The Nemisin Star (53 page)

Raken
transformed the Palace into a true home filled with colour,
laughter and love. Lycea, the twin's mother, lived here as well. He
now realised Lycea was probably as lonely as Mantra was. Still,
despite the boys and the tension they engendered, it was ever a
good place to visit.

Raken and
Lycea were gone. Vannis would never return and, after this night,
neither would he. It was no longer a sacred site - the
inconvenience of cloaking and uncloaking a site under certain
conditions saw to that eighteen years back - and it was no longer a
home either. It was a place of horror, a spotless museum; it was
dead walls.

It was a
prison for one individual.

In the
dungeons under the Palace, not previously used for anything other
than storage, Tymall waited to hear his fate.

Had he been
too harsh with his son? If he reacted differently to Taranis’ death
was it conceivable Tymall would not attempt to take his own life
and, in doing so, his brother’s?

What had he
come to do here?

He could not
set Tymall free, a Darak Or in the making, one to take over from
Margus in his absence. Had he come to forgive him hoping to thereby
avert Caballa’s future vision? Could he forgive, if that was what
it would take? Or was this merely a loose end, something to attend
to before he exited this reality?

It was not the
latter. Tymall was no loose end, and he desired above all else to
do or say something that would save Tristamil’s life. He dared not
voice that desire to this son; in pure spite Tymall would then do
exactly as a father feared.

Perhaps, in
coming here, he was the direct cause of the two deaths he sought to
prevent.

Full circle,
Torrullin. Life and death at your instigation.

You are a
prince among demons.

Vannis’
manservant watched his Vallorin through the small grate in the
double doors and was nonplussed by the rigid form. His Vallorin
neither approached nor seemed of a mind to leave. Thus he pulled
the door wide and bowed, hoping to aid his Vallorin in what was
undoubtedly a difficult decision.

Torrullin
focused on him and entered. He did not give the man a chance to say
anything, telling him the entire Valleur nation had headed out to
the Western Isles where he and anyone residing in the Palace needed
to go forthwith, including his son’s guards.

The old man
bowed and retreated, and Torrullin made his way to the small hidden
door at the rear of the Palace. He repeated his instructions to the
guard he encountered there and when the man asked, diffidently,
what of Tymall, Torrullin told him it was no longer of concern to
him, and to gather his companions to leave the Palace within the
hour. The guard bowed also and retreated.

He pulled the
little door open and made his way down a steep flight of stone
steps. At the bottom there were more guards and they were waiting.
Had he been anyone else he would be dead. As it was, only the
actions of one saved his body from suffering a terrible injury,
knocking aside his companions’ swords barely in time.
Horror-stricken, four men grovelled, but Torrullin raised them with
words of praise, and asked them to leave.

Alone finally,
he walked the short corridor into the area where four large cells
branched off. It was warm and dry here under the ground, and gentle
light lit the interior. Three cells were used as storage
facilities, and the fourth, the furthest from the exit, was well
appointed with a woollen rug, a comfortable armchair, table and
chairs, a huge bed and bookshelf laden with all manner of reading
material. In the far corner a silk screen separated a shower and
toilet from general view.

Tymall sat at
the table engrossed in a book, eating at the same time, and was
unaware of his father’s presence. He had filled out in a short
time, not overweight, rather a regaining of his former self, and
his hair was neat and clean, tied back from his face. Wearing a
comfortable robe, he seemed at ease, almost contented. He was so
much like his brother again that Torrullin’s breath caught in his
throat.

Tymall looked
up.

Father and son
stared at each other.

With a lazy
grin Tymall rose. “Come inside, father,” he murmured and, again, he
was like his brother.

Torrullin
waved the enchantment aside, restoring it after he stepped through
the bars, and took a seat at the table. Tymall sat, watching as his
father lifted the book he abandoned and smiled at the surprise.

“Flower
arranging?”

“I have time
on my hands; time to learn new things, and flowers are beautiful.
Does that surprise you?”

“A
little.”

“Why?”

“You were ever
the practical one, Tymall.”

Tymall looked
away. “I thought it would be longer before you came.”

“As did I,”
Torrullin responded. “Matters have accelerated.”

Tymall chewed
at his lip and said nothing. He waited with eyes downcast.

Torrullin
scrutinised him. “You appear almost contented here, Ty.”

The young man
looked up. “In a sense I am. I cannot harm anybody and nobody is
able to reach me, except you. I do not have to wrestle with choices
and confront those issues that spark my anger. For now I can bear
this; I read, sleep, think and regain my strength. It is a type of
contentedness, yes, but let us not fool ourselves; it will not last
long.”

“No,”
Torrullin mused, and gazed around the spacious cell. It was built
with a number of occupants in mind; for a single guest, so to
speak, it was almost an apartment. Next to the huge bed he noticed
a stack of loose paper and a box of paints; Tymall always loved to
paint. A practical lad painting with precision. He sighed
inaudibly. It went awry - he sincerely believed he could change the
boy into a man to be proud of.

“It isn’t your
fault, you know,” Tymall said, as if reading his mind. “You were a
wonderful father, you did it right.” He paused and then answered
the unspoken question. “I cannot wholly blame Margus either. For
the most part it was me. I could never look beyond the two
dimensional, not really, when I was younger, and when I discovered
there was more, I was not equipped to deal with it - a lack within
me, not of your making. I paint objects and scenes of beauty, but I
am not moved by them in the manner you are, or even Margus is.
Beauty is interesting from an academic viewpoint, snaps in time
that have no history and no future. I lack response, real emotion,
other than what I feel for you and, in the end, what you caused me
to feel. It was not enough.”

“I see it now.
I know I am not to blame.”

“Your
conscience is clear.”

“No, it
isn’t.”

“I guess not,”
Tymall murmured. “Even my saintly brother carries his crosses.”

Torrullin
chose to ignore the jibe. “Fate, Ty. You are here and I am here,
bound both by blood and a nature, and nobody halts the inexorable
path of fate. So, son, what now?”

Tymall blinked
over the word
son
and leaned back in his chair to stare a
time at the ceiling. Still looking up, he said, “We cannot go back
and if that were possible, chances are we would end up in the same
place confronting the same issues.” He looked down, anywhere except
at his father. “And that should tell you I cannot be redeemed. Yes,
father, so what now?”

It was quiet
in the cell for a second or two. “I cannot release you if there is
not even a hint of regret.”

Tymall grinned
mirthlessly. “I didn’t expect you to.”

“And I cannot
leave you here to die a natural death in a few thousand years.”

That got
Tymall’s attention.

A thousand
years or more in this place? He would be insane within a year, at
best. Probably a few months. Had his father really intended to
allow him to rot here? The easy way out, a guilt his father would
pay heavily for?

Something had
changed his mind.

“So?”

Torrullin
threw his hands into the air, calm façade cracking. “I do not know
what to do about you.”

His father did
not admit to indecision. Interesting. “What has happened in the
world above?”

Intelligence,
Torrullin thought, was sometimes a real drawback. “It doesn’t
matter and I am not going to tell you. Suffice to say, I must make
a decision about you … tonight.”

Tymall drew a
breath. They were at that point. Well, well, the waiting was over.
Margus had played his hand, had forced a confrontation, one soon to
be enacted. Did it really matter to him, the how, the why, the
when? No.

He dared not
speak, and was mortally afraid.

“I have two
options,” Torrullin mused. “I could force you into an Immortality
Ritual and thus ensure Tristamil’s longevity –you would die
eventually, of course, when he does. I do not however have the
required time, and you are not strong enough.”

“Or?”

“Or, Ty, I
could take all your power unto myself and when you die, Tris gets
to live.”

Tymall closed
his eyes. Always his twin. “But?”

Torrullin
laughed and Tymall’s eyes snapped open. “The latter is not an
option, because I will be dead in a day or two.”

Tymall rocked
back on his chair, eyes wide and boring into his father’s.

“Margus and
myself are set for a final battle, one in which both of us will
surrender our physical forms.”

“The etheric?
Gods!”

Torrullin
stared at him. He knew about the etheric. It was not a subject he
wished to discuss with this son. He particularly did not want to
discover how much Tymall knew.

Instead he
said, “If I have your power when that happens, Tris will die as
well. I am well stuck between rock and stone. I wonder which the
lesser evil is.”

Tymall was
ashen. His father was to die? It was inconceivable to imagine a
world without his father in it. In that he was in sympathy with his
brother. “You are immortal.”

Torrullin
leaned forward, his gaze intent. “Yes, I am, and I shall return.
Until then I need to ensure my sons stay alive. I am sure you
desire to live; you tell me what I must do to make it so.”

Tymall
swallowed, sick to his stomach. “Free me. It is the logical
choice.”

Torrullin
nodded and sat back. “It is, but it is not about logic alone.
Margus will soon be gone.”

“And I would
take his place, as promised.” Tymall smacked the table. “And you
will be gone, leaving Tris the universal champion! The Priest of
the Light! We shall fight awesome battles and yet never quite get
to that point where we will kill each other.”

“You would
destroy this planet. Where, I ask, is the logic in that?”

“To a father
it is, but to an Enchanter? There is no way under this sun you
would allow it.”

“I am
Enchanter, Ty, make no mistake.”

“And therefore
no closer to a solution.”

“No.”

“Gods, this is
strange.”

“Isn’t it?”
Torrullin stood. “Do you have anything to drink here?”

“Water,
wine.”

“Wine will do
… where?”

Tymall pointed
to a cupboard behind his father. In it were his clothes, more books
and paper, and a few bottles as well as snacks, a number of games.
Torrullin drew a bottle out, uncorked it with a corkscrew he found
nearby. Tymall fetched tumblers from behind the silk screen, and he
poured each a generous amount.

They toasted
each other, aware of the huge irony in the gesture.

Tymall took a
gulp of the wine. “Don’t die. Take my power and the problem is
solved.”

Torrullin
sipped, and put his glass down. “There is Margus.”

“And there was
Neolone. You deal with him, somehow.”

“Temporary
measures do not sit well.”

Tymall stood
to hurl his empty glass into the far corner. It shattered loudly.
He waited with a frown, smiled and sat. “No guards. I wonder why
that is? Is it that you have sent them away? Is it because you have
already made your decision?”

Torrullin
rose. In the end, despite every emotion and every wish, there was
only one choice. Tymall was clever. He claimed two-dimensional
rationale, but there were layers within that would one day become
evident. He loved this son, but he could not unleash him on
innocents.

“I had not …
and now I know what to do. You will remain here.”

“You said
…!”

“It is my only
choice.”
All gods help me.

Tymall leapt
off his chair as if scalded, sending it crashing back. “You can’t!
I will go mad, for pity’s sake!”

“It is for
pity, others pity, that I so choose.”

Torrullin hid
trembling hands below the height of the table. A movement not lost
on his son. He rushed over and grabbed his father’s hands, setting
alight trebac, strong between a father and a son, particularly when
tension negated the control thereof, and Torrullin allowed it.

“Look!” Tymall
shouted. “You tremble! Look at our kinfire! I am your son still!
How can you do this to me?” He threw the hands from him. “You do
this and I shall kill myself!”

Torrullin took
a weary step back. “Of course you will.” He headed towards the
bars.

“You cannot
leave now!” Tymall screeched, and then was silent. A moment later
he murmured, “Tris will die, too.”

“I know.”

“Please, don’t
leave!” Tymall cried out. A little lost boy.

Torrullin
stopped and turned a ravaged face towards his son. “I am leaving
everyone, Ty, not just you.”

“Please don’t
leave me here,” Tymall begged.

Torrullin
returned to his son’s side and drew him into his arms. Tymall
clutched at his father and buried his face in Torrullin’s shoulder,
and gentle hands smoothed over his hair as they had when he was
young.

They stood
that way for a long time.