The Echolone Mine (72 page)

Better,
Tristan thought, much better. Both of them responded to high
emotion.

“My choice?”
Elianas hissed out. He marched to Torrullin, who stood his ground
with legs braced. “Look at you, goddamn it, you are spoiling for a
fight!”

“I am merely
defending. Come, Elianas, ask what you will.”

“I shall ask
nothing. I shall walk away from this and get on with the business
of looking only ahead. You do as you see fit.”

Torrullin
inclined his head. “A rare and excellent plan.”

For a brief
few seconds Tristan thought they achieved consensus, although he
could not understand how they managed it when they seemed in
opposition, for he saw them smile at each other. A second after
that conclusion came the revision. There was nothing sincere in
either smile or body language.

It was time to
interfere.

He was too
late.

Elianas
grasped Torrullin’s tunic. He hauled him roughly closer, or
attempted to. Torrullin did the hauling. He laid hold of the fists
at his chest and jerked Elianas nearer. They glared at each other,
and Elianas’ elbow rose obliquely. It smashed into Torrullin’s jaw,
who gasped his astonishment and then laughed in delight.

When Elianas
gaped at him, he threw his head back to crow more laughter, and his
fist smashed into Elianas’ face. He followed it with another punch
and then one to the gut. When Elianas doubled over, he hauled him
up by his hair and stared at him tauntingly.

Elianas did
not disappoint. He snarled and dove in with flying fists and it
became a rough brawl, a street fight with no holds barred. The
incongruity of fighting within the questionable protection of the
henge was lost on them, although it did occur to Tristan, who
watched the fight escalate into alarming intensity.

Clods of mud
and grass flew like missiles and cloaks tore to flutter material
into the alien surrounds outside of the protective circle.

Neither man
drew sword, dagger or knife; this was about personal anger and hurt
and letting the other know it was so, not about inflicting
wounds.

Grunts
followed hisses, snarls accompanied bunched fists, and they fought
a running scrap that had them swirling about each other searching
for openings. Elianas slipped, righted himself and renewed his
attack.

Torrullin lost
his footing and entangled his cloak in his scabbard; swearing
foully, he threw a defensive swipe of his arm to ward Elianas off,
then fell backward hitting the back of his head hard on the churned
turf. He literally saw stars, groaned and the will to fight left
him.

In the
aftermath he was numb and closed his eyes. His arms went limp.

Elianas stood
heaving great breaths and he bent over Torrullin. “Damn it, are you
all right?”

“I will
survive.”

Elianas put
one leg to either side of the fallen man and leaned low. “I am
sorry I used Taranis as an example.”

One eye
opened. “Elianas, I do not want apology from you. Not for the ages
of silence, not for the truth you threw at me earlier, not for
betrayal, not for Kalgaia and not for the many times we played this
game to the detriment of others. I would have to rip an apology
from you, one that would keep, and I refuse to do so.” He extended
his right hand. “Help me up, my head hurts.”

Elianas took
that hand and levered him up. “What of forgiveness?”

“You tell me
where we stand on that.”

Elianas
glanced at Tristan and then commenced checking for injuries.

Torrullin
paced nearer. “Look this way.” When the dark man did so, he said,
“Nose and left cheek … right jaw.” Elianas touched those places and
pointed out Torrullin’s injuries. “We are not about forgiveness, so
how do we move past this?”

Elianas took
Torrullin’s right hand. It was bruised and swollen. He turned it
palm up, saying, “I never asked forgiveness for betrayal, because I
believe it has defined us. Of course, I now realize my recollection
of that night was not quite the same as yours.”

Stroking the
palm in his cupped hand, he turned it over again to touch carefully
in the webbed spaces between the knuckles.

“I won’t ask
forgiveness for that night, not even knowing how far we went; I
still believe it defines us, and I think you lie when you say you
need to forgive me. Kalgaia proves how far in you went with me. As
regards forgiveness for ages of unspoken accusation? What would it
change? Anger remains, as does hurt. Will saying ‘I forgive you’
change it, will it ease anything? I think not, and I further think
you are not prepared to forgive this, thus why expect it?”

He held
Torrullin’s healed hand in both of his and pressed it firmly, and
then stepped forward to lay that hand against Torrullin’s chest and
held it there. The action brought him close.

“You are not
willing to forgive this transgression, because you know how narrow
the line is for you. Nemisin could have asked you to rid him of my
father and it is likely you would have done so. He merely asked
another, did he not? I serve to remind you of how close you were
and, thus, there can be no forgiveness. I accept it; you must do
the same.”

“It seems I
must beg it of you,” Torrullin murmured. “Having been so
close.”

Elianas moved
even closer. “You want me to assuage your guilt, is that it? Forget
it. As you said, we are not about forgiveness. These complications
are part of us and it will not change.”

“It could have
been different.”

“No doubt, yet
only if
we
had been different. Come, my brother, how many
cycles? And how many times did we actually choose another path?
This is who and this is what we are. Stop fighting.”

Torrullin
murmured, “It is in my nature to fight.”

A hooded look,
a sly smile. “I know.”

“Back away,
Elianas.”

Elianas gave a
rueful grin and released Torrullin’s hand. He stepped away. “We
need to discuss the Lorinin. I cannot believe you did not
know.”

“Are you
claiming you knew?”

“Not so as to
have named you, but there was a sense of knowing. Now there is
understanding mixed in. Much begins to tie in, lost connections
reaching out … gods, fucking Lorinin. Danae and Lorinin. Fabulous,
how crazily fabulous.”

Torrullin
frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Elianas stared
at him. “Gods, you are telling the truth.”

“Tell me why
this has you in a spin. Tell me what the keys are, what the Syllvan
meant.”

Licking his
lips, Elianas glanced at Tristan, and shook his head. “Sorry, it
cannot be told. It must be shown, it must be felt. In the dark,
Torrullin, where sight is touch, where …” He paused, swallowed, and
gazed steadily into grey eyes. “At least, it is how I know to
reveal the Lorinin in you, to you.”

Torrullin’s
eyes shifted away. “Does this entail crossing the line?”

Elianas barked
a hard laugh. “Is that all you worry about? We would not have to go
that far.”

Torrullin was
wary. “That worries me.”

Elianas mulled
it over. “I foresee trouble.”

Tristan called
out, “Whatever you two said, it has been sufficient. Try looking
around you again.”

The standing
stones had vanished. The circle of grass was gone. In its stead
there was a wall of glass, thick, ensorcelled glass.

Beyond stood a
man, his features twisted into alien moving shapes by the thickness
of the transparency, and he was silent and calm, hands laced out of
sight behind his back.

Torrullin
gripped Elianas’ arm. “Can you get us out, can you built a bridge
to soar beyond this glass?”

“What is
it?”

“Elianas, I
would rather cross every fucking line with you and experience and
re-experience into eternity every pleasure and pain you bring me to
than stand face-to-face with that one.”

Elianas
blanched. “Who is it?”

“He is the
source of the laughter, the source of the prompting we both felt
through the ages, and, dear god, he is the one who made me
Elixir.”

“Then he made
me Alhazen,” Elianas whispered, and a similar dread grew in
him.

“Build a
bridge,” Torrullin said.

Tristan’s
heavy hands descended on their shoulders and held them. “I am
warned to halt you before you attempt escape. We are to listen or
this is the end of the road. He says he cannot take our lives, but
he is able to remove every shred of sentience. He says to
hold.”

Utter darkness
came then.

Utter
oblivion.

Appearances
are deceiving

Truth

Cube of
Manipulation

T
ristan returned to awareness first.

He opened
gritty, dry eyes and attempted to determine where he was, but an
absence of light surrounded him. It felt like genuine dark, not
manufactured oblivion, and for that he was profoundly thankful.
Nothing in Lethe made sense, thus even a touch of something
familiar was welcome. He moved, wanting to use his hands to
discover his environment, and found he could not. Panic was instant
and it was over-powering. He was bound, he was gagged and
blindfolded.

How far had he
lost himself if he thought it a more acceptable state of darkness?
Who was responsible for this? The individual who told him to
curtail escape? The male voice in his mind sounded calming,
reasonable … and had proven false.

Tristan
squirmed to test the limits of binding. He was on his back, his
ankles tightly wrapped, heels digging into a hard surface of some
kind - wood possibly, for it was warm under him - and a strap
across his forehead held his head down and immovable. His chest was
criss-crossed - cotton not rope - and his wrists were as tightly
wrapped as his ankles. The ability to move was non-existent.

He groaned
around the gag in his mouth, hoping to elicit a response from
either Torrullin or Elianas, but nothing came back. It meant, he
attempted to reason, they could be unconscious or as bound and
gagged.

Or it meant he
was alone.

He panicked
again, struggling against the bindings, shouting muffled curses
without decipherable sense. For long minutes he struggled thus,
exhausting himself. He tried to spit the gag out and forced his
head from side to side - infinitesimal movements - to dislodge the
blindfold, and then surrendered to the situation. He was bound,
gagged and blindfolded, and there was nothing he could do to change
it. He would wait for change; change brought new factors into a
situation, even a desperate one.

What was wrong
with him? He was a sorcerer, for pity’s sake; there were spells to
undo bindings.

A spell,
Tristan Skyler Valla, would not be in your best interests. You are
confined, Kaval leader. If you attempt magic it will reverberate
and cause harm. I would avoid it.

Tristan
stilled. He lay quiescent and gave due thought to what was
happening and to who his gaoler could be.
What do you want with
me?

You are the
whip to be used. Your inability to escape and the likelihood of
harm befalling you; these are the lashes to be meted out upon your
two companions. Please, do not take this personally, Tristan Valla,
for I have no quarrel with you.

Well, I now
have a quarrel with you
, Tristan thought privately, and then
wondered how he would be used against Torrullin and Elianas, and
why it was necessary. He guarded his thoughts and sank into silence
and inactivity, which caused the voice in his head to withdraw with
a satisfied grunt.

He would await
the change that heralded new factors; it was the only plan he
had.

Elianas rolled
onto his back.

Opening his
eyes, he barely registered anything before a sharp jab in his side
caused him to contort away from a possible source of the pain, and
he lost sight of his surroundings. He shoved a jagged rock out of
his way and sat up. He was groggy as if he had slept over-long or
was drugged or - he stiffened as awareness flooded in - someone
placed a spell on him.

On his feet,
he froze.

Tristan lay
bound on a contraption of torture and, as he watched, the
contraption shifted its victim into a vertical position. The gagged
and blinded man sagged against bindings. Tristan was alone in the
glass cage, as bait, as coercion.

He swung
around searching for Torrullin and found him turned to stone
nearby.

Literally
turned to stone. Torrullin, kneeling and staring at the glass cage,
had been enchanted into an immovable statue of speckled rock.

Elianas
stumbled forward, hoping it was a likeness to trick him for an
unfathomable reason, and fell against the statue. It was warm, the
stone was warm. Torrullin, dear god, had been contained within.

He swung to
his feet to stare down, then to study his surroundings cautiously
and, finally, to look at the man in the glass cage.

“What the
fuck?” he shouted, and did not care how desperate he sounded.

Elianas Danae,
nobody truly learns anything in panic, or in employing such
language.

Elianas froze
again, and then gazed around, eyes darting. It was a featureless
plain, with only a glass cage and a stone statue to define it;
there was no place for the source of the voice to hide, to wait or
to spring a trap from.

“What do you
want?”

That will be
answered in due course. For now you are at liberty to move around,
to think, to use magic, to attempt to break Tristan from the glass
vessel, to extract Elixir from his stone prison, and to act in any
way you see fit.

“Why me?”
Elianas breathed. “Why am I left unfettered?”

Unless I
misjudge your sense of conscience, Danae, I would think you are
likely more ‘fettered’ than your companions are. You are their
means to liberty, but there is time enough for those details to
surface. Go, walk, move around and determine where your choice lies
right now. We shall speak soon.