It sounded like gibberish to the children. So little was making sense.
‘So how do we return to Tallinor?’ Gidyon tried to make it sound a perfectly reasonable question.
‘Yargo will take us,’ Sorrel answered matter of factly. No further information was provided.
‘What about the monastery? I have my Testings for the Blues. How long do you think this will take?’ he asked.
Sorrel sighed. ‘Gidyon, this is difficult for me to say and perhaps even harder for you to understand.’ She paused. He did not so much as blink. ‘The Blues are now the past. Everything until this moment is the past. Your destiny awaits you back in Tallinor…where you both belong.’
It was Lauryn who responded this time and again she controlled all emotion in her voice, speaking evenly and quietly. ‘So we must forget about the lives we know…once again. Is that what you are saying?’
Sorrel nodded. ‘I am. I am so sorry. Everything until here and now, this very second, has been crafted towards protecting your lives, which are so precious. Now we must face your destiny and bring you back safely to Tallinor.’
The children looked at one another and something passed between them, but Sorrel could not read it. She decided they could use a few moments to talk and excused herself to gather some items.
When she had departed the room, neither found they could break the silence. It was all too much to comprehend.
Yargo rescued them. ‘Can I tell you about your father?’
They both looked at her with surprise. Her voice suddenly sounded less dreamy, more light-hearted; like the tinkling of glass strands in the wind.
‘Please,’ Gidyon said, relieved for someone to start some discussion.
And so she did. Whilst Sorrel pottered around in her small kitchen, humming quietly to herself, Yargo
told them all she could of their father and it was not long before they had gathered he was the tallest, broadest, most handsome man who walked the Kingdom of Tallinor.
Lauryn could not help but laugh. ‘You sound as though you’re besotted by him, Yargo.’
‘I am,’ the messenger replied. ‘I love him with all there is of me.’ She realised she sounded sad again and immediately changed the subject. ‘Did I tell you he keeps a pet bird?’
When they shook their heads, she laughed. ‘Oh yes, a magnificent peregrine falcon he calls Cloot. Cloot is magical too but I don’t really understand how. All I know is that he is of the Paladin and is bonded to your father.’
Gidyon had been thinking whilst she spoke. ‘Yargo, do you think it’s critical that we return with you?’
She became serious again. ‘I think, Gidyon, that your father loves you both so much that he would never ask you to return unless it was essential. He would never risk putting you in danger without dire need.’
Yargo fell silent as Sorrel tiptoed back into the room. The old woman regarded them both solemnly and waited.
Gidyon looked at Lauryn, then took her hand. He put it to his lips and kissed it. ‘If Lauryn agrees, then we shall go.’
Lauryn felt afraid; she did not want the decision to rest with her. Gidyon’s large blue eyes were holding her own. What was he telling her with them?
She pulled his hand to her lips and honoured him with the identical gesture. ‘I’m not sure we have any choice. And I hate the scriptorium! I agree to go.’
Sorrel looked relieved. ‘Thank you both.’
She was silent for a moment, then walked over to a trunk in the corner of the room. ‘You will need to change your clothes. I’ve had these ready for years. Every six months, I re-do them to make them bigger. I’m sorry if they don’t fit you well, but no one will notice, I promise.’
The children approached the trunk with trepidation and stared inside. Sorrel picked out a pair of dark brown breeches and a light-coloured shirt for Gidyon. She gave Lauryn a skirt with a draw waistband, which was handy considering Lauryn’s girth. A loose blouse which tied at the neck completed her ensemble.
‘What is the season, Yargo?’ Sorrel asked.
‘We shall enter in early spring,’ the apparition confirmed.
‘Then you’ll need these,’ Sorrel said, handing over a thick woollen jerkin for Gidyon and an equally warm shawl for his sister.
‘I won’t miss my itchy convent gown,’ Lauryn remarked.
Gidyon thought it was wonderful to see her smile; she was certainly very lovely when she did. Sorrel took Lauryn to another room so both the women could change and Gidyon quickly climbed into his outfit. Not so bad, he thought; nothing felt too tight.
Yargo enjoyed watching him; he moved like his father. And his naked body was not unlike Tor’s either. She smiled inwardly and wondered if the Custodian would scold over such indiscretion. When the women returned, both the children burst out laughing at each other. Even Sorrel shared a smile.
‘Take nothing with you which relates to our world here. Check carefully.’
‘What about our stones?’ Gidyon asked.
‘Oh yes, those must come with you, but nothing which belongs here.’
Lauryn took a deep breath; she wondered at the insanity of where she found herself and what she was about to do. She looked again at Gidyon for reassurance. Gidyon sensed her nervousness. He felt much the same.
‘Are we all ready?’ Yargo asked.
Her three travelling companions nodded and linked hands.
Lys hated the Bleak; it was a place of nothingness between worlds. It was also her home.
The role of Custodian of the Portals had been passed down the women of Lys’s line through the ages. Lys’s own mother had been Custodian, as had her mother before her. Until Orlac’s incarceration, however, the Custodian had not been required to live within the realms of the Bleak. The role had been more of a symbolic one: it was the Custodian’s duty to guard the portals between the worlds, ensuring that nothing and no one could pass through without her permission. And no one did, for countless centuries.
But then Orlac had wreaked his vengeance on the Land. The Host had succeeded in Quelling the young god and imprisoning him within the Bleak. They had chosen the ten Paladin to hold him there, but when
Darganoth consulted the Elders of the Host, it was suggested that the Custodian might also watch over both prisoner and the Paladin; she would be their sentinel.
The beautiful young Custodian had readily agreed, understanding the plight of the Host and the need to find a solution. And when the notion of the Trinity had first been mooted as a potential method of dealing with Orlac, it was Lys who offered to enter the land which Orlac had devastated and set the complex plan in motion.
Lys’s birthright to travel the portals was a great boon and helped enormously to minimise the inevitable damage that could be caused by tearing the fabric between worlds. Nevertheless, she was only permitted to physically enter and leave a world of men once. After that, she must rely on maintaining contact with that world through her spiritual presence. She had only the one chance to complete successfully the task the Host had entrusted to her.
Lys crossed the portals to Tallinor and remained there for almost a full year of moon cycles. She achieved all that the Host had asked of her but instead of returning triumphant she found that her heart was full of grief. No longer wishing to live in the beautiful world of the gods, she chose to make her home in the Bleak. Its atmosphere matched the depth of her despair at what she had been required to do.
And now she spent her time watching over Orlac, witnessing the brave Paladin falling one by one to his great strength. Only Themesius the Giant remained
now, but instead of attacking the last Paladin, Orlac had withdrawn from the battle and was sitting quietly, apparently deep in thought. Lys did not understand why he had chosen to let the Giant rest at this crucial point.
Lys came out of her private thoughts and looked over towards the red mist which also inhabited the Bleak. Once a powerful god, the red mist was now all that was left of Dorgryl’s physical form. The arrival of Dorgryl to her sorrowful plane of existence had not come as a surprise. Where else would the Host choose to banish a god who had plotted the downfall of his King, his own brother? The Bleak was the ideal prison for someone who thrived on the vitality of life and all the pleasures it had to offer. Yes, the only way to punish such a being was to remove everything he loved most: his looks, his indulgences, his freedom and especially his power.
It was fitting that Dorgryl would pay for his greed and arrogance for eternity in the Bleak. He had enjoyed greater privilege than most gods could ever want; more than most mortals could conceive of. And yet Dorgryl had wanted more. The younger of twin sons, he had craved the kingship which was his brother’s birthright. He had plotted his twin’s death and would have succeeded, if not for his own young wife’s uncovering of his evil plan. Her loyalty to the King and Queen she loved had outweighed her love for her husband and so Dorgryl had been thwarted, tried and punished.
In her role as sentinel, Lys held herself removed from contact with the fallen god but now, against her better
judgement, she felt the need to initiate conversation. She had noticed that Dorgryl had been taking an increasing interest in Orlac and that, combined with her curiosity about the young god’s sudden inactivity, was overwhelming her better sense. Maybe Dorgryl would be able to explain Orlac’s behaviour.
She came straight to the point.
Why do you think Orlac is so quiet?
The elder god was more than happy to talk after centuries of solitude. The red mist shimmered.
Lys! Lovely to hear your voice.
Dorgryl, I am not here for social conversation.
Oh come now, you beautiful creature. What else is there to do in this bleak place?
His play on words did not impress Lys. As for the compliments, Lys knew that beneath the smooth manner was the most cunning of minds, ever imagining ways that he might lull her into relaxing her reflexes or her own suspicions of him. There was no doubt in her mind: Dorgryl was up to something.
He had spent many silent centuries in the Bleak, talking to no one, not even himself. Now he seemed almost jolly, as though he had something exciting to look forward to. There was nothing in his pitiful existence to warrant such good humour. Which meant he knew something she did not, or at least he thought he did. She would have to maintain her guard; it was dangerous enough that she was conversing with him. Lys had promised herself she would never fall into the trap of treating Dorgryl with anything but extreme caution. Every word he
spoke, every ingenious movement of his mind, was pre-empted. Dorgryl had almost toppled the King of the gods. He was never to be taken lightly.
Lys had often wished it was simpler to kill a god. It would have been a more straightforward way of dealing with Dorgryl and even with his nephew, Orlac, prince of gods. Instead, the King’s brother and the King’s son and heir were under her supervision. And as much as she despised the task, she intended that they always would be.
Like Nanak, Lys experienced moments of genuine sympathy for Orlac. Sometimes, like now, when he was quiet and his guard was down, she could touch his mind. Within it she discovered awesome sadness. This immensely beautiful god had been corrupted by grief. His ferocious anger and hatred for the Land he had grown up in stemmed from his discovery of who he really was. Heir to the throne of the Host, prince of gods, Orlac had been raised like a poor man’s son, removed from his birthright. Lys understood his pain. He had been born to the highest level but was forced to grow up as a mortal. Worse, he had done nothing to deserve this fate. He had simply stumbled as an infant into the path of thieves.
Would there ever be a way to right the wrong? Would the worlds ever be returned to their true balance? What would happen should the Trinity’s power be invoked?
Dorgryl interrupted her thoughts.
I am enjoying this…what shall I call it? Ah yes, this theatre which is unfolding before us. Orlac, the wronged god,
fighting his way out of imprisonment. Your favourite of all mortals leaping off a ship during a mighty storm to possible death. That strange messenger drifting off secretly through a portal—I wonder where she is headed? And then there is the beautiful Alyssa; looks as though she’s found herself a comfy spot as Queen. It is a most intriguing story, Lys, which is playing out in front of us. I wonder what will occur when all the parts collide? I feel titillated just thinking about it.
He chuckled.
Don’t trouble yourself over it, Dorgryl,
she answered coolly.
Oh but, Lys, what else do I have but this thoroughly enjoyable ‘dramatic’ to trouble myself over? It amuses me. But it doesn’t amuse you, does it? I have to wonder why. What is the all-powerful Custodian afraid of?
Lys regretted ever starting the conversation but she needed an explanation for Orlac’s inactivity. When the Ninth, Figgis the Rock Dweller, had finally succumbed, Dorgryl had howled with laughter. Themesius the Giant had bellowed his distress at losing his final companion; whilst Nanak the Keeper had slumped to the ground, unable to prevent the emotion of loss. Orlac, however, had shown no sign of triumph. He had simply sat down, rested his beautiful head on his knees, curled his perfectly muscled arms around his superb body and rocked himself in silence. He had uttered not a sound since the death of the rock-hearted Figgis. Orlac had quite simply stopped all activity; it baffled Lys.
She was forced to repeat her earlier question to
Dorgryl; she needed to know if he could explain the younger god’s silence.
Oh, well now, Lys, how am I supposed to know what a god is thinking, hmm? I may be one myself—a pitiful excuse for one in this place—but I can’t conjure up a reason to satisfy your misunderstanding of our young friend’s strange behaviour.
She believed him. How could he know?
Unless, of course,
he continued, sounding a little sly now,
Orlac is simply being noble.
Noble? What do you mean?
Well, when I was a fantastically handsome god and member of the royal family, there was a particular sport we engaged in. It was called Quyx.
I do know what Quyx is. I am a god myself, remember.
Dorgryl chuckled again. It jangled her nerves that he knew something she did not.
Ah yes, but we were royals, my dear, and we had a different set of rules.
He importantly shimmered deep red. She hated him but took a deep breath.
Oh?
she said, keeping her voice level.
Won’t you enlighten me?
He continued as though she had not spoken.
When the victor sensed he was about to deal the ‘killing’ blow, which would end the game, he would sit on the floor for a period and allow his opponent a time of rest. He gave quarter, you might say. This rest time was called Grace and it enabled the opponent to gather his dignity and prepare to ‘die’. Quyx was just sparring sport, of course. This is different. This is a fight to the death.
I see.
Dorgryl’s tone was lofty as he concluded.
Though I’m not sure Orlac would understand such finesse, as he was barely more than a babe when removed from the Host
.
Oh, but I am sure,
Lys replied, quietly excited.
All members of the Host have inherent knowledge of the ways of gods. You are right, Dorgryl. Thank you. I believe Orlac is falling back on instinct. He is giving Grace to Themesius.
Glad I could be of service to you, Lys. Perhaps we could look at you returning a small favour—
Nothing is owed, Dorgryl,
she replied harshly.
How long is the period of Grace likely to last?
The god was sulky and refused to answer immediately. She waited. Finally he sighed.
I have no idea. Sunrise to sunset in Quyx—though how would we know in this forsaken place when a sun is lowering,
he snarled.
Lys snapped away quickly from his mind’s touch and shielded herself. Dorgryl’s mind was agile indeed; she must keep him away from the events taking place. He was correct, of course. Orlac was biding his time before he finished off Themesius, as he surely would. But his Grace bought them some more time. How long? If he abided by the sunrise to sunset rule, that could mean a full year cycle in Tallinese time. It would help, but they could not depend upon it.
She must speed Tor along. But first, she had to save him from drowning.