The Dreamer Stones (15 page)

Kismet
commenced the process of discovery. Samuel had to conjure as he did
for Lucan, beginning with small items, gradually progressing to
larger. Kismet supplied requirements that ruled out the likelihood
of chance success. Asking for a stone was to conjure a stone,
nothing else. Samuel brought forth a stone, a pot, a bag of
potatoes, a framed mirror, and was asked to explain from where
these objects heralded from. He did not know. Kismet proceeded to
enlighten him.

Either objects
were summoned from a known location or they were transported out of
the ether, and Samuel achieved both. The lifeless objects, always
abiotic, the stone, the pot, the mirror, were called from sites on
Valaris. He asked Samuel to bring forth an item from his home,
something unique to him, and Samuel sent for his diamond cutter,
knowing it was engraved with his name, and it came, proving the
theory of known, existing sites and objects. That was the easier
mode of conjuring.

He held the
cutter in his hands, bemused. He was a jeweller by trade, and here
he dabbled in magic.

The potatoes,
Kismet revealed, a biological object, were summoned from the ether,
for nowhere on Valaris was such a mundane thing in existence.
Potatoes were recently ferried in by Beacon … by the barrel. He
added it did not necessarily follow abiotic was local and biotic
from elsewhere; he merely employed the difference to prove the two
locations. It was an unconscious force, unless you were specific in
your creation, something the Enchanter had mastered.

Samuel then
had to banish what he brought forth and did so, asking whether the
items returned to their original places. The stone, yes, it being
part of natural magic, but the rest went to a place for banished
things, a kind of realm for unwanted goods. Samuel balked at that,
saying it was impossible, and how?

He mourned the
loss of his cutter.

Kismet merely
smiled, saying the realm was a treasure trove, if one knew how to
access it. The pocket of potatoes, for instance, would never
spoil.

Caballa took
over, asking Samuel to transport back and forth across the room. He
did so countless times, while the two Valleur Elders huddled in the
centre. Samuel’s signature passed through them each time, but Lucan
caught not a gesture or expression to reveal their thoughts.

Finally an
exhausted Samuel ceased transporting, declaring that hell could
freeze over before he would do another this day. He was allowed to
rest.

Now they had
him laid out on the floor. They prepared to induce the ‘sight’, for
Samuel proved unable to do so unassisted. He was disgusted at his
failure, but Caballa pacified, saying it was new to him, and he
could not master the major practical talents in one day. Further,
she murmured, he was exhausted.

When he asked
why he needed this particular talent, the advantages of its use
were revealed. Seeing others from a distance, recalling past
images, looking at situations with different eyes thereby able to
discern unseen layers, and, no, she would delve into that another
time. Remember, she added, this sight was not to be confused with a
seer’s sight; the two were coupled in magic, but poles apart.

There was
another reason they desired to gift him this talent, one of the
blood, but she would not burden him with it until he could ‘see’.
Samuel took it stoically, with only his lips thinning.

Lucan silently
applauded his courage.

They were
ready. Four candles were placed now at the four compass points and
Caballa took a kneeling position at Samuel’s head, Kismet at his
feet. Samuel was naked to signify willingness to receive freely
from the power of the unseen Force that governed sorcery. Also,
Caballa added in a murmur, his exposed skin permitted them to
channel directly, something done when the mind was stubborn.

Samuel’s mind
proved obstinate, although not deliberately; he had not the ease of
long years of training. He undressed unwillingly, yet was entirely
unselfconscious when he lay down without a stitch to cover him.

“Close your
eyes, Samuel,” Kismet murmured. “Don’t speak or move. Your body
will react of its own volition when your mind expands, and we’ll
know. Yes?”

Samuel nodded,
unable to find words.

“Relax,”
Caballa whispered, her fingers probing the pulse in his neck. His
heart fluttered and hammered without rhythm. “Shh, deeper and
deeper,” she chanted, her voice hypnotic.

Gradually his
heart evened to beat a regular tattoo.

“He’s asleep,
Caballa,” Kismet whispered, giving the man a sympathetic
glance.

“Better that
way,” she said, stroking dark hair from his damp forehead. “He
looks like Tris, doesn’t he?”

Both Valleur
forgot the Xenian in his corner. “Older, wiser, more innocent,”
Kismet responded. “He’s so pale. The gold is understated.”

“It was thus
with the twins also. And they had more than their father. His has
become more marked, have you noticed?”

“Hmm,” Kismet
agreed. “Ready?”

Caballa drew
breath. “Are we doing the right thing, Kismet?”

“He has the
aptitude; he proved it in conjuring from the ether as well. He
transports unthinkingly, in less than a day, just like a Valla.
True, he may never be a sorcerer like the rest of us, may have to
force it out always, but he’ll manage the sight, especially once
the advantages are known to him.”

“That’s not
quite what I meant.”

Kismet
shrugged. “I know, but he has the truth locked away inside.”

“Has he? What
if we’re wrong?”

“Then, old
friend, he has the power of sight. No harm done.”

“What if we’re
right?” Caballa asked, seeking reassurance.

Kismet looked
down at Samuel’s long, pale feet. “Then we protect him, Caballa,
and help him accept.”

Up in the
tower Tymall sent tentacles through the spaces.

Finding the
Vallas was harder now that Fay was with him, with her blood
reinstated, yet he could with effort. His father, of course,
remained hidden in his unique signature. Finding him was usually
achieved by taking stock of what happened around, and at present
there was naught to point out the Enchanter’s location - worrying.
Contrary to expectation, Torrullin vanished soon after the ice
field disaster and stayed away during the ensuing besmirching of
his reputation, and remained absent despite the darkling
attacks.

It was time to
up the ante.

He saw Tannil,
Vallorin by the Throne’s affirmation also, back in Torrke, the
valley returned now as Valaris’s base of power … as planned. That
worked well.

Tannil. His
brother’s son. It was time to make the man suffer for his
privileged upbringing. The sins of the father visited on the son.
It did not strike him as contradictory that he enjoyed a similar
upbringing. It never occurred to him he was a son also, and about
to become a father.

Briefly he
conferred with the other and then sent out the command.

The real
diversion.

A man ran
breathless into the Throne’s presence. “My Lord Vallorin!”

Tannil looked
up. There were dark circles under his eyes. “What is it now?”

“My Lord, they
attack! The darklings!”

Tannil sighed.
He wished he could curl up and die. “They’ve been doing that for
days already.”

“No, my Lord,”
the man heaved, shaking his head. “It’s a concerted effort. It’s
the Darkling Horde, my Lord, as one being.”

Tannil levered
himself from the Throne. “It has come then. Send for the Darak
Or.”

Chapter
Fourteen

Aris and Arin
stood tall in the sky and raised their lead and silver swords. When
blade met blade mortals shivered ... and great jagged rents formed
in the fabric to plummet to ground as bolts of absolute light.

The legend of
Aris and Arin, Halo Mark Era

The Darak Or
was an enchanter, able theoretically to access both lumin and darak
forces.

All power
emanates from a singular base, but a time comes when a sorcerer
chooses one road. Good
or
evil. Enchanters are the
exceptions, and extremely rare. The Darak Or chose his one path
after achieving the dual road, an even rarer state, and therefore
retained much of the powers that were an Enchanter’s.

Such as the
power to create. Samuel’s conjuring was a calling of something
already in existence, whether seen or unseen, but Torrullin’s two
millennia old gift to the Cèlaver, the magical cavern, was pure
creation. The Darak Or did not possess that fine-tuned mastery or
the knowledge to engender beauty, but he could affect things.
Things not called, things made, nasty things.

He was ready
when Tannil sent for him, having spent days at the Society in
conceiving, creating and perfecting his surprise for the Darkling
Horde. In this he had the blessing of Tannil and Torrullin and
others, although all were dubious about what would result.

He appeared
before Tannil, who asked, “Are you done creating your evil?”

“To do good,
Vallorin,” Margus said, his expression pained.

“Don’t play
games with me. I’ll bet you enjoyed the task and will relish
releasing them.”

“True. Pity
nobody watched them come. Something about responsibility?
Accountability?”

Tannil’s gaze
bored into the Darak Or, full of loathing - and something unnamed -
but Margus stared back with a smile on his face. “I wouldn’t want
to create evil …”

“There’s your
weakness. Torrullin has more balls than you’ll ever have.”

“If it weren’t
for my grandfather, I swear I …”

“What,
Vallorin? Stop me? How? The all-powerful Enchanter failed
twice.”

Tannil snarled
out of his chair - he sat in the courtyard beside the mosaic pool -
and stood inches from Margus. “What hold have you over him?”

Margus stared
into Tannil’s tawny eyes. In the back of his mind alarm bells went
off, but it was not over his own safety - he had no care there.
Tannil approached an edge in his personality, his mind, his ideals.
It lurked in the man’s eyes. Now, with the man in his face, was not
the time to delve that.

“He has a hold
over me, Vallorin.”

“No,” Tannil
denied, “it’s more than that.”

Margus
shrugged and did not break the contact. “Walk in his shoes first
before you draw your lines. Who holds what is between Torrullin and
me.”

“If you turn
on him …”

“What? How
amusing!” Margus looked away, aware in doing so he gave in on the
eye contest, but also realising Tannil required a victory, however
insignificant. He did it for Torrullin, not Tannil. “Allow me to
state this one truth, Vallorin. I am a man of my word and I
promised the Enchanter to fight upon his command alone, and it
includes not touching the Valleur. But push me far enough and I
shall find the loophole, but never can I harm Torrullin.” He
stepped back a pace, his angelic face a mask. “Do I or do I not
deploy my creatures? Time’s a-wasting, Vallorin.”

“You don’t
like me.”

“What’s to
like? This isn’t about that.”

“You think I’m
weak.”

“What I think
has no bearing. Do I or do I not deploy?”

Tannil drew a
deep breath. He wanted to strangle Margus. His capacity for rage
and aggression had mounted recently. “Can you anticipate them?”

“Yes, but what
I cannot do is anticipate and track simultaneously.” They spoke of
the darkling attacks.

“What do you
need?”

“An additional
mind.”

Tannil sighed.
“I’ll do it.”

Margus thought
that would push Tannil closer to that edge, but he needed the help.
They stared at each other, and it was no contest; it was reluctant
complicity, and Tannil looked away first.

“Good,” Margus
murmured. “From the facility, right?”

“Right behind
you.”

Byron gave
over one of the outbuildings to Margus, who incanted around it to
protect what would soon be within from the prying eyes of dark
magic.

It was merely
added protection, for like to the lumin forces, it was difficult
for darak fallen to sense other darak magic.

“This place
smells foul,” Tannil muttered as they appeared before the
nondescript building that had, in its time, done duty as hostel,
stable, storeroom, prison, venue to meet, and had now become a
laboratory for darak fallen.

“It renders it
invisible,” Margus said, but he wrinkled his nose.

He waved a
hand, the door opened, and they were inside.

“I see
nothing,” Tannil said.

Margus clicked
his fingers. Glaring light flooded the interior to dispel the
gloom. He grinned at the look on the Vallorin’s face. “Not pretty
and very dangerous.”

Row upon row,
floor to ceiling, suspended inanimate, they waited. Thousands of
bugs, a lacklustre, camouflaging grey, thumbnail size, appearing
innocuously like children’s toys, but it was the unthreatening
appearance and sheer volume that caused Tannil’s blood to run cold.
He knew what they were meant to do.

“A long time
ago I created something like this, the spiders I’m sure you were
told about, but they were noisy, clicked metallically, and were
also clumsy and large. On their own effective as a stasis tool, but
together they forewarned. The Enchanter was able to stop them and
given the power base is the same for today’s darklings, the failure
rate would be high. We need silent and deadly. We need something
that can fly, keep pace with the soulless ones in the air. They are
silent in flight and will be virtually invisible. I have outdone
myself; there won’t be premonition of danger.”

“How do they
work?”

Margus took
one out of suspension with careful fingers. Touching it lightly, he
placed it on his palm. It animated, tiny wings unfolding, and
Margus pointed at a small cage on a workstation. A huge rat sat
staring at them.