The Nemesis Blade (2 page)

He took a
breath, another and another to still his pounding blood, and swiped
damp hair from his face. Ordinary sounds filled the dark -
crickets, a far nightjar, perhaps a mouse in the closet - nothing
alien, nothing frightening. A dream, and he was in his bed and
there was no danger.

Shivering, he
rose and found his robe by touch, pulled it on and wrapped his arms
about his chest for warmth. Swallowing, he headed to the bathroom
for a drink of water, and did not bother with lights.

On his way
back to bed, he halted in the centre of the large and darkened
space.

“
Help
me
!”

Torrullin
swore under his breath and closed his eyes to listen to the echoes,
really
listened, but there was no more. He stood a long time
waiting for the cry to repeat and, when it was not forthcoming,
knew with certainty he would not hear it again.

It had now
gone beyond his ability to perceive and it meant one of three
things.

One, it
had
been a dream and his waking mind toyed with him. Two,
she was already dead, and that should not be possible. Three, god
help her, she was in real danger, had sent a call, and was now
masked from him.

Fingers
tightened on the fabric of the robe. A disturbing, repeated dream
he could swallow, for it no doubt spoke of his turmoil over this
woman. Death he did not see as likely, for she was like to him. But
the latter did not sit well.

He was in
motion. The robe flew across the chamber, he dressed feverishly,
returned to the bathroom to splash water on his face, brushed his
teeth with hurried movements, and then vanished from there.

There was one
person able to understand. Even if he said not a word, his presence
aided clarity.

Grinwallin

Teighlar, Senlu
Emperor and lord of Grinwallin, looked up in surprise from his
midday meal.

The
sun-dappled portico threw geometric shadows over his pale face,
darkening his blue eyes to the colour of deep water.

“Torrullin?”

“Gods, it’s
day here … thank Aaru, for I need a stiff drink.” Torrullin flopped
into a seat opposite the Emperor, shifting his sword out of the way
when it bit into his thigh.

“Hello to you,
too,” Teighlar muttered. “There is only wine on the table, but help
yourself.”

Torrullin was
already pouring. “Forgive me, my friend. Am I intruding?” He barely
tasted the first glass, slugging it back without appreciation.

“Besides
ruining my taste buds with your rudeness? No. Is something wrong?”
Teighlar pushed his meal aside. “You are armed, as ever, but I see
you give the blade little attention. So what is it?”

The second
glass went down more slowly. “Dreams.”

“Ah. Bad?”

“Yes. This is
excellent wine.”

“Thank you. It
is Senlu red, about five years old, and thank the gods you have
reverted to more civilised behaviour. My winemakers would shudder
to see your treatment of their finest. I assume it is night back on
your sanctuary world, you just dreamed, and now hasten to me and
daylight?”

“I did not
realise it was day.”

“You were to
pull me from my bed, then?” Teighlar grinned.

Torrullin
responded in like fashion. “If necessary.” The grin vanished and he
set his goblet down. “Fourth night in a row, damn it. Exactly the
same.”

“Why come to
me? I am no expert.”

“You are a
friend.”

“You want a
sounding board.”

“Maybe.”
Torrullin lifted a shoulder.

“That
bad.”

“I fool myself
into seeing a dream as a mere dream, but tonight I heard her after
I awakened.”

“Heard
who?”

Torrullin
pulled a face. “Lowen.”

“Ah. Erotic
dreams?”

“I do not have
erotic dreams, Emperor.”

Teighlar
snorted. “Then you are unique as a man.”

“Dreams do not
do justice to reality.”

“Lucky, too,
as a man,” Teighlar muttered, finding himself currently between
mistresses.

“Lowen is in
danger and cries for help. I hear her only in a dream.”

Teighlar
sobered. “A premonition?”

Torrullin
frowned. “I do not know. I hope so.”

“You
hope
so?”

“I can do
something, idiot, if it is premonition.”

“Of course.
Have you tried to find her?”

“No.”

Teighlar
swirled his tongue inside his mouth, throwing his friend a
thoughtful look. The subject of Lowen, he was well aware, was a
sensitive issue, and largely taboo.

“Perhaps you
should find her, then, and check on the veracity of your
dream.”

Torrullin
stared at him, but was not really looking.

“Torrullin?”

A slow focus.
“The rock encloses me. Why is that?”

“I am afraid
you have lost me.”

“In the dream
I turn again and again to find her and there is nothing, only rock,
layers, strata. The rock moves to envelop me and I am the one
screaming - it does not make sense. I have no fear of enclosed
space and I would simply transport away from that kind of situation
in reality. Why am I afraid?”

Teighlar
poured more wine and lifted his glass to stare into the ruby
depths. “Sounds like Grinwallin rock.”

Torrullin’s
gaze sharpened. “Why do you say that?”

Teighlar took
a long pull of the wine and swallowed. He gestured with the vessel
at the arches nearby; Grinwallin, the inner city’s entry into the
mountain.

“I often feel
as if the stones in that mighty mound are alive, sometimes
watching, sometimes slumbering, and I have often speculated, were a
disaster to befall the actual building blocks of Grinwallin, it
would arise.” The Emperor shrugged. “It would be in control. No
escape.”

A long silence
and then, “Has Lowen been here?”

Another long
silence, for they knew each other’s minds well. “A week ago.”

Torrullin
nodded. “What did she discover inside the mountain?”

Teighlar
released a breath. “She would not say, and these factors may not be
linked.”

Torrullin
lifted an eyebrow.

A finger
pointed. “You should talk to her, sort this impasse out one way or
the other. No, listen to me. She is like the walking dead, and you
have shut yourself away from everything. It is unhealthy and
that
may be the danger in your dream. Talk to her,
soon.”

A brief
silence. “I hear you, but that is not it. There is real
threat.”

“The more
reason to find her.”

Torrullin
grimaced. “Where is she?”

“I do not
know.”

“Or will not
say?”

“Why would I
hold out when I am the one advocating you talk? I do not know, for
she did not say. She barely spoke to me.”

A nod and
then, “How is Grinwallin?”

“As demanding
as ever,” Teighlar grinned. Then he was serious. “Samuel was
here.”

“How is
he?”

“Hurting.”

A veiled look.
“Why?”

“Curin passed
away.”

A deep breath.
“Damn, I did not know.”

Teighlar
tossed him a significant look. “You have separated from too much,
Torrullin. Oh,
I
know why, you
think
you know why,
and your family trust they understand, but there are limits.” A
pause. “Saska was at the funeral.”

Uninterrupted
silence.

The Senlu gave
a snort. “Elixir is the walking dead. You are a fool! Wake up
before the perils - which are many-facetted - in your dreams
overwhelm you and you find you
are
helpless …”

“Teighlar
…”

“… no, pal!
The rock encloses because it is a warning. Wake up to the issues
before only regret finds you.”

Torrullin rose
and bowed. “As my Lord Emperor commands.”

“Please,
Emperor of what? You are the real master of Grinwallin. I am no
fool.”

Torrullin, in
the act of leaving, paused. “Grinwallin is yours, Teighlar.”

Teighlar threw
his napkin on the table and rose as well. “Have you heard the
stones sing to you in the mountain?”

Torrullin
blanched.

“Ah. I heard
it once, but no more, not since you came. What does that tell you?
She heard it when she was here, I suspect, for she is not the idle
type. A mystery required solving and Lowen cannot leave stones
unturned … stones! Stone and rock - that is Grinwallin. Gods, you
have so much, including freedom - just go, before I damage a
friendship I hold dearest in my heart.”

Teighlar
scowled into the amazing view over the continent Tunin. Grinwallin
possessed a mighty vantage point.

A brief,
self-debating silence ensued, and then Torrullin was gone.

Sanctuary

Back in his
dark bedchamber Torrullin was dissatisfied, restless and angry.

Moreover,
there was foreboding.

In one brief
visit with Teighlar the spectres of Lowen, Saska, Samuel and the
mystery that was Grinwallin had risen from the ashes of a
deliberately damped fire, and he could not ignore them.

He paced, hand
straying often to the hilt of his sword. His nemesis at his hip.
Would he need it? Was it time for its namesake to put in an
appearance?

A beam of
light pierced the eastern window and he regarded it in
astonishment.

Dawn, sunrise,
a new day. The Valleur would regard that as an omen. Into the dark
of his heart had now come light, chivvying action from inaction,
stirring emotions from behind defences.

Torrullin gave
a mirthless smile. Fine.

It was time to
confront Lowen.

Shudder and
shave! There’s the blade!

Sharpen
it!

~ Tattle’s
Blunt Adventures

Valaris

T
ristan recently celebrated his thirty-fifth birthday,
and it was the last he shared with his mother, for Curin passed
away a week later, without warning.

He remembered
her smile, her joy for life, her love, but already her features
failed in memory, and he hated that memory proved ephemeral, when
it should not, not for a Valleur.

Valleur and
Valla. He grimaced as he wandered down to the beach. To discover he
was Valleur had proven an astonishing challenge, but knowing he was
Valla also proved as difficult. And it helped not a whit in
recalling his mother’s face.

The sand was
waterlogged. The tide was in and it rained continuously. Booted
feet sank to ankle depth in the swirling mini currents, but as he
was already wet it did not matter.

He stared over
the darkening ocean. A storm approached from the south, which was
unusual, and when it made landfall it would be an event seldom seen
this far north. Ice lay in the strengthening wind.

His father had
locked himself away on their farm near Linmoor. Samuel, bless him,
took Curin’s death hard, and this son understood. They would talk
about her soon, once Samuel was prepared to face the world again.
He missed his father, however, and needed to ask if Samuel could
bring his mother’s face to mind …

Tristan swore.
Futile thoughts. Of course he would recall; he was, after all,
Valleur. Valla. This current failing spoke of grief.

A blast of
frigid air slapped at him and he headed back to the Palace. The
storm was forecast two days back; every preparation to endure its
fury was in place. His staff now waited on him in order to secure
the final entrance into the building.

Gods, he would
rather be out here amid fury and elemental temperament than sit in
the manufactured warmth of a Palace he could not regard his own.
Damn it, he wished his father was with him.

Tristan
trudged up to the great entrance and noted all but a small space
rolled down and secured, and noticed too the relief in his
retainers when they saw him approach. Ah, well. If he stayed
outside all kinds of alarms would sound and he would face the irate
council of Elders over it.

Sometimes
pandering to duty and expectation was the simpler of choices.

He entered,
heard the door close behind him, the bolts slide home, and headed
up to his suite. He trailed water across the tiled floor and up the
stairs as he walked, but did not care.

If he could
not have privacy outside, he would command it inside. He told his
valet he needed no help as he entered, and watched the man
leave.

The storm
unleashed. Lightning forked against black sky and thunder pealed
out in rolling waves. Rain drummed loud on the roof. Tristan
dragged sodden clothes off, drew on a warm robe and stood before
the uncovered windows. It was vicious, worse than forecast. It
would also be short-lived. A southern storm could not long maintain
intent in the north.

Tristan gazed
upon the flattening palm trees in the garden. They would survive,
but the shrubbery in general would require restoration. As he
watched, a rose bush uprooted and went cartwheeling north.

His domain, he
thought. The Western Isles were the testing of Tristan Skyler
Valla, oldest heir to the Throne.

He clambered
into bed, snuggling into the warmth and comfort there, hopefully to
forget for a time how uncertain his future was.

Teroux lorded
it over a gathering of his closest friends at the Valla home in the
city of Menllik.

He was
twenty-nine years old and enjoyed life to the full. Every moment of
every day had to be filled with laughter. It did not mean he
neglected his duties as second oldest Valla heir, but he preferred
the company of friends to the formalities of the council of
Elders.

Five years ago
the Elders decided to give each heir a region to control under
their auspices. When the time for formal ascension of a new
Vallorin arrived, the choice before the Throne would be made
simpler.