An ancient map points the
way …
… as well as a strange prophecy, and anyone who dares
speak of either, dies.
A new enemy enters
the Valla arena, but this one is as old as time and seeks a forbidden place.
The terrible source of Valla power is uncovered. As friends and family are
murdered, Torrullin reveals the truth about the Valla Dragon. He hurtles into
battle when his twin sons are kidnapped, and takes with him into danger a
pilot, a navigator and an innocent girl - they are the Dalrish seeking escape
from Xen III.
Another truth rears
up, the tale of the Nine who fled into the Forbidden Zone with a strange taliesman
in the shape of a dragon. Quilla knows who the fire creatures are; the Q’lin’la
fled them in ancient time. They are the Kallanon, the Glittering Darkness.
“There are dragons
in my future,” Torrullin once tells Quilla, and that future is now.
War erupts on a
world no more than a circle on an ancient map. There Torrullin discovers who
his sons really are, Taranis of the Guardians confronts his inner demons,
Bartholamu of the Siric faces his arch-nemesis, Q’lin’la and Kallanon are
thrown into the same melting pot, an ancient emperor speaks again, the new Lady
of Life is born, the Dalrish have a profound effect on Torrullin, and Vannis
seeks revenge.
The Kallanon Scales
is an epic journey into the realms of time and legend, and forever alters the
future.
CHAPTER 10
Kings are at the feasting table once more!
How many quails does it take to satisfy the hunger of showmanship?
~ Tattle’s
Blunt Adventures
A VALLEUR CHILD was a man or woman in everything by age fifteen, but autonomy - freedom to marry, to leave, to war - arrived at age twenty-five. Fifteen meant childish thoughts and aspirations, although the body reacted as an adult; at twenty-five, it was hoped body and mind acted in accord. The decade between was to attain that state.
This august
morning found the brothers in Tymall’s chamber, dressing for the ceremony. It
began with a loincloth, beaded affairs designed to cause discomfort, thereby
forcing perfect comportment. The two laughed helplessly over sensations in the
groin area, for once amused by each other’s antics. Next came white linen
strips, bound criss-cross from the arch of each foot, and tied off over the
shoulders. The origin of this particular tradition was now lost, but most
Valleur thought it had roots in containing untamed and youthful sorcery.
Torrullin’s
personal valet aided them, an old man familiar with the process, and he clucked
disapprovingly at their levity. Next were white, sleeveless robes, and golden
cloths about their waists. Feet settled into soft leather booties, the soles a
single layer of leather designed to be worn once. The old man helped them perch
on high stools to finish dressing their hair. Doing it in shifts, he braided
their streaked hair into tiny plaits, dangling a single golden bead from each
end. They started before dawn and after hours of work their heads were crowned
with a mass of tinkling plaits. A ceremonial dagger thereafter attached to the
waistcloth.
Nerves
displaced amusement. They heard swelling noise outside, felt anticipation
build.
The old man
brought out two cloaks. He enjoyed his task, he said, adding their father did
not give him opportunity to excel. Torrullin preferred dressing himself. He
shook the cloaks out and both gasped.
One was
midnight blue with an intricate dragon woven in gold thread in the centre. This
one went over Tymall’s shoulders, the heir apparent. The second cloak was
sky-blue, a cross and sword cleverly sewn in a unique design on the back. The
warrior priest of Tristamil’s naming.
It was fifteen
minutes to the appointed hour. The old man bowed out with their appreciation
ringing in his ears. They were alone. It was time for truth. Tymall said, “Time
for our unmasking.”
“Father won’t
reveal what he knows. He understands we are necessary to each other.”
“How can you
be certain?”
Tristamil
shrugged. “I am the Enchanter part of him, Ty, thus I’m able to think like
him.”
Tymall found
that discomfiting. “All the time?”
“Sometimes,
but in this I’m right. He now knows we have mirrored his natures. If we are the
mirrors, both sides have to go on for our father to accept who he is. We grew
up knowing love, and why? Because he
is divided. Thus, if he needs both of us, we need both of us, and if one was to
die, the other must be both. Were you to die, I would inherit your destroyer.
I’d not survive it.”
Tymall raised
his eyebrows. “I would inherit the lifegiver in you? I wouldn’t cope.”
“Therefore we
need live.”
Tymall nodded.
“I think I understand.”
Torrullin
entered then, dressed for the ceremony. Although he donned black, a dark golden
cloak upon which the blue dragon emblem leapt relieved the severity. A golden
scabbard for the occasion, his silver sword resting in it. His fair hair was
plaited also, a single rope, and the Ardosian crown usually on display at the
White Palace rested on his head. He grinned when he saw their gazes fly to it.
“I am a king, after all.”
Yes, he was.
He looked them
over. “He did well.” He paused. “I know you and now need briefly discuss who
else does. Quilla is aware, after the healing. Quilla will not talk; his first
loyalty is to me. Vannis may not have realised. Any questions he has, he will
ask of me and act accordingly. Krikian and Shep may believe they witnessed
sorcery, but if I judge it safer, they will not remember.”
“This is about
Taranis,” Tymall said.
“Taranis will
prevent a bloodbath if the Valleur come for you. He has the authority of the
Throne.”
Tristamil
said, “You have been on the Throne.”
Tymall passed
a hand raggedly over his face.
“I did so when
there was no expectation, safer for you, for the Valleur and for me. I did it
to pass power to Taranis.” He held a hand up to forestall questions. “We
discuss it later. Now the time has come to release you from childhood’s rules.”
“Please,” Tymall
said. “What will you do?”
Torrullin
studied him. “The Valleur will not be told. Conclusions they draw after this
will be the result of your actions. Tris, will you wait outside?”
Tristamil
glanced at his brother, and left. The silence dragged inside the chamber as the
noise swelled outside. Torrullin gazed at his son. This young man whipped
Saska, attempted to drown her, throw her into an abyss, and all manner of
slights and dangers.
“I have loved
you and that will not change. I understand you; you are what I can be also, and
it is addictive. It feels as if the world and beyond is there for the taking,
and all you have to do is reach out. Saska could not understand that, nor
should she. I love my wife also, Tymall.”
Tymall
blinked. “I’m sorry.”
“You are not,
not in the way that would alter you. I understand that, thus forgive you for
the past, but I will not permit you to harm her in the future. There will come
a time when we are together, and I warn you now to stay away from her no matter how you feel. I shall hurt
you, and still love you. Know that, and hate me not.”
“How can I
hate you? You never hurt me, judged me, denied me or exposed me. You loved me,
and it changed me. I stand here confused, with darkness inside, and love in my
heart.”
Torrullin hauled
his son into his arms and held him.
THE COURTYARD WAS hushed expectancy. It had been a long time
since a Vallorin presented his children in a Coming-of-Age celebration. This
was a momentous occasion. This was History.
It was silent
as the three men descended the stairs. At the foot Vannis and Taranis waited.
Everyone wondered where Lycea and Raken were, but were not made the wiser. This
day was for the two young men. They could mourn tomorrow. Torrullin paused on
the second-to-last step, surveying the crowd in the courtyard.
They came from
afar. Not merely Valleur from the city, although they were the majority; there
were human friends, leaders, sorcerers from the Society and visitors from
elsewhere. There was a contingent from Xen III, a smaller one from Beacon. Two
of the Sagorin came, one of them Gren, the leader. He gave a mock salute and
was rewarded with a wave. He noticed Phet and knew the Q’lin’la attended. There
were humanoids from other worlds paying their respects. This was no longer an occasion
to celebrate autonomy, but homage to the risen Throne.
The Siric wove
their way in from the Dragon doors, led by Bartholamu. All came, twenty-one in
total. When Bartholamu realised their arrival was noticed, he halted his troupe
and whispered something, and a moment later forty-two glorious wings soared
out. It was an incredible display of reverence and humbled, Torrullin put a
hand to his heart and bowed low, coming up smiling. The Siric folded their
wings to an almighty round of applause.
Torrullin stepped
to the ground, and a path cleared for him and his sons. Taranis and Vannis
walked ahead and vanished within, and at the entrance a smiling Phet waved.
It was crowded
inside, largely Valleur, but a mixture, nonetheless. A great cheer went up when
Torrullin and the twins set foot to the blue carpet. Taranis and Vannis made
their way to stand on either side of the Throne, both decked in finery. Taranis
opted for blue and silver and was royally handsome, and Vannis, being Vannis -
if only in part this day - wore gold. Flanking them were the two
highest-ranking Elders from the Valleur city - Pretora and Kismet.
Torrullin
paused at the two beautiful chairs meant for his boys. Men; he would have to
think of them as men. He gestured for them to stand to each side as per their
names and made his way to the dais. He stepped around the long table adorned in
blue and gold. Ten empty chairs faced the gathering. Torrullin set foot to the
dais, and turned, the golden seat a presence at his back. He nodded, and Pretora,
to the right of Vannis, stepped forward.
Gripping a
wooden staff with a carved dragonhead, Pretora proceeded to thump the dais
three times, and hailed, “All gathered! Hear the thrice recognition!”
The Valleur
responded in one voice. “We hear, oh Elder!”
“We are here
this day to present two young men of the ancient blood, of this universe, and
of the unbroken line of the Vallas!” A great roar resounded. Taranis’ hair rose
at the sound, and Vannis smiled.
Kismet came
forward. His staff sported an intricate sun carving, and he thumped three
times. “Hear the thrice recognition of the Vallorin!”
“We hear it,
oh Elder, in our souls!”
Torrullin
raised both hands for quiet. “I thank you for coming to celebrate this special
day with us. I see among you friends from every corner of the universe and our
beautiful planet, and thank you for being here. This day, however, is to
celebrate the Valleur!”
Pandemonium. A
roar of applause and cheering continued for many minutes, and their Vallorin
let them. It had been a long time.
When quiet
returned, he said, “Appreciation goes to my staff and all who aided in
preparing for a gathering of this nature. There are many to thank, not least
among those my loyal valet for dressing my sons, and the Elders and various
teachers who took the time to prepare them for this ceremony - I know who you
are, and thank you. And, my friends, a special word to the master carpenter who
fashioned the two beautiful chairs you see before you. Colum Megane, a father
bows to your artistry.”
A new round of
applause rippled through the throng.
“And now we
come to the serious business. I have raised the Valleur Throne and shall not
ascend it until after my sons are presented. This is their day and the seat is
incidental. I state categorically it will not be used to distinguish between my
sons.”
The silence
was then absolute.
“I know you
are aware of the two natures here. They did not ask for this, they are not
accountable for what happened, and they will be given the opportunity to choose
as adults. Their real accountability commences after, and they will be held
answerable. Until such necessity arises, I need all here to understand they are
integral to our future.” Torrullin stared into the crowd, meeting eyes head-on.
“Will you thwart me on this?”
No Valleur
went against a Vallorin’s command; it was treason. If there were doubts, it was
permitted to question in public, thus now was the time to speak. Feet shuffled
and eyes swivelled.
Pretora said,
“We thank my Lord Vallorin for the acknowledgement on the subject of your sons.
It lays to rest a plethora of rumours.” Torrullin inclined his head. Pretora
continued, “What guarantee do the Valleur have if one of your sons chooses to
avenge himself on his people?”
“I answer with
this assurance. Taranis, Guardian and Dome Leader, is given power over my
Throne.”
“He is not
Valleur!” someone shouted from the floor.
“Therefore,
the perfect choice. He understands the future for these two young men and in my
stead has the right to protect them.”
“He is
biased,” another whispered.
“I am biased, friend,” Torrullin snapped.
“As all here are biased. Taranis has
not been Dome Leader for three thousand years because he deals in emotion. You
will search hard for one as objective. Is this clear?” Torrullin gazed around.
“You question my judgement, and I understand that, and you question the shape
and form of this future I allude to. It will be made clearer, but now I require
your faith.”
They did not
deny further, and Torrullin acknowledged his father, who bowed to the gathered.
“We are here
to celebrate a Coming-of-Age,” Torrullin said. “Let us be positive on this
day.” He looked to his sons. “Tristamil and Tymall, you need to prove your
worth before I call ten witnesses to the table. Proceed.”
Both young men
faced the golden urns. Tristamil lifted his hand first to wave over the empty
vessel and Tymall followed a beat later. The point was to prove mastery in
sorcery and show respect to their father. They stepped back into position, eyes
downcast. Pretora and Kismet retrieved the urns and placed the vessels before
their Vallorin.
Torrullin
inserted one hand into Tymall’s urn to withdraw it filled with sapphires.
Tymall collected them with time and patience and stored them in preparation for
the transference sorcery. He proved both mastery and thought, giving his father
a valuable gift. Torrullin allowed a last blue stone to fall back and smiled.
“Thank you, Tymall. You may sit now, son.”
Tymall took
his seat, which was no easy task with bindings and beads. A few sympathetic
chuckles aided him into position.
Torrullin bent
to Tristamil’s urn. He was quiet so long that the gathered grew restive. Both
Pretora and Kismet checked that Torrullin was not doing the actual sorcery. A
father could not bear to see his son fail and achieved the required magic; it
happened occasionally.
Tristamil
glanced up without lifting his head. He gazed directly into his father’s eyes.
Torrullin straightened. From his fingers splinters of bright rainbows hovered
and, where it caught the light, music sounded. From those tiny darts of colour
little sprites hung, whistling and dancing in the air, laughing with flailing
arms. Torrullin dipped his other hand in and bought forth more of the wonder.
He laughed, a carefree sound few heard in recent years, and bent to lift the
urn. He tossed the entire treasure into the air. A glorious rainbow spanned the
Throne-room and, along it, the sprites danced to fairy music.
Gasps of
pleasure erupted from many throats.
An eye blink
later they were gone.
An ephemeral
gift, and beyond priceless. Tristamil told his father he was the son sensed
alongside the rainbow pool after conception. Now there would never be doubt,
but only Torrullin and Tristamil were aware of that. In addition, Tristamil
eloquently revealed to his father that he loved him despite the intervening
years. Tristamil planned to rip aside masks this day and his twin would not
have known himself revealed.
“Thank you,
Tristamil. You may sit now.” From the
bottom of my heart, my son.
Tristamil shivered.
My son, not simply ‘son’. A telling
change. And mine, father. Tristamil
sat, his face radiant.
Pretora and
Kismet thumped the dais three times in tandem and Torrullin stepped forward.
“As per
tradition, I now call ten witnesses.” Torrullin looked upon the table before
him. “Two seats were for Raken and Lycea. I do not want to cast shadow over
proceedings, thus merely state they cannot be with us.” The observant ones
noted the controlled look on Vannis’ face. “I call Vannis and Taranis to the
table.”
Vannis sat at
one end. Taranis took a seat at the other.
“In place of
the absent I call Bartholamu and Gren, although they should not feel they are
last resort.” The two came forward. “Next I call Quilla and Phet of the
Q’lin’la.”
Phet hopped to
it with joyful energy - and much accompanying laughter - while Quilla
approached from a bench near the dais with measured tread.
“The next name
is someone close to my heart and yours, a personal friend of Lycea’s, special
to us, special to Valaris. Shep Lore, where are you?”
A squeak of
delight emanated from the courtyard and a purple flash waddled along the blue
carpet to take a seat, but not before bowing low to his Vallorin.
“Welcome,
Shep,” Torrullin smiled. “The first name I wanted to call this day was Saska’s.
That was not meant, and no one can replace her, but in her stead, I call
Krikian.”
Krikian was
somewhere in the centre of the Throne-room and made his way forward to
backslapping and congratulations. The dream man was well liked.
There were two
seats open.
“Caballa!”
Silence
ensued. Her views were radical, her religion non-existent; she was a loner
surrounded by both admirers and detractors. She was beautiful, slender with all
the right curves, which made her a target. Her luxurious hair was deep gold,
sleekly straight. She possessed extraordinary eyes, silver-amber, lashes long
and dark. Caballa of the Valleur was an honest woman and a farseer of
exceptional talent.
Caballa came
to him the morning after Saska left to inform him not to mourn his wife or
harbour anger. He had to wait until the time was right to find her again. When
he turned on her in the fury of fresh loss, she told him to believe. She
returned the following day, to listen, and a strange friendship was born.
Caballa was blind, but could see into the hearts of others better than a
sighted person could.
She came
forward to mutterings and whispers, but she paid no heed and glided to the
table. She touched it once and walked around it, feeling the chairs for
occupancy. When she reached an empty one, she sat gracefully.
“Welcome,
Caballa.”
“My Lord.”
“The final
seat goes to my goddaughter. Skye, daughter of Lanto, please come forward.”
Lanto, true
friend, passed on eighteen months back. Never a fat man, he began to waste away
five years ago and was diagnosed as an insulin dependent diabetic. He needed to
inject every four hours and one day left it too late, falling into a coma from
which he did not awake. Skye confided she believed he did so deliberately.
Lanto lived on in those who remembered him, and his tales, tall and true,
remembered him to all on Valaris. Lanto won the Bards and Tales Festival many a
year. Skye was the only child of a brief union between her father and a young
woman from Beacon. Her mother chose return to her homeworld, leaving Skye with
Lanto. She was nineteen years old; shy, but attractive in a freckle-faced way.
After she sat,
Torrullin said, “Valleur! Time for the test. Which four are chosen for this
task?”
Four Elders
stepped forward. A Valleur Elder was not a grey-haired man or woman of
doddering wisdom. Pretora and Kismet appeared no older than Torrullin, yet were
Elders. Valleur showed their advanced age in the final hundred years. These
four could disqualify the penitents from autonomy. They could ask anything, and
many failed at this juncture. There was a second chance, a whole year later.
“Camot, Lord
Vallorin, and I will test Tymall.”
“Darian, my
Lord, and I am here for Tristamil.”
“Rillinon, my
Lord, for Tymall.”
“Pianote, my
Lord Vallorin. I am here for Tristamil. Good luck to you, young lord.”
“In that order
then,” Torrullin said.
Camot stood
before Tymall. “Our Vallorin decided to rename this valley. Torrullin’s Keep is
a mouthful. Please tell us what your father intends to call this valley.”
Tymall inhaled
sharply. Camot set a true challenge. This was the first he heard of it.
Recalling what Tris said, he understood he had to think like his father, and
the answer would be there for him. “I shall answer.”
Camot gave a
small smile and retreated.
“My father called
this valley Torrullin’s Keep, using
his name as ownership on first viewing, and I believe that will not change. Torrullin means Rain of Life and describes it well. To circumvent a mouthful, he
would shorten it, using either Torr
for Life or Llin for Rain. The word
for home is ke. I believe my father would put home and life in one word, rather
than the idea of rain and house in one thought.” Tymall’s brows knotted.
“Either Ketorr or Torrke.” He gazed up at his father and
smiled. “Torrke.”
Camot prompted,
“My Lord?”
“Camot, surely
I could lie?”
“No, my Lord,
one of us heard you speak the word to the Throne.”
Torrullin
laughed. “My son is right.”
Tymall shouted
his relief and the chamber and courtyard erupted in response.
“I name this
valley officially on this day … Torrke!” Torrullin proclaimed. Well done, Ty. “Proceed, Darian.”
Darian stepped
to the fore. He stood before Tristamil and barked out, “Who was the forty-first
Vallorin?”
“Villnev.”
Darian
returned to his seat. Despite the ease with which Tristamil replied, it was a
difficult question. Vallorins forty-one, two and three ruled one after the
other in the space of one year and were lobbed together in shame. They were
brothers and lost their hearts to one woman. This woman proceeded to kill them
off one by one, and when the fourth brother took the Throne, he had her killed
although there was no proof of guilt. He went on to rule for a long while.
“Rillinon.”
“Thank you, my
Lord. Tymall, please sketch in the air the Valla Dragon.”
As a child
Tymall often lay on his father’s chest tracing the Dragon with one finger. He
closed his eyes, raised a finger in the air, and outlined it from indelible
memory. A hazy blue line appeared before him. It was a true rendition and Torrullin
clapped his approval before Rillinon could question him.
Pianote was
the final taskmaster. “Tristamil, there are fourteen traditions the Valleur
hold sacred. Why fourteen and what are they?”
“Fourteen is
the universal number upon which magic is based. We build fourteen sacred sites
per world in keeping with that philosophy, and that is the first tradition. The
second is the order in which we erect them. First is the Lifesource, then the
Throne-room, thereafter the rest. The third tradition is the passing of the
Dragon from Vallorin to heir at the appointed time. The fourth is the
safekeeping of the Oracles, the fifth, the scrying of a new-born’s name, and
the sixth is this ceremony of today.
“The seventh
is the learning of sorcery beyond what we inherently know. The eighth is the
absolute autonomy of the Vallorin; we are not, nor were we ever, a democracy.
The ninth is Nemisin’s runes, known only to the House of Valla, and the tenth
is our longevity both natural and enhanced. The eleventh is our total intolerance
of darak …” He stumbled there, but recovered well. “The twelfth is a belief in
prophecy and the thirteenth? We regard ourselves as master-builders, and build
with heart, soul and magic. The fourteenth? For as long as one Valleur lives,
we were first and will be last in all things.”
The great
space erupted in a spate of whistles and cheers, and Pianote retreated.
There was one
more hurdle - the test the father set. Sometimes fathers were easy on their
offspring and other times fathers could be notoriously strict. Generally,
Vallorins tended towards a middle road.
Torrullin had
another option and used it. “I shall not test you.” He raised a hand to
forestall comments. “This is within my right, and I aim to employ it. I am
offering you a gift, the same gift. You cannot accept now. You will return to
this place in exactly one year and give answer.”
“And that is
part of the test,” Tymall murmured, staring at his father.
“Indeed, it
is. Your reasons for accepting or rejecting will possess the thinking, feelings,
instincts and desires of an adult. I allow a further year to achieve maturity
without jeopardising your autonomy. Thereafter you will live with your
decision, for it is irreversible. Be certain you make it the right one.”
You could have
heard worlds fold millions of light-years away. Torrullin stepped off the dais,
rounded the table and stood before them. They watched him in trepidation, for
it was a truth their father never did anything in half measures.
“My mother
used to say forever is a long time and I understand today what she meant.
Taranis knows this truth, as does Vannis, the Siric, the Sagorin, the Sylmer,
the Q’lin’la and many other races. I speak of immortality. I offer you the
means to reach that state.” He grimaced at the light in two pairs of eyes. “You
would accept now. That is why I give a year. Now I add this; Vannis was the
first immortal Vallorin, but did not rule in that state. I am the second
immortal Vallorin, and I do rule in this state. I cannot reverse my
immortality, but I also cannot sit on my Throne forever. That would be tyranny
and arrogance.” He stared intently at them, managing to look both in the eyes
simultaneously. “Know now I shall be the last
immortal Vallorin.”
There were
more gasps, and a few nods of agreement.
The light in
both pairs of eyes died.
“If you desire
immortality, you renounce the Throne,” Torrullin emphasised. “That is your
ultimate test.”
“You saw me as
Vallorin,” Tymall whispered.
“I saw the
Valleur Throne in your scrying, Tymall. Today I know images have various
interpretations, and thus no longer think that.”
Tymall stared
at him.
“It is a
question of what we desire most,” Tristamil said.
“What happens
if both of us choose immortality?” Tymall questioned.
“It will be
granted after an heir is born.”
“And if both
desire the Vallorinship?” Tristamil said.
Torrullin gave
a cold smile. “That decision is mine again and I shall make it when the time is
right.” He stepped back. “We are done here! Greet Tristamil and Tymall as new
adults!”
Pretora and Kismet
thumped the dais, exclaiming, “Thrice welcome, Tristamil! Thrice welcome,
Tymall!”
The Keep
reverberated with cheers and congratulations.
Both young men
clambered onto their chairs to wave, and only Torrullin realised how forced
their smiles were. Good. They will not
lightly make decisions hereafter. He glanced at Taranis, who put an ‘oh, so
that is how’ finger to his nose. Vannis was enigmatic.
Torrullin
returned to the Throne, where he snapped his fingers. The empty dishes on the
pillars behind the brothers and the two behind the Throne exploded in showers
of gold and silver fireworks, shooting out high above the crowds, there to hang
in twinkling splendour. The Valleur and other guests clapped in appreciation
and even the brothers shouted. Torrullin snapped his fingers again and each
tiny star exploded into a thousand more. They swirled and danced in whorls and
patterns on high and would remain until he waved them away later that night.
While everyone shouted and attention was on the ceiling, Torrullin lowered into
the Throne.
A golden glow
instantly infused the chamber.
Shattering
silence descended.
Pretora
recovered first. He thumped hard at the dais in ecstasy and Kismet happily
followed suit. “Hail the Valleur Throne! Hail Lord Vallorin! May the four winds
always blow fair on our Vallorin! May he know peace and prosperity!”
There was
more, but thunderous acclaim drowned it out. It was surely heard in the polar
region … the southern one.
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