The Nemisin Star (33 page)

Torrullin
reached up. The slash across his cheek closed. “I will see you at
the Keep.”

Torrke

Graveyard
Site

He transported
to the valley, alighting among the crypts in the Graveyard.

Only three of
the sacred sites remained uncloaked, this being one of them. It
lingered due to the protection offered by Torrke, a protection that
had now disappeared.

Torrullin
wondered if Margus was aware of that salient fact, and wondered
what the valley played at. Communication with the intrinsic
sentience had returned only silence. It was not rejection; it was
as if there was no longer a resident intelligence.

The Throne was
uncloaked, but was presently needed, particularly with the valley’s
absence. Besides, the Throne needed to be cloaked first or last,
and to do so would mean closing the Lifesource Temple - the third
uncloaked site - and he was not ready to do so, and not merely
because it would render the Q’lin’la homeless. The Temple was a
haven.

He wandered
amongst the ancient stone vaults, drawing comfort from the silence
of the passed, and healed the burn marks the vulci left him with.
Vannis had not noticed those, or he would have asked uncomfortable
questions.

As he ambled,
a sense of acceptance of the difficult way forward came to him.
Many would hurt when he left this realm, but was his leaving a poor
state? They relied on him too much; hurt aside, it was time for new
paths into the future without his dominant influence.

He
was
dominant, without meaning to be, and perhaps new peace would come
for all, one that everyone would labour for, knowing the Enchanter
was no longer around to troubleshoot when it periodically went
haywire.

Maybe not, but
he needed to step aside for them to try. He admitted he was not
being altruistic or self-sacrificing, that he merely found sound
reasons to explain the future he would leave behind, but those
reasons were based still on a nagging doubt over the future. He
doubted a salubrious peace would prevail while he was on this
timeline.

Strife sought
him and influenced others detrimentally. It was a heavy burden, one
the Darak Or had again added to. It was also a weight leaving those
he loved and cared for to fend for themselves.

The Darak Or
had hastened the day of his departure and had forced his hand. The
day would be soon. There were matters that required attention, but
before he attended to them he had a decision to make, and it hinged
on Saska’s dubious offer.

He halted
before Millanu’s crypt and traced the name he had inscribed there.
Her mortal remains had lain long forgotten in a disused cemetery
outside Tetwan, where she died millennia ago, but he sent Kylan on
an errand to find her bones before the wholesale destruction Margus
unleashed on Valaris over twenty years ago. Now she rested here in
peace and silence, and with her the only man she ever loved. His
father, Taranis. His fingers moved to that name and he closed his
eyes and swallowed hard, resting his forehead against the cold
stone. The pain was too fresh.

A long time he
stood thus and gradually composure followed acceptance.

He had yet to
go to Moor where his father had his humble home.

Decisive, he
straightened and, imaging Taranis’ comfortable living room, went
there.

Recording
events for posterity is one matter; recording feelings is
another.

~ Tattle’s
scribe

Moor

T
he
Lord of the Immortal Guardians chose to live in a small cottage,
which could be regarded as out of step with his status, but was
wholly in harmony with his rediscovered soul.

After leaving
his high-tech home on another world, he opted for this little place
of adobe walls and thatched roof, set in a garden bright and
overgrown. Lamps for light, an old hearth in the kitchen for
cooking - he loved that - and a well outside for water. In keeping
with the old style there was even a privy outside - the inimitable
outhouse of ancient tales - but Taranis had not minded, finding a
journey to the loo an adventure. Not all Valaris was modern and
Taranis’ cottage was one of the backward many.

Away from Dome
duty Taranis scratched in his garden, grew wonderful herbs, cooked
up a storm, entertained, relaxed in solitude and participated in
the small community that was Moor.

Moor was a
tiny hamlet situated midway between the great Gasmoor and Galilan
Rivers, and had vanished many times to arise anew. The original
village where he first met Millanu had long gone, but the spirit
was the same, and not much had changed in its many habitations.

Taranis was
happy in Moor a long time ago, and rediscovered that peace in the
last years of his life.

Torrullin
turned slowly in the living room. Memories. On that old armchair he
listened to his father speak of his mother, and there in the window
seat the twins played as toddlers.

He smiled,
remembering Lanto with young Skye on his lap, and Kisha and Kylan
expounding on their plans to rebuild the clanlands. Vannis and
Taranis in heated debate, with the fiery Raken smiling indulgently.
And Saska, in happier times, cuddled against his shoulder, fast
asleep while he and his father spoke deep into the night, many,
many nights.

Small, humble
home with a great heart.

There was not
much to dispose of. The old furniture would remain, pots and pans
and the like, the paintings on the walls were faded and worthless;
let another take it over the way it was and live in it, make their
own changes. The young couple down the road, baby on the way and
still living with her parents, they would appreciate this home and
its heart. He would stop by there before he left.

The only
personal belongings were in the bedroom. Taranis’ clothes - he
would ask the new tenants to give it to charity - and a number of
books he would add to his collection at the Keep. His father had
been an avid reader and the books were worth their weight in gold
to his son, if not in actual value. Toiletries, hairbrushes - those
he would leave, taking only the half-full bottle of his father’s
distinctive aftershave.

There was not
much else, until Torrullin opened the worn chest of drawers next to
the huge iron bed.

Diagrams of
the Dome’s inner workings, star charts, a street map or two, most
notably Beacon’s huge metropolis. A diary, thick and dog-eared,
covering the last twenty-seven years.

Torrullin sat
hard on the bed on finding that.

He looked to
the last entry; curious to see where and when Taranis ended, and
drew a ragged breath.

My son is
about to put himself in danger again and I know not how to ease his
way. So often I am a bystander, not because I am unwelcome, but
because I know not enough. Those lost to us eternally, Raken,
Lycea, Kisha and Kylan, are dear to us and we all desire to
contribute to an ending of this new madness. Torrullin, my son,
will you ever truly allow me in? I hope you know I am there always,
if not in deed, then in thought.

It was dated
before the mission to the Tennet system, before they left for Ceta
to steal a ship.

Torrullin
stared into space. Taranis tried to reach him, over and over, and
although they spoke of many things, they fought over many more,
none of which allowed his father closer. Until Luvanor.
Confrontation, yes, but also truth. He thanked the gods for that,
for the way had opened, and time would have breached the divide -
it would have to suffice.

Returning to
the diary, paging randomly, he found a father he had not earlier
taken the time to get to know.

A blue sky
today and the birds are noisy … my music, my poetry. How fortunate
I am to be home again. I love this world. I love this life …

Mr Wenbottom
brought his tilling tools and we dug the weed path … never have I
seen the old man so happy or heard him speak so much! He even
cracked a smile! A good omen for the coming herb garden, I
think.

Raken was here
this morning. What a remarkably and gloriously alive woman! Pity
old Vannis got there first … well, I am not blind, you know, and I
can fantasise, can’t I? But Raken was subdued, almost unhappy,
which is rare for her. I really had to drag it out, for it was
obvious she came to talk. The poor woman has finally realised she
cannot have children of her own … she knew that, of course, but she
had hoped to find a way. Vannis doesn’t blame her, but she sees
herself as unworthy of him now.

Torrullin
looked up. Raken had been an extraordinary woman and he thought
they were close friends, yet she approached Taranis with her
innermost feelings, not him. Taranis had gentleness, an overflow of
compassion and understanding; he was easy to talk to, relate to,
share with … to all. Except this stubborn son.

He turned the
page, interested to find whether Raken came to terms with her
dilemma.

Vannis blew in
here with angry flurries and ugly words, but I forgive his uncouth
behaviour, for I know the source of his pain. Raken has distanced
herself from him, including moving out of the bedroom, and he sees
her visit here as a blatant betrayal. Not a physical one, Aaru
forbid, but an emotional one. I sat him down and told him he had to
give her time to come to grips with herself again. I explained that
she feels unworthy … well, he exploded! How dare I this, and that,
but finally he calmed down. He could not father a child with
Mantra, he said, not until their time had come to part, so perhaps
the problem was his, not Raken’s, perhaps his long immortality had
negated his seed (his words!) … Vannis, Vannis, Vannis … the one
thing I could not reveal was that while what he said could have
contributed to infertility, it was not that, for the circumstances
were not normal at all. Raken was raped as a child, badly, and this
was one of the results. She had not told him, for she cannot admit
to him what she did to the man after, and I cannot say anything
either and can only hope they work this out.

That explained
the shadows in Raken’s eyes and why she loved the twins despite
what they put her through, and it explained her absorption in the
orphanages. Nobody did more than her to better conditions, deliver
wholesome food, clothe them, and most important to any child, find
them proper and loving homes. She should have had a house full of
kids.

He had not
realised Vannis was prepared to have another child.

Naturally, as
husband to a woman he adored, he would have wanted to be a father,
but Torrullin wondered if he had not partly hoped to have a Valla
ready in the wings for when and if the twins proved unfaithful to
the Throne. Vannis was also practical and knew how to think
long-term.

Torrullin
flipped pages back.

Lanto, dear
man, feels rejected by his hero … ah, Torrullin, do not be so
casual with hero worship. This man will walk into danger with and
for you …

Torrullin
rapidly flipped away.

Lycea came
to talk and she, lo, wanted to know from me how Torrullin would
react to another man in her life. Well, well, this was unexpected,
and how was I to answer? Only Torrullin knows Torrullin … and yet I
suspect, sadly, that it would not sit well with him
and I
told her as much. I also told her she had the right to reach for
happiness and to hell with my son’s selfishness. She didn’t stay
long and didn’t say much after all, but I think Torrullin will
never hear of her lover …

All the people
around him had been living lives he had no idea existed. Was he
that unapproachable?
Yes, idiot, and you still are.
He shook
his head, bemused, and hoped sincerely Lycea’s lover had indeed
brought her a measure of happiness … and wondered who he was.

He closed the
thick tome - another time, hopefully - and swiftly reopened it to
the first page, curious to see when Taranis first put pen to
paper.

For
Torrullin.

He covered the
page with his hand and drew a breath for the courage to read
further.

For Torrullin.
I write this to you, my only son. I shall be honest, son, in all
deeds and thoughts so that you may know your father, and others,
when you read this one day. Only you will ever see it, the pages
will be blank to another. I, too, am a sorcerer, remember? I shall
not apologise for anything you find offensive and I shall not pat
myself on the back for that you find appealing. That is not the
aim. This is not about right or wrong …

Torrullin
closed his eyes. The next words were already burned into his
memory.

I shall leave
you only when your mother comes for me, son, but I shall ever be
watching over you as Millanu now does over both of us. I love you.
May you one day find peace; nobody can give it to you, strive for
it. Your destiny lies in your own hands.

It was dated
the first day of spring in the year 9348. The first spring after
Margus.

How ironic.
The first spring after Margus was due again.

Torrullin
closed the book and placed it beside the bottle of aftershave. He
withdrew the diagrams and maps and other pertinent information, and
laid that atop the diary. He found a box of jewellery - cufflinks,
rings, a silver band, a number of chains - and that, too, he placed
on the pile. He scratched through the rest, but there was nothing
to remind him of Taranis.

Nevertheless,
he found an old cardboard box and loaded everything in to study
further, although he wondered if he ever would. He carried the box
to the bookshelf and waved the lot to his study at the Keep, at the
last moment withdrawing the diary to personally transport back with
him.

After checking
the drawers a final time, he encountered an obstruction and drew it
out. A suede pouch with something angular inside. Seconds later he
stared in astonishment at what lay in the palm of his hand.