The Sleeper Sword (21 page)

“You dreamed
it,” Quilla said.

“Repeatedly.
Always forgetting the message when I awoke. I delayed having an
heir, not because I was wary of a battle Teroux would face, but
because I knew unconsciously it brought Tymall. This tension, this
is my fault. I hid from truth.”

“A babe in the
womb, Tannil, is not to blame.”

“I haven’t
been a babe for a long time.”

“This is why
you send your people to Luvanor,” Buthos said. “And Vania, Teroux
…”

Tannil hurtled
up.

“What?” the
Siric demanded.

“Every last
Valla. The only Vallas left are Teroux, my mother, me and you,
Samuel … and your son.”

Samuel’s blood
turned to ice.

Quilla bounded
to his feet. “He means least to Tymall.”

Tannil strode
to the door. “Kismet!” When the Elder came running, he said, “Take
Samuel home right now. Bring him and his family back here.” He
turned to Samuel. “Go, fetch them. We’ll send them to Luvanor with
Vania and Teroux. There’s a protection surrounding that world
Tymall can’t penetrate; they will be safe. Samuel, move! You have
half an hour!”

“I’ll go,
too,” Buthos stated and dragged the paralysed human to his feet.
“Samuel, wake up, man! Picture your home so Kismet and I may
transport directly to it.”

Chapter
23

Nothing exists
in a vacuum. Goddess help her children when the Sleeper returns …
for he will awake only when we give him reason. Beware your dark
thoughts, my friends, for that is enough to reach out through the
spaces of worlds to find him. He will hear you!

~ An excerpt
from the speech of the Honourable Peacekeeper Le Moss Mar Dalrish
on the day the Domes of Xen III came down forever.

It was early
dark and Curin washed dinner dishes, humming.

Tristan amused
himself with a set of animals his father fashioned for him, lying
on his stomach near the residual heat from the woodstove,
occasionally humming along. He was ten years old, a pretty child,
grey-eyed like his father, blond of hair like his mother.

The kitchen
was large, country-style with wooden floors and cupboards, a big,
chunky table in the centre surrounded by mismatched chairs. A warm,
lived-in room where much laughter abounded - the centre of a loving
home.

The laughter
had recently been replaced with concern for Samuel and his strange
wish to go off alone after his father’s funeral, then not returning
by nightfall.

Twelve days,
and no sign of him, but for the cryptic message delivered by a
young man clearly a sorcerer in training from the Society. The
badge on his belt was obvious enough, although she had not dared
question him, seeking to spare Tristan. Afterwards she wished she
questioned him until hell froze over.

Samuel’s brief
explanation of hearing dire news outside Linmoor he deemed wise to
inform the Electan of, going off to Galilan to do so, told her
exactly nothing. His explanation of meeting Byron Morave there -
the manner the note came to her - filled her with dread.

What was her
husband involved in, fooling around with sorcerers and politicians?
What did he hear that sent him chasing off to Galilan? And then,
most astonishing of all, his cryptic allusion to a journey he had
to undertake with Marcus Campian and Byron Morave, asking that she
not worry, he would explain when he returned.

She no longer
knew what to tell Tristan and the poor boy pined for his
father.

What had his
father revealed the night he died?

“Tristan, put
them away - go draw your bath.”

Her son
grimaced, but did as asked, shuffling out. She smiled at his
retreating back and then dropped a plate, shatteringly loud in the
stillness, when three forms materialised in the space Tristan just
walked through.

She screamed
and Tristan charged back into the kitchen.

“Curin! It’s
me!” Samuel shouted over her scream.

She bit the
sound off. “Samuel?”

“Father!”
Tristan bowled into his father’s arms.

Buthos and
Kismet retreated.

“Hey, Tris!”
Samuel grinned, gripping his son to him. He did not see the
meaningful glance Buthos and Kismet shared.

“Samuel
Skyler, what in the Goddess’ name is the meaning of this?” Curin
recovered, although she dared not look closely at the other two
figures. Yellow eyes. Wings.

“Son, go and
dress warmly, we’re going on a trip,” Samuel said.

“Now?” Tristan
asked, looking from his father to his mother and then staring with
frank curiosity at the Siric and Valleur. Kismet winked at him,
causing him to smile. “Mom said I must go bathe now …”

“Skip the
washing bit, Tris,” Samuel said. “And pack extra clothes … don’t
forget your toothbrush …”

A little boy’s
grin on hearing he could forget about washing behind his ears
turned helpless. “I don’t know what to pack …”

And then he
saw that his father looked at his mother. Glancing again at the two
interesting strangers, he left the kitchen.

Buthos
gestured with his head and Kismet followed the boy.

“Where’s he
going?” Curin demanded, seeing it.

“He’s ensuring
Tristan’s safety,” Samuel replied, and closed the yawning crevasse
between him and his wife.

“Safe from
what? Where are we going? Where have you been? Samuel, what are you
involved in?” She retreated from him and he stopped. “Talk to me,
Samuel Skyler!”

“As soon as
you give me a chance, Curin.”

She blinked.
“I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m
sorry. I left you alone and then things changed. Goddess, Curin, I
don’t know where to start and I don’t have the time to explain it
properly.” He stepped close and drew her into his arms. “I missed
you.”

“I missed you
and I was worried,” she whispered, hugging him.

Buthos cleared
his throat, a prompting. Samuel released her.

“Listen well,
and trust me now, Curin. I’ve less than twenty-five minutes to get
you and Tristan out of here and they are here to help … no, wait!
There’s a threat to Tris and I wish it were different, but we
really don’t have the time to waste in talking. Please trust me and
pack a few essentials. Forget the house, we can sort that out later
- please, this is beyond serious.”

She stared
into his eyes - hers a clear hazel - and was pale. She nodded and
brushed past him.

Samuel’s mouth
set in a line and he moved to drain the dirty water from the basin,
secured the back door, swept glass fragments from the floor, before
moving through the house to close windows, draw drapes and switch
lights off. Buthos followed him in silence.

He entered his
son’s untidy bedroom, saw him stuffing clothes willy-nilly into a
holdall and helped him.

Kismet stood
in the passage and Buthos paced to the master bedroom.

“Can I take my
animals?” Tristan asked. “They’re in the kitchen.”

“May I,”
Samuel corrected automatically. “We’ll pick them up as we
leave.”

“Where are we
going?”

“Somewhere
safe.”

“There’s
danger?” the boy squeaked before manfully squaring his
shoulders.

“I’m afraid
so, Tris.”

“A nice
place?”

“Very nice,”
Samuel smiled.

“Time,
Samuel,” Buthos murmured, standing in the doorway.

“Fine. Come,
son, that’s all you’ll get in there.” He hefted the heavy,
half-open bag, took his son’s hand and led him back to the kitchen.
“Put your animals in while I get your mother.”

“I’m here.”
Curin was composed, holding a large holdall in one hand and a
smaller bag in the other.

Buthos stood
behind her, but she ignored him.

Tristan
stuffed his wooden animals into any available space and Curin
asked, “What of Lexie?”

“Dog,” Samuel
murmured when Buthos looked at him.

“Bring him,”
Kismet decided. “Teroux is taking his pony.”

“It’s a she,”
Tristan said and Kismet grinned at him.

Curin held her
peace, took Tristan’s hand, but she caught the accent. Where were
these men from? Teroux? A pony?

Samuel
unlocked and opened the back door and a black and white fur ball
came in, tail wagging with tongue hanging out. Lexie. Samuel rubbed
the dog’s head and relocked the door.

“I’ll take the
dog and bags,” Buthos offered. He gripped the luggage, laid his
hand on the dog’s head and vanished with his load.

Tristan gasped
and grabbed at his mother.

“It’s okay,
Tris.” Samuel took hold of his son’s hand. “Curin, hold onto
him.”

He held his
other out to Kismet, who took it, and they left.

Teroux threw
the tantrum his father sought to avoid.

Vania
attempted to calm him as Tannil tried to get a grip on his
squirming son, to hold him long enough to say goodbye, when Buthos
arrived with bags and dog.

The animal’s
frantic barking quieted the boy. Sniffing, he turned.

Both Tannil
and Vania sagged in relief. Then, “Buthos? A dog?” Tannil was
hard-pressed not to laugh.

“Not funny,”
the Siric grumbled. “It’s Tristan’s; her name is Lexie.”

“Lexie?”
Teroux echoed and cautiously approached the barking animal. Lexie
was a kind-hearted soul and quieted as a little hand came out to
stroke her.

“Tristan?”
Vania asked.

“Samuel’s
son,” Buthos replied.

“Really?”
Tannil murmured. “Samuel was closer than he suspected.”

Kismet was
there, bringing his charges. Curin drew Tristan closer, but the boy
wriggled away, seeing Lexie with another. He approached and moments
later the boys were in conversation. Teroux learned the common
tongue along with Valleur when learning to speak.

“Curin, this
is Lord Vallorin Tannil,” Samuel introduced.

Curin’s eyes
flicked to Tannil. “We’re in the Western Isles?”

Obviously
there had been no time for explanations. “My lady,” Tannil said,
using the common tongue, “this must be upsetting to you and your
son …”

“Why is
Tristan in danger?”

“Curin, for
Aaru’s sake,” Samuel interrupted, “this is the Vallorin of the
Valleur …”

“I don’t care
if he is the Enchanter himself, Samuel. I want to know why my son
was dragged from his home!”

Tannil
laughed, liking her spirit. “Curin, if I may? Thank you. Time is
short for us now, but I’d give you the whole mess at once, if you
would permit me to communicate direct with your mind. It is
painless, I assure you.”

She looked
from him to Samuel, to Vania, glanced at Kismet and Buthos, and
checked on Tristan. “Very well. What must I do?”

Samuel
silently applauded her courage. It occurred to him, hearing Tannil
speak common tongue to Curin, since his arrival in the Palace he
heard a mixture of that language and Valleur and understood both.
The Valla blood was magical indeed.

“I do the
work, my dear,” Tannil was saying. “Just hear me.”

Curin nodded
and looked into his eyes. Long moments they stood in that manner,
locked, and then Tannil broke the connection.

Curin turned
to Samuel, her eyes wide, mouth open. He drew her into his arms and
held her as her head came down onto his shoulder to hide her face
while she struggled with the knowledge.

Holding her,
knowing words were superfluous, he watched Tristan and Teroux,
cousins in a convoluted way, strike up a friendship that was to
last beyond the boundaries of time, although no one could know that
then.

Vania closed
in. “Curin?” When Curin raised her head from Samuel’s shoulder,
“I’m Vania, Tannil’s wife. I know this is new and strange - it is
to me also - but we can do this together, I think. We have the
greatest responsibility and that is to take the Valla boys to
safety - now, my dear. Two hours remain to the Star and who knows
what will happen then?”

Curin took a
breath, held it, let go. She withdrew from her husband’s arms and
smiled. She possessed remarkable powers of recovery. “Fine. Yes.”
She looked up at Samuel. “I guess you have to stay?”

“I have to, my
love.”

She gave a
faint smile and hugged him.

“Time to go,”
Tannil spoke up and went to Teroux. This time the little boy said
goodbye easily. A friend and a dog were powerful incentives, after
all. Samuel knelt beside Tristan to speak his own greetings, his
son not yet understanding, but accepting without fuss … after
looking for confirmation to his mother.

Buthos and
Kismet glanced at each other and, swallowing, Kismet looked
away.

Two fathers,
two sons, all Vallas.

Chapter
24

Play the fiddle
now! Give us music to mark this time!

~ Tattle’s
Blunt Adventures

Menllik was
eerily silent.

Linir,
uncloaked, was a waiting presence in the starlight. No breeze, no
night sounds. Menllik was a world contained.

Samuel entered
the precincts of the temple first, being expected. Tannil strode on
his heels. Mitrill was there, having insisted in a last-minute
remonstration with her son; Caltian supported his wife in her wish
to be present. He was more afraid than ever and could not
understand why. Fay, who stated this night her Valla blood,
sundered by choice, qualified her, trailed her mother and
father.

Behind them
came Lucan Dalrish, nervous in august company, and also calm, a
good head in a crisis. Kismet, supporting Caballa, entered after
him, both praying for the miracle of the Enchanter’s return,
knowing a host of problems went along with it. Bringing in the
rear, Marcus and Byron, drawing comfort from each other.

The transports
from Valla Island to Menllik were achieved with serenity, with even
Marcus a quiet participant. Whether the Electan hoped to see
legends prove as fairy tales, or whether he had awakened to the
deeper truths and wished to see how clearly he understood them, was
anybody’s guess. Perhaps Marcus himself did not know where he
stood.