Eurue- The Forgotten World

by Elaina J Davidson

  The smiles were newer, for the six. Clearly, despite the dangers, they felt more secure, and fuller bellies helped as well. During the evening meal, they opened up, sharing events, and revealing their personalities.

  When Lunas gestured at Dash, saying, “Yeah, he has delusions of something, that’s why the scars,” Dash simply grinned at him, saying, “Jealous?”

  The topic gave Alusin an opening he had not realised he sought, yet now grabbed to follow through with. “May I ask what your scars mean? They seem akin to cultural tattoos elsewhere.”

  Jala pointed. “There you have it. Cultural.”

  “Clan based?”

  Dash shook his head. “Family based, although there’s always a mark to denote clan as well.” He swung his dreadlocks to the side and exposed the right side of his neck. Tapping there, he said, “See the circle with a slash through it? That’s for the Kor.” He released his hair. “We all wear it somewhere.”

  Jala lifted her left arm and presented her wrist. A smaller slashed circle sat there. Macki tapped his forehead; the others laughed, with Lunas saying, “I have mine where the sun don’t shine!”

  “We trace lineage via our mothers, and receive the family mark soon after birth, usually on our upper arms,” Dez added, pulling his tunic down to expose his shoulder. A faded eye symbol sat there. “It’s the oldest scar and the most important. We place no other marks near it. I’m from the Itey family, therefore the eye.”

  “Seagre,” Jala murmured, revealing a curled wave.

  “Who marks you, and what do they use to do so?” Tristan asked.

  “Two of the community, trained as artists, use special blades,” Dash said, and grinned again, seeing Tristan shudder. “They are fast, so it doesn’t hurt too long.”

  “It’s the healing that’s a bitch,” Lunas muttered.

  Laughter rippled around the table.

  “Why is this practice accepted even today?” Alusin frowned. “No offense, but there is technology able …”

  “Not much by way of tech on Petunya,” Fleur interrupted. “We don’t want it. Ships and communications are already too much, although we do understand those are necessary for trading with our sister continents and worlds out there. You may consider us backward …”

  “On the contrary, Tristan murmured. “You are wise. My birth world possesses no tech whatsoever, other than that needed to land ships from space safely.”

  Fleur inclined his head. “Then you understand.”

  “Where is home for you?” Jala asked, and Alusin privately drew in an expectant breath. They were back on subject.

  Ruefully, Tristan glanced at her. “Everywhere? Nowhere?”

  Alusin blinked. Well, this was new.

  “I guess the Kaval moves around,” Jala nodded, “but you were born somewhere.”

  “Valaris, but Valaris is now a human world. We no longer have claim there.”

  “Do you have family?”

  Closing his eyes, Tristan nodded. “I don’t see them much.”

  “But you have a place among them? Surely that is home? Where?”

  For long moments he remained silent, but eventually he said, “Akhavar, where my cousin Tianoman is Vallorin.”

  “Why don’t you see him often?”

  “Jala, leave it; it’s complicated.”

  “Why do you have scars?”

  Alusin nearly whooped his pleasure. Finally someone else had asked!

  Growling, Tristan began to push his chair back, and Alusin drawled, “I hear Torrullin used to abscond when the questions got too intense.”

  Slapping his hands on the table, but making no further move, Tristan glared at him.

  Her gaze shifting rapidly between the two men, and aware of the complete silence from her clan, Jala nonetheless pushed. “Your scars seem to be from some kind of battle. Swords?”

  Inhaling, Tristan relaxed. “Swords, yes.”

  Dash leaned in eagerly. “I heard from a Grunway there was a battle with a giant man who proclaimed himself a timekeeper. The Valleur were in the thick of that. Was that you?”

  “Yes.” He did not say more.

  To elaborate would entail too many explanations, Alusin understood.

  “Wow!” Lunas blurted.

  “It was a long time ago,” Dash said.

  “Long as it as, that memory remains fresh in my thoughts,” Tristan muttered. “Rivalen was a giant, he was fast and strong, and had Torrullin not tossed his sword into the field, I’d now be dead. Many lessons to learn from that.”

  Alusin tapped one finger on the table. “Fresh?”

  Again Tristan glowered at him.

  “Because you lost?” Alusin pushed.

  “Everyone is a loser in that kind of battle; no, I have no issue with that. I weakened Rivalen enough for Torrullin to finish him off elsewhere. Point of fact, I call that a win.”

  “Then why can you not let it go?” Alusin leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the Golden man.

  “That is the day I chose my scars.”

  Nodding, Alusin leaned back, and said no more.

  “You mean you could have had them healed, but you chose to keep them?” Dez asked. “We understand scars, but why would you?”

  Jala, her gaze sympathetic, murmured, “Leave it, boys. We’ve pushed too much.”

  Alusin swore under his breath.

  “What’s with you?” she demanded.

  “That!” he snarled. “Let’s face it, Tristan Skyler Valla is a charismatic, and he is all light, glorious to look upon, and therefore others feel only compassion when they are faced with his reluctance. He gets away with it all the time.”

  Absolute silence descended, broken only when Alusin drew in a clearly shuddering breath.

  He rose and bowed. “Forgive me.” Turning on his heel, he left the space.

  TRISTAN WAS ON his arse only moments later. “Heal my scars.”

  Ahead, on his way to the study, Alusin came to halt. “No.”

  “Heal them now or I swear to bring this chateau down around all of us.”

  He pivoted. Crossing his arms, he said, “You are not that selfish.”

  Uttering a hard laugh, Tristan inclined his head. “You’re right, I’m not.”

  Staring challenge at the Kemir, he thus commenced transport to the Dome, step by excruciating step. Within seconds, he had fallen to his knees; saliva drooled from his mouth, his features contorted into a parody of a face, harsh keening erupted from within his cells …

  Alusin crashed bodily into him, dragging him sideways.

  But the Valleur did not stop.

  One arm suddenly snapped, the crack of bone so loud that Alusin flinched hard, so hard he almost convulsed in his utter shock.

  “I will do it!” he screeched. “Please, please stop,” he said in a quieter tone, the words torn from his entire being.

  Tristan collapsed.

  Tears coursed over his cheeks as he lifted the inert form. Close to weeping, Alusin carried him to rug before the fire, the flames there dim but still alive.

  Healing, he had discovered, was far more complicated than unmaking something was. Valleur were healers, and yet their healing only went to a point, and thereafter the process was up to the patient. Others elsewhere in the universe reacted to the same tenets; they could commence and even aid the healing, and yet the patient was ultimately responsible. Torrullin Valla, of course, and Elianas Danae, was able to heal everything with a simply laying on of hands. He, Alusin, possessed the same gift.

  As he hunkered beside Tristan, praying the six would stay in the goddamned dining chamber, he realised something. Torrullin and Elianas - dual natures, therefore healers also? Did this ability in fact prove his was a dual nature as Tristan suggested? Ha, for someone who claimed to know himself, this was an unexpected question.

  Never mind. Tristan needed him to be a healer now.

  Mercifully, the others remained in the dining area; Jala probably told them to stay put. It gifted him both privacy an
d silence in which to concentrate.

  Touching Tristan’s brow, he quested for the worst damage. A broken arm hurt, but that did not kill immediately; he sought internal damage.

  Spleen, liver and lower intestine.

  Swiftly then, Alusin lifted the dark green tunic and laid his hands flat upon the man’s abdomen. His own gut lurched, then clenched, causing his hands to shake. The man under his bands had smooth skin, warm, healthy … enticing. Gods, concentrate.

  Closing his eyes in order not to see, he quietened his thoughts and reached for the gift of succour. His hands warmed briefly, and then he lifted them away.

  Tristan inhaled and spluttered.

  “Just lie still,” Alusin snapped.

  Holding the elbow, he wrapped his hand near the break in Tristan’s arm, causing the man to gasp. An instant later he sighed relief.

  Rocking onto his heels, Alusin stared at him.

  “You are not done,” Tristan murmured.

  “You are plunging into this for the wrong reasons. You know why you chose your scars, yet now brinkmanship suddenly has you changing your why. Think, Tristan, please. If it is anger, are you aware of how much you will blame me for taking your scars?”

  Tristan stared up at the fancy scrollwork on the ceiling. He blinked a few times as if debating with himself. When he lowered his gaze those eyes had silvered.

  “Heal Rivalen’s manipulation. Leave what Halon did.”

  Alusin shivered. Thus, the bloody Valleur was ready to admit he was able to inhabit his skin as himself. Perhaps that had something to do with Torrullin’s long absence; no one in the presence ever mistook him for his grandfather, even at a distance with no scars evident.

  Keeping the three jagged slashes on his cheeks - Halon’s parting gifts - meant the wall around his heart remained impregnable.

  He reached for his inner well of serenity - healing was impossible without it - and lifted Tristan’s tunic again. Laying his hands there, he watched as the scarring appeared to absorb into the man’s skin.

  “Take it off. I need to see where to touch.”

  Unspeaking, Tristan sat up and swiftly removed his tunic. Not once did he look at his body; that silver gaze remained trained on Alusin.

  Choosing to ignore the bloody man, Alusin checked his torso. “Clear. Give me your right arm.” He healed the host of tiny nicks there. “Left.” He did the same for that arm. “Turn around.”

  “No. Do it from this position.”

  Gritting his teeth, Alusin rose on his knees and reached over Tristan’s shoulders to lay a hand on each shoulder blade. The man’s breath was warm in his neck, but he forcibly ignored all else until his back was as unmarked.

  Tristan’s head flopped back as he gazed up. “My face.”

  Swallowing, Alusin took those cheeks into his quivering hands.

  “Be very careful now,” Tristan whispered.

  He could not afford to respond in any way to the challenge. Needing to see the scars vanish, meant he had to look, when looking was the hardest to do. Narrowing his eyes to slivers, he focused on skin rather than features, and gently pressed, instantly lifting his hands away

  In that tense stance, he witnessed scar after criss-crossing scar dissipate.

  He sighed his utter relief when the jagged marks remained. And slumped, staring at his trembling fingers. Warm hands then clasped his face and forced him to look up.

  “Thank you,” Tristan murmured. His silver eyes lowered to Alusin’s mouth. “Know this; the day I kiss you is the day you heal my final scars.”

  In a sudden flurry of movement, Tristan absented himself.

  Gods. When?

  Somewhere

  A TEAR ROLLED over her cheek.

  A long time ago she asked that question. When?

  The love of her life became a monster, however, and today she could not wait to rip his soul from his body, as hers was ripped away in the mists of time.

  Love hurt as much as it healed. Unfortunately, sometimes one discovered the distinction too late.

  The Chateau

  THE STUDY WAS again the site of emotional trauma. They had asked the others to steer well clear, seeing as they attempted to delve arcane arts to discover answers. What those ‘arcane arts’ were, they did not reveal. Fortunately, having been betrayed by duped Grunway, the six Kor happily promised to not interfere.

  No one asked after Tristan’s healed face and hands, although Jala’s gaze had rested for a while on the three jagged scars that remained.

  The chateau was utterly silent.

  Tristan covered the study doors with dark material he found in a laundry nook, and snapped the fire into bright blaze. No other light was visible.

  In meditative pose, Alusin sat before the flames, staring into those flickering depths, far enough removed to not be influenced by the heat, yet sufficiently close for the flames to act as a hypnosis tool.

  Tristan took up position behind him, his long legs stretched to either side of the man. He did not touch; he waited.

  “Now,” Alusin murmured, and Tristan placed two fingers in the nape of his neck, Alusin having swept his long hair to fall over one shoulder. “Hush.”

  Considering he was as quiet as a hidden footstool, Tristan was briefly amused. He did not respond. Clearing his mind of all, he maintained his light pressure of support via his fingertips.

  WHAT FELT LIKE days later, but was no more than an hour, his arm shook with the strain of maintaining a locked position. Alusin had not moved or made a sound in the intervening time, and the fire was now mere embers. He dared not restore the blaze, afraid it would harm the Kemir’s concentration or interfere with his vision.

  Another hour elapsed, and every muscle in his body screamed. Gnashing his teeth, he forced himself to hold position. By all gods, his arse was numb.

  Then, in a movement so minute he almost missed it, a tremor passed through the Kemir.

  A moment after, Alusin straightened.

  Thanking gods great and small, Tristan grunted his agony and lowered his arm. He flopped back to lie there panting, while Alusin leaned forward to stretch towards the embers. Standing, he offered Tristan a hand, pulled him up. Unspeaking, both paced the study to restore normal circulation.

  Eventually Alusin hunkered at the fire, tossing fresh logs on.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I was able to say in trance longer than usual.”

  “As long as it was fruitful.”

  Alusin nodded.

  Hunkering beside him to look at him, Tristan demanded, “What is it?”

  “You will not like it.”

  “Aaru, we’re under siege and about to be eaten, and I won’t like it? What can possibly …?”

  “I spoke to Caballa.”

  Tristan hit him.

  Chapter 10

  Old books are a treasure

  Old books are also outdated

  ~ Tattle ~

  Titania’s Library

  TITANIA HOSTED the largest and most comprehensive collection of knowledge in the universe. The library claimed to have at least one copy of everything.

  The world itself was a strange one, filled with sponges, its atmosphere somewhat metallic, the heavens in hues from saffron to sickly green, but the library was state-of-the-art modernity. As time moved on, so did the monumental building refurbish, especially regarding technology and vehicles.

  Tiny electric smart cars fetched patrons from the entrance to whoosh them off to the required destination. The floor expanse was astronomical; to walk to a particular shelf for a particular book could literally take a week. Apparently, not so long ago, the library’s authorities tested hovercraft amid the aisles, but that led to accidents, shelves toppled into chaos, and thereafter the smart cars returned. Grounded, they caused less mayhem.

  Chaim and Jimini entered via the sliding doors and found long lines already in place. Light filtered through the creepers adorning the massive conservatory-like antechamber. Fifty men and women of various ages, cult
ures and races manned stations at a long glass counter - therefore the lines. To find something in this library meant asking for help. Apparently the database here was the largest in the universe as well.

  Jimini groaned.

  “Patience is a virtue, my dear,” Chaim murmured, steering her to a line at random.

  She bit back a retort.

  A young security guard approached to touch Chaim on his shoulder. “Sir?”

  “How may I help you, young man?”

  “Sir, you are Chaim of the Kaval?”

  “I am, and this is Jimini of the Kaval.”

  “Welcome to Titania,” the young man smiled, and returned his attention to Chaim. “I have been instructed to escort you to a facility on the second level. Someone waits to meet you.”

  “May I enquire as to his or her name?”

  “I am not at liberty to say.”

  The young man appeared apologetic, but Jimini knew from previous experience that security here was no laughing matter. They would be ousted from these precincts unless they complied. As Kaval they would be allowed back in, with apologies, but the ousting would come first.

  “Lead the way,” she murmured.

  “I have no instructions regarding your person, unfortunately.”

  “Jimini is with me,” Chaim stated.

  “Bloody ask your mystery man,” she snapped.

  The young man nodded, and touched his ear. Clearly, then, the mystery was in the shape of a man, not a woman. Soon, the guard simply turned on his heel, beckoning both of them to follow. They did, glancing worriedly at each other.

  An elevator whisked them up to the second floor. Here professors, teachers, researchers, scientists, philosophers, writers, and many others paid for time at secluded nooks in order to do their research and work in silence. Most desks were occupied; the space rustled as if rippling through a sea of rasping parchment.

  To the left, ornate doors were spaced into infinitum. These were the private offices of resident experts, and also conference facilities. A fair number were rented out to wealthy clients, while some were for interviewing potential donors … or criminals. According to Galarth and Shenendo, regular visitors to Titania, despite the level of security at the complex, theft happened. Some of the works in these hallowed halls were worth a fortune and unscrupulous collectors were prepared to pay.