The Dreamer Stones (82 page)

“Goddess …”
and then Fay screeched, jerking up into a half sitting
position.

Torrullin
frowned. The period between each contraction was not constant and
neither was the severity of pain. He knew there were no set rules
for childbirth, but sensed something amiss.

A thought
entered, leaving him cold, his veins like ice. “Ty. Look at
me.”

Tymall turned
from the window.

“Have you
spoken to your son since you arrived?”

“Fay’s in
labour … I wasn’t sure if …”

“Do it now.”
Torrullin’s voice brooked no argument.

Tymall’s eyes
narrowed. “You think this may be like our birth? A twin
unrecognised?”

That omission
led to the strife between Tristamil and his brother, and to the
revenge process currently underway. Lack of recognition of a
Valleur unborn generally heralded dire consequence.

“Fay would be
in terrible pain and the danger to her life would be obvious even
to a dunce.” Torrullin paused to look at Fay, who listened
carefully, eyes wide. “You’re fine, Fay; she’s all right, son.
However, I sense a complication.” He put his hand in his hair and
sighed. “It may not come to pass, but you should cover your
bases.”

Tymall nodded
and approached the bed. Lying beside his wife, he pushed her frock
aside. His hand hovering, he asked, “Are you afraid of this,
Fay?”

“I’ll be
petrified if you don’t check right now.”

She still had
her fire. Good, Torrullin thought, and retreated to the shadow of
the doorway to grant them privacy.

Tymall’s hand
lowered. A moment elapsed and then he smiled. It was as if no one
else existed. His mind, his heart, his soul, whatever it was, bent
to his son. Rising onto his knees, he crouched over Fay’s roundness
and started to whisper. His hands crackled in blue flame, alive and
appearing almost separate as they spread out over the bump that
cradled his unborn son. Torrullin’s gaze shifted to Fay.

She lay with
her eyes closed as tears squeezed out from under her lids. His own
eyes pricked and he forced himself to look away.

A footfall at
the front door drew his attention and he turned to see Lowen
enter.

“I did
knock.”

“Fay is in
labour,” he said, knowing that would explain it.

Behind her was
Teighlar. Having overheard, he asked, “Should we rather leave?”

Torrullin
shook his head and turned back to the bedchamber. Crossing his
arms, he leaned against the doorjamb. A few seconds later, he
sensed Lowen at his side. They watched Tymall murmuring over Fay’s
stomach, and saw how Fay attempted to still her cries and movement
to make it easier.

Lowen took
Torrullin’s folded arm and pressured him into the outer
chamber.

“Go and eat
something. Sit for a while,” she whispered, noting the dark lines
under his eyes.

“Did you see
the Valleur host?”

“Teighlar told
me.”

“You’re a dark
horse, Emperor.”

“Didn’t feel
the need to spoil the surprise.”

“Is something
wrong with Fay?” Lowen asked.

“She seems
fine. Maybe I’m just tired. I’m going out for fresh air.” Torrullin
left, leaving the door ajar.

They heard him
pound down the stairs.

Outside it was
dark.

Outside the
air was cool. Outside the sounds of the city was muted. Outside a
figure stood staring up at the rooms where Fay lay in labour, where
Tymall whispered.

Outside waited
the Tracloc.

Veins of ice
gave way to highways of fire.

“Digilan has
no quarrel with Elixir,” a disembodied voice whispered. “Not a soul
here will be touched, thus Digilan swears. We have come for the
Warlock alone.”

Fury subsided.
“He is willing to return.”

“The Warlock
lies to Elixir. The Warlock will resist removal.”

“That is mere
dogma.”

The figure
moved into the subtle starlight. A tall man, brawny, the type
required when muscle was necessary, but a bright and knowing
intelligence simmered in the black, whiteless eyes. Not a mere
muscle man. He was clothed head to toe in concealing grey, cloth
that subtly altered in the shadows, playing camouflage to light and
dark. His skin too was dark, not pigment, but as in concealer.
Rubber soles negated footsteps. Whether he was human or otherwise
was difficult to tell.

“Dogma doesn’t
enter into it, Elixir. Digilan rarely sends my kind out to retrieve
a recalcitrant; there is no precedent to uphold your
statement.”

“Must I
therefore believe you can tell the future or read what is in his
mind?”

“The Warlock
is in a state of confusion. He has lost his certainty. He will balk
against retrieval because Digilan loves not imperfect purpose.”

“You can read
him.”

The Tracloc
inclined his head. “It’s a small talent, but useful to the
caste.”

“Why were you
sent?”

The shadowy
figure was silent for a time. “I believe you ask why a Tracloc? We
cannot be swayed, we always complete our assignments, and we are
employed when an oath-break is imminent. The Warlock spoke an oath
that can no longer be fulfilled.”

“His wife and
son?”

“And his
father, but that is to be expected. Had you been the only Valla in
this reality, Digilan would have considered the oath upheld.”

“You flatter
me.”

“A truth,
Elixir, when you are a true Immortal, not so?”

“I could take
the woman and child beyond.”

A ghost of a
smile revealed deliberately stained teeth. “The Warlock walked away
from killing his genetic equal, so what of that blood? And what of
the two young heirs?”

Silence. Then,
“Your kind has another talent, I see.”

“The Medaillon
hides them from the Warlock’s blood call, but not from Digilan’s
Unmade. Not even the Gatekeepers see
them
all the time. The
talent, I regret, is not mine.”

“You knew he
would fail.”

“Elixir, you
put this failure in place yourself. We aren’t permitted to
interfere, but I was prepared for this mission some while ago,
yes.”

“May I ask
what form the oath took?”

“Beyond the
obvious, I assume. Simply put, Digilan requires resources. Valaris
is perfect for inclusion into our realm.”

“My son had to
become ultimate leader and the easiest way was to ensure he alone
carried the Valla blood.”

“Correct.”

“He was given
a time frame.”

“Naturally, or
mastery could be stalled for centuries.”

“Why does that
matter?”

“He is
Warlock.”

“Forgive my
stupidity, but it sounds as if Digilan is structured sufficiently
to manage without a Warlock.”

A soft sigh in
the dark. “Digilan is chaos and torture and all manner of contrary
and uncontrollable things. Generally. The structure you glean from
my words comes from …”

“The Warlock,”
Torrullin sighed.

“Correct. The
institution, the symbolism, the visible head. Doubt not he has real
power, but he is also a figurehead to the rabble, the figurehead of
a structure that is the older power. We would be sundered without
him and he is nothing without us.”

“Digilan’s old
structure loses face if the Warlock breaks an oath and is seen to
get away with it.”

“And, poof,
revolution.”

“Choose
another.”

The brief
smile again. “The Warlock chooses himself. He dons the cloak, grips
the staff, and takes unto himself the circlet because he is
stronger. An aspirant must fight the current Warlock to assume the
mantle.”

“Ah. What
happens if the cloak and staff are no more?”

“Ah, yes, the
other Valla. Unexpected, that. Have no fear, the Unmade have
created new accruements.”

“And are they
as good?”

“New versus
old? Yes - perhaps better. Certain protections were weaved into
cloth and grain.”

“No outsiders
can wield them again.”

“Correct.”

Torrullin
looked up and behind him when a loud shriek pierced the night air.
Fay’s labour entered accelerated phase. Time to get back. Gods, he
was tired.

“Do you have a
name, Tracloc?”

“A name
denotes individuality. No.”

Torrullin
nodded. “That is why I cannot hear it, but you have a nickname.
Something only one person calls you by.”

The form gazed
steadily back. “It is of no use to you.”

“No, but I
think you understand how emotions can pull. My son is, since his
return to Valaris at my side, more the boy he was once. I assume it
has something to do with not wearing his accruements, partly, and
the rest is due to his wife and child.”

“And you,
Elixir. You ceased judging him.”

“Perhaps. He
can be returned to …”

“No. Any
turnaround would only result in the Path of Shades.”

“It is
enough.”

“I shall not
look away.”

He was Elixir;
he could force the creature to look away.

“Another will
come,” the weird voice sounded, “and another, into infinitum. Force
that, and the powers of Digilan may annex your world to ensure
compliance. There are worse things than the Mor Feru. Is that a
hell you could envision? Elixir, we are well aware of your terrible
strength, and Digilan bows to it with utmost respect, but how long
before you triumph? What would be left of your world?”

Elixir drew
back. A father began to mourn in silence. “I ask a boon, then.”

“The
Gatekeepers intimated you would either have to hide the blood or
follow the Warlock into Digilan - either would mark a win. However,
having Become, you know it is no longer required that you fight him
in our realm. You are stronger; you may ward the flaws against his
return. You may ward against future incursion.”

“I would know
he has a semblance of life.”

The Tracloc
murmured., “I do understand the pull of emotion. A boon, then. One
we suspected would be asked, and grant as a mark of our
respect.”

They stared at
each other as it was asked and granted.

“What of the
Mor Feru? What oath did they speak?”

The form
shrugged, disgust evident in his alien gaze. “The shift was
manufactured beyond our control, leaving them free to prepare
without our knowledge. There is no oath in existence. They are
considered rogue.”

“Why not stop
them?”

“It was
expedient to permit them free rein.”

“Is there no
turning back?” Torrullin asked, a final plea, that of a father.

A long silence
met him, disturbed by Fay’s cries. It was a telling silence.

“If he freely
relinquishes power in Digilan, he may be granted … call it a
reward,” the Tracloc said at last.

Torrullin
locked gazes with the creature knowing, as the Tracloc did, how
hard it was to let go and how single-minded Tymall could be. It
was, however, something to bear in mind. He nodded at the dark form
and retreated, unafraid of turning his back.

He returned to
the birthing chamber.

Chapter
Sixty-Five

Every baby
smile is precious.

The Mother
Store
, Xen III

Lowen waited
at the door. “I’ve assisted in many births, but this baby is coming
quick.”

“Do we have
the necessary to receive?”

“Fay has
everything prepared.”

“Good.”

The two went
through to the bedchamber, passing Teighlar in the front room. Next
to him was Kismet, who must have slipped by his Vallorin when
Torrullin conversed with the Tracloc. He gave no indication as to
what he overheard, but he and Teighlar began whispering together as
soon as Torrullin vanished into the other room.

“Torrullin,”
Fay snapped, “where were you?”

“You’re doing
just fine on your own.”

“Because Lowen
is here.”

“Save your
strength for pushing, will you?”

Tymall kneeled
between Fay’s raised knees. “I can see a head,” he whispered.

It was a
strange feeling, seeing his son watch his son enter the world, and
it made him determined to reach out before it was too late.
“Encourage him now, Ty, and bring him in.”

Tymall lifted
his gaze to his father, entranced by the miracle. “It is good. Life
is good,” he murmured, the words wrenched from him.

“It can be,”
Torrullin returned and then the two bent to the task, while Lowen
stood ready with towels. A basin of warm water waited for the baby
on a nearby table. Like Saska in the past, she missed having a
child of her own.

The newborn
slid out, his mother uttering a heartrending scream.

In the room
beyond Teighlar and Kismet straightened before the baby’s first
wail caused them to grin foolishly at each other. No matter who or
what this child would become, a birth was a magical thing.

Silent tears
coursed across Lowen’s cheeks, which she blotted quickly on the
towel as she received the little one. She and Torrullin made eye
contact, a connection felt by both, and then she turned away to
wash and check the baby.

Tymall
collapsed beside Fay cradling her in his arms as she sobbed with
relief and joy. Father and son then looked at each other, and it
too was a connection.

In the calm
after the cries of ‘push!’ and ‘a little more!’ only the baby was
voluble, a sure sign of health.

Torrullin
straightened and wondered why he was anxious before. All went well,
the child was more than fine, Fay was …

“Father!”

He turned back
to the bed. Fay. Pale, gasping for breath.

Tymall stared
down. “I did nothing, I swear! I chose life for them!”

Torrullin
rushed closer and took her wrist, but as he reached out to heal
with his other hand, Fay gasped out a final breath and was
still.