The Nemisin Star (68 page)

Margus rounded
on Torrullin. “That is an unfair advantage!”

“You do not
play fair either,” Torrullin retorted, “but calm yourself; Vannis
reaches for a different realm. He is no longer immortal.”

“You
want
to die?” Margus asked of Vannis. “Gods, why?”

“Silly man, if
you do not understand yet, I will not be the one to enlighten
you.”

At that moment
a huge and murky shadow darkened the doorway.

Abdiah.

She trundled
in, breathing fire. “You have to find another way!”

“No.”
Torrullin and Margus said together.

“Torrullin,
have pity, I beg of you! There will be war in Kallanon territory
without proof of Light! For goodness sake, my court and I have not
enough support left to quell the uprisings; we shall lose for
certain this time and, god help us, plunge straight back into the
Dark! How long before we regain our strength? Gods, can we? Will
we? The Kallanon need the Light! We need it now!”

Margus
laughed, putting his hands together. “Priceless! Another instance
of Valleur selfishness!”

Abdiah roared
loud and long, flooring the three men with hands over their ears.
She then blasted a gust of fetid air at the prone form of Margus,
lifting and tossing him into the wall behind the Throne. As he
crumpled she shouted, “Do not mock, you piece of dirt! Do not
challenge me! I can kill you; I would love to! Do not push me too
far!”

Margus picked
himself off the floor, wiping blood from his nose. “Then, Dragonne,
the Dark will definitely have the upper hand.”

“And that is
the
only
reason I stay my rage,” she snarled, wafting
stinking breath over him.

“Abdiah,”
Torrullin called out, rising. “Look at me, leave him. What proof do
you need to stay war?”

She blinked,
deflated and turned to him, a sad expression in her reptilian eyes.
“At the very least? The sword.”

“Then take
it.” He held it out to her.

“I cannot. The
prophecies state you will need it.”

“I give it
freely, Your Majesty. I do not desire to plunge anybody knowingly
into the Dark; that defeats what we do here right now. And, by
handing it over, I prove I am greater than prophesy. Have you
considered this is what I needed it for? I am saying I have enough
Light to do without it, and that is more proof. Take it home and
bring peace to your people.” He held it close to her huge talons.
“Abdiah, I do not want it. The price paid was too high.”

She stared at
him. He held her gaze.

“It would be a
great gift, but I will not be the cause of your downfall in the
etheric.”

“Until last
night I thought not to have it with me. I go forth as expected and
prefer it that way. Use it to give evidence to yours, mine, and to
anyone searching for the Light.”

“It is not the
sacrifice I spoke of, you do know that?”

He drew
breath. “That is another time, Abdiah.”

She sighed.
“In the long term this will not be enough, Torrullin.”

“Then buy me
time, Your Majesty. That, too, is a great gift.”

She glanced at
the golden sword. “Last night you created it without word or
gesture.” Abdiah lowered her voice to him alone. “You have come far
since Luvanor. Perhaps you have what it takes for the invisible
realms. But, Torrullin, I fear for you and, Light aside, you are
the one I care about.”

“Thank you.
And I care about you - take the sword. I give it to you.”

Abdiah bowed
over her talons and gingerly gripped the blade. She sighed
profoundly when it did no harm. It could do so, she knew, but the
gift was given unselfishly, and thus it had the power to do only
good … for now. She would ensure it did only good.

She lifted
misted eyes. “Your son was right.
You
win. You have already
won.” She bowed low, holding the sword to her breast. “Fare you
well, my friend, and thank you. We shall be watching for your
return.” Abdiah left without again looking at Margus, but inclined
her head in reverence towards Vannis. “Peace, Lord Vannis.”

Abdiah,
Dragonne Queen, ruler of the Kallanon, was gone.

Absolute
silence.

Blue eyes.
Yellow eyes. Yellow eyes.

The cloaking
ritual commenced.

Three
voices.

A strange
irony, that.

Torrke
stilled, and only a hawk looked down from on high to see the first
flash of intense, inexplicable light.

It spread out
instantly to envelop the entire Keep, then grew to encompass the
surrounds and lifted into the heavens. The hawk screeched in
terror, beat its wings in instinctive desperation. It did not
escape. All in an instant.

The blinding
light bled into the mountains on both sides, rushing east, hurtling
west, but the magic of the valley contained it. That, finally, was
its purpose, its reason for reawakening. It saved many lives that
terrible morning, for the unholy force unleashed by the Throne
clashing magic against magic was far worse than envisioned. Torrke,
after all, proved to be a saviour.

And with the
light of a hundred suns came ferocious annihilating super-winds,
flattening and disintegrating stone, glass, trees, water, boulders,
animals … everything. Nothing escaped.

Torrke died in
an instant.

And with the
winds of doom came the heat of a star in supernova. In an instant
every tiny insignificant atom melted, racing into its neighbour,
colliding with others, dying there until the valley floor was as
horizontal and burnished as a mirror lake of glass.

The mountains
leaned at a forty-five degree angle, black, uniformly sheer. Only
the very tips, where the magic had halted the force, showed crags
and peaks of rock, a noiseless symbol of what was but an instant
ago. Ramparts of transparent diamond, lumped like broken stone,
blocked the eastern and western entrances, blistering, still
melting, cooling.

In an
instant.

Not one of the
three men had the opportunity for a final stray thought. Of their
bodies there would be no trace, ever.

It was
done.

Deep, deep in
the earth where it was still salubrious, the Valleur Throne nestled
in safety and there awaited its release.

And with it,
the last kernel of sentience to restore the valley to its former
splendour.

Both would
wait a long time.

Far to the
west the Valleur dropped as one being to their knees and were
struck dumb.

Cat screamed,
seeing them like that, knowing what it meant.

Saska fainted
and would not wake for three days.

Caballa stared
across the divide of the ocean, turned to stone.

Lowen and
Dalrish gripped each other in stunned disbelief.

Quilla bowed
his head low and wept.

The Kallanon,
reverently bearing proof of the Light, took to the skies and headed
home.

Mitrill put
her hands over her stomach and whispered to her son, the
Vallorin.

It was
done.

Elsewhere on
Valaris people rushed outdoors, stumbled from caves and all manner
of hiding places to greet a new day.

In an instant
they knew the threat had passed. The Darak Or was gone. The
Enchanter had gone. What the latter signified would not be
understood until much later.

In the north,
Phet, once blue Falcon, raised his head and cried out his sorrow.
In Galilan, Shep Lore lowered into a chair to stare in despondent
grief at nothing. When he roused hours later he walked from the
hospital, never to return.

In Luan, Skye
wandered along the beach. She had already cried for Tristamil and
Torrullin, and could only feel a sense of relief, of closure.

An era had
passed.

The source of
the Light was gone.

H
e
opened his eyes to stare up at an impossibly blue sky.

Swallowing,
forcing saliva down a parched throat, he rolled onto his stomach to
rise into a crouch. He was disorientated, but instinct bade him be
wary. Huge chestnuts loomed on one side, dappling the road. He had
no knowledge of how he came to be lying on the grassy verge beside
this narrow, tarred, country lane.

Nothing was
familiar, and yet nothing was out of the ordinary. Birds sang, a
bee buzzed nearby, ants clambered over his hands. The sound of a
tractor droned out of view. Sounds of normality.

He clambered
to his feet, wobbling before he found equilibrium, and saw that the
lane meandered among cultivated rises, vanishing into a bend.
Patchwork farmland stretched to his left, sunny and silent, with
tiny yellow and pink wildflowers decorating the borders. Sparse
woodland flanked his right, cool and inviting. Sights of
normality.

It was spring,
but spring where? He was warmly dressed. Had it been cold recently?
This morning?

He caught the
sound of a stream babbling somewhere in the forest and realised how
incredibly thirsty he was. Stepping warily … why was he wary? What
danger could he not now recall? He halted, intending to crouch, and
changed his mind to sprint into the woodland.

Ignoring his
raging need for water, he stood with his back to a trunk, looking
in every direction. No one there. He headed for the stream, relying
on sound to lead him, and was at war within.

Kneeling to
drink, he stared instead at his reflection. A haunted, pale face,
hollow, hungry cheeks, slight stubble. Shoulder length fair hair
that swung untidily about his face. He pushed it aside to see
clearer. A straight, slender nose, a good mouth.

He bared his
teeth - white, even and all in place. Yellowish eyes. He sensed
that was unusual. He had no name to put with a stranger’s face. He
did not know where he was, how he came to be there and he had no
idea who he was. He did not even understand his thirst. He was lost
in every sense of the word.

After
drinking, he sat to think, unconcerned that the seat of his pants
absorbed moisture from the rich earth.

A while later
he returned to the sunny lane. Having decided to keep to the
fringes of the wood, he began to walk, wondering again why he was
wary. All he had was instinct and at present he had to trust
that.

He rounded the
bend to find homes dotting the landscape; farmland, hills, and the
concealing wood petered out to a few periodic, decorative
sentinels. Instinct warned him to stay away from people, yet it was
likely another might help him find his way, if not his name.
Perhaps someone would recognise him; that was not an entirely
pleasant thought.

Tread
carefully. Do not arouse suspicion. Keep your eyes open.

He stepped
from the trees and set booted feet to the road proper, walking
slowly.

A whistle drew
his attention. A woman picked wildflowers in a field to his right.
She straightened and waved him closer. Sensing no danger, he
clambered over an old wooden fence to amble closer. She was pretty,
past the bloom of youth, but vital and attractive. Brown hair,
hazel eyes, an interesting collection of freckles. She wore a
homespun gown of pale blue that swung about slim ankles as she
moved.

“You must be
strange to these parts,” she said, gesturing at his clothes.

He understood
her, but had no idea what language she spoke. Smiling to put her at
ease, he looked at his clothes,. Black breeches with a number of
pockets, a button-down fly, tucked into boots scuffed and dusty,
and a black tunic, long-sleeved, a collarless high neck, hidden
studs down the front. A scabbard, swordless. Nothing else.

“Yes,” he
murmured. “Yes,” he said again, relieved he could speak the
language as well as understand it.

She laughed.
“You look like one of those marauders in the old tales.”

Marauders. A
flash of landing in a village, somewhere … where? Men, women and
children fleeing, screaming, terrified.

“I did not
mean to.”

“Oh, don’t
fret! Anything goes around these parts. You will soon see the folk
of Bluebell County are an eclectic bunch.”

Bluebell
County. A blank. “So where are the bluebells?”

The woman
laughed again. “Everybody asks that the first time! They’ll be out
in a week or so. Where are you from?”

“Primrose
County.” An educated guess, he hoped.

“That far
away? You’ve been on the road some while.” She glanced back up the
road. “Where’s your horse?”

“He bolted
yesterday.”

“Oh dear, you
must be exhausted and starving! Come with me. I live yonder.” She
pointed to a small white dot at the foot of a rise behind her.
Quite a walk. “My husband will fix you up with another horse … or
we can make a plan.” Obviously it occurred to her that her husband
might not be too happy with her offer. “I’m Eileen, by the way.”
She squinted expectantly.

Exhaling
through clenched teeth, he stared at the ground and kicked at the
earth. Now what? He looked up and grimaced. “Eileen, I am sorry,
but I cannot remember anything from before that horse threw me and
ran off. I don’t know for certain if I am from Primrose and I have
no idea what my name is.”

“You poor
thing! Come, we’ve enough to share. We’ll find out if anyone has
posted a missing person.” Decisive, she turned - arms laden with
wildflowers - to make her way home. He was left with little choice
but to fall in beside her.

It was a
fifteen minute walk and she covered it effortlessly. Although they
spoke, he did not learn much, only that there was a town up the
road. For the most part she pointed out flowers and shrubs, naming
them, and not once was he surprised. Nature was clearly familiar to
him. Horses and tractors, tarred roads.

He glanced
over his shoulder at a field on the other side of the lane. An old
man methodically ploughed his land using a bright red tractor.
Animal transport and mechanised farming. A contradiction. And he
knew it as one?