The Dreamer Stones (12 page)

She pulled her
hand from his, gripped her mug and then raised it to her lips. She
drank, saying nothing.

He sighed.
“Honesty, remember?”

Fay slammed
her drink down. “Right. Well, I don’t care what you say, feel, or
can’t feel; this baby will be welcomed into the universe and take
his place. I’ll see to it with or without you. Do you hear me? And
if you can’t love him, fine - I can. All I ask is the freedom to do
so if … if it gets bad for him, here, anywhere where you are.”

“Good. Already
you love him; he has a chance. You have my word I’ll release you if
he is in danger from me.” He looked away. “Thank you for caring
about our son.”

“Ty …”

“No. Don’t ask
me to stop now.” He rose. “I’ll be in the tower for a time,
thinking.”

He leaned
over, kissed her cheek and left.

Chapter
Eleven

I enjoy being
different. Don’t you?

Tattle

Out in the
hills of Saswan Samuel Skyler Valla first managed to light a fire
by snapping his fingers, then conjured a glass of water and then,
lo, vanished it.

They were
simple tricks, but the success awarded him renewed confidence.
Lucan was delighted and said so.

It was
imperative to read Tymall’s signature, more than ever, and thus was
Samuel under a lot of pressure. Samuel’s signature could reflect
Tymall’s, being genetically close. And Lucan Dalrish had to make it
happen. Young as he was, Lucan was an accomplished sorcerer.

Lucan asked
for something more profound. The Xenian soon realised this Valla
would never be proficient in sorcery - and that was fine - but
there was one thing he needed master, and soon. This day, in
fact.

Samuel looked
at his young friend. “Transport? Now? Do you think I’m ready?”

“You have the
theory and you’ve proven this morning to possess sufficient mind
power. That’s all you need, as well as trust in yourself.” Lucan
folded his arms.

“I should
practice more,” Samuel muttered, pointing at the burning fire.

Lucan shook
his head.

“Now?”

“Now,
Samuel.”

“Uh … where
to?”

“There’s the
spirit! Over there.” Lucan unfurled an arm to point at a stand of
trees. “A small hop, but it’s only the first step that’s hard. Do
this and all others are a piece of pastry.”

“Now I’m
hungry.”

“Samuel!”

“All right!”
He looked at the trees. “What if I bump into a tree? Or land up in
one?”

“You won’t.
Your energy will sense the presence of another. Never can we occupy
the same space as another living thing.”

“Glad to hear
it. What about non-living things?”

“There are
atoms in inanimate objects, too. Your energy senses that. Believe
me, it can’t happen.”

Samuel drew
breath. “Okay.” He closed his eyes.

“No, look. It
will help.”

Samuel opened
his eyes. He took another breath, deeper, and relaxed. Every nerve,
every muscle was forced into compliance, and that was a different
kind of tension. Thus he made it real, caused a deep relaxation
that was without thought, and he achieved it by thinking how amazed
Tristan would be if he could show him this neat trick.

Do not think
of next time- this is the one that counts.

He fingered
the stone Torrullin gave him, Tristamil’s stone, a taliesman, and
looked at the trees again, then stared through them, seeing them
with his internal senses … a jolt as he realised what he did and
then he put that aside.

Do not think,
stop rationalising.

Feel.
Know.

The next
instant the bark of an old tree - a poplar - filled his vision, a
hand’s breath away.

Oh.

Samuel whooped
and jumped, quite belying his forty years, and, grinning, Lucan
materialised next to him. They hugged each other and then both
laughed.

A while later,
back to back with the tree, Samuel asked the pertinent question,
“Did you get anything?”

Lucan pulled a
face. “I was too busy rooting for you.”

“So I need to
do it again.”

“Yes, if you
don’t mind.”

Samuel
grinned, slapped the knee next to his own, and rose. “Practice
makes perfect.”

Lucan laughed
and accepted the hand that drew him up. “Liberating, right?”

Samuel was
self-conscious. “Kind of. It’s strange.”

“You get used
to the otherness. Now it gets dangerous, Samuel. You have a
traceable signature.”

“Unless it’s
his.”

Lucan was
surprised. “What did you say?”

Samuel stared
into the blue cloud-studded sky. “If my signature mirrors Tymall’s,
he’ll not see or sense me, right?”

Lucan expelled
a breath. “Christ, I don’t know.”

“I think
so.”

“Man, that
would be an incredible advantage!”

“I wouldn’t
see or sense him either.”

Lucan
scratched at his head. “Crap.” He brightened. “Once we know the
properties …”

“Then there
are two of the same. If I mirror him, how do you tell us
apart?”

Lucan spat,
and began to pace, muttering. Strange words of magic dotted the
conversation. Finally he came to a stop to glare at Samuel.

“You’re being
devil’s advocate, but it may not be necessary. First we must know
what you present, then we deal with tangents. Right? Right. You’ve
put me into a spin! Okay, I know enough of his to match the two.
He’s masked his and does so brilliantly, but I can use yours to
unravel his mysteries. That way, in a manner of speaking, he
becomes visible again.”

“If mine is
his.”

“Right.”

“And then you
have two.”

“Hell’s bells,
man! One problem at a time.”

“And if it
isn’t his?”

“We’re hoping
to find it close enough, remember? There may be similarities and
it’s enough to begin a lock on his.”

“And if not?
Then this was a waste.”

“No. You’ve
learned something valuable, Samuel, and that means we won.”

A nod. “I
guess so.” Samuel nodded again, this time at himself. Then laughed.
“Watch closely now.” With a flourish he aimed at the clearing they
vacated earlier.

Nothing
happened.

And Lucan
spluttered. “Oh, that’s rich!”

“Very funny,”
Samuel muttered, ears red.

“Not with your
eyes!”

“Quiet, you,”
Samuel glared, and tried again, this time seeing the clearing with
more than his eyes. It worked and he crowed triumphantly from
it.

Laughing
still, Lucan joined him.

“So?”

“I was
laughing too much!” Lucan sobered. “Do it again. There and back.
I’ll concentrate, promise.”

Samuel was as
serious. It was easy this time and he went to the trees and back to
the clearing easily.

“Again,” Lucan
said, eyes closed, head bowed. Samuel complied. “Excellent; you
have it now,” Lucan murmured, but was distracted.

Samuel left
him, wandering off to give him time.

Beautiful
countryside, he mused. The hills about Saswan were green and
fertile with glorious trees flourishing in the valleys as well as
on gentle slopes. Autumn here had to be a wonderland. Caught
between Ren Lake and the Eastern Ocean the region was generally
mild, pleasant, although occasionally the heat of high summer could
make itself felt. Today was warm with a slight breeze, and animal
life rustled through air and upon earth.

He always
thought the west of Valaris was where his heart lay, but this was
soothing and uplifting. He should bring Curin here - she would
agree with him. Maybe this was the place to grow old with his wife
…

Neither Samuel
nor Lucan saw the dying elsewhere as poison first took a toll and
then hunger. It was not that long without food, and therefore the
weaker and ill succumbed, but others would soon follow. Supplies
ferried in could not keep pace with demand.

They knew of
the situation, but knowing and being were not the same. They did
not know what real hunger felt like. The darkling attacks passed
them by, although that put them on guard. They had not witnessed
death meted out via yellow sorcerous blades. It was unreal,
belonging to another place, not of them, for here near Saswan
everything was as it had been.

Nobody
screamed in terror, no child begged desperately for something to
eat, no baby lay gasping a final breath, no yellow blade descended
with malicious intent.

The shock,
when it came, would be worse than slow acceptance.

Samuel glanced
at the sky again. Puffs of white, nothing ominous, but he knew,
with the summer solstice behind them, change could come suddenly
and radically. Valaris’s summer storms were renowned for their
ferocity. The first was overdue. But not this day.

He returned to
Lucan when he heard the Xenian call.

“Damn me if
I’m not unsure,” Lucan muttered. “This is my speciality and I’m
stumped.” He lifted his dark eyes to Samuel. “It’s as if you’re
masking your signature.”

A frown.
“Impossible.”

“I know, but
that’s how it feels.”

“Is it like
unto Tymall’s?”

“Go again,
please.”

Samuel
transported back and forth. “Clearer?”

“Worse.”

“How can that
be? I know bugger all about masking.”

“We must see
Caballa.”

“She doesn’t
know Tymall’s signature.”

“She knows the
one he had before the suicide, maybe she can tell us something. And
maybe she can explain yours.” Lucan was grim. “I don’t like
this.”

Lucan stared
at the Valla man. There was a mystery in that blood, but he was not
equipped to deal with it.

“Now you must
picture the Sorcerers’ facility in your mind, Samuel, and transport
to it. Trust yourself. I’ll follow on your signature.” In case the
man went and got lost.

The man in
question paled. A big leap. Then he pushed away misgiving and
vanished.

Lucan followed
an instant later.

Caballa,
Byron, Kismet and two men - one Valleur, one human - were engaged
in a discussion regarding Marcus’s midnight broadcast.

Byron Morave,
leader of the Society, was inordinately proud of his childhood
friend, while Kismet, Valleur Elder, was dubious. He wholeheartedly
agreed with the sentiments expressed, but was of the opinion
Torrullin would not like being publicly dissected. He would not
like that Tymall was discussed.

Caballa,
Valleur seer, interjected, saying it was about time a spade was
called a spade, and Tymall was the spade … and the hole. Kismet
lifted his brow over that display of ineloquence, and then realised
she was deep in thought and partaking with half an ear.

The other
Valleur, a young man called Macmir, a master in administration and
an accomplished swordsman, broke in, saying Torrullin needed all
the help he could get, and do they recall how the prayers of the
people granted him strength against the Darak Or at the Pillars of
Fire?

Kismet
remarked nobody witnessed the event, but, yes, he understood what
Macmir implied.

The human, an
old magician known as Hinckley, who made a name for himself in
legerdemain, asked what they meant, the Pillars and all, and as
Kismet was about to launch into a tale of a showdown, having told
it to countless children over centuries, Samuel appeared in the
small internal courtyard their chamber overlooked.

He was
unmistakable, as was his mode of arrival.

Conversation
ceased and then Caballa’s face lit in a pleased smile. A moment
later Lucan alighted beside him, and she rose to go out to them,
the others trailing after.

“You did it,
Samuel,” Caballa smiled.

Samuel’s
response was a bow. “With Lucan’s patience.”

“Well done.”
Kismet slapped a hand into Samuel’s back.

“My boy, I
knew from the first you would surprise us,” Byron boomed. “Aaru, to
transport? I’d give me eye teeth!”

“Like ol’
Sparks?” Samuel teased.

It took Byron
a while to recall the sailor masquerading as a beggar who helped
him, Samuel and Marcus Campian get to Valla Island in the Western
Isles, the man without teeth who popped them in before facing his
wife, and then he burst out laughing. “Like ol’ Sparks! Lord, I
still see Marcus’ face!”

“Sparks?”
Kismet muttered.

“You know him
as Larkin,” Samuel grinned.

Lucan cleared
his throat; he had not come for congratulations or banter. “Forgive
me, but I must interrupt. Caballa, we came because we need your
help.”

She was
immediately serious. Like the Enchanter, she saw the Xenian’s
worth. “Is there a problem?”

“Well, yes -
I’m not sure really. It’s Samuel’s signature. The whole point of us
being sequestered was to uncover it, but it proved strange.”

Caballa lifted
her brows.

Lucan spread
his hands. “It’s as if he’s masking it, and that can’t be.”

Kismet sucked
at his teeth. “How long have you been transporting, Samuel?”

“Half an
hour?”

“Hmm,” was all
Kismet responded with.

“Too soon for
masking,” Caballa murmured.

“Right. And I
can’t read enough to compare it with what I know of Tymall’s,”
Lucan added.

Caballa
glanced at Kismet, who shrugged and said, “Sounds like Tristamil’s
signature.” She nodded and sighed.

“Meaning?”
Lucan demanded.

“Let’s go
inside.” Caballa led the way back in and they trooped in obediently
after her. Sitting, she said, “Tristamil had a strange signature.
Nobody could get a hold on him … slippery. It wasn’t deliberate,
merely who he was.”

“There’s a
massive amount of years between,” Samuel frowned.

“The
generation gap is of no consequence to Valleur genetics. Take
Torrullin, he’s Nemisin in makeup. Torrullin is a direct descendent
of Nemisin, with aeons between, and while others were in descent
before him - and you are of Nemisin also, Samuel - Torrullin
inherited the whole deal. You received much from Tristamil,
including his signature apparently.”