The Kallanon Scales (6 page)

The ocean
roiled.

From the
depths boulders and stone erupted to form a circular wall, hanging
for an instant in real-time cohesion, before splashing into the
watery world once more. They were the stones that once formed the
boundary of Vannis’ Throne-room, forever lost once the Throne left
the area.

Torrullin
commenced a variation of the chant to bring the seat from the
depths; this served as signal to the rising entity it would move.
Had he not done so, it would sink below the waves in the same
fashion as the boulders.

The ocean
heaved a pulsing wave of immense power.

Torrullin’s
fists were aloft.

Another wave
throbbed.

Torrullin
sliced down in an arc of raw power.

From the ocean
came a golden light.

“Kiliannon
Mnullik re Vallorin!” Vannis and Torrullin shouted in unison.

The twins
shivered.

The Valleur
Throne exited its watery grave and when it crested, Torrullin
pointed northeast and whispered, “Kiliannon Torrke re Vallorin,”
thereby sending the seat on its next journey.

It
vanished.

So, too, its
master.

The three
released their hold unceremoniously, and followed.

The Keep

In the magical
reality of the Throne-room, Taranis, Quilla and Phet heard a faint
hum.

Lycea pounded
down the stairs.

The servants
crowded together in the courtyard and Valleur from the city swelled
the ranks of those already in place, materialising among them in
the courtyard, in the Throne-room, on the battlements, on the
balcony, outside the Keep.

The Throne
called.

The chamber
glowed incandescent gold, and into that glare a silhouette
appeared, a high-backed chair and, as the encompassing glow
lessened, it blazed ever brighter. It floated uncertainly, until
the Vallorin appeared, walking the blue carpet. The chair
stabilised.

Vannis and the
twins arrived.

Torrullin
touched the cold metal, feeling it warm in recognition, and pushed
it gently, guiding it to the back of the chamber. It acquiesced
meekly and settled into position upon a lightless dais that
materialised as it sensed solidity of place.

“Pretor ma
shunl Torrke,” Torrullin spoke the enchantment that would cause
immobility.

The gathered
roared acclaim.

“Silence!”
Torrullin threw throw his voice. “I am not done!”

The Throne was
arisen, moved from its watery repose, and it rested in its new
home.

There was more to it. It was not a chair in a chamber. It was
not an ancient symbol. It was not the seat of sorcery. It was not
the origin of the Vallorins’ power. It was
all
that and it was a sacred site to
the Valleur of the present, past and future, and needed to be
declared thus, and empowered with the cloaking and uncloaking
rituals, now, before it could be ascended.

Or it would be
a chair in a chamber.

Tymall glanced
at his brother, and Tristamil, feeling the gaze, met it with raised
eyebrows.

Enchanter! Do it now!
Quilla’s
agitation reverberated and he took heed.

“All gathered!
With me now! Declare!”

With one
mighty voice, god-like, one heart, one mind, one soul, the Valleur
took heed also. They roared, pouring their combined sorcery along
with an ancient race’s hopes, dreams, memories, love, honour,
loyalty and reverence into a powerful chant, the words of Nemisin,
he who was first. Vannis roared with them, tears flowing over
flushed cheeks.

The Enchanter
smiled, saying the words, but rested dark eyes on his sons. The two
young men became as stone. Had they intended to usurp the Throne’s
power, despite inheritance? Would they have dared? The thought was
there.

The chant
continued unabated for many minutes, no word the same. In the
chamber, no discernible altering, yet there was a sense of
settling, as if magic grounded.

Silence fell
finally and it was absolute.

And in that silence the Vallorin’s voice roared for all to
hear, “
It is done
!”

With ecstatic
voice, the gathered exulted.

As exultation
stilled into breathless silence eyes turned to the Vallorin.

Would he
reveal them?

Would he
immediately sit upon the golden seat?

He stared at
the chair.

Would
he sit on it?

Should
he sit on it? Now?

He looked at
his sons. The world, the universe, in that moment narrowed and
compressed to encompass only them. There was a roaring in his ears
and he heard the frantic beating of their hearts. He smelled
fear.

Then they no
longer existed for him.

His face
whitened and he twitched away to hide it. A whisper ran throughout
the Keep.

A vision
assailed him as it frequently had during the time of Margus, and
infrequently over the years since, a vision of a man, dark hair,
walking away, then ambling back, a smile there, and still he could
not see that face. Yet he knew this man’s name. Elianas.

He had no
reasonable thought as to why he saw him in dreams and waking
images. Yet he knew his name.

Vannis was
there. “Torrullin, you are tired. Perhaps we should postpone the
Throne for a day?”

Torrullin
managed to focus. “Take me away, Vannis.”

Vannis knew
the signs. He also understood this vision was debilitating,
clouding judgement. He put a hand on Torrullin’s shoulder and said,
“Valleur, your Vallorin has taxed himself this day.”

Without
further explanation, he removed Torrullin from that place.

Torrullin’s
Valley

The stream was
silver in the light of the slanting sun, gurgling according to
natural rhythms.

Soothing,
healing.

Torrullin
kneeled to drink while Vannis perched on a boulder.

There was
silence between them.

Torrullin rose
to stare unseeingly over the magical enclave that was his home.

“It is the
same vision, isn’t it?”

Torrullin
nodded.

“Are you ever
going to tell me?”

“No.”

“Then I cannot
help you.”

“You helped
just now.”

“That is not
what I mean.”

“I know. Saska
once told me I dream this also, although I never remember on
waking. I shout for …” Torrullin’s lips set in a line, and he faced
Vannis. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,
Torrullin. You fear something.”

A twisted
smile. “Llettynn said it was my soul.”

Vannis stared
at him. “You told the Siric?”

“I didn’t have
to, he told me, and had the foresight to go and die. Had he not, I
would probably have cornered him long years ago. I am fine
now.”

“You cannot be
fine until you face it.”

“The time
comes for that, I suspect. A least the images spared a decision
before the Throne.”

Vannis was
thoughtful. “As if prompting a delay?”

“That would
mean …”

“The Throne is
bound to the vision.”

Torrullin ran
a hand over his face. “It would destroy every shred of peace of
mind I possess.”

Vannis
whistled soundlessly.

Torrullin
stared over the valley again. “Change lies ahead, but it is not
this current affair. Ultimate change comes later.”

“Perhaps you
have to do this to find what waits around the corner.”

“Yes, maybe.
Wish and will.”

“What did you
say?” The question exploded from Vannis.

Torrullin’s
eyes narrowed.

“Gods,
Torrullin, wish and will is of Time.”

“Explain
that.”

“I have no way
of explaining it. Wish and will comes to one with the march of
Time. Capital T Time.”

Torrullin
turned away. “’Time’s timekeeper’. Yes, this must be done first to
see what is around the corner. I am withdrawing from the fray for
the rest of the day. Will you tell our people?”

A comforting
hand settled on a shoulder. “I will keep an eye on the boys
also.”

“My
stalwart?”

“Always.”

Torrullin
smiled his appreciation and left.

Vannis
returned to the Keep.

A whisper in
the dark is as loud as a scream in daylight.

~ Father
Rees

The Keep

T
aranis balanced upon a scarlet
marble half-buried in a mound of white chips in an empty pond
forgotten in a field overgrown with bleaker bulbs, a thorned,
single-stalked ugly flower that stank.

He gazed
around in dismay, unable to move. Tiny harvestmen climbed the
stalks, long slender legs working furiously. He lifted eyes to the
heavens and swiftly averted from that view. It was a giant
star.

A bright beam
fell over him and proceeded to straighten into a blue cylinder,
lifting him. A golden hand wriggled through the circular space
holding a rolled parchment, pressing it into his hands. When he
dropped it, the golden hand extended one finger, wagging it in an
admonishing gesture before withdrawing.

Bending to
retrieve the parchment he saw there was no bottom, saw the bleaker
field streaking by ever smaller. As he grasped the parchment, he
fell into the void, and awakened sweating and gasping for
breath.

Looking to his
hand he found his fingers curled.

He subsided
back against the pillows, heart slowing.

Next he unrolled the mysterious parchment on a flat stone,
the only solid surface in a landscape of shifting dunes. The stone
was scarlet and his fingers burned where they made contact. He knew
sufficient Valleur to decipher the script. It read
Mysor Map of Lines
.

Under that, a
drawing, lines connecting named circles, intent obscure. He leaned
closer to interpret the names, and a dust storm enveloped him,
snatched the parchment. He lunged, but pervasive sand choked …

Taranis
awakened a second time gulping great breaths of clean Valaris air.
He paced the remainder of the night, turning the images over,
secretly hoping they would vanish.

Morning found
him knocking at his son’s door to pull Torrullin from restless
slumber.

Torrullin
listened, lying against the pillows, rubbing gritty eyes as his
mind grew sharper.

Taranis paced,
talking, explaining, describing. He saw nothing, not even the
continuing evidence of Saska’s life there. Seeing that single
intensity, Torrullin knew his father was not being fanciful.

It required
deciphering. Torrullin interrupted mid-flow.

Taranis ceased
pacing. “You don’t believe me!”

“On the
contrary. And we need clarity.” Torrullin rose to dress - the black
as ever, as Quilla would snort. He muttered as his hair caught in
the studs of his sword belt, causing Taranis to grin.

Torrullin
vanished into the bathroom. When he emerged, his frown had
deepened.

“What now?”
Taranis asked. In the interim, he glanced about the bedchamber to
see Saska everywhere and Torrullin sensed his overriding need to
escape.

“It is time to
cut my hair.”

“Now? For
pity’s sake, tie it back.”

Torrullin
raised a finger. “The Valleur always shave it off before
battle.”

“You aim to take it
all
off?”

Amusement
came. “I would not go that far, but it is vanity at present, and
irritates me.”

“You seem to
lose your good humour when you lose your hair.”

“Not true. I
lose my hair when I lose my good humour.”

“The choice is
yours, but it can wait …” Taranis paused when Torrullin lifted a
scissor from a drawer. “Not like that! Give it to me, I will do
it!”

“That was my
intention.” He handed the instrument over.

“Hell of a
time, son, when my mind is in turmoil,” Taranis muttered, and made
Torrullin sit on a chair before warily circling the mass. He puffed
his cheeks, unwilling to take a blade to it.

Torrullin
gazed on Taranis in the mirror. “One way or another I will go after
her. This prophecy has shifted the blinkers and no matter how tough
it gets, I will have the clarity to find her and restore what we
had. I love her and that isn’t going to change.” His gaze lowered
to Saska’s possessions before him - perfume, brush, a tray of
silver bangles - and added, “She is all around. I take that as a
sign. She will come back.”

Taranis stared
at the scissor in his hands.

“Now take my
hair off. I need the freedom, for this day, for all tomorrows, for
Saska. Many steps were taken in two days and this is the next.”

Taranis
nodded, hearing the unsaid things.

“Get to it.
And tell me what you were thinking as you went to sleep last
night.”

They were back
on the subject of the dreams. As Taranis cut in around centre back,
he said, “I wondered about you actually.”

“Shorter. What
were you wondering?”

Taranis did as
asked, cutting the fair length to below the shoulders. “You
vanished unexpectedly yesterday. I wondered why.” He snipped.

“I could not
face that seat.”

Taranis eyes
flicked up to the mirror. “Is that the truth?”

“Part,
yes.”

Taranis
returned his attention to his handiwork. He combed Torrullin’s hair
with sure fingers, and trimmed it decently. At his feet lay a pile
of fair glory. “Done.”

Torrullin
stood. “Well, that rids me of vanity.” He waved the hair away,
replaced the scissor and tied his hair back. “Much better, thank
you.” It was for more than a service rendered, it was for a father
being there for a son.