The Dreamer Stones (80 page)

He should do
something to stop it, even if it meant death. He considered the
four draithen guards. Take them out first … no, that gave Agnimus
time to react. Gods, if only it was a simple matter of burning the
parchment. He read that fire was not a deterrent. It would burn
until dismantled, a fiery doorway, protected by the symbols. He had
to dismantle it haphazardly to close it permanently and that meant
erecting it first.

Declan swam
closer as Agnimus placed the two angled blocks for the arch in
place. The parchment appeared to meld together forming a solid
edifice, akin to stone. Remarkable. It had to be an inherent
property; the Drinic had not wanted their shift to blow away in the
wind.

The centre
stone slid into place.

At first
nothing happened and then Agnimus tapped one of the angled blocks,
shifting it into closer alignment, and the ocean beyond vanished.
In its stead, a murky depth, and even over the ceaseless sound of
an ocean in motion Declan could hear depraved whispers.

That was
Digilan. Cold as he was, near immobile, the tiny hairs on his arms
and neck rose like icicles.

He had to do
something.

Rush the
platform, hope and pray he could get to a block before Agnimus
stopped him, or one of the guards, pull it out …

… he choked as
water filled his nostrils and spluttered.

Two draithen
came through the portal and behind them shadow upon shadow of more.
Ranks of soldiers waiting their turn.

He reached for
reserves and began to go forward. He would die, but he would
prevent this becoming another nightmare. His final service.

Intent there
was. Purpose. Resolve.

And no
strength.

As he made the
first purposeful stroke, he sank beneath the waves, swallowing
water, and was so cold he could not tell the difference between air
and water.

Down, down he
went, like a stone.

“Marcus, it
gladdens my heart to find you safe,” Torrullin said, attempting a
smile of welcome.

“My thanks,
but I wonder now if I would rather not have seen all this.”

Torrullin’s
half-hearted smile retreated and he sighed. “Yes, I can understand,
but your people will need you, Electan. The days ahead are
dark.”

Marcus nodded.
“Much to do.”

“Not only
that. More draithen are expected.”

The erstwhile
Electan, for he no longer felt as if he was any kind of leader,
shook his head. So much already, that the news barely registered,
or the coming threat had no power to shock or fill with misgiving,
fear and foreboding.

“Well, then we
take it as it comes.” Marcus ambled forward, his gaze on the golden
seat. “I’ve always wanted to touch it, sit in it … even when it was
legend.” He looked over his shoulder. “May I?”

Torrullin
pushed his hair from his face with both hands and rubbed his
cheeks. “A bad idea.”

“The tales are
true? No human may sit in it?” Marcus stepped onto the dais and
stood before the Throne.

“No Valleur
may sit on it either, Marcus.”

“Only
you?”

“And my
deputy, usually an Elder.”

“Ah.” Marcus
turned. “And who is that now? Kismet?”

“I have no
second.”

Marcus
wandered around the chamber thoughtfully.

Torrullin
shrugged and elaborated. “The Throne will not accept another this
time. The Elders as an entity are thus my second, without recourse
to the seat.”

“And if
something should happen to you?”

“Like what, my
friend? Were I to vanish, the seat will either cloak itself or wait
until I return. It’s sentient, Marcus, and doesn’t follow orders as
in the past.”

“Sentient?
It’s metal.”

“More than
mere metal. It’s old, truly old, and infused with much power, many,
many times over …”

“How old?”

Torrullin
spread his hands. “A number, Marcus? I cannot put a number to it.
Thousands of ages. It’s as old as the sentience of our universe -
well, perhaps a little younger, but the difference is
infinitesimal.”

Marcus
whistled. “So this is the same seat as the one in the beginning?
Aaru. It looks untouched.”

“It protects
itself,” Torrullin said and frowned. “Marcus …”

“Enchanter,
it’s all right. Sometimes anger is diffused by distraction.”

A genuine
smile tugged at Torrullin’s lips. The Electan was right. He was no
longer as angry as when he walked in. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention
it. Enchanter …”

“Torrullin,
please. Enchanter no longer fits too well.”

Marcus sighed
after a moment’s thought and nodded. “I guess not. Torrullin, I did
hear what you said about more draithen.”

“I know.”

“I found
something in my home in Galilan before … felt like a crypt, you
know? Had to get away from there.”

“I
understand.”

“Yes. Well, I
found a dead draithen under my bed.”

“Say
again.”

“A dead
draithen, Torrullin, and now I know as well how strange that
is.”

“Did you
investigate? Is it still there?”

“Unless crows
or cats got to it,” Marcus said with a shudder, “but I looked it
over.”

“That took
guts.”

“If you say
so. Nasty creature. It clutched something in its hand and before
you ask, I pried it loose.” Marcus fumbled in an inner pocket at
his breast. “It’s something an ambassador from Beacon once gave me,
a bribe, the fat idiot, but arresting, so I kept it. Ah, here it is
…” and he withdrew an object and held his hand out, palm open. “I
may be off the mark, but I think that creature died because it
touched this.”

Torrullin
reached out and lifted it. A smile spread across his face. “Indeed,
Marcus, my friend, indeed.”

It was a
pendant without its chain, an oval of gold holding within that slim
metal band something considered by adepts in the magical arts as a
symbol to aid sorcery. Used to invoke spirits or employed as a
charm against dark forces, it was also a talisman, a thing of luck.
The ambassador probably had no idea what it was, as Marcus did not
either. To them it was pretty or unusual, and yet in a sense, the
keeping of it, the passing of it, spoke of that inner recognition
of things magical, even if the waking soul remained ignorant.

Within the
band there was the stylised head of an animal. At first glance it
appeared as a goat until one noted the horns. Horn, singular. It
was a long horn, rising to its tapered point gradually with a
curving spiral indent about the length. Someone paid particular
attention to that horn, for its detail was crisp and clear despite
size.

It was a
unicorn. A creature of myth and magic, one with the ability to walk
in two realities simultaneously. A creature of beauty, inspiring
great awe, one tireless in every endeavour, be it a walk through a
wood or a gallop between legend and truth. No one had yet seen one
and still every culture knew it, and even a child could scratch a
basic likeness in the dirt.

Many tales
surrounded it - silver blood that gifted everlasting life; to see
one was to know good fortune all the days left to one; to kill one
was to know eternal damnation; it stood guard over the innocent and
the lost; it could outrun the wind; it could save one’s soul from
evil … and so on. All one had to do was believe.

In the world
of magic it was considered a powerful tool and even sorcerers could
not tell with certainty whether it truly existed or not. They used
its likeness, recognising the qualities on faith alone.

“A unicorn,”
Torrullin murmured. “A draithen cannot touch something so pure.
Even in Digilan the legend lives. How wonderful.”

“I’m
sorry?”

Torrullin
focused. “Apparently Digilan is a realm of only shadows and
darkness, Marcus, and yet the unicorn is known there. It means no
matter how evil we are, we can know purity. There is always a shred
of light in the darkest place.”

Marcus
appeared unbelieving and Torrullin waved a hand as if it were of no
consequence.

“So you do
think the draithen are susceptible to that symbol?” Marcus asked,
sensing he somehow disappointed the man.

“Yes.”
Torrullin found renewed purpose. Anger was forgotten, and the
intricacies of relationships. “Krikian!”

When the
Valleur entered a few minutes later, he found his Vallorin turning
a small coin over in his fingers.

“The draithen
cannot abide this symbol. Marcus tells of how he discovered one
dead holding this. Take a look.”

“A unicorn. An
ancient symbol of purity. The Valleur after Nemisin wore them for a
time, suspecting evil spirits …”

“What we know
as draithen now,” Torrullin murmured.

Krikian’s
entire posture exuded enlightenment. “Ah, now I get it.”

“Indeed. Full
circle. Krik, how fast can we make unicorn amulets?”

Krikian began
to smile and rubbed his hands together in glee. “Faster than
Agnimus can gather his army again.”

“Excellent.
See it done.” Torrullin dropped the little pendant into Krikian’s
palm and smiled. “We forget the power in old things, do we not? It
can be so simple.”

“We regard
ourselves above simple things, to our occasional detriment,”
Krikian said and turned to Marcus. “Marcus, I need a goldsmith and
gold.” He placed an arm about the Electan’s shoulders and led him
away. “Enough gold for the first few and thereafter magic can
multiply.”

“Byron will
know a goldsmith,” Marcus murmured.

“There’s
sufficient gold on Valla Island,” Torrullin called out.

“Yes,” Krikian
said, slapping his forehead.

“Marcus,”
Torrullin called out, as the two were about to vanish. “Well done.
A small act of bravery may just save all who now survive.”

The small,
dark figure smiled and nodded. A burden lifted from his shoulders.
Life had meaning after all; his survival had a purpose.

“Tinker!” he
called and whistled. “We can take her with us, yes?” he asked
Krikian, smiling with relief when the Valleur grinned.

Torrullin was
sombre as he watched the little dog come running to be tenderly
lifted. He watched the three leave.

Marcus and
Byron Morave, lifelong friends, were about to reunite. Simple
pleasures. Friendship. Caring for a pet. Hope. Purpose. Then he
sighed.

Time to get to
Luvanor.

Where is
Declan?

He paced the
courtyard, sending his new senses out, but there was no trace of
the Siric.

Agnimus came
through clear. It was as if he stood beside the draithen leader,
watching his army exit two-by-two. He saw them wander to the edge
of the sea platform to lift into the air. By his reckoning, taking
into account the speed with which they appeared, it would be fifty
hours before Agnimus did anything serious.

Fine. Time
enough to go to Luvanor, and return.

He sent
Krikian the time limit and then withdrew from the view of the
platform. He frowned as he did so. Had Agnimus sensed Declan?

“Lowen, where
are you?”

She peered
over the balcony wall.

“Time to go to
Luvanor. Will you come?”

She nodded and
walked down to him.

Taking his
hand when he offered it, she permitted him to take them to
Grinwallin together.

Chapter
Sixty-Three

Often we find
help in the most unlikely places, unasked for. Never deny it when
it is given unselfishly.

Scroll of
Wisdom

When Lowen and
Torrullin left Valaris, it was an hour after midday, and when they
arrived in Grinwallin, it was to find dusk settling over the
eastern land, with the quickening of spring in the air.

Torrullin was
unseeing and unappreciative, but Lowen was entranced, smiling with
secret pleasure.

He frowned
down at her. “No time for levity.”

Lowen glared
at him and pointedly turned away to study the lengthening
shadows.

They appeared
on the level below the Great Hall and climbed the stairs as Emperor
Teighlar exited to await them above. The two men clasped arms,
looking at each other intently.

“I let him
in,” Teighlar said. “He is with Fay.”

“Thank you.”
Torrullin sighed as he released the Emperor’s arm.

“Go. I
understand the urgency. Samuel was a bit garbled, but I read
between the lines.”

“You’re a good
friend. Join us later. I feel an unexpected something
approaching.”

“Unexpected
only in the guise it will assume.”

Torrullin’s
lips twitched. “Right.”

Teighlar’s
eyes smiled, and then, “Grinwallin is ready.”

Torrullin
nodded and glanced at Lowen. “You are welcome to join us.”

“Not yet, I
think. I’ll accompany Teighlar if he doesn’t mind.”

“He doesn’t
mind,” Teighlar smiled and offered Lowen his arm.

Torrullin’s
mouth worked and then he turned and bounded down the stairs to
vanish into the lower levels.

“Lowen?”

“He’s not
himself … um …”

“I felt a
shiver in the spaces. Torrullin?”

“Yes, as
Elixir,” she answered as they strolled into the Great Hall.

“Bad?”

“The worst so
far.”

“Worse than
the Three Voices?”

“Not as
brutal, but … I don’t know how to put it. More innocents? This time
he knew precisely what would happen? No one speaks of it. I think
no one ever will really.”

“Ah,” Teighlar
muttered.

His Senlu
never referred to the annihilation he brought about either.
Regarded as collateral damage, it could not be aired without guilt
manifesting, his guilt, and that was not the ideal behind this
second chance. It was something Torrullin would have to work
through alone, but the fact that no one spoke of it revealed
understanding - it was a beginning.