The Dreamer Stones (38 page)

Then there was
recognised babe, but not by his father. The seeds of evil.

Then came
birthed babe, and the overhearing of a whispered confrontation in
which his father refused to kill the seedling evil. The beginnings
of redemption.

Growing up
followed. Confusion. On the one hand loving his father, on the
other the inherent dark instincts of an unrecognised babe.

Symbiosis.
Hated twin, vital cover.

Coming-of-Age,
and the Indwelling. Accepting the Darak Or as mentor and
instructor. The loss of love. Repudiating his father. Losing
redemption.

Symbiosis.
Twins in all ways. Death to one, death also to the other. Suicide,
and thus death to both.

The man of
Digilan. He becomes Warlock, fighting, killing, maiming, and
torturing, stealing, tricking, prostituting, conning, lying - a
thousand things a thousand times over until the hell of his
existence is him.

Return.
Renewed confusion. Sun on face, flowers underfoot, a pretty child,
her mother. Beauty presented. Rape and murder in that return to
underscore Digilan’s promise. No redemption.

Father, first
sight. Familiar face long absent. One step and millennia of pain
could vanish. Reach out to him, go. He does not move. He does not
reach out. The final chance has gone.

The man beyond
Warlock. He finds a woman never expected. New confusion. No place
for her. She will undo him. He makes place, for he wants her in a
way beyond physical. She is the redemption of the last tiny remnant
of the babe, the child, the youth, the man before coming of
age.

Sadly he turns
her onto his path. No redemption. He will undo her.

Present. Hurt
man.

In delirium he
cries out for his father’s healing hands, for his mother’s embrace.
He cries out to his twin for help. Near death, feverish, ice-cold.
No one comes, not even in his nightmarish dreams.

He is alone.
He will ever be alone.

No one
comes.

Tannil hurt
him.

The pretence
he put forth to prevent harm befalling Fay was no pretence. He
thought, though, it was a flesh wound easily seen to in
private.

He was
wrong.

Tannil infused
his power pulses with the venom of his revenge, his real need to
murder the monster that murdered his mother, surrogate father and
his wife. It was powerful magic, for Tannil ventured near Destroyer
status in his hatred.

Tymall was in
trouble for the first time since he once fled around the hellish
clearing of an alternate Valaris, the forced recognition of self.
Not even Digilan had threatened him in this way. Here death was an
end; this time there would be no second chance.

He was wholly
unaware of the danger, though, as he tossed sweat-drenched on the
worn bed in the old cottage in a place nobody would think to look
for him. He had the presence of mind to abandon his castle before
fever overtook him … not that anyone would come.

No one comes.
Not even to finish him.

He is
alone.

Saska entered
first, joining Torrullin, Samuel and Teighlar.

The three men
stood without words - it had been that kind of day. Her emerald
gaze sought him out. Her husband, a different man in the
return.

Lowen came
next, followed by Quilla, the two in whispered conversation, the
sort they had when Lowen was a girl. The birdman had great respect
for the Xenian’s mind.

Thundor
appeared then, but remained silent. He bowed reverently to
Torrullin before perching on the edge of the crucible, his tiny
size insufficient to set its magic to working. The rosy light
diffused his bright clothing, but highlighted his cherry red
cheeks.

Torrullin
inclined his head towards the Thinnings and turned to acknowledge
Kismet and Caballa hastening in. They halted in the triangular
entrance assessing the mood. Equally sombre then, they moved
closer. No one said anything.

Last to come,
upon Torrullin’s request, was Declan and Belun. They looked at no
person in particular, arraying behind Torrullin like an honour
guard. Or guard, period. Lowen, watching, left Quilla’s side to
join them. They made space between then, staring ahead over
Torrullin’s shoulders. His Kaval. The chamber appeared to shift
into two camps.

With hooded
eyes, Saska stared at her husband. He had not asked her to join his
Kaval; he had not even alluded to it. What did that mean?

It means,
Saska, there are four new Sylmer currently undergoing the
Immortality Ritual.

He always
chose the most private moments to invade her thoughts. She did not
answer, for she knew what it meant. She was not the only Immortal
Sylmer, therefore disqualified from the Kaval.

As my wife,
you are an honorary member. I shall not have to submit you to the
responsibility, and yet you will know much.

Again she
remained silent. Much, not all. Some things evidently would not be
shared. She shook her head, broke visual contact and glared into
the crucible, fighting frustrated tears.

“Around the
crucible, please,” Teighlar murmured and, despite his low tone, he
startled everyone. The mood had grown introspective.

Saska moved
first to give her something to do under Torrullin’s scrutiny, and
gradually the others took their places.

Torrullin,
with his Kaval, remained on the outskirts. Quilla wandered around
to join him.

“Samuel,”
Teighlar prompted.

Samuel was
pale and his heart was no longer in this. His heart had flown away
with his wife and son, his purpose fled. He drew breath and glanced
at Torrullin.

“Go in,
Samuel. Given what you’ve lost in spirit this day, you need the
Light now.”

“For what
purpose?”

“Survival, at
the least.”

Samuel
shrugged and stared into the black depression. Irony in that.

“Samuel, I’d
appreciate it if you live through what comes next.”

Samuel
Skyler’s head lifted and he met that grey gaze. Yes, that came from
the heart. He drew breath again, nodded, and stepped into the
crucible. For Torrullin. For Curin. For Tristan.

“Torrullin,
will you activate?” Teighlar asked, knowing the man had no need of
the circles.

“The crucible
is now active,” Torrullin returned barely a moment later.

Teighlar
frowned, looking down. “Where’s the Sword?”

A silence and
then, “I have taken it.”

Another
silence. “Why, Torrullin?” Teighlar did not look at him. Or
Samuel.

“You know
why.”

“Do you not
trust me?”

“I do not
trust the Sword.”

“Samuel needs
it,” Teighlar said.

“He cannot use
it in its current state.”

Teighlar
looked up then. “Alter it.”

“Then you have
your sacrifice, Teighlar? I won’t do it.”

“You’re making
your kinsman less,” Teighlar murmured, a hand flicking in Samuel’s
direction.

“It cannot be
altered unless the blood of the two are together.”

Torrullin
meant locked in combat, but would not speak it here. The first
symbiosis cost him both sons; he dared not think on what another
symbiosis would do. He would do all in his power to avoid this
confrontation, including removing the melded sword from the
arena.

“Samuel will
familiarise himself further with the nuances of a blade using my
sword. The Sword of the Sleeper has come into power by virtue of
legend, and Trezond will lead him well until the time is nigh.”
Torrullin glanced at Samuel, who stared back, anxiety etched into
his features. “Samuel, the Lumin Sword is not safe. And,
truthfully, it may never again be.”

Samuel’s head
bobbed, eyes sliding away.

“What are you
not telling?” Teighlar demanded.

“Now is not
the time. Come, Emperor, let us get to the task at hand. I must
leave for Valaris.”

Teighlar
vacillated a moment more and then probed the circle. They nodded
back at him. “Very well.”

“Wait.” This
from Caballa. A silence descended in which she did not know how
exactly to proceed. She glanced at Kismet.

“No, I’m in
enough crap already,” Kismet muttered.

“Speak,
Caballa,” Torrullin said.

The Valleur
Elder squared her slim shoulders. “The spiral of war awaits us and
we may forget where we love when caught in it. Common, civil
interaction will become a luxury and … forgiveness …” She meant to
say tenderness, but at the last instant decided against it. Not in
Saska’s presence. “Forgiveness will be the last thought, the last
ideal anyone makes space for. My Lord, I am aware your loss is new
and I understand forgiveness is too much to expect right now, yet I
ask that you …” She fell silent. She dared ask nothing of him.

“We can’t
function with a wall between us, my Lord,” Kismet said.

A hard silence
ensued. Torrullin’s eyes moved between the two Elders as if probing
them down to their last atom. Then he said, “The blame for Tannil
lies with me. I shall no longer hold anything against you.”

“Torrullin,
no,” Saska whispered.

“My Lord, that
is not the way it was,” Caballa said.

Torrullin
looked at nobody. “The vessel fills. Let us continue here.” Behind
him, Lowen released an inaudible sigh. “Teighlar?”

The Emperor
nodded. “Ready? Together then … now!”

A concerted
silence. It appeared as if silence continually punctuated sound, a
marking of boundaries, and that was true, but this time the silence
was busy, loud and purposeful. It was the calling of the sixth
member and Samuel’s eyes moved from face to face.

Torrullin
frowned. He said Samuel needed the Light, and it was truer now than
in the morning of this strange day, and he was afraid Samuel would
receive more than he could manage. He acknowledged his real fear.
The mantle of priest weighed heavily on Tristamil, and Tris was
prepared. Was Samuel ready? This was a transference of power and
the circle did not understand that. Samuel was about to receive his
heritage from Tristamil - a heritage unknowingly bestowed and
guarded by the enchanted circle.

He wanted to
put a stop to proceedings and then recalled Mitrill’s wise words.
All had the right to their own choices, their own mistakes, even if
misguided, even ignorant, and it included the Vallas.

Clearing his
face of outward expression, he forced himself to accept Samuel had
right to this.

Then he was
impatient. A grotto in the morning, a dank castle after, terrible
news in Grinwallin, a magical interference that nearly killed two
boys, the grotto again, and now this.

Valaris, for
all its problems, seemed the safer option.

He was about
to snap when he swallowed his rising ire by force of will.

There was a
disturbance in the air above the crucible.

He drew
breath.

Realm
exit.

Gods. Someone
from beyond. The sixth member was someone from the dead.

Tristamil? To
hand over the heritage?

Caltian?
Mitrill had been a member of this circle … but then why the
secrecy?

Vapour, in the
form of a man or a tall woman.

Samuel stood
dead still.

Let it not be
Tristamil. I cannot let him go again.

A hand
solidified, rose to touch a face wreathed in vapour. A golden hand.
A
Golden
hand.

Torrullin
began to shake and sank to his knees. His heart beat a staccato
rhythm. He knew.

Let me be
right. This, this, I want.

Samuel’s eyes
flickered, seeing him with the edge of his concentration. His face,
dear god, his face. Agonised hope. Torrullin understood whom they
called and it was priceless to him.

Lowen bit down
on her bottom lip, seeing only the tension in the kneeling man.

Samuel stared
at the vapour solidifying alongside him.

The vapour
fell away and a man stood there. Long, golden hair hung heavily
down his sculpted back, covering naked buttocks.

Utter
silence.

Torrullin was
aware of no one, nothing, his entire being centred on the man in
the crucible.

Samuel’s mouth
hung open, but nobody noticed.

A muscle
twitched in the averted face. A smile.

“Dear
Goddess,” Torrullin said, the words wrenched from him.

“There you
are,” the Golden man said, turning.

Torrullin
stumbled up, put his hand out, and reached out to touch. Solid,
warm flesh. Trebac glittered bright, the blinding blue of a deep
and profound kinship.

They stared at
each other.

A smile
transformed Torrullin’s shocked features.

Saska burst
into tears as a million suns went supernova in the usually too
tense face. She doubted anyone else could have that effect on
him.

“Vannis.”

Vannis,
beloved grandfather, grinned, and pulled Torrullin into his arms
and held on.

“Torrullin. At
last.”