The Sleeper Sword (32 page)

Tial nodded.
“Your heart is in the right place, Lazar.”

It was high
praise and the ex-Numer blinked back suspicious brightness. “Thank
you, Tial.”

Tial shrugged
and glanced at Torrullin. “Where is the problem with your
link?”

“We are
Valleur, my friend. My grandson is a fledgling at fourteen
centuries; he may not have wed yet.”

“Lord,
really?”

“My
grandfather was six thousand odd years when he had a child, and so
was I.” Tial’s eyes rounded. “An heir, any descendants from there,
could be centuries away. Sometimes Valleur longevity has
unfortunate drawbacks.”

“Incredible,”
Tial murmured, personally not seeing a drawback. One could do
wondrous things, learn so much.

“In the end,
Tial, everything loses sparkle. Do not envy a man of too many
years.”

“I’m
sorry.”

Torrullin
shrugged.

“How old is
Margus?” Lazar asked.

“I don’t know
exactly. An eon, two?”

“Bugger me,”
Tial breathed.

Torrullin
grinned. “A grey beard, that one.”

“You’re an
upstart to him,” Tial laughed.

Unreadable
eyes. “Yes.”

“What of
liaisons, Torrullin?” Lazar asked.

“Excuse me?”
Tial blurted.

“The link,
Tial,” Lazar pointed out.

“That’s a bit
to the point, though,” the Deorc muttered.

“It’s fine - I
was no saint,” Torrullin said.

He leaned back
to stare upward through the glass dome at the salubrious blue
heavens. Slowly he breathed out.

“Her name was
Cat, Catalina Dalrish. She was Xenian, but made her home on
Valaris. Whether she stayed or returned to Xen, I cannot say, but
she may … no, she was pregnant when I left.” He lowered his head,
his eyes on Lazar. “It is now generations later, even had that
child lived longer than usual years. There is my link.”

Tial sighed. A
child abandoned, a father’s pain.

Torrullin
glanced at him, saying nothing more on the subject. “Give me your
hand, Lazar.”

Lazar put his
hand out and Torrullin grasped it. His palm began to tingle, not
unpleasantly. “Feel that? I’m giving you the ability to recognise
Valla blood. When you find him or her, this feeling will be your
confirmation.”

Lazar nodded
and Torrullin released him.

The man stared
at his hand, fascinated.

Then, “I go
within the hour.”

Alone, Numer
and Enchanter descended to the hidden cavern below the
technological marvels of the Enforcer enclave.

It was a
relatively small space attained by a long flight of narrow stairs
carved into the rock. The entrance above was remained heavily
guarded by ten soldiers, although they knew not what it was they
were under threat of death never to leave unattended, not even to
join in a war. Their orders had not been rescinded, nor would they
be this day.

It was a rough
space, a natural cave, unremarkable other than for the slight
miasma shift in the centre. There was no sense of magic and one had
to know to see, or one would cross to the other side unaware and
unaffected.

“Pretty
ordinary,” Lazar gestured.

“And the best
defence to date,” Torrullin returned, pacing forward.

“Have you ever
seen someone from another realm?” Lazar asked. “I know my
appearance caused some strange reactions on occasion.”

“I saw my
mother and father in ethereal guise, and Emperor Teighlar of the
Senlu,” Torrullin replied absently, as he studied the veil before
him.

“Your parents
are deceased, right? Aaru?”

“I like to
think so.”

“I heard that
your father … never mind.” Lazar shook his head over his
stupidity.

“Taranis was a
good man.”

“I know.”

“Ah, you refer
to his death.”

“Forget
it.”

A twisted
smile. “Impossible to forget the manner of his dying. Yes, Lazar,
my other son was the cause. I could have forgiven him anything,
even his brother’s death, but not what he did to Taranis.”

“I’m sorry,
Enchanter.”

Torrullin did
not answer. Instead he lifted his hand; it passed through the
shifting without effect to either him or the transparency. He
frowned, wondering how it worked, realising he should know and was
afraid to acknowledge it.

Lazar said,
“You need to establish the link first, like this …”

He stepped
into the transparent veil and commenced a rhythmic chant, low and
soft, the words of which Torrullin committed to memory as they were
uttered.

The opposite
end of the cave receded into a long, rocky tunnel and then altered
in appearance, transforming into a watery pipe of blues and greens.
Tiny sparks of magenta crossed the liquid substance, creating
interesting patterns on rounded walls.

“That opens it
to the linking, but in this state it is unstable and dangerous,
like a wormhole,” Lazar murmured.

“You chanted
in Valleur,” Torrullin said, and his gaze remained on the
extraordinary phenomenon before him. It felt familiar.

Lazar smiled.
“I have wondered.” He faced the tunnel and called out. “My family
name. Watch now. As soon as someone on the other side hears and
acknowledges … yes! There it is!”

The swirling
liquidity of the tunnel solidified into a pearlescent oval corridor
that seemed to stretch into forever. The echo of Lazar’s calling
came back to them faintly and was then followed incongruously by a
laughing female voice.

Lazar turned.
“This is my final visit. I know I shall miss this. So be it. What
is it you said about acceptance? I’ll be no more than an hour,
Plane time.” He stepped confidently into the corridor.

It vanished,
taking the eager form into its embrace.

Torrullin was
left wondering what Lazar would find or, more pertinently, who.

It occurred to
him an hour on the flatland equalled ten years where Lazar went.
Lazar could die before he could walk the tunnel.

The wait was
not an easy one.

He stared at
the slight disturbance.

The doorway
would not have presented too much of a problem, a negotiation of
reality shifts he had accomplished in many shapes in dreams, but
dreams had no place here. He could not trust what was fantasy and
truth, not in this, and he had Margus to consider.

Why did time
drag so?

He heard Tial
shouting for admittance, then asking if everything was all right,
but could not for the life of him reply or find the presence of
mind to fetch the Deorc. A companion would have eased the wait.
After a time Tial left and there was again silence.

Another
companion arrived to wait with him.

Elianas.

He gasped as
his mind tore back through dreams of this particular shadowy
figure. Many dreams. Visions. And before the destruction of Torrke
there had been visitations.

Elianas, who
was in the future and yet known to the past and every moment in the
present.

He understood
at last Elianas was in another realm, and one day soon he would
step out of it into his, Torrullin’s, reality.

And that would
change everything.

Torrullin
swallowed and forced those thoughts aside. Thinking about Elianas
always unsettled him, and he was unsettled enough already. He
appreciated the ethereal support, however.

He had no
timepiece - no sorcerer carried one - but his internal clock told
him thirty minutes elapsed, then forty … fifty … interminable, too
swift … at fifty-five he paced in agitation, hands in a bloodless
grip behind his back. Helpless, powerless, that’s how he felt, and
hated it.

Sixty minutes.
A standard hour. Still no sign.

He began to
wonder if Lazar opted to remain in the round lands and would not
blame him, and would cheerfully kill him if he did, sometime,
somewhere. Sweet god, time was running out … sixty-five,
sixty-seven, -eight, -nine …

The tunnel
shimmered into being and Lazar stepped out, markedly older.

Torrullin
released a breath. Never had he known this feeling of utter
relief.

There were
tears in Lazar’s eyes. He looked to Torrullin, as if surprised to
see him after long an absence, and climbed the stairs wearily
without saying a word.

The Enchanter
let him go.

It had been a
final farewell and, time warp or not, Lazar needed to come to terms
with it. Torrullin followed, climbing the stairs with deliberate
tread. At the top he looked back into the ordinariness of the
space. It was empty, and still he lifted a hand to it. To thank
Elianas.

Once out into
the glaring white, alien corridor, he told the guards to leave.
They refused. Had he tested them? He did not know and he did not
care.

He made his
way to the habitation modules.

Lazar darkened
his doorway two hours later and gazed at the sprawled form on the
bed.

“Forgive me,
Torrullin.”

The strange,
golden eyes fixed on him. “A final parting is never easy. There is
nothing to forgive.” He rose. “Let us walk, Lazar, in the sun of
your world.”

Lazar’s mouth
twisted. “World? This is not a world.”

“It is now, to
you. Accept it.”

“I am alive …
for this. Where is the justice, what is reality, what is death? I
can’t accept this, I never will, but I’ll pretend to for the sake
of peace.”

Lazar turned
on his heel and headed for the exterior doors, now casually open.
No longer did gloom requite shutting away.

Torrullin
followed, feeling intrusive and out of place. Indeed, what was
death? He was an alien again; like Lazar, he would never accept the
Plane.

It was
glorious outside, a gentle spring day in paradise. They walked a
time in silence, both blind to the beauty splendid in its newness.
Others were in the vicinity, but the morose expressions of the two
men kept them at bay. They angled down a gradual decline heading
for a field filled only with wildflowers.

Lazar halted.
“I heard tell of the Dalrish sorcerers of Xen III,” he began and
Torrullin drew a pained breath at those opening words. “I thought
it a good place to start. I went as a visiting sorcerer and was
made welcome. A liberal society, the Xenians, a lovely world …”

Torrullin
interrupted. “Xen, a lovely world?”

“The domes are
long gone, and Xen has recovered. The Dalrish remain First Family
and they are the sorcerers who hold the balances together. An
excellent clan, I must say. However, no Valla, not even a trace. A
few discreet enquiries revealed that Catalina Dalrish did not
return to Xen.”

“I didn’t
think she would. Which Dalrish did go back?”

“A scientist
by the name of …”

“Le Moss Mar
Dalrish.”

“Yes. He
brought the domes down and became the Peacekeeper that restored
Xenian society and pride.”

Torrullin
smiled. “Excellent news.”

Lazar nodded.
“They regard it a continuing miracle. His cousin …”

“Matt.”

“Indeed.
Apparently Matt returned from sorcery training and thus were the
Dalrish sorcerers born, and they are universally famous.”

Another cross
thudded to the ground. Matt, bless him, survived the training.
“What of Lowen Dalrish?”

“A well-known
seer, but what happened to her is a mystery I didn’t have time to
unravel.”

“You went to
Valaris.”

“A spectacular
world, I see why you fought hard.”

“Never mind
that. What did you learn?”

“I wasn’t
permitted to travel west to the islands and could find no one
prepared to ignore the ban.” Lazar noticed the Enchanter’s lips
tighten and hurried on. “The majority of folk on the continent are
open-minded and friendly, as long as one doesn’t give the
impression one sympathises with the Valleur.”

“Lazar!”

“I’m not sure
I learned anything. The Valleur are not welcome on the mainland and
queries - well, suffice to say, I nearly landed in jail. Torrullin,
the Valla name in particular is anathema, I’m sorry, and not a soul
was willing to answer even hypothetical questions. I knew there’s a
Vallorin in the west and that was the only certain and provable
fact.”

“Something!”

Lazar held a
hand up. “I didn’t give up, but what I’ve pieced together are
snippets, mostly from the extensive archives in Galilan, and I also
happened to overhear a conversation I kind of forced myself into
when I heard the subject under discussion.” Lazar paused.

“Continue.”

“When the
Dalrish scientist returned to Xen, he did so with his daughter
only. No manifest anywhere has the name Catalina on it, so logic
suggests she never left, but there’s no record of her on the
mainland, nothing.”

Torrullin
started walking again. “She was in the west, had the child there,
and the Elders …”

“No,
Torrullin,” Lazar interrupted.

Torrullin
stopped and found his voice had vanished.

“I overheard a
Siric with a Ymirian at an eatery in Galilan and the Ymirian was
asking questions about you. I joined in, an outsider intrigued by
Valaris’s legends.”

“Who was the
Siric?” Torrullin barked.

“Declan.”

A nod.
“And?”

“To summarize?
The only Vallas are Tannil and his mother.”

Tannil. My grandson has a name.
“You
asked about Cat?”

“Declan looked
at me strangely, but didn’t trust the Ymirian and didn’t challenge
me there. He told me she died not long after the destruction of
Torrke.”

“She was
mortal, Lazar; that’s to be expected.”

“No baby,
Torrullin.”

Silence. Then,
“You asked Declan?”

“Point-blank.”

Torrullin
closed his eyes. It hurt her, his going, and he hoped the baby
would ease her mind, a part of him for her to nurture. It had not
been deliberate intent, that impregnation, yet once he suspected it
his mind had eased. Cat, always volatile, emotional, she needed the
responsibility in order to cope, and she would have been a
wonderful mother to their child.