IT WAS AKIN TO entering a ghostly realm or a fairground attraction to scare the daylights out of children.
The circular floor appeared translucent, while the steady glows from the console were as the auras of tiny apparitions. Silvery twists of light similar to the movements of many miasmas freed to play for the first time in millennia sparked the pillars.
Never had the Gatherers’ Circle extended such a lack of welcome.
The ghostly glows lit features here, there. Luminosity momentarily glanced off a cheek here, appeared as an eye glint there, highlighted a belt buckle or boot stud.
“All gods,” Tristan murmured.
“Seconded,” Torrullin said.
Elianas frowned at them. “This is energy. We are inside of living life, the kind the multiverse is created from. There is nothing to fear.”
“It feels surreal,” Tristan whispered.
Shaking his head in exasperation, Elianas strode to the console. “He cannot hear you, no need to whisper.”
Torrullin remained wordless, and unmoving. He watched the dark man come to rest behind the lights, saw the scarlet, emerald and sapphire lights dance upon his face. Elianas, he understood, felt completely comfortable in the diffuse and intermittent radiance skittering around this inner space. It was energy, he realised. What they now viewed was the true nature of the Dome.
It was also Elianas’ true nature.
His enlightenment transmitted without words across the glowing floor.
Elianas looked up and their gazes locked. One corner of Elianas’ mouth lifted slightly and then he broke their communication to concentrate on the console.
“I suggest we invite him in,” he murmured. He placed one hand on the light for Recognition. “Draw your swords. Torrullin, use only Trezond here.”
Tristan jerked to Torrullin, who simply nodded at him and slid that particular blade free.
“All gods,” Tristan said again, and withdrew his sword.
Elianas pressed down.
The sacred ogives lit.
The effect was dreamlike. Usually the ogives appeared as faint yellow glows when the Dome was operational; now they were fourteen arches of flame evenly spaced to surround the perimeter.
Elianas applied pressure again and thirteen arcing flames snuffed out. Only one ogive remained wreathed in dreams’ manipulation.
The Dragon ogive.
Whispers of metals behind them told Torrullin and Tristan Elianas had his sword to hand as well. He joined them as something moved in the arch, the evidence of entry in the swift shadows upon the ogive’s glows.
Boot treads sounded, but of Rivalen there was no sight.
“Cloaked,” Torrullin murmured. He moved towards the walkway between the tiered benches, sword gripped two-handed.
“Wait,” Elianas breathed.
Thus they waited.
Firm footsteps was evidence of an approaching monster. If this was a fairground attraction, many kids would now be screaming. As Rivalen stepped into the glows from the circle, his cloak fell from him. He halted immediately.
“Clever,” he said. Staring at the three waiting men, he hefted his intimidating blade. “You are formidable opponents,” he added. “Here you are, waiting for me, when I thought my own powers allowed me entry.”
No one answered.
“Ah, so that is how it is. You too have reached the end of patience.” Rivalen started twirling his massive sword.
Abruptly in motion, Torrullin hurtled forward, going low to skid to the man upon his knees. He swiped at legs, felt his blade bite in.
Rivalen howled.
Tristan ducked to the right and whipped his sword to the side, felt it connect with chainmail. A mighty oomph erupted from Rivalen’s throat.
Elianas danced directly in, ducking under the twirling blade. He stabbed at the man’s neck, but Rivalen reared back and Elianas’ blade hissed upon air. Spinning, he reversed direction, swiping at Rivalen’s face. Again Rivalen was too fast.
Torrullin jabbed upwards to snag on Rivalen’s scabbard, as Tristan spun around and launched an attack from behind.
Roaring, Rivalen kicked at Torrullin to send him sprawling away. With his sword extended, he coiled in place, round and around, and every swift turn viciously unleashed the sharpness of his blade.
Elianas danced aside. Torrullin got to his feet, swearing under his breath. Tristan vaulted onto the second tier to escape the rotating metal.
Rivalen went on spinning.
Torrullin glanced at Elianas, who jerked a nod and spun back to the console, sheathing his sword as he went. Torrullin retreated to guard him, his blade lifted for defence rather than attack. He motioned with his head for Tristan to remain where he was.
Elianas smacked a rhythm upon the console’s lights.
“Hold on!” he shouted and gripped the edges of the dais.
Tristan sat immediately, bracing his legs against the stone lip of the lower bench. Torrullin hunkered, one hand pressed flat to the white stone floor.
Rivalen ceased his crazy spinning and swayed drunkenly. His huge sword thudded to the floor.
The Dome took on form and presence and power.
Luminosity burst forth to initially blind.
The entire universe surged back into the light.
A cacophony of wailing hurtled around the space. Intruder! The Dome, for the first time, revealed its failsafe. Intruder! The sound caused the three men to hold onto not only something, but also to sanity. Absolute dissonance possessed the ability to kill.
Rivalen scrambled forward unwittingly, as if seeking a siren to mute before he lost his mind, and then he fell backwards into the tiers, clutching at his ears. His sword flew across the circle. He twisted around, bumbling up. Blood poured from his leg wounds as if prompted by the spikes of pure sound, but he ignored it as he found his feet. He ran for the Dragon ogive, desiring escape from sound, wanting silence with every fibre of his flesh and soul.
As he ran past Tristan, he reached out and grabbed him two-handed by his neck, hauled him down and dragged him with him to the ogive … and through.
Instant silence resulted.
Torrullin hurtled through the ogive a moment after, but he was too late. Returning within, he stood at the edge of the Gatherer’s Circle staring at Rivalen’s blood and his discarded sword.
“I have the distinct feeling he was after Tristan all along. This was not about the keystone, or the clock is no longer as important to him,” Torrullin said.
Elianas, engaged in resetting the Dome’s parameters, murmured, “Rivalen now knows who the next Timekeeper is. He seeks to pre-empt.”
Torrullin stared at him.
The dark man shrugged and gestured significantly at the console. “Knowledge.”
“He intends to kill Tristan.”
Elianas nodded.
“Fuck. Where? How? Time is of the essence! Do you get anything about location from that?” Torrullin indicated the console.
Elianas rested his hands on the lights one by one. Eventually he shook his head. “A thousand locations. It could be any one, or none.”
“Belun!” Torrullin called out.
“Torrullin,” Elianas said, “it is time for Tristan Skyler Valla to make his mark. Do not underestimate him.”
“I fucking do not,” Torrullin growled. “Belun!”
The Centuar ogive chimed and Belun strode in. “What in all gods’ names was all that darkness about? What the hell are you doing here with the Dome real …”
“Belun, quiet,” Torrullin snapped. “Rivalen made an attempt on the Dome, that is what happened, and he now has Tristan.”
“He’s got Tristan? Then we …”
“Quiet! Get the Dome to Akhavar airspace and have all Kaval on board. You guard the Dome, Centuar. Elianas and I will go after Tristan. Hear me?”
Belun jerked a nod and strode to the console. Elianas made way for him.
“Belun,” Torrullin said in a more even tone, “forgive me for bein
g harsh.”
The Centuar lifted his great head and offered a quick smile. “I am fine, don’t worry. You go get that bastard.”
“With all we have,” Torrullin responded. “Destroy that sword,” he added, gesturing at the giant’s blade. “Oh, Belun, reset Erin’s ogive to summons.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, the Centuar nodded.
“Choose a place Rivalen has recently been to,” Torrullin said to Elianas. “We start from there.”
The dark man simply gripped his arm and took them away.
Chapter 60
Scars become identity. First seen, last remembered. A name becomes less then.
~ Awl ~
Mountaintop
THE SMOOTH EDGES OF the mountains revealed little, other than the presence of evil.
It was a world windswept and cold, and uninhabited, for the air was not breathable. Everything was rock and stone. There was some lichen, and metallic glitters gave evidence of other compounds on the surface, but this place would be ignored for millennia yet to come.
Gasping in the alien air, Elianas shook his head.
“Avaelyn,” Torrullin muttered, and left.
Elianas followed.
Avaelyn
“I AM GOING TO fucking kill Quilla,” Torrullin growled as he moved through the dwelling. “Those boy angels revealed Tristan.”
Elianas gripped his shoulder from behind and twisted him around. “Stop it. Quilla is not to blame. We are. We turned our backs on Timekeeper duty.”
“And thus Tristan steps into the breach? He is not ready!”
Elianas was expressionless. “He will be after this.”
“This is his forging? Is that what you imply?”
“Yes. Look at recent events from Tristan’s perspective, Torrullin. Imagine someone telling the tale from his point of view. He enters a realm of Time, he goes into the Void, he falls for a mighty seer, he becomes Kaval leader. He went into Lethe, for Aaru’s sake, and spoke with another famous Timekeeper there. Ixion will have instilled certain nuances we are unaware of. Tristan employs a universal net to pull at the Path of Shades. He goes to war in a Nowhere Sphere. He is there when this Timekeeper decides to make his bid for Reaume. He suffers every calamity we have endured since Rivalen stepped forth. Tristan has been pulled and pushed and has seen death, has killed and has made hard choices. Were someone to write his tale, Tristan would be a man worthy of legend. And yet he remains somewhat overshadowed by his famous forebear. He needs this. This is his final forging.”
Torrullin closed his eyes. “His crucible.”
“Indeed. He is strong, Torrullin.”
Torrullin opened his eyes. “He is, yes.”
“We search for him, but this is now his game.”
Heaving a sigh, Torrullin said, “Fine. Any ideas?”
“Not …” Elianas paused, and his head moved as if listening to something.
“Akhavar,” Torrullin breathed.
As one, they vanished.
Akhavar
Nemisin’s Plateau
BELOW THE LEDGE ENTRY into the mountain city was the high plain.
Valleur had named it Nemisin’s Plateau. Grass and hardy scrub flourished there, along with wildflowers. There were no trees yet, for the region was always hot and generally dry. Valleur gardeners worked on changing it and a massive tree planting campaign awaited the commencement of the wet season.
Upon this emptiness two men were locked in combat, the one a giant, the other a fair-haired Valleur.
As Torrullin and Elianas landed on the ledge, Tianoman accosted them. “What do we do?”
“You do nothing,” Torrullin said. He gestured, and he and Elianas went down to the fighting pair.
Without his mighty sword, Rivalen was wary. He circled in a semi-crouch, hands as claws before him as he sought an opening.
“Little Valla, do you think you have the strength?” he taunted.
Tristan gave no quarter. He danced in and out, nicking, slicing, prodding and cutting.
“Look to your own strength,” Tristan said.
Was it a fair fight? One was unarmed, after all. Neither Rivalen nor Tristan gave thought to that, for Rivalen trusted to his superior strength and size, while Tristan relied on his agility.
The two watchers braced with weapons to hand, but did not interfere.
Laughing, Rivalen threw out, “You have witnesses, Skyler! They understand what it means to have witnesses. Pity Teroux did not learn this lesson.”
“Leave my cousin out of this.” Tristan panted.
Rivalen abruptly lunged forward and tore Tristan’s sword from him. Flipping around, he unleashed a sweeping kick, a roundhouse containing formidable force. Tristan’s gut took the brunt and he cartwheeled backward.
Torrullin stepped forward, but Elianas hissed at him and held him in place.
“We have witnesses on the ledge as well,” Rivalen crowed. “Soon all will see how easy it is to kill a Valla!”
Tristan vaulted up. “Those in the mountain city will not interfere,” he shouted. “Fuck you and your witnesses!”
The giant rushed to him holding his lost blade as if it was a broadsword.
Torrullin jerked free of Elianas and tossed Trezond into the mix. It twirled end over end in the air and then Tristan jumped up and caught it. Swinging it deftly, he brought it to bear as Rivalen swiped at his head. The deflection caused his arms to shudder, and Tristan fell to one knee.
“You still call it a mountain city,” Rivalen chuckled, standing over him. “The city has a name.” He prepared to strike.
Tristan backpedalled. “I suppose you know its name.”
“Linard!” Rivalen said expansively. “It means …”
“Where the water hides,” Tristan gasped, deflecting another blow. “Fitting.”
“Linard. Interesting,” Torrullin murmured.
“Never mind that,” Elianas said. “You need to be ready to remove Rivalen, and prepare to use the Lumin Sword.”
“When?” Torrullin ground out after a hefty rhythm of heartbeats.
“I will know when his energy ebbs.” Elianas turned his head to stare at Torrullin. “Prepare also for the Path of Shades.”
Torrullin hissed under his breath. “Are we at that point?”
“Yes.” Dark hair swung away.
“You cannot come with us into the Path, Elianas.”
“I am aware.” Dark hair swung back again. “Make sure you leave yourself an escape route, do you hear me? Do not make me wait a thousand years for your return. If I have to wait longer than a day, I am coming in.”
“You dare not.” Torrullin was expressionless.
“I do not care about consequences. Do not leave me here alone.”
Tristan screamed and both men jerked attention back to the battle.
“I shall hide all of you in that rock!” Rivalen yelled and, in a flurry of movement, cut patterns of manipulation into Tristan’s skin everywhere.
His breeches were soon in tatters and blood flowed freely. His torso exploded into scarlet. Blood ran along his arms and trickled over his cheeks.
Laughing, Rivalen stepped back, lowering his borrowed blade. “Now you are not so pretty!”
Instead of using the respite to breathe, Tristan launched in, twirling in place, Trezond lifted to shoulder level, elbows locked in. Even the uninitiated would recognise the approaching head shot. Torrullin saw it and held his breath. Elianas inadvertently stepped forward, to freeze in expectation.
Rivalen was laughing too hard to notice, his head thrown back to expose his neck. There was no chainmail guarding him there.
The sharp metal edge tracked in.
In the last instant before metal met neck, Rivalen moved.
It was the slightest back step.
The metal sliced his skin viciously from ear to ear and blood spurted, but it was glancing blow. An impressive wound indeed, but not a killing slice.
Gargling, Rivalen dropped Tristan’s sword and clamped
his hands around his throat. Blood flowed instantly over his fingers.
Tristan turned at bay to view the result of his swipe and his shoulders clearly fell in disappointment. He had hurt the man, yes, but he had not felled him. Taking a breath, swearing foully, he moved in again. Stabbing with every ounce of his strength, he managed to pierce the man’s mail. Trezond snapped from his grip to protrude quivering from the place where Rivalen’s heart was seated.
Rivalen thudded to his knees, still clutching his throat.
“Now,” Elianas breathed.
Torrullin immediately strode forward. Gripping and twisting Rivalen’s nearest ear, he took them away.
TRISTAN CRUMPLED TO LIE unmoving upon the churned grass.
Elianas, after inhaling hope, patience, endurance and oxygen, to hold that breath for long moments, kneeled beside him.
Tristan gazed up. His eyes were undamaged, but every inch of his face had been cut. “Do not heal me,” he whispered.
Elianas stared at him. “You are losing too much blood.”
Tristan reached up with one bloodied hand and tracked one of Elianas’ scars on his face. “Heal enough to save my soul, but leave me my scars.”
Elianas flinched. “Why?”
Tristan’s arms flopped down and his eyelids fluttered. “Why do you think?” He lapsed into unconsciousness.
By all gods, what was wrong with sentience? Here lay another choosing to keep his scars. Do we need them to eternally accuse? Elianas wondered.
Gritting his teeth against the overwhelming need to repair every hurt, he laid his hands upon Tristan’s brow and commenced the healing.
A shadow fell over him. “It is me,” Tianoman said. “Is he … will he …?”
“Tristan is fine,” Elianas murmured, “but hush now. I need to concentrate.”
In silence Tianoman kneeled beside him.
When Elianas lifted his hands, criss-crossing scars remained. On Tristan’s arms, his torso … his face.
Tianoman pointed. “And those?”
“Those stay,’ Elianas said firmly and clambered to his feet as Tristan rolled over groaning.
Lore of Sanctum Omnibus Page 242