She swallowed and repeated ‘timedancer’ under her breath. “The doubling of Tannil, I assume?”
Elianas murmured, “For someone long removed from Reaume, you seem quite informed.”
Immirin shrugged. “Sometimes death’s journeys do not go according to the laws of souls, and certain folk land up here bringing with them pertinent information.” Her attention returned to Torrullin. “How can I possibly help you with Rivalen?”
“We need to understand him and thus we need to know who his father was.”
She was silent for a lengthy period, studying each in turn as she had at the cells, but this time there was no attitude. Perhaps she simply needed to read them in order to decide how to proceed. No one broke her silence. All met her probing gaze.
Eventually she held her wrist up. “I have the mark of the dragon. Although Neolone has now passed, it remains with me, for it was bestowed upon me before he left his Kallanon realm and came to Nemisin.”
She smiled briefly. “Now you wonder how that is possible and I shall tell you. Nemisin interfered with time in order to annihilate the Diluvans of Orb - I am aware you know this, but my point is the concept of altering time. Nemisin at least had the wherewithal to hide his most insane experiments in his personal runic, knowing how much his knowledge would change the future for the Valleur. Another was not as wise, and I am not talking about you, Torrullin, or you, Elianas. Between the two of you, you truly altered matters, but somehow a thread of wisdom weaves through all you did. No, I speak of another, someone who learned from Nemisin in secret.”
“Aleru?” Torrullin murmured.
“I wish it was an Aleru. That line was wise indeed. No, he was a Valla.”
Torrullin sighed and hung his head. “Which son?”
“I believe you already know. Of Nemisin’s three sons, only one was able to engender in others a sense of horror merely with his presence.”
“Jacastu?” Elianas frowned.
“Correct first time,” Immirin confirmed.
“The man gave me the creeps, to be sure, but he was never accused of wrongdoing.”
“Because Jacastu went back in time to commit the deeds of his inherent evil,” Torrullin understood.
Immirin stared him directly in the eyes. “When his father died, Jacastu took on the Dragon and, to all intents, according to Valleur history in this cycle, he was a benevolent ruler. Most did not like him, but never could anyone accuse him of anything less than perfect rulership. He entered history and he departed without engendering those memorable events able to elevate a Vallorin into greatness. He ruled, he died, and his brother Genoa took over because Jacastu had no son to pass the Dragon symbol to.”
Torrullin’s attention was unblinking on her.
“Jacastu was a monster. He spilled his seed elsewhere and without permission.” Immirin was again entirely toneless. “He returned to Lorin time repeatedly and, with the power of his symbiot, could do as he willed. We were not weak, but Dragon manipulation was power new to us. I fought Jacastu and I cursed him, but I was not strong enough then to stop him. All I could do was hope he died heirless in his time, after casting a spell on him one night in the aftermath of a gruelling … event.”
It was quiet in the chamber, and the other two women stared at Immirin with sympathy written all over them.
“He did not return, but I was left with his gift.”
“All gods, an unrecognised Valla,” Torrullin said.
Immirin inclined her head. “His father could not recognise the babe in my womb and I knew not enough to know to do so in his stead, and thus was my son born. I attempted to love him, I swear, but it was hard, given how I had suffered in his conception. When Rivalen attained his third year he realised the oversight of recognition, and I understood Jacastu had been reborn in his son. As difficult as it was to deny a child, I sent him away. The spaces were thinner then and I employed it. This mark,” and she tapped her wrist, “was left behind to accuse me into eternity. I wed an unknown Valla to marry the flows for the future and thereafter left my realm forever.”
“Wings?” Lowen murmured.
Immirin nodded slowly, looking only at Torrullin. “Yes, the evil of sending a child into the unknown created great Shadow Wings and caused much havoc here. I divested myself of them, using them as a shield for this place.”
Torrullin leaned forward. “I am truly sorry. Your past is harrowing indeed and no one here finds fault with your actions after.”
She smiled slightly. “But?”
“Rivalen is not Valla or Lorin in appearance.”
She leaned forward, face in hands. “No colour. He had no colour, for the spell I spoke over his father to deny him his future rebounded on the child conceived in those minutes of terror. No tawny eyes either. I desired to remove from Jacastu all feature and appearance, to render him impotent, and thus unknowingly removed all from the child also. At Rivalen’s birth the midwives told me to drown him immediately, an albino child, but guilt stayed my hand then.”
“He names his father as Eurue,” Elianas said.
“Because he is himself an original. He must know his lineage, being Valla, but in him you will not find trebac, the fire of kin. In this he is unique.”
“Your curse did so?” Torrullin frowned.
“I believe so.”
“His genetics explains how he was able to summon the parts of two Tannils.”
“Indeed, for he will have needed to appear Golden, not colourless.”
“He is a large man.”
“That may be due to the realm he went into. Is he evil?” There was a thread of hope in Immirin’s voice.
“Beyond anything the multiverse has known,” Lowen muttered.
Immirin closed her eyes.
“The fault is not yours,” Torrullin stated. “Is there anything we should know, anything able to help us stop him?”
Reopening her eyes, she lifted a shoulder. “I do not know, but ask your questions. Perhaps my answers will reveal a path for you.”
“Which realm did you send him to?” Elianas asked.
She leaned back, her gaze going from one man to the other. “Realms were not named in my time, but there were shadows and veils, and to enter was never to leave.”
“The Path of Shades indeed,” Torrullin murmured.
“You know it? Are you able to return him there and deny him eternal exit?”
He nodded after a while.
“What ploy will you use?”
“A certain sword.”
She sighed. “And you will not tell me. To tempt him to the point of entry is your main problem though, is it not? What else do I know, thus? I cannot help you, but if you intend using a certain sword, speak to Anaho Aleru.”
Elianas grimaced.
She laughed. “I have recognised your blade, yes.” Then she was again serious. “I shall summon Anaho to dinner this evening.” Standing decisively, she left through a far door. “Come with me. I shall show you to the guest quarters.”
EVENING BEING HOURS removed still, Majori and Lowen took to the sprawling settlement. After a quick refresh in their rustic cottage on the other side of the swans’ lake, and having been informed they were free to move around, they decided to sightsee.
Marjori was agog, Lowen less so; she was accustomed to the olde style of the town.
“It’s romantic, in a way,” Marjori said after studying bright flowers in ornate window boxes attached to ancient stone beneath wooden windows.
“Also less hygienic,” Lowen muttered.
“You were born to technology?”
“Ha, yes and no. There was technology, but I was born to a dome life. Great shields that protected us from a poisoned atmosphere. Nothing hygienic about those.” Lowen glanced at her companion. “Today, though, the domes are gone, the air is wholesome and Xen III is high-tech cleanliness.”
Marjori ogled her. “Sounds like much time passed between your then and your now.”
Shaking her head rue
fully, Lowen replied, “Much, yes.”
“How did you become involved in all this?”
“The short version? As a kid I was taken from dome life and brought to Valaris, and there I met Torrullin. The moment I saw him, my future changed.” Lowen snorted a laugh. “I think I fell in love with him in that first moment.”
“But you had to wait to grow up first.”
“I had to wait two millennia while he swerved in another realm,” the Xenian responded. “It didn’t work, though. Firstly, he was married, and secondly, Elianas joined the fray.”
Marjori halted beside a fishpond. Kneeling, she trailed her fingers in the water. Bright little fins flicked closer. “Yet here you are, Lowen. Why?”
“I ask myself that all the time. Enough about me. You and Sarahin?”
Laughter shook the young woman’s bent form. “Obviously we’re not as circumspect as we believe!”
Shaking her head, Lowen chuckled. “At least you are happy.”
Marjori glanced up, smiling. “We are, yes.”
“Hold on to that.”
They ambled more, passing taverns and grocers, a pottery and a spice shop. All races were in evidence, all long-lived. They appeared to tolerate each other, although none seemed particularly contented.
Marjori remarked on it.
“Too many years, too little freedom here,” Lowen murmured in reply. “Eventually they will rise up simply to stave off boredom.”
Blinking, the young Arness asked, “How do we prevent that?”
“Make proper peace with Immirin, and then proceed - gradually - to integration. Not as in marriage and breeding, but as in living spaces.”
“That will take time.”
Lowen nodded. “But the intention will ward off the worst of the frustration here.”
Thoughtfully, Marjori ambled on. “I will speak to Sarahin.”
ELIANAS MUTTERED ABOUT something strong to drink, something to remove the sour taste in his mouth, and Torrullin, after subjecting him to a searching look, led the way into a tavern.
A dim and smoky interior greeted them. Behind a scarred counter an equally scarred man polished pewter goblets. He ignored them. The milieu and the barkeep reminded Torrullin forcefully of another drinking hole. It brought to mind Two Town on Valaris, the night the darklings made their presence known. He hoped he would not have to fight here as he did there.
Two others sat at the counter, neither speaking, neither remotely interested in their arrival, but when Torrullin stepped up alongside to order, the nearest man turned on his ancient wooden stool and looked him over. Pale blue eyes in a wrinkled visage was Torrullin’s first impression. The man’s frayed turban drew his attention next.
It was of leather worked to a flexible state, and it was old. Holes and rudimentary patches dotted the ancient buckskin, while yellowed bones protruded from the folds a turban created.
“You are a shaman,” Torrullin murmured. “Mon Unon?”
Elianas meanwhile pointed at amber liquid in a vessel on the shelf behind the barkeep, holding two fingers aloft. He ignored Torrullin and the interaction beside him as the scarred man gave a long suffering sigh and moved on leaden feet towards the liquor.
“Mon Unon,” turban man wheezed in answer.
“Before the rains ceased?” Torrullin questioned.
“When the world was green, yes.”
“How are you here? As far as I know, the shamans of Mon Unon were not long-lived.” Torrullin lifted a finger to the man behind the counter, indicating he pour a measure for his new acquaintance as well. Turban’s goblet was empty.
Sighing again, the man decanted amber fire into three smaller vessels, turning immediately away to thump the bottle back into its place.
Elianas slid two to Torrullin, and poured his down his throat.
“Spoke a little too long to a certain ancestor,” Turban chortled, “and ended up stuck in that other place.” He sipped delicately at his gifted drink. “My thanks. The ale here is piss-poor.”
Scarred man gave him a glare.
Elianas spluttered. “What is this?”
“Preservative,” Turban laughed. “If it doesn’t kill you, it strips the parasites living inside you clean away.”
Eyeing his goblet, Torrullin was dubious. Elianas snatched it up, lifting an eyebrow. “Seems I am already inured.” He decanted the rocket fuel into his mouth.
Turban cackled appreciation.
Shaking his head, Torrullin shifted to the wrinkled man. “Do you know what happened to Mon Unon?”
“Desert now. Folks moved to Echolone.” Turban eyed him. “You know of it? You do. Then you’ll know the shamans there still speak to the ancestors, which I technically am, if not as dead as they believe.”
Torrullin leaned on his elbows. “Therefore you hear of happenings in Reaume?”
“Some.” Turban swallowed the last of his drink. “I’m thinking this has just become a fortuitous meeting for you.”
Elianas planted his butt on a hard stool, and listened, twirling the second emptied goblet between long fingers.
“Tell me about Flint,” Torrullin said, prompting Elianas to jerk sideways. “Where you there when the city thrived?”
Turban’s pale eyes moved from Torrullin to Elianas and back. “You want to know about the strange cross in the graveyard. Why should I tell you? Who are you?”
“Immirin’s guests,” the scarred man behind the counter growled. “You don’t need to know who they are, old man.”
Silence reigned unbroken for a few moments, until Turban shrugged and muttered, “That cross was a weird thing, already there when we settled Mon Unon and started raising the town that became Flint in the fullness of years. Indeed, I am that old. After attempting to excavate what lay below, we left it alone. The damn thing was immovable and even resisted digging in the soil around it. Then, one day, it vanished. On that same day the rains ceased. I had already disappeared myself by then, but became aware of the parallel after.”
Elianas stared at the old man, and Torrullin asked, “What name was inscribed upon it?”
Turban offered a shrug. “Glyphs. No one could read it.”
“And you have now lived amid Valleur and their glyphs for years untold; surely you have an idea,” Torrullin murmured.
“Leave it,” Elianas scowled. “We know what it says.”
“We saw what that creature wanted us to see,” Torrullin pointed out.
Shaking his head, Elianas stared at his hands, twirling the goblet at a frantic pace.
Turban had closed his eyes. “I’m looking at it … wait.” Beneath his eyelids, the orbs that were his eyes moved right to left multiple times.
Scarred man moved well away from an approaching revelation, muttering about not wanting Immirin on his case, while the silent drinker on the other side of Turban abruptly left his seat and ambled away. He said not a word, but obviously he did not want to be privy to the information either.
Elianas released the goblet to place his hands flat on the scarred surface.
Torrullin waited.
Turban opened his eyes. “Skynis,” he declared, if in an undertone.
Elianas swiped the goblet to launch it at the transparent vessels beyond. The scarred man caught it before it smashed into his expensive stock, glaring his ire. Flashing him the finger, Elianas got up and strode out.
Torrullin hung his head.
Turban stared at Torrullin. “Something I said?”
Snorting amusement, Torrullin moved to leave. “Indeed. My thanks.”
“Wait. Will Mon Unon ever recover?”
Shaking his head, Torrullin said no more and set off after Elianas. Behind him two men watched him go. He caught up to the dark man before a display of leather goods.
“A portal, Elianas. A way for Skynis to reach across the ages to you.”
Wordless, Elianas folded his arms.
“No one is buried there. Not your son or grandson; it was and is a doorway, and his name on
a cross was a marker for Skynis, no one else, a means to determine direction.”
Unblinking, Elianas glowered for long minutes. Then, his arms loosened and he swiped hands through his hair. “He closed it and killed a world in the process.”
“Not deliberately.”
After a moment Elianas nodded. “How did Rivalen know to use it?”
“Genetics. It probably called to him. The ground was consecrated and he will have felt that.”
Elianas’ eyes narrowed. “I know you. You suspected something off in Flint, and that something is now confirmed. Within minutes of knowing, you are planning to use it.”
“A portal no one knows about? On a dead world? Yes, it has potential.”
A grin gradually spread across Elianas’ stern face. “I see.” Then, laughing, he smacked his palms together. “Thank you, Skynis.”
Grinning, Torrullin added, “Oh, indeed.”
Chapter 32
Genesis refers to blood, not creation.
~ Unknown ~
Kathin Arne
Achen Plains
THE DINNER WITH ANAHO Aleru was interesting.
For one, it disproved a few accepted norms the Valleur regarded as intrinsic and, for another, the man himself was an astonishment.
According to the Dani Freman’s lore, Aleru and Lorin shared a time together before the Vallas and the Danae rose to prominence. It meant Aleru and Lorin could lay claim to an older bloodline and therefore greater royalty, although Aleru never ruled. Royalty was implied by the status of antiquity.
Anaho was a funny man. No one, in all the verses, could ever regard him as a royal.
He bounced into the dining chamber with whiskers flying, nearly falling over his own two feet, shouting greeting, beaming from ear to ear.
Anaho was old.
He came to a dead halt in the candle lit space and threw his arms theatrically out. “Welcome!”
“Hush,” Immirin admonished, digging in one ear.
Grinning, he took a seat at table.
Valleur aged in their final century, markedly, until that point hale of form and feature. As wrinkles showed, thus did Valleur slow down and begin to make peace with their long lives, generally attaining acceptance of a new journey Beyond before the day of ending arrived.
Lore of Sanctum Omnibus Page 217
