Lore of Sanctum Omnibus

by Elaina J Davidson

  “They came to confer with a famous seer?”

  Her eyes crinkled at the corners.

  “And?”

  “Tristan made contact, and I came here.”

  “You had nothing to tell them?”

  She reached for the coffee thermos - too cold for wine - and said, “They told us some, about Lowen, rumours and all that, and I gave them something also, but what I know is little.”

  He pointed at his mug and she poured for both of them. “What could you give?”

  “To Prima, the Three Kingdoms of Orb prophecy, and to Declan? I told him Agnimus has changed both appearance and personality. He has to look beyond the obvious.”

  “I thought Orb would come into it, but Declan’s task is virtually impossible.”

  “We had a master historian with us on Nemisin’s world, a man called Sabian. He is expert in ancient lore and knows the precedents to dupe using glamour. Declan will no doubt pick him clean.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Titania has records. He is trustworthy, I believe, and by now Declan has tested him further.”

  “The console,” he murmured.

  She frowned, not privy to the Dome’s workings. “What of Lowen, Torrullin?”

  He set his mug down. “I heard her in a dream, recurring. Lost to Time, but how, why, where and when? Currently under investigation.”

  She stared at him. “I meant, what about Lowen and you?”

  He stared back. “Unfinished.”

  She dropped her gaze.

  “How is she, Caballa?”

  “She copes. Saska has always been strong.”

  “Has there been anyone else?”

  “You don’t have the right to ask.”

  “Was there?”

  “After Sinsen? I don’t know.”

  “Or won’t say.”

  “I don’t know. Saska keeps that part private, but I don’t think so. Nemisin’s world took all her attention.”

  Torrullin wanted to ask more, he wanted to ask about a world renewed and how it was and what they discovered there, but knew it would unlock the guards about his heart or, more likely, around guilt.

  Caballa knew, for she changed the subject. “I hear the Dome is to be taken down to Sanctuary. A bit iffy, don’t you think?”

  “Belun will either find a way or tell me it is impossible. The Dome is safe.”

  “What is going on, Torrullin?”

  He looked at her under lowered lashes. “What have you seen?”

  She bit at her lip. “I saw Declan would come and I felt the Orb prophecy resonate and, when Sabian arrived unexpectedly, I saw he holds vital information in that mind of his. As for Agnimus, I sensed him undergo changes, but it was vision not reality; I have not sensed him in a place, form, threat or power. I haven’t felt Lowen’s dilemma, but I have felt yours and I have seen you trapped in rock - the dream?” He nodded and she sighed and went on. “Last night I had the clearest vision I have had in many years, and this is why I tracked you here tonight.”

  “Ah.” His tone was expressionless, for he already guessed. As Caballa knew him, thus he knew her.

  “It concerns Tristan. The danger to him is yours, purely because he will be mistaken for you,” she said, and held a hand up. “Hear this, today I exacted a promise from him to remain on Valaris until after the Throne’s choosing, hoping the delay will keep him ignorant.”

  “Thank the gods for you,” Torrullin murmured. “You did well. Now tell me more.”

  “A Walker is needed to retrieve from Time. You know this, Lowen knows this and no doubt your Kaval does. However, another knows this and he aims to set a trap for you, he needs something from Time also, and Tristan may fall into that trap.” She paused. “I think it’s Tymall.”

  He rocked back. “That I cannot believe.”

  She did not break the contact between them. “I saw Digilan, land of mists, and I saw Mor Feru and I saw Tracloc.”

  “Did you see Tymall?”

  She gave a wry grimace. “No, but who else, my Lord?”

  “Someone aware of a promise I made my son,” Torrullin said, and answered her unspoken question, “I promised to take Tianoman to meet his father in Digilan after his Coming-of-Age, a deal struck that gifted us the Tracloc to destroy the draithen twenty-five years ago.”

  “Then Tian is in danger also, but how would Tristan be the one trapped in your stead?”

  “Was he alone?”

  She closed her eyes. “There is another, a fair man, indistinct, but Tristan seems to trust him.” She opened her eyes.

  “Perhaps the trap is specifically for Tristan.”

  She frowned, looked away, allowing her eyes to roam a while before bringing them back. “I don’t feel that.”

  “Give me your hand. Let me see the vision.”

  Never had he asked that of her. Always he trusted her words. “Do you distrust me, my Lord?”

  “No, Caballa, but I am not receiving a clear picture, and it may be because you cannot understand what it is you view. I need to see around what you have told me. Please.”

  She reached out and gripped his fingers. She closed her eyes and found the vision inside and transferred it to him. A moment later his fingers withdrew from hers and she opened her eyes to find him staring into the fire, a frown on his face. She did not interrupt, giving him a chance to work the images into cohesiveness.

  “It is Tristan and there is a fair man. He isn’t known to me and I can’t see his face. My first instinct would be Margus, Darak Or, but that is now eternally impossible. The trap, as you surmised, is in Digilan and it is a Walker they are after. Has Tristan shown inclination in that direction?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Ask Vanar.”

  “You are right, they think they have Elixir, and Tristan does not correct them.” Torrullin focused. “He does it deliberately. He attempts to take my place - why?”

  “To save you?” He saw more, she realised.

  Thoughts raced through his mind. “Is it safer to keep him ignorant here or ignorant with me? Or should he be told all, to avoid the situation?”

  “He should stay here.”

  “Then you should stay with him.”

  “I need to be at your side.”

  “I would like nothing more, but this task is eminently suited to your talents. Besides, Tristan won’t question your presence and he seems to trust you already. You can guard him unobtrusively.”

  He was right.

  A smile in his voice. “A temporary task.”

  “Very well.”

  “I wonder if the fair man isn’t Agnimus,” Torrullin mused then.

  “What would he need from Time?”

  “Identity? Proof of identity? Revenge on someone from antiquity, such as Nemisin, perhaps? Or power to add to his, like from bloody Neolone? Agnimus has good reasons to step back. It’s more imperative than ever that Declan finds him. What of this Sabian? A fair man, is he?”

  Caballa gaped. “Yes, and blue eyes, like Margus. Actually, now that you stir the pot, he reminds me of Margus and did from the first moment, only I couldn’t pinpoint it.”

  “A fair man, one with ancient lore? Convenient.”

  “I sensed no evil.”

  “Yet you say Agnimus has changed form and personality. Perhaps he altered the taste darak power leaves?”

  “Damn, it’s not unlikely.”

  Then Torrullin was the one frowning. “But Agnimus would know the difference between Elixir and Tristan.”

  “Unless, in removing the aftertaste of darak, he lost the ability to taste himself,” Caballa whispered. “And Tristan uses it.”

  “Agnimus, who looks like Margus, because he is also Margus’ brother.” Torrullin rose. “I need to find this character.”

  “Agreed, but your first priority now is your grandsons. They need you, and if you leave …”

  He sank down. “I know. Fine, after the funeral, and you, meanwhile, make yourself indispensable to Tristan.”
/>
  She nodded and they continued eating in silence, minds filled with ifs, buts and maybes.

  TRISTAN, TEROUX AND Tianoman arrived together at the Keep to find it busy and filled with life.

  Retainers entered with sunrise to clean, air and prepare guest chambers, and others were engaged in funerary preparation. A number of Elders were in evidence, of Valaris and Luvanor.

  The three were dismayed. The last state they desired was a crowd.

  “Up here!”

  Heads up, and the three saw Torrullin silhouetted against the eastern sun up on the battlements. On the first floor balcony they encountered Caballa.

  “Good morning,” she said. “He’s up top.”

  “Thanks, and thanks for …”

  “Not necessary, Tristan. Go on up, talk to each other.” She slipped past them and went down into the courtyard.

  “Come, Tris,” Teroux said, and led the way.

  Torrullin met them at the eastern stairwell, his face calm. He studied them. “Not much sleep?”

  Heads shook.

  “This comes as a shock soon after Curin,” Torrullin murmured, “but you need to remember something now. Only the living grieves those moved on - us, left behind. And that is how we are, and grief is natural, as well as part of healing. Samuel, however, has forgotten grief and pain and missing Curin where he is now, for he is with her and he smiles and laughs and is renewed, and that should bring each of us a measure of comfort.”

  Tianoman said, “Stock phrases. I am sick of platitudes.”

  Torrullin laid a hand against his cheek. “Aaru is real, Tian; I have seen it. Samuel was a good man, as was Curin, and both deserve the best Afterlife. They are in Aaru and there is only joy.”

  Tianoman appeared doubtful.

  Torrullin paced away and leaned over the outer wall. “I would still be grieving Tristamil had I not seen him in Aaru. I saw my beloved son standing under the most beautiful trees I have yet encountered and I saw his face light up with inner peace when he told me he found his place of rest and tranquillity. More than a fervent heart’s desire, however, was seeing my parents Taranis and Millanu together and whole after thousands of years apart. They truly loved each other and were thus reunited, as it is with Samuel and Curin. Yes, we grieve, but we grieve for ourselves, our losses, for they are now beyond all that.”

  Tristan leaned against the parapet. “He always said he was connected to my mother, that he loved her beyond death even.”

  “Well, I am glad to hear they are together,” Teroux murmured. “Kind of makes it easier.”

  Tristan smiled at his cousin. “Yes, it does.”

  “Tian?” Teroux prompted.

  Tianoman watched Torrullin. “Do you grieve for my father still? Do you miss Tymall as much as you do his brother?”

  “Tian!” Teroux gasped.

  Torrullin sat on the wall facing Tianoman. “I miss Tymall as much as I miss Tristamil, but the missing is in this realm, for both are alive. In fact, Tymall is more reachable than his brother and thus the burden of grief is easier to bear.”

  Tianoman’s eyes dropped.

  “What do you seek, Tian? Do you want to know if I loved your father? Are you asking how that can be if Tymall didn’t qualify for Aaru?”

  Tianoman lifted his head, but said nothing.

  Tristan and Teroux glanced at each other.

  “I love Tymall as much as Tristamil. They are my twin boys and no oversight in recognition ever influenced that.”

  “Tymall turned on you,” Tianoman muttered.

  “Yes, and I turned my back on him for a time also, but I couldn’t stop loving him. He was and is my son. He tried to kill me, he killed Taranis, he hurt Saska, he spat on his twin, and a host of other evils, but he was my son. He remains my son and I love him; here, there, it doesn’t matter.”

  “And you say he is reachable.” There was a new note in Tianoman’s tone.

  “Yes. I know where he is and I know how to go to him and we made our peace. I consider Tymall an ally, not an enemy. Aaru is by far the harder realm to enter.” Torrullin ignored what Tianoman truly asked.

  “Le Maximillian Dalrish said I should talk to you about my father and he said Tymall was not all bad.”

  “He is right. In the end Tymall rescued Valaris from a terrible fate and he chose life for you, his son, in this realm, although it meant he had to stay in Digilan. I would say that smacks of lumin ideals, wouldn’t you?”

  Tianoman dipped his head and then managed a weak smile.

  Torrullin rose and clasped Tianoman’s shoulder. “The time comes when I shall tell you all, son; be patient a while longer.”

  Tianoman nodded and shifted his gaze to Tristan. “Sorry; this is about Samuel, not me.”

  Tristan shrugged. “It helped, actually, to know Tymall was redeemable also -means my father has definitely gone off to the right place.”

  “Yes,” Teroux added, and smacked Tianoman on the back.

  Torrullin said, “I aim to remain until after the funeral. Let us use this time to get to know one another. We’ll nag someone to give us breakfast and take it into the valley and talk until we run out of words.”

  It sat well, for the three heirs grinned.

  Chapter 17

  Subterfuge, whether a small lie or a large manipulation, eventually turns back on the wielder.

  ~ Book of Sages

  Lax

  THE PLANET LAX WAS situated in the same galaxy as Beacon, yet never had two worlds been as diametrically opposed.

  Beacon was a giant city-world and its sister planet, Beacon Farm, was an agricultural haven; Lax was neither of these. Once, yes, it had cities, as once it had land for crops, but in present day Lax could only be described as a dumpsite. Akin to Xen III, which destroyed itself historically with war and bombs, Lax accomplished the same, but without nuclear holocausts.

  On Lax, once proud cities lay in ruin, steel girders reaching to dirty heavens, and once fertile soil was barren and lifeless; rivers and lakes were choked with rubbish and bodies.

  The atmosphere was not rendered poisonous by wars, but the insidious march of pollution. When the wind blew on Lax, which was often, dust storms raised up on the plains to inundate the ruins of cities, ruins where millions eked out an existence in shanties, makeshift shelters amid fallen buildings, grottos under old foundations and the like, and the sand found every tiny space. Always there were deaths after a sand storm.

  Lax earned money by accepting rubbish from other worlds; it was, literally also, a dumpsite. Beacon, guilty of many exploitative actions, was guilty in Lax, but so was Ceta, Ymir, Nuthtu and a host of others, yet it was a guilt that did not occur to Lax. Without rubbish, Lax would die. Not only did another’s rubbish herald broken treasures for Laxians, but it also earned them much needed capital, and it brought them fresh produce; the latter was part of every dumping deal - bring your rubbish and bring your money, but bring also your food. In this way, Beacon and others assuaged guilt.

  In such an environment was it any wonder criminals flourished?

  JIMINI, SHIFTED INTO Ymirian guise, walked away from the spaceport.

  The spaceport was the only clean place, for offworlders insisted on it in fear of contamination, and thus the giant warehouses for off-loaded produce was situated adjacent, cleanliness being vital to Lax’s source of nourishment.

  As Jimini ambled by the massive buildings, she wondered how much of the food reached those who needed it most. Even that supply was regulated by criminal families. They ate well while others starved, and some paid exorbitant rates. She saw money change hands and many furtive looks.

  Reel’s contact on Xen gave them a name, a starting point for this mission, a small fish in the pond, true, but a lowlife who would know who the bigger fish were and could reveal the head shark of the whole sorry ocean that was the filthy waters of Lax’s underground. His name was Fantam, Laxian born and bred, and he held court in a bar blocks from the spaceport, and thus Fantam was the one s
he sought.

  The bar was hard to find for two reasons. One, every corner was a drinking hole, and, two, none of the ‘bars’ looked like what they were meant to represent. After an hour of fruitless wandering she knew she had to risk asking someone. Already she drew mean looks and derogatory comments, but was left alone; it would change the moment she started asking questions.

  The bag slung over her shoulder felt heavier with every step, containing as it did, the bait - bloody weapons.

  If she asked questions, she could be searched. The weapons could earn her instant death or they could be stolen and with it her leverage, or she could be beaten and never find out what she came for, or drawn into slavery. Being ‘Ymirian’ meant Laxians would want to ‘explore’ her sexual proclivities. That bad reputation was known universe over.

  She was not afraid of slavery, for she could depart this hellhole in an instant, but she did not want to go back empty-handed. Drawing her courage close, mindful of Lowen’s bad experiences here, events that led to Torrullin becoming, well, frightening, she chose to approach a group of filthy boys playing dice in the street.

  They looked up as her shadow fell over them, raked her with eyes far too mature and weary for their ages, and then ignored her, returning to their game. Except one. He was older, perhaps thirteen, and he rose looking her over insolently and suggestively.

  She shuddered. Dear god, they were kids!

  “What you want?”

  Jimini ignored the hand that went to his crotch. “Looking for Fantam,” she muttered in her Ymirian voice. “Know him?”

  “Yeah, know de scumbag. Hey, why ‘im? I give you betta than that scum,” the boy grinned, and swayed his hips, his intent obvious.

  Gods. “Maybe later, pretty boy. Right now I need Fantam. Where can I find the ugly son-of-a-bitch?”

  The boy cackled and hands smacked thighs in appreciation. “Ugly sum-bitch, alright!” Then he eyed her. “Tell yu’n what, give us a lick there and this finga’ll point the way.” He held his middle finger up and wagged it at Jimini’s chest area. “C’m, just want me sum Ymir nippals!”