The Nemisin Star (62 page)

It was a
dangerous move; even Nemisin warned against it, for he drew Dragon
and Valleur sorcery together to achieve higher perception. How
ironic. Neolone had left a legacy somewhat more tangible than the
annals of history.

The Throne was
a weapon. He would become that weapon also.

His form began
to blur and then dissolve in patches, and from that peculiar
dissolution came light, bright, blinding, living light.

“OUT!” Vannis
shouted, and the five hurtled over the couches and into the
courtyard.

The light
reached out.

“Do not look
back!”

Pervasive
light issued forth in beams of brilliance, highlighting the golden
Dragon on the huge doors ahead, effervescing the sapphire water of
the mosaic pool, shifting the dark green of the big tree to
ash-grey and flooding the cobbled ground until it was awash with
ripples of white movement.

“What is he
doing?” Saska demanded.

“He becomes
the Throne.”

“Surely that
is dangerous?” Tristamil began to look over his shoulder …

“DO NOT LOOK
BACK!” Vannis roared. “This is real power! Walk forward slowly, all
of you, and for pity’s sake do
not
trip. Let’s first get
those doors between us and this light.”

Quilla made
little worried sounds.

Inside,
Torrullin became one with the Valleur seat of power, and no words
would describe the elation, the fear … the addiction.

Destroyer was
child’s play.

Outside the
doors the brilliance was shut out, but those beams found chinks in
the doors, walls, exterior windows, and issued forth thin streaks,
lighting the area as if many torches were simultaneously trained
onto the ground and into the air.

“This will not
harm,” Vannis said, feeling the pull of Valleur power, as he had
not since being Vallorin of a thriving nation. He had forgotten the
lure of raw magic. Sitting on the stone road, he said, “He should
have given more warning. He must be scared.”

“What is it,
Vannis?” Quilla asked, forestalling a denial from Tristamil.

Dalrish sat on
the grass verge wondering what he had got himself into.

Vannis
unconsciously rubbed in the region of his heart.

“Are you all
right?” Saska asked before he could speak.

“Yes … no. I
will be fine. The light, it gave back some of what I lost in
abdicating. Gods, I did not realise I still hanker after the
power.” Vannis inhaled and pressed his hand to the stone he sat on.
Cold. Real. “Vallorins are able to utilise the Throne to boost
their power in times of extreme … dilemma. Torrullin is either
concerned he has not enough to take into the etheric or …”

Saska sank to
her haunches before the Valleur.

“… or he
believes he needs clarity, and that can be found in the etheric. He
may be in another realm.”

Saska said,
“You have done this?”

“Are you
insane?” Vannis barked. “I never had the guts.”

“Well,”
Dalrish muttered. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Christ, Xen
was child’s play.

“What kind of
clarity?” Saska prodded. She was shaken. Vannis’ tale of war was
legendary, and he never resorted to this.

“Of the
soul.”

She shook her
head. “Too simple.”

“Maybe, but
it’s the best I can do with words.”

“Has this been
attempted before?” Quilla asked.

“Twice.”

“And?”
Tristamil demanded.

“They emerged
different.”

“How?”
Tristamil glared.

“I wasn’t
there!” Vannis yelled.

“What about
the Throne?” Tristamil queried, more subdued.

“Enough with
the questions.”

“I would like
to know the answer to that,” Quilla stated.

Vannis smacked
his thighs. “Nothing! The stupid thing is indestructible. Have you
not come to that conclusion yet, birdman? It will endure
forever.”

“Like the
Enchanter,” said Quilla.

Vannis heaved
a great sigh. “Exactly like that.”

“One could
almost say the Throne was created for the Enchanter,” Quilla mused.
“This one, not Nemisin.”

Vannis swore
and looked away. Torrullin once intimated Nemisin had not created
the Throne. Quilla squeezed his eyes shut as a long held suspicion
began to firm an ideal, a concept, in his mind. He wondered where
it would lead, but now was not the time for that kind of damaging
speculation.

“Vannis, why
are you angry?” Saska asked.

He glared at
her, “You know me. When do I throw the loudest tantrum?”

“When you are
particularly worried.”

“He is not
trueblood,” Vannis whispered on the edge of hearing, “nor is he
pure of heart.”

Saska gave a
wry smile. “I seem to recall a similar fear at the Round Temple
years ago.”

“It is not
quite the same.”

“He is the
One, Valleur,” Quilla said. “Cease doubting, all of you. He would
not attempt this on a whim.”

“He has not
sat on that seat enough to know its nuances.”

“That is why
he does so now, stupid,” Quilla muttered.

“The Throne
has called to him every day since he became Vallorin,” Saska put
in. “Even in his sleep, for almost thirty years now. He knows the
nuances. He knows the seat; now he needs to recognise his inner
distinctions.” Vannis stared at her. She lifted a shoulder. “It
wasn’t only a volatile family situation that drove a wedge between
us. He is been holding the Throne at bay for decades.”

“Why?”
Tristamil whispered.

Saska flicked
a glance at Quilla. “Because it was created for him. They
are
one.” His shock had her lips tightening. “Not that I
know that; I feel it only.”

Quilla turned
to the night thoughtfully.

Saska sat.
“Torrullin knows what he is doing back there, so cease the
pessimism. We wait and we let him be.”

Vannis said
nothing further. Unobtrusively his hand returned to the stroking
pattern of a shaken heart.

Tristamil,
after a moment, hunkered beside Dalrish. “You must be wondering
about this.”

“More than a
little,” the Xenian admitted. “I thought dome life was complicated.
A walk in the park, I say this night.”

Silence
fell.

Torrullin felt
his presence before he heard the voice that was thought and speech
as one.

He turned, and
there he was.

Elianas.

His breath
shortened. He could not see his face clearly or discern clothing.
There simply was no detail. What there was, was the idea of form.
It was a manifestation, but it was also more real than anything
gifted in dreams.

“Brother?”

A suggestion
of a smile. “Yes.”

“Why
here?”

“Because this
has no influence out there where you function.”

A beat. “You
function here?”

“Temporarily.
Torrullin, you know where to go when the seat implodes, and you
know how, but know this; it is hard to return from there. I would
almost suggest your son’s idea of host was sounder than you give
credit.”

“That will
never happen.”

“I agree, for
it would undo too much. My advice? From the moment you enter that
realm you need search for the portal that will shift you back to
your reality. Time will play tricks. Do not waste it, not even a
second.”

“Will you be
there?”

Another smile.
“I am always where you are. Always.”

“How?”

“That time is
not now, Torrullin.”

“Elianas
…”

A sigh. “How I
wish to hear my name from your lips with ears that can hear.”
Torrullin was transfixed. “I seem to intrude lately more than my
brief permits, brother. I must go.”

“When,
Elianas?
When
?”

“You will
emerge from this trance with something changed. It will be visible.
When that change again reverts, the time for meeting draws
near.”

“Is the change
upon your instigation?” asked Torrullin.

“For you to
know this is not your imagination, yes.”

“But it still
tells me exactly nothing about timing.”

The idea of
form moved closer. Dark eyes lanced from amber skin and dark hair
swung. Elianas put a hand out and lightly, very lightly, laid it
against Torrullin’s chest. “Do you feel this?”

Gods, he would
come undone. “Yes.”

“Then it is
sooner than you think, but longer than you are prepared to wait.” A
slight pressure. “Heart’s Desire, Torrullin, is never simple.”

And Elianas
was gone.

Wherever he
was, in whatever time and place of the mind, Torrullin fell to his
knees.

One moment the
light was there and then it was gone, and the stars overhead were
glaringly bright.

Tristamil
hurtled at the doors first, gesturing both aside in his headlong
rush. Vannis pounded at his heels.

The tree was
dead, the water in the pool murky, gouges had appeared in the
walls, large cracks in the windows and a number of cobblestones had
disintegrated, but Tristamil and Vannis were unaware of these
physical manifestations of unleashed power as they entered swiftly
into the Throne’s presence. The others were more observant and
approached with wariness.

Torrullin sat
upright, touching his face in wonder. He seemed no different. His
eyes were closed and there was a smile on his lips, a superior kind
of expression. And, to those observant enough, a pale line of
strain around his lips. They were not observant enough. Around the
Throne all was burnt, smouldering; the couches were mere husks of
furniture.

Tristamil and
Vannis halted, equally uncertain. There was a sizzle to the air -
not all magic had dissipated. Torrullin opened his eyes and
astonishment rendered the two men speechless.

“I must be
altered,” he said, reading their faces.

…
not your
imagination …

Saska and
Quilla entered with Dalrish trailing. Saska came to a stop,
gasping, and put a hand to her mouth. Quilla tut-tutted and said,
“Enchanter, you never cease to amaze me.”

Dalrish simply
stared.

“Or me,” the
Darak Or’s voice intruded. He ambled past the others, taking note
of the burning, and came to a halt at the foot of the dais. “I felt
a surge of power and thought I would come see for myself.”

Torrullin bent
into the shadowy light and fixed his gaze upon Margus.

“Well, well,
your eyes are yellow,” Margus revealed. “It seems you are a Golden
now. A trueblood, perhaps? How did you manage that, my revered
enemy? I must rework strategy, I think.”

Torrullin
touched his face, looked to Vannis for confirmation - who nodded
imperceptibly - and rose fluidly. “Give me your hand, Margus.”

“Why?” The
Darak Or’s confidence vanished.

“A test.”

Margus shook
his head. “I do not like your tests, Torrullin. Another time.”

Torrullin
dropped his hand. “You failed. You may go now.”

Margus sucked
at his teeth and Torrullin laughed and gripped his enemy’s arm,
marching him to the courtyard. “We have a date with death and I am
not going to hasten it. Leave.” He pushed the Darak Or forward and
turned his back.

“Beware of
over-confidence.”

“Beware of
fear,” Torrullin threw over his shoulder.

Margus snarled
and vanished.

Torrullin
returned indoors and seemed surprised by the destruction. “I did
not know it would do this.”

“Evidently,”
Vannis said.

“Was anyone
hurt?”

“Unless you
count the beautiful tree outside, no,” Saska said. “Are you all
right?”

Her husband
smiled bleakly. “I have never known you to be this wary of me, my
dear.”

“Shock. Your
eyes.”

“Are you a
trueblood now?” Tristamil asked, his voice toneless.

“No, son.”

“You are
confident,” Vannis stated. “Good.”

“I know where
I am going. It helps.” Tristamil made a sound in his throat. “I
will not tell you, son.”

“No, why would
you? The darkness will hide you.”

“Shadows,
Tris.”

“Look at
yourself in the mirror, father.”

Torrullin did
so. He went to the mirror over the fireplace and stared into the
largest fragment there, studying his face. “Well,” he said
eventually, “Millanu would be proud.”

Gods, how long
before they revert?

“Millanu would
be concerned,” Vannis amended.

“Poor Taranis
would not know what to think,” Saska muttered.

Her husband
threw a dark look to silence her. His parents were no longer with
him; what they thought had no place. He could swear there was a
presence behind him in the mirror with the feel and look of a man,
but when he checked there was nothing to see.

Frowning, he
shifted his gaze to the golden seat. A shadow moved across the
surface of the chair and the hairs in the back of his neck rose. A
shadow with the feel and look of a man. A dark-haired man.

Ice settled
into his veins, and then his blood warmed. Comforting fingers
imparted support and peace of mind by pressing into his left
shoulder. He jerked around swiftly, but there was no one near
enough to have touched him. The sensation of touch, however,
lingered.

All gods.

He cleared his
throat. “It matters not what happened to the tree; it will all be
dust and glass soon. It matters even less that my eyes are changed.
What does matter is that I have gained, and now I need to
practice.”

Torrullin
strode from the chamber, looking back briefly as he stepped into
the courtyard. There was no longer sense of movement or presence.
It had withdrawn.

He felt
bereft.

“
Man, you
sure complicate your life …”

~ Augin to
Torrullin, on Pendulim