The Dreamer Stones (4 page)

“Old
calendar.”

“Well, given
they don’t see the sun, one system works as well as another.”

“But they use
Earth calendar. I wonder if they consider themselves direct
descendants from Earth’s first pathfinders. The last time I was
here we communicated in English.”

“It’s too far
back to know with certainty.”

“True.”

“Have you been
there?” she asked.

“Where?”

“Earth.”

“Tris and I
said we’d go to find the proof to put Beacon’s nose out of joint.”
Torrullin smiled, simply remembering moments with his son. “Perhaps
one day I’ll veer off onto that side road.”

She was
silent, and passed him his dessert. “For your sweet tooth.”

“I don’t have
one.”

Lowen arched a
brow in challenge and he shook his head, taking a bite out of a
slice of cheesecake, and it was so scrumptious, he could not
talk.

“You like? A
speciality of mine.”

“I am truly
honoured, and I have found my sweet tooth.” He took another
mouthful.

She laughed.
“They say the way to a man’s heart is …” She halted when his eyes
lifted to hers. “… through his stomach,” she finished, looking
away.

Smacking his
lips, he said, “I can see why.”

Relieved, she
smiled, but did not say more.

“How is the
cavern?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Perfect. Did
you know it would last?”

“If they
wanted it to.”

“They keep it
real?”

“Precisely.
There was trouble, was there not? I sensed it on the Plane.”

She stared at
him. “Your reach extends far.”

He
shrugged.

“The cavern
was about to collapse and many would have died. An orb of light
appeared and folk were granted the means to save their wondrous
space. Krik and I speculated about it being you, but that you sent
the orb from another realm - wow.”

Some things
never changed, like childlike wonder. “You sound like Matt.”

She laughed.
“Wow was his favourite word.”

“Yes, and
Lucan uses it too, with abandon.”

“Lucan?” The
real universe was about to intrude.

He sensed that
point also. Taking a breath, he pushed his plate aside. “Lowen, my
thanks. That was excellent.”

She inclined
her head and waited for him to go on.

“Lucan
Dalrish. He is of Matt’s line and as crazy as his forebear. As
intense and loyal. Young yet, with much to learn about life, but he
knows his magic.”

“Is he the
Dalrish who came to witness your return?”

He looked at
her. “Yes.”

Lowen lifted a
shoulder. “I knew one had to be there.”

“Not you?”

“Not me,
Torrullin. Someone without the history.”

He said
nothing.

“Has Lucan
brought Matt’s oath with him?”

“Yes.” He
grimaced.

“Good.”

“I don’t
agree.”

“I see that.
How can you?” She arched a brow.

“What does
that mean?”

“Only that you
seek to get away from all bindings, but you can’t. Not from the old
ones. The only way to escape is with enough time and by ensuring
you don’t engender new ones.”

“Memory binds,
Lowen, despite aeons of time.”

She gave a sad
smile. “Then there’s no getting away, is there?”

“Why is this
suite so empty?”

“I am without
binding, is that what you mean?”

“No, Lowen.
I’m here and I am the binding for you. I’m asking why this place is
featureless. It isn’t you.”

She paled.
I am the binding for you
, sweet gods. Did he even comprehend
how right he was? “I knew I wouldn’t stay. I needed to be able to
leave unencumbered.”

“Yet you’ve
been here centuries. You collected nothing? Is that healthy?”

“And you were
such a collector, life after bloody life?”

Torrullin
leaned forward. “Yes, at the least my sword. And you know I love
books. Even if I know I must die tomorrow, I’d still take home a
book I find of interest. You have nothing here, only dishes and
functional furniture.”

She stood,
ashen. “I want to show you something, Enchanter. Dare you
look?”

He felt the
echo of something dangerous. Something he did not want to know
about Lowen … or himself. He rose and, impatient with him, she
rounded the table and gripped his arm hard to draw him along a
short passage. He did not fight her, yet felt as if he should.

Entering a
small room, she left him in the doorway and entered the darkness to
find the lamp switch. A muted light came on and she turned to look
at him.

His gaze was
on her by force of will, for he dared not look to see what else was
in the room. He drew back, away from the doorway.

“Dare you
look, Enchanter? This is what I collected. My obsession, if you
like. I painted every last one and it took me a thousand years, and
I’ll destroy every last one before we leave here.”

“I cannot
look.”

“You have to.
It’s your dream and my vision. To understand, I had to represent
it. Look, Torrullin! See why I collected nothing! I was too busy
finding a way for you!”

“I’m
sorry.”

“I don’t need
your pity! I chose this. But do not
dare
tell me how
unhealthy
I
am. Will you look?”

Not to look
was to deny everything she forsook for him, everything she achieved
to help him - everything Lowen was, everything she meant to him
once, and all she could yet mean, yes, to him.

He inhaled,
stepped into the room … and risked a look.

Gods. He
stumbled back out. “Unfair, by god!”

The walls were
hung with large paintings, beautifully crafted, the artwork
revealing real talent and commitment, but the images were
nightmarish to him. He had no idea how long it took her to learn
this skill, but he understood how deep she entered her version of
his dream. It connected them utterly. He saw briefly, and every
image burned into his mind, for he knew them well.

A cage. A
bloodied spear thrust through the bars. And inside that cage, mouth
wide with pain, there was him.

She painted
that? All gods behold.

An empty
plain. The shadow of a man racing across the expanse. So lonely, so
eternal.

Had she cried
when she painted that?

The hill. Mist
swirling at the base. A winding path, a worn stairway. A fair man,
captured from behind, ascending, holding a bundle close to his
chest. Dejection, fear, hope, uncertainty.

How had she
known?

Shadow
horsemen. Waterless land. Footsteps in dust leading nowhere. The
tiny face of a baby girl swaddled and held as something
precious.

She knew more
of his dream than he dared fathom for himself.

And the other.
Cloth slithered from it as she drew its cover away. The briefest
peripheral sight and yet it burned behind his retinas as if
magically imprinted. A suggestion of stone walls. A deep gaping
pit. A void. The abyss. She had seen inside the temple where he
feared to enter in his dream. There were no forms in that painting.
Why were there no forms? Why did it feel terribly empty?

The light went
out and then she stood before him in the passage, close, but not
touching.

“There is one
more, not yet done. It is a view of what is within the void.”

“I do
not
want to see it.”

She inclined
her head. “Fine, Enchanter. It could better prepare you, but I
guess you’ll see for yourself. And maybe that’s why it remains
unfinished - neither of us is meant to know before the time.”

“But you do
know. You’ve seen it.”

“Seeing is not
the same as knowing.”

“Why are there
no people in the temple?”

“Because it’s
empty.”

“A riddle, by
god?”

“A truth.”

“I cannot do
this now,” he blurted.

“I thought
you’d be ready.”

“I am - just
unprepared.”

He was
contradictory. He knew it. She knew it. She did understand, though,
having been on the journey herself. She committed her life, her
craft and her self-worth to helping him find a way to come out on
the other side.

She sighed.
“You’re tired. Go to bed. I’ll clean up inside.”

Lowen pointed
to a door. The guestroom. He looked at her, at it, back at her.
“You have asked nothing.”

“Like you, I’m
unprepared.”

“Lowen …” He
paused.

She looked at
him.

He gestured at
the room where the paintings were.

“I get it,
more than you know,” she said. “Get some rest.”

She turned and
left him there.

Chapter
Four

“
Your
salvation lies in the courage to enter that temple of dreams, torn
soul. Offer it up, all that you have hidden in your deepest
recesses, and look with an empty vessel into that abyss.”

The Ymirian
Rosenroth on the Enchanter’s dream

Torrullin
slept for twenty-six hours - solid, dreamless hours.

Lowen turned
away visitors in that time, as none had bearing on his mission. The
word was out, and her hard-won privacy was compromised; everyone
wanted to see the Enchanter and all wondered what the connection
was between him and her. She did not bother enlightening them.

While he slept
she was often before the unfinished artwork, brush in hand. She
stared at it, but could not add a single stroke. The well of her
creative talent dried up the moment she shared the existence of the
works. Perhaps that was meant. Maybe it was complete as it was.

During the
hours she was not before the painting, she fielded visitors, and
when not doing so, she wandered the suite, her mind filled with
memories she avoided for some time.

She thought of
Xen III, before the domes came down, and her father, Le Moss Mar
Dalrish, the crime lord of those domes, a hard man with a heart of
gold. That life was a gilded cage, both dangerous and wonderful,
and she had not wanted to go when he sent her to Valaris with his
cousin Matt to start a new life. But he was right - her new life
was filled with promise, and it was not long before he joined
her.

Her first
sight of snow was something she would never forget, and meeting
Torrullin in the amphitheatre. Among a golden people, he shone like
a beacon. He was sad and troubled … and so
bright
.

She smiled as
she recalled stowing away with Skye on the traveller bound for the
Forbidden Zone, to be discovered by Vannis, who was absolutely
furious. Her smile vanished when she remembered the terror on
Lucan, the outer planet they landed on, and the Web that trapped
them, particularly Torrullin, the Dragon-man of legend. She thought
of the war on Atrudis, the world now known by its true name,
Luvanor.

Tymall, dirty,
sick, evil. Tristamil, shining, kind. Saska, the Lady of Life,
beautiful, the torn relationship between her and Torrullin. Vannis,
nobility. Taranis, a loving father as hers was. She liked Taranis,
and she loved Matt, her uncle. Matt, crazy man, who went on to
become a real sorcerer, and was the creator of the Dalrish
sorcerers of the present.

She tried not
to think of Cat.

Then came the
years of controlling her visions, making them work for her, helping
her father in his new duties, and assisting Matt in setting up the
school. Dear Caballa helped, often coming to Xen, and Krikian came
with the Valleur force to aid Le Moss Dalrish in bringing the domes
down and maintaining the peace while he returned the planet to
fertility.

Krikian sat
beside her one day when he saw how depressed she was, and listened
as she poured out her visions of Torrullin to him, and interpreted
them accurately as only a true dream symbolist could, and then
helped her see what she had to do … and did it with her.

A colourful
past, indeed. Not least the years on Cèlaver. This world was as
contradictory and wilful and exciting as another, and as boring,
useless and soul-destroying. Cèlaver honed her patience, her
acceptance, but also instilled in her a strong desire to escape all
bonds. Had it not been for Krikian’s calming influence - well, she
wondered where Torrullin would have found her, if at all.

When she was
not wandering memory’s lanes, she looked in on Torrullin. Never had
she seen someone sleep utterly unmoving. Like the dead. Once she
even touched him to be certain he was alive, feeling foolish after.
She wanted to scream at him to wake up, to be there for her now,
after the years of waiting … and then prayed he would go away.

Poof,
vanish.

Gods.

When he
awakened, clear-eyed and unruffled, she said she had cabin fever
and suggested they pay a visit to the magical cavern.

He agreed,
perhaps reading in her the turmoil of the preceding hours, or
perhaps preferring a space not as intimate, and washed and shaved
without saying anything.

She packed
bread, fruit and wine in a basket to break their fast, together
they made their way below, and it was indeed a relief to be away
from the confining suite.

At the
entrance, the Gatekeeper - a sought after post - nearly prostrated
himself, and then let them in without getting a word past
dumbstruck lips.

Inside,
seemingly all of Cèlaver crowded the place, hoping to be there when
the Enchanter happened to come. Even King Privin - wholly recovered
from his nightmarish ordeal - was present, and had erected a
pavilion in expectation.

Torrullin
sighed.

“Say a few
words,” Lowen murmured. “You won’t get away unless you do. After, I
know a place we won’t be disturbed.”

There was
nothing for it. Torrullin wandered over to the bright pavilion,
paid homage, received in return, and then asked leave of the king
to address his people. With that in hand he climbed a low rise.