The Nemisin Star (12 page)

“What are you
saying?”

“Dinor. He
will bring those wild ones to the fray and while Torrullin is
engaged in war, Tymall will go after Saska.”

Caltian was
astonished. “How do you get all that from …?” He spoke to empty
space. Vannis had vanished. “Gods!”

Now he would
have to figure out how to cloak this site, while his mind was all
over the place.

While Vannis
got to fight.

Never can
another truly know your soul. You could name this as a defence
against the unscrupulous, but the real truth is this, no one will
know your true self.

~ Unknown

The Keep

T
he
Keep was silent - particularly after Menllik - but not empty.

The same ranks
of folk there in support before the transport to the city was in
place, but their silence now possessed an eerie quality.

Torrullin
halted mid-stride.

Everyone
looked at him strangely, significantly, and he knew it had nothing
to do with his bloodied appearance. He noticed Skye appearing
almost catatonic near the far wall.

“Where?” He
asked it of the kitchen cook rolling her eyes at him. She pointed
one finger up, shielding her hand with her body.

He lifted his
gaze upward and faded into the shadows. His people had not revealed
his arrival; hopefully that translated as Margus remaining ignorant
of it. He swiftly and silently removed his boots. Holding his sword
tight against his thigh, he padded up the courtyard stairs.

Nobody moved
or spoke and for that he was grateful. It was more than fear that
paralysed them, as it was more than support; they were entranced
into silence, and that was to his advantage, more than Margus
trusted it was to his.

He entered the
western stairwell, the one adjacent the Dragon doors. Those doors
reached the full height of the Keep so that the balcony wrapped
three sides internally, and the doors were shut, with all three
massive bolts dropped into place, the first time ever. Margus
wanted to prevent anyone from entering and everyone at the Keep
from leaving. It was about control.

Torrullin
paused on the stairs inside the well to push matted hair from his
face and tuck loose strands behind his ears. The battle in the city
had been hard fought and he suffered the results.

What trickery
was in place here to trap him? It had to do with Saska, of that he
was certain, but how was she positioned to force his hand in this
game?

He should have
smote Margus in Linir, and banished Tymall.

How had Margus
breached the magic of the valley?

A long time
ago he asked the sentience of the resident magic to grant him a
boon, to accept the presence of one son despite his evil
intentions. It was granted and this night Tymall used that to
enter, bringing with him a greater evil. There upon the stairs it
occurred to Torrullin that Torrke knew the identity of the evil son
a long time ago and had he desired to know, all he needed do was
ask. He never asked and had, by inaction and cowardice, brought
this new and old hell revisited on the same people.

The game
changed tonight.

He
listened.

Nothing.

He padded up
and thanked all gods the door at the top was ajar. Listening again,
he stepped into the deep shadow of the wall. There he hunkered and
meticulously scrutinised the battlement walk ahead. The starlight
was too dim to shed illumination, but deeper shadows and forms
would be visible if one looked carefully enough.

Nothing, and
not a sound.

He crept
forward, keeping low, moving in a crouch until he attained the
southern well.

The door was
closed and he halted to watch and listen.

No sound.

Movement.

Near the
eastern stairwell.

He shivered
from the sweat of recent labours cooling in the cold night air, and
forced calm. If he moved closer he would be seen and would lose the
element of surprise. The shivering ceased and his hammering heart
beat back into an even rhythm. Nothing would be gained from rushing
in.

He chose to
wait them out. Sometime someone would say something or become
impatient, make a mistake or move in such a way that action became
necessity.

With infinite
care, he unbuckled his scabbard and with equal caution laid it away
from him to prevent inadvertent noise. Slowly he withdrew his
sword, keeping the telling movements from line of sight behind the
well. The keenest ear would hear nothing. Holding the blade in his
left hand, he slid into the recess the closed door formed and
waited there with an unwavering gaze.

Why had Quilla
not warned him, his all-seeing mentor?

It had been a
long night and that after days of tension and sleeplessness, which
followed months of world hopping and weeks of ducking on Luvanor.
He was beaten, bruised, cut, and every nerve screamed for relief.
Weary, he stood with unusual calm and patience.

He waited.

And did not
wait long.

In the back of
his mind he must have wagered on Tymall’s inability to remain still
for long, for it was Tymall’s voice that came to him faintly after
a time. Although whispered, the words were clear in the quiet, as
was the impatient tone.

“He is not
coming, Margus.”

A soft hiss
was Tymall’s reply. Torrullin compressed his lips. Now he knew with
certainty they were both on the battlements and that he was, in
fact, expected. The Dinor were a diversion and they waited upon him
to see through the ruse. Thank god for Vannis, quicker to
realisation than he was.

A soft groan,
quickly muffled, and Torrullin went cold.

Taranis.

He wondered in
passing where his father was, but had not remotely entertained the
thought that Taranis would be snared. His father could be real
slippery and he would have thought him engaged in a rescue
operation somewhere nearby, or even in Menllik despite saying he
would stay away.

Taranis was
badly hurt.

He dared not
probe, but he sensed life flickering, not life aflame.

His father
probably deliberately put himself in harm’s way to aid Saska. He
could not afford inaction much longer.

Was Saska
there? She was the one Tymall came for, not Taranis. Tymall hated
his stepmother with unreasonable passion. Taranis was a bonus. To
have Saska in his power would give him no little pleasure.

Torrullin grit
his teeth. This was his son, but this night he could cheerfully
snuff his life. There had to be a way to negate his baleful
influence permanently without harm coming to Tristamil, but now was
not the time to ponder options.

He renewed
concentration.

How unnerving
silence could be.

Tymall spat,
feeling it, and leaned over the wall to stare into the silent
crowded courtyard. His form was unmistakable. Margus hissed again,
but Tymall paid him no heed.

Then Margus
made a mistake.

“If you do not
control yourself, little snake, I shall not permit you your sport
with the delectable Saska. I am a man of my word, believe me.”

Blood rushed
through Torrullin. Nearly he made the grave error of charging out
in challenge.

Heat turned to
ice a moment later.

Son, you would
take my wife? Intention is as bad as the act. Margus is right; you
are a little snake. A poisonous, vicious, slippery critter that
deserves to be squashed underfoot. I shall quash you somehow and
your brother will survive it. I promise you this, and I too am a
man of my word.

Tymall did not
respond to Margus’ threat, but he retreated.

The Darak
Or has learned a thing or two,
Torrullin mused,
including
how to hold sorcerers.
He was now more than the kernel of
waiting awareness within Tymall all those years; somehow he had
attained freedom that permitted travel, if only in the etheric.
That was where the knowledge lay if one knew how to look and see
and take unto oneself. Margus was no longer the arcane sorcerer he
was twenty-six years ago; he was more and
he hopes I make the
mistake of equating him with what he was then.

Wrong, Darak
Or. I know you.

He held them
in bonds of corrosive vulci, pliable strands of twisted metal that
burned when applied and sealed.

It was
entirely a tool of the kinless and therefore caused particular pain
when employed upon disciples of the Light.

Only darak
enchanters could call upon it and Margus was such a one; neither
Saska nor Taranis had hope of undoing the binding, and they had
tried. Their wrists and necks were charred and raw with weeping
welts where they strained against their bindings; they together and
separately attempted to escape by using magic, but that agony
proved the greater.

Tethered to
the apertures in the stairwell, there was enough free play for them
to sit or stand, helpless, weaponless.

Margus placed
an enchantment of silence upon the Keep and that included the stone
of Torrullin’s hard and loving labour, not that Saska or Taranis
were aware of the distinction. Nobody was capable of helping them.
It felt as if the whole universe had fallen silent, destitute
before this Darak Or.

Like Margus,
they waited on Torrullin, and hoped he would stay away. This Darak
Or was not the one of the past. He was cleverer, more powerful,
more heartless, and bent on revenge. And they hoped conversely
Torrullin would come, to end their suffering.

Margus was
extraordinarily patient. He waited without movement and expression,
as if he had not a care in the world. The only time he displayed
ire was when Tymall chafed. Tymall may doubt that his father would
appear, but he was convinced, and waited.

Saska found,
painstakingly, a seated position that allowed her to rest without
too much pain, as long as she remained dead still and breathed
shallow. She was numb from sitting motionless, but was prepared to
endure it rather than give the creature the satisfaction of seeing
her pain. The creature being Tymall.

Gods,
she thought,
I had not known I had it in me to hate this much. I
hate you, I hate you.

She reflected
on the complacency that got her and Taranis ensnared.

Earlier

Torrullin’s
study was the one place entirely his and she felt closer to him
there and thus, after Torrullin and Tristamil left for Menllik, she
wandered in.

There were no
feminine touches and there was no opulence. The chamber was
simplicity that reflected his internal search for peace.

Plain dark
carpets, a large square desk, and comfortable easy chairs in dark
fabric. The simple and practical counter where he kept a few
bottles of wine and spirit, but never drank much of.

Clean lines.
The décor would be overly masculine had it not been for his books
and they said much about the man.

He was clever,
always in search of new knowledge and not merely in the realms of
magic. Books on philosophy, history, ancient religious treatises,
nature tomes from varied worlds, mathematics, art, music, building
manuals, too many to mention, formed an eclectic collection.

Saska wandered
the shelves, reading a title here and there, amazed by the variety.
There were new ones; her absence and the recent mission had not
hampered his thirst for knowledge.

In the far
corner near the bottom she discovered a bulky leather-bound book
and thought at first it was a volume of the Oracles, but the
Oracles were not displayed in plain sight, and she was
intrigued.

She hefted it
to his desk; it was a book of prophesies. That would be because of
the mission to Pendulim before the twins were born, when he spoke
long to a charmsmith who dealt in foretelling.

This was a
large collection and not one Valleur. The predictions were from
races and worlds far-flung and near, known, and some she had never
heard of. The universe was massive, eternal, expanding, a fair
excuse for not knowing everyone in it, but not so Torrullin. He was
weary of surprises, particularly of prophecies that tended to leap
out at him. There were literally thousands. Engrossed, she did not
hear Taranis enter.

“I see you
found that book,” his voice came, lightly amused, startled her. “He
pours over it much as you are now.”

Relaxing, she
smiled. “Interesting reading.”

“Indeed. Note
how the tellings with the word
One
has been circled, and
anything that smacks of twins, Dragon, Golden, etcetera.”

“I saw that.
Some have been crossed out - fulfilled or nonsense?”

“Both, I would
think,” Taranis shrugged. “There is trouble in Menllik, the western
skyline is aflame.”

She
straightened.

“No, Saska. He
will send …”

“… for the
Lady, yes, I know.”

“That
bad?”

“Worse.”

“I am sorry.”
She waved her hand dismissively and Taranis continued in a
different vein. “Belun, Gren and the Dragons, have entered the
city, as have the majority of the Valleur in the valley. I heard
from Kismet that Vannis showed here briefly, sized matters up and
left again. I assume he is there.”

“And you?”

“Torrullin
will have my head; he told me specifically to stay away. And I
stupidly agreed.”

“You follow
his orders to the letter now?”

“That is
unfair. You did not see how he was before he left.”

“Oh, I saw
him,” Saska muttered. “I saw him with Cat.”

Taranis
stilled, “Um, it’s not …”

“… what I
think? How so, Taranis?” She rounded the desk in quick steps. “You
knew?”

Taranis said
nothing. The minefield was not his.