The Dreamer Stones (28 page)

“Tymall covets
it.”

“He didn’t
touch it. It was meant for you. It is the purest part of you, real,
honest Valleur magic created by Vannis for his heir. You.”

“He did not
know that.”

“He suspected
when it didn’t leave for Ardosia.”

“You describe
a giant arc, Lowen.”

“Time is a
curve.”

“You know
much.”

“I am a seer
and periodically it works backwards as well, or I see the opposite
curve.”

“That must be
stressful.”

“Sometimes.”

He fingered
the golden coin under his tunic and brought it out. “I haven’t
dared commune with it, other than to bring it to me when I took
Saska from Tymall. He did not know. I saw it in his eyes, he
believed I overlooked its presence. He thought to subvert it
after.”

“Not
possible.”

He raised a
brow. “You sound sure.”

“I saw Vannis
make it in a vision about twenty years ago, an intense and
instructive vision. He started it not long after he wed Mantra, a
gift to his heir, and he put all of himself into it, and all
Valleur magic. Not only is the Medaillon a tool for sorcery, a Rift
breech, a historical record, but a thing of honesty and love. And
that makes it greater than other tools. No way would Tymall be
capable of wielding it, not even in ten thousand years of trying.
Even Margus, in wanting it, would’ve been thwarted. They didn’t
understand its nature.”

“Neither did
I.”

“True, but
then you spent too little time with it. It was ‘lost’ purposefully
until now. Now you’ll understand.”

“Full
circle?”

She smiled.
“No such thing, Enchanter, as a full circle.”

“That could be
demoralising.”

“Or perhaps a
continuing challenge? You, who will live after all passes, how can
you wish for a full circle? Surely it’s better to ride the curve in
ignorant expectation?”

He barked a
laugh. “I’m not so sure!”

Lowen did not
smile. “Uncertainty is not a bad state, I believe. A mental
challenge that chivvies us onward.”

Conversation
ceased then, for there was a task ahead.

Torrullin
wrapped his left hand around the Medaillon.

Nothing
happened.

He glanced at
his companion, who muttered, “You’re the sorcerer.”

Again he faced
the hexagonal pit, holding the Maghdim tighter. As a precaution, he
took Lowen’s hand. Her fingers were cold and there was a faint
inner tremble.

Still nothing
happened.

Trying too
hard? Still a measure of dread? Yes to both. Torrullin took a deep
breath, expelling it slowly, ousting conscious thought, latent
emotion, and as he closed his eyes he felt as light as he had
earlier that morning. Empty, nothing. Everything.

The coin
pressing into his left palm felt like liquid, warm and
pleasant.

Lowen’s
surprised squeak.

Floating
nothingness, as if tangible and sensory things were absent. He did
not open his eyes, not yet time, feeling it with a deep instinct
bordering on the primal - and Lowen would tell him after.

Warm dense
liquid enveloped his feet, his knees, then up to torso. Lowen clung
to his hand, the other finding his arm in the denseness. She was
frightened; he felt nothing, allowed his mind to accept without
reaction. Liquid, sinking into it, mouth, nose, eyes, covered.
Tasted sweet, could breathe, but Lowen thrashed as if drowning.

All in your
mind
, he tried to send,
relax
, but found he could do no
magic. An insulating cocoon.

She thrashed,
her hand started to slip from his, and he used his legs to get
closer to her, pushing against the warm goo. Briefly he released
her and then snaked his arm around her waist, drew her against him,
her back to his front, held her there. Gradually she quietened,
sensing his stillness.

He did not let
go.

Cold air at
his feet. Passing through the denseness into another stage. Frigid
air. Knees, torso, head, free. Solidity underfoot. No sensation of
movement. Lowen stirred against him, spat, coughed, and then jerked
back, pushing against him.

The Enchanter
opened his eyes.

Descent
complete.

The Abyss.

This was what
lay in the darkness below.

The Maghdim
Medaillon swung from his grasp and fell with a dull thud to the
ground, from where it slithered as if willed. At that moment he
could not care less, he let it go, but held Lowen, feeling every
curve against him. Dear Goddess.

What now?

Chapter
Twenty-Four

“
You are the
Animated Spirit. You are Transformation. You are Beginning and End.
You are the Potion of Forever. You see with the Eye of Time into
the Eye of Eternity.”

Rosenroth, on
explaining what ‘Elixir’ is

A grotto of
epic proportion.

Lit with
weirdly twisting tapers that gave off an incandescent scarlet glow,
each taper suspended unaided, in unlikely places, ceiling, cracks
in the rock, inside stalactites and stalagmites.

These natural
outgrowths were gigantic, most as thick as two men wedged together,
and were transparent, the strange red light playing in the
depths.

The floor was
uneven and littered with sharp, pocked stones, dark like cold lava.
The ceiling dipped and swayed and twirled according to the forces
that shaped it, and in places soared so far up it was impossible to
see its ending. The grotto stretched out before them into infinity,
as it did behind. To each side it was at least a sal, the tapers
flickering over the rough, sickly yellow rock.

That was a
quick garnering of description, for both Torrullin and Lowen’s
gazes were riveted to the creatures arrayed in a crescent before
them, not too close, but certainly near enough to discern every
feature.

They appeared
purple, were probably closer to blue in natural light, and were
monstrously huge. Seated on great rounded rock perches rising from
the grotto floor, they towered up approximately thirty to
thirty-five feet, their tree trunk legs tucked around the perches.
The tree trunk analogy was apt, for they seemed almost … fertile.
They were unlike any known tree, not about to sprout branches,
although gnarled protrusions on either side of their torsos could
be equated with arms.

Twisted
extremities moved with inner rhythm, each individual. It was like
watching an orchestra, silent music. They were leathery with odd
symbols carved into the bark - their skin - and their trunks ended
in bulbous, mushroom-like heads, slightly askew. Four huge eyes
blinked in a perfect row roughly in the centre of each mushroom,
and below a tiny patch curled ceaselessly. The ‘mouth’,
insignificant compared to everything else. No nose, no ears, no
sexual organs. They were neither male nor female or anything
equivalent; they simply were what they were.

There were
fourteen; waiting in silence, and the only movement was in their
mouths and twisting twig-fingers.

“Who are you?”
Lowen whispered, pressed against Torrullin.

“Do not
speak,” he warned. “I believe a question asked here casually is a
question, and answer, wasted.” He spoke the common tongue, as he
was wont with Lowen, and did not know whether they understood.

“How right you
are, Enchanter,” a rough voice issued. The fingers stilled on the
creature third from right. “How astute.”

“He is who he
is, is he not?” another voice, lower than the first, fourth from
left, issued in amusement.

The first had
spoken common tongue, the second Valleur.

“Hmm,” a third
voice, Cèlaver tongue, grunted, “we’ll see, will we not?”

The creature
directly before them, number seven from the right, flapped a branch
arm. “Hush! You waste questions!” Its four eyes fixed onto
Torrullin. “Listen well. We are the Syllvan, Gatekeepers of Reaume.
Ever it was so; ever it will be so. We are here to answer your
questions and you may ask one of each of us. We are committed to
answering.” The four eyes blinked. “A word of warning, you know why
you are here, as do we; do not ask the obvious.”

It fell
silent.

All were
silent. Waiting.

It was beyond
unnerving. There was normality in the voices, yet it was beyond
imagination.

Torrullin
exhaled. A breath of astonishment, a little resigned. He never
heard of these creatures, but knew Reaume was an old word for
realm. It meant they were the Gatekeepers to all the realms beyond
known reality. What they guarded was speculation, but a logical
mind could come up with probabilities and be relatively close. He
did not need it laid out for him. The astonishment was for their
number, fourteen, the universal quantity governing sorcery.
Obvious, when he thought about it. In their number lay their power
and he was astonished at the gift.

Fourteen
questions, fourteen answers. There was power for him, in that.

Resignation
overcame him then. Occasionally the truth was the last thing one
needed or wanted. But, so be it.

The first
truth was already spoken. They knew why he was here. He did not
need it clarified.

He released
Lowen and stepped around her. Before he approached the Syllvan he
looked back.

“Do not move
from there. Do not, whatever you hear, speak.”

She nodded and
he faced forward and nearer until the monstrous bulks threw
crisscrossing, glowering red shadows over him. He turned and paced
left all the way to the furthest creature, then back to the last
one on the right, studying each in turn. They looked down at him, a
set of hooded four eyes each, but did not speak or move. Even the
silent orchestral manoeuvres had stilled.

He halted
before the seventh. “Which realm did my son Tymall inhabit after
his suicide?”

Almost it
seemed as if the Syllvan smiled. “A good question, Enchanter.”

The creature
was quiet for a time as if musing how best to answer.

“When a
sorcerer of some strength passes on into the invisible creations,
he is one of two things. Either a creature of the soul, where he is
master of his gift, or a creature of the physical, where his gift
is overlord. There is degree, but it is the simple distinction.
Creatures of the soul go on according to the inner state, while
creatures of the physical go from where their power springs.
Tymall, a physical creature, reached for a place he could bring
together the shattered parts of his body, his soul an aside, where
he could learn to use his budding forces. He was not yet talented
when he died, only spiteful and angry, but had great promise
sorcerically. It was his master, and he wanted more. The realm that
pulled him in - his was not the choice - was Digilan. It is the
training of great evil, a constant war for supremacy. Your son
fought every day the entire time he was there, and his need gave
him what he sought.”

The Syllvan
fell silent and its eyes closed.

Torrullin
stood with head bowed and then moved on, three down the line. “How
long was Tymall in Digilan?”

“Four thousand
two hundred and nineteen years of unadulterated war,” the chosen
Syllvan replied and closed its four eyes.

Dear god. No
wonder he was strong. And angry. His revenge was nursed until it
ruled. It was the only way he could ensure he had what it took to
leave there.

“Is there a
chance, however slim, Tymall can be turned from his path?”
Torrullin asked of the adjacent creature without walking over.

“We have
learned there are no absolutes, Enchanter. A child in an abusive
home generally grows into adulthood with the same handicap, and
then, he may be the kindest person to walk his time and place.
However, Digilan is a great expunger. We have come to the
conclusion Tymall is forever irretrievable.”

Four eyes
closed.

There was a
protracted silence after and Torrullin paced in deep thought. Three
of the fourteen Syllvan continued to sit with eyes closed, although
Lowen thought she saw the seventh briefly open one eye to check on
Torrullin’s silence.

Who would have
thought
this
in the darkness below? Gatekeepers to all
realms? They were benign despite appearance, or, at least, benign
to the Enchanter. She mused they could be ruthless to others.

Torrullin came
to rest before the farthest creature to the left. He opened his
mouth, closed it, stood a while longer staring at the creature.
Then, as if coming to a decision, he squared his shoulders and
asked, “What is Elixir?”

The Syllvan
heaved a laugh. How very frightening.

“Elixir is the
animated spirit in all alchemical devices, the supreme transformer,
the beginning and end, rider of the eternal curve. Elixir is the
potion of forever. Elixir is you, Enchanter. There is no other, nor
ever will there be.” A pause. “I see I have not entirely satisfied
you. You are our master, for even we shall go forth one day; thus,
through us, you can and may follow a soul when necessary.”

He, it, stared
penetratingly at Torrullin as if trying to force added knowledge, a
lost connection, then suddenly closed its eyes.

Torrullin’s
hands came up to thread his hair. A nervous gesture. He knew with
certain clarity what the Syllvan attempted to impart without
words.

That is
what I need to do
.
Again
.

“I am Elixir,”
Torrullin murmured to the next Syllvan. “Does it mean I travel
alone?”

“No,
Enchanter. Elixir will have a team. One member from each Immortal
race, the last of that race, to ride the curve as a force. Much
like the Guardians. In fact, as the Dragon you may employ the Dome
for the same purposes as it once was. The Dome is not beyond
redemption or recall, even shattered as it is now.”