And then utter change spilled into the tension.
ELIANAS DREW A BREATH.
Ever after those present, those who survived, would remark it was the kind of breath that leeched oxygen from the spaces, a breath that was a super wind of destruction felt in realms of both time and place.
His right hand slapped to the metal hilt of his sword, a sound which reverberated through bone and marrow everywhere; it would reach into the end of time measured as a whisper of profound manipulation.
Elianas had reached the end of legendary patience.
Chapter 58
Light, friend, often highlights places better left to darkness.
~ Awl ~
Shadow Wing Fort
YELLOW LIGHT OF MULTIPLE suns inundated the cavernous space that was the fort’s gathering hall, to blind all present in its initial deployment.
A moment after, black shadows burned against strained retinas. Heat clambered into the rafters and blistered the stone underfoot.
Outside a raging tempest flattened soldier, tree and rock. Ice lay in the wind.
Inside, the terrible darkness of a storm was eclipsed by a sword of legend, an object of utter contradiction and power.
Elianas hefted the blade and rested it lightly upon Tymall’s chest. A wisp of smoke curled from the fabric there, before scorch marks zigzagged across the expanse. A symbol of intent.
Tymall had been marked for death.
“Do something!” Tristan shouted at Torrullin.
Torrullin braced in the tempest as serene as a pond’s unmoving surface in moonlight’s glows. “No.”
An instant of no movement arrived then, as if time had stilled.
Elianas shattered the illusion. He glanced over his shoulder into Torrullin’s eyes. “I have to.”
“I am not stopping you.”
Elianas bore down upon the Lumin Sword.
Tymall screamed and stumbled back, one hand to his chest, the other flexing. He shrieked words and his fingers curled.
The Warlock staff slapped into his waiting hand.
Elianas raised the sword high, one handed, and stretched his free hand out. The staff jerked from Tymall’s grip to smack into his. He threw it into the air and twirled. Two halves of useless wood fell to the floor moments later. Wisps of smoke arose from smouldering ends.
Tymall screamed again, and his cloak settled about his shoulders.
The Lumin Sword danced, and shapes of burning fabric dropped to meld into the stone underfoot.
Teroux, whimpering, ran. Tristan, paralysed, let him go.
Elsewhere Teighlar had become as stone. Beside him Sirlasin was wide-eyed.
Elianas braced and held the Sword out. “Take it, Ty, and it ends now.”
Tymall shook his head, eyes frantic, and lifted both hands to his brow.
Then Tianoman, Vallorin, stepped in. He calmly placed a hand on Elianas’ shoulder and pressed down. The dark man twitched once, but relaxed immediately when he realised who stood beside him.
Clearly, Tianoman had been exempted from the fear of another’s touch. Torrullin’s eyes narrowed, seeing it, but it was not about suspicion; it was cold calculation. Tianoman was high in the ranks of honour and estimation Elianas kept inside his head; it explained why he refused every suggestion to sit on the Throne.
“The circlet, Elianas,” Tianoman murmured. “You need more for it than that terrible blade.”
“Tian!” Tymall screeched.
“Father, I am Vallorin. Here, now, I choose to disempower a Warlock.” He paused there to straighten. In that moment he was much like Vannis once was - a Vallorin assuming the mantle of leadership without second thought. “Give your circlet to him, please, and live to remain my father.”
“You are no son of mine!”
“So be it,” Tianoman murmured, and lifted one hand. “Tarlinn, your Vallorin summons you into this place of confrontation! Make your presence known!”
Sirlasin gripped weakly at Teighlar’s arm, groaning. “Won’t end well,” he said, causing the Emperor to look at him.
Elianas stared at Tymall, the tip of his blade directed at the man’s brow. One move, and Tymall last cognitive sight would be that tip coming for him.
The Warlock stilled in position, only his eyes moving.
And his mouth. “You are calling the Throne?” he sneered.
“It is always with me,” Tianoman said. Again his hand rested on Elianas’ shoulder. “I swear I shall help you take his power from him, but gift me the opportunity to do it right.”
“Why?” Elianas’ voice was barely audible.
“For the Valleur.”
“He is your father, Tian.”
“Samuel raised me and is my real father.”
“You accused me as murderer when I killed him before,” Elianas murmured.
“And now beg of you forgiveness. You were right, and I was blinded by ties that have no bearing. I shall not hold his death against you.”
“You will not need to,” Torrullin called out. “Tymall shall die by my hand.”
“Tarlinn!” Tianoman called out.
A spear of white light in the encompassing yellow appeared. A man stepped out. An average man with the innate grace of the Valleur. He ambled forward, eyes taking every nuance in, and halted before Tianoman. Only Elianas and Torrullin understood he already knew exactly what the situation was.
“My Lord Vallorin.” Tarlinn bowed.
Tianoman bowed as well. “Thank you for coming.”
Tymall shouted, “Who is this clown?”
Tarlinn sketched a laconic bow in his direction. “The name is Tarlinn and I am the sentient separation of the Valleur Throne.”
Tymall paled.
Elianas smirked.
Tarlinn held his hand out. “Give it to me, Danae.”
Elianas’ arms visibly trembled and Torrullin swore under his breath and moved to take up position at the dark man’s shoulder as he so often did for him. “I am here.”
A breath, a shift in stance. “What do I do? I want to use it to disembowel him before I relinquish it.”
“I shall return it to you, Elianas Danae, you have my word,” Tarlinn murmured. “I need its energy to direct at the kernel of matter within the Warlock circlet.”
“Torrullin?”
“Whatever feels right.” Torrullin pressed his shoulder to the one before him and stepped back a pace.
The Sword of Light slapped down into Tarlinn’s outstretched palm.
Tymall turned in that instant and ran.
Two steps later he fell face down, senseless.
Tarlinn strode nearer, kicked the Warlock onto his back, reached down and tore the circlet with its flashing blue gem from his brow. For this Valla, the Throne knew no mercy.
He held it aloft.
“The Warlock of Digilan’s reign is ended.” He lowered it and speared Tianoman with a tawny intense gaze. “Your father lives, but his life remains in the hands of Elixir and Alhazen. However you feel it should happen, you have no right of speech or judgement in this. You are Vallorin and your people need you.”
Tarlinn lifted a hand and the spear of white light returned.
“Tianoman Valla, you have done well. You chose wisely. You chose for the future. And now it is time for you to return to your duties and your wife and son. Please go now.”
“It is not done …” Tianoman began, and then Tristan had a hold of him and marched him to the slice of light.
“Sorry, cousin, but I agree with him.” Tristan shoved Tianoman through.
The light winked out.
Tarlinn inclined his head at Tristan, who grinned and shrugged. Tianoman would probably have his kidneys for breakfast when they met again. He would probably attempt the Throne’s metal liver as well.
Elianas paced with measured tread to stand staring down at Tymall. Wordless and without looking away, he stretched his hand out. Tarlinn nodded, also without words, and placed the Lumin Sword there, but before Elianas co
uld shift the blade Torrullin had a hold of that arm and that sword.
“The duty is mine.”
“All I have to do is lay the blade upon his chest, Torrullin. If he takes it upon waking, whether by choice or accident, it is over. If he wakes aware of its presence and displaces it before harm befalls him, then assume the duty.”
“You are making the choice his.”
“I do not care how he chooses. I am gifting you clear conscience.”
“Conscience be damned.”
“Nevertheless.”
Torrullin sighed, well aware of Elianas’ moral code. “Fine. Do it.” He released his hold and Elianas bent swiftly and placed the blade without further theatrics upon Tymall’s chest.
Tymall groaned.
All attention fixed on him.
He opened his eyes, and scrabbled out from under the Lumin Sword as if it was a live and venomous snake. Tymall stumbled away, picking up speed as he left the massive chamber.
Torrullin calmly drew his own blade and set off after him. Words of cursing rolled off Elianas’ tongue, the precursor to a full-fledged spell of ill-intent. Torrullin ignored Tymall’s flight and jerked around.
The dark man’s eyes had fired.
Tristan retreated quickly, sensing a cataclysmic event in the offing.
Sirlasin cowered.
Teighlar groaned.
Tarlinn, in monumental serenity, smiled.
“You coward! Tymall Valla, you are a fucking coward!” Elianas snapped fingers and gripped the Sword. He pointed at Tarlinn without looking at him, and the circlet flew to him. Snarling with rage, he shoved it onto his brow. “I am coming for you! Run, coward!”
It was not a mere curse; this was great and terrible action. Elianas sheathed the sword, extinguishing the otherness that was the light, and slapped his hands together.
Sound crackled and air heaved. Fissures opened in the floor. Darkness boiled forth. From stone and air and appalling darkness, the Warlock cloak materialised, the staff danced into the air, and both flew to him. The cloak settled upon his shoulders and was absorbed into skin. The staff struck his hands and was diminished until it was less than a grain of sand. He ate it, and grinned ferally after.
Snarling anger, he shouted, “I have your accruements, Tymall! Let us see how far you can run!”
Tymall, however, had already vanished.
Energy hurtled untamed in patterns of blue flame around the gathering place. A ball of flame shot at Sirlasin.
“Enough!” Torrullin commanded.
Elianas turned.
Tarlinn said, his voice low and pitched for Torrullin alone, “He could not have summoned the accruements without my consent. He needs them to rebuild what was taken from him this day in confidence, strength and self-worth. With time the efficacy of the accruements will fade, but that will be a long while from now.” He stood before Torrullin. “Make him sit on the Throne, my Lord, and he will return to himself. I shall take them from him and I shall heal his deeper scars.”
“Making him sit will be by far the hardest action I will ever undertake.”
“I am aware of his reluctance. And yet that is how it must be.”
“You helped him acquire the accruement because you hope to force him into the seat.”
“I took the opportunity as presented, yes.”
“Why?”
“He is the Danae.”
“You imbue that with greater worth than even I do.”
“Because he is the Danae, Torrullin. Open your eyes, my friend.”
And Tarlinn, embodiment of the Throne vanished in a flash of light.
Crucible Cavern
HEART POUNDING, Teroux stumbled along the passages leading to the crucible chamber.
Elianas’ eyes when Tymall touched him accompanied him on the journey. For a moment there was such fear, the kind no man could deal with and remain sane, and then there was rage. The kind no man could contain without breaking every bond of blood and every atom within. He knew, all gods, how that was. Had he not himself suffered the fear someone would touch him and know him for what he was? Had he not been bowed under by rage because of that fear?
Elianas had suffered touch, and others had known him. Like for him, touch had been unwelcome, but Elianas feared touch leading to sodomy, while he, Teroux, feared it would reveal he desired it. Whatever the reason, they both feared truth.
And then resolve in the dark man’s eyes.
Teroux fled then, for he understood Elianas would lash out. Not at him particularly, but at time and space in general. Elianas reached the point he refused to bow down to fear. And all would suffer.
Teroux stumbled into the cavern, the black floor bruising on his knees. Muttering, he picked himself up and stumbled to the strange crucible. There he fell to his knees, uncaring of further bruising or anything else.
There was a form inside, whole. A man. He moved round and around, hands questing on the glass as if seeking the way out.
“Father!”
Movement stilled.
A face pressed against the transparency.
Enclosed space
SOUND RUMBLED AND ROCK trembled. Dust wafted in fine mist, causing coughing and sneezing.
“Either the storm that threatened earlier has now unleashed or magic is unchained in our proximity,” Sabian said. His voice sounded hollow amid the waves of sound.
Caballa cleared her throat of dust. “Both, I think.”
“Something is coming to a head,” Lowen muttered before sneezing twice.
More sound.
The grotto undulated.
“That is energy!” Caballa said, falling hard.
“Elianas,” Sabian said.
A crack of light, rock tearing. Silence came again. A fissure appeared, and beyond it lay either freedom or a different kind of entrapment.
“Go,” Lowen said. “We take our chances.”
“Right.” Caballa got up and stumbled through, with Lowen on her heels.
“Come on, Cranckshaw,” Sabian urged. He could just see the architect in the dimness, the man questing for his rolls of paper. “Forget it, man! What you know is in your mind - come on!”
Muttering a curse when the Beaconite ignored him, he headed for the fissure and shifted through, falling hard on the other side.
“Come on!”
Something in his tone alerted the man, for Cranckshaw ceased searching and stumbled to the jagged light.
Sound rumbled and rock trembled.
Caballa and Lowen stared in horror as the fissure pulled together. “Quickly!” Lowen shouted. “Move!”
Too late.
A hand lay severed on rough stone. Blood seeped from a jagged scar in solid rock.
Caballa swore long.
“Let us get away from here,” Sabian said, and led the way.
Crucible Cavern
A DIM BLUE LIGHT ahead drew their attention. Sabian peered around an edging of rock and swiftly drew back.
“What do you see?” Lowen whispered behind him.
“Cavern, huge. Teroux is in there kneeling before a glass tube.”
“The crucible,” Caballa murmured.
“Look again,” Lowen said. “See if you can see anything inside the vessel.”
Sabian did as bid, this time spending long minutes carefully studying the whole. When he drew back, he said, “Black floor, white pillars, silver cathron knocker …”
“That is from Tian’s Naming,” Caballa said.
“Be that as it may, Teroux is present. He stares at a form in the tube. A face is pressed against the glass, but I cannot determine features. The rest of the man is hidden in swirling substance. I would say it may be a holding cell for something summoned. Not a crucible, per se, but it can be employed as one.”
“We have to go in,” Lowen said.
“No shit. As if we would stand on the side-lines anyway,” Sabian muttered.
“Teroux thinks it is Tannil; of course we are going in,” Caballa said.
>
Lowen touched her cheek as enlightenment washed through her. “Now it makes more sense. Tannil. Teroux’s father, once Vallorin. A known face, a known name. A man who would be hard to kill, because he was loved and honoured and is still missed by those who knew him.”
Sabian frowned. “What are you saying?”
“My vision revealed someone would step forth and Torrullin would know him.”
“So?”
“But it is not only Tannil who will step forth, Sabian. He is two. Two names. Two faces. This was what I saw in my visions outside. That is the new Timekeeper. And he must die.”
Sabian moved his head back into the cavern. “This is a conundrum.”
“No shit,” Lowen echoed. She pushed at the fair man. “Time to confront this fate. Go in.”
Main chamber
“HEY! ENOUGH!” TEIGHLAR shouted and clambered to his feet with difficulty. “How many must die before reason prevails?”
Silence.
“Sirlasin is dead, you fools!”
Torrullin and Tristan stared at Elianas, who swivelled to look the Emperor’s way. His gaze flicked down to the Valleur Elder and then lifted. “It cannot be helped.” He inclined his head. “What did you say about crutches, Emperor? I divest myself of them right now.”
“By being stronger than even Torrullin? How will that help you, Elianas? I said walk it off, goddamn it; I did not mean for you to take Warlock accruements and seek death for all of us here with you. Man, see reason! Not everyone is an enemy.”
Somewhere Bannerman inadvertently made a sound. The man had hidden throughout the confrontation behind a pillar, hoping it would place him out of mind as well. His fear betrayed him. A whimper revealed him.
Elianas turned on the balls of his feet and growled.
Bannerman, President of Beacon, collapsed at the foot of a far pillar, never to rise.
“Enough!” Teighlar shouted.
“No,” Torrullin stated. “Let him loose.”
“Why, for Aaru’s sake?” Teighlar demanded.
“Because a host surrounds us. I, for one, love that a growl can kill.”
Lore of Sanctum Omnibus Page 181