The Nemisin Star (16 page)

He wept over
the loss of Tymall, the son he thought to love equally, and he
cried for Saska, for the hurt he continued to inflict there, his
love for her gradually buried under layers of pain. And he wept for
himself, not self-pity, but an overwhelming wish to experience joy,
peace and love without having to pay for those gifts every moment
of every day.

His rage had
been loosed, long suppressed, and now his grief, even longer with
him. Taranis’ death and Tymall’s betrayal served as a dual
catalyst, speaking to both his natures, both poles of emotion
within. He finally raised a face smeared with blood and tears and
was, at last, calm. Shifting on the Throne, he sat in it properly
and closed his eyes to thank it. Warmth stole over him in
answer.

Then, sighing,
he pushed away and discovered how weary he was. He needed oblivion.
Tymall was conscious once more, watching him. How much he had seen,
Torrullin could not know and did not care.

“You will be
incarcerated in the dungeons of the White Palace under enchantment,
with keepers, until I decide your fate. It may be days, it may be
years, perhaps centuries, but you will only see my face again when
I know what that fate is. You are no longer part of my life.”

“Father, no,”
Tymall moaned, raising his hands.

“Repent
Tymall, for you will have a final opportunity to speak before I
pass sentence upon you,” Torrullin said. He stared at his son a
moment longer, as if imprinting his image, and then lifted a slow
hand to bind him with bonds of Light.

Tymall
whimpered, but it was not at the binding. There was no pain - the
Light did not seek to harm, not even an enemy - but they were
unbreakable, and while Tymall knew that, his pain was for what he
had lost.

Torrullin
turned his back and walked down the debris strewn aisle carpet,
unsealing the chamber as he reached the exit.

He did not
look back.

Clean-up is a
sore task.

~ Truth

The Keep

P
ianote
was first into the chamber after Torrullin left, and he was
shocked.

The huge space
superimposed upon a small area was an illusionary reality, to be
sure, and a magnificent one, but the destruction inside could never
be called anything but real.

He walked
slowly to the dais, mindful of the terse orders given outside, and
found the young man cowering, eyes wide with unnamed fear.

“Pianote,”
Tymall gibbered, “you have to talk to him, you have to stop him, he
cannot commit me to the dungeons for centuries, please, you have to
intercede.”

Pianote had
not expected to feel pity for this evil creature, yet he did.
Tymall was pitiful, no longer worthy of enmity. If the Vallorin
could do this to his own blood … Pianote straightened marginally.
The Vallorin was a man to be feared.

Thus the Elder
hardened his heart and shook his head. “My life would be worth
nothing. Your father has commanded me to bring you to the White
Palace. Your every need will be seen to.”

“But I am to
be a prisoner!”

“Yes,” Pianote
said, and gestured to the Valleur soldiers behind him. They lifted
Tymall, the young man screeching protest, and vanished with him to
the Palace.

Pianote
gestured again and the process of clearing up commenced.

Torrullin
headed directly to their suite.

Entering, he
found Saska attended by the resident physician, and his breath
shortened. She did not look well, lying pale and drawn on their
bed.

“Out!”

The doctor
turned and when he saw Torrullin he bowed and ran from the
room.

“Saska?”
Torrullin knelt beside the bed, taking her hand.

She opened her
eyes. “You scared him, poor thing.”

“He will be
fine. I am worried about you.”

“Don’t be
frightened for me, my love. I shall recover.”

He released
his breath, not aware that he did so, and she smiled, gripped his
hand, and he was glad of the strength in that grip. “Let me help,”
he said, but she shook her head.

“You need what
you have left for yourself.” She rolled onto her side and lifted
her free hand to smooth dirty and unkempt hair from his ravaged
face. He had been crying, she saw, and was glad. “I need only
sleep, sweetheart, and you need to look in a mirror.”

“It can
wait.”

“It cannot.
You will be off to Menllik when you leave here. See to yourself
before you go, please.”

Rising, he
went into the bathroom, and she heard the shower running and lay
back in relief. He was calm, as if he had endured a personal crisis
and survived the journey. Good. A tear slid over her cheek.
Taranis. She would miss him.

Torrullin
walked out naked and glistening. He was again unmarked - a healing
- and was clean, his hair combed from his face. She closed her
eyes, for she had not the strength for his magnetism.

Doors opened
and closed as he dressed. The bed dipped at the foot as he sat to
pull boots on. Then he was at her side, and she opened her
eyes.

“Will you be
all right?”

She studied
him. “What about you?”

He was silent
a while. “Time, Saska. Just time.”

“Yes.”

“He leaves a
great empty space, doesn’t he?”

“Huge,” she
whispered, her eyes bright.

He touched her
face. “It is too soon to talk about him.”

“For me, too.
I know.”

“I must go.
All I want to do is sleep until the end of time, if such a thing
exists, but I need to … I …”

“Tris?”

“And
Vannis.”

“Where is he,
Torrullin?”

“The White
Palace.”

She nodded,
understanding it meant Tymall had been incarcerated and it was too
soon to question him further. “I’m going to sleep now.”

He rose,
leaned to kiss her lightly on the forehead, and she watched his
black clad form move purposefully for the door. He left quietly,
closing it behind him.

Already his
mind was elsewhere.

Menllik

The city had
burned, buildings had crumbled and debris and mounds of rubble lay
everywhere, but Menllik could be rebuilt with concerted effort.

All was quiet
when Torrullin returned; the fires were out, the smoke clearing,
and the Dinor were gone. Valleur and human sat in the mud too tired
to do more, and Dragons moved ponderously through the rubble
clearing paths with their powerful limbs. They seemed unaffected by
a night of battle.

Gren and Belun
were prone at the foot of the temple’s steps, using the lowest as
makeshift headrests. Both had their eyes closed and Belun was in
humanoid guise.

Everywhere
Torrullin looked laid the dead - Valleur, Dinor and human. The
living were bloodied, bruised and exhausted.

“Gren,
Belun.”

Both rose with
groans that spoke of real injuries.

“Do you
require healing?”

“Nothing too
threatening,” Gren muttered. “Thanks, but we will survive.”

“Where are
Vannis and Tris?”

“Inside,” Gren
replied, waving vaguely behind him at Linir. He wearily climbed the
steps. Belun brought up the rear.

Linir escaped
damage despite seeing most of the action, but bodies were strewn in
various guises around the entrance. The awkwardness of death.
Torrullin’s lips tightened.

“I’m getting
too old for this,” the Centuar muttered.

Inside the
octagonal building there were more dead, mostly Dinor. There were a
number of Valleur, among those Camot, war leader.

Torrullin’s
gaze rested on that stilled form. In many ways Camot had been like
Taranis; kind, generous, loving and stubborn, grim in war, firm in
purpose, his views of life and love unassailable. He had been sure
of himself, knew himself as Taranis had. The two would now forever
be linked in his mind.

He cleared his
throat and bent to help a sombre Vannis and Tristamil deposit the
last of the dead Valleur in a row near the exit. Both lifted
exhausted faces to him, and both said not a word.

“We owe the
rout to the humans,” Gren said into the silence. “They came in some
force and the Dinor probably thought it meant they were pitted
against a whole planet, and left. Still, I wouldn’t say it was a
victory. It feels as if we lost.”

“Unfortunately
the Dinor now despise Valarians as a whole,” Belun added, sinking
to the floor to lean against the wall. He glared at the dead Dinor,
also laid out in rows. “Lord, they fight like demons; we were
evenly matched.”

“Would you say
they are evil?” Torrullin asked.

Tristamil and
Vannis both flopped to the floor to take huge breaths. Seeing it,
Torrullin conjured a flask of water. Tristamil’s grateful sigh was
thanks enough.

“No,” Vannis
said as he accepted the flask from Tristamil. He took a long pull,
passed it to Belun, and added, “Misled, and carrying a legacy from
their distant past that does not hold up to scrutiny in today’s
universe, but not evil. They can probably be reasoned with.”

“If one can
get close enough without losing one’s head,” Tristamil said. “What
happened at the Keep?”

Torrullin
could not for a moment speak. The words simply would not leave his
mouth. He stared at the dead around him; other sons had lost
fathers this night.

Tristamil
frowned. “What happened?”

Torrullin's
voice was neutral when he spoke. “As you suspected, Vannis, they
were there and had Saska and Taranis by the time I arrived.” He
held a hand aloft to forestall questions. “Margus got away and
Tymall is at the White Palace.”

“Dungeons?”

Torrullin
inclined his head, “Until fate speaks.”

“Is Saska all
right?” Tristamil asked.

“She will
be.”

Vannis stared
up. “Spit it out, Torrullin.”

Torrullin
opted to address Belun and Gren, the easier choice. “Taranis did
not survive.”

Gren’s mouth
dropped open and Belun was so shocked he lost the will to retain
his guise and his Centuar self untidily manifested.

Tristamil
blurted, “
What
?”

Vannis’ chin
rested on his chest. “Gods.”

“Taranis is
dead?” said Gren. “How, for pity’s sake?
Taranis
?”

Torrullin’s
face was stiff. “My father is dead, yes.”

Four pairs of
eyes stared at him.

“I am sorry,
my Lord,” Gren murmured, stroking his chest convulsively, face
twisting. Taranis was not only his Guardian leader - Taranis was a
dear friend.

“I am sorry
too, Gren,” Torrullin managed.

“Could he not
be … I’m sorry; of course you did all you could,” Belun said,
returning to humanoid form and speech. “This is terrible!” He
glared at the Dinor accusingly and then stomped his way outside,
needing open space to come to terms with the news.

Gren took deep
breaths. “I … I …” Abruptly he left to join Belun outside.

Their Dome
Leader was no more.

The Lord of
the Guardians had moved on.

Tristamil’s
eyes were unblinking on his father. Because of Tymall he had not
had opportunity to be close to Taranis, but loved his grandfather.
They began the journey to closeness when his mother died - Taranis
took his grandson into his embrace to comfort - and time on Luvanor
furthered it, but he hoped to have real opportunity to get to know
him well. He felt the loss already, but his greatest emotions were
for his own father.

“Father?”

“He appeared
to me and Saska, as Teighlar did, and asked that she not bring him
back. She wanted to do so … for me … and he said no. He wasn’t
alone, he was with …” Torrullin looked at Vannis. “He was with
Millanu. My mother, my beautiful, peaceful and happy mother.” His
voice sank to a whisper. “Her eyes were yellow.”

Vannis stared
mutely back.

“They were
together and they were complete. I could not sunder that, Vannis, I
could not be that selfish.”

“Of course
not, son,” Vannis whispered. “I am sorry.”

Torrullin
nodded and lapsed into silence.

“How did he
die?” Tristamil asked.

Torrullin did
not reply.

“Who did it?”
Vannis asked.

“It does not
matter.”

Vannis
understood first that it was Tymall, however it happened. His eyes
darkened to black. “I will kill him!”

Words were
beyond the twin.

“No one is to
touch him,” Torrullin said.

Vannis
exploded. “He deserves …!”

“I know what
he deserves, Vannis,” Torrullin spat out. “He will pay. He is
already paying.”

“The
dungeons?” Tristamil murmured, a strange look on his face.
“Kinslayer.”

Torrullin
reared as if slapped hard. “Do not say that in my presence.”

“He must die,”
Vannis said. “It is Valleur law.”

Tristamil
paled.

“Valleur law
is outside of this. It has to be,” said Torrullin.

“You do that
and you will have assassins doing it for you,” Vannis snapped. “It
is the way for kinslayers.”

Torrullin’s
eyes were silvery. “Do not speak to me about the way for
kinslayers. Had I killed Dantian deliberately would you have called
on Valleur law?
Would you
?”

Vannis swung
his head away. “No.”

“The guild for
ethical …” Tristamil began in a whisper.

“Assassins
Guild,” Vannis said. “Call it what it is.”

“Taranis was
my
father. Tymall is
my
son. I have right of law in
this. I shall deal with the Guild. The dungeons have been enchanted
to prevent him escaping, but also to prevent them getting in and,
naturally, it is to keep Margus out as well.
I
shall decide
his ultimate punishment even if it takes me a thousand years to
find the way.”