The Sleeper Sword (65 page)

Tannil,
shocked, made a placating gesture.

“Do not
patronise me! You are Vallorin, Tannil; I need no Throne to prove
that and neither do you. Let the thing lie!”

“Behave
yourself!” Mitrill snapped.

“Daughter-in-law, now you tread a fine line.”

She paled and
then
her
fury boiled over. She did not shout her vexation
for all to hear. She approached Torrullin and snarled at him in a
low voice, “The Vallorinship is not a democracy, right? Isn’t that
what you always flung at Vannis? You’re not Vallorin here tonight,
Torrullin, my son is! Until it is proven otherwise, I suggest you
keep your temper under wraps, and if you do take over after the
seat comes, well, then you have the means to spit on us, not that
we’d respect you for it!”

He bit back
retort, swallowed recrimination and forced his anger into a tight
casket. She was right, and fear unleashed his tongue. He bowed to
her. “You are right, my Lady. Forgive me.”

She stared at
him and, with a smile tugging at her mouth, said, “For Aaru’s sake,
humility doesn’t suit you.”

His anger
vanished, amusement taking its place. “I don’t know how to be
humble.”

“I know, part
of your charm. Now do this thing, please, so we may get on with
whatever comes next.”

Declan
murmured, “There is ambivalence here this night and, with your
leave, I would like to address it.” His gaze flicked over Torrullin
and settled on Tannil.

Tannil was
silent, unmoving, and then nodded.

“Thank you,
Lord Vallorin.” Declan separated from the trio that was himself,
Belun and Quilla. “We know the Throne’s powers of destruction, but
we also know of its ability to protect in a manner few spells can
equal. I have seen it do so, as has every Guardian, may they rest
in peace. If they were here they would urge you to set aside
emotion and look only to the protection of this world. Whoever is
ruler in the next few minutes.”

He paused and
locked gazes with Torrullin.

“My Lord
Enchanter, your son has terrifying power. We have seen the results
of it, but in reality no one here knows what he is ultimately
capable of or where his limits lie. I don’t doubt you are stronger,
and I doubt not you would be the victor, but we both know the
dangers ahead, particularly for you. You told me you cannot do it
alone, and you aren’t alone, but your Throne is the final
symbiosis. It aids a planet and it will aid you. With it you have
an advantage not only over Tymall, but also Destroyer. Dare you
risk everything on painful memories?”

Declan paused
to glance at Tannil, and his gaze returned to Torrullin.

“And if the
seat chooses Tannil? Why should you be afraid, why should he be
afraid? There will then be two of you to stand against this
Warlock. Another symbiosis. That Throne should have been recalled
the day after your return, Enchanter, and you know it as well as I
do. It is beyond delay now. Do it.” Declan bowed and moved
back.

“Do it,
Enchanter,” the Valleur echoed.

Torrullin
turned his back on the gathering. “Tannil?”

“They make
sense.” Tannil gave a tight smile. “You made sense when you said it
cannot now be postponed anyway. Choice is already gone.”

A short pause
and then, “True. Let us do this together.”

“Even Declan
calls it
your
Throne. You must do this.”

You sent it
away, Enchanter. This is your duty alone.
Quilla, curse
him.

Torrullin
barked a laugh, an unhappy sound. “Very well, I take full
responsibility …”

He could say
no more, for the very ground began to shake.

Deep in the
bowels of the earth a sentient entity heard those words. It waited
two thousand years, resisting all attempts until it heard the
Enchanter admit to the responsibility that sent it into dormancy.
The Enchanter employed it as a weapon, causing it to destroy, but
it granted the man the right to do so and thus there was no ill
will. It, selfishly, desired also to prove what it was, and
achieved it spectacularly. Now it was ready to return as the
Enchanter had returned.

The One had
come and he was calling.

Torrullin
stared at the space where memory told him the Throne stood
before.

Dear gods,
here is proof of sentiency. It requires no uncloaking, no recall
ceremony. Did I do this? Have I given it reason and intelligence …
and choice?

“Torrullin,
what’s happening?”

“It’s coming,
Tannil. It needs us not.”

“Should we be
afraid?” Caltian said. He had not before witnessed the raising of
the Throne, being of Luvanor, but knew this was not as it was
meant.

Tannil put a
hand to his mouth and gagged.

Torrullin
closed his eyes and forewent everything around him to concentrate
exclusively on the Throne. He saw it rise through the depths, an
ethereal thing of no clarity. It shivered, feeling the connection,
and began to take on form.

I know
you,
it whispered.
I come because you came. I am here for
you, Animated Spirit.

Torrullin’s
eyes snapped open.

Do you seek to
deny me?

Torrullin
closed his eyes again and saw it take on the guise of familiarity.
A golden chair, a king’s ransom in metal, priceless in what it
was.

I cannot ever
deny you.

The connection
intensified.

Quilla closed
his eyes also; so, too, Declan and Belun. Theirs was not a
communion with a rising power - it was silent support of the
Enchanter. Despite words and thoughts to the contrary, these three
were convinced of where the Throne’s choice lay, and it was not
with Tannil.

Samuel glanced
at them, at Torrullin, and stepped into the shadows, afraid.
Mitrill gripped her husband, both watching Tannil, who was ashen
and shaken.

He understood
the Throne came for one alone, and it was not him. It mattered,
after all.

Outside, the
Valleur knew there was no precedent for this event.

The ground
continued to shake with ever wilder and stronger tremors. The night
deepened unnoticed and with it came an eerie glow, like candlelight
arising from the earth, and it increased to dispel the dense,
expectant gloom.

Hunting eagles
cried out over the valley, a welcome, a homage. The Valleur
regarded certain things as omens … and those cries were definitely
an omen.

A greeting
from the valley. It, the Throne and the Enchanter were bound.

They dared
look at each other. Who would be Vallorin after this night? They
rode the tremors, balancing as if aboard an ocean-going vessel, and
drew their breaths in. The light below intensified, spreading to
encompass Torrke, Keep and valley entire. Not a sound was heard
after the eagle cries.

Like a dream.
Without sensation and sense.

Quilla opened
his eyes to look upon the One. The birdman was convinced of who and
what Torrullin was. He had never doubted, but after this event he
would never again want to doubt. He saw the man smile and saw him
step forward boldly with his eyes still shut. He nudged Declan, who
glanced his way.

Moments later
everyone watched it unfold.

Come to
me.

He needed no
sight. He paced forward and turned to face the chamber and the
Valleur beyond it. His eyes remained closed. He was in another
place, a realm of the mind.

Torrullin saw
the seat. He felt it. And, for an instant, he saw the form of a man
superimposed on it, and then that vanished.

In the same
instant his world shook. He understood everything, and then it,
too, vanished.

Tannil was
stricken by the overwhelming certainty in his grandfather.

Torrullin sat
and the instant he did so, the empty space filled, solidified and
burst into light to surround him until he was engulfed.

The Throne was
under him.

His hands
settled on the armrests and he leaned back.

A great sigh
from the watchers, collective and profound.

Samuel slammed
to his knees, his face radiant.

Caltian
followed, grey eyes tearing.

The Valleur
kneeled.

The light
settled and dissipated. The tremors stopped.

“What say you,
Valleur?” Torrullin whispered in a voice that reverberated through
the senses.

A moment
passed and then, “Pretor ma shunl Torrke!”

One voice, one
roar. The enchantment to cause the Throne to become immovable.

Torrullin
smiled and it lit everyone from inside. “Declare!”

One heart, one
mind, one soul. The Valleur poured their combined sorcery, their
ancient lineage of hopes, dreams, love, honour, loyalty and
reverence into the chant of Nemisin, he who had been first.

Caltian roared
with them, tears overflowing. Mitrill whispered it softly, overcome
by the sheer majesty of the moment, while her heart broke for her
son. She was torn, but she could not deny the request to declare.
Samuel discovered he knew the words and said them in dawning
amazement.

Tannil sank to
his knees and bowed his head.

Only Declan,
Belun and Quilla stood and they gazed around in awe, and then
looked at each other significantly.

Declan sighed,
his gaze drawn back to Torrullin. He slowly went down on his knees
and stayed there. Belun jerked to look at the Siric … and joined
him.

Quilla looked
at those two sadly. Ah, yes, the first two, and at the time when
this witnessing would set the tone for others.

The chant
continued. No word was the same and it went on full-throated for a
full ten minutes. It was the stuff of legends.

And then it
was done.

Total silence
came, deafening after the roaring chant. The abounding magic
settled and grounded.

Quilla’s hands
fluttered when the silence stretched and stretched.

Then it came.
Softly Torrullin said, “It is done.”

Another loud,
almost hysterical cry from many voices. Some cried hoarsely,
openly, and others laughed for joy. Some slapped each other hard on
the back, others hugged and danced like children. Yes, there would
be consequences, but it was good. Their Throne was returned. The
circle that was fourteen had been joined. The power was back.

Those in the
chamber had eyes only for Torrullin, and his enigmatic smile caused
disquiet. He remained still, eyes closed.

Eventually
Tannil spoke. “My Lord?” His voice was a croak.

Mitrill’s
heart went out to him.

Torrullin
opened his eyes and stared unseeingly over their heads.

Tannil
groaned, but from the rest, a collective gasp of astonishment.

The
Enchanter’s eyes were silver-grey.

Torrullin rose
and those suddenly strange eyes lowered to Tannil.

“Rise,
Tannil.”

Silence of
death. The Valleur heard. A Vallorin had commanded.

Tannil rose to
stand in mute acquiescence. There was no fight in him. He was
prepared to abdicate his position, meant every word; nonetheless,
it came as a shock and he did not expect to mind as much as he
did.

For the first
time he began to see who and what his grandfather was, and realised
what it meant to live in the Enchanter’s shadow. Almost, although
not quite, he understood his uncle Tymall.

Torrullin
smiled. “It is yours, grandson.” He stepped off the dais that
materialised before the Throne. “Take your seat, my Lord
Vallorin.”

Tannil
blinked. “You are abdicating?”

“I don’t need
to. It knows I am not Vallorin. It simply required the passing
acknowledged.”

Tannil dragged
his gaze away from Torrullin and glanced at those in the chamber,
but could read nothing but anxiety in his family’s expressions, and
neutrality in the Guardians. His gaze returned to Torrullin.

“Are you doing
this for me? I do not need a hand-out, grandfather.”

Torrullin
inclined his head and did not take offence. “The Throne is
sentient, and has power of reason, choice and, by god, ego. Reason
and ego will not allow the Immortal Enchanter eternal rulership -
Quilla was right. I stipulated in the past I was to be the last
Immortal ruler, and I hold to it. Choice it has also and it has
chosen you as Vallorin. There is no hand-out and I am not pandering
to your feelings of disappointment and rejection. If I were to,
Tannil, it would not accept you, and we both know the danger that
places you in. You are Vallorin and if you don’t believe me, the
proof lies right here before you. Take your seat, and know.”

Tannil nodded
in acknowledgement, hearing truth, but unable to speak.

Mouth dry,
heart thumping like a crazed wild bird, he stepped past Torrullin
onto the dais. He halted before the simple chair. It was without
elaboration and only the embossed Dragon in the backrest bespoke
the antiquity. It was of matt gold which barely reflected the
torchlight lit in the last few minutes. He did not know how to
feel; he was numb.

He turned and
moved backward until he felt the cool metal against his lower legs.
It warmed, and immediately a sense of wellbeing overcame him. It
was akin to homecoming. He began then to comprehend the addiction
mentioned in the Oracles.

Trembling, he
lowered into its embrace. The Throne took over, drawing him in
until he nestled into the backrest, and it grew warmer and stroked
his mind. Sighing with new pleasure, Tannil relaxed, closed his
eyes and gave himself over completely to the present.

Those watching
saw him smile and saw peace upon his face.

The Valleur
screamed their joy, raising the very heavens.

Mitrill sank
down, crying, and Caltian whistled piercingly and clapped his
hands. Samuel was riveted by the golden man in the golden seat, his
heart pumping with the adrenaline that comes with those rare
instances of pure inspiration. Gooseflesh rippled under his
clothing.