The Nemesis Blade (21 page)

“And you
partake,” Vanar pointed out. “Or are you above it?”

“I am as
guilty as my cousins, but in the last few days I have realised the
Valleur as a nation will not falter if I bow out.”

“Do you not
want to rule, Tristan?” Rissoni questioned.

A rueful
shrug. “I don’t know how I feel, and that’s the truth.”

Caballa faced
the Elders.

“Leave him. A
promise is made and that is good enough. Now, as to reinstating me
as Elder …” She shook her head. “I thank you for the honour, yet
feel I am needed elsewhere and for something different. Besides,
since Kismet passed on …” She swallowed and then added in a
whisper, “He was a dear friend and we worked as a team. Without him
I would not function well as Elder.” Gracefully she bowed before
Vanar and Yiddin. “I hope you may forgive my reluctance.”

Vanar smiled.
“Of course.”

Yiddin sighed.
“Pity, but we won’t force you.”

“Thank
you.”

Vanar gave a
laugh. “As Conclaves go, this one had no teeth. Sirlasin, wake your
charge and get him back to work. Caballa, would you accompany me to
Rose before you go to Lord Torrullin?”

Caballa
nodded.

“Tristan, I
think you should see your father,” Vanar suggested. “For both your
sakes.”

Tristan rubbed
at his face. “Perhaps you are right.” He sent Caballa a look that
said
do not leave before we have again spoken
and left the
chamber without saying more.

Vanar was
worried. “I fear for him. He has been patient until now and when
Curin was alive the waiting was easier on him, but now the strain
begins to tell.”

Caballa
murmured, “Who of the three, Vanar?”

“As Vallorin?
Each has strengths and weaknesses.”

“Sidestepping?” Caballa teased.

Yiddin leaned
in. “I would choose Teroux.”

Vanar frowned
at him. “Definitely Tristan.”

Kippora,
recently elevated to Elder, said, “I think Tianoman. Full of
vision, that one.”

Caballa raised
a hand. “Enough. If you lot are divided, the choice can only come
from one source.”

Selenten said,
“Gods, I hope the choosing is smooth.” He bowed his head and
offered up a prayer to the Goddess.

Now there is
nothing left.

~ Arc, poet

Valaris

T
he Skyler farm was generations in the making, passed
from son to son since the time of the first Tristan, Tristamil and
Skye’s son.

Over the years
the farm knew drought and flood, good yield, not so good, often on
the brink of bankruptcy and had at other times given back great
wealth. Twice it was sold, twice auctioned off, and every time the
next Skyler bought it back. The farm had raised cattle and sheep
and branched once into poultry. It grew table grapes and later
vines for the bottle, the latter unsuccessfully. It saw maize,
sorghum, apples, and pecans, even avocado.

During
Samuel’s early years the Skylers raised horses and grew vegetables.
During Tristan’s early years the horses were family owned, but the
vegetables had grown in yield and demand.

Today it was
paddocks and meadows, no longer a working concern, rather a
residence for the idle rich, at least that was what Teroux
laughingly called it, to be cuffed by a furious Samuel.

Living in
Menllik meant Samuel had little time to farm and, truth be told,
Curin was the farmer; Samuel was a jeweller by trade.

They held onto
the family land after the Valla connection was known, and today it
was a place to find privacy, peace and relaxation. When the heirs
were younger it was a place to spend holidays, a place for boys to
ride freely and to get dirty.

Tristan stood
in a thoughtful pose before the Skyler home. The house, too, had
known changes; in fact, different homes stood on this site in two
thousand years. Samuel helped his father build the present one and
Tristan was born in it twenty-five years later.

The house was
nothing special, ordinary really, but also pretty. Stone and thatch
- thatch that needed replacing, Tristan realised - creepers and
gigantic trees, that was the house, and in summer a riot of colour,
flowers lovingly planted by Curin.

He swallowed.
Curin adored it. His mother and father regularly slipped away from
Menllik to come here. His mother and father loved each other and he
basked in their togetherness, as Teroux and Tianoman had their
stability in it.

Tristan drew
breath and stepped onto the porch. The front door was open and cold
air swirled about the house. Where was his father and how could he
be this absentminded? His father would catch a cold in this
weather.

“Father?” he
called out. His voice came back hollow, unanswered. He hastened
through the house. All the windows were open; it was icy. No fires
were lit in any of the rooms. “Father!”

He found
Samuel in the kitchen.

His father was
slumped over the table, fingers curled around a mug, head resting
on a newspaper. The outer door was open and there was no fire in
the hearth, no warmth.

Tristan halted
in the inner door.

Blue fingers.
Stiffened fingers.

No.

His father had
merely fallen asleep, that was it, and the cold set in. He would
need serious warming … brandy, fire, a hot bath, nourishing broth,
words of comfort from his son.

Tristan
stepped forward and laid a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Dad?
Come on, wake up …”

He shook hard,
getting no response, and then Samuel moved, but he moved strangely,
as a statue, all of a piece.

No. Just
asleep.

“Father!”
Tristan shouted, shaking hard.

Dead silence.
Dead. Silence.

Not this, not
this.

“No!” he
screamed out, flailing away.

Tianoman lifted
his head from a blocked latrine trench.

Tristan?

He threw the
spade aside and bounded out. He was dirty and exhausted and not
meant to leave. Tianoman cared for none of it and transported out
to his wailing cousin.

Teroux had
given up listening to the ambassador from Beacon, and ran musical
ditties through his mind to pass the time.

He heard the
scream of grief.

Tris?

He rose from
the couch and without apology left the Beaconite staring after him
open-mouthed.

Hearing Tristan
scream, Caballa shivered and gazed down at Rose as she
stiffened.

“Something
happened to Tristan,” Rose whispered.

Caballa
glanced at Vanar and stood up. “Stay here; I will go to him.”

Grinwallin

Torrullin
knocked his head against the tunnel ceiling as he straightened in
alarm.

“Torrullin?”
Teighlar questioned.

A listening
silence and then, “I must go to Valaris right away. Am I able to
transport from here?”

“What is
wrong?”

“Tristan.
Transport?”

The Senlu
Emperor nodded and then was alone in the tunnel.

Valaris

Teroux was
first and found Tristan shaking Samuel, saying “no, no, no.”

His cousin’s
face was so colourless it was as if he were disappearing.

He took one
look, realised the situation, and was himself punched in the
gut.

“Gods, not
Samuel!” he wailed, stumbling closer.

Tristan
jerked, and then Tianoman was there.

Time stood
still as the three cousins stared at each other.

Samuel was
Tristan’s father by blood, but he raised Teroux since he was four
and Tianoman since birth. Samuel was their father also and his
death was felt equally by all three.

Caballa
entered, took it in, and strode over to Tristan and Samuel. Gently,
yet firmly, she removed Tristan’s clawed hands from his father’s
cold, stiff shoulders, and pulled him away.

“He’s
sleeping, Caballa, and cold … we must make a fire …”

Tianoman
groaned and sank sobbing to the icy floor.

“Samuel is
dead, Tristan,” Caballa said. “Come away.”

He jerked from
her. “You lie!”

Teroux stepped
forward, his face ravaged. “Tris, come. Our father has gone. Come …
please come …” Then he was crying in huge gusts of grief, doubling
over, clutching at his stomach.

Caballa knew
she had to get the living men out of the kitchen, away from death.
The how and why would come later; the living had priority.

She lifted a
hand to Tristan, who snarled, “Leave me! He’s sleeping!”

Then Torrullin
was there and her heart ceased beating, her world flipped inside
and out.

Torrullin saw
Tristan first.

Pain. Denial.
He sought and noted the reason, and went cold. Dear god, not
Samuel. Not Samuel.

Tianoman’s
sobs drew his attention downward and he noticed Teroux doubled over
in grief.

Last of all
was Caballa, and her presence reeled everything inside him.

Again time
stood still.

Torrullin
breathed.

“Torrullin,
tell her … he’s sleeping!” Tristan shouted.

Torrullin.
He calls me by my name and thus frees me to be myself in his
presence.

“Tris, Samuel
is dead.” He stepped forward and took Tristan’s hand, laying it
forcibly against Samuel’s almost frozen neck and holding his own
hand over that hand. “Feel, son. Cold below, warmth above, and no
pulse but the tremble of mine and yours.”

Tristan’s face
crumbled. “It cannot be.”

“Yet it is.
This son of my son has passed on.” Torrullin lifted his hand from
Tristan’s and raised it stroke Samuel’s cold cheek. “So like
Tristamil, and so loved. He will be missed. Dear god, he will be
missed.”

He swung away,
went through the open back door to stand drawing deep breaths of
the frigid air.

A beat, two,
three, and then Tristan stumbled out also, heaving onto the
stones.

Caballa took a
shaky breath, swallowed, and then firmly lifted Tianoman from the
floor. Teroux walked stiffly past Samuel, averting his eyes. As she
came out with Tianoman she found Teroux seated on a nearby bench
and took Tianoman - limp and heavy - over to him, sat him down.

When she
looked up Torrullin was looking at her.

In those
frozen moments all three Vallas were drawn to Torrullin and
Caballa. A diversion? Maybe, but the naked emotion in both was too
stark to ignore.

“Caballa, you
are ever in my heart,” Torrullin said and his voice was like
glass.

She cried out,
“As you are in mine, my Lord!”

Caballa moved
across the small space and into his arms and they enfolded her,
without burden, without judgement, freely - the unconditional
welcome of a dear friend. She felt him begin to shake and knew his
grief for Samuel overtook him, and then Tristan was there and one
of the arms around her lifted to grip his grandson to him, Tristan
was against her back, his presence solid, and then Teroux was
beside him, Tianoman also, and she stood in the centre of a Valla
storm of grief.

Never had she
felt so accepted and so much part of a family.

Many minutes
passed, and she cried with them … and would remember the bond of
that day into eternity.

The ghosts of
guilt need excising.

~ Unknown

Valaris

T
orrullin sat with head hanging in one of the private
family rooms on the ground floor of the manor, blind to the simple
comfort.

Samuel was
taken care of, his mortal remains in the mortuary elsewhere in the
city, the vigil already in place; the ceremony would be held two
days hence and people poured into the city to attend.

Tianoman was
released from judgement and slept under sedation in an upstairs
bedroom, and Teroux wandered the empty ballroom above like a ghost;
Torrullin eventually left him to it, knowing grief manifested in
different ways.

Tristan was
with Caballa; she had forced him out, hoping a walk would aid his
frantic state of mind.

Samuel. The
genetic equal of Tristamil, the essence of a most beloved son.
Torrullin loved Tristamil above all others and suffered when his
son died, and when Samuel came to him he thought to find release
from that and did. Samuel returned to him something missing, but he
loved Samuel for himself also, for the man was a wise, gentle soul
with strength in his veins.

A Valla truly
worthy. A man, a friend, a son loved.

And now
gone.

Torrullin
pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back in the armchair.

He succumbed
to exposure. Why? The answer lay in a heart unable to function
without its one true love, its real and overriding reason for
living - Curin. Without Curin Samuel no longer felt whole, and not
even his sons - of blood and adoption - could fill that void.
Samuel simply surrendered, sitting at the table until life fled. It
was not suicide, for it was an unconscious act, a ceasing of
reason, forgetfulness that overlooked sustenance, open doors and
icy winter.

Torrullin
closed his eyes, releasing a slow breath.

It hurt, but
he was also envious of Samuel’s new freedom, as he wished he could
love someone so completely that life and reason began and ended
with that person. Samuel had rejoined the love of his life; he was
at Curin’s side, walking hand-in-hand along the paths of Aaru, and
the troubles of reality had faded. He would meet Tristamil there,
as he would again find his own father; he would find Taranis,
Millanu and others important to the Vallas, and they would laugh
together, never comprehending the pain the living continued with.
He was free, and it was a gift; only the living grieved in
death.