The Sleeper Sword (22 page)

If the
Enchanter did join them this night, the team would number fourteen.
They would achieve the universal number ruling the currents of
magic, and it was a powerful tool.

It was silent
inside. Dark. The shuffling sounds of a gathered group intensified
the sense of disembodiment.

They waited,
periodically glancing up at the aperture overhead. As yet, no
star.

Time seemed to
stand still.

Then, a
coalescing, magic pulled from the fabric of the air to form a
newness, a different reality.

Even Marcus
felt it and reached out in the dark for the comforting presence of
his life-long friend. Byron lowered his big hand onto Marcus’s
bonier shoulder, left it there.

“Do you not
wonder why I should allow this?” an amused voice sounded.

“The source,”
Lucan stated, in sotto-voice.

Tannil
hissed.

The voice went
on. “If all goes well and we must hope it does, then you will
attain fourteen. Now, why would I permit that?”

Nobody gave
response.

A chuckle.
“Perhaps the old norms no longer apply?”

“Show
yourself,” Tannil commanded.

Another
chuckle, immensely self-satisfied. “Tannil, at last we meet again.
Our last was so brief.”

Fay whispered,
“Tannil, stay calm.”

Tannil
growled, “I know it’s you, Tymall. Show yourself.”

“Finally, you
admit your greatest fear, nephew! You’ve found your courage at
last, how splendid … and surprising. I thought you’d keep the words
for my beloved father, use his strength to bolster your own.”

“Shut up!”

More laughter.
“My father is strong, don’t doubt that -
I
don’t. You pale
in comparison.”

He was being
baited. And Tannil admitted the voice of Tymall was not entirely
wrong. “Tymall, show yourself.”

“It is Warlock
Tymall, nephew.”

“An antiquated
term for something you already were,” Quilla remarked.

“Not where I
recently hail from, Quilla.” The voice resonated with power.

Quilla
shivered, taken aback.

“Stop fooling
about,” Tannil commanded. “Either show yourself or get you on your
way.”

“With
pleasure.” The amused chuckle came again, followed by a flash of
scarlet light.

The interior
of the octagonal building lit and steadied into rosy glows, like
the ember light from a hot fire bed. The temperature climbed also,
reinforcing the analogy.

Into that
surreal glow came a man.

He was tall,
being Valleur, and his hair long, trailing in streaks of auburn,
gold and pale blond. A silver circlet sat upon his brow, a blue gem
flashing from the centre as it reflected the light. He was clothed
in dark-grey breeches and tunic, the style tastefully simple, and
he wore intricately laced boots, black. Silver spurs glittered from
his heels, tinkling as he shifted weight.

A magnificent
belt and silver scabbard sat on his waist, revealing the jewelled
hilt of a priceless sword. An olive cloak swung from silver
shoulder clasps, pictured with silver and blue ideograms of stars
and magical symbols. In his left hand, resting on the patterned
floor, he clasped a silver staff, obviously old, a smooth and
unadorned rod topped with a circular head that reached past his
shoulder. In the exact centre of the ball a similar gem to the one
on his brow caught light.

He stood
indifferently, unafraid, allowing all to gaze their fill, studying
each in turn. He was impressive, inspiring and beautiful.

For Tannil it
was like seeing his father’s face for the first time.

Lucan’s mouth
hung open.

Samuel
understood why he was mistaken for this man, but knew immediately
he would never command that kind of presence.

Quilla’s mouth
formed a round and his heart squeezed in sympathy for Torrullin.
The Enchanter, despite everything, loved this man.

Fay was
fascinated, enchanted, and instantly drawn.

Mitrill was
expressionless. Her first husband’s face, that was all; she moved
on from her brief marriage a long time ago, although she sometimes
awakened after a dream in which Tristamil had his hands on her
again. This man, however, was not like his twin. He had presence,
yes, but was not his brother’s equal.

Buthos was
more objective. He studied Tymall and understood the young upstart
of the past was gone. In his place was a dangerous man. Power and
intent, it was there, and meant misfortune.

Belun muttered
“Oh bull and crap” and that said it all.

Caltian was
white-hot furious. How dare this creature come forth to make their
lives hell again, how dare he even think he could best his father?
Mitrill’s hand fluttered onto his arm and squeezed.

Caballa
employed the sight to look and was unimpressed. And then she
withdrew from that sorcery when Tymall’s gaze flicked to her,
boring into her, intruding when blindness should have prevented
him. She was frightened and that was extremely rare for her.

Kismet
snorted.

Marcus was so
pale he appeared close to fainting, his breath coming in short,
shallow gasps, and Byron was transfixed.

“Clothes
maketh not the man,” Belun said.

Tymall smiled.
“Where I come from, it does. I earned all I wear and wield.” He
stared at Belun. “Don’t mock me, Centuar, or you’ll pay for the
slight.”

Quilla
shouldered his way to the front. “Which realm?”

A silence and
then, “Unless you’ve taken your own life, in hatred, unless you
held the remains of your essence in the slippery grip of your aura
and fought it back into a receptacle that you drew together from
fleeing thought alone, unless you then fought every moment of every
minute to make it real, for so long that time fled consciousness,
you can’t comprehend the realm I fell into. It has no name I shall
share here, for it can’t be described or shown. Accept that few go
there and few leave. Do not, however, underestimate its power or
mine. I am more than Margus ever was.”

“Why, Tymall?”
Caballa asked from the edge of the gathering. She refused to be
cowed.

He turned his
head to look at her, although he refrained from intruding this
time. “Do I really need to answer, Caballa? You were there; you
know what my father is.” He smiled and it lit his features. “I’m
going to give you something, seer, something not even the Enchanter
could do for you, and then you’ll understand my power. Warn the
healer, sweet Caballa, just by looking at him.”

He waved his
right hand and she gasped, stumbling into the wall.

“Caballa?”
Kismet asked, going to her aid.

She stared at
him, seeing Kismet, fellow Elder, best of all friends, with her
eyes.

“Caballa?”
Kismet repeated, shivering. “Gods, are you looking at me?”

Tymall
laughed.

She touched
her eyes, passed her hand before then, closed and reopened them. “I
can see, Kismet, I …” She shouted, “Wrong, Tymall! Your father
could restore my sight!”

“Really? Then
why was he amiss in doing so?”

“Torrullin
knew my power …” she began and lapsed into silence. She turned away
hoping to vanish forever. Her shoulders shook.

“… lay in your
blindness,” Tymall sighed. “Ah, I underestimated him. How
enlightening.”

Kismet growled
and would have launched himself at the so-called Warlock had not
Caltian restrained him, whispering into his ear. Kismet jerked away
and returned to Caballa, standing hands folded across his chest as
if guarding her.

Marcus moved
closer to Byron, completely out of his depth.

Tymall looked
up. A shiver passed through him. “Nemisin shines bright tonight,
does he not?”

Everybody
looked, except a distressed Caballa. The star was in view, its beam
lost in the red glows of the temple.

“Look well
upon the star, Tannil, for this is the final night you’ll see that
tiny light in the heavens,” Tymall murmured.

“I think not,”
Tannil said, looking away from the pinprick in the aperture.

“Tannil,
Tannil, ignorant of the greater truths. Pity. Do you not see? This
is the point where all is joined for us this night. It binds us to
a course.”

“Speak plain,”
Caltian said.

“My pleasure.
Later tonight the connection between Nemisin and Valaris will be
severed when a hand finds the mystical link binding the two worlds,
but before it is severed I require the final power it brings. You
need it to draw strength from for the trial of release you’re soon
to commence. More precisely, Samuel needs it, and I desire that he
succeed. In the binding of two worlds we are ourselves bound.
Unfortunately, while one binding is severed, the other cannot be
undone, unless I so choose.”

“Crap,” Belun
muttered.

“Truth.”

“What mystical
link?” Mitrill snapped. “A star shines, that’s all.”

Tymall smiled.
“Really? Then you are as ignorant as your son.”

“You little f
…!” Caltian sprang forward and it was Buthos who waylaid him,
dragging him back.

“Let him have
his minute,” the Siric murmured. “We’ll see him on his way soon
enough.”

“Wrong, Siric.
But, yes, I’ve had my minute. You, unfortunately, have twelve
left.”

“What does
that mean?” Tannil demanded.

“Think. A
temple, a link, a binding? Does that herald a doorway, nephew, or
does it interfere with one opening?”

Silence and
then, from Quilla, “We are in the wrong place to greet the
Enchanter.”

“Gods!”
Tannil, frantic. “Where?”

“The Keep,”
Samuel said. “Torrullin’s Keep.”

“Indeed,
Samuel,” Tymall confirmed. “Ten minutes left, ten minutes while
first and last are still joined. I want you to succeed, don’t waste
more time here.”

“What must I
do?”

Tymall stepped
forward and leaned in to stare into Samuel’s eyes, inches away.
“How like my brother you are, Skyler, always asking the obvious
question. Feel the blood, kinsman; it courses strong through your
veins. You
know
what to do.”

“I don’t.”

Tymall stepped
back. “Then you’ll fail and I’ll find my task completed before it
has properly begun. Nine minutes, my puppets!”

Tannil growled
low in his throat and grabbed Samuel and vanished with him.

Tymall laughed
as, in rapid succession, the others followed.

They milled
upon the level area where once the Keep stood in splendour, where
Samuel, days ago, communed with the Enchanter.

There was
urgency and there was also uncertainty.

Caballa was
useless; she required time to find a new way. Relying long on
instinct and the ‘sight’, she now had to learn to trust her eyes
and was like a newborn. It circumvented her natural abilities.

Lucan Dalrish
gazed around, awed, and realised he was not needed now. Neither
were Marcus and Byron and the Xenian went to them, drawing them
aside. The three found a place close to Caballa and she was glad to
have them there, though she dared not voice the thought, afraid she
would start screaming and never stop.

“We can’t
waste time on Tymall,” Tannil said. “If what he says is true, our
window is small. Samuel, you have to do whatever you must and do it
soon.”

Samuel was
helpless. Feel the blood. He would know. “I don’t know what to
do.”

“Do what you
did to raise the Keep around you,” Buthos suggested.

Seven minutes
left.

“I … it was
…”

“You named
your son Tristan, kinsman. A Valleur name. You’ve headed to this
point your entire life,” Tannil said. “Quit questioning, quit
fighting, and reach out to your heritage. Now, for gods’
sakes!”

“Quiet,
Vallorin,” Belun said in a gruff tone. “Samuel, what was in your
mind when you were here before?”

Samuel
breathed in, out. “I desired to see it more than anything …”

With a skewed
shift of air, the Keep rose about them.

Mitrill put
her hand to her mouth and her eyes flew around the courtyard up to
the balcony, the battlements, and her other hand dug into Caltian’s
arm, and he was paralysed by a sudden onset of memories.

Six
minutes.

“Good,
Samuel,” Quilla encouraged, but it niggled at him. It felt wrong,
this process. He hoped it would trigger something concrete.

“I wanted to
see a glimpse of the past …”

Ethereal
figures flitted in and out of the courtyard and a fair few wandered
the balcony.

“I prayed my
vision would include the Enchanter …”

A fair-haired
child alighted in the courtyard.

“Dear god,”
Mitrill moaned.

Tannil started
shaking, his face ashen.

Marcus, on the
side-lines, whimpered.

Then it
vanished.

Pandemonium.
Accusation. Hysteria. Recrimination. Aggression. Despair.

Five
minutes.

Samuel fell to
his knees, looking at the star-filled heavens.

Tannil roared
fury he had not known he was capable of and leaned in, meaning to
shake the kneeling man until he rattled …

“Stop it!” Fay
screamed.

Everything
stilled.

She faced
them. “Get back, get away from Samuel! How can he concentrate with
these thoughts and fears and desires intruding into this loaded
space?
He
is the conduit, he has to do this! Give him room,
shut up, and keep thoughts under control!”

She was
right.

Everyone moved
back a number of paces, maintained silence and a web of support for
the kneeling man formed and surrounded him.

Marcus sighed,
eyes misting with sympathy for the beleaguered Samuel. Byron
smiled. It was time for Samuel to find the beginnings of his
magic.

Four
minutes.

Samuel, after
Fay’s outburst, blanked everyone out. He continued to stare upward,
unaware of his surroundings and of the people now supporting
him.