The Dreamer Stones (31 page)

It was a slow
process, but together the Q’lin’la delved into various brain
functions. They did what they could and then left the Vallorin to
sleep. As added security, for others, Quilla placed restraints on
Tannil’s wrists and ankles, anchoring him to the bed.

From there it
was a waiting game; results would only be evident when he
awakened.

Quilla
wandered the healing halls of the Lifesource.

How long since
Torrullin vanished into that mysterious realm? Time was so strange
it was difficult to keep track.

However long
it was, for those in this reality, and for Torrullin out there, in
that absence the darklings did much damage, were then defeated,
Vania died, the Q’lin’la attained their understanding of the
future, Fay wed and Tannil went insane.

Valaris’s
leaders were dead and Marcus paralysed. Starvation, poisoning,
recovery in progress. The Pillars of Fire doused. There were
nuances regarding Samuel, Saska, and the situation in Grinwallin,
other Tymall exploits.

It was an
abyss they all teetered on.

Valleur, human
and Q’lin’la, and it had nothing to do with the state of the land,
but everything to do with the health of souls. Valarians were so
frightened they achieved an unprecedented alteration in perception,
accepting the Valleur again as overlords. It was not exactly a bad
thing, the renewal of sovereignty, but the stage it created was
upsetting, even dangerous. A theatre to the past. A strange future
awaited once more, no matter what the result of the conflict
between Warlock and Enchanter.

Not only
humans were dazed - the Valleur were uncertain. Tannil’s state of
mind was worrisome, and a large portion of the Golden had to be
considering removing him as Vallorin. If they succeeded the post
would be vacant, and that would definitely destabilise matters
further. Teroux was too young to succeed, and if he was chosen, too
young to rule. Perhaps it would be Tristan, the way that boy grew
by all accounts, but Tristan was untried as a Valleur and too young
to take up the reins.

Torrullin.
Something he did not desire. Even his people were wary of it. An
Immortal Vallorin was not a joke.

Quilla
wandered on, steering his thoughts to the last of his companions.
Phet suggested on Xen they choose one to live, but the others were
appalled - it meant mass suicide for the rest - and the blue
birdman dropped the subject - with secret relief, Quilla suspected.
Actually, he was inclined to agree with Phet. Still, the choosing
would be hard and he was unable to look down that particular
tunnel.

Asking
Torrullin to choose - the simplest solution, but one Torrullin
would refuse to partake in - ensured his, Quilla’s, survival. The
Enchanter would, if forced, take Quilla into the future, and
therefore he would never ask it. No, nature and circumstance would
take its course; only then would the survivor face the lonely road
with a clear conscience.

He wandered
out under the eastern portal and stood on the deck gazing over the
ocean below. Two thousand years ago the upheavals caused by the
Darak Or’s destructive powers reforged new coastlines and now the
eastern Ocean lapped alarmingly at the foot of the land-bridge
between the Assents and Arrows. Sometime the ferocity of the
pounding would tell and gouge through the rock to drown large
tracts to the west, perhaps even creating an island of the higher
areas. The loss of life would be catastrophic.

Phet found him
there staring into the swirling depths.

“Tannil is
waking,” he informed, and the two went within.

Violence had
departed, but not madness.

Quilla sighed.
He could do no more, nobody could. It was then as it was.

Turning a sad
gaze on Prester, Kismet and Caballa, the latter two having come
from Luvanor for this, he shook his head.

“I am sorry. I
am done here. He is now your responsibility.”

A profound
silence followed and then, “We’ll summon the Elders to conclave.”
This from Prester.

Kismet added,
“Here. Before the Throne.”

Caballa nodded
and turned to the birdman. “Will you keep him safe until we are
gathered?”

“Of course.
What is your intention?”

“The Elders
must be unanimous, but the only option is to place Tannil on the
Throne.”

“For healing?”
Quilla was hopeful.

She turned to
look at the vacantly staring Tannil. “This is sad. He’s a good man
and had potential. No, Quilla, not for healing - for decision. The
Throne must tell us if he is fit to be Vallorin.” Her eyes squeezed
shut and she faced away from Tannil.

Quilla was
shocked. “It could harm him.”

“And it may
not,” Prester whispered.

“Please, I beg
of you, wait for Torrullin to return.”

“Can Torrullin
heal him?” Kismet questioned.

“No, but he
should make the decision, Elder, for Aaru’s sake!”

“How long do
we wait, birdman, for a decision?” Kismet muttered.

Prester said,
“The Enchanter is a revered man, but he is the past Vallorin. He
has no authority now over sovereignty.”

“He has
authority over his blood!” Quilla spluttered.

There was
silence and then, “It will be discussed at the conclave, Quilla,
have no fear.”

Quilla inhaled
and said nothing further.

“Come,
Caballa,” Kismet said, taking her arm. “We need to return to
Luvanor.” He nodded at Quilla and the two dematerialised.

“Are you
sure?” Prester asked of Quilla a last time, glancing at Tannil in
restraints.

The birdman
inclined his head wordlessly and the Elder left with a heavy
heart.

Tannil
intended to open Valaris’s Three Day Moon Prayers festival this
night.

It was the
seventh night after Full Moon. Prayers usually centred on the great
blue moon of Fainscan when it was full, but eight nights back
nobody felt there was reason to offer up thanks to the deities for
seeing in the latter half of the year. Optimism resurfaced, and
Tannil let it be known this night would herald the traditional
period of giving thanks. Muted celebrations were underway. A
festival was good for the soul.

At the Keep
nothing was further from thought. Prayers there were, but not in
thanksgiving. The building was abuzz with the Elder conclave.
Sixteen came from Luvanor, including the eight who were in the west
with Tannil, and Caballa and Kismet. Twenty-six in total - nine
women, the rest men. Barring Atkir - who was on the brink of old
age, his hair white, his skin wrinkling - they were in the prime of
their lives.

Prester took
the floor, standing on the dais before the Throne, and submitted an
eyewitness account of what occurred. Two others spoke after him,
both resident at the Keep. Between the three, they took over the
reins when Tannil went to Luvanor after Vania’s death, and were in
a good position to state Tannil’s situation. Like Prester, the
other two were concise, embellishing nothing. Then Caballa and
Kismet confirmed Quilla’s prognosis, stating they personally saw
the Vallorin’s mind was fled.

Silence
descended thereafter and in it the unspoken prayers of every person
gathered there. Prayers for strength, courage, will to do what had
to be done. Prayers hoping they would be right and prayers for
their Vallorin. A few even prayed to see life continue - when
Torrullin heard about this, his wrath could fell them.

They discussed
Torrullin during the day, before the formal gathering, and knew he
would not permit this. However, the Enchanter, it was pointed out,
would think with his heart, putting his love for his grandson
before what was proper for the Golden. Yes, they would face his
fury, but this choice was one the Elders had the authority to make.
Make it they would.

Yet now
silence became protracted and uncomfortable.

Caballa sat
with her head bowed, refusing to say a word until another voiced
it. Kismet looked around him with tight lips and realised nobody
had the wherewithal to take a stand in this formal gathering - for
it would form part of future memory - and thus clambered to his
feet. All eyes were on him, including Caballa’s.

He looked down
at her with evident sadness. “It has to be said.”

She swallowed.
“You are braver than I.”

“Perhaps
merely more impatient,” he responded with a shrug, and stepped onto
the dais for the second time that night. Facing the gathered seated
on the floor of the small chamber, he said, “We have stated here
the proof. Now it is time to say Tannil, our Vallorin, must endure
the gauntlet. Are we agreed?”

Sombre nods,
and no one person looked at another.

The gauntlet
meant setting Tannil on the Throne, whether he liked it or not. If
fit to rule, nothing would occur, but if judged unfit, it would
repudiate Tannil. How, they were unsure, but it would be clear.

This gauntlet
had only happened once in entire Valleur history, and the boy
ruler, attempting to usurp his younger brother, screamed in unholy
pain. It was the reason the Throne possessed a terrible reputation
- do not sit on it unless chosen or known to it. That, however, was
a different situation, and no Vallorin was yet repudiated for
insanity.

“Let this be
done swiftly, please,” Atkir murmured. “There’s little to be gained
from drawing it out longer.”

Caballa stood.
“I’ll fetch him.”

Tannil slept
again, this time without assistance or restraints, and Quilla
watched over him, eyes distant.

He started as
Caballa entered and then focused. “Well?”

“Unanimous. I
have come for him.”

Quilla rose
from his perch, a three-legged stool next to the bed, and faced
her. “I urge you to think again.”

“I don’t like
it either.”

Quilla’s
cheeks puffed up, looking more like the child his form portrayed
and less like the ancient being his eyes revealed. “It’s not a
matter of like. I’m concerned for Torrullin.”

Caballa drew
herself up. “We can’t afford delay, no matter how stressful and
damaging this is. Tannil is Vallorin and we must adhere to his
commands, and if his orders are extreme … Quilla, it’s treachery to
ignore a command! We may argue with him, of course, but how, with a
mind like that? How much damage do we do then, in letting this
slide?”

“I
understand.”

Caballa fell
silent and stared at the floor. She could not for the life of her
approach the bed to lay hands on Tannil for the transport to the
Keep.

Quilla sighed.
“Shall I take him?”
Forgive me, Enchanter.

She lifted her
head and her beautiful eyes were full of misery. “Would you?”

Tannil
awakened as they settled on the dais before the Throne and stood
there without aid.

He was the
familiar figure of the man they knew, if with rumpled hair, but his
tawny eyes traversed the small chamber as if he saw nothing and
nobody.

There was
silence, hardly a breath, as they watched him, Quilla nearby to
catch Tannil should he stumble.

Caballa took a
seat on the floor beside Kismet. After a moment of continuing
silence, Tannil looking more and more lost, Kismet rose and went to
stand beside his Vallorin. The Elder was angry over the cowardice
in the room, and his eyes let them know. Of course, he admitted,
anger covered pain, for his heart was heavy as if filled with iron,
the weight of terrible sadness.

“My Lord, you
look tired. Perhaps you’d prefer to sit?” He gestured at the golden
seat behind them, avoiding Quilla’s accusing gaze.

Tannil focused
on the waving arm and then his eyes slowly travelled up to Kismet’s
face. “Do I know you?”

Kismet
swallowed and his pointing arm shivered noticeably. “Yes, my Lord.
Come, have a seat.”

He gently took
Tannil’s arm and led him over to the Throne. He begged all that was
good in the universe to forgive him this subterfuge. Gods, he
prayed it would be easy - he prayed harder there was no
repudiation, that his Vallorin’s condition was temporary. He prayed
Torrullin would allow him to live after this.

Tannil smiled
vacantly and stared uncomprehendingly at the Throne. “Pretty chair.
Is it mine?” He smiled at Kismet.

Quilla hissed
through clenched teeth.

Kismet bobbed
his head, no longer trusting his voice. The gathered Elders were as
graven statues and he hated every one of them, even Caballa. He
hated himself most. He gestured again.

He could not
himself touch the Throne in a gauntlet situation.

Tannil
giggled, turned, and lowered himself. He sat, hands resting on the
arms, head thrown back against the cool metal. Sighing, he closed
his eyes.

No one moved,
but the tension was so intense it could literally explode into real
destruction. Quilla felt it and cowered against the wall.

It appeared as
if all was well with Tannil and a general sense of relief eased the
volatile pressure, but then Tannil straightened, his mouth fell
open, his fingers bent into claws on the armrests.

The tension
ratcheted.

Tannil opened
his eyes and they glowed. “You bastards!” he spat out in a
high-pitched voice. “How dare you do this to me?”

A woman
whimpered, a man sighed. No one else dared anything.

Keening … from
within the Throne. It sounded like a man in horrified grief, and it
was soft, akin to an apology. Then the sound swelled to a
discordant melody, sounding much like violins out of tune.

Tannil swore
and attempted to lift from the chair, but his hands were bound to
it, cleaved like someone who grabbed at a live wire and could no
longer control his reflexes. He cried out, cursed, threatened, and
all the while the glows in his eyes strengthened, appearing unholy,
like that of a netherworld demon.