The Kallanon Scales (14 page)

Perhaps she
was right, he needed this, to reaffirm the life that spat and raced
through his veins every moment of every day.

She was
desirable now. He brought his hands up, one to encircle her wrist,
feeling her pulse under his fingertips, finding that erotic. The
other lifted to cup her head.

When her
fingers twisted in the fabric of his tunic, he lowered his mouth to
hers. He found he could not stop and she did not want him to.

He lifted and
carried her to the great bed. He could not see her and it was
right; they were on equal footing, and touch and sense was what
counted in the dark.

Undressing her
slowly, he was no longer thinking, not about his boys or Skye, or
yesterday’s horror, immersing himself in sensation, his mouth
following the slow trail of exposure.

When she was
unclothed, she divested him of his, her mouth touching and tasting.
The driving heat surfaced when their bodies lay skin to skin, and
she groaned when his fingers became urgent, dragging him
closer.

Neither wanted
it to end quickly and drew apart, teasing each other in silence,
prolonging the moment, building it until it became a living
force.

They latched
to each other, mouths joined, her legs wrapped around him, and they
slowed again, prolonging it once more, slow movements, stop, start,
their bodies bathed in sweat. When the climax came, it caught them
by surprise, unexpected intensity, ferocious heat, causing bruising
fingers to sink into tender flesh and nails to rake a back.

He clasped her
to him and rolled onto his back taking her with him.

“Stay with
me,” he murmured, and she slid off to curl up next to him.

He dragged a
cover over them; noise and all, they slept.

Beware the honeyed tongue of rulers too long in power. Listen
to the words behind words and choose then your own path. Beware,
however, of sedition, hold
your
tongue.

~ Book of
Sages

The Keep

T
he small hours brought the storm
and dispersed the revellers.

By daybreak
wind and rain was a destructive force.

Morning
brought retainers out to wearisome clean-up detail, most
bleary-eyed and hung-over, but it was quickly done. By the time
Vannis came down in search of sustenance, the courtyard was clear,
if wet and windy.

He paused
before the Throne on the way to the dining room and stepped up to
touch it. It warmed to him. There was no regret, for he did not
desire the responsibility. There were inescapable memories, some
good, some not so. The worst memories, however, were as nothing
compared to the loss of Raken.

He sank to his
knees as grief overwhelmed him, leaning his forehead against the
Throne.

Bartholamu
entered. It was immediately clear to him Vannis could go over the
edge, and he quickly exited. Behind him, a wail rent the air,
putting flight to his wings. He flew up onto the balcony to pound
upon Torrullin’s door.

The door
pulled inward moments later. One look. “Someone is dead?”

“No, it’s
Vannis …”

“Where?”

“At the Throne
…” and Bartholamu spoke to thin air. He descended the stairs,
aiming to help if needed.

Behind him,
Caballa slipped out unnoticed.

Vannis turned
wild eyes on his grandson. “Swear to me, I will administer the
killing stroke to whoever is responsible for Raken’s death!”

Torrullin
knelt, running a hand through his unbound hair. “How can I do that?
I have no idea what we are up against.”

Vannis grabbed
him by the shoulders. Blue fire erupted where his fingers dug into
Torrullin’s naked shoulders. Kinfire showed when kin were agitated,
furious or grieving.

“It doesn’t
matter! I don’t care how powerful the murderer is, I don’t give a
crap if there is more than one! I don’t want to live without her
and the only thing keeping me here is the chance to get to her
killer face-to-face! If I die then, so be it! Swear to me or I will
go mad!”

Torrullin
flinched as Vannis tightened his grip. “You forget he murdered
three others, including Lycea. I want revenge, too.”

“I know, but
it wasn’t Saska! Had it been her lying there you would be off
finding the murderer, seeking to kill with your bare hands.” Vannis
eyes were black, but even in his rage his grief was supreme, for
tears silently coursed over taut cheeks.

Torrullin
stared into that despair and could not refuse. Vannis would give
the task to him had it been, dear gods, Saska. “I shall swear on
one condition. We find the culprits together, we fight it together,
and when we are done, you may exact your revenge for both of us.
Agreed?”

Vannis
loosened his death grip. He smoothed his hands over those shoulders
by way of apology and balled his fists into his lap. “Agreed. I
promise. Now swear.”

“I swear.”

Vannis groaned
again, rage leaving him. He rocked back. “What am I going to do
without her? Why her, Torrullin? She was so good, so fair …”

Torrullin had
no answer.

He sat beside
the grieving Vannis for a long time in silent support, creating a
veil of privacy around them until Vannis could regain
composure.

Vannis was calm
by the time the fourteen Elders arrived.

Taranis,
Quilla and Phet made their appearance soon after and Krikian,
Bartholamu, Gren and Shep attended.

Torrullin came
in, herding the red-eyed twins before him. He managed to wake them
from drunken sleep with dire threats to their manhood. He refused
to heal their hangovers, telling them the result of a night’s
bingeing was an adult’s choice.

The table was
gone; they sat in the foremost benches. Caballa entered with Skye
behind her.

“What I have
to say is dangerous to you, Caballa, and more so to Skye.”
Torrullin frowned. He forgot to send Skye away, but the storm
foiled him anyway.

Caballa
approached. “We know, my Lord, but we have to be here. I have seen
it.”

“I had a dream
last night, and in that dream my father said that you would need my
strength as you once needed his,” Skye said.

Torrullin’s
eyes closed briefly. “Yes, once Lanto’s strength was the only
factor that saved us. But, Skye …”

“I am not
afraid.”

“You should
be. However, I learned twenty-six years ago that nothing would stop
someone who feels a calling, even when it is the unknown. Stay,
both of you, but if you want out at the end of this meeting, you
may do so without shame.” If they did, he would have to arrange
guards.

Torrullin
waved all exits sealed and rose.

“First matter;
Raken, Lycea, Kisha and Kylan were murdered the day before
yesterday. Please, no sympathy. We have buried our dead and will
have proper memorial services later, now isn’t the time to cling to
grief. Suffice to say, they were murdered over knowledge hidden for
millennia, and that is why we are here now.”

Quilla stood.
He and Torrullin arranged he would relate the facts, for his
logical approach in sensitive issues allayed fears. He began
swiftly, for he understood the Vallas wanted to keep their grief
private and unspoken. They listened in silence, with Skye revealing
nervousness in twisting hands. Caballa nodded as the tale
unfolded.

Torrullin
noticed and understood it was fitting she be included. He studied
her a moment longer, feeling no regret over the night passed. He
needed the touch of another, and she did not intend to form a
hold.

His gaze
shifted to Skye. Was she as incapable as her shyness suggested, or
was she like to Lanto? He caught movement from Tristamil and saw
him turn sideways in his seat to send Skye an encouraging smile.
Tristamil’s gaze remained on her even when she did not react, and
Torrullin sighed. A speculative look, that.

Skye was
pretty in a pixie-like way. Light blue eyes framed by
extraordinarily long dark lashes, nut-brown hair with a single
streak of grey, tall as Lanto was, inheriting also his freckles.
They suited her.

He looked away
before the twins noticed his scrutiny.

Quilla wound
down. “The only concrete object produced is the map. Understand it
could be guesswork.”

“Is that what
you think?” Pretora asked. It amazed Torrullin how easily Valleur
absorbed bad news, for Pretora appeared unruffled.

“I believe we
are accurate.”

“May we see
it?” Kismet asked.

Torrullin
said, “Only those who will be directly involved will see it. What
you know could get you killed.”

“Let them
try,” Kismet muttered.

Torrullin
managed a smile. “I am aware the Elders can defend themselves,
which is why I revealed the situation to this point, yet I prefer
to keep the rest close.”

Kismet
inclined his head.

“What is it
you want from us, my Lord?” Darian asked.

“There is a
chance some of us may be offworld shortly and I therefore need put
in place a system of governance for my absence.”

“You are
not
thinking of entering the Forbidden Zone,” Pretora
said.

“It may not
come to that.”

“But
you
,
my Lord?”

“If it has to
be done, I will be there to do it.”

“You are
Vallorin. Your place is here.”

Torrullin’s
eyes narrowed. “I have two heirs, Elder. If I die the bloodline is
secure.”

“Your sons are
to remain here?” Darian asked.

“We are not!”
Tymall burst out. “Tris will back me up!”

Tris did not
need to, his expression spoke volumes.

“Enough! It
has not yet come to pass!” Torrullin said.

“It will,”
Caballa said, and there was silence. Love her or hate her, she had
not yet been wrong.

“Gren is here
upon my request.” Torrullin changed the subject. “As Immortal
Sagorin they travelled the universe. Gren, give us your
thoughts.”

Gren rose, a
giant of a man with pale green skin, his hair grey and long. He
wore a full robe loosely over his huge frame, of dark green, and
was otherwise unadorned. “Torrullin, I don’t know that I can help.
The Siric are perhaps a better choice.”

“The Siric
were long involved in their civil strife. The Sagorin researched
the road back to mortality; you know more than you think.”

“You are
talking events a long time ago.”

“We believe
so.”

“Something did
strike me earlier when Quilla spoke, something to do with the
taliesman. I’m almost certain I have seen a dragon pendant.”

Torrullin
leaned forward. “Do you recall when and where?”

“Give me a
minute.” Gren walked muttering down the aisle. He halted, raising a
finger. “Yes,” he breathed and the finger stilled. “A long time
ago, before the Sagorin were officially Guardians.” His hand
dropped. “There was a man, I forget his name and, blast, I forget
where, but he wore a pendant on a gold chain hidden under a
clerical robe. It was a ring, and in the centre a dancing dragon.
It wasn’t big, a piece of jewellery. I remember seeing it when he
undid his robe and asked about it, dragons being myth and all. He
said it was the symbol of their order and clammed up. I never saw
him again.”

“A dragon
taliesman worn by the priestly sect of the Ancient Valleur,” Vannis
murmured.

“Did he carry
a sword?” Tristamil asked.

Gren frowned.
“Not on him, but there was something wrapped under his saddlebags -
maybe a sword, yes.”

Tristamil, the
warrior-priest, grew thoughtful and Caballa turned in his
direction.

“Saddlebags?
Not a technologically advanced world?” Darian asked.

“A long time
ago, Elder, not much of that then.”

“Was he
Valleur?” Taranis spoke for the first time.

“He was fair,
but memory is hazy.”

Torrullin
said, “What do you know of the Zone? Answer only if you are
prepared to accept the dangers.”

The Sagorin
gave a rolling shrug and accompanied it with a smile, and was
serious. “We are in the midst of a storm, no one can hear us, and
if someone lurks about, he or it will assume the worst anyway.”

“True,” Quilla
murmured with a sigh.

Torrullin
stared at the Sagorin, and shifted his gaze to Pretora. “Pretora,
as senior Elder, I address myself to you. I shall tell you no more
at this time and perhaps, being Valleur, you may escape the wrath
of the murderer. I need you to present me a contingency leadership
plan if anything happens before I am able to pass the Dragon. I
need it tonight.”

“Yes, Lord
Vallorin.”

“Camot, as war-leader on Ardosia, you understand the
principles. I need you to put together an elite troop of a hundred
men.
Men,
Camot,
no matter what the women say. I want them ready as soon as possible
and I need a plan to that effect, tonight. Whatever you do, do it
in secret.”

“It will be
done.” Camot’s yellow eyes shone. He missed the training
ground.

“Darian,
Maseé, Noshe, you three put together a team of fourteen, one for
each sacred site, to be ready to cloak in the event - well, let us
not chase the spooks out too early.”

The three
Elders looked at each other. The Vallorin prepared for war. This
last instruction was defence, a last stand.

“Thank you.
The fourteen of you may go. Remain close until I give you leave to
return to the city.”

The Elders
rose, bowed to their Vallorin, and made their way down the aisle
carpet.

“Rillinon,”
Torrullin called. “I need a word in private. See me in my study
this evening. Gren, tell us of the Forbidden Zone.”