Hissing, Torrullin gripped the table in front of him.
Tianoman levered to his feet. “Confess.”
“There is nothing to confess!” Halon spat.
“Caballa came to you. Your guards have declared thus, even if you refuse to. They heard her screaming. They heard you hitting her. Confess!”
Torrullin launched up and gripped the man by the throat. “How fucking dare you touch her?”
Halon hawked and spat in his face. “Just another Valla fanatic she was!”
That was a confession.
Tristan barged in; Elianas had lost that battle. The dark man followed him in, hands up in surrender. Both men took one look at Halon and both launched in.
“Cease!” Tianoman shouted. “Step aside! Torrullin, I said, step aside!”
Everyone froze, and then Torrullin released the man. Wiping his face fastidiously, he stepped aside.
“Is it him?” Tristan demanded.
“It is,” Torrullin growled.
“Then he is mine,” Tristan stated. He hauled the man to him. “You will rue the day you were born, scum.”
Halon spat in his face as well.
Tristan backhanded him to send him sprawling.
All four guards smirked at the form on the floor.
Elianas stared unblinking at Halon. His right foot twitched as if he contained an urge to kick something.
“There will be a formal trial …” Tianoman began.
“Fuck that,” Torrullin muttered.
“I agree. Fuck a trial,” Tristan rasped. “He is mine by rite of justice. I demand a duel in the manner of ancient days.”
Tianoman gaped at him.
“His is the right and rite,” Torrullin murmured.
Falling into his chair, Tianoman said, “Fine, but he gets to recover his strength first.” He pointed at the man quivering on the floor. “I am not sending that into battle. Tristan will win by default and that is not how ancient duels were fought.”
Tristan glared at Halon, then at his cousin, glanced at Elianas and lifted an eyebrow in Torrullin’s direction.
Torrullin shrugged. “I believe you will win by default no matter how rested the scum is, so let him rest. Maybe an hour?”
Elianas grinned.
Tristan laughed. “Two days.” He hunkered beside Halon. “We shall meet at the site of other ancient duels.”
Halon stared up at him.
“Yes, the Lake of Swords. Best be prepared.” Tristan gestured. “Take him away. Feed him, wash him, clothe him.”
The guards dragged the man away. He was silent now.
In the ensuing stillness the men stared at each other before Tristan remarked, “I do this alone. No witnesses, no seconds for either myself or Halon. This is a fight to the death, and ancient laws of justice allow me this privilege.”
“We no longer live in those times,” Tianoman said.
“Cousin, who are you fooling? Ancient Akhavar, with both Linard and Kalgaia restored to former glory. An ancient sentience walks this Valleur earth as guardian. The Throne is again here in its original place. How many ancients have not made an appearance recently? Do not tell me we live in the present.”
Tianoman stared at him. “Have it your way.”
Tristan bowed and left.
Elianas dug in his ear. “Do you know why they called it the Lake of Swords? So many duels, so much death, and every loser’s blade was tossed into the water.”
“I did not realise there was an actual lake,” Tianoman muttered.
“There isn’t,” Torrullin stated, sitting. “It appears only when a duel is enacted. The Lake of Swords cannot be found unless someone is to die.”
“We did that,” Elianas grinned.
Torrullin laughed. “And how it peeved dear Nemisin!”
Chapter 69
Water is a receptacle and a healer. It receives life; it gifts life. It accepts death; it cocoons the forgotten. It gathers the droplet; it spreads as a lake. Water is everything.
~ Arun, Druid ~
Akhavar
Northern Region
Lake of Swords
AFTER TWO DAYS OF sword practice, which Halon was allowed also, Tristan left the mountain citadel for a mark on an ancient map.
Sabian, Master Historian, once told him about the Lake of Swords and showed him a map. A small ink dot in a vastly empty space on parchment. It was no more than a tale, but it was one that spoke to Tristan. It contained resonance.
He would now employ it.
The fact that Torrullin and Elianas did not nay say his choice of location proved to him it existed.
Shortly after dawn he stood alone and waiting upon a level plain where the dry season had created cracks in the earth. A few hardy weeds pushed through, but plant life was otherwise absent.
Damn. Was this the place? It felt abandoned. It seemed unlikely.
Two guards brought Halon, bowed and left. Halon turned round and around, and smiled. The lacerations on his face had dried into scabs. A few were infected.
The sight set Tristan’s gut to churning. Whether the Lake appeared or not, this man would die this day.
As he formed the resolution, the Lake shimmered into being. A shallow body of water arrived and the cracks in the earth pulled together into hard packed ground. Beyond the lake trees formed and thereafter they spread to encompass the entire region, an ethereal forest to hide the nefarious actions of the living.
Halon lost his smile.
Tristan peered into the water. He saw no swords. It did not mean there were none. Shrugging, he faced Halon. “Why?” he asked.
Halon glared at him.
“Here is no one now to hear your words,” Tristan said. “Tell me.”
“She offered me a position and then retracted.”
“Why would she retract?”
Fury erupted. “I was not right for the position!”
Tristan stared at him. Caballa saw his true nature and thus died for it. Yet this man would have exacted something from her first, before killing her.
“What did you force her to give you?”
Halon grinned. “Her signature. I have prepared a document using her mark. I will kill you and then I will accept the position as offered in that document.”
Ah. “And you trust that Caballa signed accurately?”
The man’s face froze. An instant later he spat. “We shall see.”
Caballa died for her mark on a piece of parchment. This was an affront to the spaces. Tristan withdrew his sword. “Prepare yourself.”
Perhaps the man had a deal prepared, one to change his fate, for his eyes moved shiftily and he did not reach for his blade. Unfortunately Halon’s duelling companion was not remotely interested in dealing; that was obvious when Tristan smirked. Clearly there would be no twisted route out from under the lover of a murdered woman’s intent.
Swearing, Halon jerked his sword free.
He hurtled forward.
Metal pealed as bells of doom across the water.
Halon was Valleur. He was a sorcerer and had been training with swords since young. This was the Valleur way. Rage and desperation caused him to fight like a maniac as well, increased his strength and lent him the euphoria of self-belief.
He fought hard.
Tristan as frequently defended as he attacked, astonished by the man’s will. This was indeed a duel worthy of ancient time.
Grunts filled the air with otherworldly intimidation. Boots thudded upon the earth, splashed occasionally at the water’s edge. Blade hit blade and slid with peculiar whispers, and metallic melodies danced into the trees.
Tristan went low when an attack threatened to take his head, and thrust upward.
Gargling, Halon fell to his knees, skewered through his groin. Tristan stepped back, and swiped.
Halon fell back.
He was dead.
KNEELING IN THE MUD with tears streaking over bloodied cheeks, ignoring the body behind him, Tristan understood how it felt to
finally lose hope.
What life was there without Caballa? Killing her murderer would not bring her back.
Pushing himself to his feet, he swayed drunkenly. He had no more to give. Throwing his head back, he screamed his grief.
He tossed Halon’s blade into the water. As it splashed in, other swords were revealed. Many. By all gods, how many had died in this place?
Tristan then convulsively fiddled at his waist.
When he had his sword belt loose, he gripped the whole, drew his arm back and threw it with all his might into the lake, screaming again. It splashed briefly as it landed and wallowed there in mute accusation, the depth too shallow for it to disappear.
For a long time Tristan stared at it, his blood dripping into his soaked tunic.
Finally he turned away, uncaring. He strode into the trees. Fuck everything. No one would ever again mistake him for Torrullin, not with the new scars he now wore upon his face.
For those he would never seek healing.
FROM BEYOND THE SHALLOW body of water a man stepped to the lapping edge. White hair lifted in the breeze and dark blue eyes tracked the form vanishing into the trees.
He sighed and waded into the water to retrieve the discarded sword and scabbard. Holding it, he wrapped the belt around it, and then unhurriedly set off after.
The forging of Tristan Valla was over.
It was time to introduce him to a different future.
The Lake of Swords vanished.
Chapter 70
A sword is a friend before it is becomes a weapon
~ A blacksmith’s truth ~
The Dome
AN OGIVE CHIMED.
Belun, alone in the Dome, noted it was Erin’s, now reset to summons. For a long while he stared at the vaulted arch. So much had changed recently. Here was another factor in that transformation.
When the ogive chimed again, Belun drew in a breath and permitted entry.
A man walked in, carrying a leather wrapped sword and scabbard in one hand. Belun eyed him. He wore a sword at his waist as well. He lifted his gaze to the man’s face. White hair. Blue eyes, a darker shade than was usual, very pale skin. Excellent bone structure, a straight nose, proper chin, lips neither too thin or too fleshy. He was tall, like to the Valleur.
He was attractive and possessed nobility of features.
If you cared about that sort of thing. Belun shrugged. He gave no thought to appearance. What lay in a man’s soul was more important.
“My name is Alusin.”
After checking the console’s lights - no subterfuge revealed - the Centuar stepped away and approached. “I am Belun of the Centuar. Dome leader.”
Alusin bowed his head. “I am honoured to meet you.” He proceeded to lift his bundled weaponry. “This belongs to Tristan Skyler Valla.”
Belun’s enormous head jerked down. “Why do you have it?” he roared.
The man said, “He threw it away after his duel and I thought it a shame. Torrullin Valla gifted him this blade at his Coming-of-Age.”
“Who are you?” Belun demanded. “Where is Tristan?”
Alusin lifted his free hand in a gesture of peace. “Tristan won, have no fear, but his soul is currently burdened with grief. He sits and awaits inspiration for life renewed in the Danae Guild Hall.”
“How do you know all this? Are you known to the Valleur?”
“I am not known to them, but before Akhavar’s restoration I was a regular visitor to that world. The silence and the heat drew me in. It was a good place to meditate. When I returned recently I realised it was being resettled. The Valleur had returned.” Alusin smiled. “I read much about the Valleur in Titania’s great Library. I still visit Akhavar, although I keep to myself.”
Belun snatched the scabbard, unwrapped it, and saw it was indeed Tristan’s sword. If he threw it away after his duel with that murdering Elder, he would not desire to see it too soon. “I will keep it for him until he is ready to accept it again.”
Alusin bowed his head again. “The summons to Kaval duty is why I am here now.”
The Centuar nodded. He stared at the man, for he did not know what he needed to do to vet the man for said duty.
Alusin smiled again. “Only an immortal hears the summons, Belun of the Centuar. I am therefore immortal. I am also the only of my kind. Unlike the past, when many were culled to allow for a single survivor, I was alone before and I am alone now. Mercifully no one needed to die for me. I am a sorcerer and I have some skill in weapons and fighting. Put me to any test you desire, but I state now that I am lumin kindred and I fight only for the light.”
Belun moved to the console. “I will now gather the full Kaval …”
“Leave Tristan Valla to his introspection,” Alusin murmured. “He requires time to find himself.”
The Centuar glared at him. “You sound just like …” He paused as enlightenment washed over him. “… Elianas.”
The white-haired man looked back at him serenely. “I am honoured by the comparison.”
“You are … are you …?”
“That future has not yet begun, Centuar, and there is no need for haste now. Allow events to assume a natural progression.”
Belun huffed after a moment. “I think you will drive me just as crazy as Elianas does.”
Alusin closed in. “And perhaps we too will be great friends.”
The Centuar pulled a face. “Probably.”
Laughing, Alusin lifted his hand to the lights. “Which one?”
Belun pointed at Recognition.
The man pressed down, closed his eyes and then stepped away.
Nothing happened, except, well, recognition. “Which race or civilisation do you claim as your genesis, Alusin?”
“I am Kemir, of the ancient world Eurue.”
“Eurue?”
Alusin smiled. “Indeed, but that is a long tale.”
Belun blinked rapidly. He sensed connections previously absent were now melding together, but he did not know enough to tell how they fitted. It seemed, though, he was right when he suggested to Elianas that Tristan become the new Timekeeper. This man, from a world known as Eurue, by all gods, was his Eternal Companion.
Throwing his hands in the air, he sent the gathering call.
Alusin laughed. “We have time, Centuar, to figure it all out.”
Belun grinned, liking the sound of that.
Avaelyn
THE SPACES STILLED AFTER the duel and peace returned to Reaume.
In the building of Avaelyn’s fourteen sacred sites, Torrullin began to atone for past transgressions. He felt his emotional self gradually unlocking. He sensed how his soul expanded with every stone laid. As once the Keep created in him a sense of future, of forgiveness earned and deserved, thus it was now.
Elianas, watching him, realised the sites were for more than Avaelyn’s well-being. While he had suggested them, Torrullin had thrown himself heart and soul into a rebuild of self.
On the day the Lifesource was infused, he understood something more. He, Elianas, was rebuilding himself also. It was time to eternally sever the past and stride forward made new.
As they stood at the site of the magnificent Lifesource Cathedral, watching Q’li’qa’mz jiggle around like a temple dancer in his glee, he said, “Daily more burdens fall away.”
Torrullin studied the profile beside him. “I am happy to hear you say it, for now you understand. Elianas, perhaps it is time to heal the scars on your face as well.”
Dark hair swung. “You do not like my scars?”
“I think you no longer need them.”
Lifting a hand to Torrullin’s cheek, Elianas murmured, “And you would be right. Heal me, beloved.”
Torrullin laid hands on either side of the dark man’s face. “This is Heart’s Desire.” When he removed his hands, Elianas’ face was unmarked. He then gripped the man to him. “Now we are free.”
Elianas held on. “At last, yes.”
THEREAFTER THE MANDALA ORA
CLE site was completed.
A great stone circle of colour and intricate design summoned attention from all over. Birds and furry creatures, reptiles and insects came to investigate. Within three days the dry region teemed with new life.
As Shep Lore chivvied builders to complete his place of healing, a rendition of the Dragon Taliesman was carved into a mountain face.
Families were invited to farm on Avaelyn and a massive maypole was raised to bless all future harvests. This became known simply as the Maypole. Elianas spent much time with the farmers to ensure his coffee trees were well taken care of.
Gradually they named mountain ranges, bays and regions. The continent where their home was became Copinur - Where the Moor Mountain Resides - and the second one was named Somaryal, meaning Opening the Spaces. Rivers remained unnamed as per Valleur tradition, although lakes received monikers.
A giant Sylmer statue took pride of place in the exact centre of Avaelyn as world. This was Heart of the World.
A glorious woman held an orb on high at the confluence of three rivers. This was Light of a Daywalker.
Nestled in a fold between two hills, upon a rock pedestal, a stone bier rested. Inside there were carved tablets, each bearing a name. It was sealed and named The Past, and the names included Taranis, Saska, Vannis, Hunarial, Skynis, Tristamil, Caballa, Declan, Valeri, Lowen, Tingast, Millanu, Samuel … there were many names. All now belonged to the past.
AT THE INFUSION OF the ninth sacred site an accident occurred.
It was a colossal pond lined in smooth rock and filled with amber water. In the centre a gigantic tree sculpted from rare blue stone soared up and out. This was the Kinfire Tree.
As the last refrain died away, a rumble sounded.
Beyond the glade a curve of mountains overlooked them and, as they looked up, a rock avalanche thundered down the central face. If it had sufficient power it would obliterate the new sacred site. The glorious Kinfire Tree would implode.
A Valleur in the ranks of watchers lifted into the air, gesticulating wildly. Abruptly the tumbling rocks froze in position and all sound was removed from the world. Then, a strange hand gesture followed, and every rock thundered backwards to return to its previously stable position.
Lore of Sanctum Omnibus Page 248
