mind?”

The Electan
coughed and nodded. He held his hand out and Torrullin took it,
transporting them to the image he formed. Quilla followed.

It was a hall
for gatherings, weddings and the like, about to become a field
hospital.

Torrullin sent
his location to Tannil, adding he required a team to aid him. Eight
men and women were with him swiftly.

“Clear the
chairs, then go round the neighbourhood for mattresses, blankets,
containers - you know what to do.”

The eight set
to work. The team dispatched to Galilan started arriving with
doctors and medical supplies; it was shambles, but soon an
organised mess. Torrullin nodded - doable. He turned to Marcus.

“Electan, come
here.” Marcus approached and Torrullin touched him. “Energy,
Marcus, for you’re going to need it.”

He did not
hear the words of thanks, for wounded began arriving, and Quilla
was the one to say to the Electan, “A place to gather the dead,
Marcus.” His face screwed up in sympathy. “I’ll call Kismet to
assist you.”

He did so and
then forgot about it as he turned to help Torrullin and the
doctors.

Many uncounted
hours later, unaware of night or day, Torrullin stumbled into the
street to find hundreds more in neat lines shepherded forward
according to severity of injuries, and at least a dozen exhausted
human doctors bent over prone forms.

Others helped,
men and women of the Vall, bringing medical supplies, food,
blankets and drinking water. Some boiled water and sterilised
instruments, while there were those simply offering a word or two
of comfort, as vital as healing. Valleur moved among them about
similar tasks, while others brought in wounded.

The most
serious went directly inside and the others were handed over to the
teams on the street. It was night and not far away fires raged out
of control. Hundreds of volunteers attempted to stem the blaze,
while others evacuated where danger threatened.

Torrullin
pushed his unkempt hair aside, smearing new blood over old, and was
about to go inside when a young boy approached, holding out a
bottle of water.

“Drink,
Enchanter,” he whispered, and Torrullin hunkered before him, tired
muscles protesting the movement, and accepted the offering.

“Thank you,
young man,” he smiled and tipped the bottle back to drink long, his
throat parched and sore. Handing it back, he rose and tousled the
boy’s hair and returned indoors.

The scene was
not better inside. It was a nightmare of bloody, torn men and women
and children, groaning, screaming, crying, sobbing, and there was
barely enough room to place his feet. Burn victims oozed blood and
terror. Many had severed limbs. Many faced only death.

They came in
and went out as soon as they could to make space for others, the
healed assisted through the doors on the other side to a nearby
hall where their names were taken. The dead went elsewhere, most
unidentified.

Hundreds dead,
tens of hundreds wounded. It would be weeks before … but he could
not now think of logistics.

He stepped up
to a teenage girl and commenced another healing. On the other side
of the hall Quilla bent over an old man who had a piece of shrapnel
imbedded in his skull, and elsewhere Valleur herbalists and healers
were interspersed with human doctors, faith healers, Society
sorcerers and Herbmasters. Anyone who could help was there.

At one stage
Torrullin lifted his gaze to see Mitrill and Fay working
side-by-side on an unconscious woman. He smiled wearily when he
noted looks of relief pass between them when she opened her eyes.
Then he concentrated on the man under his fingers, torn liver,
pierced lungs, spleen, intestines - his hands burned, he tapped too
much, but he persevered until they knit in order and then traced a
pattern over the man’s torso, bringing new skin over whole
organs.