The Dreamer Stones (42 page)

“Very well.
Now?”

“Yes … wait. I
was under the impression the Guardians were the only remaining
Immortals, barring a singular exception here and there. Now I hear
there are races of Immortals. How is that?”

“Then you were
mistaken; that was never the impression given. Perhaps Taranis
didn’t explain properly.”

“And perhaps I
never gave my father opportunity,” Torrullin remarked after a
moment.

“Yes, well,”
Belun muttered. “Know the Dome was created for the original
fourteen Immortal races. Some were lost a long time ago and others
fell away in the time before you came.” Belun shrugged. “I guess
those left in the Dome simply went on without the process of
change. We never asked for new members.”

“Yet you
called on other Immortals from time to time.”

“True, but
until Margus the only extreme we had to cope with was Drasso. There
was no real need for a full Dome fourteen.”

“That changes
today, my friend.”

“Declan and I
kind of figured it was about to happen.”

“Then make it
happen.”

The Centuar
rose. He gestured to Fuma, who retrieved his spear. “As my Lord
Elixir commands.”

“Don’t mess
with me.”

Belun grinned.
“Okay, Torrullin, so how long before we expect you?”

“It depends on
Tymall. Go.”

Belun bowed,
Fuma followed suit, murmuring something about the honour of serving
Elixir who was also Enchanter … Torrullin waved them off and then
sat in the silence rubbing his face.

Elixir had
taken on identity, reality. Others were harking to his call.

Gods.

He needed to
talk to Vannis.

“The
black-skinned of the flatlands called themselves Deorc,” Torrullin
said as he and Vannis wandered down the path, heading west. “Is
there a correlation, I wonder? The Deorc of the Plane was an
encompassing term to embrace any dark complexion.”

“A term no
doubt heard in passing,” Vannis murmured, “that took on altered
significance in an altered existence. Beyond death is another kind
of immortality, so why not call themselves after Immortals known to
them?”

“Tial would
laugh at the parallel,” Torrullin smiled.

He began then
to speak of the flatlands, telling Vannis more than he had another,
except Saska. Vannis listened to the unburdening in silence, but
his eyes changed colour frequently.

Only when
Torrullin lapsed into silence after the telling of Samuel’s hand in
the tunnel, did he finally speak. “You brought Margus back.”

“Yes. You
disagree.”

“I see you had
little choice.”

“Thank
you.”

“Where is he
now?”

“Delving his
old haunts, suspicious of this resurrection of the past.”

“You have
spoken to him since last night?”

“He’s never
far from my thoughts, Vannis, and never beyond my reach.”

“A strange
situation. Who’d have thought?”

Torrullin
shrugged. “No absolutes.”

“True, but
never trust him. He’s still the Darak Or.”

“And he’s part
of me. I don’t know how I shall deny him when he breaks his
word.”

“Sleeping with
a prostitute for his benefit does not make him part of you.”

“It was not
like that.”

“You felt
sorry for him, you say. Pity. Gods, son, he is what he is!”

“A mixed
soul.”

“Fine, maybe,
but it’s too late to untwist him.”

“Especially
after what Tymall did.” Torrullin, his tone neutral, explained the
rape of Margus he sensed in Tymall’s darkling castle. “Unable to
have sex even without emotion, and then that? Margus’ word will not
stand up to the revenge he cultivates.”

“An
irony.”

“Yes.”

“And perhaps
this is the true role Margus must assume. Let it play and set aside
pity … for both of them.” Vannis was matter-of-fact.

“And I thought
I wanted to speak to you about this Elixir business.”

“We’ll get to
that.”

A step, two,
three.

“Tell me of
Tymall,” Vannis prompted. “Whatever it is you hold back.”

Torrullin said
nothing for a few paces and then, “Tymall is one, while I attract
an army. He recreates the past, while I know it bestows power upon
me. He is unaware of that important fact. I have choices now about
stopping him, and he is oblivious. I appear to have advantage. I
even have his twin’s essence under my control.”

“He counts on
it.”

“Does he? He
expects to battle Samuel. He has his Warlock blade, Samuel the
Lumin Sword, a confrontation in which the Sword must lose. That is
what he counts on, but I have taken the blade and I aim to do my
best to prevent a battle. By all accounts and appearances there is
little to fear but the skirmishes. Right?”

“Right,”
Vannis drawled.

“Why am I
concerned?”

“Short-term
horrors?”

“Reparable.”

“Spit it
out.”

Another few
paces of silence. “He is my dark side, Vannis.”

“Both of you
know that. Or are you afraid of Destroyer?”

“No.”

“Where are you
headed with these thoughts?”

Torrullin
halted and faced Vannis head-on. “The Path of Shades. Walking that
path is comforting to me - it fits. I function in the shadows, do
you understand that?”

“I do. I knew
that about you the day you shouted out your name is Torrullin.”

“When I defeat
this son who is my dark side, Vannis, will I defeat also my ability
to walk the Shades?”

“Ah.”

“Well?”

“I cannot
answer, unless to say you’re more complicated than what surfaced in
your son.”

“Perhaps.”

“No man or
woman is so simplistic within that one success or defeat completely
alters the future, and you in particular have more twists and turns
than all of us laced together. Maybe the Shades become harder to
walk or maybe the shadows deepen for you. If you are unsure, how
can I possibly know the answer?”

Torrullin
sighed.

“What really
troubles you?”

“He’s
powerful. He is Warlock, a darak enchanter. For everything I throw
at him, there is a countering.”

A long
silence, and Vannis started walking again. After a time they came
to a halt on a small bridge, one of many that traversed the streams
lacing the valley.

“Say it,”
Torrullin said.

Vannis did not
look at him. “You are afraid of your son.”

“Yes!” An
explosion of sound. Honesty brought immeasurable relief. “He is
more than Margus, and the Darak Or took us on a merry-go-round.
Tymall can take them out one-by-one, my faithful little army of
familiars, until he gets to me, and I cannot prevent it.”

“Yes, you can.
You have choices now, you said it yourself. You went into another
realm for those choices. You know about Digilan.”

A mirthless
grimace and Torrullin leaned on the rail. “It just appears I have
the advantage, Vannis. Destroyer, Dragon, Enchanter, the Light, he
can counter. He has advantage.”

“The
blood?”

“Exactly. The
blood.”

“Not enough.
He cannot rule you through the blood.”

“Not alone,
no.”

“Right. You
have the boys in safety; Digilan will draw him back.”

“Vannis, he is
to be a father and has recognised his son. There is so much power
in the simplicity of the blood, the past recreation pales in
comparison.”

Vannis swore,
eyes to Torrullin.

A rueful
smile. “What if he chooses his son?”

Vannis said
nothing. What could he say? Tymall had advantage.

Chapter
Thirty-Three

Ooh, there’s
more! Look, more guests! How lovely!

Tattle

Tymall
awakened shivering.

His fever
broke during the night, but the bedding was soaked through,
chilling him. He stumbled from the room dragging on a thick coat,
and went in search of a hot drink.

In the small
kitchen he broke two mugs before he was able to control his
shaking, but the instant the hot coffee slid into his stomach,
laced with brandy, he began to feel better. Food would come next …
no, first he needed to feel the sun on him.

It was one of
those cloudless days poets rhymed about, the kind lovers picnicked
in and kids begged for the nearest beach or waterhole. He inhaled
great breaths of the summer-perfumed air, feeling better and
better, and strength began to course anew through his weakened
body. His mind had achieved full wit and power; he would use it to
rebuild his body.

He smiled; he
was back.

“You can come
out,” he said, removing the coat as the sun did its task on his
clammy frame.

There was
nobody else to see the lone darkling slide out from behind a
gnarled tree, to walk across the short expanse of overgrown grass
to a halt before him. The darkling was not subservient; instead, he
looked into Tymall’s eyes as an equal.

“You are
healing.”

“Fast,” Tymall
murmured. His gaze slid away from the creature - it made him
uncomfortable.

“I have
news.”

“Yes?”

“Tannil is
dead, interred this very morning.”

Tymall glowed.
“Excellent.”

“The Keep
prepares for the Enchanter to assume the role of Vallorin this
night. The valley is crowded with those who came for the funeral,
and more arrive for the ceremony. Valleur, ambassadors, other
offworlders, humans. The Electan travels to Torrke as we
speak.”

“He’s an
idiot,” Tymall murmured, absorbing the tidings of change. The plan
was working.

“Perhaps, but
Marcus Campian has the sympathy of the humans, and no doubt your
father will heal him tonight.”

“And thus he
will again be hero, as planned. And Vallorin. The plan progresses
well.”

“What do you
intend now?”

Tymall looked
at the creature. It was so alien it put him off. A darkling was a
darkling, yes, but this one was different. He did not trust it.
However, it had proven quite useful and certain matters could not
have happened without its aid.

“Wait and
watch. Tonight the Keep will be abuzz as it was in the past. It may
prove interesting, to say the least.”

“Shall I play
spy?”

“Torrke won’t
allow it and, no, I don’t want you discovered. Stay hidden until I
call again.”

The darkling’s
colourless orbs stared at Tymall. Blue blood pulsed under
translucent skin, a slower heartbeat than that of human and
Valleur. “I do not answer summons, Warlock.”

“You’re here,”
Tymall returned irritably.

“I was waiting
for you to heal. I need you alive and well.”

“Fine. Do as
you please, but I warn you Torrke will send you to the netherworld
if you attempt to enter.”

The creature
inclined its head. A dark hood protected its dome from the sun-
apparent nothingness could burn in the sun. The hood attached to a
concealing cloak, a blue-veined hand clutching it closed.

“Warning
taken, Warlock. I thank you.”

“Just go.”

The darkling
retreated into the trees around the ramshackle property. It went in
such deadly silence that the hairs rose on the back of Tymall’s
neck. No, he decidedly did not trust it.

Whether the
darkling left or stayed to watch from cover he could not know, it
was that good, and right then he did not care either.

He had
additional planning to do.

Tonight was
special. Tonight was the culmination of a slow, systematic process.
Tonight deserved a very special surprise.

He had to be
fully healed to attend to it.

The darkling
did not go far.

He inserted
himself between two trees wild with low-growing branches to watch
the Warlock, vanishing from sight and mind in utter stillness. This
abandoned property was well hidden, cleverly warded, but one could
never be too certain, and one must never be complacent,
particularly not now the Enchanter had returned.

Soon he would
hurl his name like a weapon of doom upon all those who dared oppose
him.

Including the
Warlock.

Torrullin was
not surprised by the added turnout - these events crossed the
spaces as rumours, without form or action, to become more - but he
was surprised to see the number of human faces swelling the
crowd.

Not much time
had passed since his exit with Margus from the Plane and in that
time his reputation among Valarians rode a see-saw. Any normal man
would choose the cautious path and stay away, and still they came.
Here he was in a situation with echoes and prompts of two thousand
years ago. Then he was Vallorin over Valleur and Valarian, and now
it was about to come to pass once more. He would be Vallorin after
the formal procedure, but that was purely ceremonial to appease his
Valleur’s sense of drama.

His son did
his task, acquitted himself outstandingly. The man should be given
a goddamn medal.

He had already
communicated with the Throne without touch or proximity, and it had
called him Vallorin with a certainty that was undeniable. Almost it
seemed triumphant, but that was not something he felt he had the
time to unravel. Another time, perhaps. It would take a different
kind of courage, that. Head-to-head with a sentient symbol of
power? Not lightly undertaken. Now he had to make a speech, sit on
the thing and be a visible ruler.

Never was he
more unwilling.

“No
ostentation this time, Enchanter?” Quilla murmured at his elbow,
referring to the huge Throne-room he created for the seat
before.

When Torrullin
did not deign to answer, Quilla sighed and leaned against the
balcony wall to look over the crowds in the courtyard, the man
silent at his side. Vannis was in evidence greeting friends and
acquaintances with equal fervour. Obviously, the man had decided to
make the most of his short time back in this reality - how short he
had not yet revealed.