The Sleeper Sword (6 page)

Buthos nodded
with alacrity. “They fear something happening to their
Vallorin.”

There was
another silence and then, “I hadn’t realised.” Tannil pinched the
bridge of his nose.

Like
Torrullin, Quilla thought, when tension gets to him.

Buthos sighed.
“I think you should tell us. Maybe there’s a pattern and maybe we
can help.”

Tannil leaned
back and cursed as the metal bit into his shoulder. Muttering about
incompetence he rose and began to pace.

Quilla smiled
inwardly. Tannil had Torrullin’s impatience.

Buthos thought
how much like Vannis Tannil was, a mirror image. He was a golden
man and the only feature missing was Vannis’s changeable eyes.

“All my life
I’ve had dreams,” Tannil said and the irritation was gone. “Most
were past memories, but some left me gasping for air when I forced
myself to wake. I could never recall a single image, but what is
stranger still, it’s always the same dream and I know that without
an image as guidance.”

Buthos
frowned. “A terrible situation for you, Tannil, but what has this
to do with the present?”

“Let him
speak,” Quilla snapped at the Siric.

Tannil went on
as if uninterrupted. “For the past two months it’s a nightly
performance and the only time I escape it is on Luvanor. This tells
me it is bound to Valaris alone.”

Quilla and
Buthos exchanged glances.

“As a child it
was a nightmare, but as an adult it’s something far worse.” Tannil
leaned on the table to gaze at his companions. “It is knowledge I
appear unable to face, despite every unconscious prompting.”

The Siric
jumped in. “You shouldn’t hide from this.”

Tannil
straightened. “Obviously, Siric, but maybe I wasn’t equipped before
to deal with it.”

“And you are
now?”

Tannil gave a
grimace. “Later this morning I intend to pay an overdue visit to
the Three Gates with Caballa and Kismet.”

Quilla nodded.
“A good step, yes.”

Buthos asked,
“What has this to do with incidents?”

A mirthless
grin was sent his way. “Simply this - I find I can’t sleep after an
episode and thus I wander. Inside the Palace, outside, often onto
the bridge. I see things.”

Again Buthos
and Quilla exchanged glances.

Tannil did not
notice. “Simple things. A blue fish bright in inky water, a green
shooting star, a sprig of blossoms on the jetty, a lit lantern on
my ship when it’s empty. Comforting symbols, I hasten to add, as if
an opposing force seeks to allay my fears.”

“Ah,” Quilla
sighed.

“Last night it
was more intricate; a circle of stones and shells laid out in the
sand, and my guard couldn’t see it.”

Buthos was
wide-eyed. “This is why you asked if there is sign of an opposing
force; you’ve encountered it.”

“Every time I
have the dream, it comes.”

“The dream
might have something to do with these incidents?”

“The increase
in frequency coincides with your time frame. It is likely.”

The Siric
leader exhaled. “The coincidence is too glaring to be anything
else, indeed. You have to find out what haunts you.”

“I am a man of
my word, Buthos. I said I was going later.”

Buthos
inclined his head.

“Why are you
quiet?” Tannil demanded of Quilla, but before the birdman could
formulate an answer Declan, Buthos’s deputy, materialised.

Declan bowed
to Tannil. “Lord Vallorin, it is good to see you again. I wish I
come with better tidings.”

Tannil nodded.
“Declan.”

“What news?”
Buthos demanded.

Declan faced
his leader after flashing a smile at Quilla. “I have news regarding
Xen’s ethereal dome. It was sorcery and the Dalrish managed to
trace the signature.” There was no triumph in the Siric’s tone.

“Excellent,”
Buthos smiled, rising. “At last, some good news.”

Declan shook
his head. “Bad news.”

“Tell us,”
Tannil said.

“The signature
comes from Valaris, Lord Vallorin.”

The three
stood on the central island of the renewed Three Gates.

Neither
Caballa nor Kismet demurred when Tannil stated his intention,
seeing in their Vallorin determination that was all about fear.

The three
islands, west of the southern tip of the mainland, rose sheer from
the ocean. The cliffs were brilliant white. All three plateaus were
grassed in emerald, and atop each expanse stood a freestanding blue
arch, beacons to seamen for sals when the site was uncloaked. The
structures were at least ten times the height of a man.

Once there
were birds on the islands, under renewal only, little creatures
that were music in movement, but a mite over two thousand years
ago, before the long-term cloaking, Phet of the Q’lin’la took them
under his wing and relocated them to Luvanor.

Phet became
their father, mother and teacher, having unselfishly asked for the
privilege of leading the incredible creatures to sentiency. He made
progress and intended to return them to Valaris once conditions
were favourable again. They were the Ephnor.

None of that
was on any of the three minds. The Three Gates were dream
interpreters. The dreamer of an indecipherable visitation stood
within the arch, aligning with the exact centre, and the Gate did
the rest. The one to their left was the Gate of Forgotten Past,
while the one on their right was the Gate of Remembered Future. The
central Gate, where they were, was the Gate of Present Dreams.

Tannil was
nervous, but none of it showed on his face.

In the end,
after a lifetime of hiding, it took seconds to recall what haunted
him, and needed only the one Gate.

There was no
confusion and no need for interpretation.

Tannil stood
in the central arch … and reeled out, ashen of face. He lurched
around to stare at the mainland.

Caballa
employed the Sight to overcome her blindness to go to him swiftly,
and Kismet trailed with uncommon reluctance. He could not know
exactly what his Vallorin’s expression meant, but had a suspicion
it had to do with the Enchanter … and that beloved man would not
like it.

Tannil said
nothing when they stood before him and shuttered his expression.
When Caballa made to speak, he said, “I can’t tell you.”

His golden
features were blank. He whispered the words of cloaking and
returned to the Palace. The Gates were gone, as was the beauty of
the three islands. They were again nondescript barrenness.

Kismet found
the courage to ask Caballa, “What do you think?”

She turned her
sightless eyes on him. “We’ll not guess, old friend, but he has
finally found the source of his long haunting.”

Kismet was not
easy to placate. “It could affect the Valleur.”

“I have no
doubt on that.”

Kismet
muttered under his breath and then, “We may ask the Elders to
confront him.”

“We’re the
real Elders, Kis, since Pretora passed on, you know that. If he
can’t tell us, he won’t bend for them.” Caballa sighed. “I think he
may tell only one person what he learned here this day.”

Kismet’s heart
hammered. “Torrullin?”

“Ah, you
suspect also. Yes, our Torrullin … who else?”

And Caballa
smiled.

Chapter 8

Why me? I’m
just a plain soul! Why ask me to step into this mess?

~ Tattle’s
Blunt Adventures

Later that day
an irate and sweaty individual entered the hamlet of Moor.

Part of the
way by rail, which Marcus detested, then a hike to the nearest farm
to hire horses for himself and his two bodyguards, but the farmer
had not wanted to part with three beasts and no amount of haggling
or touting status shook him from stubborn distrust. Eventually
Marcus was forced to buy one horse at an exorbitant price and it no
more than a nag. He continued on alone, leaving his two companions
to follow on foot. Unless those two were lucky along the way,
Marcus doubted he would see them too soon.

As he entered
Moor, the animal having been compliant, he noticed a boy fishing in
the pond next to the butchery. He clambered from his ride,
saddle-sore and peeved, and handed the reins to him. Without a word
he turned and walked away.

“Hey, mister!
What am I to do with her?”

“Take her,
sell her, eat her, I don’t care!” Marcus flung over his shoulder
and continued to the local inn on the opposite side. Behind him the
boy gave a whoop.

Moor comprised
one single road with a number of buildings on either side. Marcus
reflected he would die of boredom. He thrived on the intricacies of
politics too much for this peaceful backwater to hold his
interest.

He
straightened his robe and looked in dismay at dusty feet.

A young woman
left the inn. She was a pretty little thing, blond hair and blue
eyes, and wore jeans and a t-shirt, a style adopted from
offworlders, one Marcus could not fathom.

“Mr Campian,”
she said, meeting him in the road. “Thank you for coming.”

Marcus could
not hold temper for long and particularly not with attractive
company. He smiled, extending his hand.

She returned
the smile, and he was surprised by the firmness of her grip. “My
name is Rene Sirlan.”

“Pleased to
meet you, Rene. Shall we?” He gestured at the inn.

The building
was light and airy, built on the site of generations of inns, but
Marcus did not care for the tropical décor.

In the
entrance he did battle with a palm tree and then followed Rene to a
table before a set of massive windows. At least the view had
something to recommend it, gazing out onto a huge dam in a large
pasture. Ducks and swans swam lazily on the smooth water.

Rene giggled,
watching his face. “Getting to you, is it?”

He glanced at
her as he sat on a spindly chair. “Am I that transparent? I’m
sorry, I mean not to insult your lovely town.”

“Liar,” she
whispered, and again his estimation of her rose.

He grinned.
“Guilty. I’m a city boy. I apologise.”

“No need.
Yours is a common reaction.” She looked up as someone came
alongside. “I think coffee, Benny.”

“With a side
order of brandy, if you please,” Marcus added.

The waiter
looked at him curiously and trundled off.

“Benny isn’t
sure if you are who he thinks you are.”

“All he has to
do is ask,” Marcus grinned.

“He’s too
timid, poor dear.”

Marcus was
serious. “What happened last night? In detail.”

The young
woman sobered. She was still talking when Benny returned and waited
until he left before continuing. In the end it was all hearsay, and
Marcus began to think he undertook an uncomfortable journey for
naught. This stupidity was the result of his fright.

“There’s no
actual proof of sorcery.”

“Of course
not,” she said. “Since when does magic leave evidence?”

“Touché,” he
mumbled. Smart, this one. “Where is your father?”

“He’s staying
with me. He refuses to go back, so I moved his personal things out
this morning.”

“Are you
humouring him, or do you think there’s a chance …?”

“I don’t know,
Mr Campian. My father doesn’t lie, but he is old and was half
asleep. Maybe he heard it wrong. Maybe he even dreamt the whole
thing.”

Marcus nodded.
She was honest and that sat well with him. “What do you want me to
do about it?”

She stared
through the window. “Talking to my father will help you none. He
trusts no one now. I don’t know for sure, but I thought you could
get someone from the Society of Sorcerers to check the house -
maybe there’s residue only they can trace. At the least we’d know
my father wasn’t caught in a dream. I don’t like what this has done
to him.”

“It frightens
you.”

“And you
rushed over here because you’re fine with this?”

He laughed.
“Fine, I admit, it gave me a shock.”

Marcus was
thoughtful and then nodded, reaching a swift decision. Entirely out
of character. He fumbled in his pocket to withdraw a mobile
phone.

Pushing
digits, he said, “I wish now I’d contacted them earlier … Byron,
please,” and winked as he waited. “Byron, old buddy! Marcus here.
Listen, I have need of your services … what? No, nothing like that;
I need you to look over a house for me … today, old friend, or I’ll
not sleep a wink tonight … Moor … come, Gasmoor is closer than
Galilan … no, we suspect a sorcerical event … no, not on the
airwaves … fine, thank you … I’m at the local inn … yes, I’ll
secure accommodation.” He terminated the call and replaced the
device. “He should be here tonight.”

“
The
Byron?”

Marcus
grinned. “He’ll love that, the old goat! Yes, Byron Morave, leader
of the Society of Sorcerers.”

Rene heaved a
sigh. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Well, my
dear, let us continue to hope he will find nothing. Now, shall I
see to booking two, no, three rooms? My two bodyguards are on the
way …”

He told her
what happened with the obstinate farmer.

Byron Morave
was a white-haired, opinionated individual.

Marcus had
known him since they were boys together and considered the man his
one true friend. Byron was an excellent sorcerer, which was a
source of amazement to the Electan and sometimes the source of
discord between two friends. When Marcus chose politics, Byron
surprised everyone by announcing he would study sorcery.

Byron Morave
blew into the inn not long after dark and bellowed for Marcus.

The Electan
enjoyed a tasty meal and looked up from his plate. “Aaru, will you
lower your voice?”

The dining
area was deserted, but a rowdy bunch sat at the bar. Byron snorted
and joined him. His hairy white eyebrows lifted in disbelief over
the décor. “What have we here?”