Free The Kallanon Scales by Elaina J Davidson Page A

blinked as they transformed into blue.
Torrullin’s breathing dipped, feeling the immensity of Vannis
grief.
    “Wrong, not
right, so wrong,” Taranis moaned. He slumped forward with a wail of
despair. Vannis flinched through his paralysis.
    Torrullin’s
eyes darkened and he reeled back. There was too much grief and
anger now in this microcosm world. Vannis rage and sorrow
intertwined and became an entity. Taranis’ despair was a living
presence. Destroyer fed on that, Destroyer required it for
existence. How bad would it be when bodies lay accusing before
seeing eyes?
    How would
Destroyer react to Lycea’s torture?
    Torrullin managed to stand. He engaged the livid presence
inside, made more violent for seeking to hide it, fighting,
pushing, gods, he wanted to lash out, wanted the fury, for ferocity could
drive away pain.
    Tristamil’s
hand on his shoulder.
    Torrullin
forced himself to look at his son, hooding his eyes.
     
     
    His father
barely coped.
    Kisha, Kylan,
and now Raken. Gods, his mother.
    “Father, sit.”
He assisted his father to the last chair, knelt there. “We must
find calm.”
    “Help them
first.”
    Tristamil
studied Vannis and Taranis, and spared a glance for Tymall
retreating to the tower wall. Krikian was further along the walk,
pacing aimlessly, and Shep sat frozen on the wall, his gaze to the
valley.
    Taranis would be easier for a foray into healing. He lifted
his hand to Taranis’ brow. Tristamil glanced at his father, but his
father doubled over, head between knees. It frightened him, he
had never seen
his father debilitated.
    Taranis rocked
back and forth. Taranis thought the world of Kylan and loved Kisha
like a daughter. He adored Raken, laughing most frequently with
her. Taranis honoured Lycea as the mother of his grandchildren.
    I want my
mother to live, as I need my father to be strong.
    He laid his
hand on Taranis’ brow, no words, merely sending warmth, comfort and
understanding. Taranis received the communication, responded to the
sincerity, and light returned to his dark places. He reached up to
clasp the hand at his brow.
    “You are your
father’s son.”
    “You
knew?”
    “I know now.”
Taranis drew breath. “See to Vannis, he needs our help most.”
    Tristamil
moved to Vannis. The Valleur’s eyes were blue, flicking as he
sought release from the paralysis. Tears coursed his face,
splashing onto his tunic. He loved Raken - the only other he loved
that much was Torrullin - and Tristamil realised the danger lay not
in Vannis’ anger causing him to hurt someone; it lay in his agony
causing him to follow his beloved to the grave. His father
incapacitated Vannis to prevent that.
    He placed his
hands on Vannis’ wet cheeks and drew the pain unto himself, reeling
in the onset, and replaced it with detachment, a bearable inner
numbing where Vannis would be aware of his loss and cope with the
immediacy of the situation.
    It was
temporary and, if Vannis chose, he could deny it, and it was
sorcery. Until he did it, Tristamil had not known he could, and
warmth suffused him.
    I am my
father’s son.
    Vannis’ eyes
dulled and reverted to yellow and Tristamil touched Vannis to
release the paralysis.
    Vannis rose
and walked away. He did not repudiate the numbing.
    Taranis
murmured, “He isn’t himself. Release what you drew out or it will
poison you as it nearly did him.”
    Tristamil
opened his mind. “He really loved her.”
    “He always
will. There will never be another for him.” Taranis glanced at
Torrullin hunched over. “Do you need help with your father? He will
not be easy to draw out.”
    Tristamil
shook his head and approached, but Torrullin straightened and held
a hand aloft. “Do not touch me. You cannot help me. This is my
demon.”
    His father
never denied him.
    “Destroyer is
here,” Quilla said.
    Tristamil
swallowed and his heart thudded. “Now?”
    “Of course
now, brother,” Tymall drawled from the tower. “I felt him arrive
and you could not. How