The Dreamer Stones (62 page)

The boy ambled
away. After a few moments he dared look over his shoulder and saw
the fair man taking the stairs to the battlements two at a
time.

He noticed the
man called Samuel come into the courtyard, open his mouth, and then
close it, watching the figure vanish up the stairwell with a sad
expression. Samuel turned and went back inside and when Vitto
looked up at the battlements, the Enchanter had disappeared from
view.

Then his
friend was with him, and they began exclaiming over a healed leg
and face.

Declan crashed
back against his seat and stared at the hexagonal computer.

“Belun!” he
called out, not taking his eyes off the symbols displayed in horrid
purple upon pale green.

The Centuar
excused himself from Jonas and came over. “What’s bitten you,
Siric?”

“Look!” Declan
stabbed at the screen. “Tell me what you make of it.”

Belun leaned
arms over the backrest, and Declan muttered a curse and vacated his
seat. Belun, raising a brow, sat … and then leaned into the screen
attentively. After a while he whistled.

“Drinic? It’s
Drinic?”

“Yes, yes, get
to the good stuff.”

Belun studied
the screen. “It’s an ancient dialect, some of it beyond me …”

Declan cursed
and virtually heaved the big humanoid Centuar from the chair. He
sat nimbly and stabbed at the symbols again.

“Look. Twist.
Formulae. Geometry. Door. Can you see that?”

“Yes, now you
point it out. What are you getting at?”

“The Syllvan,
Belun! An enigmatic bunch that allows only one question per member.
I had to think real careful to progress them, but I got Drinic,
clearly, four times, as if they wanted to impress the name.
Actually …” and the Siric turned to stare up at Belun, “I admit to
surprise you said Drinic. The symbols … very few know …”

Belun grinned.
“A bit of arrogance, my old friend? The Siric don’t have a monopoly
on ancient races, do they?”

Declan frowned
and then swung back to the screen. “Anyway, I remembered this
computer thing Amunti brought. He said it was a record of obscure
peoples, right? Bloody stupid thing, purple and green …”

“Declan.”

“Yes, well, I
found the Drinic in here, then this, this, then this, Belun … gods!
A formula or formulae for a physical door between realities,
physical
, Belun. Created! Constructed! Do you know what this
means?”

“You’d have to
tie the Drinic to the draithen. What proof is there?”

“See here, the
Drinic were able to supersede their forms with a wraith-like
entity, like souls freed to travel. Proven! In old annals …”

“So?”

“They were
enamoured with the afterlife … well, anyway, to get to the point.
Afterlife plus soltakin equals a need for mode of access. They
found it, took them something like nine hundred years to get a
working model, then a further two hundred to perfect it … or so it
claims here.”

Declan sat
back triumphantly.

Belun paced.
“Fine, it’s possible this leader Torrullin suspects had the
wherewithal to do research and eventually discovered what you found
here. We could even go so far as to speculate the reason Amunti is
the last of his kind is due to summary annihilation of witnesses or
the knowledge itself. This creature wanted it lost, if indeed he
found it. Possible, Siric, but not proof.”

“Amunti is
descendent from Tori, right? That mystical bunch of religious
fanatics? And who are the Tori descendent of?”

Belun halted.
“Drinic.”

“Right. A
connection …”

“Tenuous.”

“Maybe, but
why would the Syllvan, the guardians of Reaume, ensure I recall the
Drinic before anything else? Explain that, old friend.”

The Centuar
perched on the marble slab. “Fine, I admit there appears to be a
connection, but you can’t go to Torrullin with this unless you are
beyond all doubt.”

“But that’s
the beauty of it! He is Elixir! Present him with a suspicion and he
…”

“Oh, so we now
do a half job because Elixir will winnow truth from
supposition?”

“That’s not
what I meant.”

“Yeah.
Sorry.”

“Belun, I know
I’m right.”

“He’ll expend
all kinds of energy to get you through the seal; you had better be
entirely sure.”

The Siric
muttered, glaring at the screen. The Centuar was right.

“Put Jonas on
it as well - he’s a ferret, I tell you … and … wait. The connection
is one thing …”

“It explains
in detail how to construct the door - they call it a twist-shift -
and how to dismantle it, render it void,” Declan said, again in
triumph, although it was subdued now as he pondered the question of
proof. “Send Jonas over, will you?” He punched at the keypad.

Belun clasped
the Siric’s shoulder with a grin and went to Jonas. Declan was
right, for it was too obvious to be wrong now, but a little further
research would unearth other salient facts, while increasing
certainty.

They had to be
sure; many counted on it.

Tymall
awakened from his drug-induced sleep woolly and angry.

He had to get
out of there and to do that he had to heal. There had to be away to
twist that bloody righteous doctor to his point of view.

The good
doctor had a nice little family he adored.

Tymall smiled
and closed his eyes in pretend sleep so that bitch of a nurse would
not disturb him. He freed his senses to reach for the power of his
cloak and staff … and …

He sat up and
swung his legs over the edge of the bed, scattering the tent
affair, wires, pipes, and tore the sensor suckers from his torso,
dragged the needles from his arm, all the while gritting his teeth
in pain, just short of screaming.

The nurse
hurtled in, alarms went off, Lorer Garin charged into the outer
chamber and then, his eyes wide, ran for cubicle. The nurse was
screeching, laying hands on him, he pushed her sprawling away, the
surgeon wailed warnings, but he ignored that, freed himself from
all medical equipment … blood seeping, then running, stitches
tearing, had to get out
now
…

“Torrullin!”
Lorer Garin’s desperate plea, for the man’s son would surely die
from this trauma. “Torrullin!” he shouted again, putting all his
concentration, every iota of desire to see this done, into the
second call.

“Stuff my
father, Garin! I’m going now!” Tymall’s voice was harsh, clear, and
on the edge of pain-induced madness.

“This will
kill you …”

“So be
it!”

Then Torrullin
was there with deep shadows in his silver eyes. He took one look
and strode over to grip Tymall’s shoulders. “Stand still!”

Tymall
quietened and blood pooled at his feet. “Agnimus has stolen my
cloak and staff. I must get it back before he uses it.”

“
Gods
!
When?”

“How do I
know? Until you came I didn’t even have a thought for it.”

“I do
not
believe
this!” Torrullin let loose. “This on top
of everything else! The draithen, one bloody million of them, have
laid siege to Torrke … and I leave? What will he do in my
absence?”

Tymall began
sliding through his father’s hands, eyes rolling.

“Garin!”

“Too much
blood loss, needs transfusion, no guarantee - he could die in an
hour, less,” Garin said, wringing his hands.

Releasing an
oath, Torrullin lifted Tymall and carried him to the bed. Muttering
under his breath, which was not an enchantment, just plain
frustration, he laid his hands on his son’s bleeding groin …

… blood flow
stopped.

Garin gaped
and then shushed the angry nurse as she got up off the floor
muttering about strangulation.

Stitches knit
and then vanished entirely, the scars morphed from angry raw red to
pink, growing narrower and narrower until a thin white line
remained.

Torrullin
looked up, removing his hands.

He stared at
his son. “So now you will not die.” Tymall, however, was
unconscious. “That should be enough!” he hurled at the senseless
figure. “But it isn’t.”

Torrullin
stepped back, ran a shaking hand over his face, and then turned to
the quivering surgeon and the petrified nurse.

“His cloak and
staff, where are they?”

Garin gestured
at the small cabinet beside the bed. “His cloak was in there.”

“That stick
thing was behind the curtain,” the nurse mumbled when Garin looked
at her. She pointed to the deep folds recessed in the wall to the
right.

“When did you
see it last?”

“The-this
morning,” she mumbled.

“
Check
!”

She ran. She
dragged the folds away from the wall.

Nothing.

Garin opened
the cabinet.

Nothing.

“How did a
draithen get in here and out and no one saw him?”

“A-a-a …
draithen?” Garin whispered. He shook his head wildly, while the
ugly woman decided to leave, running from the cubicle.

“Never mind.
It’s too late.” Torrullin inhaled to calm his frayed nerves. “I’ll
be taking Tymall with me.”

As Garin
nodded, he bent over the bed again to lay his hands once more on
the senseless figure. He would not restore sexual function, never,
but he did all else.

A matter of
seconds later Tymall opened his eyes. A long minute passed in which
father and son stared at each other expressionlessly, and then
Tymall sat, swung, stood. With all strength returned.

He glanced
down at his naked self and smiled. “Thank you.”

“A necessity.
Your friend Agnimus did you a favour.”

“Unintended.
He is no friend.”

“Right. Shall
we go?” Torrullin lifted his hand, and Tymall was fully dressed.
Black, like his father. The likeness was reinforced.

Tymall
grinned. “Well, well, I thank you again.”

“Save it. You
will get that cloak and staff. That is the only priority you
have.”

“And
then?”

Torrullin
smiled. “It depends on whether the Warlock can retrieve his own
without his crutches of power.”

“Stuff
you.”

“Grow up, Ty.
We both know what this means.” He turned to Garin. “Thank you for …
well, you are an intelligent man.” He bowed and then, “Ty. Only the
Throne enables my travel through the seal and it requires a bonding
for another to travel with me.”

“What kind of
bonding?”

Torrullin
lifted a brow. “Now you have an inkling of how I feel when you make
a broad statement. Well, let me see - a kiss, which I am sure
you’re not interested in; sex, which I know you are incapable of
…”

“Bugger
off.”

“… or an
embrace. Our only option.” Torrullin stood quite still. His son in
his arms. What would that do to him?

Tymall must
have had similar thoughts, for he looked away, and there was an
almost unnoticeable tremor in his fingers. “A hug, then.”

“You have to
trust me or my Throne will tear you to pieces as we enter.
Understood?”

“I need my
cloak and staff and you need me to get it from that creature. A
symbiosis then, a temporary trust.” Tymall took a deep breath. “I
put myself into your hands … for now.”

Torrullin, for
his part, released a disbelieving breath. It was not aimed at
Tymall’s words; it was to punctuate the strange and unexpected
situation, a symbiosis with his son, dear gods.

After so much,
there was this, something he prayed for in the past. He wanted
this.

He opened his
arms.

Tymall
entered. They embraced.

And
vanished.

Chapter
Fifty

A cauldron can
cause great misery … if the mixture within is stirred in the wrong
direction.

Tattle

Saska watched
the glow of Torrullin’s piercing of the seal and rounded on
Caballa.

“
Now?
What is he thinking?”

Caballa laid a
hand on Saska’s shoulder. “He wouldn’t leave unless it’s
important.”

“He says
nothing! What happened to discussion?”

“We’ve long
passed the point of discussion.”

“Gods,
Caballa, we’re surrounded. They’ll know he’s gone - that glow isn’t
exactly invisible.”

“Saska,
please. You know it’s something of importance.”

“So many
secrets in his head.”

“We all have
our secrets,” Caballa said. “Even that boy Torrullin spoke to in
the courtyard.”

“What
boy?”

“His name
escapes me, but Torrullin spoke with him, and afterward he went up
top …”

“Gods!” Saska
whispered, covering her face, “Where am I? Am I so wrapped up in
myself I notice nothing? I didn’t even know he left the mountain. I
shame myself. I shame him.”

Caballa looked
away. Saska was beginning to act like a spoilt child and tantrums
were something
no one
could afford at present. Knowing how a
spoilt child could get ever more fractious under criticism, she
said nothing.

“Forgive me,
Caballa.”

The Elder did
not reply, although she smiled.

“You have a
good soul, calm, at peace.”

Caballa
sighed. “I just hide well, Saska.”

“Secrets?”

“Indeed.”

“Would you
like to … no, again forgive me, I’m prying.”

Caballa
grinned. “Yes, you are, but I don’t mind. Sometimes it’s good to
share. Now is not the time, though. I should be on watch.”

Saska frowned.
“Yes, I thought you came back too quickly. Something wrong?”

“It’s pitch
dark in the mountains, which is conducive to visions. Yes, before
you ask, I saw something. When Torrullin returns ask him to come to
me.” Before Saska could delay her further, she transported out.

Saska, staring
at the vacated space, thought it was becoming ever clearer no one
trusted her, at least not as they had before.