Vanar smiled. “Of course.”
Yiddin sighed. “Pity, but we won’t force you.”
“Thank you.”
Vanar gave a laugh. “As Conclaves go, this one had no teeth. Sirlasin, wake your charge and get him back to work. Caballa, would you accompany me to Rose before you go to Lord Torrullin?”
Caballa nodded.
“Tristan, I think you should see your father,” Vanar suggested. “For both your sakes.”
Tristan rubbed at his face. “Perhaps you are right.” He sent Caballa a look that said do not leave before we have again spoken and left the chamber without saying more.
Vanar was worried. “I fear for him. He has been patient until now and when Curin was alive the waiting was easier on him, but now the strain begins to tell.”
Caballa murmured, “Who of the three, Vanar?”
“As Vallorin? Each has strengths and weaknesses.”
“Sidestepping?” Caballa teased.
Yiddin leaned in. “I would choose Teroux.”
Vanar frowned at him. “Definitely Tristan.”
Kippora, recently elevated to Elder, said, “I think Tianoman. Full of vision, that one.”
Caballa raised a hand. “Enough. If you lot are divided, the choice can only come from one source.”
Selenten said, “Gods, I hope the choosing is smooth.” He bowed his head and offered up a prayer to the Goddess.
Chapter 15
Now there is nothing left.
~ Arc, poet
Valaris
Near Linmoor
THE SKYLER FARM WAS generations in the making, passed from son to son since the time of the first Tristan, Tristamil and Skye’s son.
Over the years the farm knew drought and flood, good yield, not so good, often on the brink of bankruptcy and had at other times given back great wealth. Twice it was sold, twice auctioned off, and every time the next Skyler bought it back. The farm had raised cattle and sheep and branched once into poultry. It grew table grapes and later vines for the bottle, the latter unsuccessfully. It saw maize, sorghum, apples, and pecans, even avocado.
During Samuel’s early years the Skylers raised horses and grew vegetables. During Tristan’s early years the horses were family owned, but the vegetables had grown in yield and demand.
Today it was paddocks and meadows, no longer a working concern, rather a residence for the idle rich, at least that was what Teroux laughingly called it, to be cuffed by a furious Samuel.
Living in Menllik meant Samuel had little time to farm and, truth be told, Curin was the farmer; Samuel was a jeweller by trade.
They held onto the family land after the Valla connection was known, and today it was a place to find privacy, peace and relaxation. When the heirs were younger it was a place to spend holidays, a place for boys to ride freely and to get dirty.
Tristan stood in a thoughtful pose before the Skyler home. The house, too, had known changes; in fact, different homes stood on this site in two thousand years. Samuel helped his father build the present one and Tristan was born in it twenty-five years later.
The house was nothing special, ordinary really, but also pretty. Stone and thatch - thatch that needed replacing, Tristan realised - creepers and gigantic trees, that was the house, and in summer a riot of colour, flowers lovingly planted by Curin.
Curin adored it. His mother and father regularly slipped away from Menllik to come here. His mother and father loved each other and he basked in their togetherness, as Teroux and Tianoman had their stability in it.
Tristan drew breath and stepped onto the porch. The front door was open and cold air swirled about the house. Where was his father and how could he be this absentminded? His father would catch a cold in this weather.
“Father?” he called out. His voice came back hollow, unanswered. He hastened through the house. All the windows were open; it was icy. No fires were lit in any of the rooms. “Father!”
He found Samuel in the kitchen.
His father was slumped over the table, fingers curled around a mug, head resting on a newspaper. The outer door was open and there was no fire in the hearth, no warmth.
Tristan halted in the inner door.
Blue fingers. Stiffened fingers.
No.
His father had merely fallen asleep, that was it, and the cold set in. He would need serious warming; brandy, fire, a hot bath, nourishing broth, words of comfort from his son.
Tristan stepped forward and laid a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Dad? Come on, wake up …”
He shook hard, getting no response, and then Samuel moved, but he moved strangely, as a statue, all of a piece.
No. Just asleep.
“Father!” Tristan shouted, shaking hard.
Dead silence. Dead. Silence.
Not this, not this.
“No!” he screamed out, flailing away.
TIANOMAN LIFTED HIS head from a blocked latrine trench.
Tristan?
He threw the spade aside and bounded out. He was dirty and exhausted and not meant to leave. Tianoman cared for none of it and transported out to his wailing cousin.
TEROUX HAD GIVEN UP listening to the ambassador from Beacon, and ran musical ditties through his mind to pass the time.
He heard the scream of grief.
Tris?
He rose from the couch and without apology left the Beaconite staring after him open-mouthed.
HEARING TRISTAN SCREAM, Caballa shivered and gazed down at Rose as she stiffened.
“Something happened to Tristan,” Rose whispered.
Caballa glanced at Vanar and stood up. “Stay here; I will go to him.”
Grinwallin
TORRULLIN KNOCKED HIS head against the tunnel ceiling as he straightened in alarm.
“Torrullin?” Teighlar questioned.
A listening silence ensued first. “I must go to Valaris right away. Am I able to transport from here?”
“What is wrong?”
“Tristan. Transport?”
The Senlu Emperor nodded and then was alone in the tunnel.
Valaris
Samuel’s Farm
TEROUX WAS FIRST AND found Tristan shaking Samuel, saying “no, no, no.”
His cousin’s face was so colourless it was as if he were disappearing. He took one look, realised the situation, and was himself punched in the gut.
“Gods, not Samuel!” he wailed, stumbling closer.
Tristan jerked, and then Tianoman was there.
Time stood still as the three cousins stared at each other.
Samuel was Tristan’s father by blood, but he raised Teroux since he was five and Tianoman since birth. Samuel was their father also and his death was felt equally by all three.
Caballa entered, took it in, and strode over to Tristan and Samuel. Gently, yet firmly, she removed Tristan’s clawed hands from his father’s cold, stiff shoulders, and pulled him away.
“He’s sleeping, Caballa, and cold … we must make a fire …”
Tianoman groaned and sank sobbing to the icy floor.
“Samuel is dead, Tristan,” Caballa said. “Come away.”
He jerked from her. “You lie!”
Teroux stepped forward, his face ravaged. “Tris, come. Our father has gone. Come … please come …” Then he was crying in huge gusts of grief, doubling over, clutching at his stomach.
Caballa knew she had to get the living men out of the kitchen, away from death. The how and why would come later; the living had priority.
She lifted a hand to Tristan, who snarled, “Leave me! He’s sleeping!”
Then Torrullin was there and her heart ceased beating, her world flipped inside and out.
TORRULLIN SAW TRISTAN FIRST.
Pain. Denial. He sought and noted the reason, and went cold. Dear god, not Samuel. Not Samuel.
Tianoman’s sobs drew his attention downward and he noticed Teroux doubled over in grief.
Last of all was Caballa, and her presence reeled
everything inside him.
Again time stood still.
Torrullin breathed.
“Torrullin, tell her … he’s sleeping!” Tristan shouted.
Torrullin. He calls me by my name and thus frees me to be myself in his presence.
“Tris, Samuel is dead.” He stepped forward and took Tristan’s hand, laying it forcibly against Samuel’s almost frozen neck and holding his own hand over that hand. “Feel, son. Cold below, warmth above, and no pulse but the tremble of mine and yours.”
Tristan’s face crumbled. “It cannot be.”
“Yet it is. This son of my son has passed on.” Torrullin lifted his hand from Tristan’s and raised it stroke Samuel’s cold cheek. “So like Tristamil, and so loved. He will be missed. Dear god, he will be missed.”
He swung away, went through the open back door to stand drawing deep breaths of the frigid air.
A beat, two, three, and then Tristan stumbled out also, heaving onto the stones.
Caballa took a shaky breath, swallowed, and then firmly lifted Tianoman from the floor. Teroux walked stiffly past Samuel, averting his eyes. As she came out with Tianoman she found Teroux seated on a nearby bench and took Tianoman - limp and heavy - over to him, sat him down.
When she looked up Torrullin was looking at her.
In those frozen moments all three Vallas were drawn to Torrullin and Caballa. A diversion? Maybe, but the naked emotion in both was too stark to ignore.
“Caballa, you are ever in my heart,” Torrullin said, and his voice was like glass.
She cried out, “As you are in mine, my Lord!”
Caballa moved across the small space and into his arms and they enfolded her, without burden, without judgement, freely - the unconditional welcome of a dear friend. She felt him begin to shake and knew his grief for Samuel overtook him, and then Tristan was there and one of the arms around her lifted to grip his grandson to him, Tristan was against her back, his presence solid, and then Teroux was beside him, Tianoman also, and she stood in the centre of a Valla storm of grief.
Never had she felt so accepted and so much part of a family.
Many minutes passed, and she cried with them, and would remember the bond of that day into eternity.
Chapter 16
The ghosts of guilt need excising.
~ Unknown
Menllik
TORRULLIN SAT WITH HEAD hanging in one of the private family rooms on the ground floor of the manor, blind to the simple comfort.
Samuel was taken care of, his mortal remains in the mortuary elsewhere in the city, the vigil already in place; the ceremony would be held two days hence and people poured into the city to attend.
Tianoman was released from judgement and slept under sedation in an upstairs bedroom, and Teroux wandered the empty ballroom above like a ghost; Torrullin eventually left him to it, knowing grief manifested in different ways.
Tristan was with Caballa; she had forced him out, hoping a walk would aid his frantic state of mind.
Samuel. The genetic equal of Tristamil, the essence of a most beloved son. Torrullin loved Tristamil above all others and suffered when his son died, and when Samuel came to him he thought to find release from that, and did. Samuel returned to him something missing, but he loved Samuel for himself also, for the man was a wise, gentle soul with strength in his veins.
A Valla truly worthy. A man, a friend, a son loved.
And now gone.
Torrullin pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back in the armchair.
He succumbed to exposure. Why? The answer lay in a heart unable to function without its one true love, its real and overriding reason for living - Curin. Without Curin Samuel no longer felt whole, and not even his sons - of blood and adoption - could fill that void. Samuel simply surrendered, sitting at the table until life fled. It was not suicide, for it was an unconscious act, a ceasing of reason, forgetfulness that overlooked sustenance, open doors and icy winter.
Torrullin closed his eyes, releasing a slow breath.
It hurt, but he was also envious of Samuel’s new freedom, as he wished he could love someone so completely that life and reason began and ended with that person. Samuel had rejoined the love of his life; he was at Curin’s side, walking hand-in-hand along the paths of Aaru, and the troubles of reality had faded. He would meet Tristamil there, as he would again find his own father; he would find Taranis, Millanu and others important to the Vallas, and they would laugh together, never comprehending the pain the living continued with. He was free, and it was a gift; only the living grieved in death.
Torrullin groaned. To leave now was to insult Samuel’s memory. To leave was to hurt his grandsons beyond repair.
“My Lord?” It was Vanar.
He straightened. “Elder.”
“My Lord, a late supper is set in the dining room. Perhaps you should eat something.”
He stared at her, but was not seeing anything. “I am not hungry, thank you. Has Caballa returned?”
“Not yet. Shall I send her to you when she does?” Vanar’s tone was diffident.
Torrullin frowned. What had she asked? What was she saying? He cleared his throat and rose. “I am going to the Keep, alone. Tell the boys I will see them tomorrow and, Vanar, please inform me of Saska’s arrival.”
Stoically, she nodded. “And Caballa?”
He managed a smile. “Caballa will do as Caballa sees fit, as ever.”
Vanar inclined her head, retreated, and moments later Torrullin alighted in the courtyard of the deserted Keep.
The Valley Torrke
The Keep
THE MOON HID BEHIND clouds, stars were darkened, the valley was shrouded in silence and the Keep was a ghostly presence in the night.
It was empty, without a heart, without a soul.
In the last twenty odd years it had seen life rarely.
Tristan’s Coming-of-Age pulled the building from long slumber and thereafter it remained accessible and was maintained by a small staff, although they resided in the city, not on the premises.
The swearing in of new Elders followed, twice, Teroux’s Coming-of-Age, Kismet’s burial, and recently Curin’s. And now it was Samuel’s turn.
He returned only for the Coming-of-Age ceremonies, for this place of stone held more memories than he could bear. It was as well, by morning, it would fill with staff and Elders preparing for the funeral, for living voices would mute the calls from the past.
Yet he came now to hear them. Samuel’s call, Saska’s, Tristamil’s, Tymall’s, Taranis’, Vannis’, Kismet’s, Matt’s, Cat’s … many, many others, not least of which was the voice and presence of Lowen.
Strange how death brought the past back, a state of mind enabling the ghosts to wander through again in another time. Unwelcome, and yet the desire to listen existed. Sentience would never fit neatly into a box.
Memories squeezed at him, driving breath away.
Saska laughing, her emerald eyes alight with mischief; Taranis roaring like a wild man on the battlements, smacking his chest in summer’s heat and then laughing helplessly at his son’s astonishment; Vannis serious as he bent over a chessboard, and Vannis hated chess; Matt Dalrish goggle-eyed over the Dragon doors; Cat Dalrish gazing into the distance sadly; Lowen Dalrish a child giggling with Kismet and Krikian; Lowen the woman, her blue eyes an enigma; Tristamil and Tymall fighting; Tristamil curled over a book, lost to the world; Tymall galloping away on a horse, eyes wild with glee; Saska slinking away, trying to hide injuries from her husband; Lycea smiling, Lycea frightened, Lycea withdrawn … and on and on it went.
The Siric, Centuar, Sagorin, Dinor, Sylmer, Beaconites, delegates from Ceta, Yltri, Ymir, Merrix - Merrix and Sinsen, Saska’s lover. Seasons, weather, people, emotions - the Throne. Death and life. Hate and love.
“Torrullin?”
Caballa, beautiful, talented, honest Caballa. Returned to him at last. It was not love - although he did love her - it was more complicated. Caballa knew him, knew him
.
“Memories?” she asked.
“Yes,” he managed, inordinately glad she came.
“For me also.”
“I had not realised you were back on Valaris.”
“Yesterday.”
A beat. “Why?”
“Tristan.”
Another beat, this one accompanied by a frown. “Why?”
“He asked … and told me you were dreaming.”
A slow exhalation. “He saw that?”
“He is much like you.”
“I noticed.”
“I was going to come to you soon and then fate brought you to me.”
Fate. Yes. “Is the past in the past, Caballa … our past?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And the future?”
“I believe I am needed at your side.”
“Good.”
A smile in her voice. “I brought something to eat. Hungry?”
“I could eat.”
“Then make us light, Torrullin, and let’s find a room that doesn’t smell too musty.”
A grunt, and then he had light in the courtyard. Together they headed to the dining room, Torrullin taking the basket from her. At the doors he touched here, there, and then pushed them open.
It was not that musty. More light, this in the guise of candles, and Torrullin set the basket on the table and returned to close the doors against the invading chill.
As Caballa unpacked, he strode over to the fireplace and snapped a bright blaze on. It was not long before warmth seeped into chilled bones and Torrullin discovered he was not only hungry, he was ravenous.
“I saw Declan and Prima yesterday,” Caballa murmured around a mouthful.
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