The Dreamer Stones (71 page)

“Do you have a
specific place in mind?” Saska’s tone was on the edge of
amusement.

Lily dipped
her head and had the grace to blush. “Actually, well, Merrix … um
…”

“It’s okay;
I’ll go, because you’re right. I need time to think. So, what’s on
Merrix?”

“Um … is it
forbidden to fall in love while I am the Lady?”

“No, honey.
Who is he?”

“His name is
Sinsen and …”

“What’s the
problem?”

“I need to
know! You know!”

“If he feels
about you the way you feel about him, if there’s a future.”

“Yes!”

Saska was
silent and then, “I’ll go, but, Lily, I’m no judge as to love and
intentions.”

Lily pondered
a while, fingering her flaming tresses. “Well, the way I read it,
love is part of life. When we love, we know ourselves to be alive,
whether it be love for a child, a sibling, a friend, or a lover, a
husband. Right? And I’m thinking, if you were presented with a new,
young love - gods, hopefully - you may again discover the purity in
the beginning of a relationship.”

“A
relationship can be complicated even in the beginning.”

“True, but
there’s also purity. It either is or is not. Stand back, Saska, and
see your relationship with your husband as it was at the start. Use
this uncertainty of mine as an aid.”

Saska inclined
her head, agreeing in principle.

“What are you
thinking now?”

Saska took a
deep breath and let it out. “At the start Torrullin was mortal, I
was not; he was against magic, I was a sorceress; he was angry, I
was waking up. The only thing we had in common was a fatal
attraction and, believe me, it had nothing to do with love. I’ll go
to Merrix, I’ll see this Sinsen of yours, but I can’t use the two
of you as an example. You may have that purity - we, Torrullin and
I, never came close.”

Lily was
silent, studying her, and then, with a trace of pity in her tone,
she asked, “Are you hearing yourself? Why are you holding onto this
destructive relationship? Is that not perhaps the question you seek
… or dare not ask?”

Saska stared
at the young woman and then barked a laugh. “You’re clever, gods,
too clever. How neatly you steered me. But you’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

Saska
glared.

Lily shrugged.
“Don’t answer now. Come back in two days and tell me what you
learned.”

“You should be
the Lady of Love.”

“No need to be
rude, and love, life, diddle, daddle, where’s one without the
other?” The young woman was unrepentant.

Saska could
not help laughing. “You’re good. You’re going to make a great Lady
- I mean that.”

Lily inclined
her head. “Thank you. Now go, Saska. Already you think too much
about this conversation and that wasn’t the point. Go. I’ll see you
in two days.” She leaned forward and began to stoke the fire,
ignoring her visitor.

With a laugh,
Saska dematerialised.

Lily looked up
as she left, shaking her head. Nothing lasted, she though.

How sad.

Samuel paced
the interior of Linir, the Temple of Stars.

The joining of
the stars - in this instance, planets - would never again occur. He
missed so much in being human. He missed the annual occurrence of
Valaris and Nemisin’s homeworld lining in opposition, visible to
each other as a pinprick in the heavens. He consoled himself that
the Valleur in exile had not seen it either for two millennia,
except Tannil who sometimes slipped onto the mainland to witness
the event.

He missed the
summer and winter solstice celebrations at the Tower of Stairs; he
missed the somnolent lifestyle of the Western Isles, the life of a
race in exile. Had he been born among them, human blood aside, he
would have known them intimately. Known the magic of fishing
platforms, the wonder of Danak, that beautiful harbour city of the
west - he would have been born aware of his destiny. He would have
had a lifetime to prepare for it.

But he would
never have met Curin.
How can I regret that? She is my
life.

Tristan would
have been born no matter what - he was written, too. His mother
might have been another, probably Valleur.

Curin, and her
sunny nature, her strength, her happiness in the simple things, her
stubbornness, her smile, was worth all he thought he may have lost
in awakening only recently to his heritage. As Tristamil, also not
a trueblood, had loved his Skye, he loved his Curin.

A smile tugged
at his lips as he thought of her. If he died this night, in this
cloaked, half-site, she would go on. She would cope. It was not so
bad. All was not lost. His smile vanished. Dear Goddess, he would
love to see her one more time.

“Deep in
thought, twin?” Tymall’s voice came from the shadows.

He had not
heard or sensed him enter. He shrugged, and put thoughts of his
wife aside. Time, then. “Funny that, this twin thing.”

“Destiny,”
Tymall said, entering the grey circle where lacklustre starlight
managed to throw a suggestion of light through the aperture. “At
least we have one thing in our favour.”

Samuel held
onto calm.
Do not get angry. If he wants to force you to ask,
let him. Anger makes fools in battle.
The Senlu drummed that
into him. “And what would that be?”

“We are not
brothers. We have no history.”

“Why do this
then?”

“Well,” and
Tymall put his hands on his hips, “funny you should ask. I’ve been
asking myself the same thing. You see, I thought this situation,
you, me, my father as Vallorin, the return to Torrke and Menllik,
all of it, was upon my instigation. I thought I was really clever
in recalling the past, a tweaked past, but recognisable. I was
duped, mostly by myself, but also by the Valleur. They knew, or
Vannis knew, the interfering idiot, and prepared for it. This had
to come again, something to do with the great curve, and it had to
be for my father to become what he has. Elixir, and I’m still in
the dark about what that means, required this to unlock his power.
Even Agnimus, if you look at it a certain way, was meant to happen
- it brought on Elixir’s first event. Did you see him, Samuel? He
was dead inside or so deep in hiding it will take a personal
sacrifice to awaken him again. Am I that sacrifice? I have been in
the past and it changed little, so perhaps not. Maybe you’re the
sacrifice.”

“Maybe the
sacrifice has already been made. Mitrill, Caltian, Vania, Tannil …
the-the boys …” Samuel forced his voice into impassivity.

“No, I speak
of sacrifice after what happened today. Why were we stalled until
now, you and I? Dare we speculate one of us is the catalyst that
will return him emotion?”

Tymall barked
a laugh and swung his arms wide.

“Tris and I
stood here two thousand years ago and we thought we had to fight
and we were wrong. It was for our father. He had to recognise
something, he had to choose. One of us, we thought, one road, but
it wasn’t to be. He had to recognise the duality in himself,
because he didn’t know how closely his twin sons were born to
reflect it. His choice was not to choose. Life or death to both of
us. While he sat on the fence. And here we are, brought to this
point by prophecy and circumstance and inducement and destiny.
Twins again, and now why would that be unless it is to our beloved
and insane Torrullin’s advantage? Again he sits the fence, while we
struggle to decide what should be done. Do you get the
picture?”

“I get the
picture,” Samuel echoed, and he did.

What did
Tymall suggest? They walk away, change their destiny? He was about
to mention it, at the risk of making an idiot of himself, for
Tymall could be playing with him, when he recalled what Lowen asked
of him. She asked that he not fight Tymall and was particularly
intense about it. Other matters had intervened since and he forgot
about it, but now …?

What had she
seen? Here they were anyway and if she had told him, he might now
know what to expect or do. Had it something to do with what Tymall
was saying? He made sense - was one of them a sacrifice for
Torrullin? Would walking away be to Torrullin’s benefit - if this
were not about sacrifice?

“A long
silence,” Tymall said. “Surely you have something to add? No? Well,
in that case …”

He drew his
sword, secretly reclaimed from the security lock-up on Scortas as
he and his father left that world. He looked at in surprise. He had
been unable to remove it from the scabbard until now - his father’s
doing, no doubt. He drew it all the way out and rested the tip on
the ground. Perhaps it was Linir, a place where battles were
fought, which released it.

“Wait,” Samuel
said, not touching his weapon in answer to the implied threat.
“Just wait, all right. Something is not sitting quite right …”

“To say the
least.”

“Wait.
Torrullin said he’d follow me here, and I’ve been here almost two
hours.” Samuel drew his brows together. “Where is he? Why has he
not come?”

“I told you -
he’s sitting the fence,” Tymall muttered, but a frown marred his
face also. It was unlike his father to break his word.

“Listen to
me,” Samuel said, reaching a decision. “Lowen warned me not to
fight you.”

“Perhaps she
didn’t want you to die.”

“Please, give
me some credit, will you? I’m not afraid of death and she knew
that. She had a vision, refused to tell, just warned me not to
fight.”

“Lowen is
generally …” Tymall did not finish the sentence and was clearly put
out. She was generally right. She had not yet been wrong.
“Crap.”

“Pretty much.
I think we should wait for your father.”

“I have no
time left, Samuel. It’s now or never.”

“Do I have a
choice, then?”

Tymall did not
reply; he stared at the floor. Samuel waited him out.

Finally,
raising his head, Tymall said, “He’ll retrieve my cloak and staff
in the morning and I do fight better with them. We’ll delay this
until then.” He turned and strode for the exit.

“Tymall.”

Tymall paused,
but did not turn.

“What if Lowen
saw something beyond our comprehension, what if she can’t put it
into words?”

“Like what?”
Still he did not turn.

“Like this is
bad for your father …”

“And that
should change my mind?”

“Gods, he is
Elixir, and you saw what he can do! What if one of us dying sends
him over the edge?”

Tymall turned
and his features were shadowed. “My death will not send him over
the edge. Death is not an end. And …” He closed the gap. “… he
expects to see me in Digilan, whether by choice, coercion or death.
No, you’re wrong.”

“Then it must
be my death.”

Tymall
sniffed. “Are you that close? I think not. No, there’s something
obscure here, and
that
is why we wait till morning.” He
turned again and strode out without breaking his stride.

Leaving Samuel
to wonder what Tymall would do in the hours before he had cloak and
staff returned to him.

Caballa rose
from the floor, stiff and sore.

Her face was
puffy and red and she shook inside. Steadying herself against the
jamb, she drew deep breaths. Feeling stronger, but muddled and
strange within, she made her way through the empty and accusing
passages and corridors until she found herself again in the dining
chamber.

There she
discovered Krikian with a bedraggled, scrawny and wild-haired
Marcus Campian and a scruff of a dog, the creature equally dirty
and hungry. Marcus looked up from a plate of food, the dog eating
heartily from another on the table beside him.

“Hello,” he
said. “This is Tinker.”

Caballa’s
breath caught and she loosed a sob.

Krikian
rounded the table and caught her in his arms. “Hush, Caballa, I
know, I know …”

Marcus stared
at the two of them and then lowered his head and continued eating.
Tinker was single-mindedly engaged in a similar act.

Wiping her
face, she nudged Krikian away. “I’m fine, just tearful … thanks,
Krik.”

He smiled at
her and rubbed a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

“Marcus, we
couldn’t find you in Galilan,” Caballa said.

“Basement,” he
said around a mouthful. “Everyone is dead. Tinker here saved my
life, you know.”

“Good for
Tinker. And you saved his.”

“We’re there
for each other,” Marcus said, causing a lump to rise to Caballa’s
throat again. “Have you news of Byron Morave?”

“Byron is safe
as the facility, using it as a hospital.”

Marcus smiled.
“Good. Not everything is bad news … that’s good.”

Krikian sat
after throwing Caballa a look. “You have no idea what happened,
have you, Mr Campian?”

“Call me
Marcus, and no, I have no idea.”

“Well,” said
Caballa, “it can wait a while longer. The Keep may be empty, but
it’s whole. Marcus, a bath, a rest?”

“I’d
appreciate that, but Tinker …”

“I’ll take
care of him as well, I promise.”

“Actually, I
think he may be a she …” Marcus began and then stopped. A moment
later he added, “Forgive me, I’m being selfish and silly.”

Swallowing,
Caballa shook her head. “Come, Tinker,” she called. The scruffy
animal looked up from its plate and then looked enquiringly at
Marcus, who nodded, and then ran scratchily across the table to
her. Suppressing another flood of tears, Caballa picked him/her up
and left the room, tucking the little dog under her arm.

“She’s sad,
very sad,” Marcus murmured, watching her go.

“It has been a
strange day,” Krikian returned.

“Where are all
the people?”

Krikian’s lips
tightened. “Dead. Gone.” He sighed. “Later. If you’re finished
…”