Chapter 1: The Sleeper Sword

 

The Sleeper is Awake

 

Two thousand years have passed since the epic explosion in what is now called the Black Valley. Torrullin is in the invisible realms and the Darak Or is with him, and the universe enjoys a time of unprecedented peace.

A new threat rises on the cursed horizon.

It is time for the Sleeper Sword to awaken.

Ready to return to Valaris, Torrullin cannot exit the otherworld without aid. Samuel is his kinsman, his fate forged to the greatest sorcerer the cosmos has ever known. He swears to hold his hand out to Torrullin, to aid him home.

The old players gather for a renewal of the fateful games. This time the duel between a father and son will wound many, including Valla kin. Torrullin needs to build a relationship with his grandson Tannil, save Fay from hell, rescue Saska from captivity, and find the means to end Tymall. Their contest will reverberate through the spaces.

In an endless adventure of urgency and drama, the on-going saga of Torrullin’s role as saviour is as a sharp as the sword he reclaims and as blunt as his acerbic tongue. Wherever he goes someone will be hurt. To love him is to be ruined, to hate him is to be ruined.

Perhaps true catharsis lies in the realm of dreams.

Chapter 1

 

Even after all has changed, time has a way of bringing forth the familiar. One day you look around you and remark, “Nothing has changed.”

~ Book of Sages

 

 

Valaris

Western Isles

Valla Island

 

“AND WHAT DOES this say, Aunt Fay?” The boy pointed at writing under a depiction of a sceptre.

Fay turned the book to see what caught his attention. “That, Teroux, is Minara’s Sceptre. He travelled much and desired it as proof of his status.”

“He was Vallorin?”

“Indeed, but not for long. The poor man caught a virus on an offworld visit and the Valleur healers did not know how to cure him.”

“That is sad,” the earnest boy whispered.

“It was a long time ago, and we found the virus after. Nobody was sick from it again. We now have an enchantment to arrest alien infections until a cure can be traced or manufactured.”

He nodded sagely. “We did that after the Plague of Torrke.”

“Yes, after that terrible time.”

“Why did he need proof of status? He was Vallorin.”

“Apparently, inquisitive one, he was unsure most of the time. His sceptre gave him authority inside.”

Teroux puckered his lips. His father was Vallorin, and he was not unsure inside. He drew breath to ask another question, but then his father entered, and all thoughts fled. He ran into those waiting arms.

“You were gone so long!”

Tannil squeezed him. “I missed you, too.” He kissed his son on the forehead before lowering him. “Find Kismet and see what I brought back for you.”

Squealing, Teroux charged out.

“You were indeed some time, brother. Problem?”

Tannil crossed the room to embrace Fay, and sat at the table. Drawing the book closer, he answered, “Nothing serious. We seem to have it cleared away.” He smiled at the image. “I take it Teroux asked about this?”

“Oh, yes.” Fay glanced at the books on the table. “He loves the Oracles.”

Her brother grimaced. “He studies them harder than I ever did.”

“You wanted to speak to me?” she asked, distracting him before the gloom of his heritage overcame him anew.

“Yes, Fay.”

“I will not like it, obviously.” She placed her pen on the table, put the letter she attempted to write amid Teroux’s questions face down over it, and folded her hands in her lap. “Tell me.”

He glanced sideways at her. “I have an offer for your hand.”

“Tannil, no. I shall marry where my heart lies.”

“You do not even know …”

“It does not matter, brother. I know I am not in love; thus I am not to wed.”

“Fine. I told him that. Luckily he was not offended.”

“Who?” she asked, curious despite her determination.

Tannil grinned. “Teighlar.”

“Are you completely insane? He is immortal!”

“You are to live a long time.”

“Unable to bear children, unless I have a liaison on the side.”

“Goddess, Fay!”

“Oh, quiet, I would like to be a mother and marrying an immortal will never allow that.” She rose and stood before the window to gaze into the ocean.

This side of the Palace hung out over the depths and white gulls swooped into view, diving from on high into the embrace of the water, erupting, almost without exception, with a fat fish. The sound of the ocean was muted, it was that far below, but the gulls were noisy.

She twitched the sash closed, dampening their never-ending screeches. “Why would the Emperor want to marry me?”

“He thought it would serve to bind the Senlu and Valleur closer.” Tannil, Vallorin of the Valleur, grinned again. “That is what he says, but I think he is rather taken with you.”

She snorted. “He has only seen me once.”

“No man forgets you, dear sister.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

Fay, short for Fayette, was golden glory akin to most Valleur, yet even among an attractive people she stood out. Her name meant Great Beauty, for she was that, and no man was immune. Suitors delivered marriage proposals daily and she denied them with a kind word or letter; she was busy with such a communication when her brother arrived.

Returning to the table, she stood behind Tannil to ruffle his hair. “You do not need to worry about me, my lord.”

He snorted and swatted her hand away. “Teroux will be an old man before you present him with a cousin.”

“But I shall, one day.” She sat. “Admittedly, the Senlu Emperor is a sexy man.”

A rap at the open door sounded and both looked to see their mother enter, and from behind an excited Teroux barrelled past. The boy jumped at his father, placing kisses all over his face. His grandmother looked on fondly.

“You like, Teroux?” his father ventured, laughing.

Teroux nodded, setting a-wobble golden ringlets, and sidled off his father’s lap. Breathless, he tugged Fay’s hand. “Come see, Aunt Fay! A pony!”

Fay allowed herself to be manipulated. The two vanished into the corridor.

 

 

“MOTHER.” TANNIL KISSED his mother’s smooth, perfumed cheek.

“Tannil, a pony?” Mitrill queried. “Where, son, shall we find the space?”

He laughed. “Kismet will work something out, and Teroux should be astride a horse already.” The latter was said with the constraints of an island existence in mind.

“Take him to Luvanor, as you were at that age.”

He grimaced. “I will miss him.”

“You spend much time there already. Teroux will probably see his father more.”

He knew she was right, but Valaris was their home. Then, spending time on Luvanor would broaden Teroux’s horizons, as it did for him. No islands there to confine him, continents of space, incredible diversity and an ancient history. The Valleur had been in these Western Isles too short a time for that kind of antiquity.

“I will think more on it.”

“You should consider moving everyone. As our space declines, families split apart - half here, half on Luvanor.”

He was surprised. She always advocated they remain on Valaris.

“I know what I said in the past. We have grown; soon we cannot sustain ourselves here. Ferrying supplies from Luvanor is impractical.” She approached the table. With deliberation she closed the open volumes of the Oracles. “I, and a few of the court, could remain here.”

Tannil had not expected to broach this subject upon his return, but he was not one to leave things unsaid either. “What does Caltian say?”

Mitrill looked up. “I have not spoken to my husband.”

He stared out of the window at the blue sky. Gulls flitted by with comforting regularity. “How long have you pondered this?”

“A while.” She sat, hands twisting in her lap. “Tannil, we must discuss this, and do so formally with the Elders. I am not advocating mass exile …”

“… but I should transfer my court to Luvanor.”

“It would be a practical choice.”

“I am loath to leave here. Three Valla men gave their lives for Valaris. My father died for the Enchanter, and why? Because the Enchanter loved this world.”

Mitrill shook her head. “Your father loved his father, Tannil, and their deaths were more than a sacrifice to a world. Both of them would prefer the Valleur live without hardship and tension, and if that is on Luvanor they would be the first to make it happen.”

Tannil rose. “Yet we exiled to these islands; you contradict yourself.” He ran a hand over a hefty tome. “You are right, space has become an issue. We shall have your formal discussion and I shall advocate the majority of our people move. Teighlar and I discussed this yesterday.” He looked up. “My court remains here. I shall divide my time between two worlds as I do now. I heard my grandfather speak to me, and I shall hark to his words until I am no longer Vallorin.”

His mother blinked. “You have never spoken of this.”

“You are Mitrill, one of the final few to speak with the Enchanter, and I was there. He recognised me and spoke to me. He asked that you take care of me and look out for his exiled people. He asked something else of me. I aim to remain on Valaris.”

Mitrill paled. “Will you tell me?”

Tannil enfolded his mother in his arms. Trebac glowed, for she was a trueblood Valla. “You loved him more than you let on, but I cannot tell you this.”

Usually self-possessed, mention of the Enchanter could send her into a dither of uncertainty.

“I will respect that,” she said, and stepped back. “You are a good son and you know me better than I suspect. I loved him, but not quite the way you think. I did not know him, for he kept me apart from himself and his sons, for my protection. It is the idea of him, the memory, the ideal he has become. Caltian knew him and spent time with him through all manner of strife, yet even my husband will admit to loving the ideal more today.”

“Why can you not say his name?”

She was silent for a moment. “He becomes too real, as if he is in the room with you, inhabiting your space. If I say his name, it is yesterday and he kneels before me, talking to my unborn son, recognising you in my womb. If I say his name, I feel again his lips on mine. Tannil, I enjoyed your father, but that one farewell kiss haunts me.”

She said more than intended, but Tannil already knew.

Mitrill left. Tannil watched her go. Many told him he took after his mother, had the same cleverness, and thus he felt he understood her. Although unborn at the time she spoke of, he was there and possessed clear memory of the event.

 

 

MITRILL DESCENDED to the Throne-room below. Unseeing, she crossed the vast space, blind to the simple, clean beauty of the white floor and walls. Then she halted and faced the ornate wooden chair opposite the massive doors. Her face twisted, seeing another seat, one of memory, and a single tear escaped.

“Torrullin,” she whispered.

 

 

THE VALLEUR RECALLED life to Torrke, but were unable to summon the Valleur Throne. The golden seat resisted all attempts. The resident magic of the valley had not returned either. After five hundred years of trying, stealthily as human hatred of Valleur intensified, they surrendered to the inevitable. The Throne and the valley’s ancient magic belonged to Torrullin. Only the Enchanter could recall them.

Thus they waited and watched the skies.

Two thousand years had passed.

THE SLEEPER SWORD