The Vallas entered and heads craned around.
Torrullin and Elianas walked the carpeted aisle together, with Aislinn on Tianoman’s arm behind them. Next was Caballa hooked in with Tristan and Teroux on either side of her. All wore the blue and gold Valla colours. No one carried a weapon.
Organ music soared into the lofty ceiling and whispers and rustles moved at ground level.
Le Maximillian gestured from the front and they headed towards him. He and Torrullin briefly clasped arms before he showed them to pew amid the Dalrish clan. It was high honour indeed.
Max retreated to greet new guests.
Torrullin stared at the coffin, knowing how much Lowen would hate the ostentation, but this was for the living. The dead had no part in this.
Caballa sneezed, the host of blooms getting to her. Aislinn leaned her head on Tianoman’s shoulder, her face pale. The cousins sat ramrod straight and looked only ahead.
Elianas gazed up at the ornate ceiling, studying the artistic renditions from the Bible overhead.
The organ stopped playing, Max took his place in the front pew, the rustling ceased, and the priest stepped up.
For Torrullin, it was a buzz of words. He could not hear individual sounds. All he knew was the priest spoke long and then countless others went forward to deliver an ovation, most of them Dalrish. His fingers whitened on his thighs and he held on, wanting it over.
Aislinn, beside him, gently took his nearest hand into hers without looking at him. Never had he been so grateful for a real touch.
Elianas, on his other side, placed his on the bench between them, out of sight to anyone watching. He gripped that hand also, feeling fingers curl around his.
Hours later it was done.
Max at one stage looked at him, silently asking if he wished to say a few words, but he had not the wherewithal. It was not Lowen lying in that coffin. He shook his head slightly.
People rose and gathered belongings and themselves, and slowly made their way out into the rain. The buzz of conversation replaced the white noise from the pulpit.
The Vallas sat on.
When the cathedral was largely empty, Max fell into a pew in front of them. Elianas withdrew his hand. Aislinn briefly smoothed fingers over the back of his hand, patted it and folded hers together into her lap.
“Thank you for coming,” Max murmured. “There is a gathering at the Palace, if you would like to join us.”
“We cannot attend, but thank you,” Torrullin murmured.
Max nodded as if he had expected the answer. “Her ashes will be ready tomorrow. We shall keep some in the family crypt, but if you still wish it …”
“I wish it.”
“Come to me around noon tomorrow. I assume you would prefer to head into the desert alone.”
“With Elianas, yes.”
Max sighed, seeing how carefully Torrullin contained himself. “It has not been easy, has it? She will be missed. Until tomorrow then.” Nodding greeting to everyone there, the Peacekeeper left.
The Vallas rose as well.
“I cannot do more,” Elianas said in a strained voice. “The thought of facing the crowds outside …”
“Then we leave from here,” Tianoman said. “Max will understand. Let us go.” Holding Aislinn, he dematerialised, thereby giving the others permission to do so as well.
They did, one after the other.
Max, at the great arched doors, watched the space as it emptied, and sighed.
He too wished to escape the crowds outside.
Akhavar
Mountain City
ROSE WAS INTERRED IN the Chamber of Biers an hour after they arrived back from Xen III.
The Vallas attended that funeral as a unit also, with Teroux white-faced controlled.
Already Valleur whispered in the halls about the Vallas finally working together. It boded well for the future, they said. Perhaps it was only grief binding them, a temporary condition, and it would soon end, others murmured.
Still, Valla unity had been noticed.
All of them got drunk that night, even Aislinn, after seeing to Lunik and leaving him with his new minder.
Xen III
White Desert
THE URN AT LEAST was simplicity.
The desert, too, was uncomplicated.
Mile after sal in all directions, great white dunes undulated. It was hot and windy and as silent as a thousand abandoned graveyards combined. White sand lifted in tufts from the crests of dunes and swirled in tiny whirlwinds in the dips between.
Torrullin and Elianas stood at the crest of a large white mound, hair flapping, loose white shirts dancing around their bodies.
“I realise now Lowen and I would never have worked,” Torrullin said. “She loved heat and I do not.”
Elianas’ gaze was faraway. “I kissed her in this desert.”
Silent then, they stood together, the urn waiting at their feet.
Eventually, with the wind behind them, they lifted it and poured Lowen’s mortal remains into the currents. A cloud of dust formed in the air, to be swiftly borne away.
Torrullin knelt and half-buried the urn on the crest.
They touched their foreheads in final homage and left that place.
Chapter 49
Old tomes? Oh, be wary, friend. They do tell tales, you know.
~ Tattle ~
Echolone
IN NEED OF DISTRACTION, Torrullin suggested seeing what Quilla and Sabian were up to.
Elianas agreed.
When they found the clearing in a forest, the stone cottage sported a smoking chimney. The cottage was well maintained and a flourishing vegetable garden nearby promised a bountiful harvest.
“In residence,” Elianas murmured.
“Highly suspicious,” Torrullin muttered.
Both men were in black again, with cloaks, and armed.
The cottage door was open to the breezes, and the aroma of stew filled the precincts. As they neared, Sabian emerged to stand arms akimbo looking at them, wearing an apron, a wooden ladle clutched in one hand.
“We have been waiting for you,” he said.
“Ha,” Torrullin muttered, and raised his voice, “That is not a sight I thought to see, master historian.”
Sabian waved the ladle. “I am a good cook.”
“Glad to hear it,” Elianas laughed, “for we are hungry.”
Grinning, Sabian returned indoors. “Come on then.”
Inside was a surprise. It was rustic, one large space well organised into sections, and tidy, spotless. Quilla smiled at them from a gleaming wooden table in the centre of the space.
“Sit,” Sabian murmured. He gathered bowls and utensils in the kitchen section. A huge cauldron hung in the hearth emitting wonderful smells. “I know meat is not usually on your menu, but this is wild fowl. You in?”
“In,” Elianas stated. He removed his cloak, threw it over the back of a chair and sat. “Hello, Quilla.”
“Me, too, in,” Torrullin laughed. Sitting, he loosened his cloak and tossed it back. He then eyed Quilla. “So, birdman, your signature brought us.”
“Good, but you took a while.”
“Funerals,” Elianas murmured, watching Sabian fill bowls to the brim. His stomach rumbled.
Quilla frowned. “Oh?”
“Rose,” Torrullin said, “and Lowen.”
“Lowen?”
A bowl thumped to the counter as Sabian jerked around. “Lowen is dead?”
Both men nodded.
Quilla sighed long and touched his forehead. “Rest in peace, Xenian seer.”
Sabian returned to his task, muttering darkly under his breath. After making two trips with filled bowls and a fistful of spoons, he sat and passed one to each.
“Was her death …?”
“It was and I prefer not to discuss it,” Torrullin said, and started eating. A moment later he glanced at Sabian. “This is outstanding.”
The fair man winked and ate also.
&nbs
p; “Rose?” Quilla said.
“Killed herself,” Elianas murmured, lifting his spoon.
The birdman nodded after a moment.
They ate then in silence, giving the delicious stew every justice.
With filled bellies and after many compliments, talk moved to the reason for the gathering.
“Why are you here, Quilla?” Torrullin asked.
“I am hiding from the Slayers.”
Torrullin gaped at him. “They came for you?”
“Thus you know about them already and I do not need to explain. Twenty Red Cloaks, yes. I had just left the Lifesource Temple …”
“They were on Valaris?”
“Torrullin, expect to find them everywhere now,” Quilla said. “On the land bridge, as I turned to view our temple, they pounced on me. They had been waiting amid the rocks there. I had but a moment to vanish.” He stared at Torrullin. “I fear now for the Lifesource.”
“Why did you not call?” Elianas demanded as Torrullin leaned back and closed his eyes, clearly to check on the sacred site.
“It was better to run. I did not desire to give them more targets.”
Torrullin opened his eyes. “The Lifesource is untouched.”
Quilla slumped. “Thank the gods.”
“They are not after sacred sites, obviously. They want all of us,” Elianas muttered.
“What do you know about Millwold?” Torrullin asked Sabian.
“It has the worst reputation in the universe, and yet only one continent bears the blame for it. There are seven, if memory serves, but the small northern one is Slayer territory. The rest of Millwold steers well clear. All visits are forbidden and no Slayer is allowed to set foot outside of their territory. It is a backward world in that there is no technology; all is achieved in the manner of the ancient past. Millwold’s king is a good man and he struck a deal to keep them away from his people. I believe he has a huge fleet of sailing ships and uses it - and the cannons on board - to ensure the deal is kept.”
“Why not rout them?” Elianas frowned.
Sabian shrugged. “Firstly, it is privately owned, and secondly, I guess there are simply too many and each is a killer. A wise man will contain them rather than lose his own.”
Torrullin leaned forward and, in as few words as possible, spoke of what Tristan saw and what they suspect happened to Lowen. At the end of it, he added, “The Slayers believe Rivalen has the Maghdim. He can ask anything of them and they will do so.”
Quilla, his eyes large, briefly and gently touched Torrullin’s wrist, but he said not a word about Lowen. Instead he addressed the issue.
“The Maghdim is misunderstood universally. Most believe it the ultimate sorcerical device and that its controller therefore has great power. What they do not know is that only you are able to touch it, Torrullin, and you, Elianas. That lore has not been made public. The Valleur know, but the Valleur will never discuss Valleur matters with others, will they? I suggest to you that you make it known. This will cast doubt on Rivalen’s claim.”
Elianas shook his head. “They will simply think him even more powerful, him able to employ a device only Elixir has been able to wield to date.”
Quilla muttered, “A valid point, damn it.”
“Wear it boldly,” Sabian suggested. “Allow others to see you still have it. You do have it? Of course you do, what am I thinking? Let them see and then let them question. Rivalen may claim you made a replica, but most will question his words.”
“It will take time to engender enough doubt,” Elianas said.
Sabian leaned in to stare at Torrullin. “Make it huge, make it a public spectacle. Challenge someone to touch it. Trust me, it will spread like wildfire.”
“This is no trinket,” Torrullin snapped. One hand rested on his chest where the device was. “It could bloody hurt someone.”
Sabian leaned even closer. “My Lord Torrullin, have you not yet realised that you have the true master mechanism around your neck?”
Absolute silence ensued, in which all three there stared astonished at Sabian. Quilla’s birdlike head swung to Torrullin and stark enlightenment sat in his eyes, his every facial muscle. Elianas lowered his head after a few seconds to release the mightiest of sighs.
“Makes more sense now, does it not?” Sabian murmured. “Every enemy you have faced has desired to control it. Vannis was most thorough, was he not? That golden coin contains all Valleur history, all enchantments, all lore and legends, and every action you have taken since taking on the responsibility of wearing it has entered its memory also. It is a lore gatherer, a timekeeper - the master mechanism.”
Torrullin threaded hands through his hair.
“I found the receptacle inside Akhavar,” Sabian went on, “and do you know what I found?”
He rose and went to a wooden chest beside the alcove for his bed. Withdrawing a wrapped object, he returned to the table and set it there, swiftly revealing a rectangular stone.
“A stone that is also a box. Open it.”
Yes, there was the tiniest catch. Torrullin touched it and the ‘stone’ hinged open as a jewellery box would. Inside there was a carved circle. It was the perfect fit for the Maghdim Medaillon.
“Well … fuck,” Elianas went.
Sabian laughed. “That was my reaction also.”
“Immirin said to hide the clock in the receptacle, to inscribe the word ‘Eurue’.” Torrullin scowled at the object. “Why? In the wrong hands the Medaillon is dangerous, I agree, but it cannot easily be subverted.” He glanced at Elianas. “Lowen told me that. She had a vision many years ago about Vannis intending only love when he created it. It is therefore almost inviolate.”
Elianas blinked, perhaps understanding how it was able to play a role in intimacy. In fact, a swift pink bloom appeared on his cheeks, as quickly gone.
Only Torrullin understood it and he moved on rapidly. “I do say ‘almost’, though, for ever we must hark to the dangers. Love can be subverted, after all.”
Quilla pulled in a breath. “This gives me pause. Perhaps ‘love’ is the operative concept here. If a true-hearted man or woman touches it, Torrullin, will it burn him or her?”
“Yes. Would you like to test your theory, oh true-hearted one?”
Quilla smiled. “Thank you for the compliment, but I am a birdman.”
Torrullin was then thoughtful. “There is a chance it will not burn a penitent, but this person would have to be a saint to stand above all saints.”
“Few of those around,” Sabian muttered.
“Why are you so quiet, Elianas?” Quilla demanded.
Elianas stared fixedly at the stone box. “That. It stymies me.”
Sabian leaned in. “Why is that?”
Torrullin frowned, hearing the thread of challenge in the fair man’s tone, understanding Sabian knew something more and wished them to reach the point he needed to make by themselves.
Quilla too quirked an eyebrow and came to the same conclusion, for his bright blue eyes dropped to the box in question and fixated there as well.
Elianas drew the receptacle to him. Tapping it, he said, “This is a hard substance, difficult to carve anything from, never mind a vessel with perfectly straight lines. I would suggest it was cut from a larger stone via lasers, not stonemason tools.” He turned it lid side facing him. “To insert hinges and catch would require magic or the precision technology brings.” He looked up. “Yet its place of hiding suggests antiquity.”
Sabian nodded sagely.
Elianas offered a quick grin. “Ah, so here is a mystery.” Again he stared at the box. “Immirin knew of it and she is of Lorin time. Very old, thus.” Unexpectedly he snapped his fingers. “The Danaan.”
Sabian, smiling, leaned back. “Indeed.”
Elianas lifted a finger. “It fits with what we know of the Danaan and their technology, as it fits the time frame of the Original as a concept and the birth of the Timekeeper legend. But it does not fit with the birth of the Maghdim Me
daillon.”
Torrullin gave a nod and speared Sabian with his silvery gaze. “There is more.” He folded his arms.
“No need to be defensive,” Sabian laughed. “I am not about to undo the history of the Medaillon. As far as I can tell it was made when Vannis made it in this cycle, no earlier.”
Undoing his arms, Torrullin leaned onto the table. “Then this does not make sense.”
Quilla’s feathers quivered from looking this way and that before they abruptly stilled. “Oh,” he breathed.
Torrullin speared him next. “Oh?”
“It is a prophecy, Torrullin.”
Sabian nodded immediately.
“How?” Elianas demanded.
Quilla clambered to his small height, reached over and drew the box to him. Canting it back, he bent to see what was underneath.
“There is an inscription, yes,” he murmured and gestured at Torrullin. “It is too heavy for me.”
Giving the birdman a skewed look, knowing nothing was ever too heavy for a sorcerer, Torrullin closed the box and turned it on its head.
All four craned closer, including Sabian, who probably already knew what was there.
In the fourteenth cycle a golden coin comes. Here is its sanctum. It has greater value than time itself for it is created of sacred space. The internal marriage is the external wedding march.
“Now what?” Torrullin blurted.
“A prophecy,” Quilla murmured.
“In the common tongue?” Elianas snapped. “In ancient time?”
Quilla spread his hands. “You lot know more about how time plays tricks than I now do.”
“In the bloody fourteenth cycle?” Torrullin jabbed at the inscription. “We are in fifth cycle, at most.”
“And that is the part that will throw all into disarray,” Sabian murmured. “Sit. I shall make coffee and then I shall tell you a story.” He pointed at a shelf near his bed’s alcove. “The mighty book of legends is quite informative.”
The massive book he took from Balconaru’s library sat between other equally hefty tomes.
Rubbing at his eyes, Torrullin sighed. “Coffee will be most welcome if it contains a shot of something stronger.”
Lore of Sanctum Omnibus Page 231
