The Sleeper Sword

By Elaina J Davidson

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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elaina J Davidson
• Release date: May 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311731869

Elaina J Davidson

Elaina is a galactic and universal traveller and dreamer. When writing she puts into words her travels and dreams, because she believes there is inspiration in even the most outrageous tale.Born in South Africa, she grew up in the magical city and surrounds of Cape Town. After studying Purchasing Management and working in the formal sector as a buyer, she chose to raise and home-school her children. She started writing novels around 2002, moving from children’s stories, poetry and short stories to concentrate on larger works. She lived with her family for some time in Ireland and subsequently in New Zealand. After returning to South Africa, loving the vibrancy of Africa, she upended her life again and moved back to Ireland, her soul-home.Come and get lost with her!

Book preview

PROLOGUE

A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER wandered the banks of a placid river, halting when a flower or insect trapped their roving attention. They were absorbed in their bonding, a ritual they enacted every rest day while the men in their lives slept in.

A hummingbird flew by, and the girl squeaked, then covered her mouth and followed. It fluttered before a purple flower, drinking the nectar. Her mother sank into the riverine grasses, chewing absently on a stalk. She laughed softly at the disappointed face turned to her a moment later.

Little hummingbird lifted into the air swiftly.

The girl disappeared into the grass to brandish an orange flower. Her mother clapped, and the fair head vanished again. Leaning on her arms to crane her head up, the woman gazed at the beauty of the blue sky. Puffs of white scudded in the distance, creating shapes, changing with every second.

The little girl screamed.

Her mother scrambled up, shouting her fear. She stumbled through the grass, her gaze frantic to pierce the veils of green stalks. She found her daughter unharmed, and sombre eyes lifted towards her.

There lay a man, pale, naked, and curled into a foetal position. The mother kneeled beside the still form, pushing her daughter behind her. Fingers to his neck discovered a faint pulse. He was cold and damp with the morning’s dew, but it was not the cold of death, it was exposure.

She shrugged out of her cardigan, thankful her daughter did not ask questions, and covered the man, the red bright against his paleness. He was a young man, his skin unmarked, hands slim and without calluses. A rich man’s son.

Taking her daughter’s hand, she told her they would fetch help, for the man was ill and needed more than they alone could give. Her daughter nodded, brown eyes serious, and together they retreated.

He moved, and mother and daughter halted. He groaned, and the mother dropped the girl’s hand to rush to his side. He opened his eyes and uncurled to sit, one hand drawing the cardigan around to cover his nakedness. Raising grey eyes, he shook his head as if to clear it, mumbling unintelligibly.

She told him she would fetch help, grabbed her daughter’s hand and ran, a faltering gait through the knee-high grass. Her daughter gasped and she lifted her, stumbling on. She hoped he would think her haste was to bring help. She hoped he had not realised he scared her. She hoped he would go before the men came looking.

He spoke a strange language.

His eyes were cold.

A peal of laughter froze her blood and she staggered to a halt. She hugged her daughter to her and shouted at him to leave them alone. He spoke, but she did not understand.

He had tied the cardigan about his waist and when he turned to study the surroundings, she saw his pale bottom; her daughter started laughing. The young man turned a smile on them, and approached. He winked at the little girl, and ripped her from her mother’s arms. Both screamed, but he had the girl and gestured significantly.

She whispered to her daughter to be quiet, and preceded him, leading him home, praying the men were awake and looking out. They would see her approach with a naked stranger holding their girl and assume the worst. She prayed as she had never prayed before. Behind her he began to mutter and after a while she realised he said the same words over and over, and his tone was vicious. He gripped her shoulder to halt her. She turned, and he shoved her daughter at her. She wanted to run then, but his tears arrested her need for flight. His eyes were no longer expressionless; they were filled with soul-aching suffering.

He doubled over, retched, and her maternal instincts were aroused. She whispered sympathy, but he held a hand up without looking at her, motioning for her to go. Gripping her daughter, she moved to do so; he straightened, wiping his mouth. His body told of deep-seated resignation. He ran his hands through long auburn hair with streaks of fairness threaded into it … and vanished.

Just like that.

The mother ran all the way home, gripping to her breast her little girl, who still clutched bright orange flowers.

Part I

SLEEPER

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.

Chapter 2

How we are born is not as important as why. Where we are born is not as important as when. Thus, when we ask who we are, we should hark to the reason for our birth and the timing of it.

~ Astrology Facts, a Beacon publication

Valaris Mainland

Menllik and Torrke

EVERYTHING WOULD BE different if Samuel credited the tall tale his father spun him last night on his deathbed. This morning they buried the old man - old in his soul, not in years - and after Samuel came here. Was he humouring the old man even in death, or was he curious? Was it simply escapism from mourning?

The ancient road was overgrown, choked with weeds. Behind Samuel the Valleur city glistened in the watery sun, beautiful even in abandonment. Not a wall had crumbled, and no cracks marred the unattended buildings; a testament to a race of master builders.

Earlier he wandered through the deserted streets to reach this point. There were no waiting ghosts, no evil atmosphere as he was told as a child, but never, he now realised, by his father. Perhaps the whispers would reach out to him at nightfall, or assail him during the hours of darkness.

He was forty years old and a married man, with a good income, a head on his shoulders, and a ten-year-old son. He was not given to useless fiction.

His wife Curin had to be wondering where he was, but would assume he needed to come to terms with his father’s death. That was true, but he felt guilty that he had not repeated the tale his father whispered, voice clear in the telling, when it was a quavering gargle for months. His father exacted from him a promise to say nothing, and he did so … but this? His father’s voice last night was decidedly strange. Not so much the brief return to strength, but the manner of speaking, as if his father was another reaching into his son’s depths, to reveal a truth he was unaware of. It frightened him and, curiosity aside, he needed to disprove it and allay that sense of otherness.

Samuel wandered into the valley Torrke. It would be dark before long, but he had no intention of … what? The valley was deserted, everyone knew that. Everyone also knew of the horrific destruction that took place two millennia ago. A residue, radiation, something like that, could still cause harm. They said the Golden of the Western Isles renewed life here after destruction, but it was magic, and he did not trust magic. It existed, yes, but not in his world or that of his family. Samuel turned to go back or be caught in the city when the sun set and, fantasy or not, he did not want that. He could not believe he came. Perhaps he was more gullible than he supposed.

His name was Samuel Skyler, and he carried a secret passed from father to son for two thousand years. Whether he held it to be true or not, he would tell his son on his own deathbed. He promised, swore an oath. All gods had taken note.

He halted, staring at his feet. There was a patch of dark on the old fawn road. He kicked at it and drew back. Glass. Firmly entrenched. He rubbed at his eyes. There was nothing to be afraid of, for Aaru’s sake. A piece of glass did not herald a bolt of doom from above. All it meant was long ago there was destruction unparalleled here, and this piece remained after restoration. There were bound to be others.

Samuel hastened through Menllik, the abandoned Valleur city. On the other side his horse waited patiently, and he clambered into the saddle. Turning the beast, he started down the road to Linmoor. After a moment he reined him in. He stared at the gap formed by the Morinnes and Arrows Mountains, the entrance to Torrke. For a long time he sat, uncomfortable, but unable to look away.

He would return in the morning.

Chapter 3

Words are sacred.

~ Truth

Valla Island

TANNIL REACHED FOR the newest Oracle. The one the Enchanter began after his return from Luvanor and the war there. Torrullin had not entered much, for time then was of the essence, but others - the Elders, those with direct knowledge - filled the pages with accounts of the two battles with the Darak Or Margus, the one culminating in his death at the Pillars of Fire and the other heralding the destruction of Torrke, the Enchanter’s beloved valley. The final battle claimed the Enchanter’s physical being and took the legendary Vannis to his death also.

The battle with the Dragon Neolone was chronicled in detail, this by Caltian, Tannil’s stepfather, the Valleur who administered the killing stroke to a Valleur legend. Tannil knew the tales by heart. He had not studied the Ancient Oracles well, preferring to refer to them as occasion demanded, but he studied this, the newest addition.

Vannis’ tale was chronicled by the Enchanter himself, as was the story of the feathered beings, the Q’lin’la, friends to the Valleur. The thirty years that saw the Enchanter walk upon Valaris and Luvanor could be studied by paging through this tome. The Enchanter. His grandfather. The complicated man who knelt before Mitrill to recognise him. Torrullin whispered that day about the Golden, about his intentions regarding Margus, about Tristamil, the father he, Tannil, would never know.

A brief time, but a Valleur babe did not forget. Tannil remembered every word and, while he could not fathom the nuances, not having known the Enchanter, those words drove him every day of his life.

Tannil. Man of Words, or more simply, Academic. What a farce. He employed scribes and the like to do his letters and administrative duties. He enjoyed a good book, but it certainly did not fall into the academic expectations his name created. He was an excellent orator, but that was something he seldom needed to employ. Having left the humans to themselves on the continent, the Valleur were in a period of peace, and it called for few flowery speeches.

He opened the book and paged to the last words Torrullin personally inscribed. Man of Words. Indeed, but the words were those the Enchanter whispered to him, and they were these words beautifully written in the newest Oracle. His name referred to them and only he knew that. Fay thought him depressed by his heritage, but she was mistaken.

Fingers ran over Torrullin’s words.

The Enchanter sat and wrote. A task conceived; a task completed. Striking handwriting. Clean lines, no flourishes. Fluid, readable. A man who knew what to say, a tidy mind.

He smiled. He once remarked on that to Mitrill, and she denied it. A complicated mind, she said, and a genius. Someone able to fathom the inexplicable, reach for the logic within, and able to record it as if it was simple all along. The magic of his magic.

Tannil leaned back in his seat. The Elders would be entering below for the meeting he yesterday promised his mother. It was time to put his oratory skills to use. They would attempt to sway him, but he would prevail. The majority of the Valleur needed to vacate to Luvanor or they would soon be engaged in a logistical nightmare trying to feed so many. Most, he suspected, would welcome the move, and attempt to convince him to shift his court also, but he was not about to hear many arguments there.

’We shall battle for Valaris again’, Tannil quoted.

The Enchanter’s words. The Valleur tended to view it as symbolic or something to consider in the far future. Peace bred complacency.

’It appears I shall never be done’, Tannil whispered.

Torrullin’s final words. Was it resignation that forced those words to paper?

My Lord Vallorin, Kismet called from the doorway, the Elders are gathered.

Tannil rose. Where is my son?

He and Lady Fay are in the gallery.

Fetch them, will you? Have them join us downstairs.

Yes, my Lord.

Is my mother …? Of course, she is where she is. Never mind; go.

Kismet retreated as Tannil realised his mother no doubt prepared the gathering below. She was regent until he came of age, and the lessons learned then were with her still. She should have been a man, for she was an astute ruler and negotiator, except in her marriage.

Tannil, Vallorin of an exiled people, straightened his tunic and made his way out of the reading room. Murmurs from the Throne-room came to him the moment he stepped into the corridor, and he faltered. Was it right to ask them to leave? Torrullin’s words spoke of another battle.

He leaned against the wall. His grandfather whispered to that babe in the womb he would return before his son’s fifth birthday.

Tannil wed late, delayed a child due to those frightening words. His first child was a stillborn daughter. His wife died in childbirth with the little girl, and he waited a long time before marrying again. Until his mother forced the issue, telling him in no uncertain terms the bloodline was at stake unless he did something about it, and there was Fay to consider, his deeply troubled sister. He married, but it was not a love match, and his lacklustre attention to marital duties delayed pregnancy year after year. But, in the end, tactics were for naught. His son’s birth did not herald the Enchanter’s return, as the readiness to come back had not resulted in the Valla heir. It would happen because the time was right, because all things were in place.

The Valleur would head to Luvanor and Teroux would accompany them. He would be in danger here, as would his people. Soon.

Teroux would be five in six weeks.

Chapter 4

Trust your mind to reveal the truth. See it, feel it.

~ Book of Sages

Menllik

IN THE END Samuel did not return to Linmoor. He camped roughly two sals from the old city for the journey to the valley to be accomplished swiftly with the coming of dawn. Sitting at the fire, he stared at the city aglow in the moonlight. No lights shone from windows and no sounds comforted the night.

Menllik was the name the Golden gave their city. A golden city and a Golden city. It was beautiful, even now. What an utter waste. Once the Golden were friends and taught Valarians much. How had that changed? Humankind did the changing, not the Valleur.

We pushed them away - what have we lost because of it?

After the destruction of Torrke, a continuing source of terror for Valarians, the Valleur returned to Menllik. Not all, but the complement required to aid in the restoration of the valley. With them was the scientist from Xen III, the one who then returned to his homeworld to restore there the balances - Le Moss Mar Dalrish, who brought the domes on Xen down and became Peacekeeper of a brand-new world. Xen III was friend to Valleur, but not any human here.

The leaders of Valaris met the Valleur in the city and gave what aid they could in the restoration. Those leaders were intimate with the Golden in those days. The Lady of Life was a major instrument in finding the balances of Torrke. The Q’lin’la came, and many others besides. Menllik rang with the babble of many tongues for quite a time, for it took years to renew the valley, and there was both sorrow and rejoicing.

They came because of the Enchanter’s gift.

Gift, Samuel thought. Yes, and today we see it as a curse, while the universe regards his sacrifice as the Gift. I always thought we had it right, for such destruction is surely a curse, but it heralded the extraordinary arrival of the Light. There has been peace throughout the universe for two thousand years. The Enchanter won and we, his people also, we scorn him and call his sacrifice a curse.

Samuel lowered his head in shame. He had not entertained these kinds of thoughts until the words of his father, and he was not to blame for mistakes engendered by others, yet he knew with abrupt insight, an epiphany, present day Valarians perpetuated the mistakes of the past. They did so generation after generation, perhaps compounding what was merely initial distance.

We turned on the Golden and made life untenable for them on the mainland. They could have hurt us with sorcery, lashed out over insults and curses, and they left meekly. For we are the Enchanter’s people also.

Samuel came to a decision. He rose, kicked the fire closed, and saddled his horse. He rode into Menllik in the dark and was not afraid. There was no evil; there were no whispers. He ambled, leading his horse, and gazed into empty homes, temples, theatres, squares, shops, schools and ornate mansions. The city waited. Like the valley, like the buried Throne, like the hidden sacred sites. That was why it appeared as if it was built yesterday. It knew there would be a return, and life and laughter and light would find a way back. When the time was right and a legend arose anew.

Each step Samuel took - and he took them carefully and with great thought - brought understanding and clarity. In the shadows of the expectant city, he discovered belief. As had his father before him, and his before him, all the way back to Tristan, the first keeper of this secret. He halted before Linir, the Place Where Stars Meet, and knew it as a sacred site, even cloaked as it was. The kernel was small, and it was new to him, but it was there.

Tristan, beloved son of Skye.

Tristamil’s son.

He, Samuel, was descended in a direct male line from Torrullin himself.

Luvanor

Grinwallin

BUTHOS, DOME LEADER, arrived in Grinwallin, furious the Q’lin’la had not attended to a Dome summons, until Quilla informed him they were on a rescue mission beyond the Rift.

Ardosia, a once Valleur world now inhabited by a half-simian race, came under annihilating fire. It took weeks to extinguish the blaze, and Quilla stated it was not natural. Quilla spoke of deliberate sorcery.

Buthos said, That fits in with what was revealed in the Dome. Canimer was attacked two weeks ago, Pleses a month back, and in both instances there was no obvious instigator. Recently the Dinor declared an internal truce to investigate incidences of violence not of their doing. No trace of cause found. Two days back an ethereal dome dropped over Shanghai Metrop on Xen - they are still investigating. Beacon’s power was mysteriously severed for nine days. It is currently harsh winter and seventeen people have died. What links all this is the blatant lack of how, who, why or what, and each incidence speaks to the greatest fears. Beacon will certainly succumb without power, Canimer cannot absorb the shock of an attack from the water, and Xen has an understandable horror of returning to a domed existence.

There were other signs Buthos was unaware of, both in and outside of the Forbidden Zone, and he and Quilla’s discussions lasted most of the night.

In the morning, Buthos requested an audience with Emperor Teighlar, but Teighlar laughed their claims off, saying the incidents were isolated and it stretched the imagination to assume they were more.

I, too, feel these alarming disturbances, Quilla murmured to the Emperor.

Quilla, you see a threat behind every bush, Teighlar returned, raising perfect eyebrows. His ascetic features were amused.

They sat in comfortable armchairs in the dappled sunlight of the portico. Behind them were the arches that gave entrance into the mountain. First beyond those arches was the Great Hall that was the Throne-room, meeting chamber, ballroom, games room and so forth, and beyond were the intricate abodes of a city in a mountain, the larger portion of the whole. Before them lay the magnificence of Grinwallin, the external habitat, fairest of all cities, and beyond was the broader glory of Tunin continent. It was spring on Luvanor, and life was exceptionally good.

Nothing amiss here? Buthos snapped.

Teighlar gave the question due consideration, tucking strands of his red hair behind an ear. Not what I would call one of your incidents.

Buthos pounced. What happened?

Quilla leaned forward and his blue eyes were intent. The Q’lin’la had been absent from Luvanor for many weeks.

It is of no … fine, if it will put an end to this silliness, Teighlar muttered. We lost some of our spring newborn - animals, for Aaru’s sakes, not people! This quick comment was due to the horror on his two companions’ faces. There was a cold spell. I say again, you two search for non-existent problems.

Do the Senlu fear losing their food source? Buthos asked, not to be put off.

Teighlar frowned. "Of course. Any nation would, but we did not lose farm animals. Wild creatures only, and it is worrying. The animal population remains sparse after the Murs’ wholesale extinction, but it does not fill us with unprecedented fear. Why are you two convinced these are signs of coming trouble?"

Buthos looked to Quilla, who stared into the distance as he answered, Maybe you are right, Emperor. Maybe we read too much into a gathering of isolated incidents. After all, there is no proof. We know the Enchanter will come back to us when there is reason. Perhaps we want that reason, selfish as it may be, because we hope it means he comes at last.

Teighlar nodded, understanding in his pale blue gaze. Ah, yes. And the time frame fits, doesn’t it?

Quilla sighed and nobody said anything for a time. They sipped at wine and nibbled on snacks.

Then, Tannil was here. We spoke of many things, but most important was his wish to bring the majority of Valaris’ Valleur to Luvanor.

Quilla was surprised. That is somewhat contrary to his previous position.

Tannil has realised they are too numerous for the islands. I believe the court will remain on Valaris along with a small Valleur complement - mostly men, he said. Perhaps he feels if they all leave, the Valleur lose their claim to that world, and there is the matter of the Throne.

And? Quilla prompted.

Teighlar shrugged. I get the feeling he knows something. A reason other than the Throne causes him to hold on there.

Buthos and Quilla glanced at each other. Perhaps it is time to visit the Enchanter’s grandson, Buthos said, and Quilla nodded.

Teighlar frowned again. You may disturb the man’s peace of mind for no reason.

Quilla rose and bowed. My Lord, be that as it may, I ask to be excused.

Now? Teighlar blurted. He looked to the Siric, also standing. Obviously you two believe these incidences have serious undercurrents. Yes, yes, go.

Siric and Q’lin’la vanished.

Teighlar gasped a laugh before creasing his forehead anew.

The animals he told them of were all Senlu and their genetics originated from ninety million years back. They reappeared when the Senlu were awarded their second chance, and were a symbol of the renewal of this land. To lose them would be an extremely bad omen.

Valaris

Valla Island

TANNIL AWAKENED IN the dead of night, sweating profusely and shaking badly. He put his hands to his face in the dark and drew a shuddering breath. He could not recall the dream, but knew it was another bad one. Sleep fled, as it often did, sometimes night after night for weeks on end. Careful not to disturb his wife, he padded into the next room, drawing the door closed. Vania would attempt to medicate, or whisper words that had no meaning to him. She did not understand how debilitating his night-time visitations were.

He slid the sliding door wide and stepped onto the darkened balcony. The sound of the ocean was louder at night, and it was also rhythmic and soothing. He stood a while, cooling the sweat on his body until he shivered.

Something hounded him, and it did so only on Valaris when he slept. There was an awareness of it subconsciously, something he could not acknowledge in waking hours. It was something as linked to this world as he was.

A wry smile came. In the morning Fay would demand why he was red-eyed, and he would spin another tale. He was not about to discuss it with his sister, for she needed not this burden. His beautiful half-sister, a Valla who was not a Valla, appeared outwardly calm, but demons roiled inside; he would not add to her woes.

His wife did not care. In the morning Vania would wake early and leave for the far island where she taught language at primary level, and he would see her again at the evening meal. They hardly said ten words to each other in a day, and it suited them. They shared the same bed to keep up appearances, and that was it.

What a crap life.

He wondered what went on inside her head. He made it clear theirs was a marriage of convenience in the weeks before their nuptials and she accepted it, although then he questioned her about how she felt. She answered it was not exactly what she foresaw for herself, and hoped time would allow them a closer relationship. It had not happened, and now he wondered if her hopes remained the same.

The crests of the waves glowed, and the moon shone on the water. Inviting.

He drew back and returned indoors. Slipping into the bedroom, he wandered through to the dressing room to feel by touch for clothes. Donning them in the outer chamber he smiled at his choice - blue breeches and a plum tunic, not his usual combination. He found a pair of boots on the balcony, closed the sliding door and left their suite.

The Palace was silent. The Throne-room echoed his careful tread, but nobody hailed him. The guards were familiar with his nocturnal meanderings. One would be shadowing him, but he never caught them intruding.

Overhanging the northern cliffs, the Palace inaccessible from the water, but the southern side of the island was a gentle slope resulting in a long stretch of white sand. Palm trees dotted the beach, rustling in the night air. To the west lay an inviting area of sweet grass Teroux’s pony chomped since arriving, and he made his way there, skirting the paths and ways of the garden it bordered. The Palace occupied near half the island, the eastern half, and the rest was a paradise landscape. A paradise prison, he sometimes thought, when particularly despondent.

Tannil strolled to the western tip of the island.

A bridge linked Valla Island with the next one in the chain and, under the width, a broad jetty spanned the water, with a narrow central passage. Sailing vessels of many varieties were tied there, bobbing with the motion of a calm current.

He stepped onto the bridge and walked a distance, stopping eventually to lean against the rails. The ocean sang with the kind of objective kindness that soothed the soul.

The continent underwent spring thaw, but out here the winds and currents were kinder. There was a nip to the air, but spring had come. The evidence was all around - blossoms, newborn chicks, the return of bees and butterflies. Not that winter was harsh in the islands; it never snowed, although it could get cold. It certainly rained and that was welcome, as tanks were replenished with satisfying regularity, even in summer.

He stared fixedly at the water. A movement at the edge of the bridge caught his attention, but he did not react. His shadow merely did his duty.

The Elders agreed with him. The majority would move to Luvanor. It was a truth they did not fight his directive. Perhaps they were frustrated with island life also. A number of them recalled the days of the Enchanter on the mainland and disliked this exile. They would go, but exacted a promise from their Vallorin to recall them if he returned. They loved a long ago Vallorin more, and he did not begrudge them.

Torrullin, by all accounts, had been a charismatic and attracted loyalty few could equal. The Elders and the Valleur loved him, Torrullin’s grandson, but it was not the same and he was glad. He did not think he had the strength to survive that kind of pedestal.

The rest of the Elders, island-born, had been to Luvanor and were desirous of the freedom afforded. Two, Kismet and Caballa, would remain at the Palace and see to his duties when he was himself absent on Luvanor. Those two knew Torrullin and refused to abandon Valaris. Vania and Teroux would make the transition. Vania said not a word. He hoped she would at least be happier there.

His thoughts returned to his disturbing dreams. The Lifesource Temple occupied most of the adjacent island; perhaps he should enter. Who was he fooling? The Temple was more Q’lin’la than it was Valleur, and the Q’lin’la had been in the Forbidden Zone for over a century, with infrequent visits to Valaris. Without the birdman Quilla to aid him within the Temple, his wanderings there would prove pointless.

The Three Gates would do the trick. He mulled that. He would need to uncloak them. They were off the south-western point of the mainland and thus safe from view. He would need someone to explain what to do, someone with experience. It was not the uncloaking he needed help with - it was the workings of the Gates themselves.

Kismet or Caballa? Kismet would be less judgemental, and it would be easier to convince the man a site required uncloaking after two millennia, but Caballa would assist in interpreting his dreams and would also be direct in her analysis. Maybe he would ask both of them, the two a foil for each other.

He would talk to them in the morning.

Feeling better for having reached a decision, Tannil turned for the Palace. He headed over the grass to stride along the beach, deep in thought. Stumbling as he reached the stone steps from the beach to the Palace, he stopped in consternation.

A large stone and shell circle was laid out on the sand, the stones round, the shells the spiralling variety, and all of them of a size. The upper curve touched the bottom of the first step, as if to waylay him, and then wound out to touch the lapping ocean before returning. It was a perfect circle as far as he could tell, and it was not there before.

Someone was on this beach in the last hours.

Tannil whistled. His shadow materialised nearby. Pointing at the unsettling design, he asked the guard if he saw anyone place it. His reaction confirmed Tannil’s worst fears.

My Lord, I do not see anything.

Tannil dismissed the man and closed his eyes. After long moments he reopened them. The hope was he imagined it.

The circle was there.

He pinched his nose, deciding to let it lay untouched. Who knew what power was trapped within? It would not be there in the morning, of that he was certain. It was laid for him. Something or someone knew before he did that he would walk that path this night - perhaps the entity threatening him in his dreams.

With first light he would corner Caballa and Kismet.

Western Isles

Lifesource Island

QUILLA WANDERED THE Temple. Ten minutes earlier, and he would have seen Tannil on the bridge.

A hundred years ago there was famine on Luvanor neither Senlu nor Valleur could arrest, a natural event, a combination of disasters including a decade of no rain. The Q’lin’la left Valaris to assist, and stayed. They knew the long peace meant the Enchanter was not due and settled on Luvanor without guilt.

He missed the Temple terribly, and now walking the chambers within chambers brought tears of joy to his eyes.

Outside, Buthos grumbled and made himself comfortable in one of the guest cottages. He could not enter the Lifesource; to do so would result in the loss of his immortality. Despite the moans, he was happy to be on Valaris again. It had been a long time.

He chased Murs across the universe when Torrullin sacrificed himself and, while he had not spent much actual time on this world, it felt like home, and had everything to do with the Enchanter and no one else. Valaris was the ghostly domain of Torrullin Valla.

Both he and Quilla misjudged the time difference, forgetting in their hasty departure from Grinwallin that it would be night here. In the morning they would see Tannil.

Central Valaris

Moor

IN MOOR, AN old man opened a bleary eye, awakened from fretful slumber. He rose automatically to make his way to the outhouse - his old bladder no longer played fair with his sleep - and then sat on the bed. He did not feel the need to go, so why had he awakened? Muttering to himself, he thought he may as well, or he would be awake before long again. He froze and stared into the dark next to the window.

Someone stood there, a shadow darker than the corner. A glint of an eye. His bladder loosened. The acrid smell of urine permeated the room and he whimpered.

A chuckle sounded from the corner and thereafter a derisive snort. The shadow detached and pushed the old man onto the bed.

Move, old man, the shadow said. Leave this house in the morning, for when I return, I shall obliterate it and everything in it.

A young man’s voice, full of hatred.

The shadow was gone.

Chapter 5

Mortals take the shorter view of history and destiny and that is as it should be. Why burden oneself with matters of nuance if one won’t live long enough to see results or understanding come to pass.

~ Beacon’s political writings

Valaris

VALARIS DID NOT suffer radical change in the two thousand years that passed beyond the Enchanter’s rule. Changes were achieved over time, a natural progression.

The Great Forest did not fall to the axe and continued to work its magic. It had grown to a size greater than before the destruction the Darak Or brought upon it. It no longer filled Valarians with superstitious dread either; where it once divided north and south, it now hosted roads to the three northern peninsulas, and the Ness River was a busy water highway with great trees flanking the banks.

Sheshi in the far north of the Nor Peninsula had been rebuilt as a staging post for expeditions to the polar region. The Meth Peninsula, once the clanlands, was repopulated and three new cities graced the western seaboard. A fourth nestled in the angle of the mighty Stairs Mountains, a playground for skiers, snowboarding enthusiasts and the like. The wasteland of the Vall Peninsula was a sprawling metropolis, a desert city that was hot only occasionally. The lake formed in the destruction of a sacred site hosted many water sports.

South of the Great Forest not much had changed. The major centres - Farinwood, Galilan, Gasmoor, Tetwan and Saswan - had spread, but farmland and grazing regions remained largely unaltered. Luan, on the western seaboard, now possessed more inns, taverns and jetties to cope with holiday crowds, and remained the popular point of departure to Actar on Tor Island. Linmoor, to the south, was a slumbering town until the market came to its shores.

Tor Island itself was irrigated to stay the desert conditions of the past. The cloaking of the island’s two sacred sites removed the garden beauty of the Valleur, and folk on Tor thus decided to achieve it without the magic. They did not wholly succeed, for the island was dry and windswept, but they did not fail either. Actar, Tor’s main city, was as ever a den of mannered iniquity.

The second big island, Silas, between the Nor and Meth peninsulas, historically shunned due to rife piracy and the worst of reputations, was utterly transformed, a profound change.

A large harbour played host to ships from every port, and inns of unparalleled luxury beckoned the discerning guest. Sport fishing was a major attraction, and the pristine beaches attracted a multitude in summer. The wetlands in the centre of the island attracted an infinite variety of birds and an almost inestimable number of bird watchers. Silas, pirate island, was transformed.

Further south, beyond deserted Menllik, the desert of the past was back, although less than before and it gradually gave way to pasture. The greening process started by the Valleur was wisely continued. Only the Gosa Desert in the extreme south remained true, for it was unto itself.

The spaceports of Two Town, the Vall Peninsula and Barrier had grown, and large towns developed nearby each. Emerald Sound was a busy harbour for sailing ships - the ocean itself was a major tourist attraction.

Nobody approached the Western Isles.

Bridges spanned the great rivers where before ferries did duty. A rail system connected the spaceports with the larger cities, with the one from Two Town to Galilan passing through the outskirts of Menllik, the latter an attraction to offworlders - if only to gaze upon in passing. No train stopped there.

Traversing the continent was easier and faster. Despite that, horse, cart and carriage, and foot, reigned supreme. Valaris’ human leaders learned from other worlds that technology did not necessarily equate to prosperity. Travellers were permitted to land at designated ports, while smaller shuttles were not allowed to commute between the three. Once the big ships were down, visitors had a choice between the rail systems, ships or hired horses - with or without carriage - or they could walk. A fair amount chose to hike, the journey part of the vacation.

Galilan was the vibrant capital city, and hosted embassies from Beacon, the Dinor homeworld, Xen III, Ceta and many others, human and otherwise. It was a cosmopolitan centre where many languages were heard in a matter of steps, where cultures mixed with ease.

Trees grew old with grace on Valaris, for the wonder of solar power completely displaced the need for traditional fuel. Light industry flourished, but none with emissions dangerous to the atmosphere or water sources. Mining and its inherent dangers had not materialised; when a delegation from Beacon, seeking to exploit, filed a report in patent disgust over Valaris’ poor mineral content, others backed off.

The continent imported goods from elsewhere and had a healthy trading relationship with many worlds. Valarians paid for goods with currency earned from tourism, goods such as household gadgets, solar panels, medical supplies and a number of exotic foods, and everything had to be entirely recyclable. There were no landfills, and nothing was dumped into the oceans. The latter carried a hefty penalty.

There was some technology, but it was limited to the early kind others elsewhere had abandoned. Television, telephone and basic electrical appliances. Electricity was solar and communication via satellite, a single orbiter bought from Xen. No unsightly wires marred the landscape.

Weapons were not manufactured or permitted. A visitor carrying one was bound to declare and hand it in at the spaceport or he or she faced permanent expulsion. No visitor or Valarian was allowed to carry a knife on his or her person. Crime could not be wholly eradicated, but it was minimal, another reason the tourism industry grew fast.

Dignitaries from offworld were astounded progress was deliberately slow and were informed to make a visit to Xen III. Xen, once the planet of domes and a poisonous atmosphere, now as backward as Valaris. By choice. Xen did have motorized transport, though, but all was electrical, solar generated.

Valaris had civilised in universal terms over the past two thousand years, but also managed to laud and maintain traditional ways. And it possessed a legendary past that drew visitors like a magnet.

Galilan

MARCUS CAMPIAN WAS the Electan of Valaris, a title equivalent to President and Peacekeeper. He was a small man, wiry, tanned and healthy. His brown eyes were shrewd, and he possessed a sharply intelligent wit and a sharper tongue. Dark brown hair was dyed against grey, curly, and he wore its shoulder length caught in a clasp at his neck to tame the wilful wildness. His hands were slender and manicured, with a deceptive strength many an adversary underestimated.

Unmarried, he resided in east Galilan where the wealthy made their homes. The lower section of his grand house was given over to offices and conference rooms - and a venue for functions - while the upper level was his personal abode. Marcus Campian refused to commute. A well-appointed guesthouse in the landscaped grounds hosted frequent visitors from varied walks of life.

He ever wore comfortable pants and a knee-length robe, both the same colour. Silk in summer, wool in winter - boots for winter, sandals for summer. His dress never varied, except in hue.

Today, as he made his way whistling downstairs to his office, he was clad in dark blue. It was spring, thus he wore sandals, but it was also chilly and he donned a pair of blue socks as well and cared not who thought what about it.

Each city had an elected mayor, and the mayors together chose the Electan. Marcus Campian was sixty years old and had been Electan for twenty-five years. He was an excellent diplomat, a stirring orator, a worthy administrator as well as a sympathetic listener. He was a trouble-shooter, impatient with bad ideas, and would not be swayed from a decision he regarded as sound. He never made a decision lightly.

Marcus was good for Valaris.

His secretary, a middle-aged man with him his entire political career, halted him at the foot of the dramatic sweep of the magnificent stairway - royal blue carpeting, plush plum walls and rich wood banisters.

Mr Campian, there is a young woman on the line who insists on speaking with you. She says her father was attacked in his bedroom last night.

Tell her to inform her local lawmen, Mr Jackson. Marcus frowned, straightening his robe, flicking an imaginary piece of fluff from his shoulder.

I tried, but she remains insistent. She will speak only to you, sir.

The Electan’s good humour fled. This early in the day and already dealing with time wasters.

I will take it in my office. Do we know her, or her father? he asked as he strode towards his luxurious place of work.

I believe not. Mr Jackson - MJ for short, for he despised his given name - headed to his smaller but no less luxurious office to transfer the call. Mr Campian would expect it ready when he reached for the handset.

Marcus sank into his leather chair and lifted the phone. Good morning. Marcus Campian.

Mr Campian, thank goodness! came a breathless voice. Sir, my father …

Was attacked. I was informed. Surely your local lawmen would be of greater service?

There was silence on the other end and then, I don’t think so, Mr Campian. You see, from the description my father gave me, I believe the intruder was a sorcerer.

Marcus sat straighter in his chair. What leads you to draw that conclusion?

He vanished, Mr Campian, like a ghost.

A loaded moment passed. Where are you?

Moor, sir.

Marcus frowned at his desk. Quite a distance. How to reach her before word got out? He had a nagging sense of familiarity with the name of the town - no, hamlet - and then she told him why it would be recognisable to him and to many others.

My father lives in the house Taranis, Lord of the Guardians, once inhabited.

A cottage over two thousand years old and still standing, in a place where other houses fell as time passed, to be rebuilt.

Stay where you are. I will be in Moor as soon as I can get there.

He slammed the handset down without saying goodbye and belatedly realised he had not got her name. No matter, either MJ had it, or she would know him when he reached Moor.

Too many unexplained incidents and not only on home soil. For the last month or two ambassadors bent his ear and he listened politely until it took on a pattern, and then began to happen on Valaris as well. What was the meaning in it? Who was behind it? A sorcerer?

He rose, shouting for Mr Jackson.

IT WAS YEAR 13 849 according to the new calendar that included and acknowledged the Valleur as first discoverers and settlers of Valaris. It was the third week of the first month of spring, and that morning saw Samuel enter Torrke, and Quilla and Buthos confront Tannil. Later it saw Tannil with Kismet and Caballa at the Three Gates, and early afternoon saw Marcus Campian arrive in Moor.

It was not an earth-shattering day and yet, with hindsight, it would be known as an auspicious beginning to the changes soon to follow.

Chapter 6

Trust in yourself.

~ Quilla to Torrullin

Torrke

HIS FATHER SAID to expect visions in the valley, a result of Valleur blood. Memories of the past were inherited, but Samuel was almost entirely human and would thus see memories as visions. He never experienced the like before and had no idea what to expect.

Nothing happened at first. Samuel walked in slowly before lengthening his stride. He found no black glass, not even the blob he encountered the day before - for that was a vision - and was reassured by the normality.

His confidence strengthened. As it grew, he was able to enjoy the spectacular beauty. He could not fathom how it once melted into solid glass. What incredible sorcery and science it took to return life here. The snow-clad Morinnes were to his left, seen for the first time from this side, and the sharp planes of the Arrows lay to his right, the two ranges diametrically opposed. He saw trees ancient and majestic, streams, boulders, flowers, lizards, waterfalls, butterflies and blossoms. His senses reeled and he felt free. The clear call of nesting eagles. The soft feathery touch of a wholesome breeze. The smell of new blooms. The taste of magic. There was natural magic here.

He was inspired.

Thus visions came to him.

The light of a supernova - he stumbled to earth covering his eyes, mortally afraid. Behind his eyelids everything went black, a liquefying, molten ebony that instantly solidified. Sterile nothingness. He gasped and opened his eyes, thinking himself trapped in that lightless state.

The green valley looked on serenely.

Nobody