The Dreamer Stones (68 page)

Lily resided
on Minea, a breathtaking world of forest and flower, and her people
fed and clothed her, revering who and what she was. She lived in a
cave in outlying hills - there were no mountains on Minea - and was
content to spend her days busy with potions and healing herbs. Her
reign had not yet been long or taxing and she was happy.

“Saska!” she
trilled, rising from a fire on which a small cauldron bubbled.

“Lily,” Saska
smiled, leaning over to smell the vapours. “Hmm, rosemary and sage
and … um …”

“… trolldew!”
Lily laughed. “It’s good to see you. Are you checking up on me?”
There was a gentle tease in her tone.

“I need your
help.”

The Lady was
serious. “Sit, Saska, and tell me.” She waved one small hand at the
flat boulders that served as her chairs, arranged in a semi-circle
around the fire pit. As Saska sat, she hunkered before the fire and
commenced stirring. “Speak,” she commanded.

Saska told
her, beginning slowly, her voice hesitant, staring mesmerised into
the vapours. Before long, she revealed everything - her shame at
hiding in the boathouse, her confession to Lowen, her fears for her
marriage, everything. She spoke of Tymall, Teighlar, the Kaval, the
Valleur deaths, Tannil’s insanity, Fay’s pregnancy, Lowen, Samuel,
everything. And, yes, Agnimus, the draithen, the threat to Torrke
and the real reason she came.

It took a long
time and once she started to unburden, she could not stop. Lily did
not interrupt or react, not once. When Saska eventually lapsed into
cleansed silence, she took the cauldron from the fire and placed it
one side to cool.

It was too
long on the fire and was useless as a healing potion, and both knew
that, as both knew why she stirred and stirred. Neither remarked on
it.

Lily looked up
and met Saska’s gaze head-on. “You know better than anyone I can’t
bring life to an ancient sentience; it doesn’t work that way. Now,
I know why you had to ask, I know you feel you were forced into
this, so I don’t judge your request, but the answer is no. The Lady
can restore life where she deems it incapable of arising unaided,
as you did for the valley two millennia back, but she can’t touch
that kind of intelligence. We’re talking of a thing with a
different soul. It is not in my power.”

“I know,”
Saska murmured, bowing her head.

“However …”
Saska raised her head. “… if the destruction is such that the
golden people can’t restore life to the valley, I’ll come
gladly.”

“Thank you,
Lily.”

The young
woman smiled. “Things are not that bad, are they?”

“Yes, they
are.”

Lily dipped
her head. “Forgive me. I’m still young enough to think most things
can be fixed.”

“And that is
why I chose you.”

A shrug. “I
think you’ll be a hard act to follow. You did extraordinary things
during your reign. You relied on maturity and experience, and what
do I have? Youth and a stupid belief in fixing things, except I
can’t help you in the one thing you ask for, so what good is all
this?”

“You doubt, my
Lady?”

“Sometimes.”

Saska leaned
forward and gripped the Minean’s hand. “Listen to me. My time was
different - they are all different and that is why we need new
blood - and you are the perfect and right choice to be our Lady
now. Lily, the time of peace is over and you will be called upon
more often than you can cope with. Enjoy this period, for it grants
you strength for the future, and believe in yourself, as I do.”

“Thank you. I
needed to hear it.”

“Now forgive
my haste, but I must leave.”

Lily shook her
head and rose holding onto Saska’s hand. Gently she drew the Sylmer
woman up with her. “Stay. Night falls on Minea and it can be a
religious experience. Come watch the sunset with me. And later we
shall talk …”

“About?”

“The man who
is all things, including your husband.” She said nothing more and
drew Saska up the winding path with her.

It led to the
lookout on the hill where one could watch the glorious hues of a
magnificent sunset upon a beautiful world.

Declan turned
in his ogive and met Belun’s anxious gaze.

“Whatever
happens, Belun, he will return to the Dome.”

“How, Declan?
We know how he cares for his world. If it succumbs …”

“It won’t get
to that,” was the grim response. “He won’t allow it.”

Belun nodded
and Declan left. He would not allow it, no, but what would survive
his cleansing?

Elixir walked
the path of shadows.

Dusk brought
three things.

One, the snow
lessened sufficiently to find shelter; two, the railway track
angled south, proving they made good time, and; three, the first
premonition of a disaster greater than what he discovered upon
leaving the basement.

Marcus rounded
the curve in the track and saw a copse of trees not too far ahead.
A good enough place to shelter -might even find twigs under the
snow. A smoky fire probably, but a fire nonetheless.

As he stepped
off the track he looked south and for the first time since leaving
Galilan could see further than an arm’s length before him. What he
saw caused his blood to run cold.

The Morinnes
were visible through the decreasing snow, but it was a mountain
range altered. Alien. The mountains were black … as if they were no
longer there.

His mouth
hanging slackly open, Marcus Campian stared.

The village of
Moor, the place Taranis of the Guardians made famous, the place the
newly arrived evil of the Warlock first manifested, was a place of
ghosts.

In that, it
was much the same as the hugeness of Galilan, Gasmoor and the
hamlets of Barrier and Crossing.

Life, however,
was tenacious and resourceful. It took one person to declare to the
empty spaces it was safe here and life renewed.

Rene Sirlan
awakened the morning of the snow expectant and breathed in clean,
fresh air. It felt good outside - it felt safe. Smiling, she spoke
over her shoulder to her aging father and told him as much.

She went down
the front steps, hung over the gate, and looked left and right
along the main road. Two days she laboured alone, dragging the dead
from their homes and other terrible places, and buried them in the
pit dug three weeks ago in preparation of a new store. Covering
them with soil from the heap took longer than bringing them to
their final resting place, but she did so. Then she cleared away
rubbish, storm debris and broken things.

Houses needed
patching, but Moor was habitable. She had not left when the
creatures came, for her father was too ill to move.

Today she was
glad she stayed. The two of them survived and a Valleur came by
bringing food and medicine. She could still see the surprise in his
golden eyes when he discovered her unscathed.

She stayed,
she bore witness, and she took them to a decent burial.

Rene took deep
breaths of the clear air. Snow. Early, but perhaps necessary to
hide the manifold scarring. A psychological cleansing, even though
the cold boded ill for the sick and homeless out there.

She stepped
into the centre of Moor’s only road and shouted, “If anyone can
hear me, know Moor is safe and clean! Come home, folks! It’s good
to be alive!”

Her voice must
have carried a distance in the still air, for twenty minutes later
a man and his wife walked into Moor, calling out, and when she ran
outside, he told her he heard her.

Swallowing
joyful tears, she hugged them both and then shouted again, lifting
her voice high and clear.

By the time
the snow fell, eighteen heard her and by dusk every house in Moor
had a new family, and still they came.

One arrived
with dire news. An old man telling how the great Morinnes had
vanished, how empty space occupied the places where the mighty
range stood.

Rene Sirlan
said simply, “The Enchanter, my friends, is saving our world. We
should dwell on what is good and send to him our prayers. We
shouldn’t now be anxious and wonder.”

They believed
her and slept well that night.

Two of the
Syllvan looked ponderously towards each other.

It was strange
to see them turn their neck-less heads and their three guests
stopped what they were doing to stare. The four Syllvan came to
them, to the Place of Peace, to check all was well, they said, and
now this unnerving communication that passed from the two who
looked at each other, to the two immobile a distance away.

Curin did not
want to know. Teroux giggled, but Tristan rose and asked, “What’s
happened?”

All four
zeroed in on him, but he did not flinch. Time passed as they
watched him, no doubt debating in their manner what to say and what
not to say, and then, “Elixir has made a choice this day.”

Nothing
further. Tristan looked at his mother, who would not meet his eyes,
and then turned back to them, frowning. “That makes no sense. We
deserve to know.”

The one who
had spoken, sighed. “Little man, some things cannot be explained in
words.”

Tristan put
his hands on his hips. “Try,” he said and then added, “Please.”

“We shall say
this, Elixir has chosen the ancient intelligence over the new.
There are consequences, but his choice is the right one.”

Curin glared
up. “What does that mean, for pity’s sake?”

“Death,” said
one.

“Life,” said
another.

“He chooses
with his soul, not his heart,” said the third.

The fourth,
furthest away, added, “This day he is Elixir.”

Despite
repeated requests for clarification, the Syllvan would not be
drawn, leaving Tristan and Curin with dark foreboding.

Teroux said
nothing, but his tawny gaze flitted from mother to son until he
grew agitated. Curin told Tristan to leave off questioning, which
he did.

Not long after
the Syllvan left and mother and son stared at each other. Something
terrible had happened.

Their only
thought then was for Samuel, husband and father.

Fay was a
month from the birth of her child.

Her rounded
stomach detracted not from her beauty. She was radiant, glowing
with health and inner strength.

The only mark
on the present days of lazy indulgence was Tymall’s continued
absence. He promised he would come when he was ready for Luvanor.
When would that be? She missed him and needed him to feel his son
growing inside her.

She and
Teighlar played chess in the Great Hall. They spent time together,
although she was not fooled as to his motives. He watched her, and
she let him. Nothing was to jeopardise the safe birth of this baby.
She would raise this child with love, train him well and when he
was ready, reveal to him the full extent of his inheritance.

“Check,” she
said, moving her bishop into position.

Teighlar
grinned. “Ah, Fay, no, no. You missed my rook … sorry.” With a
flourish, he removed the offending bishop from the board. He played
well and invariably beat her.

She smiled
slyly. “You think?” Her queen swept across the squares.
“Checkmate!”

He affected a
hilarious double take and she giggled. He was genuinely surprised,
but then he was distracted throughout the game.

“Ah, well,” he
conceded and flicked his king over. “Next time.”

“Something on
your mind, Emperor?”

“I’m sorry?
No, my dear, just daily distractions. My scribe has a problem with
parchment, seems we’re out of stock …”

“… and the
Senlu love to keep meticulous record, I know,” Fay smiled. “The
Academia always has spare.”

Teighlar
pulled a face. “Appears not at present. The resin they use as cure
is low.”

She studied
him while he deftly removed the pieces from the board, placing each
in its niche in the velvet-coated chest. “Something else bothers
you.”

He looked up,
wary. “Yes?”

Fay flopped
back into her armchair and sighed. “Valaris?”

Teighlar
frowned. “There’s an odd vibration in the spaces.” He shrugged and
said nothing more. Slotting the final pawn into its place, he
closed and lifted the chest and collected the board. Rising, he
said, “Forgive me, my dear, but despite vibrations, I need appease
my scribes.” He bowed and left her there.

Unobtrusively
a Senlu perked up. She smiled inwardly; she was not blind or
stupid, and the guard was over-zealous. Then she frowned.

Teighlar had
been itchy for days and was saying nothing.

Teighlar
strode into the library.

There was
indeed a problem with parchment, but it had naught to do with him.
His scribes coped, having made alternate arrangement. He waved
irritably when the scribes rose to greet him, and went to the
little grate in the far wall.

Placing the
board and chest on the adjacent table, he hunkered before the small
blaze. It was not cold inside the mountain despite severe weather
outside, but a fire always cheered and made forced indoor living
bearable. Luvanor’s northern hemisphere was in the grip of a cold
and icy white season … and Teighlar sighed.

It was only
two weeks to spring; the weather would break soon.

He stared into
the flames, trying to conjure an image of Valaris. Nothing. He
attempted to trace Torrullin’s signature. Nothing. Why was it
black? What concealed Valaris?

Odd
vibrations. He had not lied when he mentioned it to Fay and could
now willingly cut out his unguarded tongue. She would not be fooled
by subterfuge anyway; a clever woman, too clever. For there were
vibrations … in the spaces.

Torrullin had
to be the source.