Lore of Sanctum Omnibus

by Elaina J Davidson

  “Louder!”

  “Torrullin!” she screamed, and felt as if her heart had been torn from her.

  “Torrullin Valla indeed! And what is this?” Rivalen lifted his Medaillon on high.

  The hissing rose and fell in waves of coercion.

  She stared at the bloody mess where the Medaillon usually rested. Torrullin put up a monumental fight to keep it, and lost. She shuddered and stared hatred at the creature watching her with self-satisfaction.

  “I cannot hear you,” he threatened.

  “The fucking Maghdim Medaillon!”

  “Yes!” he crowed, and faced the host behind him. “I have it now, do you see?”

  The sound of snakes became a tangible presence.

  Rivalen kicked at the form at his feet and shook the magical device. “It does not burn me! I am therefore now the keeper of this lore!”

  A host of eyes stared back at him.

  “Kneel!” he cried.

  Red forms kneeled.

  All sound ceased.

  Lowen crept closer to Torrullin, tears streaming over her cheeks. How had this happened? Where was Elianas? Who were these men Rivalen now had in his thrall?

  The moment her fingers connected with his flesh she knew it was not Torrullin. She froze. She understood two factors with the greatest clarity in an instant.

  One, Rivalen had used her as proof of his so-called control for his red-cloaked army. Two, Tristan had been used to dupe her and them. Tristan, she realised, was badly hurt.

  Fury flowed through her, body and mind. She hurtled up spreading her wings.

  He was faster. He moved as quicksilver, he met her in the air, swirled around her, gripped her wings and pulled at them with all his strength.

  Terrible agony lanced through her.

  He tore her wings from her and threw them high into the air as, screaming her horror, she plummeted. Shouting, he gestured viciously at the floating feathers and they burst into flame to disintegrate within a moment.

  Two charred feathers landed beside her.

  She lay twisted and broken beside the still form of the Kaval leader, Torrullin’s likeness.

  “He lies,” she croaked. “He used me.”

  No one heard her.

  She tried again. “He lies …”

  Rivalen landed and kicked her in her stomach. Curling around the torment, she understood he would kill her. He would kill Tristan too.

  He bent over her. “Your time has come, seer. Thank you for your help.”

  With her final reserves, Lowen screamed, “Torrullin!”

  Mon Unon

  Flint

  BARELY AN HOUR AFTER awakening from the sleep of the dead, Elianas kicked the dust of a dead world with Torrullin at his side.

  “We make a stand here. We lure the fucker here and we send him through the shadow doorway. Here no one else will get hurt.”

  Torrullin watched him, wordless. Elianas was on the brink.

  “You plant the Lumin Sword,” and Elianas pointed at the space where the cross with Tannil’s name upon was used to unsettle them, “there.”

  There was nothing now, other than dust, to mark the place, to mark what was once in fact more about Skynis than Tannil, but both knew the exact location. They would use it as entry to the Path of Shades, all appreciation due to the turbaned shaman in a tavern on the Achen Plain.

  “That is the plan,” Torrullin nodded.

  “Release the shroud, Torrullin.” Elianas sighed, perhaps realising how wound up he was. “The universe cannot long deal with such a dampening.”

  “I have already lifted most of it. Merely the guard against elemental events remains.”

  “Why did you not simply do that in the first instance?”

  “Fury.” Torrullin stared at him. “You are not the only one teetering on a brink.”

  Torrullin!

  Both men twitched hard.

  “Lowen,” Torrullin said, and vanished.

  Elianas followed instantly.

  Luvanor

  TWO FORMS LAY CRUMPLED on the beach not far from Lowen’s cottage.

  They raced across the sand towards them, to stumble to a halt, colour draining from both.

  “Check Lowen!” Torrullin snarled and fell to his knees beside Tristan. He laid hands on the man’s chest, discovered a faint heartbeat.

  Relief flooded into him and he employed the resultant energy to build strength for healing. The cuts and gouges closed over and Tristan drew in a shuddering breath and started to convulse. Rolling him, Torrullin opened his airway.

  Finally, spluttering, Tristan opened his eyes. “What happened?”

  That was the question, yes.

  Torrullin checked on Elianas and Lowen, and froze. Two dark eyes stared at him without expression. He shifted his gaze to Lowen. She was not breathing.

  Scuttling around Tristan, he urgently laid hands on her, and Elianas gripped them and forced them away.

  “She is dead.”

  “She cannot be. Let me try,” Torrullin ground out, jerking his hands free.

  “Her wings were torn from her, Torrullin. Neither of us can bring her back from that.”

  He stared at the bloody stumps where her shoulder blades usually were, denial stark in his gaze. “You are the Danae. You can bring her back.”

  Elianas remained expressionless. “I have tried.”

  “Try again!”

  Closing his eyes, Elianas nodded. Rising, he bent to gather the broken form into his arms, and lifted her. Dark hair trailed over his one arm. Stepping carefully, he headed with her to the ocean.

  “Come with me,” he murmured.

  Torrullin immediately went to him.

  “Take some of her, Torrullin,” Elianas said. “This is the last time we shall feel her warmth.”

  All gods. He did as bid, accepting Lowen’s head and shoulders into his arms.

  Thus joined, with Tristan unmoving on the beach, they entered the water. Elianas murmured words of chant. With wave eddies around their waists, they halted. Still Elianas chanted, his focus intense.

  Then he ceased.

  He did not speak, but inhaled a shuddering breath.

  Torrullin shivered. There was no hope of return for the immortal Xenian. Swallowing, he lowered his lips to Lowen’s forehead; how swiftly her heat receded. He lifted his head and made space for Elianas. The dark man too placed a kiss on her forehead. Their eyes met briefly, both without an iota of expression.

  As one, they dunked her and washed her gently clean of blood and gore. Lifting her together, they proceeded back to land.

  Tristan followed as they headed in silence to her cottage.

  AFTER DRYING AND DRESSING her in her favourite gown, they laid her on her bed.

  “Tristan, will you summon the Dalrish?” Torrullin murmured.

  “Of course.”

  “Who did this?” Elianas demanded.

  “Rivalen,” Tristan said.

  “How?”

  “I do not know. He took me and thus I know it was him, but I was unconscious.”

  Torrullin glanced at him. “How did he take you?”

  Tristan inhaled and exhaled. “It can wait. The Dalrish will be here soon.”

  Elianas blinked. “I cannot face that.”

  “I wonder if I can,” Torrullin said, “but I owe Max Dalrish. I shall do this.” He drew breath, but could say no more.

  “Forgive my cowardice in this,” Elianas said, and left.

  Tristan went out as well, to greet the party arriving outside. Torrullin heard the murmur of voices, of explanations, but could not himself find the strength to add to it. He waited at the foot of Lowen’s bed, staring at her still form.

  His first sight of this woman had been Lowen the teenager arriving at the Tower of Stairs hanging onto her Uncle Matt’s hand. She was frightened and yet curious, and she saw into his deep spaces immediately, young as she was. Later, after the Plane, he found Lowen the immortal seer inside Cèlaver, and she undid him.
She accompanied him into the Hounding realm and into the Abyss where the Syllvan of Reaume awaited them. All gods, Lowen in Danak, their first lovemaking. Searching for her through Time. Lowen taking Shadow Wings from Elianas in Nowhere, between him and Elianas. Lowen mortal and immortal, seer extraordinary.

  “We shall take it from here, Lord Torrullin.”

  He blinked and finally turned away. “Max.”

  The Peacekeeper’s face crumpled. “How, Torrullin?”

  “I do not know, my friend.”

  Le Maximillian Dalrish drew himself up. “She has had long years and now her time is over. We shall honour her with due ceremony.”

  Torrullin closed his eyes for a long intense moment, before responding. “That is good.”

  “I shall send word of the time and location.”

  “Thank you.” Torrullin paused in the act of leaving. “Max.”

  Clearing his throat multiple times, Max looked at him.

  “Honour her, but do not bury her. She desired cremation and wanted her ashes spread on the winds that blow in the White Desert of Xen. If you will permit me, I would like to gift her that final wish.”

  Clearing his throat again, Max merely nodded.

  Torrullin clasped his shoulder and left.

  Four men entered with a white monogrammed shroud.

  Another shroud, this one painfully final.

  Outside there was Tristan. And Chaim and Erin. Of course, they brought the Dalrish and would aid in taking them, with Lowen, back to Xen III. They merely bowed, offering no words.

  “Tris, you need to come with me.”

  Tristan shook his head. “Not yet. I have to figure out how this happened and I need be on hand for a Dome gathering. I will come in the morning.”

  Torrullin inclined his head and vanished.

  Never would he again set foot to this small part of Luvanor.

  Chapter 45

  Grief creates currents hard to swim from.

  ~ Book of Sages ~

  Avaelyn

  ELIANAS STOOD AT THE edge of the sea cliffs.

  Torrullin took a seat on the stone lookout bench, and waited.

  Dusk settled over Avaelyn.

  His stomach made demanding noises, but he ignored it. Today had not even seen a drink of water, but anything eaten or drank now would not stay down.

  Finally Elianas moved his head. Another minute elapsed before his body followed the action. He made his way to the bench to sit. “He burned her wings and thus I could not bring her back.”

  Torrullin nodded. He had figured it out. All parts of Lowen needed to be available for life to be restored.

  “Tristan’s presence there means he was used to dupe Lowen.”

  Again Torrullin nodded. Yes, that too. He had noticed Tristan wore the black, something he never did. Most told them apart by their manner of dress.

  “Both were used to dupe someone else.”

  Torrullin leaned his head against the stone backrest. “I agree. Who needed that kind of deceit? Lowen had to confirm I lay there and, given the state of Tristan’s chest, Rivalen ostensibly possessed the real Medaillon. Who requires proof of mastery over me and the Maghdim?”

  As there was no answer, they sat on in silence.

  “I cannot believe she is gone.”

  Elianas turned his head, the slow movement, which meant he curbed every emotion. “She will be missed.”

  Torrullin understood something. Elianas curbed his emotions because he thought he, Torrullin, did so. He wondered how the man truly felt about this. He wondered how he felt.

  Guilty? Oh, yes.

  Angry? Indeed.

  Numb? That, too.

  Grief? He dared not think about it.

  But grief was not about thinking, was it? It was an instinct the living could not always escape. A shudder passed through him, and he gasped for air. He slid from the bench to his knees in the grass and let loose a primordial scream.

  Elianas crashed down beside him, tears flowing.

  “I am going to make him suffer,” Torrullin ground out.

  “You loved her,” Elianas said.

  “I fucking loved her!” Torrullin shouted, scrambling up. He clawed at the air. “Bastard!”

  “I loved her too.”

  The quiet words arrested his fury. Closing his eyes, Torrullin said, “And she loved us.”

  Elianas stood, his dark gaze impenetrable in the gathering in of night.

  Proof of life. And of love.

  Torrullin reached out and touched his beloved’s face. His own tears ran freely. He had no more to give and could not ask for anything. Inhaling sharply, he marched back to their home, heading directly to the emerald tower. There he left the Lumin Sword for safekeeping when he went to see Teighlar in Grinwallin.

  Now he desired it with him always.

  He needed to be ready when he met Rivalen.

  Let that meeting come soon.

  TRISTAN, IN LEATHERS BROWN and a loose white linen shirt, entered the dwelling.

  Morning sun lit the garden. He shivered, for it was cold still. It was too quiet. Often when he came, this silence greeted him and he knew then the two men were still asleep. Often, therefore, he found them a-bed.

  Not this morning.

  He checked there first, but found the sleeping area deserted. Neither bed appeared slept in. Worried, he strode through the dwelling. No one in the kitchen either, and no coffee aroma.

  He discovered Elianas curled up on his couch in his study. Lines of exhaustion and grief had etched lines into the man’s face. Leaning in, he gently touched him into wakefulness.

  Dark eyes stared up at him and Elianas swung his legs to the floor. “Where is Torrullin?”

  “I haven’t found him yet.”

  Elianas blinked at him. “I know where he is. Will you make coffee?”

  Tristan nodded and left, heading back to the kitchen.

  Many minutes later, as water dripped into the ground beans, Elianas entered, steering Torrullin by the shoulders. Torrullin gripped two swords in their scabbards in one hand. Elianas forced him into a chair at the table and thereafter moved around finding mugs and utensils. Torrullin slapped his swords down.

  Tristan studied his ‘grandfather’. For once Torrullin appeared far older than he did. For once it actually felt as if his grandfather sat there.

  He sat across from him. “Torrullin?”

  Eyes red-rimmed lifted. “I am fine.”

  It was so far from the truth, Tristan nearly snorted, but curbed the impulse. Grief did different things to different people. It occurred to him Torrullin showed more emotion over Lowen’s death than he had when Saska died. He wondered what it meant, but it no longer mattered who Torrullin had loved more. Both women were now dead.

  Elianas sat, roughly releasing mugs and stuff to the table.

  Tristan glanced at him. He had not quite realised before how much the dark man had cared for Lowen as well. He wondered what it did to the relationship between the two men, but it was not his business.

  He rose to check on the brew. Almost there. He found honey and cream and brought it over, then retrieved the coffee jug. He poured and sat.

  “Drink,” he said, drawing the honey to him.

  After a moment both men prepared their coffee and sipped. Slowly colour returned to drawn cheeks.

  “You awake now?”

  Torrullin managed to smile. “Somewhat.”

  “Elianas?”

  “I got more sleep than him. He slept on the hard floor … never mind. My mind begins to function, yes.”

  “All you need do is listen anyway.” Tristan leaned back. “After the extraordinary events in Kalgaia and the gathering thereafter in the Throne-room, I returned to the Dome. The console required the new data.” He stared at his hands, swore and lifted his mug, slurping noisily.

  “We did wonder where you were after the inundation of Sanctuary,” Torrullin murmured. “The Dome’s responsibility, after all.”

  Tri
stan nodded. “Bad, all of that.” He set his mug down. “I wanted to see Caballa and returned to Akhavar, and Rivalen was waiting for me. You know how we all transport to the ledge to enter the city? None of us transport directly to a location inside the mountain, right? Well, he knew about that, obviously, and I bloody wish I had transported directly into Caballa’s suite.”

  “None of this is your fault, Tristan,” Elianas said.

  “Feels like it, but I cannot now change it. He was fast, I will give him that. Never have I seen a big man move as fast as he did. He trussed me up with vulci and I dared not move.”

  Vulci ropes were a device used in the dark arts to contain an entity. It hurt like all kinds of hell. The smallest movement could have the rope biting into flesh and the agony was extreme.

  “He hit me and I lost consciousness. When I came to, I was somewhere else. The vulci was gone and I had been dressed to look like you, Torrullin. As I opened my eyes, he took a handful of knotted vulci, ripped the tunic open and pressed that knot into my chest. All gods, it hurt.”

  Tristan paused to swallow the memory away and he noticed how the two men glanced at each other.

  “No doubt you realise, as I have, it was meant to appear as an epic struggled for the Maghdim Medaillon.”

  Torrullin’s gaze fixed on him, while sipping at his brew with deliberate action.

  Tristan leaned forward. “Tell me you still have it.”

  Torrullin touched his chest. “I still have it.”

  “Thank the gods. Anyway, he hit me again and when I came to the second time, you were bent over me, healing me.”

  Elianas leaned his forearms on the table. “Did you see anyone else?”

  “No, he was alone the whole time.”

  “Can you tell where he took you?”

  “Nowhere I have been before.”

  Still staring at him, Torrullin said, “Close your eyes and picture the place. Tell us what you see.”

  Tristan did so. “A stone chamber, wooden ceiling, a fireplace. Light flickers, there must be a fire, but I do not see it, just know it is there, feel some warmth. There is a rug under me, blue and thick. Crossed swords are mounted on the wall I am able to see. Old and blunt, decorations only. My clothes lie torn nearby. Discarded vulci twitches beyond. Wait. There is a door. Wood, strong, it has an engraving … wait.”