Rainbows and Portals

by Elaina J Davidson

  In hindsight, he admitted the man was an excellent judge of character. Therefore an outstanding general.

  He chose the wrong ridge. He was the one rueing the challenge. He strode onto the battlefield, saw a mud-ridden empty plain, squinted in the fading light at the ridges on either side. And chose the one he believed had more height. Unfortunately light played tricks. The man asked if he was sure, you may change your mind, Vallorin, and that rankled even more. He was Vannis of the Valleur, goddamn it, he did not change his mind. And now he tasted the mud of defeat.

  The Missile was an apt description. Never had a man had a more appropriate nickname.

  By morning the terrible bombardment began, incendiary devices that burned through skin and bone after smashing through earth, stone and sorcery, and had not ceased. He did not field troops onto the plain, an expectation Vannis believed he could work with. Indeed, a general worth the title.

  “It’s time to leave,” Vannis said to his second, eyes black with the fury he sought to control every moment of every day. “Sound the retreat.”

  “It will be so.”

  “Amora. The masking first. And we gather on the Sagorin world at the quartz mines.”

  Glorium, the world in question, was isolated; humankind could not easily reach it.

  Amora nodded and turned to her soldiers. The mask was a veiling sorcery that would hide their retreat for a few hours; it would also throw tracking skills awry.

  “What of our fallen, my Lord Vallorin?” she asked when she returned to his side. Both ducked as another missile shot overhead.

  “Fire,” he said, and covered his face with dirty hands. He drew a shuddering breath behind that kind of mask. “It’s the best we can do for them.”

  Arrogance was stupidity; he would do well to learn the lesson.

  Minutes later, dense, dark fog rolled over the plain between the ridges and climbed the ascents. The field of battle was entirely obliterated from sight … and sound. The bombs finally fell silent. Whether an attribute of the fog’s dampening properties or whether The Missile had chosen silence to listen for clues no longer mattered.

  The unholy heat of a massive funeral pyre erupted, the fuel the countless dead.

  When the bombs began to fall seconds later there was no longer breath and soul left upon Hamon’s Ridge.

  DESPITE THEIR MAGICAL powers, incredible abilities and gifts, the Valleur lost ground to humankind on every world they chose to take a stand. It was as simple as numbers. They lived long and bred less, while humans, given short lifespan, bred swiftly. A true plague of arrogant, selfish people, and they soon outnumbered the Valleur. The old made way for the new by dint of numbers alone, and it was totally unacceptable. They would not simply make way, they would not surrender to time and live in a backwater, reliving past glories only in dwindling memories.

  And thus they fought on, battles of defeat like to the one known as Hamon’s Ridge.

  ARDOSIA

  2

  Fourteen thousand years ago

  THEN CAME THE TIME new sanity prevailed. Those among the Valleur weary of constant war put forth an alternative. They spoke of a Rift between two dimensions. If they succeeded, they could go where they again would be masters, unchallenged. It found favour among the majority.

  They did their homework, experimented, and chose an empty realm. Vannis refused to surrender this realm. He and four thousand of like mind chose the backwater world Valaris to begin anew. The Valleur who chose Rift exit wondered how long it would be before humankind discovered Valaris, and Vannis would again be forced into a cycle of war. They did not look back after that last, convulsive glance at his beloved face.

  The war ended with no one left to fight it. Humanity everywhere was amazed.

  Soon they would forget the Valleur. The Arcana Chaos Legend would force every memory into darkness.

  THE RIFT SEALED, shutting away from sight and proximity Vannis, Vallorin of the Valleur, and brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, children and friends. They could not look back, other than in memory.

  The terrible pain of final parting assailed the Valleur in their new realm, but it was set aside for later examination. It was time to find a world to build in the image of Valleur worlds left behind.

  That would be their real homage to the past; create anew what was lost and we will again lift our heads with pride.

  DEAD PLANETS, STERILE WORLDS, poisonous rocks.

  Asteroids, uninhabitable moons, gas giants. Worlds without water, worlds without air, volatile worlds. Ice. Volcanic. Massive stars, blue dwarfs, a dim sun and a small planet entirely surrounded by impenetrable fog.

  Their new realm certainly was not empty, but it was devoid of life. They had chosen well.

  After a month of investigation and confirmation, they returned to the region of the sealed Rift, to a world near that tear.

  The sages expounded on the Rift happening at a thinning in the fabric of space because a habitable world lay nearby. It was a kind of fate and a kind of magic they dared not deny.

  And thus a hundred and fifty thousand Valleur descended onto its surface to create anew what was lost.

  A DESERT PLANET, hot and dry, but the air was benign and temperature was within norms.

  Insects and small reptiles thrived in the sands and hardy desert scrub was evidence of moisture. Fresh water in great frozen megalithic mountains at both polar caps. A world with potential, a second chance.

  They named it thus. Ardosia, Second Chance.

  And began.

  Within two years rivers ran swift and pure, and rain fell with the frequency of natural seasons. Lakes formed in natural depressions and the first great harvest was reaped. Seeds flourished and yielded. Tree saplings grew sturdy and flowers thrived. Fowl and farm animals multiplied.

  Indeed a second chance.

  And then the building began. To create new what was lost.

  While the scribes hunched over recording from memory the Ancient Valleur Oracles, and while the majority laboured on water supply and the needs of farming, and others saw to the greening of Ardosia, the master builders and Elders drew the plans for permanent housing … and the fourteen sacred sites.

  The first site, always, was the site that paid homage to a planet’s water, the Lifesource. A glorious hexagonal temple was built from ice and stone at the northern pole, with an ever-burning lamp in the exact centre of the magical space.

  The second site, usually, would be the mighty chamber housed within a glorious palace for the Valleur Throne, but as the Throne would remain with Vannis in that other realm, a great gathering centre filled with fountains and flowers was raised beside the lake that appeared after the first rains.

  An art gallery followed, one depicting thousands of images of creatures’ great and small the Valleur would never again see or hear.

  A wall with the long lineage of the House of Valla was next. Nemisin’s name came first and Vannis’ name was last.

  A repository for gadgets and jewellery. Every Valleur contributed one special object that came through the Rift with them. Many would visit to look … and remember.

  The Healers Enclave and the Graveyard came next, and then a mighty sundial to mark the time of Ardosia. A site for the New Oracles. A park dedicated to the Valleur born on Ardosia, they who would not know of war and strife, ever.

  Ten sites, and thousands of beautiful homes were erected in the fawn stone of Ardosia. We will again lift our heads with pride. As the plans and ideas flowed for the final four sites …

  … the Rift tore open.

  ARDOSIA

  3

  ELEVEN THOUSAND VALLEUR from Valaris poured through, emotional, filled with sadness.

  And told the tale of years of peace and bliss on their backwater world, of also raising sacred sites, of their Vallorin’s eyes finally losing the black of madness.

  They told of the Navigator, he who was the lone survivor of a crashed pathfinder, a human who became a friend. And of the massive settler
ships that discovered their world. Vannis was about to go to war again. With a mere five hundred.

  Many from Ardosia desired to go to his aid, demanded the right to fight with their Vallorin, until Mantra, Vannis’ wife, spoke of his final wishes.

  They kneeled before her when they heard she carried the Valla heir in her womb, and Vannis had named him Nemis, New Beginning, and that he desired above all else that his son grow to maturity on a world that will never know war.

  She spoke eloquently of a real new beginning with their new Vallorin. She explained he was recognised by his father and had also the right of succession, witnessed by the Valleur who came through the Rift with her.

  And thus, kneeling, the Valleur of Ardosia ratified what was already fact.

  Despite the horror they could imagine for Vannis and his five hundred, a new hope took hold on Ardosia, and how not? They now had a Vallorin to lead them again.

  With Mantra’s suggestions, they raised the last four sacred sites. One, a monument to Vannis and Valaris, another to celebrate hope, a special place of learning, and finally, a labyrinth to mirror the Maze on Valaris, a mark of honour for a friend.

  A few months later Nemis’ name was added to the House of Valla wall.

  And that of his twin sister, Millanu.

  NEMIS WAS TWENTY-FIVE years old when he heard of the Maghdim Medaillon.

  After his Coming-of-Age ceremony, on the day he took over rulership from the regency of Mantra and the Elders, his mother asked for a private audience. She denied even Millanu attendance.

  He was a true Golden, tall and lean like his father. Generally good-natured and ever smiling, he would be a benign ruler. Many Valleur thanked their gods in private; they adored Vannis, but a volatile ruler meant, always, uncertain times. They adored Nemis now because he was even-tempered.

  Nemis stepped into the chamber where his mother waited and knew immediately he would not like what she had to tell him. His heart thumped once and then he kissed her cheek with a smile and sat on the seat she indicated. Theirs was a large house, not a palace; the Elders had advocated that Nemis have the privilege of choosing both site and design when mature enough to do so. The chamber was light and airy, simply furnished.

  Mantra had insisted on bringing a variety of bird species from Valaris and for the last decade birdsong became the new music on Ardosia, birdsong now in gentle harmonies beyond the open windows.

  “Mother.”

  She inclined her head. “I am well pleased your Coming-of-Age went smoothly, son. Well done.”

  He smiled again. The ceremony could be taxing, according to the stories told, but his was easy. Perhaps they deliberately chose that for him; everyone needed a future without obstacles. And this time the ceremony doubled as a crowning also; yes, they deliberately eased his path.

  “Thank you. You wanted to speak to me?”

  Mantra looked away. A tear slid slowly over one perfumed cheek. “Today I must tell you of your father’s legacy.” She did not say more.

  “Surely it would be Millanu’s legacy also.”

  Her eyes were bright and strange when she looked at him. “I need you to listen, Nemis.” She leaned forward. “You father did not recognise Millanu as an unborn. He recognised you, and thus when I speak of his legacy, I speak of what he was aware of at the time. I recognised Millanu and I shall tell her everything I am now telling you. After.”

  He was disquieted, but nodded without speaking.

  “Soon after your father and I were wed he fashioned a gift in anticipation of his son and heir. He didn’t know then it would be a long time before I conceived … and he didn’t tell me about it. I am grateful he never placed that burden upon me. You know the tale, of course, of how I conceived shortly before the invasion of Valaris, and how your father wished for you to reach this point in peace.” She reached out and took his hand. ‘He wanted to see you born, you must know that …”

  “He abandoned us, mother.”

  She nodded and released his hand. “For a long time I felt that way also, but today I thank all gods for his foresight. We have a good life here.”

  “It could have been amazing. By all accounts Valaris was paradise.”

  “And still is. Valaris, however, has entered an era of contention and won’t know true peace for a long time, and this is besides the legacies your father engendered for humankind. No, son, he did right by us when he sent us through the Rift.”

  “He should be here, then.”

  Again she nodded. “I wish for that also. Unfortunately your father’s vows to the Valla heritage prevented that. No more, Nemis, on what cannot now be altered. We must speak of his gift, your legacy.”

  He pulled a face.

  “It is called the Maghdim Medaillon, the Supreme Wisdom of the Valleur. It is a medallion, fashioned from the purest gold with utmost care, and your father settled within the history of our people, the enchantments that made us great, as well as all truth about himself …”

  “How?”

  “Glyphs. And chant after chant. It took months to form successfully, a true labour of love.”

  “Why?”

  Mantra smiled. “Because he could, Nemis, and because he desired to leave something real behind. Because he had discovered the meaning of peace.”

  He stared at her, and then motioned for her to continue.

  “He unveiled it at the final gathering …”

  Vannis stood before his gathered twelve thousand. They were seated in a natural amphitheatre formed by the surrounding slopes, covered with trees already considered ancient. It was a beautiful, inspiring place, the site of many celebratory gatherings, only on this occasion there was no celebration. It was the final sunset before the sunrise that would bear witness to a great exodus.

  “Valleur! Hear me for the last time. I, and my five hundred, have come to bid you farewell; go well into the future, and take care of my queen and my son. Remember us to him, so that he may know only the truth. Know that his father has recognised him, that he is loved by those who remain. We are not long for this world. We shall lose this war. It may take two days or a hundred years, but our fate is sealed. We know this, yet we shall fight. When you have left in the morning …” Vannis stopped and cleared his throat. It was absolutely still in the bowl. “After you are gone, the skies are to be closed to further invasion. No other ship will land, but we know it is already too late. They are too many.”

  There was more silence. They could not understand why their Vallorin could not turn away from confrontation and make a new life with his wife and son beyond the Rift.

  It was to that Vannis spoke next.

  “You wonder why we do not abandon it all and come with you.” His voice was soft; they had to strain to hear. “I cannot speak for one member of my five hundred, but for myself I say this: I shall not run from anyone, especially not a human. I made my father a promise, nay, an oath, when I cradled his lifeless body in my arms, that I would die rather than surrender. Most of you made similar vows, and coming to Valaris to discover serenity for a too brief a time, did not render them void, for we never left this universe!” His voice rose and the soon-to-be exiles were ashamed. “Those who made no such vows were born here, and see Valaris as their birthright!”

  Vannis’ tone returned to a level pitch. “We shall not run. We shall be seen as evil and cruel aggressors, and indeed we are the villains in this war. So be it.” Then he laughed, a terrible sound. “But when the last of us falls, they will mill in confusion! They will not remember why they are fighting, who their enemy was, for the last to fall takes with him or her all memory of our people, our name, our history, and we shall be no more! We shall be forgotten! The Arcana will take the last of us into forgetfulness.”

  Quiet then, he surveyed the crowd. The seriousness of what he was about had finally come home to them. That, more than anything else, was why no Valleur could return to Valaris.

  “Do not be shocked, Valleur. It is my final duty to protect the Rift.” The
n he chuckled wryly. “The Oracles and Ruby will be hidden until some future time. Are we not paradoxical; in leaving something, we yet ensure a heritage, hope someone will want to know and remember, but then, after all, we are the Valleur.”

  A few smiles, but it was half-hearted. Vannis smiled at them and said, “Leave your guilt here, my people, and go unencumbered to the beyond. We hold not one of you in contempt.”

  It was a gesture, and they all knew it. No one would leave without guilt, and not one would ever again sleep without the dreams of ‘what-if?’

  Turning to Mantra seated beside him, he raised her to stand. “I have a gift I would bequeath my son, Mantra. I fashioned it shortly after our marriage, in anticipation of our baby, and, yes, my heir.” Her ashen face told him how much that hurt. “Who knew, my dear?” he whispered, and then he straightened to face the gathered.

  “It has been enchanted now to cleave through time and space, to go from me to my son wherever he may be, upon my death.” Mantra made a choking sound, but he went on. “I shall keep it around my neck, against my body, until the end, so that he may know how his father breathed his last.”

  From beneath his white robe he pulled a gold Medaillon, in diameter the size of an adult’s palm. It dangled from an intricately woven silver chain and the disc had carved into it hundreds of tiny Valleur glyphs relating to necromancy. It was a thing of power.

  “Do not touch it, my dear,” he said softly. “It will burn. It has been cast so that only one person may hold it and upon my death our son will have the power to command it. Explain to him what it is when it arrives one day out of the ether.”

  Mantra began to cry. “I will know that you are dead.”

  “I know, but therein is a kind of peace also. Closure.”