The Kallanon Scales (11 page)

Vannis sighed.
“Yes.”

“There was a
schism of some sort, perhaps during a period of war and confusion,
which led to a party breaking away to land up in that Zone. Before
Valleur came to Valaris, before the Rift, perhaps before the Zone
was forbidden. There were Valleur who knew of it and they came here
with a map, and when the last of them left through the Rift that
map was freed from whatever conspiracy kept it hidden.”

“And whoever
subsequently touched it ended up dead,” Taranis reasoned. “New
conspirators arrived to keep it secret.”

“Makes no
sense,” Vannis muttered. “Why did the Valleur here not destroy the
map? Why did new conspirators not do so either?”

“It is
Valleur, Vannis. Who would destroy it? Perhaps it was destroyed,
perhaps it returned because it has an agenda. There is precedence
for that kind of thing. Humans may have tried in the climate of
fear after Settlement, but everyone who saw it died before it could
happen.” Torrullin rubbed a cheek repeatedly.

“Rees lived to
a ripe old age,” Vannis pointed out.

“Father Rees
thought Nemisin was his God.”

“This is a
Valleur conspiracy, is that what you infer?”

“No Valleur
would do what we saw today.”

Vannis
swallowed. “I never knew of a map or a division.”

“A conspiracy
isn’t going to invite a Vallorin on board.”

“So it
is
a
Valleur conspiracy.”

Torrullin
lifted a shoulder. “The knowledge of the separation passed down,
generation to generation, not a conspiracy exactly, but a secret,
maybe because it sundered a particular group, a family even. In the
old days, there were many Valleur on many worlds. Not even Nemisin
could keep track of every clan.”

“And Valleur
were not murdered, because Valleur do not blab, Valleur thought
they protected others.”

“The problems
began when the map was freed,” Taranis murmured.

“Kylan found
something and died for it, Kisha with him. Raken and Lycea were
privy to the discussions and died for that,” Torrullin added.

“Why not us?”
Vannis demanded.

Taranis
answered, “We require greater planning and muscle. Our time
comes.”

“Killing a
Vallorin will bring the wrath of an entire nation upon them.”

“Thus it takes
careful preparation,” Torrullin murmured. “I will not leave Valleur
in the clutches of someone willing to murder innocents to keep them
there. I will go and get them in the Forbidden Zone if I have to.
If I am to be killed, someone or something had better stop me
soon.”

Taranis
breathed, “So that is where this is headed.”

Vannis was as
grim. “Someone has been stupid. They bring down upon them the very
danger they tried to avoid. They messed with the wrong Vallorin in
the wrong time and they really messed up when they touched my
Raken.”

Kings are at
the feasting table once more! How many quails does it take to
satisfy the hunger of showmanship?

~ Tattle’s
Blunt Adventures

The Keep

A
Valleur child was a man or woman
in everything by age fifteen, but autonomy - freedom to marry, to
leave, to war - arrived at age twenty-five.

Fifteen meant
childish thoughts and aspirations, although the body reacted as an
adult; at twenty-five, it was hoped body and mind was in accord.
The decade between was to attain that state.

This august
morning found the brothers in Tymall’s chamber, dressing for the
ceremony. It began with a loincloth, beaded affairs designed to
cause discomfort, thereby forcing perfect comportment.

The two
laughed helplessly over sensations in the groin area, for once
amused by each other’s antics. Next came white linen strips, bound
criss-cross from the arch of each foot, and tied off over the
shoulders.

The origin of
this particular tradition was now lost, but most Valleur thought it
had roots in containing untamed and youthful sorcery.

Torrullin’s
personal valet aided them, an old man familiar with the process,
and he clucked disapprovingly at their levity. Next were white,
sleeveless robes, and golden cloths about their waists. Feet
settled into soft leather booties, the soles a single layer of
leather designed to be worn once. The old man helped them perch on
high stools to finish dressing their hair.

Doing it in
shifts, he braided their streaked hair into tiny plaits, dangling a
single golden bead from each end. They started before dawn and
after hours of work their heads were crowned with a mass of
tinkling plaits. A ceremonial dagger attached to the
waistcloth.

Nerves
displaced amusement. They heard swelling noise outside, felt
anticipation build.

The old man
brought out two cloaks. He enjoyed his task, he said, adding their
father did not give him opportunity to excel. Torrullin preferred
dressing himself.

He shook the
cloaks out and both gasped. One was midnight blue with an intricate
dragon woven in gold thread in the centre. This one went over
Tymall’s shoulders, the heir-apparent. The second cloak was
sky-blue, a cross and sword cleverly sewn in a unique design on the
back. The warrior priest of Tristamil’s naming.

It was fifteen
minutes to the appointed hour. The old man bowed out with their
appreciation ringing in his ears.

They were
alone. It was time for truth.

Tymall said,
“Time for our unmasking.”

“Father won’t
reveal what he knows. He understands we are necessary to each
other.”

“How can you
be certain?”

Tristamil
shrugged. “I am the Enchanter part of him, Ty, thus I’m able to
think like him.”

Tymall found
that discomfiting. “All the time?”

“Sometimes,
but in this I am right.”

“I am the
Destroyer part?”

“Is that not logic? He now knows we have mirrored his
natures. If we are the mirrors, both sides have to go on for our
father to accept who he is. We grew up knowing love, and
why?
Because
he
is divided. Thus, if he needs both of us, we need both of us, and
if one was to die, the other must be both. Were you to die I would
inherit your destroyer. I’m not sure I would survive
it.”

Tymall raised
his brows. “I would inherit the enchanter in you if you died? I
wouldn’t cope.”

“Therefore we
need live.”

Tymall nodded.
“I think I understand.”

Torrullin
entered, dressed for the ceremony. Although he donned black, a dark
golden cloak upon which the blue dragon emblem leapt relieved the
severity. A golden scabbard for the occasion, his silver sword
resting in it. His fair hair was plaited also, a single rope, and
the Ardosian crown usually on display at the White Palace rested on
his head.

He grinned
when he saw their eyes fly to it. “I am a king, after all.”

Yes, he
was.

He looked them
over. “He did well.” He paused. “I know you and now need briefly
discuss who else does. Quilla is aware, after the healing. Quilla
will not talk; his first loyalty is to me. Vannis may not have
realised. Any questions he has, he will ask of me and act
accordingly. Krikian and Shep may believe they witnessed sorcery,
but if I judge it safer, they will not remember.”

“This is about
Taranis,” Tymall said.

“Taranis will
prevent a bloodbath if the Valleur come for you. He has the
authority of the Throne.”

Tristamil
said, “You have been on the Throne.”

Tymall passed
a hand raggedly over his face.

“I did so when
there was no expectation, safer for you, for the Valleur and for
me. I did it to pass power to Taranis.” He held a hand up to
forestall questions. “We discuss it later. Now the time has come to
release you from childhood’s rules.”

“Please,”
Tymall said. “What will you do?”

Torrullin
studied him. “The Valleur will not be told. Conclusions they draw
after this will be the result of your actions. Tris, will you wait
outside?”

Tristamil
glanced at his brother and left.

The silence
dragged inside the chamber as the noise swelled outside. Torrullin
gazed at his son. This young man whipped Saska, attempted to drown
her, throw her into an abyss and all manner of slights and
dangers.

“I have loved
you and that will not change. I understand you, you are what I can
be also, and it is addictive. It feels as if the world and beyond
is there for the taking, all you have to do is reach out. Saska
could not understand that, nor should she. I love my wife also,
Tymall.”

Tymall
blinked. “I’m sorry.”

“You are not, not in the way that would alter you. I
understand that, thus forgive you for the past, but I will not
permit you to harm her in the future. There will come a time when
we are together and I warn you now to stay away from her
no matter how you feel.
I shall hurt you, and still love you. Know that, and hate me
not.”

“How can I
hate you? You never hurt me, judged me, denied me or exposed me.
You loved me, and it changed me. I stand here confused, with
darkness inside, and love in my heart.”

Torrullin
dragged his son into his arms and held him.

The courtyard
was hushed expectancy.

It had been a
long time since a Vallorin presented his children in a
Coming-of-Age celebration. This was a momentous occasion. This was
History.

It was silent
as the three men descended the stairs. At the foot Vannis and
Taranis waited. Everyone wondered where Lycea and Raken were, but
were not made the wiser.

This day was
for the two young men. They could mourn tomorrow.

Torrullin
paused on the second-to-last step, surveying the crowd in the
courtyard.

They came from
afar. Not merely Valleur from the city, although they were the
majority; there were human friends, leaders, sorcerers from the
Society and visitors from elsewhere. There was a contingent from
Xen III, a smaller one from Beacon. Two of the Sagorin came, one of
them Gren, the leader. He gave a mock salute and was rewarded with
a wave.

He noticed
Phet and knew the Q’lin’la attended. There were humanoids from
other worlds paying their respects. This was no longer an occasion
to celebrate autonomy, but homage to the risen Throne.

The Siric wove
their way in from the Dragon doors, led by Bartholamu. All came,
twenty-one in total. When Bartholamu realised their arrival was
noticed, he halted his troupe and whispered something, and a moment
later forty-two glorious wings soared out.

It was an
incredible display of reverence and, humbled, Torrullin put a hand
to his heart and bowed low, coming up smiling. The Siric folded
their wings to an almighty round of applause.

Torrullin
stepped to the ground and a path cleared for him and his sons.
Taranis and Vannis walked ahead and vanished inside, and at the
entrance a smiling Phet waved.

It was crowded
inside, largely Valleur, but a mixture nonetheless. A great cheer
went up when Torrullin and the twins set foot to the blue carpet.
Taranis and Vannis made their way to stand on either side of the
Throne, both decked in finery.

Taranis opted
for blue and silver and was royally handsome, and Vannis, being
Vannis - if only in part this day - wore gold. Flanking them were
the two highest-ranking Elders from the Valleur city, Pretora and
Kismet.

Torrullin
paused at the two beautiful chairs meant for his boys. Men, he
would have to think of them as men. He gestured for them to stand
to each side as per their names and made his way to the dais.

He stepped
around the long table decked in blue and gold. Ten empty chairs
faced the gathering. Torrullin set foot to the dais, and turned,
the golden seat a presence at his back. He nodded and Pretora, on
the right of Vannis, stepped forward.

Gripping a
wooden staff with a carved dragonhead, Pretora proceeded to thump
the dais three times, and hailed, “All gathered! Hear the thrice
recognition!”

The Valleur
responded in one voice. “We hear, oh Elder!”

“We are here
this day to present two young men of the ancient blood, of this
universe and of the unbroken line of the Vallas!”

A great
roar.

Taranis’ hair
rose at the sound, and Vannis smiled.

Kismet came
forward. His staff sported an intricate sun carving, and he thumped
three times. “Hear the thrice recognition of the Vallorin!”

“We hear it,
oh Elder, in our souls!”

Torrullin raised both hands for quiet. “I thank you for
coming to celebrate this special day with us. I see among you
friends from every corner of the universe and our beautiful planet
and thank you for being here. This day, however, is to celebrate
the
Valleur
!”

Pandemonium. A
roar of applause and cheering continued for many minutes, and their
Vallorin let them. It had been a long time.

When quiet
returned, he said, “Appreciation goes to my staff and all who aided
in preparing for a gathering of this nature. There are many to
thank, not least among those my loyal valet for dressing my sons
and the Elders and various teachers who took the time to prepare
them for this ceremony - I know who you are, and thank you. And, my
friends, a special word to the master carpenter who fashioned the
two beautiful chairs you see before you. Colum Megane, a father
bows to your artistry.”

A new round of
applause rippled through the throng.

“And now we
come to the serious business. I have raised the Valleur Throne and
shall not ascend it until after my sons are presented. This is
their day and the seat is incidental. I state categorically it will
not be used to distinguish between my sons.”