The Sleeper Sword (80 page)

“If they don’t
kill us first.”

“Hush, Lucan.
They can’t hurt us,” Torrullin said.

“You mean they
can’t hurt you,” Lucan said, looking around warily.

“Samuel, stay
close,” Torrullin suggested.

Six Ymirian
males, alien in their red hair and ridge brows, left their posts to
call out challenge. All sound died away as even the children
quieted to hang on the fence, eyes wide. One Ymirian stepped
forward and called out in the common tongue.

“What business
do you have in this place? Strangers are not welcome here.”

Lucan groaned
and Saska held her hand up to keep him quiet. “I know him, we’ll be
fine.” She raised her voice. “Axel! You know me! Saska, remember?
We’ve come to confer with Rosenroth!”

The man
stepped closer, peered at Saska, and a smile lit his stern
features. He turned to speak animatedly with his companions and
beckoned the visitors closer. Weapons lowered, but were not put
aside.

Saska stepped
forward, with Lucan fervently muttering in her wake. Torrullin
checked their rear, motioning Samuel to follow Lucan. All appeared
quiet, but in this place appearances could definitely prove
deceiving.

“Axel, how are
you?” Saska said with sincerity as she halted before the tall
Ymirian. “And your wife?”

Axel smiled,
revealing teeth stained from chewing tobacco. “She’s pregnant
finally, my Avar. The baby is due in a week.”

Saska smiled
and touched his arm. “I’m happy to hear that, my friend. You’ve
waited a long time.”

“Yes, but
sadly now my fears begin for real. Every child added to the
compound requires at least two men as protection.”

Axel shrugged
and turned to lead them through the fence. He barked at his
companions to watch the rear until the gates were again closed.
Another contingent had gathered within the compound, weapons to
hand.

“Why all
this?” Samuel asked Lucan as they entered.

“There are
decent folk on Ymir, and they seek to protect their own, especially
their young, from city dwellers.”

“What do they
do to the kids?”

Lucan pulled a
face. “Kids are sought as sex slaves.”

Samuel reared
back. No wonder Torrullin was harsh with Tristan.

“Strangers
often buy their freedom by having a child brought in to take his or
her place,” Torrullin murmured to Samuel, “therefore they can
afford to trust no one.”

“That’s
horrible. Can we not do something?”

“Not unless
we’re prepared to exterminate ninety percent of the population,”
Torrullin murmured, and moved to greet the waiting Ymirian
contingent.

Two hours
later, after satisfying their hosts with an exhausting regime of
rapid questioning, weapons heavily in attendance, the visitors were
permitted to see Rosenroth.

Axel led them
to what amounted to a cell, but given the paranoia of these people,
nobody balked in the slightest.

“I apologise,
my Lady,” Axel murmured to Saska as she slipped past him into the
cell. “It’s for your own protection also.”

“We
understand. Will I see Avar before I leave?”

Axel shook his
head. “I’ve just been told she’s in labour.” He was both pleased
and anxious. “I’m going there now.”

Saska drew him
aside. “You’re worried over this? Has she had an easy
pregnancy?”

“She’s beyond
the usual fertile years,” Axel replied, pretence at happiness
vanishing. “No, it hasn’t been easy for her.”

“Or you?”

“No, but I’m
only the man in this.”

“Torrullin is
a healer, Axel. Call if you have need. He will come.”

Axel lifted
his colourless eyes to the fair man, and nodded. “Thank you.”

“We shall stay
until we hear word, all right?”

Axel nodded
again, overcome. “Thank you,” he repeated, and then turned to
sprint down the corridor, leaving the task of security to three of
his companions.

All three
watched him go and then made a sign across their chests to their
deity.

Minutes later
the touted Rosenroth made his appearance. A tall man, but bent and
gaunt with age, once red hair now snowy white, shuffled in, waving
the guards away with an angry whisper. His face was lined and
scarred, his hands gnarled with arthritis.

With great
difficulty he sat at the table in the cell, eschewing assistance
with a scowl, and then released a great sigh, mingling pain and
irritation in the sound.

“About time
they started bringing supplicants to me, instead of this farce in a
cold cage,” he muttered. He glared at his guards and swung his head
to Saska. “Are you still the Lady of Life?”

Saska bowed
over clasped hands. “Another has that title now, you honour.”

“Good. The
filly-faddle needs new blood.” He swung a penetrating gaze on
Lucan. “Dalrish?”

Lucan wet his
lips. “Er, yes.”

Samuel was
next. “You have mixed blood and it causes distress.”

“How can you
know that … your honour?” Samuel whispered.

“Enough of
this ‘your honour’ crap, and I just know. Stop the tom-foolery and
settle on a way forward or you will be no good to anyone, least of
all yourself.”

Samuel made to
speak, but Rosenroth’s attention went to Torrullin.

“You,
naturally, are the reason I am called. I know who you are. I’ve
dreamed you.” His voice was strong, belying his obvious
infirmities. “I meet the man who is both Saviour and Destroyer at
last.” His eyes flicked around. “Where is the boy?”

Torrullin was
calm and expressionless. “I judged it unsafe.”

“Unsafe?”
Rosenroth cackled. “Yes, I suppose it is; this is a terrible place
to be young in. However, he is unsafe where he is.”

Samuel
gasped.

Rosenroth went
on. “He dreams as you do; he should be here to hear it told, or he
will not be safe anywhere.”

Samuel paled,
understanding his son’s insistence on coming, and wanted to address
it, when Lucan clamped a hand on his arm, shaking his head.

“I shall tell
him,” Torrullin said.

“Will you
spare him? I warn you to tell him all, for the dream will not leave
unless you do.”

Torrullin drew
breath, his composure slipping. “I shall tell all.”

“Make sure you
do, Elixir …” Torrullin paled at the old man’s term, but did not
interrupt. “Make sure you do. Now, do these people bear
witness?”

“I would
prefer privacy.”

“Then why
bring them?” Rosenroth cackled, eyeing his victim.

Torrullin held
onto his temper with admirable self-control. Fortunately Saska
warned him of the old man’s penchant for measuring his victims by
baiting. “They may remain.”

“Obviously!”

Torrullin held
his pose, which drew another cackle.

“Now, Elixir
…”

“Do not call
me that.”

The colourless
eyes bored into Torrullin and he said not a word. He continued
staring, a contest of wills, until, with muttered profanity,
Torrullin dropped his gaze. He needed the old man more than the old
man needed him, and the old fart knew it.

Smiling to
himself, Rosenroth looked up at the ceiling before saying, “I am
right, am I not?”

It was the
Enchanter’s turn to force compliance by saying nothing.

Rosenroth
cackled again. “You have a strong will, Enchanter. You are strong
in many ways, except where your family is concerned. Not so? Two
boys on opposite sides, and you were too weak to unmask them, and
now one leads you by the nose, up the garden path, around and
around the merry-go-round …”

“I get
it.”

“Ah, but do
you? Another boy, young yet, and you are overly protective. A
further sign of weakness, Enchanter. Beware of that, for you bind
your hands. That boy should be here. You know you are able to
protect him from physical harm.”

“That was not
the issue.”

“Indeed not.
And I rest my case.”

Torrullin
glanced at Saska. “I am to converse with this?”

“Don’t give in
to him,” Saska murmured.

Rosenroth
laughed. “Our dear Saska has more patience than you!”

“I have not
the time for …”

“Make time,”
Rosenroth snapped, mirth gone. “You are here to hear what I have to
say. Make time to listen.”

“Fine.”
Torrullin crossed his arms and stared at the old man
expressionlessly.

This time he
did not look away and after long, long moments it was Rosenroth who
was forced to break the contact.

Torrullin gave
a slight smile. “I hear nothing. I shall fill the silence then,
what say you? You are well-informed or a seer and I care not either
way. However, I would like to know what qualifies you to interpret
dreams.”

“Symbolist,”
the thin mouth spat out. “What do you want? A list of satisfied
clients? Do not insult me. I know whereof I speak and do not need
to present proof. You are here, you came to me, because, by word of
mouth, you were informed of my success in this strange minefield.
There is your proof, if you must have it. Is it sufficient? Or do I
leave now to return to the comfort of my bed?”

Torrullin
prayed for patience. “I shall hear you.”

“Then I shall
hear you. Speak to me of the images.”

Rosenroth’s
demeanour underwent an entire about-face. Listening to the account
related by the Enchanter, he seemed to straighten, the lines
appeared to smooth on his face, and his challenging gaze grew
thoughtful with concentration. He really listened, and did not
interrupt once.

For their
part, Saska and Samuel sat wide-eyed, while Lucan unconsciously
listened for inconsistencies. There were none.

When Torrullin
was done, having delivered in a monotone, he relaxed, as if the act
of sharing made it bearable, and the old man leaned back. His lined
face puckered and he rested his chin of his chest, closing his
eyes.

Long minutes
passed, but this time Torrullin was patient, knowing well the
process of deciphering was set in motion. He saw Krikian do
something similar. Saska silently warned the other two to remain
motionless and quiet.

Rosenroth
opened one eye. “Tell me you feel as caged as in your dream.”

“Of course,”
Torrullin said.

“Explain.”

Torrullin
sucked at his teeth and loosened his arms from his chest to place
them open fingered on the table.

Staring at
those seemingly relaxed digits, he said, “As a boy I was restricted
by the reality of my mother’s agelessness, always on guard for some
nuance of danger. When she died I was ruled by the need to find my
father, as if I had no will. That led to immortality, which in
itself is a prison of my creation, given the cycles of death and
rebirth. The personas I took on had to be carefully nourished to
avoid detection. Not only were there no Valleur in the universe,
but no expectation of it ever changing. Worse was the fact nobody
remembered my people, when I remembered so well. Every day was a
cage, of the mind, of heritage, of loneliness. Over it hung the
elusive being that was my father, ruling me in continued absence
and ignorance. Is that what you want to hear?”

Those fingers
had not moved, but were white to the bone.

“Continue.”

“Then came
Rayne, and all things manifested in him.” Torrullin glanced at
Saska and then could not look away from her emerald gaze. “Dear
god, Saska, can you know how hard it was? You, Taranis, Vannis,
after millennia of waiting, not caring, not daring to love? I could
have dealt with those changes and found freedom in setting aside
the past, but another cage came along - in the form of prophesy. I
had no will, despite Quilla’s ‘my fate is my choice’. Everything I
did was foretold. Where was I in that? Not Rayne, not another
persona, certainly not the youthful self I once was. I was
half-blood, son to Taranis, grandson to Vannis, the One, Enchanter,
the duality of a prophetic naming, but where was Torrullin?”

He closed his
eyes to break the contact and when he opened them, he stared at
Rosenroth. His fingers pressed hard to the table.

“My sons
imprisoned me and still do. Both of them. I thought I broke out
when I orchestrated the destruction of Torrke, but to my horror
prophecy awaited me in the flatlands. I had not escaped. Now here I
am, following the road I myself predicted, and still dealing with
my sons. Do I feel caged? I do.”

“Oh,
Torrullin,” Saska whispered.

He did not
react, and Rosenroth began to speak.

“Yours is a
dream of conscience on one level. On another it is of the soul,
yours. You tell of insult and injury while caged like a wild
animal, and it speaks of who you were. You were unworthy of
sympathy and care, you believed. You speak of faceless tormentors,
and while many crossed your path on one level, it is in fact you
who are the faceless one. Nobody knew you, no one recognised your
ancient lineage, least of all yourself, if truth be told, for
memories do not always follow fact and you knew that. In terrible
anonymity you meted out death and destruction, and therefore what
you deserved was insult and injury.” Rosenroth paused and added, “I
would hazard the boy was not privy to the caging in his
dreams.”

“No.”

“He is
innocent, even as he has become the conduit to your soul.”
Rosenroth glanced at Samuel. “You are the boy’s father, are you
not? This is why you were brought?”

Samuel glanced
at Torrullin, who did not acknowledge him, and nodded.

“I thought
so,” the old man continued. “Have no fear for your son. He dreams
not of himself or prophecy - he dreams of the Enchanter. It will
leave him once it is fully told, and the boy inside will return.”
Colourless eyes flicked back to Torrullin. “You bonded quickly with
that young soul, a bond he feels also. The boy forces you to open
your eyes.”