The Sleeper Sword (36 page)

He saw Margus,
but ignored him to deal with the tingling joy over seeing an old
friend again. He was gratified to hear Torrullin laugh.

“Belun, old
friend, I knew you would be here!”

Well,
naturally, of course. He would not have missed this for all the
fillies in the universe.

Caballa was
paralysed with new emotions she could not support. She could see
him. For the first time she could physically see him. She choked,
fell to her knees and wept.

Kismet punched
the air and then hurtled forward to drop to his knees before his
Lord. “My Lord, welcome home.”

A warm hand
descended to his head and he knew peace. His dearest wish had come
true.

Quilla
contented himself with a satisfied smile. He would greet the
Enchanter later. Now was time for family. He studied every detail,
watched every nuance. Torrullin, he noted, was filled with shadows,
and the man was exhausted. Those strange yellow eyes did not
fit.

Mitrill’s
nails dug into Caltian’s hand and while he was unsure what emotion
it signified, he used the pain to remind himself he was not, after
all, dreaming. He desired to follow Kismet’s impetuous example, to
drop in homage at his feet, but stood waiting.

Tannil needed
to stand forth first for the family.

Fay was still.
She watched the man who meant so much to so many and was about to
take up the mantle once more. A beautiful man. A troubled man. A
dangerous man.

She glanced at
Tannil. Kismet had already paid homage, unable to help himself, and
Belun’s loud call expressed the sentiment of all - except Marcus,
she noted, and herself - but Tannil needed to move forward now. She
realised, looking at his transfixed gaze, he was unable to put one
foot before the other.

“Tannil?” she
prompted, but it had no effect.

Torrullin
glanced at Margus.

“Make yourself
scarce.” He looked up at his Keep and noted how a final stone
slotted into place. He smiled. “Seems I have my home returned,
Darak Or. We did our worst and here it is again.” His smile
vanished. “Go indoors and wait until I call you.”

Margus
inclined his head. His gaze raked those around the courtyard and,
seeing confusion, uncertainty and much venom directed at him, he
shrugged. It was to be expected.

He sauntered
through the open space that once led to the Throne and vanished
temporarily from sight.

It freed some
of the restraint.

Belun laughed
and slapped Buthos on the back.

Samuel stared
at Torrullin as if he could not believe the evidence of his eyes
and Kismet continued to kneel in silent homage.

Torrullin
addressed Samuel first.

“I have words
I need you to hear, Samuel, but we shall have them later.”

Samuel nodded
and bowed.

“You do not
have to bow. We are kin.”

Samuel drew a
shaking breath and retreated without falling over his feet.

Torrullin
glanced at Kismet’s bowed head. He smiled. This Elder was worth
ten. “Kismet, rise. You have a pressing duty to fulfil.”

Kismet bounded
up. “My Lord?”

Torrullin
stifled a grin. “I would greet my Vallorin, Elder.”

Kismet’s mouth
opened and closed and then, “Of course, my Lord.” He turned and
made his way to Tannil and bowed. “My Lord Vallorin, the Enchanter
seeks to greet you.”

He stood
aside, his gaze going uncertainly from Tannil to Torrullin and
back, back and forth. By rights, as Vallorin, Tannil should await
the seeker to come to him, but, sweet gods, this was the Enchanter.
All should bow before him.

Tannil merely
nodded, voiceless, paralysed, and Torrullin solved his impasse. He
crossed the space to bow before Tannil. “My Lord Vallorin.”

“No!” Tannil
croaked out. “I am not …”

Torrullin
straightened. “Tannil.”

Tannil
blanched. “You know my name?”

“Tannil. Yes,
I know your name. I know Samuel. I know he is a Dalrish.” Torrullin
pointed at Lucan without looking at him. “I know you are my
grandson and I know this is hard for you …”

Tannil was
stricken. “It shouldn’t be! I have waited, I have prepared …”

Torrullin’s
face twisted and he stepped closer to lay his fingers along
Tannil’s flushed cheeks. “A heavy burden, grandson. Do not think I
don’t understand.” The blue fire was sparking and Tannil lifted his
hands to it in wonder, crossing his fingers over Torrullin’s. “You
are Vallorin now, Tannil, and it is my sworn duty to give you my
loyalty.”

“No.” Tannil
clasped the hands against his face and then brought them to his
chest. “I have no Throne, my Lord. I have been Vallorin in name
only. I cannot accept an oath of loyalty from you, not from you -
not until the Throne chooses.”

Torrullin
paled. No, not this. “I do not want that chair.”

“It didn’t
want me.”

“You sound
like Vannis. In fact, you look like him, but I am sure you are your
own man. Let us set aside the Throne and get to know each other.”
When Tannil’s eyes widened, with longing, he withdrew his hands and
grasped the man to him, held on for dear life. “Son of my son, we
shall find the way forward together, I promise you.”

A loud giggle
interrupted.

Torrullin
stiffened and released Tannil to slowly turn. He looked up at the
battlements left of the Dragon doors. “Tymall. Now, by god?”

“Ah, father,
so typical of you. Anything, now anyone, to do with your beloved
Tris and you go weak at the knees!” Tymall floated to the
courtyard’s cobbled surface in his Warlock garb. “It’s sickening!
You vanish for two millennia and you return to seek first that of
my insipid twin!”

Torrullin
looked him up and down, an insolent gesture. “Fancy clothes, I see.
If you cannot show respect, Tymall, get from my sight.”

“Respect?” A
hiss.

“I am …”

“… not any
father of mine!” Tymall spat.

Torrullin
said, “I meant Enchanter. Son.”

He turned his
back and made his way to Mitrill. Her eyes warned him. He whirled
and caught the sword as it came slicing down, a movement Tymall
achieved with speed that was near invisible. The razor sharp blade
bit through his palm and blood spurted. Torrullin wrenched the
blade from Tymall’s grip and then handed it back, hilt first.

“I am
impressed. Your speed and silence shows real mastery.”

Tymall
accepted the blade, grey eyes hooded. “I am impressed also.
Enchanter.” He touched the tip to Torrullin’s hand, a hand that no
longer showed sign of a wound.

He bowed then
and vanished.

“Whoa,” Lucan
muttered.

Torrullin
stared up. Torrke had not repudiated Tymall, and it did not bode
well for the future. And his son showed remarkable skill with a
blade, which meant other skills had been polished. A stupid move,
to give so much away in the first encounter.

He shrugged
and faced Mitrill, forcing himself to appear unruffled. “Mitrill.
You look well, daughter-in-law.”

She bit her
lip, a rare nervous gesture.

“Welcome home,
Torrullin. I have to apologise for this haphazard reception …” She
smiled and her features relaxed into real welcome. “Of course,
Tymall’s interruption would have skewed even the most formal
greeting ceremony.” She quirked a brow, saw him grin, and knew it
was all right. “It is good to see you, my Lord, so good.”

He smiled,
genuine now. “It’s good to see you, too. You have done well, and
all the Valleur honour you.” He referred to her role as regent
until Tannil came of age, and his rearing … and holding together an
exiled race. “I thank you, Mitrill, for all of it.”

She bowed her
head, speechless.

“As to a
welcoming ceremony,” and his voice took on an amused tone, “I doubt
formality would have sat well, hmm?”

She looked up,
a twinkle in her eyes. “You never did like formality.”

He laughed.
“Gods, no.” His gaze moved over the others, resting in momentary
confusion upon Marcus and Byron, and then he grinned at
Caltian.

The welcome
there was unrestrained. He moved to him with a wide smile and the
two embraced amid some boisterous backslapping. When they drew
apart, Caltian glanced at Mitrill and then looked away.

Torrullin
raised a brow at her. “And this?”

“Torrullin,”
she said, finding it necessary to take a breath, “Caltian and I are
married, and this is our daughter Fay.”

“Married?” he
echoed, looking from one to the other, and pleasure flooded his
face. “Fantastic!”

He gripped
Caltian again, laughing, and drew Mitrill into a more subdued
embrace. The blue kinfire again. It reminded him of Tris with
Mitrill, and he pushed the memory aside, resolving to bring trebac
under control soon. This sparking would not do in the long
term.

“I am happy
you found each other.”

“Really?”
Caltian whispered.

“You have my
blessing both, not that you needed it.”

The way they
looked at him then, made him realise they had needed his blessing.
As he moved from them, to Fay, husband and wife moved into each
other’s arms.

“My Lord,” Fay
murmured, dipping her head.

Trouble. He
knew it instantly. “Fay, I have not been told about you, but it is
heartening to know the Valla …”

“No, not
Valla,” she denied, interrupting him. “By birth, yes, but by
choice, no. See?” She took his hand, a challenging gesture. No
trebac.

“Fay!” Mitrill
gasped.

She smiled and
withdrew her grip.

“Why?” he
whispered. “Why?” he repeated, disbelieving.

“Freedom,
Enchanter,” she returned in a clipped tone.

“Freedom.” He
stepped away. “There is no such thing.”

Silence.

Enchanter, you
are not being fair.

He turned from
Fay, made eye contact elsewhere. “Quilla, my conscience
already?”

Fay blanched
and moved into the background. Mitrill stared at her in horror.

The birdman
approached, a diffident smile on his tiny face. “I would not
presume, Enchanter.”

Torrullin
laughed. “That would be a first, my friend.”

“Hmm,” Quilla
grinned. “Good to see you in one piece.”

“Glad to be,
admittedly.”

“I’m sorry,
I’ve waited long enough!” Belun roared. He charged forward, lifted
Torrullin in his strong arms, kissed him resoundingly on both
cheeks and only then deigned to put him back to the ground.
“Enchanter, it is mighty good to see your ugly face again!”

Torrullin
laughed, but could not get a word in before Buthos was there,
embracing him, pumping his hand and grinning like a silly boy. For
a Siric, this was high emotion.

Laughing more,
he gripped both their shoulders. “Old comrades, you are indeed a
sight for sore eyes!”

“I told you
he’d be happy to see us!” Belun shouted.

“Gods, hush,
you stupid horse,” Buthos snapped. “You are taking my ears
off!”

“Horse?” Belun
roared … or neighed.

Torrullin made
a mock retreat and inclined his head at Marcus and Byron. The two
humans were briefly introduced by Kismet and Torrullin moved onto
Lucan. Marcus, he noted, was uncomfortable, but in Byron there was
only acceptance. He would deal with them in time.

“You are a
Dalrish.”

Lucan pinkened
and bowed low. “Lucan Dalrish, my Lord. I am honoured you would
know that.”

Torrullin
smiled, a shadow lurking in his eyes. “The family resemblance is
astounding. Welcome to Valaris; we shall talk soon.”

“Thank you, my
Lord.”

Only Caballa
remained. She clambered to her feet as he neared, wiping
desperately at her eyes before he noticed her tears.

“Caballa.”

“My Lord,” she
managed, breaking a sob.

He stared deep
into her eyes. “Beautiful Caballa, who did this to you?”

Tears sprang
and ran over her cheeks. “Tymall. Earlier.”

He put his
hands on either side of her face, drew her closer to rest his brow
on hers. Behind him Kismet swallowed convulsively. “They do not
understand what has been taken from you, do they?”

“No,” she
whispered.

“Do you want
me to reverse this?”

She stared
into his eyes. They were yellow, those eyes, like hers, but she
could see the grey lurking behind them and the silver behind that …
and the deep terror of the black. She saw him and she knew him.
“No, Torrullin, I do not want it reversed. I see you.”

He had known
for a long time she loved him. “I see you, Caballa.”

She smiled and
pushed him gently away. “You have always seen me, my Lord. Welcome
back.”

“To what,
Caballa?”

She sighed.
“Reality.”

“It is good to
be back.”

For him, that
was a platitude. “Go away now, over there, so I may recover.”

He laughed
lightly. She knew him. “As my lady commands.” He moved away and
turned into Quilla’s searching gaze.

“Outwardly you
are exactly the same as I remember you … clothes a bit ragged
…”

“Ten days,
Quilla,” Torrullin said, losing all softness. “For Margus and me it
has been a mere ten days.”

Shocked
silence.

Then, “This
greeting then is very hard for you.”

“An
understatement.”

“Indeed. And
you brought him back.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Only
Quilla would dare that.

He studied
them. The first flush of welcome faded with Margus’s name. “Later,”
he said.

And, typical
Torrullin, when confronted by those he cared about and unwilling to
share bad news, he turned and walked away, heading for the stairs
that led to the battlements.

Tannil glared
at everyone.

“He was
supposed to be made welcome.”

He pierced Fay
with a furious gaze, reserving some of his fury for his own errors,
touched lightly on Caballa, frowned at Marcus and Byron, and then
swore.