The Dreamer Stones (39 page)

Chapter
Thirty

Play your
fiddle again, Master Rat! Kings are one and kings adore music!

Tattle’s Blunt
Adventures

Torrullin’s
was not the only animated face.

Celebration
displaced the sombre atmosphere. Samuel’s mouth hung idiotically
open, he was that surprised, bowled over by a feather no less. He
guessed Taranis, and it proved to be Vannis. To see the legend that
was Vannis, in the flesh, breathing after his famous demise, was
astonishing. It was a mundane word for the intricacy of his
emotions, but his mind would not work properly. Vannis, who died,
who chose to die, at his grandson’s side in the destruction of
Torrke. Although Samuel knew alternate realms existed - his family
entered one - this latest proof was also the greatest.

Vannis, last
Vallorin of a people vanished through the Rift. Vannis, warmonger,
taking the fight to the Valleur nemesis, the expanding plague that
was the human race. Vannis, the Enchanter’s grandfather. Carrier of
the Dragon, creator of the Medaillon, builder and engineer of the
incredible sacred sites … and more, much more.

So many tales,
and he, Samuel, heard them since he was a child. He understood now
what drove his father to relate Valleur tales to his young son.
Despite the divide between Golden and Valarian, Vannis’s escapades
had not lain dormant in dusty corners. He read of them in the
Ancient Oracles at the Keep, comparing a child’s tale to real
history, and where he missed out detail the Valleur of both Luvanor
and Valaris hastened to enlighten him. Now Valla memories filled in
final gaps.

A golden man,
much like Tannil, his eyes shining amber. Changeable eyes, a famous
trait. Amber, the colour of happiness and joy.

“Vannis,”
Torrullin said again, his voice young, light, carefree, and he
laughed for the hell of it, and as he did so all cares dropped
away. The day passed into memory and grief found its proper
place.

Vannis held
his grandson at arm’s length and smiled. A hand lifted to touch
Torrullin’s cheek, setting alight kinfire.

“Torrullin,”
he repeated and then chuckled. “I am like an old fool over his
beloved grandson.” Laughter lines spread from the corners of his
eyes. “But then you are that and I shall ever be an old fool.” His
hands dropped away. “Lend me your cloak, will you?” He peered down
at his penis. “There are ladies present.”

Saska giggled
and as Vannis wrapped Torrullin’s cloak about himself, sarong
style, she bounded forward to throw her arms around the chuckling
man. Vannis, her best friend. How she missed him. She could not
speak, merely squeezed him hard.

Belun neighed,
under Declan’s belligerent eye, and reverted to full Centuar
regalia. Stomping hooves, he executed a twirl. Vannis clapped his
hands. Declan, not to be outdone, spread his amazing wings and
delivered a courtly bow. Both shouted welcome.

Then it
quietened, at least sufficiently for Vannis to greet everyone
individually. Only Thundor the Fourth was a stranger to him, which
the Thinnings rectified to much laughter, and so was Samuel.

Samuel the
man, for Samuel the form and body and face was very familiar.
Vannis’s eyes narrowed, reverting to standard Valleur yellow, when
he greeted Samuel, but it was not in suspicion, it was a probing of
the man’s measure, after which he gripped Samuel’s arm in ritual
clasp, an acceptance that ignited kinfire. Samuel still had no
words, smiling like an idiot.

Torrullin
stood by while it went on. Backslapping, hugs, laughter, and
appreciative murmurs for the grown-up Lowen, and smiles, welcome,
many words.

How had this
come about? Vannis’s essence dissipated with Torrke’s explosive
power, and yet he became part of the enchantment that led to
Samuel.

“The curve,”
Quilla said at his elbow. “Vannis became part of the unseen curve
in death. It is possible to look and then reach back. A noble
gesture, I must say. He must care for you a great deal to have set
aside his peace and rest for so long.”

Before
Torrullin could formulate a response, Vannis was there. “Peace I
had, have no fear, and peace I shall return to.” Greetings,
obviously, were over. “But had I not done this my life beyond would
be a sham.” He smiled into Torrullin’s eyes. “Like as to your bond
with Tristamil, our connection is beyond blood, beyond death. You
are not done here, thus I am not done here.”

“It will not
ever be done, Vannis,” Torrullin said.

“I know, but
you knowing I am with you, if only in heart, is peace I have waited
for.”

“I know
that.”

“Then I am
complete. However, we shall talk later. Right now this circle needs
attending to.”

Vannis glanced
behind him, noting the others return to their positions around the
crucible. Samuel remained in the depression, unsure of himself as
amazement wore away.

“Tristamil’s
power?” Torrullin asked.

Vannis
inclined his head. “Not quite, I think. No talent will transfer,
but … well, perhaps the intimacy Tris had with the Light. An
awesome power, but you already know that.”

“Why,
Vannis?”

“Balance. It’s
that simple.”

Torrullin
swore under his breath. Balance. To match Tymall.

“If you use
the Light …”

“I rarely
access it,” Torrullin said.

Vannis’s eyes
shifted to blue. The colour of sadness. “Shades are your forte, as
they are mine. It’s the reason I am forbidden eternal bliss.” His
eyes brightened to yellow. “This is terrible to say, but I thank
all the gods for that particular disadvantage.”

“Raken, I
assume?”

“Indeed. My
lady wife was waiting.” Vannis shrugged. “I think I would not feel
comfortable in absolute perfection anyway.” He turned then,
throwing over his shoulder as he took his place at the edge of the
crucible, “You no doubt agree.”

A rueful
laugh. “Yes.”

Lowen
shivered. She knew Torrullin well enough now to know how true it
was. While he sought perfection for others, he could not himself
abide the definitive division between black and white. It was only
in the shadows that all possibilities lay. She, too, found that
alluring.

“Ready?”
Teighlar prompted.

Samuel shook
once as a shiver of terror overcame him, and was still. Except his
eyes - they moved continually among and over the faces of the
circle.

“Ready,” he
whispered.

A matter of
minutes later it was done.

It was indeed
the Light gifted, but in a manner unexpected. A flash of ethereal
silver, a pealing bell, the sound of a massed choir. It was akin to
a church ceremony, a brief instant in time.

When the music
faded, tiny, silvery motes coalesced out of the air to float in a
swirling column about Samuel’s rigid form. Millions of them, ever
closer, spinning, spinning in the breathless silence. Then, with
unmistakeable sentience, the tiny flecks settled on and over their
target, burrowing through his clothes to reach warm skin, until not
a microscopic area was uncovered. Only his eyes were clear and they
stared helplessly down at silvered skin. Even his tongue and pallet
glowed and had he looked he would have seen the silver micronisms
settle under his foreskin and burrow into his anus.

He experienced
no discomfort, just pleasant relaxation. Everything was right with
the world.

All absorbed
into his skin, into his system, to become a part of his biology,
until he stood returned to normality. At least as far as
appearances went - at first, for there were changes. As Tymall had
absorbed the inherence of the Dark, thus Samuel took to himself the
inherence of the Light.

“It is done,”
Vannis murmured.

“You may leave
the crucible, Samuel,” Teighlar added.

“Is that it?”
His tone was disappointed. He expected to feel, if not stronger,
then different. He felt no different.

Torrullin
conjured a mirror and held it out. Seeing would be believing.
“Look.”

Samuel
accepted the offering and looked. His eyes were changed. There was
now a silver ring about the iris. He was entranced.

“Tymall has
black rings since Digilan,” Torrullin revealed. “By that subtle
difference others will know you.”

Samuel lowered
the mirror. “I have a few more wrinkles than he has.” It was an
attempt at a joke, but nobody laughed. “What?”

“Look again,”
Torrullin prompted.

He looked. The
mirror slid from his grasp and shattered in the crucible. His
changed eyes flitted from one to the other before he hurled from
the depression to stalk off muttering.

Light or no,
he was peeved.

Vannis and
Torrullin locked gazes. Samuel appeared fifteen years younger, the
age Tristamil died, his skin smooth and unmarked by the years. His
dark hair sported the gold and auburn streaks the twins were known
for.

Saska made to
follow.

“Leave him,”
Teighlar said. “He needs to be alone.”

“Is he …
Tris?”

Vannis shook
his head. “Equalised genetics, a conformity of the body in
acceptance of an inheritance. It will be strange, but he will be
accustomed to it soon enough.”

“The Light did
that?” Kismet questioned.

“No, that is
pure Valla magic.”

“Samuel now
has the right to Vallorinship,” Torrullin murmured.

Caballa
stared. Tannil died for Samuel to be ruler?

Torrullin’s
eyes flicked over her. He caught the thought. He released a pent-up
breath and with it the tension of the gifting.

“It is done.
Time to move on. Teighlar, keep Samuel here until he feels
comfortable. I’m the last person he wants to be around at present.”
He removed Trezond scabbard and all and handed it to the Emperor.
“Give this to him. It should help.”

Teighlar took
the blade. “You’re leaving tonight?”

“Time is of
the essence,” Vannis murmured. Ten days was all he had, but
Torrullin was unaware of that.

“It is,”
Torrullin agreed, for other reasons. He glanced behind him at
Belun, Declan and Lowen. They were bound to him now - they would
come. Then, looking into each pair of eyes, barring Teighlar and
Thundor, he said, “We are returning to Valaris tonight.”

“And Fay?”
This from Saska.

“She will be
watched here,” Teighlar said. He gave a rueful laugh. “So much for
celebration, Vannis.”

“This reality
is the greatest celebration I could enjoy, Teighlar. Thank you for
everything you have done.”

The Senlu
Emperor bowed. “It has been a unique experience.”

“That it has,”
Vannis laughed.

“And I thank
you, my friend,” Torrullin said. “I thank all of you. Vannis is a
gift priceless to me.” He bowed to Teighlar. “Till we meet again,
Emperor. Thundor.” He vanished, and so too Vannis.

“Indeed,
Elixir,” Teighlar murmured. “Cheers, Vannis.”

Belun and
Declan bowed and vanished.

Quilla and
Lowen left together a moment later.

“Before we
go,” Caballa said to Teighlar. “Will you tell us what it means,
this Elixir business?”

Kismet and
Saska both paused in the act of preparing to dematerialise and
waited to hear an answer, if one would be forthcoming.

Teighlar
sucked at his cheeks, his gaze faraway. “Simply put, he is a god.
No worm can creep under a stone without him knowing, no place is
too dark or too bright, too small or too huge for his all-seeing
eyes. A heavy responsibility, and the cries of billions will soon
assail him as he hears also.” Teighlar’s gaze focused on Saska. “He
hasn’t acknowledged it, and that’s why he functions normally. When
he does, leave him to his Kaval. They are his eyes and ears and
they will know also how to leech the overload. Saska, hear me, get
this thing with Tymall done, spur him on, so the two events do not
overlap.”

“Dear god,”
Saska whispered, and retreated. She turned and disappeared.

“Gods tend to
retreat unto themselves,” Caballa said, folding her arms.

“The old gods
are mere tales, Caballa, but you’re right. Eventually they do
retreat.”

Shaking her
head in foreboding, Caballa motioned to Kismet and the two
left.

Teighlar and
Thundor were alone in the crucible chamber. Teighlar, for the first
time, desired with all his heart to go to Valaris.

“So, Senlu
Emperor, how about a spot of wine?” Thundor murmured, perking up
markedly when Teighlar glanced down at him and began to smile.

Chapter
Thirty-One

The dead are
dead.

Well, damn,
they should be.

Tattle

In the Keep’s
courtyard stood four biers.

One for
Tannil, the other three for Teroux, Tristan and Curin. All awaited
interment, and the ceremony awaited the Enchanter. His return would
not be a joyous occasion.

Tannil, lying
in state could never be a cause for joy; the deaths of young ones,
the heirs, made it worse. No one knew of the switch; the fewer knew
the truth, the less likely were leaks, and the more believable it
was.

Krikian,
entrusted with the bodies, had to admit the replicas were more than
life-like. In the death they proposed they were astonishingly
real.

If only there
was a replica for Tannil. If only the Vallorin was safe with … but
he did not pursue the thought, or even complete it, in the event
someone tapped in. He wished he knew Tannil as an adult. Tannil was
a young man learning the burdens of leadership when he left for
Xen. That young man had shown promise and by all accounts had lived
up to it. Tristamil’s son, dear god, departed before he could fully
take his place in a way that was not exile.

He listened to
tales of this Vallorin since he arrived earlier in the day; one
after another the Valleur first came to greet him, then to spend
time reminiscing over the dead. It increased in the hours since the
bodies arrived from Luvanor.