Our children
are sacrosanct.
Avaelyn the world returns to Reaume, that great collection of spaces tangible and intangible, after a thousand-year absence, but no one knows the home of Torrullin Valla and Elianas Danae again swerves in its designated place.
Avaelyn is enshrouded.
By
magic.
By
time.
By
manipulation.
How to rip aside the shroud?
On
Akhavar, meanwhile, Enlyl Valla lifts from the mud in the badlands an ancient
artefact, a sword created to protect children. The plight of Reaume’s children
is dire, after all, and volunteers from many worlds gather to do something
about it.
Will the sword help?
When the shivers of premonition tell that the young are taken to keep Avaelyn enshrouded, the Vallas take the fight to the monsters responsible for such horror. They will not rest until every child is safe.
However
it comes to pass, Avaelyn will be unveiled.
CHAPTER 1
Beware
of examining your past too frequently.
~
Teighlar of Grinwallin ~
Avaelyn
Trezonadr
Mountains
SLAPPING his hands upon the expanse of his scarred wooden kitchen table, Sabian swore foully. Master Historian? Ha, master fool! He cussed some more, then swiped the empty mug accusing him from the tabletop, grunting when it shattered against the far wall. Yes, better. He felt … well, perhaps calmer was stretching it. At least less furious. Ha.
A snort of
amusement emanating from the region of his open front door had him
straightening with such alacrity that he pulled a muscle in his lower back.
More cussing followed. Master bloody fool, indeed.
“What’s got you in
such a mood?” Torrullin Valla laughed as he entered the small cottage Sabian
called home beneath the towering mountains in this region.
“Book,” Sabian
muttered, swiping fair hair from his forehead as if the strands had been placed
there to deliberately irk him. “That damn book, is what.”
Eyeing the book in
question - a hefty tome with the appearance of terrible age on a dedicated
pedestal next to Sabian’s cluttered desk in the corner near the pantry -
Torrullin murmured, “A conundrum?” Open to around a third of the way, an
illustration stared at the wooden ceiling overhead. “Is that a sword?”
“And don’t we know
too well how swords can determine fate?” Sabian mumbled, rounding the table
with his arm extended. “What brings you?”
Stepping into the
ritual forearm to forearm clasp, Torrullin said, “I’ve come to pick your
brain.”
“Hopefully not
about a sword. Coffee?”
“Please.”
Releasing the greeting hold, Torrullin moved to the book for a closer view. “No
blades today, no battle other than seeking an answer to our dilemma.” Peering
at the rendition of a weapon that appeared as most swords did, seeing nothing
in the depiction to have caused Sabian such distress, evident in the lifted
eyebrows he sent Sabian’s way, he added, “I am of the opinion the past holds
the key.”
“And here we
thought we were free of said past,” Sabian rebutted.
“Old stories can
still tell us something.”
As a historian,
Sabian trusted to that truth and thus did not refute the statement. He set to
gathering the necessary to brew a pot of the dark stuff, knowing his guest
preferred it strong. “So ask what you came to ask.”
Finding a brush
and scoop, Torrullin hunkered at the site of the broken mug, sweeping the
ceramic shards from the floor. “Is there mention in the Lore Book about
veiling?”
Sending him a
look, Sabian muttered, “Of course. The Arcana myth that protected the tear
between Valaris and Ardosia is chronicled, a veiling if ever there was one, and
so is the Forbidden Zone obscuring. You know this.”
Rising with his
gathered pieces, Torrullin headed to the small bin near the backdoor, tossing
the lot in. “Other than those.”
Lifting his chin
at the bin, Sabian said, “Thanks. Amazes me how you are handy when it comes to
chores.”
Smirking,
Torrullin took a seat at the table. “Because I am so important it should be
beneath me?”
Grinning, Sabian
took a seat opposite. Behind him the stovetop kettle burbled. “Not who you are,
is it?” Wafting a hand, he went on. “Sure, there are other shrouds in our
longer past, such as the time Nemisin denied the existence of Danaan, and his
lies surrounding Orb, and there are a few ascribed to races other than the
Valleur, but none hold the kind of answers we need. Nothing points to a way out
of Avaelyn’s enshrouded state, not even obliquely. Then again, truthfully,
there may be, but I haven’t yet found it. That is a mighty book.”
Indeed. A mighty
book. One created by a bloodline of lore keepers, one as old as the Valleur, of
which Shep was the current embodiment. Shep’s last name, in fact, was Lore, and
was the scholarly man with deep wells on compassion not eminently suited to the
task. However, Shep’s need to record events in the magical tome ended when
Avaelyn swerved away from the timeline. These days he spent most of his time at
the Healers, leaving the deciphering to Sabian.
“Where is Shep?”
Torrullin asked, causing Sabian to hike an eyebrow upward. “Right. Healers.”
Frowning then, Torrullin murmured, “Shep seems reluctant to talk about the past
contained in that book.”
“After our
adventures on Lykandir, he clammed up, yes.” Inhaling, Sabian again slapped the
tabletop, unexpectedly enlightened. “Because he knows something. The man
says not a word because he’s afraid he’ll give it away. Always garrulous, now
silent? Why didn’t I see it before? No, stymied by a drawing of a sword, I am,
stumped as to why the book won’t let me turn the page. Fool. As if a lost blade
is able …” Halting there, he swallowed. His fingers curled into claws. He
rested his blue gaze on the far man on the other side of the table. “Torrullin,
no such animal as coincidence, right?”
The grey eyes
meeting his abruptly shifted into silver. “Now you’re downright frightening me,
Master Historian.”
Those silvering
eyes meant Torrullin had entered a different realm of understanding. Clearing
his throat, Sabian divulged, “I think I’m scaring myself. See, that drawing?
Nothing special. An ornate pommel, probably pricey, but nothing extraordinary. Still,
resonance, you know. And when you read the legend it comes with? See …”
“Speak plain,”
Torrullin growled.
“Lake of Swords,
Torrullin, where Tristan ended Halon’s life and threw his blade into the water.
Alusin found it, though, and returned it to him. A veiled place, a thing
of time, and someone retrieved something from the water, and that has
never happened before. Has that altered the dynamics, I ask?” Rising, he made
his way to the ancient book. “This sword, also tossed into the Lake after its
owner died, had before its disappearance the ability to ever return to the hand
that knew it best. If lost during battle, within an hour of losing it, it would
hurtle through the spaces back to that hand.” Licking his lips, he faced the
silver eyes fixated on him. “What if the owner is reborn? I’m willing to wager
you my vegetable patch that the sword will rise from the shallows of a legend
and return to the one it has waited for, and in so doing, the Lake of Swords
will appear, a magical enclave, Torrullin, able to wed the flows of time, space
and everything within and between.”
“A portal.”
The man had paled
somewhat, Sabian noticed, but he nodded towards that paling countenance. “The
blade was known as Akynitun, Valleur for …”
“… death’s gateway
or …” Torrullin inhaled, and exhaled the next word explosively. “… shroud.”
He inhaled long before asking, “Whose hand did it know best?”
“No name is given
but he is described as a Golden with brown eyes, his hair a dark gold, a good
man, a strong man. He protected children, his life’s work.”
Closing his eyes,
thereby releasing Sabian from the pressure of that otherworldly gaze, Torrullin
mused, “Sounds like Tianoman.”
“That’s what had
me in a tizz. Your grandson does fit the description, but it didn’t
resonate, not as the rest did. Now I’m thinking his son Lunik, or another of
his sons. By now he has sons, plural,” Sabian stated. “A man walking the plains
of Akhavar, old enough after a millennium, as they count the years, of our
vanishing from those spaces to have come into his power naturally, a Valla with
Danae genetics. Perhaps a man who feels the need to protect children also?”
Throwing his hands up, he added, “But this is all supposition.”
Silver orbs lanced
his every secret space, causing Sabian to shudder, and when Torrullin responded
with, “Too much coincidence is in play,” his knees weakened. They, he already
understood, himself, Torrullin, Elianas, Shep, the others, would now overturn
every coincidental stone until the narrative either revealed the answer to
Avaelyn rejoining the timeline for Reaume, or utter failure resulted. Failure
was not an option. Torrullin sought return to the space where Akhavar
and his family resided within, and would undo every strand he could find to
have it come to pass.
Avaelyn’s western
seaboard
Roux Island
WOOD creaked, sails flapped and stays hummed in the freshening breeze coming off the ocean. White spray danced into the air at the apex of every wave. Gulls swirled overhead, noisy as ever.
Teroux Valla
worked the ropes, tying off loose ends before the storm arrived. His golden
curls hid under a woollen cap. Did not need hair whipping his eyes right now. Even
in harbour ships remained vulnerable, and this baby was his favourite. First
built and by his own hand, it was special to him, for he rebuilt himself with
every hull curve and deck plank laid. Leaving Akhavar and his traumatic past
behind for this island on Avaelyn led to ship building and also restoration of
self. In a way, it was his good luck charm.
Lovingly sweeping
a hand over the polished railing, Teroux eventually considered every task done
and stared over the ocean instead, noting the waves reach higher, the spray
thrown further, and in the distance the smudge had already darkened. An hour,
no more, and the spirits of sea and air would pummel his island and every ship
in the vicinity. Not many of those, fortunately, for he had sounded warning two
days back.
Time then to stoke
the fire in his cottage and prepare a nourishing meal. Giving the smudge a
final look, he turned away and headed down to the sturdy stone quay, checking
the knots anchoring the vessel to its mooring as he passed by. As he set a
booted foot to the lowest step of the meandering stairway carved into the
hillside adjacent the harbour, a scream tore through the air, curdling the
marrow in his bones. No, he imagined that. No one lived on his island. Shaking
his head, he trod onto the next step, and another screech separated his ears
from his head. Breathing fast, he raced upward, for the sound had source up
there, not behind him on the jetty.
On attaining level
ground, he skidded to a halt.
There, by Aaru, a
flying contraption hung from the flagpole jutting up from his chimney, a
deflating balloon covering half his cottage, and a woman clung to a rope
swinging underneath a torn basket. He wanted to laugh - had he not said flying
baskets were idiotic when they had not the gas to keep the balloons properly
afloat - but she was in danger, and that bloody thing needed to get off his
roof before the damn storm was upon them.
Striding in, he
called up, “Can you not float down?” Her hair was as golden as his, she had to
be Valleur, and that meant born with magic.
Hazel eyes glared
down at him. “I’m human, idiot!”
Right. Avaelyn was
home to Valleur, Senlu, and humans originally from Xen III, Beacon and Valaris,
with a few oddballs thrown in here and there. Humans, too, laid claim to the
golden glory that was the Valleur natural hair colour. Rolling his eyes, he
said, “Let go, I’ll catch you.”
Immediately she
shook her head, whitening markedly.
“Listen, you’re
brave enough to fly in that thing, high, so I think you can manage a few yards
of freefall. I will catch you. I am Valleur.”
“I know who you
are,” she grimaced, and abruptly released her hold to plummet.
Well, that caught
him unprepared, but he hastily muttered the words of cushioning and stepped
underneath her. As he extended his arms, she landed in them. Despite the
cushioning, his shoulders protested with jolts of fiery agony. Bloody hell.
Setting her down, he shouted, “A little warning will have helped!”
Winking, she said,
“My thanks.” She glanced upward. “The wind blew me off course. Why do you have
that pole up there? It’s an invitation to lightning.”
“It diffuses strikes,”
he grunted, massaging one shoulder. “Now help me get that thing off or the
storm will use it to rip my roof into smithereens.” Gesturing at the broken balloon,
he stomped to the corner to see what was where, and ignored her when she made
no move.
Snarled as the
ropes were, it took him the better part of ten minutes of succinct spelling to
remove the offensive device. The woman did try to help after a few minutes, but
there wasn’t much she could do, not until the material lay rumpled in the
grassy paddock where he kept two horses. They, luckily, had already been
stabled against the approaching weather. She started rolling the material, and
he aided her, eventually magically lifting and sending the remains of the
basket and the untidy roll to the storeroom beyond the stables.
By then the wind
was a howling monster and, unspeaking, they hastened indoors. As there was
nowhere else for her to go, she had now become a guest until the storm petered
out.
“Thank you,” she
said once he had secured the front door.
“Who are you?” He
headed to the hearth and there snapped his fingers to set flame to the pyramid
of sticks, thanking his stars for magic, for he had not the wherewithal left to
build and stoke a fire the old-fashioned way. A magical blaze required simply a
few sticks.
“Naemi Wynd.” She
closed in to extend her hands to the blaze.
“Call me Teroux.”
Dressed in
leathers to cope with the cold in the higher air currents, she was soon warm
again, and moved to the large window overlooking the small bay. “Something
happened up there, Teroux. I’ve flown many times, testing the gas ratios I’m
trying to perfect, and know well the currents, but …”
He interrupted. “A
storm on approach can be unpredictable.”
“I wasn’t near
this region, not until shoved this way.” She did not look at him, no doubt
thinking she sounded crazy.
He was Valleur.
Crazy was once everyday for him in the times before Avaelyn separated. “Shoved?
What happened?”
“It felt as if
something sucked at the basket and then released so quickly that it catapulted
me in a different direction. Kind of like a hole filled with vacuum briefly
opened, and then suddenly closed. Shoved.” Shrugging, she faced him. “Sounds
impossible.”
“It’s not, but
should be on Avaelyn. We’re enshrouded and outsiders cannot influence anything.”
Frowning, he thought it through. “Either there are localised currents we are
unaware of, or …” Like to her, currents of air and, in his case, water also,
had become a field of expertise. “… someone on the ground either deliberately
or accidentally messed with your situation. Hopefully not.” For that would mean
someone needed to be taken to task and it meant investigation. “Well, we can’t
do anything about it now,” he muttered and made a beeline for the kitchen
alcove he loved to spend time in. “You hungry?”
“Starving,” she
laughed, and the sound of a woman laughing in his private space did something
to his gut he had not experienced in over a hundred years.
The Singing Chapel
SEARCHING for Shep Lore, having left Sabian to his mutterings, Torrullin eventually apprehended the purple clad, rotund half-Valleur in the small chapel that served as a place of tranquillity for those needing it while at the Healers, or as Shep preferred, the hospital. Valleur in general, despite his eye rolls, called it the Healers.
The man was rapt,
listening to the birds in the foliage outside singing their songs of praise.
Birdsong was the reason why this serene place was named the Singing Chapel, a
site sacred now for many reasons, no longer merely a Valleur sacred site
forming part of the fourteen geo nodes.
“My Lord!” Shep
gasped when he became aware of Torrullin. “Oh, my mind, Forgive me!”
“No matter, Shep.”
Sitting in the nearest window seat, Torrullin sent his gaze outward. As ever,
the surroundings soothed, and the musical tones bathed him in bliss. “Ever I am
renewed here.”
Shep smiled.
“Indeed.”
“How fares the
facility?”
“All is well. We
finished the final repairs a few weeks back.” He referred to the damage caused
by the near collision with Lykandir three months ago. “We have only three
patients. Nothing serious.” His tone offered a lilt at the end of his summation,
as if wondering why he had been sought out this day.
“Lake of Swords,”
Torrullin murmured, and listened to the man’s response with more than his ears,
and sensed how Shep Lore instantly tensed. “It is time to tell me, Shep.”
Silence answered
him first, and thereafter a volubly sigh sounded. “Very well. Not here.” With
deliberation, the purple form rose from his bench and headed out, which was
most telling, for Shep never acted first in his ruler’s presence.
Whistling silently
through suddenly clenched teeth, Torrullin followed him out. “Shall we go to
the Lifesource?”
“Excellent idea.
Quilla should hear this also.” Tawny eyes speared him as Shep looked up. “My
Lord, call Elianas.”
Torrullin’s gut
hollowed.
He sent the call.
AS THE two men
dematerialised for transport, Anastir stepped from the shadows. As First
Sorcerer and Elder, he was entitled to go where he pleased, but listening in on
Torrullin’s conversation could be construed as something beyond eavesdropping. He
had trailed Shep Lore, however, and Torrullin’s arrival had been a surprise.
It seemed, Anastir
mused, that Lord Elixir had stumbled upon the same track he had skinned knees
on, and Shep, as suspected, knew the way. He intended to attend the impromptu
meeting at the Lifesource.
Indeed. Change was
now daily fact.
Teroux’s cottage
OVER roasted vegetables, slivers of fried fish, and garlic bread, accompanied by a fruity white the winemakers finally excelled at - it only took them fifty years of vinegar varieties to find success - Teroux asked Naemi to be specific in location for the ‘shove’ she experienced.
Her golden hair
tucked behind her ears, she ate with abandon, using her hands without apology.
“You’re a good cook,” she said, lifting her goblet in toast. “My mother will
love you, for sure.”
Smiling, Teroux
acknowledged her compliment.
“I flew over the
orchards beyond the hills that keep the salty winds at bay, so that’s roughly forty
sals east from here. All along the coast folk spoke of the storm, and I decided
to keep inland. As I moved the rudder to shift south, heading home, that’s when
it happened.”
“Did you see
anything on the ground?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Wasn’t looking at the time … but … seriously, I smelled mud, stinky stuff,
stagnant, and I could swear I saw muddy droplets around the basket. And then
your island loomed, and I went down.”
“How long from
there to here?”
“Minutes, Teroux.
That was the weirdest part.” She stared at him. “It sounds like I hallucinated,
I know, but that’s what happened. Forty sals in minutes. No balloon flies that
fast.”
Leaning back, he
fingered his goblet. “If we can find this mud, maybe it will lead to more
clues. An isolated incident. Someone working a spell that rebounded. That
someone needs to be cautioned. If not,” and Teroux leaned forward to stare
intently into her hazel eyes, “we need to know if an outside influence did
this.”
“How? Everyone
knows Avaelyn is hidden. You said so yourself.”
“Is it?” he
whispered. “I wonder. We are in Reaume once more, Naemi, and this is a busy
space filled with talents even the Valleur have had to stand back for in our
past. What if someone can see us, while we remain blind?”
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