Quilla put his hands together. “They do.”
“They do not,” Torrullin murmured.
Sabian and Elianas looked at each other and then at the others.
“They do,” Quilla said.
“Clearly,” Torrullin laughed.
Elianas latched onto Torrullin. “Talk to me.”
“Lorinin,” he said simply.
Shep clasped hands together. “The instrument and the composer. The multiverse listens in awe. And when the Danae plays, Lorinin sings, and all spaces are married.”
“Ah,” Sabian murmured.
“Meaning?” Elianas whispered.
“We shall figure it out, Elianas,” Torrullin said matter-of-factly. “For now, let us see this book.” He leaned in to undo Mitrill’s enchantment. It was a good one, he was impressed, but it gave way to him. He flipped the lid.
The book would need four men to carry.
It was enormous.
“You carried this away in a bag of treasures from Valaris? This?” Torrullin blurted.
Shep burst into laughter. “It contains so much time it needs to be big, but if you seek to carry it?”
He leaned over the edge of the chest and touched the tome.
Instantly it shrank to a normal, if hefty, book. When he lifted his hand, it expanded again.
“Well,” Torrullin went, utterly astonished.
Shep gazed at him. “My Lord, when you leave for your portal world, this must go with you. It cannot remain here, for in the future it may become something to create new tension and chaos. The copies are safer. My Lord, I would like to accompany it.”
“All gods, how parallel it all is,” Elianas muttered. “The idea of a portal world comes forth and suddenly the guests start lining up.” He glanced at Shep. “I mean no ill in my words. I am merely amazed how swiftly the threads draw in.”
“I understand.”
“You are welcome on Avaelyn, Shep, along with your book,” Torrullin said. “If, however, you are serious, then your time to go is now.”
The round brother clambered with difficulty to his feet, eyes huge.
Torrullin rose as well. “You have half an hour to gather what you need. Sabian will guard this chest meanwhile and then ferry you, it and your belongings.”
Shep nodded like a puppet on a string.
Torrullin glanced at Sabian. “Your choice of residence for Shep. Either your place or one of the cottages at the Healer’s Facility.”
Sabian inclined his head.
“Master Historian,” Torrullin added, “read this book.”
Sabian grinned.
Torrullin shifted to the birdman. “Quilla, talk to Tristan. Tell him everything and then make your choice, my friend. Bow from this arena or remain in it. You have until sunrise.”
Quilla stared at him, mouth agape.
Elianas climbed to his feet. “You create deadlines now?”
“I suspect insanity will now rule. We must be prepared to move at a moment’s notice.”
Elianas jerked a nod and strode off into the darkness.
“Where are you going?”
A disembodied voice floated back. “To acquire seeds and also a bloody large stock of coffee beans. None of that enchanter coffee for me, thank you very much!”
Laughing, Torrullin said to the others, “Get to it.”
Chapter 51
How sobering the sight of a volcano’s power is
~ Margus ~
Millwold
THE SQUEAKING WATERWHEEL would soon unhinge his mind.
Rivalen barged outside and crooked a finger at the nearest Red Cloak. “Get some oil, grease, animal fat, whatever, and stop that incessant noise.”
The man appeared utterly confused. Did he not bloody hear it? Just then the wheel gave a mighty screech.
“That!” Rivalen shouted. “End it or shut it down.”
Shutting it down was not the best idea, for this wheel generated the electricity of this small area, but right then he did not care. Glaring at the man, he stalked back indoors, slamming the stout oak door shut behind him.
The metal triangle surrounding the carved number four on the outside swung from its nail.
He leaned over the map on the table, but could not concentrate. As he was about to launch into a tirade, not caring whether anyone heard him or not, the wheel fell silent.
It was blissful.
A beatific expression crept onto his stern, alien face. The silence reminded him of his time in realms beyond, dancing the weaves with only the lightest whispering wind to accompany him. He missed it. Never had he thought he would, but it was true that he missed the silence and the isolation.
This universe was noisy, overcrowded and filled with stupidity. Stupid people drove him crazy. Stupid people were cannon fodder.
Indeed.
Smiling, he bent over the map anew.
The parchment was ancient, but it had been well cared for. The map was as old. Much had changed since it was created, but he did not seek what was in place now. He sought what was.
One needed to hark to matters old, effects tested and proven, the tales hiding behind scribbles rolled into a scroll.
He knew it by rote now, and yet the sight of the wine-hued lines, symbols, icons and words on sepia gave him pleasure. The penmanship was outstanding and the creator’s passion was evident in the flair inherent in every swirl and curl.
It was a thing of beauty.
What it revealed was glorious also.
He fixated finally on the twin worlds hidden amid a myriad of suns and their solar systems. The orbs seemed to dance upon the parchment.
Era of Dancing Suns indeed.
How he desired to lay a finger upon one of those hidden orbs to make a connection to it, if only in his mind. Something tangible, not mere imagination. The parchment would suffer damage, however, and thus he contented himself with sight.
One of those worlds was already known to him. He had visited it recently to snatch Tristan Skyler Valla, Kaval leader, from a ledge and then used him to great effect.
It was thus not Akhavar he sought to find upon an old map.
The other world had, until now, been resident in imagination only, in the calls of recognition buried in ancient legends, and in the whispers weaving through space.
How ironic it lay within sight in Akhavar’s skies.
Rivalen straightened. The time for action had now arrived. Everything before this was distraction, smoke and mirrors, until he discovered the location of a world missing from any and all charts old and recent.
Decisive then, he said the word to roll the scroll closed, and the one which protected it from disintegration. Now he could touch it. He snatched it up and placed it amid other scrolls on a shelf. Now it was one of many, nothing special. The idiots outside were less than interested in history. Few of them could read anyway; a map of this nature would confound them.
He required four strong men for what would come next and had already summoned them. When he exited the cottage, he was pleased to note they waited as bid.
Glancing at the waterwheel, he realised its turning motion had been halted. Grinding his teeth, he said, “Start it up, but ensure it makes no sound. Understood?”
The one he earlier tasked to end the noise, nodded.
Rivalen wondered if the man possessed sufficient brain capacity to work out how to lubricate cogs. He had other matters to deal with, however, and beckoned the four men closer.
All wore the red, but these men were taller, broader and heftier than most. He wondered how much mind power they possessed between them, but it was not their minds he sought to use. That muscle was needed to heft great weight.
“Follow me,” he said.
It was time to finally go to Danaan.
Danaan
GREAT FIRES HAD SWEPT over this world.
The power of volcanoes lay as mute testament before him, but it had been a long time ago. The ice that followed such damage had melted, the skies had
cleared, and Danaan had cooled and then warmed to a habitable temperature.
It remained a world abandoned, though, for the volcanoes were merely dormant, not yet extinct.
Some life had returned. Green again covered large tracts, even wildflowers in nooks protected from the wind. Hardy trees held on amid boulder and in shale. Insects crawled and flew, a few small reptiles, but there were no birds or mammals.
Danaan remained a world destroyed by fire.
Ages ago, evidence of its civilisation may have been found to offer clues regarding populated areas and ways of living. Nothing now remained, at least not on the surface.
He was not here for clues of that nature, Rivalen thought grimly. He sought a giant clock. His race memories had revealed his Valla father had been to this place and stood before a massive device in a cavern. The man did nothing with what he found, for he did not know what it meant. He regarded it as something the Danaan left behind and the Valleur wanted nothing to do with anything Danaan.
Removing a small gadget from an inner pocket, Rivalen held it before him. A needle moved across a counter. It was not for the presence of radiation or, as employed by farmers in this current time, to find water. Some used it to discover fossil fuels.
This one tracked the presence of dormant magic.
The previous Slayer leader showed it to him, saying he employed it to ferret out magic in position seekers arriving on Millwold. He had nothing against magic, he claimed, but needed to know with which units to place successful graduates. Rivalen understood those with greater magic than him had met their doom before they could enter the training program.
Was it not astonishing that technology could track sorcery?
Rivalen glared at the device in his hand. There was a real chance this was more Slayer subterfuge. Perhaps the man had used it simply to unbalance applicants. How did technology track magic? The needle moved, however. It definitely tracked something. Whether it was the presence of magic remained debatable.
A tiny compass set above the counter activated to reveal the general direction. The Slayer leader had shrugged when he asked about the compass.
Idiot.
He lifted his head to gaze into the direction indicated. The device was not specific in location, unfortunately. It was a lot of territory to cover.
Rivalen frowned. Race memories spoke of a cave, thus the open ground could be ignored. Ahead there was a series of hills. High ground was more likely.
“Follow me,” he said to the men behind him, and transported to the hills.
Once there, direction remained constant and the needle flickered at the same pace. He gazed ahead at more hills, mountains in the distance.
High ground to high ground, until the needle went crazy?
It was a strategy.
He followed it.
HOURS LATER FRUSTRATION churned in his gut.
The men behind him said not a word, merely following, but he wanted to chop their heads off for witnessing this utter ineptitude.
Thus far they had passed four volcanoes by in their hops. Two of those displayed wisps of smoke. Directly before them was a great mountain range and somewhere in the midst of jagged peaks there was another volcano, for smoke billowed out in evidence, the unmistakable ash clouds of a volcano awakening.
Instinct told Rivalen the place he sought lay in the vicinity.
“Come,” he muttered, and transported to a high peak.
With wind buffeting them, they stared into a mess of mountains stretching into the horizon. A colossal range indeed.
Set in splendid isolation ancient lava caused when smoothing all peaks in the region, there was the largest volcano Rivalen had ever seen. Its girth would cover the Millwold continent the Slayers called home. Its height would dwarf the highest mountain on Akhavar. Its caldera would swallow cities manifold whole.
Closer now, the size of the ash clouds came into focus. It would engulf Valaris were it to descend.
Squinting, Rivalen studied the slopes in view. Dark patches revealed the possible locations of caves. A host of them.
He glanced at the device in his hand.
Direction was accurate.
And the needle was going crazy.
Squatting, he held the compass at eye level and levelled it with line of sight. Direction indicated a cluster of massive boulders perched precariously on the steep slope ahead.
He stood and magically hopped the distance to it. Underfoot ominous rumbles told of rock boiling in a mighty cauldron. Around him and the four with him boulders to dwarf cathedral steeples loomed.
Moving around the nearest, he found the entrance to a cave.
Taking a breath, feeling less than comfortable, for live lava could incinerate even the most immortal being, he entered, beckoning the four to follow.
The walls were black and smooth. Lava had flowed here. Lava would flow here again. Black tubes branched off everywhere, but he followed the large one, instinct again prompting him. After what felt like hours, he stepped into a great space.
Amber light flickered upon grooved walls. Somewhere a fire was lit, and he hoped it did not herald ignition of this monster volcano. This space was a gathering chamber for liquid rock. From here it spewed through multiple channels out into the world.
The needle had frozen.
The compass no longer showed direction.
This was the place he sought.
“Fan out,” he commanded. “Look for something that reminds you of a clock.”
As bid, the men separated.
The heat would force them out soon, Rivalen understood, himself included. Never had he experienced such heat. Every pore opened to release salty sweat. It dripped from his face and even his hands.
Time to be swift.
He strode forward.
Columns of cooled magma drew his attention. Their geometric shapes intrigued him, as did the sheen inherent in the black stone. He could imagine a fortress raised with these as building blocks. It would be a wonder of the universe.
Shaking his head, he concentrated.
Rounding a column broader than the largest wheel at a fair, he entered a more sectioned space, as if a chamber had been deliberately carved from time itself.
Black shapes littered the perimeter, each intriguing, but it was the centre stone that drew his attention instantly. It had every appearance of a pedestal.
He whistled for the four men. If this was it, he needed their muscle. Gasping for air in the aftermath, he realised they needed to act fast. Soon even muscle would fail here.
Hearing them come, he stepped up to the pedestal. The light here was more shadow then revelation and thus he could not see what was atop the column. Reaching out, he placed one hand flat on the surface and felt for the resonance magic ever leaves behind.
Yes, this was the place and magic was definitely present.
The men arrayed behind, each breathing with difficulty, and switched on hand held lights. Whiteness flooded the strange space.
Rivalen leaned in and then reared back, screeching.
Magic was present indeed, but it was a faded remnant of what once was.
The pedestal revealed the markings of having carried something heavy once, something no longer in place. Someone, sometime, had entered here as well and had stolen his master mechanism.
Rivalen screamed again, utter rage infusing every cell.
The four man dropped their lights and ran away.
Rivalen stilled.
With great care he proceeded to sniff the air, ignoring his labouring lungs to concentrate on residue.
He stilled again, and then smashed both fists into the pedestal. Cracks appeared. He smashed again, venting frustration.
Breathing became an issue. It would not kill him, but the agony lack of air engendered would take time to overcome. Glaring a final time around the space, he retreated.
Dark man, I come for you now. You have stolen from me.
Chapter 52
Beat your shields with yo
ur wooden sticks, gladiators! Make a racket for all outside the arena to hear! We shall summon the bored within as we shall call to the lovers of spilled blood! Death requires spectators!
~ Felix, Gladiator, Allam Games ~
Valaris
Galilan
IN THE BUSINESS DISTRICT of Galilan City, space was given over to a park.
Here visitors and city residents often took time out from their hectic schedules to sit on a bench, enjoy a picnic, throw a ball around, chat, lie in the sun, sleep under a tree, feed the ducks or gather before going on to somewhere else.
Always it was busy, day and night.
Many trees threw shade during the day and many benches hosted lovers at night. A series of ponds saw feathered visitors of all kinds, while flowers bordered every path. It was well kept, and all who wandered through respected both nature and privacy.
Thus far no crime had been committed in Galilan’s Prism Park.
Once, actual prism statues adorned the space, but in the annihilation caused by Margus, those were destroyed. Many statues reposed amid the greenery, but were either bronze or stone, among those Vannis’ tribute to the Navigator.
Only one statue now was a prism also, and was the reason for the park’s name, rather than something that was before.
This statue was of a cloaked man astride a dragon holding a sword aloft, and was the focus of many visitors when they first arrived in Galilan.
A plaque attached to the marble pedestal read, Torrullin Valla.
Torrullin Valla had never seen it and did not wish to, although he had heard of its existence.
Elianas Danae had heard of it also and decided to make a detour to it en route to the farmers’ co-op and nursery in the city where he hoped to purchase seeds of all kinds. He would rather support Valaris farmers than those of Beacon. Seeking seeds and seedlings from fruit and nut trees to vegetables, as well as young coffee trees and sugar cane, he veered into the park before ambling in that direction. In the back of his thoughts, the need for farms on Avaelyn churned, along with the idea of farmers.
Lore of Sanctum Omnibus Page 234