Destiny (50 page)
Lauryn persisted.
Orlac did not kill my mother or Cloot. He did not rape me. He is your brother. Can we not save his soul?
Something in her words touched the right chord. Tor faltered and the white light died. Orlac lay motionless and spent.
‘Torkyn!’ Darganoth called from the Glade. ‘Finish it!’
‘No!’ Tor hurled back. ‘Enough death. Enough killing!’
He walked to where his brother lay. The Paladin renewed their ancient skills, creating a field of imprisonment. Now, neither brother could depart without the sanction of the Paladin—or their own death.
Orlac.
Tor could see he still breathed and whilst he still took breath there was a chance.
Come to gloat?
Orlac whispered.
Tor shook his head.
Will you trust me?
What for?
To save you.
Through his pain, the god actually laughed grimly.
You, save me?
Tor said nothing. Everyone watching held their breath.
Orlac coughed weakly.
What do you have in mind?
That you go back…back to where you came from. Back to Ordolt.
There was a long pause before Orlac gave a weak reply.
Will it accept me?
It might. If we give it back its flowers which are what it seeks. Will you let me try?
Why would you do this after all the pain?
To end the pain.
Tor crouched down and placed his hands beneath his brother.
May I?
Orlac nodded and grimaced as Tor lifted him into his arms. He was weaker than he had realised.
Brother,
Orlac called softly.
Yes?
I may not make it to the Glade.
Please try.
Tallinor is claiming me, I fear. How ironic,
Orlac said, a soft smile playing on his lips as his face began to slacken.
Orlac! Take my strength.
Tor pushed, opening himself up, watching the horror move across the faces of the Paladin at this dangerous new suggestion. It was all Orlac needed to destroy Tor.
Do you trust…?
Orlac was so weak he could not even finish what he wanted to say.
Tor looked down into the blurring eyes of Orlac and nodded.
Take what you need. We are brothers.
And Orlac took, drawing on Tor’s strength.
The Paladin parted, dropping their imprisoning power at Cyrus’s command and watched Tor walk slowly with his load towards a shocked Host.
He stopped in front of Ordolt, from where Darganoth watched him. Tor could see how he himself might look when he became older. It was an odd thought. He had no plan to live beyond this day without Alyssa or Cloot.
‘Take him back,’ he said.
Darganoth shook his head sadly. ‘I’m not sure we can, son.’
Arriving behind the King of the Host was another familiar face. Lys. She smiled and Tor saw Alyssa echoed so strongly it made his heart begin its bleed. So be it. He welcomed death.
She bowed before Darganoth. ‘My King. Tor is right. Offer back the flowers to Ordolt. It is temperamental. We may just catch it in a forgiving mood, sire…please.’
They waited.
‘Very well,’ the King finally replied. ‘We can try. Ask my grandchildren to make their offer to the Glade.’
Rubyn looked at his brother and sister. ‘I’ll do it.’ He took their stones, still blazing, still holding Ordolt amongst the oaks. He walked to where he could see a soft tear in the shimmering, presuming it was the rent made by the scavengers who once stole an infant god.
He bowed solemnly to this magical place. ‘Ordolt. Forgive us for holding onto three items which are precious and belong to you. They were taken in innocence by an infant. May we return them?’
The gorgeous scene shimmered brightly suddenly and although no one knew what it meant, Rubyn took a breath and hoped it was the answer they wanted. He reached in through the hole, feeling the instant warmth of the place beyond it. Reverently placing the three stones on the spongy, verdant grass of Ordolt he gently withdrew his hand and bowed again. They watched as the stones were absorbed into the ground and before their eyes three exquisitely beautiful flowers grew from where they had disappeared. Ordolt flashed this time, returning just as rapidly to its normal soft light.
It was Tor’s turn to make a plea. ‘Ordolt, may we return another who was stolen from you a long time ago? He is the innocent. He belongs amongst your forests and your beautiful gardens. He has known much sorrow. You would bring him great joy in granting us this. He is yours,’ Tor beseeched.
Ordolt did not respond this time. Tor looked at his mother. He felt nothing for her but he wished he had known her. Her smile for him was radiant.
‘I shall chance it,’ he said, stepping forward. ‘I hope this does not create catastrophes for Tallinor.’
His mother shook her head gently. ‘No, son. Because it is a returning, it is safe.’
He nodded, looking down at Orlac now. ‘Fare well, brother,’ he said, softly.
Orlac was spent, hanging onto life now courtesy of Tor. ‘I’m sorry about Cloot. I liked him too.’ They shared a sad smile.
The Light guide you, Tor,
he said privately.
Tell Lauryn…no. Tell her nothing. Ask her to take care of Pelyss.
Tor looked towards his parents. ‘I give you Orlac, Prince of Gods.’
His mother began to weep through her smile. ‘His name is not Orlac, my child. That was the Tallinese name given to him by Merkhud. His name is Aeryn, Prince of Gods.’
Tor bent to kiss Aeryn on the forehead and as he handed his brother through Ordolt’s shimmering presence, passing through its strange magics, he saw himself hand a sleeping infant into the arms of its mother.
It shocked everyone, including the Host. For Lys it was the sign she needed; had prayed for. Through her own grief she saw that perhaps, somehow, this all could be righted for two people.
‘Tor, wait!’ she called. ‘Come through too. Ordolt will accept you.’
Tor was stunned. He paused, considering her suggestion.
She persisted. ‘You have nothing left to do for Tallinor. Everything that is you is here.’ Lys could hear the plea in her voice.
He glanced around the familiar faces of the Paladin. Saxon nodded. He understood, more than anyone, Tor’s
sense of desolation. He too had lost Alyssa, and a close friend in Cloot.
Go, boy,
Cyrus said into his head.
Don’t hesitate.
Tor looked towards his children. Lauryn was nodding through her tears.
Find happiness there. Start again.
He pulled his three children towards him.
Will you permit this?
They all three nodded.
You’ve given enough,
Gidyon said, his eyes wet.
It was Rubyn who gave him the response he needed. It was a placation but it was what Tor needed to hear.
You may find her, Father.
I don’t suppose you three would consider it?
Tor asked.
They shook their heads and he understood. They had reasons to stay in Tallinor.
Tor knew he must not linger. Lys was urging him to step through. Any further delay and the fractious Ordolt might reject him. He did not want to prolong an emotional farewell so he kissed his three children before grinning his unsaid thanks towards his friends in the Paladin.
‘The Light guide you,’ he said and stepped through the shimmering presence, taking both his father’s hands and appearing on the other side as a newborn, returned to exactly how he had been before he was given over to save Tallinor.
The Host wept to have their princes returned.
And the Heartwood rejoiced.
‘And we cannot persuade you to remain on our shores?’ the King of Tallinor asked.
Kyt Cyrus shook his head. ‘Rubyn and I have some unfinished business in Cipres, your majesty. But we shall return for the wedding in the spring.’ He bowed to his King. ‘Perhaps we might forge still closer ties between the two realms?’
Gyl smiled. His father had been right to choose Kyt Cyrus for Prime. And now Tallinor would have a powerful ally in Cipres. He watched the soldier turn and walk towards Lauryn, who was standing with her brothers.
She smiled warmly at the old soldier. ‘You take care of my brother, Cyrus. Bring him back for my marriage.’
‘It seems the Gynt children have a way with sovereigns,’ he said, ignoring Rubyn’s glare. ‘Who knows, I may bring your brother with a new wife,’ he risked. ‘And you, Gidyon. Where are you headed?’ Cyrus said, deciding it was time to change the subject.
‘Back to a town in Brittelbury.’
‘Ah yes, in the north. You have business there?’
The man who reminded him so keenly of the young Torkyn Gynt shrugged in the habitual way his father had at the same age. It nagged at Cyrus’s heart.
‘Unfinished, like your business in Cipres,’ Gidyon replied with a wry grin. He turned to his companions nearby. ‘Themesius and Figgis are coming with me…and after that I plan to return to the Rork’yel Mountains. There are people there we gave a promise to.’
Saxon strolled up. He alone could share none of the joy of this festive scene as the Friends of the Heartwood began their farewells.
‘Sax. Care to join us on the road?’ Gidyon asked.
‘Well, I would jump at it if your cunning sister and her manipulative future husband hadn’t already persuaded me to return to Tal and help a certain young lad out.’
Rubyn guessed. ‘Locky?’
Saxon nodded. ‘Yes. I think I owe it to him.’ Then added sadly, ‘I can lose myself in teaching him a few things, until I can sort out what to do next.’
Cyrus muttered agreement. ‘And the others?’ he said, turning to where the rest of their companions stood, saying their goodbyes.
‘Adongo is headed back to the Ciprean islands where the Moruks roam. Sallementro, of course, is coming back to Tal—I think he’s already dreaming up the wedding ballad.’ They all smiled. ‘Is it right, Lauryn, that Juno is going with you?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve asked her to. She’s thinking on it. I believe she will.’
‘Which leaves our residents of the Heartwood,’ Saxon continued. ‘I don’t imagine either Arabella or Solyana will ever leave here,’ he admitted and the others agreed. ‘I don’t know where I’ll end up—perhaps my birthplace in the southern islands. It’s a bit early yet; wounds still too raw.’
Those listening nodded sombrely. They knew to whom he referred.
‘Father refused to say goodbye to her, you know,’ Gidyon suddenly blurted.
They looked at him, a mix of confusion and regret on their faces.
He explained himself. ‘When our mother died and Darmud Coril wanted to take her into the trees, we all said goodbye—we kissed her.’ He shrugged, remembering the moment of kissing that pale, cold cheek a little too clearly. ‘But our father refused. He told me he would somehow see her again…in the Light—in another life, I think he meant.’
‘And perhaps he will,’ Cyrus said, echoing everyone’s hopes.
A very young boy ran dizzying circles around his brother—a baby —cradled in a beautifully-woven basket. Their mother smiled in a radiant manner such as none had seen in centuries. These were no ordinary children—these were Princes of the Host. The eldest and heir to the throne was a sunny, happy child with golden hair and strangely violet eyes full of laughter. His brother was much darker in looks; a thick shock of
black downy hair told his parents he might echo his father and if the presently-dark eyes turned into the brilliant blue they promised to be, then he might well be the image of Darganoth, the King of the Host.
As Aeryn played, singing an old rhyme to his baby brother, Evagora was laughing with two other women.
‘It turned out better than we could have ever hoped,’ she admitted to her oldest and dearest friend.
Lys took the Queen’s hand and smiled. She was still finding this happy scene hard to believe herself. ‘Thank you for allowing me to bring her back.’
Evagora’s eyes immediately brimmed but her voice was firm. ‘They have suffered too much. All innocents. When you came to us with the plan, I knew if anyone could make it work, you could. It was an inspired move to bring her back through the Bleak.’
‘I took a gamble, your majesty. I guessed that if I could force her spirit to lift free somehow whilst she still drew breath, then I could save her; claim back that spirit.’
‘And did you know that Tor would return Aeryn?’
Lys shook her head. ‘No, highness. That had not even occurred to me. He worked that out himself.’
The Queen noticed her other guest tentatively reach forward to stroke the baby’s soft skin.
‘May I hold him?’ the woman asked.
‘Of course, my dear,’ the Queen said.
‘Will he remember, do you think?’
‘No, child. But it matters not,’ her mother replied gently. ‘There is no doubt that when he is grown, he will fall in love with you all over again,’ Lys added.
Alyssa smiled and hugged the little boy close. She would wait.
And so this tale finally ends and I have loved crafting it. Sincere thanks to all who have followed the series and especially to the countless readers who have taken the time and trouble to contact me. Your enthusiasm for Trinity is the best reward for so many hours spent at a lonely keyboard.
There are those whose generous support has been invaluable over the past couple of years, especially authors Sara Douglass and Robin Hobb, as well as my editor Nicola O’Shea who is a dream to work with. I must also give a nod here to the regular visitors to my website’s bulletin board for the late-night laughs, companionship and constant encouragement.
Which leaves my close friends and lovely family to thank, the most deserving of these being Will and Jack who seem to accept this solitary pursuit of their mother’s with their usual good grace. Gratitude and love to my heartiest critic and most ardent supporter, Ian.
Fiona McIntosh was born and raised in England but spent her early childhood in West Africa. She studied in Brighton before embarking on a career in PR and marketing in London, but following a holiday to Sydney in 1980, she made Australia her home. She and her husband Ian now live in Adelaide with their twin sons where they publish a national magazine for the travel industry.
