The Dreamer Stones (59 page)

Torrullin
looked up at the ceiling significantly and said nothing. Another
moment passed and then the ultraviolet snapped off, while two low
wattage globes behind the bed came on. There were shadows now in
the unit and on the bed.

Much
better.

“Thank
you.”

“Happy to
oblige, Mr …?” Garin’s voice came back unquestionably
suspicious.

“Just
Torrullin.”

Torrullin
forgot the surgeon in the loaded silence that greeted his name and
leaned over Tymall, studying his face for depth of illness.
Debilitating delirium - he would not respond to simple calling.

“Is he
Tymall?” came Garin’s voice, startling him.

Torrullin
jerked up and turned. “What?” he snapped, and then calmed. “Yes,
this is Tymall.” Ignoring the frozen figure in the glass, he again
bent.

“You must take
him away!” A panicked whisper.

Torrullin
straightened and approached the glass where the doctor stared at
Tymall in fascination. “Garin. My son is too ill to harm you. He
needs care to recover and he came to the right place for it. I’d do
him a severe disservice if I were to remove him from here.” He
tapped the glass to draw the man’s attention. “Look at me,
Garin.”

Lorer Garin
looked, and what he saw in those silver eyes above the surgical
mask instilled him with terror. He knew absolutely the father was
the greater danger. He swallowed and tried to look away and could
not.

“No one will
suffer for my son’s sojourn here, I swear it to you. However, if
you have him moved after I am gone, you, Garin, and your family,
will pay for that error. I shall know, do not doubt that.
Understood?” The surgeon nodded. “Good,” Torrullin said. He
released the man’s eyes and then gestured at the door. “Join me,
Doctor, if you please.”

“I-I am not
suited …” Garin stammered.

Torrullin
sighed. “I had hoped to be unobtrusive.”

He pulled the
mask from his mouth and proceeded to remove the sterile gloves. The
squeak that greeted his actions caused him to smile.

“If you know
who my son is, doctor, then you know who I am. Come in as you are.
No germ will influence his condition in my presence.”

Lorer Garin
stared wildly about, behind, but there was no one there. The other
cubicles, twelve in total, were currently unoccupied, and he sent
the nurses out when he brought this man to his son, thinking to
allow him privacy. He headed for the door and stepped inside.

Torrullin was
at the bedside. “Come here, Garin. Look at your patient’s skin and
tell me if he will arise from this fever.”

Lorer Garin
came. It was the tone, real doubt. He bent over Tymall and then
straightened in alarm. “Brain damage,” he muttered.

“Explain.”

The surgeon
turned and seemed surprised Torrullin was there. He had
instinctively reverted to his medical calling. “If this fever
doesn’t come down, he could suffer brain damage.”

He stared
then, having heard the tales and rumours even in this far-flung
place. It was not love that brought a father to a son’s
sickbed.

“Gods, how
easy to change his path. A little brain damage would serve us all,
not so, doctor?”

Garin cleared
his throat. “Not necessarily, er … Torrullin. It could also make
him very aggressive.”

“And you
cannot be sure,” Torrullin stated after a moment’s thought.

“No. The mind
remains a mystery, I’m afraid.”

“I need to
talk to him.”

Garin glanced
at his patient. “Not in this condition. His fever has to
break.”

He had to do
what he had expected to do; only now he could so openly. “Fine, I
shall draw the poison from him.”

Garin’s eyes
stretched. “You can heal him? I had, of course, heard tell of your
…”

“I won’t heal
him - that is for you to do. I aim merely to make him lucid.”

“B-but …”

Flinty eyes
turned on the tall young surgeon. “Lorer Garin, even here on
Scortas you heard of my son. You know or suspect what he is capable
of and I tell you now it is true, even the worst you can bring
yourself to imagine, which in your sterile environment is probably
not halfway the most unpleasant. He was judged by the Darak Or …”
Torrullin smiled when the doctor took an involuntary step back. “…
yes, by the Darak Or himself. This mutilation is his handiwork, for
the Darak Or had honour in his evil and found my son wanting of
code of conduct. Now, I put it to you, if someone like the Darak Or
found it necessary to judge Tymall, how dare I interfere? As a
father, only as a father, do I feel pity, but he is not just my son
in this, and as a father I am less than the whole in this matter.
Tymall will heal as per usual physical rules - that is the result
of judgement.”

Garin nodded,
knowing he could not understand, not really, and whispered, “He may
die despite my best efforts.”

Torrullin
closed his eyes and reopened them. “He must not die.”

“B-but … why?
Surely that …?” Garin stood with his hands spread.

In a weakened
state at the point of death’s re-entry Digilan would accept him as
before, permit him the time to grow strong and in that time Digilan
again would bow before this Warlock. That was not to happen. Dying
and weak, it would be impossible to find him beyond. Elixir or not,
Tymall could escape him there.

He had to die
strong, a presence drawn back to Digilan, a presence resisted, a
presence visible from the first moment beyond. Tymall had to live
through this mutilation and recover for the final battle.

“There is no
time for explanation,” Torrullin said. “He cannot die from this and
that is all you need understand.” He thought for a moment. “If it
gets bad, call on me, but only if you have tried all else. Garin,
call, do you hear? Just call my name loud and I’ll come.” He looked
into the man’s mind through his brown eyes and waited.

Lorer Garin
agreed where no words were required.

Torrullin
severed the contact and turned to Tymall. “Monitor him as I bring
him round and you will never repeat a word of what you see and hear
next.” He did not need to reinforce it - the good doctor had the
message now.

He bent over
Tymall’s upper body, drew a breath and placed both hands onto his
son’s fevered brow. Palms flat against the damp, hot skin, fingers
curled, pressing into the bone of the cranium under the tangled
mess of hair. He held it there, both hands without tremor, and
waited.

Garin,
watching wide-eyed, beyond mere fear, forgetting about monitors in
his absorption, saw a small, quickly gone, flash of white light,
and then Torrullin’s hands subsided at his sides as if they had
never touched the ill man. Garin blinked, unsure if it had happened
and then a monitor above the bed beeped and his gaze flew to
it.

A steadying,
then steady heartbeat, growing stronger. Dear Aaru.

Garin gripped
the limp wrist on the other side of the bed, moving there without
conscious thought, and felt the stable pulse. He also physically
sensed the debilitating fever withdraw under his fingers until the
man’s skin was cool … normal.

It was a
greater healing than the father had spoken of. Tymall would
recover. He raised his eyes and Torrullin shrugged. The father in
him, for a brief moment, had been stronger.

In his heart,
Lorer Garin was immensely sad. This father cared. He smiled,
imbuing it with what he felt, and Torrullin flinched and looked
away. Nodding to himself, Garin gave his attention to his patient,
and dropped the wrist to move with frightened steps away from the
bed.

Tymall was
awake. Lucid. Clear-eyed. He stared at his father with a dark fury
that could explode into violence had the rest of him not been too
weak.

His voice a
dry croak, he said, “Changed your mind?”

“We need to
talk, Ty,” Torrullin returned, his voice controlled.

“There’s
nothing to say.” Tymall started to cough.

“Get some
water, Garin.”

The surgeon
fled the cubicle.

Tymall’s eyes
followed him out. “Has he botched the job?”

“He worked a
miracle. A further procedure and you will have normal function
returned.”

Tymall’s eyes
swivelled back. “All function?”

“You will be
able to piss without pain. Is that not enough?”

“Bugger
you.”

“Not likely
anymore,” Torrullin responded, folding his arms across his chest as
he sat on the edge of the bed. He smiled when Tymall winced at the
movement of the mattress. “You will recover; you will regain
strength, but never will your dick do harm to another again.”

A long silence
and then Tymall smiled. “Pity, I hoped to know your beautiful wife
someday soon.”

His father did
not rise to the bait. He remained quiet as Lorer Garin returned
with a pitcher of water and plastic glasses.

The surgeon
heard the last part and, despite his fear, glared at his patient.
He had surprised himself in returning. Out of the cubicle, he
should have run, taking his wife and children, but he returned.

Tymall
accepted a drink, Garin holding the glass while raising his head
with the other hand, and then smiled into the doctor’s eyes. Garin
shuddered over such a blatant liar’s smile. He dropped the head and
plonked the glass next to the bed.

“You should
take him away. He’s not a nice person.”

Tymall
grinned, his eyes gleaming, and Torrullin said, “I swear to you,
Lorer Garin, he will find himself impotent …” His flicked a
contemptuous gaze at his son. “… sorcerically here, always. He will
not repay your kindness and genius with misplaced payback.”
Tymall’s eyes narrowed, but Torrullin ignored him. “Unfortunately,
I cannot do anything about the filth that comes out of his
mouth.”

Garin
shrugged. “There’s a nurse on this floor ugly as sin with a foul
mouth he’d never match in a thousand years. I do believe I’ll be
changing her roster before the day is out.”

Torrullin
laughed. “Good for you - that’s the spirit.”

“Bugger you
all!” Tymall hissed.

This time it
was the surgeon. “Not likely, ever,” he said and retreated to a
seat before two monitors next to the walled area of the cubicle. He
began to twiddle dials.

“If you desire
proper healing, Ty, I suggest you learn manners,” Torrullin said.
“Lorer Garin is good at what he does. Do not give him the right to
hand you over to lesser talent.”

Tymall glared
at his father and said nothing. He would not ask for a healing
again. “What do you want here?”

“Who is the
creature you’ve been dealing with, without our knowledge?”

“I don’t know
what you’re talking about.”

Nightfall
neared on Valaris. “Fine, play it that way, but allow me to tell
you what I know. I think you have someone close to you, who learned
from you, who watched us, someone who stayed when you left Valaris,
who saw me leave as well. I think you know this creature, and this
thing brought a greater evil to our world than either you or I
would deem necessary. I think you know and, if you do, I want to
know who or what he is. The destruction on Valaris subverts the war
between us and if it continues, Ty, there will be nothing,
nothing
, left for us to fight over.”

“What?” Tymall
struggled, attempting to sit.

“Stay still or
you’ll pull the stitches out,” Garin said without looking around.
Not that he saw anything on the monitors; he was listening too
hard.

Tymall
groaned, subsided. “What evil on Valaris?”

“Draithen,
hundreds of thousands of them, killing, torturing, pillaging,
destroying, burning. The cities are havens to the dead; the
countryside stinks of decay …”

“Draithen?
What are draithen?”

Tymall did not
know, clearly had not planned it. “Symbiotic darkling-soltakin, the
kind I dealt with before you were born.”

“How? They
died to the last. Oh, crap. No wonder he sent shivers down my
spine.”

“Who?”

“Agnimus,”
Tymall muttered, staring into space. “He thinks I don’t know his
name, but I do - just wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of
speaking it. He’s a darkling, a very clever darkling, but he must
be more than a darkling, mustn’t he, too smart, too contained, too
disrespectful.” His eyes focused on his father. “He was in charge
of the darklings at the castle until I came. I always thought he
surrendered too quickly, but then I also thought darklings are
stupid and he was probably relieved to have another do the job,
especially someone who promised them a bloodletting.”

Garin
shuddered as Torrullin said, “Agnimus. A darkling with a name. You
did not question it? Only a being with a soul gives itself an
epitaph, Ty. Your Agnimus is draithen and he let evil in. What does
he look like?”

Tymall’s head
moved from side to side on the damp pillow. “He wears a black
concealing cloak. It hides his face, has always hidden him.”

“And that
didn’t alarm you? Because you brushed him off, used him as a lapdog
and a spy, you gave him freedom to break it down. He is more than
you today and has a mighty army at his beck and call. It should
never have happened.”

Garin gave up
pretence at monitoring - he turned to them, staring. “I-I …” he
dared, “I ask … Aaru above, can they get here? These draithen
things?”

Torrullin
murmured, “They are contained on our world.”

“Your doing?”
Tymall muttered.

“Your Agnimus’
doing. He sealed the skies. No one gets in, but luckily right now,
no one gets out either. That could change. Has he a signature?”

“No, and
neither do the draithen, or you wouldn’t be here.”

Torrullin’s
lips pulled in a grimace. “What did they learn over two thousand
years that renders them invisible? Where did they learn it?”