The Dreamer Stones (69 page)

What in all
gods’ names had he done to disturb the natural order so?

Byron Morave
stood at a window.

His hands
clenched tight to the sill. It was unnatural dark. The hairs on his
arms, the back of his neck, stood stiff.

Mother
Goddess, help him, he prayed.

The spaceport
at Two Town in the south sheltered many hundreds in the lounges and
hangars.

Children raced
outside as snow began to fall and before long a great variety of
snowmen adorned the deserted concourse, causing much hilarity among
the young, and indulgent smiles among the adults.

Hungry they
were, and cold, but the dread creatures left them in peace for two
nights and the kids deserved fun.

Smiles
vanished a while later and foreboding set in.

Above, in the
heavens, there appeared a hole, pitch-black dark. No light. No
shadows. There, where the Valleur valley …

Even the kids
scrambled back indoors.

Was it indeed
an end?

Chapter
Fifty-Five

Protect what
you love most. Do not waver.

Arun, druid

He made a
promise.

He made it the
day he handed Queen Abdiah the Lumin Sword.

Valaris is
my world. Do
not
attempt to wrest it from me.

His promise
had not much to do with Light, peace, and the bliss of eternal
goodness, although most chose to read it that way. It helped them,
and did bring on the state for two millennia.

His promise
had not much to do with the choice of good over evil, or Light over
Dark, Lumin over Darak, although many chose to believe he had
selected a path. The Enchanter is the Light, they said. Again, it
helped them. They trusted when evil reared he would send it on its
way, and in that lay their hope. It held them firm when evil did
come as prophesied.

They could not
foresee the destiny that lay in wait. Enchanter prepared for
Elixir.

Elixir walked
the Path of Shades.

However,
Elixir, Enchanter, mere mortal, hand magician, and whatever he was
aside, his promise held true.
Valaris is my world. Do
not
attempt to wrest it from me.

The moment
Agnimus meddled with Torrke, the original sentience, he attempted
to wrest Valaris from itself and, by inference, from the One who
made a promise. That sentience revealed itself to the Enchanter
alone in all the ages. It trusted him, had aided him.

Now it was
dying.

DO NOT ATTEMPT
TO WREST IT FROM ME!

He did not
want Elixir on Valaris and now there was no choice.

As recently
become as he was and therefore ignorant of what he was capable of
and in direct denial of what he knew, Elixir was a danger to
Valaris. Not to the planet, but to the people inhabiting her. His
true effectiveness lay in his Kaval, in delegation. His personal
effectiveness lay in last resort.

Call on Elixir
when other options failed.

Other options
had not had opportunity, and now there was no time to give them a
run. No choice. Torrke trusted him and he could do no other than
repay that trust.

Immediately.
Before the period for recall lapsed.

Using the snow
seemed a good idea. A natural phenomenon he could aid in intensity.
Mire the creatures down, bury them, freeze them, suffocate them.
They were draithen, Mor Feru, worthless, evil scum. In death send
them home, Digilan or netherworld, and close the doors.

Although
tossing a snowball could not harm, an excess of snow would deter
them in much the manner it would a proficient sorcerer. They were
not immortal.

A good plan,
and had the snowfall commenced earlier it would have worked long
enough to aid Torrke.

Rising into
the air, the air of the spaces where there was no snow, no leaden
sky, no atmosphere, where being was thought and imagination and
instinct, where place was not a concept, nor time a constant,
rising up, up, up, Torrullin became Elixir.

The Animated
Spirit chose to save Torrke, knowingly bringing death to the
sentients upon its borders, and to those within its embrace. He
chose what was at the beginning to endure unto its own and chosen
end.

Ancient things
lost were irreplaceable, while man, animal and evil could
repopulate. There was no cognitive thought for the lesser beings,
or sympathy. The Path of Shades held all things, but sympathy
during action was not one. Regret, yes, but it came after.

Snow anchored
the veil.

Elixir brought
the dark, enveloping the draithen in a time warp where down was
left, maybe, and up was diagonal, perhaps. There was no reality in
that dark, yet all was solid. The absence of light was so dense it
became tangible. The utter quiet that accompanied it was deafening
- no word, if it could be conceived as thought, was heard in that
denseness, for the silence drowned it like a shrieking scream of
pure terror, where terror was unheard.

The hole of
black witnessed from afar was an opening in time itself. Time sped
so swiftly along the reality of Torrke’s patch of sky, it could no
longer be perceived and, conversely, it ticked by so slowly, aeons
of darkness interrupted each second achieved on the master
mechanism. Into the spinning vortex of timelessness came Elixir and
with him walked the Shades. There was no right or wrong, merely a
choice.

A trench in
time tore open, a deep moat where all unwanted creatures could be
summarily dumped into. Had it been visible it would translate into
the mountains vanished on either side of the valley. A sal wide
trench all around. It was direct access to the netherworld. There
was no escape.

The questions,
unasked after, would be why had he waited until it was almost too
late? Why had he waited until the valley hosted thousands? Were
they asked and were he to reply, Torrullin may have answered he
sought the solution that spared innocent life, found it wanting, or
outside of the time frame, and had in the first instance not sought
the situation. Also, some would point out, he came to the valley to
find it already occupied. Evil was thrust upon them - sacrifices
had to be made.

It was not the
end of all things, although it felt that way to many, and was to
some. A moment stretched into eternity and eternity condensed into
a single instant.

Snow. Dark.
Silence. Absence of everything.

Then, with
time different to every witness, came light.

Blue sky.
Sound. Life returned.

The gift of
Torrullin, however, came at a price.

Chapter
Fifty-Six

What have I
done?

Lament

Torrullin
stood in the geographic centre of the valley, a still figure.

His face was
pale and a new care line had appeared, running from nose to corner
of mouth.

Finally, he
looked up to see, to know, the impossibly blue sky. Was it truly
day, or was it a sign for Torrke?

He gazed west
then. The sun was going down. Dusk elsewhere and still snowing
lightly. The blue hole overhead was a sign.

He smiled.

Lowen and
Caballa released each other.

Alive, they
were alive. One was not so surprised; the other was utterly
astonished.

Tymall’s whoop
nearby revealed he, curse him, lived also.

He turned and
grinned at them and then all turned their gazes onto the
valley.

Empty.

Even Tymall
lost every trace of colour.

Vannis told
him, “Sorcery, Torrullin, is a way of recreating and reordering
events, times, worlds in the mind, through the power of imagination
where it’s so vivid the imagination takes on life, and the images
made different take on talismanic powers and that influences the
real world. It has less to do with words and symbols and devices.
It’s the mind, my boy, the mind, and the strength to use it.”

The answer to
the question, What is sorcery?

Simple. Mind.
Imagination. Complicated. Few could do it. Do it as he did.

He reordered
time and place, recreated a point of departure. Reality was
subverted, altered, taken away, and restored in another way. The
ultimate sorcery. A million draithen departed, along with a few
thousand undeserving.

True power did
not distinguish between the deserving and undeserving. True power
had no conscience. Therefore, Elixir walked the Path of Shades. His
doom, his salvation, his destiny.

Torrullin
lowered his gaze to the pure, unblemished white of the valley after
a gentle snowfall. All gone. Draithen. Human. Valleur.

He closed his
silvery eyes, tracked quickly. Seven survivors.

Seven. Among
them Agnimus.

He drew
breath, opened his eyes. Turned in a wide circle. A haunting cry
drew his eyes up once more. A lone eagle soared against the blue
hole, dipped its wings, cried out … and vanished through the
hole.

The bird of
omen. A lone eagle, associated with kings, destiny, blood and
sacrifice. All four those … concepts … evidenced this day. Indeed.
Torrke sent its appreciation on winged magic.

Torrke was
alive and whole.

There was
that.

“My God,”
Lowen gasped.

Caballa drew
one shaky breath after the other, her gaze on the lone figure in
the distance. She felt him touch. Tracking. Gods, what had he
done?

“Are we the
only ones left?” Tymall said, sounding young and unsure. Caballa
felt sorry for him. He was no match for his father. “Is there
anyone alive here?”

“I’m still
here.” Samuel, behind them. He was as pale as they were. He stared
at Tymall. “Appears our blood saved us.”

“Huh,” Tymall
muttered, looking away, his gaze drawn to his father.

“That doesn’t
explain us,” Lowen murmured.

Caballa said
nothing.
He needs me
. He ensured her survival. Her face
twisted in anguish and she turned, striding through the Dragon
doors into the Keep.

“You’re part
of his current triangle,” Tymall said.

“Bugger off.”
Lowen was about to follow Caballa when she saw movement in the
east. “Someone else made it.”

Samuel
frowned, studying the movement, then, “Two. Krikian and
Kismet.”

“Well, well.
One part of your recent past, Lowen,” Tymall muttered, “and the
other always at Caballa’s side. Couldn’t part the teams, could he?
Did you note how he sent his beloved away? Perhaps he was afraid
he’d let her die.” Tymall turned to give her a sneering glance.

Samuel grabbed
her as she lunged forward and dragged her aside. “Forget it,” he
said in her ear. “He’s out of his depth, he’s lashing out.”

“Stuff you,
Samuel,” Tymall said. “Watch yourself. The draithen are gone. We’ll
meet soon.”

“I look
forward to it.” Samuel pulled at Lowen and herded her into the
Keep. “Ignore the idiot.”

“Jesus,
Samuel, they all died,” Lowen said, coming to a standstill. “He …
he …”

“… he did what
he had to.” Both looked up as it suddenly darkened. “Phew, night,
just night. It’s returning to normal, that’s all.” Samuel’s voice
held immeasurable relief.

“Nothing is
normal anymore,” Lowen said. She shook her head and headed for the
dining chamber, wondering if any retainers, bless them, made it
through as well. She would find no one but a stunned Caballa in the
kitchens.

A few minutes
later the two Valleur approached. Both halted before Tymall. “You
made it,” Krikian said. “Pity.”

“Difficult to
cull weeds,” Kismet muttered. Tymall ignored them and the men
turned to follow his intense gaze. Torrullin wandered closer, as if
in a daze. “Krik, do you think we should go to him?”

“I don’t
know.”

“Go inside -
I’ll wait,” Tymall said.

“You’ll only
upset him,” Kismet growled, but Krikian collared him.

“Perhaps it
should be, Kis. Let’s go.” The two entered the Keep, trying hard
not to look back.

Torrullin came
to rest before his son. When Tymall made to speak, he lifted his
hand. “Quiet. I shall not dissemble this day. Know this; you cannot
overcome me, ever. Make your choices, make your play, for I want
this done. I am tired of games and I am tired of this waiting.”

Tymall drew
breath. “Samuel …”

“Do what you
must and finish it. I have another destiny.” Torrullin stared into
his son’s eyes and then walked on past him into the courtyard.
“Close the doors behind you, please. Agnimus watches.”

Torrullin was
different.

No smile, no
spark in his eyes. Truthfully, none there felt reason for joy. Yes,
the draithen were gone and the valley was saved … at a price. He
did not speak of it and neither did they.