The Dreamer Stones (14 page)

The ambassador
went, sending up concerned good wishes.

He was one of
few ambassadors still on Valaris during the crisis. MJ wondered how
long he would brave it. Lati went upstairs and MJ heard her loud
moan from his office. He clapped hands over his ears. The doctor
came and was escorted up. He confirmed the paralysis was real and
irreversible. There was nothing he could offer except advice on how
to move him, how often, what to eat and other practical
considerations. The poor man left distraught, muttering “Tymall”
under his breath.

At least, MJ
thought, the blame was accurately apportioned.

Thanks to the
Electan’s eloquence.

A team of
nurses arrived an hour later and commandeered the upper floor. MJ
was firmly shooed out, but he and Marcus between them prepared a
media statement, and discussed the crucial business of the near
future, such as it was. For the time being, with Marcus’s
unequivocal blessing, MJ was acting Electan, over which MJ balked,
but Marcus insisted, saying Valarians knew him and had to have
continuity.

As acting
Electan, Mr Jackson’s first order of business was to deputise new
mayors until such time the climate settled for elections. Every
mayor had died in the last thirty-six hours, and so too deputies
who assumed the title. Others simply fled, and who could blame
them? Given the dangers, who would accept responsibility? Who was
he to finger, then mark for death?

MJ sat in his
office, ignoring the shrilling phone, and stared at the wall
opposite. How long before he was felled?

A large relief
map of Valaris continent hung there and he stared at the black dots
that marked out cities and towns, mayoral districts each. Slowly he
lowered his face into his hands. What more would be?

Please,
Lady
let there not be more.

No food.

Poisoned
ocean, bitter water. Merciless summer. Inexplicable accidents.
Darkling taunts. The mayors gone, the deputies following the same
fate. Law-keepers assaulted, misled, until they were scattered and
without purpose. Relief centres folding due to bickering and
supplies never reaching them.

The Electan
paralysed in more ways than one; his deputy, the unassuming genius
that was Mr Jackson, suffering a fatal heart attack his first night
in office.

Valarians
starved and died in the hundreds, then thousands. The land was
raped of anything that remained edible.

Panic set
in.

The Valleur
stepped into the breach.

And those in
the know knew then
that
was what was intended.

The evil
everyone knew by name and connection, created chaos in which it
would be natural for the Valleur to assume control. The stage was
set as before, and the players adopted familiar marks.

Torrke became
the seat of power and the Vallorin took up the reins and reign.

Tannil,
sitting on the Throne, in a Keep he did not feel comfortable in,
stared gloomily before him as he reconciled all factors. The
Valleur were usurpers and not by choice. They sought to avoid this
scenario.

Valaris had a
majority of humankind, and was to be ruled in their democratic
manner by Valarians. Someone played a great game.

Only the
Enchanter was absent from the stage. The slurs to his name festered
in some, despite the Electan’s claims, and others began asking the
question, would he emerge as Saviour or Destroyer? That, too,
bespoke the past, the same questioning then, the same hope and
uncertainty.

One essential
feature was glaringly out of place, missing, wrong.

For the great
game, the stage of the past, to be considered complete, for the
real play to commence, the Enchanter had to be Vallorin.

Chapter
Thirteen

We have to
forge a new path if we are to survive this. Look to your right and
I’ll look to my left. The first to find something new on the
horizon must whisper it for the other’s benefit.

Anchor Falks,
writer

Tymall lifted
his lips from her stomach and smiled into her eyes.

“He is
recognised, Fay.”

Reclining on
pillows, she stroked his hair, fingering the streaks. “He knows his
father and mother.”

Tymall buried
his face in her stomach, held her. He loved this confused good-bad
woman. Their future was uncertain, but this gift, this child, his
son, was worth all. The Valla line would continue, but it would be
his, and even if he were to die and enter the netherworld, he would
ensure his son rode the Throne.

As if reading
his thoughts, she murmured, “Ty. If he is to be Vallorin one day,
he must be carried, born and raised in goodness, or the Throne will
repudiate him. Can you live with that? Raising a good son?”

He lifted
himself to lie beside her. “You must raise him, Fay; I’ll carve his
place.”

“You trust me
to follow that path?”

“You’d be the
Vallorin’s mother, the Regent until he is of age, with all the
power that implies. As your mother was for Tannil, and did she not
retain power over her son after? Can you deny the lure of that
future?”

“What about
you?”

“I’ll be
content in the background, ensuring his position is unassailable.
First I take it and hold it and then I pass it to you. Could you
live with that?”

“Could
you?”

“I think
so.”

She was silent
and then, “They’ll have to die.”

He was silent
even longer and then, “Yes. Do you deny their deaths?”

A longer,
potent silence followed and he did not interrupt, did not dare
move. This was a pivotal moment, a switchback path, a different
view of the future … for Fay. And, finally, she gave him his
heart’s desire.

“No,” she
whispered, her voice hoarse. “Gods help me, I can’t deny their
deaths.”

He dared ask,
“Are you with me, Fay, in all things?”

“Yes.”

He turned his
head so she would not see. Triumph, yes, but also relief … and a
deep, aching pain. He had turned her and was not sure why that
should hurt. Then, raising up on one elbow and facing her, he
asked, “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she
said, her face sombre.

They stared at
each other and he added, “And then you must leave me, so our son
won’t be affected by the hell that is to come.”

“Yes.” She
swallowed.

“You must go
to Luvanor.”

She paled.
“Then you can’t come to me.”

He sighed and
sat up. “I ignore Luvanor only because I have no gripe with it, but
it doesn’t mean I can’t remove the enchantment. If I have to see
you, I’ll come and nothing will prevent me doing so. Until then you
will be safe there and so will this innocent life.”

“They will
question this.”

“Who, Fay?
Anyone who matters will soon no longer have the ability to speak,
and they will think the best of you, a Valla. They will believe you
come to Luvanor to escape me, using the protective enchantment as a
shield. Thus you use that to create a haven until it is time.”

She flung from
the bed and shrugged into a silken gown.

“What?”

She turned to
him. “It’s one thing to create a haven for our child; I agree with
that. It’s another to murder the blood to ensure his future, but
even that I am prepared to do. Ty, do not ask me to kill a
Valla.”

“I’ll be doing
the killing.”

She squeezed
her eyes closed, reopened them. “I can allow much for this babe’s
sake, for he won’t be given a chance otherwise, but …” and her
voice broke, “… but, Ty, the children? I’ll see them on Luvanor!
How do I live with myself?”

“Children?” he
echoed, eyes glittering.

She froze,
staring at him. He had not known of the Valla young, dear god, and
she just signed their death warrants. “You didn’t know?”

“There are
Valla children, Fay? Hiding from my sight on Luvanor? And you said
nothing?”

“I thought you
knew. And I was never going to volunteer anything, you must know
that.”

“When were
they taken there?”

She passed a
hand across her mouth. “The night Torrullin returned.”

He shook his
head. “I was onto him the moment he stepped through.”

“Tannil sent
the boys to safety before we went to Linir.”

“Tannil is no
fool, then. Well.”

“Ty, they’re
innocent.”

He gave her an
unblinking stare. “And they are Valla heirs - boys, you say? Who do
you think will stand last in line when it comes to succession? Hmm
…
who
?”

Their son. She
closed her eyes. “I can’t harm a child, not even by default.”

As angry as he
was on hearing this piece of vital intelligence, her claim lifted
some of the pain within. Turned, yes, but still with more good than
bad. A woman he could love and respect.

“Who are the
children?”

She stared at
him.

“I can go
check. Or torture an Elder for information.”

She nodded and
sat on the edge of the bed. “There’s Teroux. He’s five, a sweet
boy.” She stared at the bedding rumpled next to her. “I love him
like my own.”

“Whose son is
he?”

“Tannil’s.”

“The Valla
heir-apparent.”

“Yes.”

“And the
others?”

“One
other.”

“Fine. Who is
he?”

“Samuel’s
boy.”

He raised his
brows and laughed. “Good god, Vallas behind every tree! How old is
he? What’s his name?”

Fay slumped.
“Nine or ten, around there.” Her chin sank down to her chest. “His
name is Tristan.”

A long silence
and then, “Somehow you think this child more dangerous, for you’re
reluctant about him, more than for the other. He’s Samuel’s boy,
with much that is human surely? Why would you consider him
dangerous and to whom exactly?”

She did not
reply.

“Samuel named
his son Tristan. How astute of him.” He tried to draw it out
another way.

“Skye and your
brother’s son was named Tristan also.” And with that she gave him a
piece of the puzzle.

“Well, well,
our Samuel must have something special going to have hit on the
coincidence … if it is a coincidence.” He frowned. “I think the
inauspicious Samuel requires a mite more investigation before he
toddles off - to Aaru, no doubt. It seems my beloved brother was
pretty active in his procreative abilities; the entire Valla clan
is based on him, the bastard.” He drew a sharp breath, and then
inhaled more slowly to enforce calm. “I know Samuel is my identical
image, but is Tristan like to us? Is the boy a Golden or
human?”

“Does it
matter?”

“Ah, the
danger you perceive surfaces. It will matter to my father, and you
suspect that. Have you seen the boy?”

“Briefly,
before he was taken to Luvanor.”

“Well?” he
barked when she was reluctant again.

She bit her
lower lip and then straightened to look him in the eye. “Tristan is
the image of your father, his youthful self.”

Another long
silence in which they stared at each other and then Tymall began to
smile. “This is an extraordinary piece of the puzzle! Something was
missing and I couldn’t quite grasp it and now it is found.”

“What do you
mean?”

“My father is
a sentimental idiot. He’ll be drawn to the boy, but more than that,
again there’s a young one to pull at his heartstrings. Perhaps it
would aid us to have the boys around a while longer.”

She was
relieved, but knew it would be a short-lived stay of execution.

“Did you see
his reaction after he spent time with our Tristan?” Tymall asked.
“I assume he’s seen the boy?”

“He is
enchanted with him.”

“Right.
Enchanted. What an excellent choice of word. Well, well, seems a
visit to Luvanor becomes inevitable now.” His expression closed.
“I’m going up to meditate.”

“Ty …”

“Fay, let be,
and don’t blame yourself. Concentrate on us and our future.” He
smiled without it reaching his eyes. “You have a wedding to plan, I
believe.”

Tymall left
their bedchamber and as he climbed the spiralling stairway to the
empty room at the top of their tower, he wondered how to tell her
that her parents were already dead. She gave her agreement to the
theory of the acts, but these murders were committed before, and
theory held little water when it came to real losses, particularly
of those who gave birth to one.

He decided to
hold back, at least until after their nuptials.

Tymall paused
on the stairs. A son and a wife. He never thought it would be his
future. He climbed higher and paused again. Luvanor was ignored
because it would be his, untouched. He would make his way there
once ready to deal with Teroux and Tristan, and perhaps that was
sooner than initial intention. But, final analysis, he always
intended to go to Luvanor.

He would rout
Teighlar from Grinwallin also.

Fat tallow
candles lit the meditation chamber.

Fresh rush
mats covered the stone floor, but it was otherwise unadorned. A
small door to come and go by, no windows. A smooth ceiling as white
as the walls. It was a place without distraction, yet did not
deprive.

The candles
burned in one corner, glued to an area of stone, throwing long,
flickering shadows.

The four of
them had been there for hours. No food, no drink, and no
explanations.

Caballa and
Kismet tested Samuel, while Lucan sat in meditative pose in the
darkest corner, watching. He was asked to remain silent throughout,
not to interrupt or interfere, his presence tolerated equally due
to Samuel’s insistence and the old blood-oath. He would not
interfere anyway - he was learning too much. Despite the
seriousness of the situation, it was an opportunity of a lifetime
to see the Valleur at work.