The Dreamer Stones (52 page)

Margus reared
and toppled backwards, and lay still. In his left hand he clutched
his prize. The knife cluttered to the blackened floor into pooling,
warm red treacle.

Tymall
screeched again, loud, with disbelief, pain and terrible rage. He
stared in dawning horror at the mutilation between his legs, at the
dripping blood, at what was held like a priceless gem in Margus’s
stiff left hand, the blood seeping in rivulets around the still
wrist.

He swayed, bit
back the next scream, and lifted terrified eyes to his father.
Always, he was aware of his father.

Torrullin
stared back, his face impassive. Only his stiffened fists revealed
inner tension.

Then he moved
to approach, putting each foot before the other with exaggerated
care. When close enough he bent beside Margus and felt for a pulse,
discovering an irregular, weakening beat.

Death was
close.

He undid the
loosening fingers from around his son’s severed private parts.
Without disgust, he took the bloody flesh into his own hand and,
lifting Tymall’s right hand with his free one, transferred the
package into his palm.

Closing
Tymall’s now nerveless fingers about it, he said, “I refuse to
finish this in your weakened condition, Ty. Go now. Heal. We shall
do this another time.” His face remained impassive.

Tymall’s lips
worked and he grimaced on a spasm of pain. “You can fix me …
father.” His eyes begged.

Torrullin
lowered to his haunches. He glanced at the slipping Darak Or,
stared a moment at the blood on his hand and then looked up again.
“That, too, I refuse to do.”

Tymall swayed
drunkenly, grey eyes incredulous.

Torrullin held
his gaze. “You have raped and sodomised; you have reaped the
reward. Go. You are bleeding to death.”

Tymall’s eyes
flared with hatred. “Yet you will help that filth at your
feet!”

Torrullin
sighed and looked down. “I was told I would know what to do with
the Darak Or after he broke oath, which he now has. I did not ask,
suggest or command him to do this deed, and thus it is over between
us. No, I shall not heal him. He will go from here.”

“To return!”
Tymall swayed again.

“He heads for
the netherworld on the wings of a broken promise and there is no
escape.” His gaze raked his son; he felt no pity or remorse at his
refusal to extend aid. “Ty, you are near the brink. I suggest you
leave. If you were to fall here, I shall not help you.”

Tymall
breathed in and out, concentrating on muting the pain burning like
wildfire throughout his body. “I would return.”

Torrullin was
grim. “From Digilan? I very much doubt it.”

Tymall snarled
and then whimpered and, gripping his bloody package, vanished.

The staff and
cloak disappeared with him.

Torrullin
squeezed his eyes shut. Dear gods, how much worse could it get?
Sighing, he opened them to look at Margus.

Blue eyes
watched him and a smile flickered.

“No more,
Torrullin. We end now, you and me.” Margus’s voice was a reed-thin
whisper.

Torrullin sat
cross-legged facing his old enemy. “We would have been great
friends in another time, another life, Margus. We understand each
other.”

“We do, don’t
we? Quite a surprise that. Sometimes I think we could have reached
that in this time.” Blue eyes begged.

Torrullin drew
breath. “Yes, we may well have.” He released it. “Farewell …
friend.”

“Thank you,
Enchanter.” Margus smiled a final time and slipped away into
eternity.

Torrullin sat
there with the cooling corpse, the beautiful body of an evil man,
for hours, before he moved to sit beside the cold form of Lucan
Dalrish.

One had broken
oath that day and the other had kept his strong until the end and
beyond. Dear gods, a Harvest Festival of souls this day. And
tomorrow or the day after or another day to come would be worse,
for Tymall now understood the reality of cold hate. For the first
time it would be real to him.

As it was to
his father.

The snake of
cold rage uncoiled inside. Long there, long nurtured. Not even the
purging of the Hounding disturbed it.

He carried it
since the night Tristamil died, vowed to see the Darak Or to the
netherworld and, despite a degree of understanding, pity,
closeness, even a measure of something akin to love for the man now
passed on, he saw it through to the end. The Darak Or was on his
way to the netherworld. No regret.

A vow seen to
the end.

It was not yet
done, however. The snake furled up again. Another had to pay before
that vow was declared void.

He would see
both Tristamil’s murderers into the netherworld yet.

One more to
go.

Chapter
Forty

Shake the
sheaves and gather the seeds. Winter is long. Keep it dry.

Harvest
Chant

“I would’ve
finished him,” Saska murmured later that night, lying curled close
to her husband’s side in their bed.

“If I did that
I’d have to leave with him,” he murmured, running a finger absently
over her shoulder, tracing the curve. “I cannot trust Digilan to
hold him, even if he believes it would. If he goes beyond I am
forced to follow.”

She tensed.
“You never told me this before.”

“I’m not ready
to go. I don’t want to, especially not there.”

“Thus you stay
your hand.”

“Since I
encountered the Syllvan, yes. I’ve had enough time in Reaume to
last lifetimes. It’s upsetting entering and exiting, leads to
discontent, confusion, realities become muddled …” His voice
petered out as he fell into the oblivion of sleep.

Saska laid
awake, heart beating irregularly. At the edge of sleep, a small
window of vulnerability, he revealed something kept hidden.

What was real
to him then? What counted? Whom did he turn to in his deepest
heart? Is that why he held back? Because sometimes he was confused
as to where he was, and in what time? What forced him to keep the
secrets of his soul locked away? Distrust, genetics? Or was it
kindness, compassion? Was it as simple as a desire not to burden
others?

She hoped so,
thought it true to a degree. If genetics, then there was no hope of
him ever seeing change. If distrust, then their marriage was in
deeper trouble than she already imagined.

Saska sighed
and closed her eyes in the deep dark. Had Tymall listened in on her
confession to Lowen? Had he said anything? She thought not.

Torrullin
returned from the Nor Peninsula with the bodies of Lucan and
Margus, quietly and succinctly explained for their benefit, and not
because he needed to justify anything, and when all was said, he
retired with her and made love to her unreservedly, gently, as if
grateful for the joy that was love shared in a dismal world.

No, he could
not know of that stupid confession.

She sighed
again as she began to drift off. If Tymall heard, she thought
sleepily, he had not spoken of it.

He would, he
would bide his time and use it to maximum effect - their marriage
troubles were far from over.

In the morning
four members of the Dalrish clan claimed Lucan.

No words gave
voice to recrimination. All was accomplished with respect and due
reverence, but it was also clear the ties were severed. Without ill
will. Although help could be asked for and would be given from both
sides, the force of the loyalty oath was gone.

The Dalrish
were again unto themselves and their new world, as was proper. Both
Valaris and Xen III had gained from the bond and now it was time to
go forward independently.

They did ask
after Lowen, but she vanished before dawn, probably to avoid the
discomfort of confrontation. She was not ready to face the
descendants of her long deceased family. She did not want to deny
them if they asked her to come home. They did not ask, of course,
not even obliquely - would they have, had she been present? It did
not matter, for her absence told them all they needed to know.

After they
left with Lucan’s body enshrouded in linen monogrammed with the
Dalrish coat-of-arms, Torrullin, Kismet and Krikian between them
undertook the duty regarding Margus’s mortal remains.

They ferried
him wrapped in plain cotton through the Rift to consign his body to
the swirling black hole he created when he destroyed his hell pit
homeworld. His remains to the remains of his youth. It, too, was
proper. And finished at last.

The Darak Or
was gone.

A chapter
closed forever.

Chapter
Forty-One

“…
I give
you my word, the day we count ourselves safe, is the day Luvanor
and Valaris will hold a celebration that will reverberate
throughout the entire universe … everyone will know us then,
Valleur, that is my promise to you.”

Torrullin

Two Town

A little over
two thousand years ago

On the rooftop
humans and a Siric danced.

The Siric was
unmistakable, his glorious wings shining in the sunlight.

It was not so
much dancing as hand gestures that gave the appearance of rhythm.
Arms outstretched, palms to fists, drawing those fists to mouths …
something was wrong. Hand gestures. Rhythm. Sorcery!

Darkling and
soltakin began to dance in the air.

The darak
beings fought an invisible opponent - old, old magic. The Horde
screamed and moaned as soltakin latched onto them mindlessly,
cloyed to them, becoming liquid glue, spreading over them, covering
them. Then, in infinitesimal increments, the soltakin become glue
entered the transparent pores of the darklings.

A long time
passed before the soltakin were absorbed.

The Horde’s
transparency was now slightly opaque, and they were in pain and
experiencing abject terror. Not only their own, but that of the
souls residing within. A soul now had a body, and could not use
that body or command it … great bewilderment. A body now had a
soul, and could not abide the lack of privacy, the instant
questioning within … great rage.

The internal
war of the enemy had just begun.

Kinsail

A far longer
time ago

He barricaded
the stout oak door with enchantments.

Sabian lay
broken on the wooden bench, breathing with a rattling sound, his
lungs punctured, his face lacerated, and he had at least four
broken bones. He would not survive long. Michael bent over him and
his heart started beating again when his brother opened his
eyes.

“Michael, do
it,” came a rasping whisper.

Michael drew
deeply of the dust-filled air to still his frantically beating
heart and commenced an incantation. He bolstered his mind with the
barriers that would protect him in the wrenching, and then reached
for his brother’s soul.

As Sabian
breathed his last, Michael stood with the insubstantial substance
of his brother’s true self cupped between two trembling hands.
Tears rolled over his cheeks.

He magically
drew a small wooden chest to him and flipped the lid.

Pale blue
velvet clad the inside and he laid the ethereal remains of Sabian
inside, swiftly closing the lid before the soul could speed its way
to the eternal realms.

Valaris

The
present

Agnimus’s eyes
snapped open.

He did not
dream often, but when it happened, it left him with a foul taste in
his mouth. His dreams were ever the same; different format,
familiar subject.

He knew what
it felt like to have his soul ripped from his dying body. He knew
what it meant when a world and hope died, as it did with Kinsail.
When the soul is ripped, you are a soltakin. When hope is lost,
only rage sustains.

He also knew
how it felt to have a soul shoved into an unwilling vessel. He was
there the day darklings and soltakin danced in the sky at the
behest of hand gestures on a rooftop.

Rage
sustains.

He peered
through gritty eyes into the valley Torrke as night fell over
Valaris. Down there was someone who would pay the price for insult
… and terrible pain.

The Enchanter
would soon know his true enemy.

Mark this
quiet well, Torrullin Valla, for you will whisper my name and
shudder in the resultant noise.

Chapter
Forty-Two

“
Simply put,
he is a god. No worm can creep under a stone without him knowing,
no place is too dark or too bright, too small or too huge for his
all-seeing eyes. It is a heavy responsibility, and the cries of
billions will soon assail him as he hears also.”