The Kallanon Scales (5 page)

“Yes, father,”
they chorused.

“Promise me you will
never
harm your mother in
any
form.”

They looked at
each other as if for guidance.

“
Now
!”

“You have my
word,” Tristamil said.

“Tell your
mother.”

Tristamil rose
and approached Lycea. “Mother, I promise to never harm you.” He
held his hand out to her and she took it.

Torrullin not
only saved her life, he saved her from herself. He gave her time to
rebuild bridges without having to wonder what lay in wait around
corners. She did not find herself in the same untouchable position,
and now he engineered it for her, using that strength.

“Tymall?”
Torrullin prompted. “Do I have your word?”

Tymall sighed.
“Yes, I promise, mother, I will not harm you in any way.”

Torrullin
nodded his appreciation, while Lycea said, “I thank you, Tris, Ty.”
She glanced at Torrullin, eyes saying what her voice dared not.

“I prepare to
receive my Throne in the chamber downstairs tomorrow. It has
nothing to do with your Coming-of-Age,” Torrullin said, ignoring
their white faces. “It does, however, concern the two of you.
Listen now, no more interruptions. Kylan - yes, the Herbmaster -
uncovered a telling. It is recognisable from what I saw over your
scrying bowls at your naming. Origin is obscure, but it is Valleur,
and my instinct has leapt into overdrive.”

Torrullin
leaned back and related the tale, studying their faces as he did
so. He noted Lycea watch them, and this sign of renewed courage
pleased him.

“The poem is obscure, but the twenty-fifth anniversary is
pertinent, dragon is a
Valla
symbol, and there is mention of a dragon
taliesman in the Oracles, fashioned by a priestly sect of the
Ancient Valleur.”

Tymall
muttered, “What if we ignore it?”

“It will not
ignore us. It has begun to unravel. I prefer action.”

“Therefore,
Throne,” Tymall said.

“I desire my
power at my fingertips, as soon as possible. We shall prepare as
best we can for the future.”

There are Dragons in my future,
he
once hurled at Quilla.

In twenty-five
years of peace he forgot that statement, and now it came back to
haunt him.

To unmask a
friend is hard, but to strip pretence from a close relative
hurts.

~ Truth

The Keep

T
orrullin stood in the chamber
leading off the courtyard, cleared of furniture and
accessories.

When he gave
that particular command, word filtered into the Valleur city of
Menllik. The Vallorin required space for something, and there could
only be one object he required it for. When Elders asked outright,
Torrullin confirmed his intentions.

Eyes bulged
and the widest grins split faces; Torrullin grimaced and walked
away.

Valleur began
arriving at the Keep to bear witness.

The chamber’s
walls were unadorned, the floor polished cedar. Doors recessed to
reveal the full chamber to the courtyard, summer heat already
warming it. In the far wall rose-tinted windows gave view onto the
spectacular Arrows. An ageing stand of oaks in the foreground
softened the angular planes of the mountains.

The space
could accommodate a hundred standing. This chamber, in the building
of the Keep, was a compromise, a place to greet visitors and guests
and entertain lavishly, and large enough to accept the Throne in an
emergency.

He never
intended to bring the seat here. In his mind the Keep was home, the
Throne was business. In recent years he mused on Menllik as a
likely location, the building of a royal palace.

He sensed
Vannis join him. “It’s small and plain.”

Vannis
grinned. Every Vallorin preferred to inspire.

“It need not
be, Enchanter.” Quilla entered from the dining room, holding a
sweet roll. “Think of the Lifesource. It is larger than it presents
to the eye.”

“And how do I
create the same here?” The Lifesource was city-sized in span, but
within one could wander for eternity. “Won’t that kind of
manipulation warp the Keep?”

“It does not
harm the aesthetics of the Lifesource, does it? It is a thing of
the mind. You carry part of the Q’lin’la inside you. You can create
a doorway here in the fabric of this space without unduly taxing
yourself.”

“And the
words, Quilla?”

Tristamil and
Tymall approached from the courtyard, intrigued.

The Throne’s
renewal was a great feat, particularly submerged as it was, but it
was a tradition they knew of, magic intrinsic. The words were
inviolate. Would their father do something great here before he
approached the Throne?

Quilla
laughed. “That would make this my space. If you desire greatness
here, you will know what to do.”

“If I knew the words,” Tymall said, “could
I
do it?”

Quilla turned.
“You suggest it requires little to achieve distortion of
space.”

Tymall glanced
at his father. “I am asking if the power lies in words.”

“Indeed it
does. Q’lin’la sorcery is unwritten. If your father wants to do
this, he will find the words never having heard them before. And
remember, your father cannot get his tongue around the mysteries of
the Q’lin’la language. Even if he could, and spoke them, not one of
us here would hear him.”

“The magic is
personal, within,” Tristamil said, thumping his chest.

Quilla nodded,
pleased.

“Then how can
he know?” Tymall asked.

“Your father
is the One.”

“Quilla, you
are placing me on a pedestal before my sons, and you place added
pressure on me in doing so.”

“I am not!”
Quilla exclaimed, aghast at such a thought.

Torrullin
laughed, winking at Tymall, who grinned back.

There was a
commotion at the Dragon doors and Torrullin stepped into the bright
sunlight to investigate. True to prediction the storm passed in the
early hours and the world was one of glittering jewels.

“Torrullin!” A
shout from the doors, and a dark-haired man strode nearer, skirting
the mosaic pool.

“Taranis! I
didn’t sense your transport.”

“Horseback.
What kind of surprise am I if you know I am on my way before I even
think it?” The two men met in the courtyard in an embrace, with
backslapping and grinning. “You didn’t think I would miss the
Throne rising, now did you?”

“How could you
possibly know?”

“A little
birdie told me!” Taranis burst into uproarious laughter, gesturing
at his companion entering sedately through the double doors.

“Phet!”
Torrullin laughed when the diminutive Q’lin’la jumped haphazardly
into his arms.

“Good to see
you, Enchanter!” Phet clambered unselfconsciously down.

Taranis
grabbed both his grandsons in a shared hug, which they returned
without the same warmth, but when Phet came to pump hands, both
laughed. Phet was definitely an all-round favourite.

Taranis and
Vannis greeted each other, both smiling, and Taranis asked, “So,
son, what is this about a prophecy?”

Torrullin
grinned. Taranis had a way of placing matters into perspective.
“You know how it goes.”

“My son and
prophecy, hand-in-glove,” and Taranis chuckled, squeezing
Torrullin’s shoulder. He refrained from mentioning Saska. “Is this
where you intend stationing that golden monstrosity?”

“Yes, but
first a little magic.”

Taranis was
confused, yet could see expectation in his grandsons. Something big
and the boys loved it.

Quilla?

Do not try,
Enchanter. Know.

Years ago
Torrullin entered the homeworld of the Q’lin’la, a world magically
alive in the parallels of their sorcery. It was a realm of
moonlight and silver shadows, and it was song. Q’lin’la magic was
Song.

He stood now,
having found the magic tangible in imagination. Song. Music.
Melody. He paced into the centre, looking on the bare reality, and
imposed his envisioning. He pushed the three walls outward, wider,
longer, until he found the space pleasing, and widened the centre
in angulated degrees until he had an octagonal chamber to gather
within a thousand.

Tristamil
whistled and Tymall fidgeted.

He lifted the
ceiling, an octagonal slanting with a host of silvery spotlights
like to stars. Surreal light danced into the chamber. He adorned
the walls with hangings of pale silk, depicting scenes of the past
in shimmering embroidery.

On the far
wall a blue Dragon materialised on a pale gold background, a
backdrop for the Throne. The wooden floors showed intricate
carving, and on closer inspection revealed signs and symbols of
lost Valleur worlds.

Along the
walls he placed recessed golden orbs. Gold and silver, starlight
and sunlight, creating a fused and timeless atmosphere. A blue
carpet materialised to form a central aisle from the courtyard.

Torrullin
added simple oak benches to follow the octagonal design, leaving
the centre uncluttered. Blue plush seats. He came to rest and
nodded. Yes, simple, pleasing.

He reached for
the song and it came. He did not say the words, if there were
words, did not utter a note, and walked the blue aisle, the reality
unassailable under his boots.

“Is it real?”
Tymall, awed.

“It is,”
Torrullin replied without looking around, staring at the blue
Dragon.

“Can it
vanish?”

“Only upon my
word.”

Well done,
Enchanter. It suits you.

Torrullin
swung in an arc, arms wide. “Well?”

“Excellent,
Enchanter,” Phet said. He pointed to the carpet. “I especially love
your choice of colour.” The birdman was blue-feathered.

“Awesome,”
Tymall breathed, and Taranis seconded that with hearty
clapping.

Vannis paced
the carpet, gaze tinged with blue, but when he reached Torrullin,
he smiled. “It has been awhile since the Valleur had a Throne-room.
I admit I sometimes miss the old ways.”

“Not all has
changed, Vannis.”

“Most, my boy,
most.”

“The important
things go on.”

“And my father
has incorporated the old into the new, grandfather,” Tristamil said
behind Vannis. “He seeks to remember the old ways.”

“How right you
are, Tris. Your father is more Valleur today than I am.”

Torrullin’s
focus flicked to his boys and markedly stayed there.

“What is going
on?” Tymall whispered at Tristamil, as the silence seemed to
distort.

“Our father
debates whether to speak now, or after the seat has come. We gave
ourselves away last night, Ty.”

“We did
not.”

Tristamil
shrugged. “You are looking at it from your perspective.”

“Maybe, but I
don’t see it.”

“I don’t
either,” Tristamil muttered, “but I know he didn’t sleep last
night. I think he examined every word, our actions and responses,
and somehow he stumbled into the truth.”

Tymall twisted
to block his twin from the others. “You are too clever this
morning.”

“You see in, I
see out, and have we not used that before? Why are you suspicious?
I’m telling you, aren’t I?”

Torrullin
said, “The place is prepared. It is time to renew the Throne.”

It garnered
their undivided attention.

“You need to
be on top of it,” Vannis reminded.

“I have not
forgotten.” Torrullin gazed at his sons. “You have to be
there.”

Tymall looked
away and Tristamil straightened his shoulders.

Torrullin
shifted to Vannis. “I assume you are coming.”

Vannis spread
his hands.

“Taranis?”

“It is proper
that the Vallas retrieve it, son. We shall wait here.”

Emerald
Sound

The four men of
the House of Valla arrived on the black glassy surface of new land
formed by the Gosa Volcano; it stretched a distance into Emerald
Sound. Beyond, all was water.

Torrullin mused, “Challenging, this. I cannot hold
position
and
uncloak simultaneously.”

Vannis said,
“Boys, clear your minds and join arms. Let trebac be the bond to
hold your father in position.”

Torrullin
inclined his head. Genius. The bond of blood. Not only would it
work, but also neither young man was able to sunder it if inclined
to prevent the Throne’s rising.

While Vannis
and the twins clasped forearm to forearm, Torrullin floated out
across the water, setting his senses to the exact location. The
ocean was a distracting glare, but calm.

How all had
changed. Solid earth returned to the embrace of the seas. Hanging
there, he remembered Saska kissing him, Taranis seeking to waylay
him, Vannis letting him go, Margus in anger, in agony, in
conversation, in truce and, gods, in sympathy. He recalled his own
pain, physical, later emotional. Margus had such blue eyes, was
glorious in his beauty, and so evil.

Clear your mind
.

A moment
later, he sent the signal to Vannis.

Trebac held
him, the blue fire of Valla kin sparking bright, visible across the
water. He commenced the ritual, setting aside comparison. He put
away the past for the future, and muttered, slowly raising hands
above his head, fingers splayed.

He was
motionless otherwise, floating on a cushion of air, skimming the
water, legs crossed in a seated pose. Gradually he knitted fingers
together, hands woven high. He began to chant, softly at first,
then with growing strength and cadence. On land, they could hear
him, and it sent shivers down three spines for three different
reasons. The Enchanter Vallorin clenched his hands into fists in a
final garnering of power and the Ancient Tongue reached
crescendo.