“Fine,” Tristan murmured.
“Bring it on, destiny,” Alusin whispered.
For an instant the golden man froze, and then his right hand clutched at his chest, seeking the medal lying against his scarred skin. His grey eyes silvered.
“Sorry,” Jala said loudly, drawing their attention. “We don’t mean anything. We’re beyond glad that you came.”
Tristan’s fingers relaxed. He did not again look at Alusin. “Let’s discuss this Gabryl …”
The Maghdim Medaillon nestled against his chest, Alusin knew; the medal that was also the master mechanism; the clock that measured time for sentience. These people did not yet realise just how powerful Tristan actually was.
He, Alusin, was there the day the mighty device came to Torrullin’s grandson.
The Dome
A Century Ago
TRISTAN RUMMAGED amongst the scrolls, the actions clearly conveying frustration.
“What are you looking for?” Alusin called out from the slab.
Tristan did not bother replying. Pulling out scroll after scroll, only to slide them back, he muttered dire threats to anything he could think of.
Clearly he eventually found something, but it was something life-altering, for when he whispered, “Alusin,” his tone was barely audible. It was also filled with new nuance.
It summoned him instantly and he swiftly kneeled beside Tristan. “What is it?” He stared at a rectangular stone vessel, a tiny catch proving it was hollow within.
“This,” Tristan said, “I suspect is the receptacle for the master mechanism.”
Alusin hissed a breath. “That is the keepsake of a Timekeeper.”
Tristan showed him the words inscribed on the underside of the vessel.
In the fourteenth cycle a golden coin comes. Here is its sanctum. It has greater value than time itself for it is created of sacred space. The internal marriage is the external wedding march.
“Timekeepers, Alusin. Always there are two.”
He was abruptly numb. “I thought the master mechanism was far larger.”
Tristan looked away. “I did as well. A vessel this size cannot contain much, can it?” His head jerked up. “Oh.”
Alusin released an explosive breath. “Unless it is the size of a coin.”
Roughly releasing the box to the floor, Tristan flipped the lid.
And there it was.
The Maghdim Medaillon.
Both men stared at it, fascinated.
A small rolled up note was tucked into the lid. With shaking fingers, Tristan retrieved it to swiftly unfurl. Gasping in breath, he read it and passed the note to him.
Dear Tristan
The Maghdim Medaillon now belongs to you.
I freely gift it and thus know it will not burn you. It will not harm your Eternal Companion either. Ask him to touch it and then you will know he is beside you already if he remains unmarked.
Your true future begins now, grandson. I wish for you peace, but I am afraid it may be a doddery old man’s wish, for much lies ahead for you and for him, the one who will be at your side. The road will not always be easy. It will be interesting!
Live, Tristan. Grab your future with all the courage I know you possess. And love with all your heart.
I love you.
Torrullin
In the aftermath, they stared at each other.
“It is the strangest thing,” Tristan whispered. “Now I feel able to begin my healing.”
“He knew that. Torrullin is a wise man.”
A tear tracked over Tristan’s scarred cheek. “He would deny wisdom.”
“Yet he has it.”
“Indeed,” Tristan smiled.
Carefully then, Tristan lifted the Medaillon from its ancient receptacle. The chain spooled through his fingers. The device did not burn him. In hands not known to it, burning resulted, horrible, disfiguring burning.
“All gods, this is the Maghdim.”
“I would like to touch it.”
Tristan looked at him. “I have no need to test you.”
“Tristan, I need you to test me. Now, here at the beginning of all things.”
Inclining his head, Tristan held the coin out, allowing it to fall to the end on the chain. It swayed slightly.
Alusin clasped it without hesitation. When he displayed his hand, his palm and fingers were unmarked.
They smiled at each other.
Tristan passed the chain over his head and allowed the Medaillon to rest against his chest.
“Timekeepers, hmm?” Alusin teased.
Tristan laughed. “Now it gets interesting!”
Chapter 3
Beautiful melodies are able to sing of dreadful events
~ Hyfin, Bard ~
Petunya
The Barn
“HAS ANYONE HERE visited this chateau?” Tristan questioned.
Jala nodded. “A few years ago I delivered insulation wool to the artisans there.”
“Are you able to form a clear image of it?”
Alusin added, “And we’ll need direction too.”
“Why?” Dez asked.
“Transport,” Tristan responded. “I will check first …”
“We,” Alusin snapped.
Grinning, Tristan amended, “We will head over there to check the location and, if it’s viable, return for you.”
“I get the feeling we’re talking transport that doesn’t involve horses or feet,” Jala laughed. She brightened as it occurred to her there was a way out of the barn.
“As much as I don’t care for the highborn ways, I’ll admit I can’t wait to leave here,” Lunas said. “We’re almost out of food and a wash … man, I could do with a scrub.”
“Hush,” Jala admonished. Facing Tristan, she asked, “What do I have to do?”
“Close your eyes and imagine it. Find details, and when you have as much of the place visible in your mind’s eye as you feel is correct, give me your hand.”
“You’re going now?”
“Night is safer, you said. Now feels like the best time.”
Drawing in a deep breath, she closed her dark eyes and stilled. Tristan quietly rose from his seat two places removed, and moved to stand behind her, gesturing for Alusin to join him. He did so, likewise masking his sounds to aid her concentration.
A minute later, Jala lifted her hand.
Tristan brushed a finger across her palm, and vanished. Alusin followed his signature with alacrity.
The Chateau
THEY MATERIALISED in what was clearly a kitchen, the cavernous kind usually attached to a palatial estate. It was of a more modern design, for a fridge purred somewhere. Darkness reigned, and it was entirely deserted. Clearly it was unused as well, unless the kitchen staff packed every herb and condiment away for the night. A highly unlikely scenario.
A faint glow emanated from a doorway on the far side, possibly the ingress into the chateau proper. The door, if there was one, was open to allow for passage. Unspeaking, Tristan motioned towards it. Nodding, Alusin took the lead, hand on hilt, picking his way cautiously around kitchen obstacles.
Beyond, a long corridor presented many doors, each closed. They ignored those, however, heading instead towards the strengthening light. Soon a large space richly appointed in tapestries and heavy dark furniture opened up to them. To the left, massive double doors were bolted against intruders. To the right, an ornate and curving stairway led up into dark spaces. This was the chateau’s foyer.
Directly ahead, paned doors led to what was obviously a study and library. Through the sectioned transparency shelves filled with books welcomed entrants.
In an intimidating hearth, a fire burned merrily. A man stood there. He straightened from a perusal of the flames to turn towards them. A flick of his wrist resulted in the study doors opening soundlessly.
“Do come in. I have been expecting you.”
He wore a tailored velvet coat tapered to his form. The shoulders were pleated to crea
te a slight puffiness, and it flared at mid-thigh. Bright silver buttons were dead straight from throat to crotch, with two shining at each wrist. Of deep maroon, it was clearly a wealthy man’s vestment. Dark breeches of a woven material, almost black, but not quite, clung to muscled thighs, evident when the coat split as he moved. Polished black leather boots sported metal detail, silver on closer inspection, his heels slightly raised. A fine linen undershirt was clearly of a darker hue, perhaps blue, perhaps grey. With lacy cuffs and collar, he had the appearance of a dandy.
His manner of dress, along with affectations - the flick of his wrist here, his pretentious stance - spoke of a man not of this time. He appeared to have walked off the pages of history, coming from an era when men dressed almost as ostentatiously as their women, and ruled fiefdoms, including their women.
Tristan and Alusin glanced at each other as they entered.
In fine form and prime of life, the man appeared calm, with an obvious trait of inbred arrogance to him. His long hair, dark brown, thick with a wave to his tresses, was caught at the nape of his neck in an ornate bow, the velvet there matching his frock. Clean-shaven and planed cheeks spoke of good breeding, as did long, slender fingers, and perfectly arched eyebrows and manicured nails revealed he was conscientious with his appearance.
His outdated dress set him apart from the norm immediately, but two other factors instantly shrieked out how dangerous he actually was.
Both Kaval men gripped their sword hilts with intention.
Sometimes his coat seemed moth-bitten, full of ancient holes, an article worn long past its efficacy date. When he moved, it appeared as if he swerved between wealth and poverty with each micro action. More correctly, for the two men were very aware of such nuances, he shifted between time present and time past, as if he was both alive and dead simultaneously.
His eyes, however, remained unchanging. Without expression, they were the palest blue, pure ice, and coated everything in his field of view with the cold common to graves.
“I am Gabryl,” he stated.
His voice was cultured … and he spoke Valleur.
This man was the real reason they were on Petunya.
CLUTCHING AT HIS weapon, Tristan braced a few paces away. Alusin casually wandered to the nearest shelf, ostensibly to read titles.
“Tristan Valla.”
Gabryl briefly bowed his head. “I am honoured, Kaval leader.”
The Golden man gestured significantly. “Alusin Algheri.”
“Your companion; I am aware.”
Alusin favoured the dangerous dandy with the kind of stare able to fell lesser men, and then ignored him.
“You speak Valleur. How is that?” Tristan asked.
“I speak many languages.”
“Talk. You summoned us,” Tristan said.
“Indeed I did. Sit.” Gabryl flicked a wrist ostentatiously at a group of stiffly upholstered chairs away from the fire.
Alusin snorted. The seating looked like pure torture to him.
Tristan, after sending him a warning glance, murmured, “I am quite comfortable, thank you.”
“As you wish.” The man’s eyes grew even colder. “I do think better on my feet as it is.” Without further pleasantries, he paced towards a sideboard sporting various decanters filled with different hues of liquor. He poured as he spoke. “Petunya, as you must know, is a farming community. While there are three continents, it is this one - we call it Frond - we need to speak of. The manipulation appears curtailed to here.” Bringing three goblets with him, he approached Tristan.
Reluctantly, Tristan accepted his measure. Boorishness showed an utter lack of manners, after all, and Samuel, his father, had not raised him thus.
Moving towards Alusin, Gabryl went on. “Others came from abroad, our sister continents, to aid us, but have not survived. Before our communications shut down, which is pretty basic, except for the spaceport, the authorities informed us we are on our own. Yours was not the first message sent out into the wider universe, but all who came, and few did, paid the price.” Halting before Alusin, he extended a goblet. “I do not believe in poisoning a man, Kemir.”
Interesting. This man knew he was Kemir. Most needed to ask after his race. “No, you prefer the direct approach.” Alusin took the vessel from him without touching the man’s fingers.
“Indeed I do. If you must kill a man, have the courage to look him in the eye as you do so.”
Alusin inclined his head. “I agree.”
Swinging away, his coat shifting between times past and present, Gabryl returned to the fire. Standing with his back to the warmth, he supped from his goblet.
“It started six standard months ago, which is around nine measurements for this world. Shortly after midsummer a storm lashed Frond. Dark clouds descended, along with water spouts and tornadoes. It tore up farmland coast to coast, and many succumbed, and most of our spacefaring vessels were damaged too, but that was not the worst of it. In the aftermath it became clear certain entities had employed the funnels between the heavens and land and sea to enter. Their first point of call was …”
“… your guild of magicians,” Tristan murmured, using Jala’s words.
“The Grunway, yes.” Gabryl lifted a shoulder, twirling his goblet casually. “Four of us were caught in the hinterland during the storm, and thus survived that slaughter. I am now the last.”
“How so?” Tristan queried.
A wry smile twisted his features. “At first we travelled during daylight, believing danger lay with night, but soon we realised how wrong we were. I have a certain talent allowing me to hide when needed, and thus I made it back to my home, only to discover it deserted.”
“You are both alive and dead concurrently,” Alusin murmured.
The man’s face transformed. While his eyes remained cold, something about the way lines deepened on either side of his mouth expressed both satisfaction and amusement. “I am impressed. You are the first to see my … difference.”
Having sniffed his drink and finding it not to his liking, Tristan moved towards a side table to set his goblet down. “You shift between states. Are you telling me no one here saw this?”
Gabryl relinquished his drink to the mantelpiece behind him before spreading his hands, a gesture signifying transparency that Alusin did not trust in the least. “Grunway magicians are … were … farmers first. Their talents lay in lifting heavy items, creating canals, finding water, choosing optimum growth times, and so forth.”
Alusin snorted. “And every use of power leeched colour from their skins?”
“Yes. An unfortunate side-effect.”
“Never have I heard of that happening before.”
“Kemir, you are already pale; perhaps it went unnoticed.”
Nonplussed, Alusin glared at the man. “Either you’re too insular here or you’re now spouting absolute crap.”
“There is precedent,” Tristan murmured, causing his companion to transfer attention to him. “The Phoi lost pigment in this manner.”
“That has never been proven.”
“Hard to, if it happened thousands of years ago,” Tristan grinned. Serious then, he narrowed his eyes. “A ship left here with a messenger on board. Thus, a ship survived the storm, even if communications didn’t. My question is, why not jump on that ship yourself? Why send another?”
All expression, subtle as it was, had vanished from Gabryl’s face. “The messenger was also the pilot. I may have talent, but flying a craft is not one of them. Someone needed to be here, besides, as a destination for your transport. Your mode of travel is beyond me.” He paused. “I am weary of the third degree.”
Again the Kaval men shared a look. Magical transport was more about the transfer of energy from one place to another than it was about magic. Regarded as magic by non-adepts, it was point of fact a science the strength of a mind was able to employ to advantage. Someone like Gabryl, already in a shifting state, would probably lose cohesion if he made the attempt, witho
ut recourse to a rebuild at point of arrival.
Sighing, Tristan sat in one of the stiffly upholstered chairs. “How are you the way you are?”
“That will have to wait for another time. We have a greater issue to deal with.” With measured tread, Gabryl moved to the chair opposite the Kaval leader. “These wraithlike beings are immune to sorcery. They are much like the soltakin that invaded Valaris in the days of the Enchanter, except these are not susceptible to the elements as the soltakin were. I have searched through old books, but I do not know what they are; there is not much by way of information available here. To protect the chateau, instinct prodded me to surround it with various compounds until I discovered that which works.”
“Salt?” Tristan murmured.
He winced when he heard ‘Enchanter’, causing Alusin to study him from under his lashes.
“They are not like to the demons of legend, but, indeed, salt was first. Saltpetre. Vinegar. Coal dust. Much else. I had a bonfire going out back; they moved through the flames.”
“The chateau has not been breached. You found the deterrent,” Alusin stated. Again he wandered along the shelves, reading titles.
“Mercury.”
Silence greeted his claim. Quicksilver was highly toxic. Using it as a weapon would destroy the environment, but it was also a transitional metal and perhaps that was a clue they could follow. Alusin and Tristan glanced at each other once more, silently stating the willingness to delve possibilities.
“Did the area fluoresce when these creatures neared?” Alusin asked. He sounded thoughtful.
“Initially, yes, in spurts. Rarely now.”
Tristan tapped his chin. “There is thus electricity present. Electricity passed through mercury vapour is able to create short-wave ultraviolet light, the process leading to visible light. The vapour has now settled, and therefore the sparks are dormant. That’s basic science, but we can use it to find a solution.”
Eurue- The Forgotten World Page 3