Infinity: Chpt 32 - Complacency

Chapter 32

It is the mind that wins battles, not bodies.

~ Ancient Oracles

Five hundred years later, Vannis approached his seven thousandth Naming Day.

His body was as youthful as ever, his hair golden and undimmed. Life was good, although Mantra had not conceived. Valaris was a gigantic garden, only the north snow-bound and in the south a small swathe of desert. The Valleur could have transformed the latter, but enjoyed the contrast too much to do so.

They came one day, the humans.

Sheffield was forgotten, his message long buried.

This time there were no pathfinders, this time they came in colossal ships, four of them, each carrying over fifteen thousand people, men, women and children, and all their different animals. These people voluntarily chose to leave their homeworlds, Beacon amongst them, to find and settle new ones; a high-risk venture with every chance of failure, but the hope of success outweighed the misery of their over-populated worlds.

They landed, undetected, some sixty thousand people.

What a paradise they discovered.

What a disaster for the Valleur.

Four thousand grew to twelve thousand in two and half millennia; they were outnumbered six to one.

They had grown complacent after the Navigator, to their detriment.

Vannis wanted to behead the Watchers immediately in insane rage, but knew they were not wholly to blame. He was, and the ships were cloaked against darklings and pirates of every persuasion, which aided their stealthy approach. Even without cloaking, the ships would have had to be in Valaris airspace for their sorcery to be effective.

A small window, one missed forever. Four missed. Most would have got through anyway.

Do nothing yet, his councillors advised, we have the element of surprise.

The humans landed on Valaris’ eastern coast, where only small communities of Valleur lived and worked as farmers. They abandoned the area, recalled by their Vallorin. The farms left behind were not farms in the usual sense; rather they were a part of the grand scheme of Valaris. There were no fences and the humans could not tell the land was cultivated, a compliment to the success of the farmer-gardeners, and if they found the humble homes, it raised little outcry. The humans thought they landed on an empty planet.

Therein lay the element of surprise.

Vannis allowed his anger to cool before commencing the decision-making process. His people prepared for war.

Two weeks later, two more ships arrived. One hundred thousand settlers.

It was time to decide.

When he descended the stairs with Mantra at his side, a silent ghost wrestling her own devils, they waited for him in the Throne-room as bid.

“More are en route, Lord Vallorin,” one of the young Watchers spoke. He was born on Valaris and, although he knew the history, he could not fathom the intensity. He did not know his Vallorin. “They have settled somewhat, I guess until the others arrive. Soon they should figure we have the prime land …”

Vannis barely controlled himself. Sitting in his seat of power, he forced himself to hear them out.

Another Watcher said, “They will come here, whatever state the land is in. We learned from the Navigator that individuals can be trusted, are worthy of friendship, but as a group? This size? With more coming? I think not.” He was a seasoned veteran of many human-Valleur battles. “Soon now contact will be made, by them, by us or by accident; we cannot hide from it, and by Goddess, why should we? We can fight them, scare them, and gain respite, but they will organise and come repeatedly. We have experienced it more times than we care to recall. And, with more to land, I believe we may not even have the luxury of respite, in whatever guise. We need do something now.”

“What are you suggesting, Watcher?” Vannis asked. His eyes were brown, his anger in check to give a rational ear and voice to his people.

“My Lord, most of us no longer have the stomach for the bloodthirsty deeds of past battles. Forgive me, but we do not want to lose our world, nor do we desire to kill indiscriminately to save it. My Lord, I have not an answer that will solve everyone’s problem, and I wish negotiation will present that answer, even knowing it a dream … a nightmare for some. Sheffield was a good man, and there is more of him out there. It would be murder, not defence.”

The Watcher knew his Vallorin would never negotiate with the humans, and knew also it would be only a short-term solution were it acceptable. He had no answer. He, too, loved the Navigator.

Vannis listened to his people all that day and well into the night.

In the end it came down to three choices, not one a perfect solution.

Some wanted to leave through the Rift, knowing they would be welcome beyond no matter how long the separation. It meant leaving behind what they painstakingly carved out on a new world. It meant, effectively, complete surrender.

Others wanted to make first contact, negotiate by diplomacy or a show of strength, to claim a portion of Valaris as their own, out of bounds to the settlers. It meant being the least, accepting a lesser share. It meant partial surrender, one that would not work for long.

Then there were those, the younger, the loudest, who were prepared to fight, at best to annihilate the humans, at worst to drive them out of sight. It meant war, no surrender. It meant, effectively, extinction.

Of course, a few were prepared to share wholly, to integrate with the settlers.

Vannis listened in silence, Mantra beside him. Only once did she make a move to detain him, when his eyes blackened at the word ‘integrate’. It was clearly not a choice he would entertain.

“Shh, Vannis,” she whispered. “Know their hearts before you decide.”

He subsided on his Throne and let them speak. She was right; he had to know their hearts.

Vannis had made his decision. He made it the first time he saw Valaris. This was his world. He would die fighting rather than share. And he would take as many of the intruders with him as he had the strength for. The decision to make this night was how far to coerce his subjects into bowing to his will.

Late that night he dismissed them without having made his thoughts known. There were, after all, other factors, and he had to think them through.

The next day he called them together once more. The chamber was audibly quiet as he made his way to the Throne, and for a moment the simple, magnificent seat seemed alien to him. This Throne, which had been fashioned and imbued with power by Nemisin, First Father, felt as if it no longer belonged. It was a telling feeling, but he squashed it.

They will not get it, they will get nothing.

He sat, resting his hands on the warming metal, felt it welcome him, and was relieved. Perhaps it tested him, and he had passed. Mantra glided into place, standing as she had tirelessly the day before. They had not spoken in the night. He knew not her mind, but they would have to talk after this gathering.

Vannis gazed around him, at his people … at the gaudy Throne-room.

What possessed me to build it like this?

For the first time it was ugly to him, overdone.

Momentous decisions deserve solemn surroundings. He shook his head. The image of your name now comes to haunt you.

He glanced at Mantra. She adored this space and once asked him to make love to her here, to watch the lights dancing over them entwined. He said no, it was not meant for that. He meant together they were not part of that symbolism. He had not desired her enough, was the real truth. He hurt her.

This is where it begins and ends. I shall die here if it comes to that.

He faced the gathered.

“I have made my decision,” he stated into the waiting, and paused to survey them as individuals. A few could not meet his eyes. They were not cowards; they no longer possessed the killing lust. Perhaps they were the lucky ones. Outside, the rest of the Valleur were gathered, but for the young and their minders, and the finally too old.

He raised his voice, projected it out, and his beautiful voice sang to them, the words terrible.

“I shall fight! Unto death!”

There came many shouts of “yes!” but many more were silent.

“We are once more at a crossroads, my beloved Valleur. Those who cannot join me in war must leave. The Rift is your only option, for after this no human anywhere will want to treat with you. You cannot return and you cannot remain to see how it ends. In our failure, you will not share; in our victory, you will not share. I do not want you here! You will not be held in contempt, for we understand and we love you, but hear this: You must leave Valaris by sunrise two days hence, not ever to return.”

There were disbelieving gasps and a number of angry denials, but Vannis continued as if there was no response. He was again single-minded in purpose.

“Those who stay, stay to fight! Mark that. No treating, no sharing. We shall fight! We shall use every means at our disposal, every means! And, win or lose, know that the guilt will be terrible to bear. Keep it in mind as you decide which turn to take. You cannot erase your vile deeds after. The humans have as much right to life as we.”

Vannis paused and gazed into the white faces stilled in his presence. Beside him Mantra breathed in short, sharp gasps.

“The Navigator taught us compassion for his kind, yes, but truly no deal with a large force can ever ensure lasting peace. Further, where a human entrenches, darklings follow. A human is easy prey, and I shall not have this world contaminated by those creatures, not while I yet live. In victory, we stop them coming; in failure, we would not see it happen.” Vannis stopped and rose. Standing tall before his subjects, he declared, “Unto death, Valleur! Who stands with me?”

The silence was unbroken for a time and those closest watched his eyes. Violet and green, alternating. His emotions were in turmoil, even as his mind was set, but there was no going back. Violet was anger, the kind before the madness of black, and green, well, green was not only the colour of desire, and those who knew him well, were confused by it.

Mantra’s grandfather spoke first. “It saddens my heart, Lord Vallorin, and long shall I bear this loss, but I must take my family and leave this place. Forgive me, my Lord and friend, but I cannot do it again.” His voice broke on a sob.

Mantra gasped, and was still.

Vannis’ eyes flashed blue. “No forgiveness is due, old friend. I would wish you all to go in safety; I would wish to do this alone. You leave with only my blessings.”

“You will not be alone, Lord Vallorin! I will fight!”

Shouted from the back of the room, it caused a stir and a noise, as many voices rose in similar outcry, both within and without.

Vannis closed his eyes.

He could not command them to leave; he needed them to war with him.

When all was over, decisions, voices, denials, questions, five hundred remained packed into the Throne-room.

Five hundred men and women were willing to die for their world. It was a pitiful number.

Those who opted for realm exit departed to prepare for the final move they would make of such magnitude. They left the chamber in silence, feeling guilty, and those from outside had walked through the chamber before dispersing, a mark of respect and a last desire to be a part of the whole. The pain and loss of imminent parting hung morosely over the Palace, and men who had not shed a tear in centuries, at the instant of choice opened the floodgates. However, those tears ran silent, for there was nothing to be said.

It was over. A dream had ended.

Vannis sat slumped on the Throne, his eyes a pale blue, the lightest shade of sadness, therefore the depths of emotion. His eyes were the mirrors they all looked into that day. Tears slid over his cheeks unheeded. Never had he appeared more human.

The five hundred stood in silent respect, waiting on his word. Their jubilation had given way to the suffering of a race about to be parted again. And fear. Five hundred pitted against a hundred thousand? Only death lay in their futures. Fear would be used as a tool, the fanaticism of last resort.

Mantra sat on the step to the dais, her head sunk to her knees. Her body shook with silent sobs. In days she learned the pain that dogged the Valleur for millennia, and finally she understood her husband and her people.

Vannis roused himself. “I would that you go, too, my dear. I would that you be safe with your grandfather.”

She looked wildly up. “Why? Because I am a woman? I am not the only woman left in this room! Look around you! Or is it because I am untried? Unblooded? How dare you! I am not the only one! I can throw lightning with the best of you, you know that! And I am not afraid to die! Or, husband, is it because you love me so much? Love me? Ha! You love that your court has a queen who is fair and kind; you love that you could build me a palace, one that often takes me away from here! You love that your people love you for having a queen! You do not love me, husband, you never have! Perhaps if you had, you would have your son and heir now, did you ever stop to think about that? No! I stay and I fight, not for love of you, and, so help me, I do, but for love of my world! I was born here. This is more truly my world than it can ever be yours!”

The chamber was silent when she finished, and Vannis hung his head. Mantra never raised her voice before, and those gathered did not know what to do, but Vannis was blind to them.

What she said was true. He liked her. Enjoyed talking to her, she made him laugh, but he had not loved her as she deserved. He had yet to meet the one who would stir his blood … and now that would never happen. In waiting, unconsciously, he pushed away the gift that was his wife. One cannot yearn for what one does not know; one should hold onto what is precious in one’s present.

Now it was too late.

Vannis raised his head. Now was the time to be open with himself, his wife and his five hundred. They were the last Valleur, these five hundred. He owed them honesty in all, even his feelings. Blue eyes met Mantra’s challenging gaze. She had risen and was beyond anger.

“What you say is true, Mantra. I have not loved you as I should, and I am truly sorry. I hope you may forgive me one day, and will understand the circumstances that hardened my heart. I have lost too much, too long, to trust my heart fully to another. Forgive me, my wife.”

He paused and looked out over his Valleur.

They waited to be dismissed, uncomfortable with the public interaction between a man and his wife … and he raised his finger, his left hand, and they knew they were meant to stay and listen. Why, they could not fathom.

“I asked that you leave, not because you are a woman - unfair of you, wife - and not because you are untried, but because I do care for you deeply and …” He paused again, for a long time, to stare deep into her yellow eyes, and she saw them change, from blue to deepest green, and she was confused.

That desire had no place in these circumstances; that desire was not for her.

“Vannis?” she prompted, her anger vanishing like mist before the sun. What drove him, even now? “What do you desire of me, now, that your eyes reflect it intensely?” Her voice caught, and she put a trembling hand to her mouth.

Five hundred watched, unable to tear their gazes away.

Vannis closed his eyes and when he opened them, they were, if anything, greener. “You do not know?”

She shook her head, holding her breath.

“I would that you be safe, wife … I need you to be safe … for our son’s sake.”

The words were soft and sad, and took a moment to penetrate.

Five hundred understood, and beamed their joy.

Mantra’s eyes were incredulous and he smiled sadly. “Yes, sweet girl, you are carrying our son. Ironic, isn’t it? In the end is his beginning.”

His voice broke then, in witnessing the unbridled joy on Mantra’s expressive face. A thousand suns, a million stars, shone out through her bright eyes. Five hundred, as one, dropped to their knees in homage. An heir! All was not lost. Goddess, the Valleur had a new future!

Blue eyes gazed. “I do not want him to know this life of war, if we even survive long enough to see him born. He should go beyond to that other universe more like the one the Ancient Valleur knew. He should lead our people in safety, and begin the glory that is the Valleur in a new, unburdened future.”

Mantra cradled her stomach. Not for a moment did she doubt Vannis sensed their unborn child, as she did not doubt it was a boy. It was the Valleur way. She nodded, agreeing with his words. A son, her son, deserved a future.

She whispered, “He will be the last Vallorin.”

“He will be the first Vallorin of a brand new universe. The Valleur beyond have not chosen a new leader, for they await my death and the coming of an heir, a Valla heir, and he comes to them at last. No matter what happens to me here, he will be Vallorin from the moment he is born. He will be strong, brave, beautiful … and good. Take him to his new home and raise him well, take him where he need never know the hell of war.”

Never had truer words been spoken, and in all that was to follow, Vannis would console himself that he had foreseen his son’s future accurately.

“Please, Mantra, I am begging you. He is our second chance. Take him away from this place, for there will be nothing here for him.”

“And must I take him from his father?”

“Aaru, yes. I shall not long be his father, and I would not be a good one, not after what I am to become again.”

“Forget this, my Lord!” Mantra whispered. “Leave it behind! Come with us! Raise your son yourself!”

“I cannot!” Vannis exclaimed in a tortured whisper.

He rose, and strode through the ranks of his five hundred, unable to acknowledge the homage he held them inside for, the witnessing of the declaration of the heir. He was blind, unable to mask his pain.

Behind him, after a moment of intense silence, Mantra called out, “Grandfather!”

When the councillor entered, never far from his Vallorin even now, she said, her voice hoarse and broken, “I am coming with you, Grandfather.” In there was steel, quiet resolution.

Vannis flinched and continued walking.

The four thousand Valleur who settled on Valaris brought with them the Ancient Oracles, in which was recorded all the spells, enchantments, and glamours learned over aeons.

They further contained the truths and wisdoms of their mind talents, and were as well the history of worlds and migrations. The Oracles were the Valleur’s one true treasure.

It was from these works the young were instructed, where the forgetful refreshed their memories, and it was the one place where one could lose oneself in ancient ways, myths and realities.

At the time of separation, it was deemed the Oracles should remain in the present universe, it being of ancient time.

Now, at the second separation, it was once more put forth that they remain, even if the last Valleur in the universe passed away.

Beyond, the new Oracles were written; scholars and scribes employed those mind talents to record the ancient tomes verbatim, faithfully symbol for symbol. Leaving the Ancient volumes, left the Valleur history, their being, in the universe it belonged in, and, perhaps, long into the future, others would know them again from the lost works.

The Ruby of Entrances Vannis fashioned for the Navigator was considered too valuable a tool to remove from Valaris. It functioned for the sites on this world. It would be well hidden, as would the Oracles.

There was one tool missing.

Vannis stood before his gathered twelve thousand.

They sat in a natural amphitheatre formed by the surrounding slopes, covered with ancient trees, not far from the Palace. It was an inspiring place, the site of celebratory gatherings. The final sunset before the sunrise that would bear witness to exodus blazed overhead.

“Valleur! Hear me for the last time. I, and my five hundred, have come to bid you farewell; go well into the future, and take care of my queen and my son.” Vannis drew breath and released it. “Remember us to him, so he may know only truth. Know his father has recognised him, and he is loved by those who remain.”

He drew another breath and forced himself on. “We are not long for this world. It sounds as if we have accepted we shall lose this war, and I tell you now, we have. It may take two days or a hundred years, but our fate is sealed. We shall fight nonetheless. When you have left in the morning …” Vannis stopped. It was silent in the bowl. “After you are gone, the skies will be closed to further invasion. No other ship will land, but it is already too late. They are too many.”

Two additional ships had landed; one hundred and thirty thousand humans had invaded Valaris.

There was more silence. They could not understand why their Vallorin could not turn away from confrontation and make a new life with his wife and son beyond the Rift.

To that, Vannis spoke next.

“You wonder why we do not abandon it and come with you.” His voice was soft; they had to strain to hear. “I cannot speak for one member of my five hundred, but for myself I say this; I shall not run from anyone, especially not a human. I made my father a promise, nay, an oath, when I cradled his lifeless body in my arms, that I would die rather than surrender. Most of you made similar vows, and coming to Valaris to discover serenity for a too brief a time, did not render them void, for we never left this universe!” His voice rose and the soon-to-be exiles were ashamed. “Those who made no such vows were born here, and see Valaris as their birthright!”

Vannis’ tone returned to a level pitch. “We shall not run. We shall be seen as cruel aggressors, and indeed, we are the villains in this war. So be it.” Then he laughed, a terrible sound. “But when the last of us falls, they will mill in confusion! They will not remember why they fight, who their enemy was, for the last to fall takes with him or her all memory of our people, our name, our history, and we shall be no more! We shall be forgotten! The Arcana will take the last of us into forgetfulness.”

Quiet then, he surveyed the crowd. The seriousness of what he was about came home to them. That, more than anything else, was why no Valleur could return to Valaris.

“Do not be shocked, Valleur. It is my final duty to protect the Rift. The Oracles and Ruby will be hidden until some future time. Are we not paradoxical; in leaving something, we yet ensure a heritage, hope someone will want to know and remember, but then, after all, we are the Valleur.”

A few smiles, but it was half-hearted.

Vannis said, “Leave your guilt here, my people, and go unencumbered to the beyond. We hold not one of you in contempt.” It was a gesture, and they knew it.

Turning to Mantra seated beside him, he raised her to stand. “I have a gift I would bequeath my son, Mantra. I fashioned it shortly after our marriage, in anticipation of our baby.” Her ashen face told him how much that hurt. “Who knew, my dear?” he whispered, and straightened to face the gathered. “It has been enchanted now to cleave through time and space, to go from me to my son wherever he may be, upon my death.”

Mantra made a choking sound.

“I shall keep it around my neck, against my body, until the end, so that he may know how his father breathed his last.”

From beneath his white robe he pulled a gold Medaillon. It dangled from an intricately woven silver chain and the medal had carved into it hundreds of tiny Valleur glyphs. It was a device of power.

“Do not touch it, my dear,” he said. “It will burn. It has been cast for one person and upon my death, our son will have the power to command it. Explain to him what it is when it arrives one day out of the ether.”

Mantra began to cry. “I will know that you are dead.”

“I know, but therein is a kind of peace also. Closure.”

“No!” The word tore from her.

“Mantra, I may not have loved you as I should, but I do love you. Don’t cry; I should like to remember your smile.” He cupped her face, letting the Medaillon fall against his chest. His eyes were pale blue. They would remain that way until the onset of war.

“You are beautiful, my Lord Vallorin, particularly when your eyes are thus. I do not think there is one more beautiful in the entire universe.” She touched his face, her eyes filled with longing. He pulled her into his arms, his eyes bright with tears.

Then, holding her, he raised his voice to the gathered. “The Medaillon is called Maghdim, ‘supreme wisdom’. When my son receives it, you will know it is done here. Medaillon or not, help him achieve wisdom. He will be a good ruler and, as of the coming daybreak, he is your Vallorin. Know he requires no passing ceremony to prove his claim, for you are the witnesses to it, and you will go forth and tell our brethren beyond.”

Vannis released Mantra to raise his arms high.

“Receive him now!”

The gathered knelt and pressed their foreheads to the damp earth. Firelight flickered over their bent backs. The sun had set and for those on their knees it was a tearing loss, their last glimpse of the glories in the skies of Valaris before night fell.

His five hundred remained standing. Vannis was their Vallorin.

“These are exceptional times, thus has my son’s name been scried before birth,” Vannis declared. “Welcome now Nemis! He is your ‘New Beginning’!” He roared it as an acclamation.

In one voice, the kneeling Valleur whispered, spoke and then shouted, “We welcome our Lord Vallorin, Nemis, son of Vannis, as our Protector, Father and Son of the Valleur, Ruler until death!” It was death or the passing on to the heir that proclaimed a new Vallorin, but an abdicated Vallorin never lost his status, thus the welcome until death spoke a truth.

Mantra stepped forward as the people rose once more. “Nemis has been thrice welcomed. On his behalf, I thank you.” When she moved to leave, to get away, to cry in a dark corner, her husband caught her arm.

“Wait,” he whispered. He stood a moment quiet before the gathered. “It is done. Go now. May all that is good speed you on your way. Farewell, my Valleur.” His voice broke, and he stood clutching Mantra’s arm as to the last each filed past, each with a word, or a touch, a bow, a silent meeting of grief-filled eyes, a benediction. It took a long time, most of the night, and Mantra stood in silent support, aware of his tension, the tight rein he had on his emotions.

They were alone.

Vannis’ eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted.

“Vannis, what of the Dragon?”

He looked at her, frowning concentration. “Dragon? I cannot say. He is unborn; perhaps when he comes of age the Elders will do the ceremony.”

“It does not matter now. What will be, will be. I have final matters to attend to. I should go. Dawn is near,” she whispered, holding on, a small smile trying bravely to eclipse tears.

He wanted to remember her smile, not her tears, but her eyes were liquid, pain-filled.

His blue eyes flickered subtle hints of green. “No, my wife. Your family will ensure all is ready. I would spend what remains of this terrible night with you …”

His eyes flared bright green, and with a low moan she reached for him, and he for her.

Review: A Memory of Light (Wheel of Time 14) by Brandon Sanderson and Robert Jordan

A Memory of Light by Robert Jordan
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Well, burn me, this is a flaming good book! I’ve been following Rand, Perrin and Mat’s journeys for years, and I admit I dragged my heels in starting this, the final book in an epic series. I didn’t want it to end; just knowing the final book still awaited was enough … for a while. Then I HAD to. What happens? Does Rand al’Thor live or die after confronting the Dark One at Shayol Gul in the Last Battle??? (Don’t worry, I won’t give it away!)

This is indeed a book about battles, all-out war, and everyone plays a role. From our boys to Egwene, Elayne, Ahvienda and Min, to Faile, Logain, Tuon, the Aes Sedai and many others. This is a BATTLE indeed (just a pity it’s the LAST one).

Brilliant. Mr Sanderson ends off Robert Jordan’s mighty tale well! Right. Now to let this stew for a while, and then it will be time to start the Wheel of Time all over again …


View all my reviews

Semicolon

Infinity: Chpt 31 - The Navigator

Chapter 31

Do not rely on the future to solve problems.

Look to this day.

What did our nomadic existence teach us?

Only that we are restless by nature.

~ Ancient Oracles

Two thousand years after the remaining Valleur settled on Valaris, a scant three years after the completion of Mantra’s palace, Vannis awakened from deep sleep in the dead of night.

A high-pitched, screaming whine grew ever louder and closer to reach intensity directly overhead, before gradually disappearing into the north.

Pounding barefooted to open windows, Vannis looked up into the night sky to see the vanishing taillights of a human starship; he did not need to see it, the sound was permanently etched into memory and had not changed a whit in two millennia.

He was not alone in looking out. From every window in the Palace, every doorway, faces craned to the heavens. Then they looked to each other, faces pale and anxious, before turning to their Vallorin’s window, to see him standing there, still, as if carved from stone.

Even those furthest away could see the unmistakable darkening of his eyes. Dread set in among the watchers.

Mantra ran into the chamber behind him, yellow eyes wild, gripping a silk wrap with nervous fingers. “Vannis! My Lord! What was that sound? What is happening?”

When he did not answer, she approached, laid a hand on his arm, seeking to turn him to face her. She gasped and snatched her hand away when she realised how rigid he was, how cold.

“Please, my husband,” she begged. “What is the matter?”

He faced her, expressionless. She reeled back at the sight of his black eyes. She heard they could do that, in fury, but never had she seen it. She stumbled backward until she felt the bed bite her legs, sat down hard, hands clawing at the coverlet.

His beautiful voice rang out, projected for all to hear.

“I shall NOT allow this to happen again! This is OUR world! Prepare! Valleur, we are now on WAR watch!”

The listeners closed their eyes, and scuttled away to prepare. They knew what to do.

“Vannis, what is it?” Mantra asked.

Toning his voice to her ears alone, Vannis replied, “My queen. That was a human starship. They come to invade our world as they have done often elsewhere. With them, they bring the darak races, although they mean not to. Darklings prey on their fears, follow the easy targets. The humans will come in their numbers and continue coming until they leave nothing for the Valleur. Again. We shall lose all unless we stop them now. Ah, child, you are too young to know how destructive and selfish they can be, even unwittingly. Go now to your chambers, we shall talk later. I have matters I must attend to without delay.”

His reasonable tone allayed her fears, although his words caused her to shiver. She rose, moved towards him, needing to impart comfort, diffuse anger, but he shook his head.

“Nay, lady, go. There is no softness in me tonight. Go now.”

He watched her leave through the side door, and strode across to fling the passage door wide, calling on his councillors to gather in the Throne-room.

Two days later the scouts returned, looking solemn.

Ushered to the Throne without delay, they reported they found the ship, that it crashed, and there was one survivor.

“We brought him back, Lord Vallorin, assuming you would want to question him.” Rather than kill him, was the unspoken thought.

Vannis nodded and the man was brought before him.

His skin was pale from long space travel, his clothes torn remnants of a blue coverall. His hair was fair, his eyes a weary blue and he was scratched and bruised, some of it due to rough handling.

His face was dirty with dried blood, streaks of oil and mud.

Swaying, he stood before the exotic Vannis, his lips cracked.

“Who are you?” Vannis barked in the common tongue.

The man was too exhausted to feel fear or wonder. “Navigator Paul Sheffield, sir.”

“Where do you come from? This world is far removed from standard flight plans.”

Blinking then in surprise, Sheffield answered, “We came from Beacon originally. Ours was a pathfinder, sent out to disc…”

Vannis interrupted, “Yes, we know what you are to discover. Did you send these co-ordinates back to your homeworld? Or … wait. Your sister-ship?”

Pathfinders always travelled in pairs.

Realising the danger, Sheffield said no more.

“Answer!” shouted the chief councillor, Mantra’s grandfather.

“There was no time,” Sheffield said.

Vannis rose and descended from the dais to the floor, and strode to the man. “Liar!” he spat. “We are now on war footing! If you value the lives of your compatriots, I suggest you tell the truth or, so help me, we shall blow them out of the sky!”

Vannis was not someone to be fooled with and Sheffield saw the greater danger lay in lying. “Yes, they know we crashed, and where.”

“How long?”

“Perhaps four days.”

“Take him away. Feed him, clothe him, we may need him,” Vannis commanded and turned away with a curt nod at one of the guards. “Do not harm him further,” he added as an afterthought.

Two guards gripped the man, who struggled. “Wait, wait,” he called out.

Vannis stayed the grasping hands.

Sheffield shook himself free.

“Yes?” Vannis barked.

“Who are you and what do you call this world?”

“We are the Valleur, and you have trespassed on Valaris, human.”

“How do you know my language?”

“How?” Vannis snorted.

Sheffield immediately sensed general smirking in the strange gem-studded chamber. A dangerous man, this. He forced his eyes to remain on the leader.

Vannis answered, “I have lived a long time and I have fought your kind. You have forgotten us, out there, and that was the plan. I speak your despised language, human, because I have killed so many of you.”

The conversational tone made his words chilling, and the hairs in the back of Sheffield’s neck rose.

“Take him away,” Vannis said, waving with distaste.

They brought the human to the Vallorin after the evening meal, upon his request.

Vannis sent Mantra to her chambers and awaited Sheffield in the comfort of his. Four days! What could he do to save his world in four days?

His courtiers fed and clothed the man as ordered, even allowing him to bathe. When they brought him he was dressed in a long, flowing robe, red, which made the man’s pallor more pronounced. Vannis was sure it was deliberate and hid an amused smile.

Sheffield’s hair was short and neatly combed away from his face. An honest face. Average. The kind that would never exude danger. Danger lay in the intent of his mission.

Vannis waved him to a floor cushion on the other side of the low table and nodded at the man’s gaolers to leave them. They took up position in the passage, closing the door.

“Do not entertain thoughts of escape. A friendly warning. You are tagged and can be found with a mere thought.” Vannis waited until Sheffield was comfortable, and asked, “Paul Sheffield, right? What does that mean?” He indicated the decanter on the table between them. An empty glass stood before the human.

“I’m sorry, sir, I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” Sheffield replied. He ignored the decanter, although the amber liquid was appealing. He wondered what it was.

“I am not called ‘sir’, human. You call me Lord Vallorin, nothing else. I want to know what your name means.” Vannis watched the man through narrowed eyes. Tonight his eyes were yellow, through sheer will.

“It’s just a name.”

Vannis loosed a wolfish grin that sent a shiver down Sheffield’s spine. “Ah, you are wrong. There is no such entity as ‘just a name’. When you are born, a name is given you, gifted you, to take you into life’s journeys. It is your identity. It must have meaning or you yourself are worthless. A mother who calls her son ‘boy’ is telling him he means nothing to her. I am ‘exotic creation’ and it fits like the glove that holds my favourite eagle. My wife is ‘shining lights’ and a truer truth there never has been.”

Sheffield turned his eyes into the yellow ones. “What happens if your name does not fit you?”

“It rarely happens in our culture. We scry the future of a newborn before a name is given. If it does happen, usually the man or woman seeks permission for lawful change, and the old one is struck off the records, right back to birth. Your people do not attach significance to the naming process?”

Shaking his head, Sheffield said, “Not in the sense you do. Our names, our first names more often, have a meaning. Anthropologically. I have no idea where ‘Paul’ comes from, although famous people have carried it. Lord Vallorin, surely I’m not here to discuss my name?”

“We shall speak of whatever I will, human,” Vannis responded, his lips tightening.

“I’m not called ‘human’, Lord Vallorin; I am Paul Sheffield, or Navigator, plain Paul, or just Sheffield. Do not demean my race by using the term as you would to call your mongrel.”

Vannis’ eyes darkened imperceptibly and lightened again. He burst out laughing. “Well put! You are not a coward - how refreshing! I do apologise, and I believe I like ‘Navigator’ best. It has meaning. Come, drink up, Navigator! It is sweet wine distilled from the blossoms of our peach orchards and the solẻ hedges surrounding our rose gardens.” Vannis lifted the decanter to refill his own glass, and placed it within reach of Sheffield. “Difficult to make, and therefore a rare pleasure to enjoy.”

The Navigator poured a glass and was pleasantly surprised by the mild, sweet taste. It was low in alcohol, meant for taste, not drunkenness.

Vannis raised his glass. “Your health, Navigator. May your assistance in the coming days ensure your continued longevity.”

Sheffield set his glass on the table. “What do you mean?”

“I think you have the gist of it. I do not want intruders on my world, I do not want them to land, and I want you to tell me how to prevent them entering Valaris airspace. I do not want them to return, ever. If you do this, you will live, and be free to move around my planet as you desire, with no restrictions. On this you have my word. If you do not, I shall blow your friends out of the sky without a second thought, without conscience or regret, and when you have seen it happen, you will tell me how to prevent future landings. You will be allowed to live, but within the confines of my Palace only, under constant guard. That is no way to live, I believe. That is what I mean.”

They stared at each other for long moments. “You have weapons that can do that? Blow them out of the sky?”

“I like that you are a man who does not enter blindly into an agreement, and thus I shall answer truthfully. No, the Valleur have no weapons such as you imagine. We do it differently. I shall show you, for actions sometimes speak louder than words, not so? Come with me; I cannot afford to terrify the entire Palace.”

Rising in one fluid movement, Vannis strode to the door, his long white robe swaying open. Under it he wore a simple loincloth, his feet bare. His long golden hair quivered like a legendary creature of beauty when he wrenched the door wide.

He was not prepared to wait that single second for a servant to open the way for him.

Sheffield followed, a knot of fear tightening his gut. However civilized these Valleur appeared, and they were if their buildings were anything to go by, and their leader’s sharp intelligence, they were dangerous, barbaric in their forthrightness, and not to be trusted.

Vannis led Sheffield and a single guard down the stairs, through the circular Throne-room, and out into the Palace gardens.

Small knots of Valleur were gathered in the Throne-room, but one look from their Vallorin and they knew to curb their curiosity. The older among them remembered the vengeful Vannis of before Valaris.

The night air was still, and perfumed by many flowers and ripe fruit from nearby orchards. The moon approached full and its light shone blue onto the slumbering land.

Sheffield paused to gaze around him in awe. What a beautiful world. He glanced over his shoulder at the massive Palace, a place of light, the blue shine glinting off countless windows. He wondered how old it was and in that moment also he understood.

I would fight for this, he thought. We are not so different.

The guard prodded him forward. Vannis walked on thoughtfully. He sensed the Navigator’s thought - he was not a mind reader, merely a student of people - and the thought gave him pause. He had thought it himself. Not about the fighting, that was a given, but as to being not so different.

Two factors set Valleur and human apart, he mused. The length of our years, and sorcery. In most other matters we are brothers. We should be able to live together … why can we not?

Not far off, there was a hill, atop which stood a small building, clearly visible in the moonlight, and Vannis pointed to it. “Yonder is an old sentry-post that has fallen into disrepair the last thousand years or so. I have been meaning to take it down.”

And I grew lax, let this come to us again. We cannot live together for the Valleur think for the future while the humans live only in the present. Like rats, they should be exterminated.

Sharing a look between Vannis and the hut, Sheffield nodded.

“I am unarmed, Navigator.” To emphasize his point, Vannis held his robe wide.

Sheffield fixated on the intricate dragon tattoo. He shivered, for he could swear the creature looked at him.

“Eyes up, Navigator. We do not commonly carry weapons, although I do have a sword I treasure. I have not wielded it for some time, though,” Vannis said. “Now watch the building.”

As Sheffield shifted his gaze that way, the hut exploded in a fierce white glare, quickly extinguished. Stones rained down the hill on all sides. Gasping, he faced Vannis. He had not taken his eyes from the Navigator.

“How did you do that?”

“Like this.” Vannis stood unmoving, but Sheffield grabbed at his heart as it erupted in spasms of agony.

As suddenly, the pain left him. He stood still, breathing heavily, his eyes wide.

“With thought, Navigator, The Valleur are sorcerers, all of us, even the young. I can travel to your world, Beacon, and I can do it right now, using purely my will, and I shall arrive there in an instant, unscathed. That is no idle boast; it is how we travel. We have been doing so for … ah, but you cannot possibly comprehend that kind of time. Look at me, Navigator. We shall blow them away the moment we sense them. Lucky for you, we grew careless in our vigilance, but never again. If you deflect them, if you can do so, I suggest you do. If they spread the word there is nothing here, we gain more than by simply killing them. It is the better option, for both of us, but do not for a moment think I aim to let them go if they find this world and believe it good for human settlement. Your choice. Now, enough. It is cold out. We shall talk tomorrow.”

Vannis made his way indoors, leaving the human to stare after him, clutching his heart, now to still the frantic beating.

The sister pathfinder made its way to Valaris six days later.

Sheffield was taken to the crash site, where, after being allowed to bury his companions, seven in all, he monitored the one still-functioning screen.

The Valleur stood at a respectful distance after assisting in the digging of graves, and he was thankful. Not such a barbaric people, he concluded. In fact, a highly advanced race, as he saw when nimble fingers flew over keyboards in the mangled ship. They extracted the information they could find, thereafter destroying all systems but for the one he needed.

We are the barbarians, he mused. We rely on computers, gadgets, and metal cages in the sky; they have long surpassed us. They are so far ahead we may never catch up.

When Sheffield noticed the pathfinder, a blip on his screen moving steadily closer, he radioed until they answered. Almost he wanted to shout he was a prisoner, please help me, but the unconcern of the Valleur present made that impossible.

They did not consider he would shout for help and they were right. That would make him a monster, a murderer, and he could not live with that. He saw sympathy in their eyes, and that, more than the threat to the pathfinder, was the real factor that decided him.

No, never barbarians, not these people.

His plan was simple, and if it worked and the pathfinder left, the Valleur would keep their promise. It would be allowed to leave, and that was worth more than possible rescue.

He told them of the crash, that he was the only survivor, and it was nothing but truth, his voice breaking as he did so. He further told them the atmosphere contained dangerous levels of radioactivity, the insidious kind that would not show up on probe monitors, that he was too close to death to warrant a rescue attempt.

Please hear me, he thought, for I do not want your deaths on my conscience.

He told them to call off future missions to this world; it would be millennia before the air was stable. He sent them doctored data to confirm his claims. He begged them to stay clear, his voice hoarse with effort, telling them he did not want their imminent deaths to be his final thought. That much, at least, was true, and surely they heard the sincerity in his voice? Before he cut the transmission, he told them to tell his wife and daughter that he loved them.

Shaking with silent, unashamed sobs, he said no more. He hoped, he prayed they would turn around.

The Valleur retreated well away after that, one laying a silent hand of sympathy on his shoulder before moving to give him privacy.

There was no more to be said; the Navigator had done what he could.

His world narrowed to that tiny blip on his screen, his final contact with his kind. He stared at it, unmoving, the tears drying in streaks on his face, and prayed.

They stayed for six long and agonizing hours, trying repeatedly to raise him, he heard them, heard someone cry in the background, had to be Sally, his sister-in-law, and cried with her, hands clenched in his lap.

Eventually he heard the tearful farewells through tinny speakers, a final goodbye to someone they thought already dead and, blessedly, the blip retreated to vanish ever faster off the screen.

He crashed his fist into it, stood up screaming his grief, and ran, anywhere, to come to terms with the finality of his situation, to cope with the raw pain. He would never see his family again. He was alone on this beautiful, barbed world with a bunch of tyrants.

The Valleur let him go. They knew what it was like to lose everything. They set about systematically removing all evidence of the crash.

The pathfinder did not return.

Sheffield lived out his years in the freedom he was promised.

He roamed the land, doing so with abandon. He grew to love the land and the variety of creatures, but, although he had occasion to smile, he never laughed.

After, Mantra remarked she wished she could have heard him laugh, just once, for she was sure it would have been a glorious sound.

It seemed he had a death wish, for he put himself in extreme situations, mountain climbing, cliff scaling, braving rapids in a paper-thin canoe he fashioned himself; so brave, so full of life, to laugh would have made it all right. It was never all right.

He died eventually in an avalanche in the far north during winter, alone, as he would have preferred. They found his body and stood over it, saddened by the peace on his face, present, at last, in death. He was only forty, a young man old when he lost hope.

Vannis and Mantra, all the Valleur, grew to love him, but could only stand by and watch as he put himself in harm’s way. It was his choice, and they understood.

During Sheffield’s time, Vannis fashioned the Ruby of Entrances. He made it for the human to visit the sacred sites easily, for he had no need to withhold anything from the Navigator.

After a time he wanted to share his thoughts, his world and his people with the man, finding in him a lonely soul and a brother much like himself. His delight at Sheffield’s wonder caused his eyes to flash deep amber, and the man’s smile was a gift direct to Vannis’ soul.

He took the Navigator with him whenever the man was near, showed him Valaris’ many wonders, and when court business drew him in, Sheffield used the Ruby to transfer to places, from where he would leave on his death-defying adventures.

Vannis’ instinctive hatred of the humans disappeared; he learned to understand their psyche. They too attempted to carve out their niche in the universe, as the Valleur had to. He understood them finally. Need drove them to annex what would sustain them.

As the Sagorin did with Glorium, as the darklings did with their foul-air planets. As the Valleur did recently with Valaris. It was a pity Valleur and human needed exactly, exactly, the same spaces.

When Sheffield died, alone, Vannis’ eyes were blue for a long time.

He, in the end, called the Navigator friend.

Infinity: Chpt 30 - Blue Jewel World

The mission is underway and you now understand there is a king (the Vallorin Vannis) about to arise. This was the dara-witch Infinity's plan from the beginning, to unleash Vannis on the people of Valaris. But who is he? Who are the Valleur? Why should Valarians (the humans of Valaris) fear his return? What will the sacred sites' renewed engender?

Find out in Part II! For a few brief chapters we now go back in time to get to know Vannis, Vallorin of the Valleur.

Part II

ARCANA

Chapter 30

The Valleur are nomadic; it is time to set down enduring roots.

~ Ancient Oracles

In the beginning, if there is a beginning, Mother Universe was empty and lonely; thus, children were born for her enjoyment, and her grief.

This is the nature of sentience.

One day, in the forgotten mists of pre-ancient time, before time was understood and measured in the manner of the present, a being was born of the Mother.

He was not alone, for the Mother, the Goddess as she would be known, created siblings of both sexes, and cousins for each, and more, and life began in the universe. Golden of skin and hair, their eyes a wondrous yellow, colours of light; they were the lumin kindred.

They were first, and they were alone in vast spaces for an extraordinarily long time. The golden ones developed their minds and abilities and exploited every talent, thus becoming the first sorcerers.

Naturally, Mother Universe did not begin and end with them. Other sentients evolved elsewhere, but were still in infancy, learning to walk upright, talk and light fires, when the Golden were already ancient. In striding unchallenged across time and space arrogance was born. Thus it is written for every race, and thus it will ever be.

They were the Valleur.

The Valleur were great builders and academics, and natural sorcerers.

Employing these three passions, they erected buildings of great beauty, unparalleled grace and unequalled artistry. On many worlds these edifices stand in testimony to a vanished race, impervious to time.

Humankind, the Valleur’s eventual nemesis, was not the only evolving species at the time of Valleur mastery. Humans arrived last, if in far greater numbers.

The green giants, the Sagorin, were growing up, but were fledglings when the Siric took to the skies. The Siric were both good and evil, and fought numerous battles. It might not be that far-fetched to conclude their space spectacles drew the Valleur, and from them they learned to distinguish between what is good and what is evil.

Perhaps, in witnessing real war and death, thoughts went to their own long-term survival. The first steps to protection were engendered by what they witnessed.

Other creatures also evolved. Sentient, fierce and bloodthirsty, devouring all in their path. It does not require super intelligence to realise one must, with all one’s will and power, protect from these.

The Valleur’s universe was slowly eroded and they fought back.

The Siric were too engaged in civil battles to pay attention to the Valleur; they, in turn, were left to their own devices. It was hoped the winged ones would annihilate each other, which nearly did come to pass.

The darklings of all persuasions, however, felt the Valleur sting.

All this could have been dealt with and accepted in the fullness of time, but they were truly no longer alone. The Sagorin settled a far-flung planet where the Valleur mined the rare amber quartz that graced many buildings.

Perceived darak forces everywhere, in many guises.

They turned their eyes on the Sagorin, but found them accommodating and friendly and left them in peace. When they required the quartz, they were welcome to it. After the Sagorin were nearly destroyed, unbeknownst to them, the Valleur assisted in the destruction of the evil beings that brought doom upon a gentle race. The real essence of the Golden was not subverted.

Humans invaded their choicest worlds. While countering darkling threats, the Valleur focused to the humans, the plague of countless worlds. They could not co-habit. Humans are arrogant, were then and will ever be. It could only end in disaster.

The Valleur deeds were terrible and merciless, all in a cause they fanatically believed in. War was brought to humankind everywhere.

On two fronts they fought, ideologically. Humans and darklings. On many fronts, practically. If only Valleur and human could have stood together to rid Mother Universe of the latter evil. It was not to be, two arrogant races were on a collision course, and neither would back down.

The darklings thrived.

Despite their magical powers, incredible abilities and gifts, the Valleur lost ground. It was as simple as numbers. They lived long and bred less. The old was making way for the new by dint of numbers alone, and it was unacceptable. War intensified.

Then came the time new sanity prevailed. Those among the Valleur weary of constant war put forth an alternative. They spoke of a Rift between two dimensions. If they succeeded, they could go where they again would be masters, unchallenged. It found favour among the majority.

They did their homework, experimented, and chose, successfully, an empty realm. Using their combined sorcery - for it was an awesome feat depleting individual power in minutes - they opened the Rift. The Valleur left.

The war ended with no one left to fight it. Humanity everywhere was amazed.

Was that the end?

No.

The last Vallorin of the known universe refused to leave. This was his realm, his birthright, and he desired one final opportunity to re-take it.

He discovered a blue planet with no resident sentient life, and desired to settle there, far removed from populous centres. It was a Siric creation, but as envisioned, the Siric ceased being a threat.

A backwater, those who left argued, but he did not care. In a sense it was, but it was also paradise, unspoilt, a home to erect the final buildings the Valleur would conceive of, sites that would become sacred in a variety of ways.

They could grow anew, learn different talents, plan for the future and become strong enough to make the universe theirs … one day.

Four thousand came to their new world; the Vallorin, his entourage, his followers. Not enough to war with, but they had time. The sane ones warned the circle would close again, humans would find the world, desire it, and four thousand would be too few to stop them.

He was their Vallorin, however, and it was death to deny him in those times.

The Arcana legend was born to protect the Rift.

The blue planet was named Valaris.

The thread seen in the future began at this point, although the actual tool of magic would only come later. It, too, would reach back into time and make an eternal connection.

The last Vallorin retired to blissfully deserted and undiscovered Valaris. He built beautiful buildings, sacred sites in tribute to those abandoned to others over the ages, and in memory of those who left. He had with him the Oracles, the Valleur history of all, written and added to over countless aeons in their native tongue.

The tools of magic he would fashion later, for reasons more personal.

Something so long absent it was novel, came then - peace. Lumin times returned, and life was surpassingly good.

The Vallorin was content. A backwater was not so bad. Thoughts of war, invasion, and death to the plague, all these petered away. Peace found him, and he embraced it.

His name, Vannis.

In the language of the Valleur, Vannis translates as ‘exotic creation’. He was that. Six feet tall, athletic of build, smooth, golden skin, he was a sight to behold. He had that something to set him immediately apart.

Perhaps it was his strength, evident even as he walked, or the grace with which he moved, like a dancer, a predator, unheard until he made his presence known. His eyes were Valleur yellow, but he was also gifted changeability. It was not unheard of, but certainly rare, and to him came a greater range than to any other in the past.

When angry, his eyes would darken into deep violet or lightless black, depending on the degree of his anger. When happy, they would transform like magic into rich amber. All his subjects knew how to gauge his moods from those exotic orbs; he could not hide from them.

Vannis walked alone. He created his own fulfilment, his own recreation, and was happiest in his own company. He sated sexual needs with courtesans.

Emotionally uninvolved, his eyes in later years were generally yellow.

The Valleur lived long, and extended even that using their gifs of sorcery.

More correct, sorcery prolonged life, it being a facet of magic. When the war for Valleur supremacy began, Vannis’ grandfather was Vallorin, when renewed effort against humans commenced, his father Nishen was Vallorin and Vannis a young, untried warrior. In those three generations lay many generations of humans.

Nishen knew his son would make a great ruler after him, perhaps the greatest in their history. He was not wrong, but he was afraid of the evil corrupting existence, creeping into fanatical freedom fighters.

Sending his son off to war was a difficult decision. He preferred to keep Vannis away from negative influences, but knew his people would not accept Vannis as ruler if he had not endured the terror of battle at their sides.

When he sent for his son and granted his blessing to war, his heart grew heavy at the sight of blazing amber eyes. If he could have warned and been heard, he would have said war was a demoralising, soul-destroying nightmare, one that never released, not even long after the final battle was fought. The young do not hear, nor do they want to.

Hugging his son a last time, Nishen was gratified to see Vannis’ eyes glimmer a pale blue. Father and son were close and would miss each other.

Years later, upon hearing of the destruction of his father’s palace, his father asleep in his chambers, Vannis railed and raged against the cowards who came in the night.

Humans fought a technological war with weapons of mass destruction. Given that and their sheer numbers, Valleur sorcery could not ultimately succeed.

Vannis’ eyes went black the night his father was murdered, and stayed that way for millennia, and against all odds he continued the war. He became a cold-blooded killer, learned true hatred, anger and battle lust during that time; everything his father desired to protect him from.

When the majority of his subjects chose to exit this realm, he bowed to the inevitable. He loved them well. He knew what war did to him, and knew what it did to his people. They faced extinction in the worst way conceivable. Out of love, in a desire for a future, even if it meant elsewhere, something for him akin to death, he gave his blessing. He assisted in opening the Rift and was the last to turn away once it was sealed.

Valaris, the blue jewel, saved him from self-destruction. He had no heir; how would his people manage, leaderless? Upon laying eyes on the pristine planet, those black eyes shifted to violet for the first time in a long while. Here was a world to rebuild his race and renew his heritage. Here he could take a wife of good blood and watch his sons grow.

He put aside thoughts of war to create a home worthy of his heirs. He built a great palace, libraries, gathering places, temples and towers, pyramids, gardens and waterways, and slowly his eyes reverted to their natural yellow. His golden hair he allowed to grow long. It would be shaved again only for battle, as was tradition.

That auspicious morning when he awakened with clear, untroubled yellow eyes and went down to the Throne, his people rejoiced. All thought of war left. Temporary became permanent.

His chief councillor deemed his beloved ruler ready. He brought his granddaughter to the Palace for the first time. She was born after settlement and knew nothing of an ugly life. She was young and lovely, and her obvious delight at being at court, her sunny disposition, her boundless energy, her naivety, soon caused Vannis to laugh. On the day he laughed uproariously for the first time, he released the past to look only ahead.

He wed Mantra. She made him happy and made him laugh. Making love to her was a gentle affair that gave him pleasure, and her, although she knew it was more out of respect and liking than true love. In those early days it was enough for both of them.

For her he built a palace in the foothills of the Hills of Man, so named because of their diminutive size, and it was a beautiful, airy place in white quartz.

From afar, the sun by day, the moon by night, lit its walls like a beacon to weary travellers. Comprising many courtyards and fountains and magical alcoves, its main attraction lay in the central courtyard. Laid out in sixty-four squares of alternate black and white, it was a giant chessboard. Queen Mantra’s one consuming passion was chess, and she gathered friends, family, and courtiers to play at bishops, knights, rooks and pawns. Vannis seldom played. He already had a lifetime of strategy.

The man with the exotic eyes had come home, by choice.

The only blemish in an otherwise idyllic life was, sadly, Mantra did not conceive.