The Sleeper Sword (47 page)

She did not
feel welcome and while she knew nobody was aware - beyond immediate
family - of her differences with the Enchanter, it felt as if
accusing eyes bored into her whenever her back was turned. Another
mental issue, yet she could not shake it.

Two weeks she
had now given to the city’s maintenance and repair, and now she
could bear it no longer. More than the thousand battle-ready men
and women Tannil asked for came, and many homes required furbishing
and equipping, more than planned for on the island.

Drudgery and
boredom were now commonplace as excitement gave way to
practicalities.

She suspected,
although she had not spoken to him, the Enchanter felt similarly
beset and would grasp at an escape as fast as she would. In his
case it had everything to do with anxiety over Saska. Not a word
whispered over her whereabouts and no glimmer of Tymall, and Margus
vanished without a trace. His concerns were larger than hers, but
his state of mind was a match. She should pity him, but all she
could summon was a sense of satisfaction.

She entered
Linir searching for quiet and did not find it there. Too many were
inside, in discussion about the omen the loss of Nemisin’s Star
represented. Typical Valleur - always portents, scryings and
etheric discoveries. Enough was enough.

Running down
the stairs, she halted at the foot. Where to now? She was not ready
to face Torrullin on home ground and Valla Island was accusing in
its desertion. The sacred sites were uncloaked and the Lifesource
again occupied its original position between the Arrows and Assents
ranges, lightbridge restored to full ephemeral glory; any one of
those sites would bring a measure of relief from the tempest
within, yet she did not want to be reminded of Valla prowess.

Her sense of
dislocation was a shield, for it protected her from herself.

She pulled her
cloak close, a defensive gesture, but it was also colder today.

Rain clouds
hovered and a stabbing breeze sprung up in the last hour. It would
rain later and that suited her mood. She wished she could talk to
her brother, heart to heart, but dared not risk the Enchanter
hearing of that or walking in on the conversation.

There was, by
all accounts, little privacy at the Keep.

Her father was
so engrossed in tasks and duties she hardly saw him, even when he
was in the city.

He cornered
her ten days back, asking after her choice of residence - an upper
set of rooms in the dignitaries’ hostel in the vicinity of Linir -
and she told him she needed time to know her own mind before coming
to the Keep; he accepted that. She could not burden him with other
turmoil. Her mother was on Luvanor, also avoiding the Enchanter,
she realised.

In reality,
her aloneness was a matter of choice. No one would turn her away if
she came knocking. Not even Torrullin would turn her away. The
blame lay with her.

Fay stepped
into the cobbled street, swung left towards the media centre the
oh-so-holy Enchanter allowed in the interest of transparency. There
she would find distraction, something not about the Valleur.

She found the
delectable Anton within the door - a pity he was married and so
very loyal to the Enchanter - and he was as ever juggling a hundred
projects. He smiled as she entered, unaware of her erotic thoughts,
but aware of her interest in human events.

“Lady Fay,
good to see you. Cold today.”

She asked,
threatened and cajoled but ‘Lady Fay’ it remained. “Anton, please,”
she sighed as she wandered over to look at the monitors.

The first time
she stood before them viewing images from various places in
recorded and real time, it seemed akin to magic. She was impressed
until she saw how limiting technology was, for the images could not
be influenced and one could not sense the dialogues of mind and
emotion behind words and action. Akin to magic; not magic at
all.

She overheard
the Enchanter grilling Anton about transmissions and signals early
on in the centre’s preparation and Anton’s reply regarding a
satellite garnered a long silence, after which a terse comment
about it being better than unsightly horrors of techno-towers
followed. She asked Anton about it, who said it was known the
Valleur were averse to technology.

Fay flicked a
roving gaze over the monitors. Human-interest stories and Valleur
updates. An interview with her father, another with Marcus Campian.
Same old.

As she turned
away an image of a burned farm caught her attention - not the
actual burning, for accidents happened, but the presence of a
distinct line. A mark approximately six feet in width escaped the
fire. Something protected the ground there from intense heat.

“Anton, do you
know about this?”

Using a
remote, he turned the sound up, saying, “My focus has been
elsewhere.”

A reporter
spoke in the background unseen. “… can find no evidence of a piece
of equipment, anything proportionate in size that may have lain
close enough to the earth to protect even the tiny flowers from a
fire of this magnitude. Not only are our lawmakers stumped, but so
is this reporter. The Cranmere property is remote and therefore
this scene went unnoticed for some time, possibly as long as eight
to ten weeks, and it translates as a cold trail. Nobody is able to
determine whether this tragedy is the result of an accident or
deliberate arson.”

A pause in
which the camera panned the charred buildings and fields. “This
reporter has been asked to beg of our subscribers to come forward
if anyone saw or heard anything. The identity of the four who
succumbed to the blaze, one a young girl, one a woman, remains in
question, and if anyone can identify them, we ask that you do so.
This is Marc Lassiter …”

Fay’s tongue
swirled in her mouth as she glanced at Anton. “Do you know where
that is?”

“I can find
out. Is there something that strikes you about it?”

“Let us find
out, what do you say?”

He grinned.
“I’ll have the location in five!”

He pulled his
mobile out, pushed digits while Fay wandered over to the door. A
few drops fell outside, but the expected downpour was a way off; it
would not interfere with transport.

“A farm under
Gresh Peak of the Eastern Mountains,” Anton said with a satisfied
air, joining her.

“That
is
remote … perfect for …” Fay caught herself and smiled at
Anton. “How about a visit?”

“By
transport?” He grinned when she nodded and murmured, “You should
really call it teleport, this magic travel thing, because us humans
think of transport as trains and horses and space vessels.”

Shaking her
head, Fay took his hand.

They vanished
from the media centre to reappear at the site of the destruction
seen on the monitor. The area was deserted; the telecast recorded
earlier. The weather was more ominous higher north, but she judged
the rain would hold off long enough.

Anton frowned.
“Crikey, a pretty encompassing fire.”

“Yet it
appears to have kept definite lines, like the boundaries of a
particular farm,” Fay muttered, looking around with narrowed
eyes.

“Foul
play?”

“It would take
an arsonist of incredible expertise to contain such a blaze.”

“Sorcery?”

“That was my
first thought. Too structured and too hot, and that line can’t be
explained by a piece of equipment. Why remove it, if there was such
a thing? An arsonist would have left the scene quickly.”

“No wonder the
law doesn’t know what to make of it.”

“I need to see
the line,” Fay murmured, orientating herself by the remains of the
farmhouse in the distance. “Here it is.” She knelt and Anton
followed suit.

He watched as
she sniffed the air and leaned in to sniff the earth. Long minutes
elapsed and then she straightened, still on her knees.

“No trace of
sorcery, but the trail is cold and possibly masked.” She rose to
gaze down from her height. “It reminds me of a threshold …” and she
paled so alarmingly Anton bounded to his feet.

She stared at him and then at the line of bright, untouched
wildflowers and green grass in a field of black. Now she
had
to face
him.

“Torrullin!”
she shouted, infusing her voice with urgency.

“Something the
Enchanter did?” Anton queried and was silent as the man himself
appeared before them.

He was
expressionless. “Fay? It sounded urgent.”

She wished she
had called to Tannil. “Look at the line.”

Torrullin
looked as bid, stared for long moments, and raised his gaze to
sweep the surrounds. “A particularly fierce burning, leaving this
untouched.” His eyes locked with hers. “This is where Tymall
entered.”

“Yes.”

He switched
his intent gaze to Anton. “Did anyone die for this?”

“Four,” Anton
managed.

“A woman, a
child, two men,” Fay said.

Torrullin
closed his eyes briefly.

“Who is
Tymall?” Anton enquired.

“My son. He
lives.” Torrullin spat and turned on his heel to stride away. He
headed for the farmhouse.

Anton glanced
at Fay, but her attention was on the retreating form. She ignored
him to go after Torrullin. “You won’t find anything there. All
evidence was collected by the forensic people.”

He halted and
stared at the building. “They were already dead when he fired the
place, but they died slowly, except the child.” He bared his
teeth.

Fay laid a
hand on his arm, the first time she touched him, looked at him,
without the need for confrontation. “This happened before you
returned. Eight to ten weeks ago.”

He tolerated
her touch, but said nothing.

“You have to
start telling them. Folk need to prepare.”

He shook her
off, his expression closing.

“Don’t blame
yourself for this.”

“I’m not
blaming myself,” he snarled and vanished.

The rain came
down. Her golden hair was soon flat and wet, but Fay did not move.
She began to hate him, the arrogant son of a …

After a time,
she remembered Anton, and turned to find him nearby. “Anton, I need
your help.”

He was unsure,
she read it in his eyes, torn between wanting to assist a Valleur
and loyalty to Torrullin that sensed all was not well between him
and this woman. Thus she started to cry, a ploy she had not used
before, but it worked. Anton was at her side with alacrity, hands
fluttering with typical male horror over female emotion.

“Just tell me
what to do!”

“I need to be
alone somewhere, to think, to find myself …”

“I know the
place,” he declared with evident relief. “My wife and I bought a
cottage on Ren Lake a few years back, but our boy’s illness … well.
There’s nobody there and the nearest neighbour is a sal away. It’s
fully equipped. Will that do?”

She nodded and
wiped at her tears. “Thank you, you’re a good man.”

“All this
change must be trying for you.”

It was
remarkable insight. “You have no idea. Still in the past, but in
the future as well, with the present a total blur. I need to
reconcile myself, find a way to put events in place … you
know?”

He did not,
but she was Valleur and bound to look at the situation differently.
He suspected he was being manipulated, something to do with the
Enchanter, but thought it wise to help her. He could inform the
Enchanter as to her whereabouts.

“If you could
picture the cottage, I can take us there.”

“It’s raining
…” He knew bad weather interfered with transport.

“Not hard
enough,” she murmured, holding her hand out.

Without
conscious thought he saw the rustic cottage in his mind’s eye and
felt her fingers curl around his. A second later the holiday
cottage was before them and the sun shone through a gap in the
clouds. “Wow.”

“It’s lovely,”
Fay said and meant it. Wood and thatch, with cottage pane windows
and sturdy doors. The lake lapped under the extended veranda and
the back of the house was a natural forest garden. It was quiet and
restful. She smiled with real sincerity. “Thank you, Anton. Come,
I’ll return you to Menllik first.”

“There’s no
food and I should show you …”

“I can manage
and I’ll gather supplies in the city, don’t worry.”

In a sense she
had the Enchanter to thank for this chance to escape, not that he
would appreciate it. She reached for Anton and returned him to the
media centre.

“Thank you,”
she said again and captured his gaze.

You will now
forget where you took me. If the Enchanter or anyone asks where I
am, you will say we returned here. You do not know where I went
after I left you.

She turned and
walked out into the deluge.

The streets
were deserted.

Thirty-third
day back in the round lands and it was a nightmare.

The Plane was
a dream compared to this.

It did not
take a full thirty days - even twenty - for Menllik and Torrke to
play, as in its illustrious past, host to visitors from everywhere.
Too soon, when he did not need it, many worlds sent representatives
bearing welcome, congratulations and gifts. To them the Enchanter
was their saviour, the bringer of peace, and his return, long
expected, had not come as a great surprise. Bonds were renewed,
treaties spoken, friendships re-forged, and it was good. He should
be pleased, particularly for Tannil; he wanted to yell at them.

The
interstellar tourist’s eyes boggled at the sight of a deserted city
come to vibrant life, at the sight of the Golden and the variety of
outlanders where before only Galilan saw such traffic. The rail
system from Two Town Spaceport allowed for debarkation into the
Golden city and it too was good. The Valleur were wonderful hosts
and fantastic storytellers.