The Dreamer Stones (54 page)

“I’ll go to
the Keep,” Lowen said.

Quilla nodded.
“Thank you. Afterward join us in the Dome.” It was a statement.
“You alone, dear girl.”

She turned
from watching Torrullin’s rhythmic breathing. She could barely see
the birdman now, but the sense of purpose was clear.

“Why? I’m not
ready for the Dome.”

“But the Dome
is ready for you. The Kaval is at maximum allotment - sounds like a
cattle drive, doesn’t it - maybe I still have ill feeling … and
that is not my point. Lowen, ready or not, you are needed there for
Elixir’s awakening.”

She did not
answer. The Kaval was complete. Many Immortal races were sacrificed
in one way or another in recent times for one to answer the unsent
summons of Elixir. The universe was changing. The future was
unmade, and it was a heavy burden Torrullin would shoulder when he
awakened from this coma-like journey he had now embarked upon, and
thus they needed to be there. Proof of acceptance.

Easier on him,
easier on his Kaval. And no Saska, for Elixir’s wife was not Kaval.
Dear Lord, how to put it tactfully, when Saska would want to see
for herself her husband was all right?

Quilla
inclined his head as if reading her thoughts. “You will do fine.
Now, the Q’lin’la ogive is primed to admit you. Call when you near
and it will light for you.”

With a final
quick glance at Torrullin, she left.

Sighing,
Quilla, last Q’lin’la, lifted his precious burden from the cold,
damp bench and headed to the magical Dome.

Chapter
Forty-Three

What is my
name? WHAT IS MY NAME?

The unknown’s
call

Month of
Redbouer

At last the
time had come.

His patience
would be well rewarded, a facet of waiting he learned in studying
the foolish errors of those with impulsive and volatile natures.
The Warlock was wholly incapacitated, a nice touch from the Darak
Or as he surrendered life in this realm.

He, Agnimus,
could almost forgive the man dying because the results of his
mutilation had far-reaching consequences. Still, it was a pity
Margus would now never know the full truth.

The Darak Or
was no more, the Warlock was incapacitated and the Enchanter forced
into absence. An unexpected twist lay in the latter, but a patient
man, a clever man, could work with the unexpected. He would deal
with consequences arising from the Enchanter’s current journey as
and when they transpired.

He could not
have timed the simultaneous disinterest better had it been of his
creation.

This was a
window of absolute opportunity and such an opportunity should not
be wasted. No Warlock, no Darak Or and no Enchanter, no Valla
sorcerers, no sacred sites, no alien necromancers and no one with
an inkling of what was about to befall them.

Time to move
now. In reaching out for the past, the Warlock unsuspectingly aided
his ally Agnimus. It was time to close one door, the one to the
outside, and to open another.

The long wait
was finally over.

Saska huddled
miserably under the bare branches of a tree wondering why she
bothered, for the incessant rain of days found her wherever she hid
from it and a denuded tree was no shelter, was it?

It was a
steady downpour since early dawn that carried the icy breath to
herald the coming of winter. It was markedly colder each passing
day.

Three weeks
since Lowen brought the news of Torrullin’s collapse and then left
for the Dome. Alone.

Perhaps that
was why she was ineffectual in protecting herself from the
elements. Depression, brought on by being left out. Why not catch a
cold, maybe her death would show them how they erred in leaving her
out. Gods, she sounded, reacted, almost like Cat.

Saska laughed
soundlessly, mirthlessly. No comparison; the situation was too
different and no Immortal had ever died from a cold.

No word in
three weeks, as if no one needed news?
Gods, will someone please
tell us, tell me, his
wife
, how he is?

She lifted her
face to the sting of the rain, the water washing away tears of
utter frustration.

A blast of
thunder shook the heavens and the earth trembled below.
All I
need. A real shiner too by the sounds of it.

Movement to
her right.

Curious - any
movement in the rain-drenched land of no fireplace and hot toddy
had to be a curiosity - she peered through the watery curtains. She
was near Galilan a few paces from the river - why, she had no idea,
when she could be at the Keep, dry and warm, with said hot
toddy.

The movements
were shadows of motion hiding in the gloom that was rain, lowered
skies and wintry light, moving stealthily along the road parallel
to the river, heading in silence to the city.

Some instinct
bade her keep still, although she could not quite figure the
reason. The watery shadows, their passing tread masked by the
drumming rain and the intensifying thunder, were surely folk
heading from the countryside into the city, perhaps for supplies, a
warm inn, a visit to friends and family now the harvest and tilling
and renovations were dormant until winter’s passing.

Yet she stayed
still, camouflaged by the downpour as they were to her. So many? It
was akin to a refugee invasion - perhaps a disaster? A flood? That
was not right - refugees could never be silent. A wagon roll, a
child’s voice, someone calling to another to see all was well back
there …

Then, with a
dreadful, mind-numbing certainty, she knew exactly who and what she
was witness to, stealing into a populated and unsuspecting city
like thieves in the night. She knew what their business was and
knew she would be dead the instant they became aware of her
presence.

Mother,
help us all
.

The storm
closed in then, ferocious and deafening, an aid, but only as far as
her own safety, for with the storm’s arrival she lost the power to
communicate, to warn.

Well timed,
really well timed. May your rot in eternal hell for this.

The first
early winter storm loosed its fury.

In the
maelstrom of wind, hail, debris and rain, electrical current
zigzagging like sorcery about heavy skies, communication failed,
that of technology as well as of the realm of magic, with even
farspeakers trained to extreme weather phenomena isolated.

No transport
was possible, again that of magic and of no magic. Trains pulled
into the nearest station when the tracks became dangerously
slippery; offworlders were either grounded for the duration or in
slow orbit about the planet awaiting an elusive gap in the roiling
mass of cloud. Instruments were useless.

Horses were
stabled and stock brought in. Fires were lit where they were not
already burning and folk turned to their families and friends for
warmth, companionship and entertainment.

Valaris’s
storms could rage for days, occasionally with barely a break before
the next one unleashed. It could get boring and frustrating in
close confines.

Perfect
conditions for evil to flourish.

Saska ran for
the boathouse, her chest heaving with exertion and fear.

The jetty
wobbled under her pounding footsteps as the Galilan River swelled
alarmingly. She burst through the creaking doorway, slamming it
shut behind her. The rain on the tin sheeting overhead was so loud
she doubted anyone heard the door.

It creaked
open, she spun around - wind, only wind. She pushed it to, finding
a bolt on the inside. It was stiff from misuse, swollen by damp,
but she persevered, sagging with relief when it dropped home. Safe.
Safer.

She found the
light switch near the door. It connected to solar panels on the
roof and as the sun had been absent for days the light wavered
immediately, strengthened briefly and went out. Enough time,
however, to make sense of the internal layout - light was dangerous
anyway.

The cavernous
space rocked and jostled with many boats, large and small.
Tellingly, it was deserted. Only a complete idiot would seek
shelter in a boathouse when a river promised to rise.

Almost
hysterical, she scanned her memory - a pleasure cruiser at the far
end, rocking less than the others, barge-like and sturdy.

Wobbling,
missing turns, she made her way through the maze of narrow jetties,
felt the thuds of vessels colliding against each other and the
walkways in her ankles and knees. There were two small windows set
high in the landward wall, but the storm gloom obliterated their
influence inside. Halfway there she stumbled, bruising her elbow on
the edge of an old boat, but grit her teeth, thinking she would
shear them off if she got any more determined … and giggled
hysterically.

Then,
thank
you, Lady
, she lurched into the barge.

There was a
large cabin that comprised bar and lounge for the tourists and it
was warm and dry, smelling of a herb solution used to refresh the
fabric of armchairs. It was gloomy, the sound of the contrary
waters below musical and soothing. Soothing, if one cared to lie to
oneself.

Sobbing with
relief, she fell into one of the broad armchairs to curl into a
ball. She lay like that, stiff and unmoving, listening, listening,
her heart hammering so loud she was sure it would give her away,
if, if … she squeezed her eyes shut and grit her teeth again. She
prayed to all the lesser gods and goddesses, the omnipotent God of
the ancient humans and Xen III, the Goddess of the Valleur, and any
other deity strange and wonderful she could recall, and hoped one
heard.

She prayed for
the innocent of this world, and she prayed for those she loved to
be kept safe and she prayed for herself, for she was alone and
defenceless.

Torrke was
drenched, but the worst of the storm passed it by.

Up on the
battlements of the Keep Caballa stood between Krikian and Kismet
and all three were silent and tense.

Something evil
was a-foot, but the fury of the weather beyond the valley’s borders
thwarted attempts to discover the source of disquiet.

Eventually, as
the day’s gloom vanished into night, Caballa returned to the
sitting room below. There she found Samuel staring into the fire,
standing with his hands clasped loosely behind him. He did not
raise his head or acknowledge her, but she minded not. She had her
thoughts to contend with.

Only the four
of them now at the Keep, and three retainers, the latter strong,
able men doubling as guards.

Above, Krikian
and Kismet remained alert.

Tymall was on
Scortas, a world of high technology and science, where surgeons
rubbed elbows with engineers and quantum physicists.

He arrived
bleeding and near death and his condition attracted the attention
of no less than four surgeons, and while they vied for the
privilege of treating his mutilation, a fifth quietly circumvented
the argument and led him aside.

A gurney
appeared to catch him as he collapsed, but he knew none of that
now.

He writhed in
delirium. His penis and scrotum were reattached, an excruciating
agony despite anaesthetic and mind control, but they were as close
to useless as they could get, appendages restored as a matter of
vanity and psychology. He would undergo further surgery once the
fever broke, the operation an attempt to restore urinary function,
but that was days, perhaps weeks away and a catheter eased his
bladder in the meantime.

The surgeon
was a specialist and an artist, but practical restoration was the
most he could achieve. Tymall would never have sex again, never
father another child, and never again inflict his attentions where
they did not belong. The Darak Or’s revenge was poetic, just and
terrible. In his fevered nightmares Tymall cursed first Margus,
then his father, repeatedly, his voice reed-thin loud in the
echoing intensive care unit.

To him, and to
others who would never know the whole tale, his father’s lack of
action, given the man’s extraordinary gift to heal, was the greater
misdeed.

In the
morning, a ‘day after’ spoken of in ancient tales, as the storm
receded, it was not countering that was needed as a matter of
urgency.

Valaris and
her people needed succour, and it had nothing to do with the
aftermath of a ferocious storm, although it inflicted significant
damage.

Valaris
wallowed helpless and alone.

The skies were
sealed.

One door
closed. And another had opened.

Chapter
Forty-Four

What do cows
dream of, I wonder? Sweet grass? Or revenge?

Tattle

He was the
lonely footprint on the desolate windswept coast; the rolling
tumbleweed upon the great dry plains; the steaming puddle on the
ripe jungle floor.

He was the
mighty golden eagle sighting his prey; he was the comet’s tail
lighting the skies of worlds in his fiery glow; he was the
unstoppable rushing of the springtide wave toward the unsuspecting
land. He was the minute raindrop among billions of the same; the
smallest grain of sand in the mighty desert; the ant scurrying
surrounded by a city of identical workers. He was the mountain and
the stone; he was the stream and the waterfall; he was the cloud
and the vastness of space.

He was alone;
he was multiple. He was insignificant; he was majesty.

He saw, he
touched, he tasted, he smelled, he heard, he sensed, he knew.

Everything and
nothing. Together, apart, in an instant, across the ages. He was
all that and was yet separate, individual.