Chapter 10: The Kallanon Scales

 

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

 The Keep

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.

THE KALLANON SCALES