The Nemisin Star (8 page)

Tymall
shrugged. “It felt right. The city, the temple, the star, all
Valleur. New to Valaris, part of us. Ours.”

“It was part
of your scrying, did you know?”

Tymall
frowned, first to be wrong-footed. “No.”

“Isn’t it
amusing how you drag me into your scrying, while I get to keep mine
to myself? Perhaps I am more than you even in that.” Tristamil, by
shifting attention away from the scroll, took the upper hand and
led the conversation according to his whim.

A
psychological battle.

“You bait me,
brother. It will not work.”

Tristamil
smiled, “Bait? That is for children. By the way, have you had
occasion to use that?” He pointed at Tymall’s sword.

“Have
you?”

“Naturally.
What is a sword but an ornament if it hangs useless and unused at
one’s side?” said Tristamil.

Very good,
Tristamil.

Tymall did not
answer.

“I hope you
have at least practised with it, Ty,” continued Tristamil.

“I am the
better swordsman.”

“True, but
that ornament has naught to do with skill. It is an extension of
the ideals you hold up to scrutiny.”

“Then I have
no problem, do I?” said Tymall.

Torrullin
watched his face. There was something hidden there, a secret
advantage, something Tristamil had not yet seen in his brother. It
had to be in that scroll. He sent his senses out to probe, but
there was no magic contained in it and therefore it was blank to
him.

Before
Tristamil could speak again, Tymall held the article aloft. “Do you
know what this is?”

“A scroll,
brother. Are you blind?”

Excellent
, Torrullin thought. Tristamil had a remarkably
quick mind.

Tymall
frowned. “You won’t make light of it much longer, idiot.”

“Names now?
Childish, don’t you think?” Tristamil removed his hand from his
sword and it clenched and unclenched behind his back, a visible
sign of tension, visible only to his father.

Back and forth
it went and the two watchers were aware of increasing pressure in
the brothers, and within themselves. The twins played each other as
if unwilling for matters to come to a head. This was probably a
final remnant of years of dual protection. Their symbiosis
prevented a first blow. Sometimes that kind of familiarity could
lead to inaction.

Torrullin was
quite happy to accept that.

Ice flowed
through his veins. Comprehension trickled into his subconscious in
indistinct form. He recalled what he told Taranis about the
symbiosis of these two.

They are each
other; they exist because of that. The two halves of my power. If
one falls, the other inherits.

Tris will
receive Tymall’s power and it will kill him.

Ty will take
on Tris’ and it will kill him.

He could lose
both of them. Grey eyes lifted in dawning fear.

Their destiny
is to confront one another. Why, if both are to succumb to the
result? What is the meaning of this?

He rose
thinking frantically. What?
What?

Then it was
there. A word, a concept, a state, the way.

Choose.

Torrullin
forced nonchalance for Margus’ benefit. Choose, because his sons
were the players in
his
destiny. He would be a step closer
to a greater truth soon. The future beyond this.

“Goddess, Ty,
draw that sword now and let us be done.”

No!

“Not yet,
Tris. Let us reach for maximum effect here. We will wait until
Nemisin shines bright, what say you? How often will we get to
indulge in theatrics in the future? This may be our swan song.”

“Rather poetic
for you, Ty.”

“I have my
moments.”

Torrullin
released an inaudible sigh. Tymall obviously stalled for time, no
doubt upon Margus’ command - for something to be in place - and he
had never been this grateful for the Darak Or’s machinations. He
had time. How much time? Half an hour? Gods, he had lost track.

Quilla, are
you with me?

Always,
Enchanter.

Do you know
what happens here?

I
do
.

Tell me what
to do.

I
cannot!
Quilla’s usual serenity was absent.
I do not know
what to tell you.

Surely it
should be easy? Tristamil?

Then you can
no longer employ Destroyer to track Margus.

I do not care
about that.

Maybe, but
will the light of your nature be enough for you?

Torrullin
groaned aloud, drawing the twin’s gazes.

“You may not
interfere, Enchanter!” Margus snarled from the other side.

“I am not, you
imbecile.”

“Ty, can we
not walk away?” Tristamil suggested.

Yes, yes.

“It is too
late, brother. We end it tonight.”

If I choose
Tymall for power over Margus, I lose …

It did not
bear thinking about. It was not an option. It was therefore greater
than a choice of a son. It was greater than saving one of them. It
was greater than the issue of the Darak Or and the factor that
would prove victorious over him.

If it was
simply one of these things it would be easy, for it would be,
without doubt, Tristamil he held back in this realm. Losing Tymall
would hurt, but he had already lost him in life. Death may even be
a release.

He had to
choose himself.

Admit you are
enamoured of the dark side, the total liberation, even as you seek
to subjugate it. The power of Light is intense and entrancing, but
for you it is weaker alone. You love power.

His thoughts
were truth … right? He would not have thought he was in love with
power, but had to confess he did not want to lose it.

Y
ou
can have it. Stand back and watch them kill each other and nothing
changes for you. Do nothing, and no one will blame you.

I shall know,
always.

The spectre of
the dead Murs arose to taunt.
You must choose one son.
And
Abdiah sagely telling him he had not chosen with his soul - how
true. He had chosen with his heart, but that had no meaning
here.

This battle is
for my soul.

Tristamil
stood with lowered head. He knew something was wrong.

“Speechless,
brother?” Tymall taunted.

“Shut up. You
cannot see what is in front of you.”

“Meaning?”
Tymall’s eyes narrowed.

Tristamil
stole a glance at his father. “Work it out. I am not holding your
hand.”

Tymall
frowned, at a loss. The scroll wavered and he glanced at Margus and
then back, eyes wide.

Margus was
gone.

“What is he up
to?” Tristamil growled, and put his hand on his sword.

Torrullin
stared at the empty space. The Darak Or had not left via
conventional means and the transport was so sneaky it went
unnoticed.
The trap is to be sprung.
He cared not. All he
desired was to find a path through the labyrinth of his choice.

Tymall
grinned. He unrolled the scroll. “Allow me to read this, will you?
It is a single line, an oath spoken and recorded and then signed.
King after king after king; I believe there are eighty-one thousand
seven hundred and forty-one marks on this document, and it will
continue to grow until the oath is fulfilled.” Tymall raised an
eyebrow. “Would you like to know what that oath is?”

Tristamil
glanced at his father, but there was no help there.

Torrullin sat
with eyes closed, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. He
listened to the nuances.

“It will
explain where my master vanished to,” Tymall prompted.

“Your master.
I will kill you for that insult. Speak!”

Yes, speak
Tymall, and perhaps what you say will help me.

Tymall assumed
an oratory stance and cleared his throat. “It is dated thus; the
Year of Annihilation. After every king’s mark there is a noted YA+
and whatever figure that king’s year of rule began. If you are
wondering how it is I am able to read this obviously ancient
scroll, it is in Valleur. In fact, it is addressed to us.”

“Ty, get to
it.”

Tymall offered
a self-satisfied smile. “It says,
To the Golden who speak this
tongue.
Intriguing isn’t it? Gave me quite a turn. Come now,
brother, no snide comment?” Tymall laughed. He was in control
now.

“Read it, and
be done.”

“Very well.
After the date and address, it simply says,
We, the Dinor,
however few we may be, however long we may wait, swear upon the
honour of our people to exact bloody revenge on the Valleur for the
near extinction we have faced by your hand.
” Tymall looked up.
“And then the signatures begin.” He rolled the parchment and held
it out. “Read for yourself.”

Tristamil took
it, but did not unfurl. “The Darak Or found them.”

“We have our
indecisive father to thank, actually.” Tymall glanced at his
father, but that silent figure gave no indication of having heard.
He faced his twin. “World hopping was informative, particularly
where we arrived after you left. It presented an opportunity to
indulge in discovery. The Dinor were maddened by the fact that a
band of marauders dared set foot on their world and were seriously
inflamed that one of them was a Golden - Vannis, of course, he of
the trueblood. That was, oh, about four weeks ago, but one can do
much in a short time, not so?

“While your
band of marauders continued looking for us, Margus conceived of a
plan. We became two then, for two individuals bearing witness to
the crazed Dinor would be more telling. You have seen Margus now;
he has an innocent demeanour, and he was the injured party beset
upon by the Valleur, abandoned along with his friend- me- on the
Dinor homeworld. Well, needless to say, they lapped it up. They
swore to follow him if we could lead them to the Valleur.”

Tristamil
paled. “They are here.”

“Outside.
Margus went to greet them. His evidence is Menllik herself, for
even empty she is proof of Valleur occupation.”

“He has
interfered,” Torrullin said, and unwound to stand.

Both his sons
snapped heads his way.

Torrullin
looked at Tymall. “Your master,” he spat, “has interfered in this
farce of tonight by leaving. More, yes, but leaving is the first
nuance. Therefore I now claim the right to do the same.”

“Leave?”
Tristamil blurted, a faint tremor in his voice.

“Farce?”
Tymall asked.

“I claim the
right to interfere,” Torrullin said. “And it is a farce, yes.”

There was dead
silence.

“How is it a
farce?” Tristamil questioned.

“How dare
you!” Tymall shouted.

Torrullin’s
face set in stone. “This is not about the two of you.”

“I suppose it
is about you!” Tymall snarled.

Torrullin
studied him in silence for a beat and then nodded.

“Not
everything is about you! You are so arrogant, so blinded by your
image of self that you cannot comprehend a situation that does not
revolve around you!” Tymall drew his sword. “Typical!”

“Put it away,”
Torrullin said.

“No!” Tymall
screeched and advanced.

Tristamil drew
his blade. Both weapons remained dull.

“Tris,
sheath,” Torrullin said.

“Not until he
does.” Tristamil manoeuvred between his father and brother.

“You have to
trust me,” Torrullin said, placing his hands on Tristamil’s
shoulders, feeling extraordinary tension.

“I will not
use it,” Tristamil said, “unless he does.” He drew comfort from his
father’s touch.

“That is good
enough.” Torrullin stepped away.

“Very cute,”
Tymall hissed. “So together!” He moved forward a pace, gaze on his
father. “Come father, you have a sword. Draw it!”

“You cannot
win a sword fight with me, Tymall. Put it away and listen to what I
have to say.”

Tymall
wavered.

“You
interfered, Enchanter,” Margus said behind him.

Tymall
straightened and gripped his sword with both hands. Tristamil
jerked around to Margus, blade up. Torrullin did not move and did
not release Tymall’s eyes. He said nothing.

Margus laughed
and ambled past Tristamil, and as he passed he flicked a hand at
the dull blue blade, a dismissive gesture. “Please, little pup, do
not insult me.”

“I challenge
you to touch it, Darak Or!” Tristamil said, turning to keep Margus
in sight.

The light of
understanding lit inside the Enchanter.

Tymall saw it
and goosebumps raised his skin. “Do not touch it,” he said,
glancing over his shoulder.

Margus’
eyebrows rose incredulously at his protégée. “You would tell me
what to do?”

Tymall
shivered.

Margus reached
out and took Tymall’s sword from him. He held it in one hand and
drew the forefinger of his other hand along the blade. Drops of
blood appeared; he smiled and sucked at his finger. Handling it
back, he said, “Look, Enchanter, I bleed. Is it not incredible?
From an almost whisper to a full-blooded warm body. I surprise even
myself.”

Torrullin did
not respond.

“Ah, silence,
is it? Effective.”

“Touch the
other blade,” Torrullin said.

“Why?”

“An
experiment, if you are up to it.”

“I have
nothing to prove.”

“I do. Humour
me.” Torrullin glanced at Tristamil. “Put it on the ground and step
away.”

Tristamil
looked askance at his father.

Trust me.

Tristamil
lowered his sword and bent to place it on the tiled floor. Keeping
his eyes on Margus, he straightened and stepped away.

Nobody
moved.

“I do not get
this,” Tymall muttered.

“Then you do
not know your father very well,” Margus snapped.

Tristamil
smiled.

“Enchanter,
you interfered; that was not the bargain,” Margus said next.