The Nemisin Star (36 page)

I must move
away, Saska. Find a new road.

The depth of
the silence that followed deafened the storm.

You intend to
forgo this form?

Yes.

Your life?

In a manner of
speaking.

I can wait,
Torrullin.

Saska, reach
for new happiness, a life not so riddled with uncertainty and
betrayal, not so volatile.

I love
volatile.

I know,
and his tone was amused,
pleased.

I hate
betrayal.

I have
betrayed you, Saska. Deliberately.

You need me to
hate you.

I thought so,
Torrullin
admitted.

I love
you.

I need you to
love me.

I know,
she sent sadly,
and yet you chose to hurt both of us. You have
decided to take up my offer, have you not?

As you told
me, he needs see I am able to match him in all. He must lose faith
in his ability, must become rattled if I am to have advantage.
After, I do not want to stay here. I shall leave you to put to
rights the results of my evil.

She disentangled.
I think I do hate
you.

Of course you
do.

It begins
then.

It ends,
Saska.

She shook her
head in the dark, in denial, but knew it to be true, and he saw it
clearly. He would love her to the end of time, be with her till the
end of days, as she would be with him, but the parting had come.
After tonight they would no longer be husband and wife, they would
be Enchanter and Lady. She saw it as well, for her sigh moved
through the spaces in his heart as a sharp and deadly knife.

Their marriage
ended the day she left Torrke to become the Lady of Life. What
happened between then and now was an illusion. Love could no longer
keep them together.

Gods, it
hurt.

Her anguish
reached out to him, a living entity, and lanced him anew. He loved
her with all his heart.

He reached for
her. Their lips touched and drew apart.

The last time.
All the good and the bad came together then, indivisible, and
melded, and the dormant, denied fire erupted. Their lips met again,
held, so familiar, so very different. Slowly they undressed each
other, lay shivering and uncaring on the wet walk, debris clinging
to wet flesh, and allowed the inner fires to warm them, gently,
with abandon, over and over.

A final
reverence, a last acknowledgement.

Later, he
wandered in the wet valley.

It had
retreated and thus he did not feel as comforted by his land as he
usually did. He wondered why it was absent, but could not hold onto
thought long. His mind was filled with Saska.

How long
before he could function without this pain in his heart?

Staring up he
realised the storm was passing, and it meant evacuation would
commence. The inevitable showdown approached.

Did Margus
really matter that much?

Would he not
rather spend his time with Saska? He could set Tristamil on the
Throne; he may even permit a marriage between his son and Skye. Was
love not the most important?

He closed his
eyes.

Torrullin
begged for a vision, something that would aid him in choosing a
future he could live with, one that would not bring catastrophe on
Valaris time and time again. Anything, another glimpse. Let him be
forewarned. Let him tweak the future if he needed to. Sunder
prophecy. Change it all.

He could see
nothing besides the stars behind his lids.

Never had he
deliberately attempted to instil a vision before, thus it was no
wonder he saw nothing, and yet, if he concentrated …

Torrullin,
stop it!

His eyes flew
open.

He folded his
arms across his chest. “If you have something to say, I suggest you
show yourself.”

Light laughter floated through his mind.
There is the Torrullin I know.

“So you can
hear me. Do you listen all the time?”

It does not
work like that. One day you will know why. Torrullin, nothing you
see now will alter the path you set with the Darak Or. Leave it.
Move on.

“Elianas,
where are you?”

A moment of absolute silence ensued and the universe waited
with him on an answer.
Not yet, brother,
not yet. I am not ready either.

“Brother?”

No more,
Torrullin. Grief will pass; much grief will pass before we meet. Go
inside and rest. Tomorrow is a new day.

“That is not
good enough … are you there?”

But the spaces
were silent.

Saska
shivered.

She had
nowhere left to go. She was alone.

The Lady of
Life was meant to be alone. She should have no ties, no bonds, and
she should never be subjective about anything. Already she
overstepped the boundaries when she made her offer to her Enchanter
husband. She was paying for that. She started paying the moment she
voiced it.

Do your worst,
husband, and I will raise the dead for you.

All gods,
advocating death. How dare she?

It had cost
her, and she would go on paying.

She leaned
over the wall, her lone support as grief overcame her in great
sobs.

I choose with
my mind only to discover my heart already there.

~ From
Heaven’s
Hope
, Valarian romance novel

Lifesource
Temple

M
itrill waited for
Tristamil.

He came with
her adoptive father, and for a while it unbalanced her.

“Mitrill,
baby, Tristamil tells me you know of your heritage …”

She walked
into her father’s arms. It did not matter that he was not her blood
- in her heart he was her father, and nothing would change that.
She loved him.

He brought
them to this glorious world, giving her a new future, one without
anxiety. How was that wrong? Understanding now the dynamics of the
twins’ strange and convoluted birth and upbringing, she thanked
Torrullin in her heart for leaving her with her father. Not only
had he saved her life, he granted her peace.

Quietly she
told Rillinon all of that, to explain she understood and to tell
him how blessed she was in finding him. Tears ran over his cheeks
and he clasped her to him, thanking the Goddess and every god he
could think of … until both were laughing.

Then she
calmly and firmly set him away. “I know why Tristamil is here. I am
not insulted. I have already decided to do as he asks. This is
destiny, my father. I am, after all, Varelie Valla, and I know
about destiny. Please leave us.”

It was the
hardest thing he had ever done, but Rillinon left his beloved
daughter to a Vallorin’s son, one who did not love her, one who
would use her - he ran from the Temple.

She held her
hand out to Tristamil. He had witnessed the interaction with
surprise, wondering how much she knew, and how.

Where they
touched the blue fire sparked and she tightened her grip,
intensifying it, looking at him. That was how she knew. The
blood.

His breathing
shallowed and he allowed himself be drawn inside the chamber Quilla
allotted to her.

“Seal it,” she
murmured, and he did so.

“Why?” he
asked, and meant not the sealing.

“A long time
ago Caballa told me this would happen, that it had to happen, and I
would know when I recognised the blue fire.” She released his hand,
lay on the bed and began undoing the buttons on the bodice of her
yellow gown.

“That is
terribly fatidic.”

“Exactly. Why
fight it?”

“Do you know
my reasons?” Tristamil muttered, lost and uncertain with his chosen
road now open before him without effort at all.

“You need a
child, a son, I assume to rejoin our lines. Caballa intimated as
much, yet I think she held sway on a greater truth. No matter, what
will be, will be.” She shrugged her gown from her shoulders,
wriggled out of it, all the while keeping her eyes on him; he knew
not where to look or how to act.

“I cannot do this.” It was too clinical, too
impersonal.
Caballa saw this?
Gods, that was decidedly
uncomfortable.

“Come here,
Tristamil.”

Despite his
reluctance, his deadened state, he complied. He sat on the bed, not
looking at her. An image of Skye came and he squashed it
ruthlessly.

She sighed,
perhaps sensing his mind, or perhaps frustrated with his inaction,
and reached from behind him to undo the ties on his tunic. He still
did not move. She climbed from the bed to kneel before him and
removed his boots, and rose to help him from his tunic. When she
reached for the buttons of his breeches his hand clamped over hers,
and again the blue fire sparked bright.

The effect was
so startling that he drew breath in amazement and looked at her
properly. Mitrill was indeed beautiful, and alluring. She gazed
back at him steadily and leaned forward to kiss him, and where
their lips touched more blue fire crackled - it was highly erotic.
He was afire.

Drawing her
onto his lap, he slowly undid her chemise, slid it from her
shoulders, deliberately caressing her arms to ignite trebac, and
moaned, completely aroused, wanting more, wanting her, wanting the
strange electricity. He lifted her, laid her down, his mouth,
hands, body, his entire being sinking into her, and she aided him
in every move, urging him on, desiring the electricity as much as
he did.

Afterwards he
was sure no Valla had ever experienced the unholy passion trebac
lovemaking could spark, and knew he was bound to her because of the
depths and heights they attained together.

As dawn drew
near, he placed his hand upon her stomach, playing the blue fire
across her damp skin. “A boy,” he murmured, amazed, awed, happy …
sad.

“Yes,” she
returned, and waited. He had achieved what he set out to do and
could now walk away. She expected no more of him, not marriage, not
another touch.

He studied her
flushed cheeks, the steady gaze, and pulled her to him.

Skye was at
the lightbridge when Tristamil left the Temple.

The storm had
passed to the south and shafts of light broke through clouds
shining in the icy air. The world lay wet and untidy, but freshly
wholesome.

Skye’s face
was turned heavenward and he experienced loss … and dread. She was
not beautiful as Mitrill was beautiful, and she could not ever give
to him the electricity of trebac, the guilt of a union of kin,
which in itself would see him returning to Mitrill, a contrariness
that was like to his father, but he loved her completely and had
betrayed that love.

He was like
his brother.

Holding tight
rein to his feelings, he approached. He halted and did not hide
from those accusing eyes. She knew. “I am sorry, Skye.”

“Why, Tris? I
thought you loved me.”

“I still do.”
It would never be enough, he knew, not anymore.

“You have a
strange way of showing it.”

“I have good
reason.”

“So tell
me!”

“I
cannot.”

She would not
understand. He no longer did. He lifted his hand to touch her face,
but she flinched from him and his hand dropped away.

Tristamil
strode across the lightbridge without looking back, and was
entirely his father’s son.

Alis loved her
men hairy, the more of it the better. Little did she realise a slim
blade could be hidden in the curly matter about a man’s
genitals.

~ Tattle’s
Blunt Adventures

The Keep

T
orrullin was in his
study.

He scrutinised
his son in silence when the young man entered, and Tristamil stared
back in stony quiet. Torrullin motioned him to a chair before his
desk. Clearly, whatever bothered him was not up for discussion.

“In the past
hours Gren has filled the Dome and it is now on the way to Glorium.
Matt has been back and forth to the Blentar moon with evacuees and
will continue to do so. He negotiated a sound deal there and the
refugee camp is in full, supplied swing. Caltian and Krikian have
taken three groups to Grinwallin; I will know soon how that was
received. That can be speeded up once we get the go-ahead. All else
is in motion, thank Aaru. The only drawback thus far is the refusal
of the Valleur to leave Valaris, but we need to deal with the Dinor
before they can be asked to go.”

“The Dinor are
back?”

“There is a
contingent in the Throne-room at the moment and they appear willing
to talk. According to Thundor earlier, they are happy with the way
we looked after their dead. Any suggestions?”

Tristamil
scrubbed at his face. A diversion, but he could barely think
straight. Gods, he could feel Mitrill’s skin and he could see
Skye’s accusation. How did one deal with such contrariness?

“I guess the
best option is simply to tell them who you are. If they see the
Valleur are subject to someone apparently human, they may regard
that as a sign old hatreds cannot remain inviolate forever.”

“Vannis
disagrees,” Torrullin said in some amusement.

“He would,”
Tristamil smiled. “Where someone hates the Valleur, he projects the
slight back a hundred-fold.”

Torrullin
laughed. “Indeed.” He rose and stretched. “I was about to go down.
Was there anything in particular you needed to discuss first?”

“It can
wait.”

“Fine. Oh,
Phet is on his way from the clanlands; keep him here until I am
done with the Dinor.”