The Dreamer Stones (84 page)

Between them,
the black rectangle of the window and a blue expanse of carpet. It
was a deep divide and time was running out.

Torrullin
cleared his throat, but Tymall lifted his head to glare him into
continuing silence.

Ten minutes
ticked by. Tymall stared mesmerized at the sleeping babe in his
arms.

“Gods,
Ty.”

“I shall not
miss a moment with my son.” His tone was one of finality.

“Do you have
nothing further to say? Is there nothing you want to ask? Do you
really want to disadvantage him by your inaction?”

“I see it as
an advantage. Two heirs before him; he will need what I have left
for him.”

“It need not
…”

“No more,
father.”

“Goddess,
you’re as stubborn as your mother was.”

Tymall looked
up. “Interesting. I always saw you as the stubborn one.”

“I was the
fatidic one. Lycea was definitely more stubborn.”

“Hmm, yes, I
seem to recall she wouldn’t bend … even turned from Tris.”

Torrullin
inclined his head. “She was afraid.”

Tymall smiled
humourlessly. “She had reason.”

“Surely you
would not have harmed her?”

“The truth? I
tried, but Tris stopped me.”

“She was your
mother, for pity’s sake.”

“She was no
mother - she was a bystander. She was afraid, yes, of us, her
twins, but she was more afraid to love. That, I suspect, is your
fault. Did you know she had a lover?”

Torrullin
closed his eyes. “I found out after her death.”

“She thought
you’d kill him, and couldn’t love him properly.”

“You both
knew?”

“Not Tris. I
saw them together once; that was the first time I tried to hurt
her. How juvenile.”

“And what you
did to Saska was mature?”

Tymall sighed
then. “Please, no more.”

Torrullin
turned his gaze to the window. “No more,” he echoed.

Five minutes
passed.

“What will you
do about Agnimus?” Tymall asked.

“Fight.”

“With
what?”

“The Luvanese
army.”

“That will
take more time to call up than you have.”

Torrullin
merely smiled.

“Ah, you have
it in hand,” Tymall muttered. “Of course.”

“Yes, well,
the draithen will outnumber them four to one; I have nothing in
hand.”

“What of the
Senlu?”

“They are
needed here.”

Tymall raised
his brows, but then the baby snuffled. “Oh, he’s waking …” he
murmured in an awed voice. “I’ll see his eyes, he will see me
…”

Torrullin drew
a ragged breath and sat forward, hanging his head.

“Father, call
Lowen to take him away now.”

Torrullin’s
head jerked up, eyes flying to the doorway.

“Before the
Tracloc comes,” Tymall added.

Torrullin
studied his son staring deep into the little one’s eyes. “Are you
sure?”

“Yes.”

Torrullin
rose, discovered he was unsteady, but nonetheless made the doorway
without revealing his turmoil. He called to Lowen, spoke to her,
and then stood aside as she approached Tymall. He swallowed as
Tymall lifted the swaddled child and placed him in her arms.

“Go, please,
now,” he murmured, his voice bleak.

Lowen turned
and headed past Torrullin, searching his face, but he was not
looking at her.

Quickly she
left, saying nothing as she walked past Teighlar and Kismet in the
outer chamber. The two briefly locked gazes before turning as one
to watch the inner doorway. On the stairway outside Lowen paused to
make way for the dark figure deliberately ascending.

The time had
come.

She wanted to
race to Leila’s, wanted to race back, but took measured steps and
walked calmly away. It was not her battle.

“Ty …”

“We have no
need for words. I know and you know what is inside.”

Then there was
no more time.

The Tracloc,
unstoppable, entered.

His lungs were
ice, his body somewhere else; his eyes blinded by grey-green liquid
matter.

Was he dead?
Was this his eternal fate?

In the cold of
death, where only the leviathans of the deep could survive, his
thoughts unscrambled enough for memory to return. Deep water.
Almost he laughed, but decided to hang onto that last bit of
oxygen. Gods, he was breathing water.

No, he was
breathing air. Frigid, numbing air, terrible on the lungs, but
still air.

Declan’s
colourless eyes reflected the green world enclosing him, but he was
dry. An air bubble. Gods, impossible. Well, not impossible, but he
had not the wherewithal to create this.

He lay on the
skin of the bubble. A pool of water beside him, dribbled from his
mouth. He sat and stared about him in wonder. Someone did this,
someone saved his life … who? How? Without alerting Agnimus?

The bubble
shuddered alarmingly. All kinds of fears overcame him and he
realised, despite his over-long life, he was not so ready to die.
His head turned seeking the source of disturbance - a dolphin?

He subsided.
Just a dolphin.

Valaris had no
dolphins. He stared at it, stared into two highly intelligent eyes.
Where was he then?

Valaris.

It was a
watery warble, a sense of speech sent, and Declan stared at the
mammal in awe. He was not a farspeaker, a tradition the Siric
despised, but found it was easy to communicate with this incredible
creature.

Who are
you?

The Sentient
of Valaris. Some call me the Lady.

Declan smiled,
as he understood who had saved him. The Sentience of the planet.
Sometimes she was an old lady, such as Samuel and Lucan met, and
sometimes she was a sparrow. At other times, she was a cat, a fish,
a young, beautiful woman, and now she was a dolphin.

Thank you for
coming to my aid, Lady.

The dolphin
dipped its rounded nose.
You are needed, Siric, to close the
flaw in realities. My world is in great danger.

I could not
get close.

It is not yet
time. Elixir will drive them back; then you must be ready.

I shall be
ready.

The dolphin
swung around and slapped at the bubble with its tail.
I shall
set you adrift until you rise in warmer waters. Go in
blessings.

The next
instance the water reflected a grey streak as the creature swam
away.

Declan stared
after it as his pocket of air moved slowly in an opposite
direction.

He had
witnessed a miracle. A spirit of a world. It was a rare thing, more
myth than reality, and he had spoken to it.

And it, it had
saved his life.

By midnight,
the first two unicorn amulets were ready.

It entailed
more than Krikian initially surmised, but hurdles were clambered to
get to the point they now were.

Gold from
Valla Palace, Byron on a rickety horse about the countryside until
he found the local goldsmith and his family hiding in the woods,
Marcus drawing stylised unicorns one after the other.

It was a flat,
round pendant with the head of the unicorn and its unmistakeable
horn rose from the plate. A hole punched through to facilitate a
chain or thong to hang it around a neck, and the metal was polished
until it shone like a tiny sun, the latter to draw a draithen’s
attention.

It was the
size of an orb formed by joining thumb and forefinger together, and
this too was to draw attention to it.

Once the
goldsmith had laboriously fashioned the soapstone moulds for the
first two, a delay that had Krikian pacing until Byron bundled him
into the forest, telling him to take a long walk, Marcus set about
melting the gold in a pewter mug over a tiny fire, which nearly had
Krikian in hysterics when he returned.

It was no way
to melt gold, and did the goldsmith know no better? The poor man
was so frightened he beat hasty retreat, after which both Byron and
Marcus flew into the Valleur. Hands raised, Krikian apologised, and
then took over the melting process.

He created a
burner with a touch of magic and held gold nuggets in a shallow
iron spoon over the white-hot flame. Impatient still, he muttered
over the liquid metal in the mould, forcing it to cool quickly, and
poured in the second portion.

It was done.
Polished, the two amulets lay on the workbench with the three
grinning stupidly over them. Then Krikian rubbed his hands and told
the others to stand back, watch and learn.

He pointed and
began to murmur in Valleur. A micro instant later there were four,
then eight, sixteen, thirty-two, and within the first minute, the
amulets had doubled repeatedly until more than eight thousand
glittered on the bench. Within two minutes there were over thirty
million. Amulets rolled and skittered everywhere. Marcus and Byron
stared in awe.

“Gods, you
people can create much wealth,” Marcus whispered as Krikian lowered
his hand.

“The Valleur
have no interest in hoarded fortune,” Krikian murmured, flexing his
fingers.

“Something out
of nothing,” Byron muttered.

“On the
contrary. We need something to build on, which is why we went to
all this trouble. Only my Lord Vallorin can create out of thin air
and he, least of us, has desire for wealth.” Krikian grinned. “Ask
Torrullin to turn his pockets out and I’m willing to bet an arm he
won’t have one coin on him.”

“He doesn’t
need to carry any,” Marcus murmured.

Krikian
chuckled. “I guess not.”

“It’s easy for
him,” Byron whispered, his gaze faraway.

Krikian was
sombre. “Easy, Byron? Do you find magic easy?”

“No, of course
not, but …”

“There is no
but. There is faster and there is degree of creation, and no easy.
Even the apparent simple things take energy. Were I to duplicate
these amulets for five minutes more, or an hour, I’d expend as much
energy for each. Torrullin may have the knowledge to exert greater
power, but he expends energy every time, and that isn’t easy to
deal with.”

“He makes it
appear easy,” Byron said.

Krikian
grinned. “Well, yes, he is a master.”

“We must
distribute these amulets,” Marcus muttered, eyes on the pile of
gold.

Byron deflated
puffed cheeks. “Right. Krikian, ideas?”

“Yes,” the
Valleur said. “Let us begin with a grid of regions, and find every
able-bodied man and woman you can. Marcus, fashion a sack …”

By morning,
men and women would be in place all over the land to hand out the
amulets. By midday the word would have spread, bringing in
stragglers from every nook, cave, and basement to fetch protection.
By nightfall the next day every man, woman and child would have
one, wearing it in obvious sight upon their breasts. Children would
have grabbed handfuls of the excess to tie about their pets’
necks.

With a strange
mixture of dread and renewed hope, Valarians waited upon the return
of the draithen.

The bubble
rose to the surface and broke.

Caught unaware
in the black ocean, Declan spluttered and then tread water while he
took note of his surroundings.

Everything was
black. Ocean, waves, and land, if indeed there was land nearby. He
heard only the sound of ceaseless waves.

With no stars
out, it was difficult to pinpoint position, but the warmth of the
water, a relative condition in winter, told him he was either south
of the equator, where there was no land, or north of that invisible
line, in which case land would be close. It could be that the
continent was nearby, or any number of islands.

It did not
matter, as long as Agnimus did not know. If he was alone and
unnoticed, he could transport into Torrke and continue his
appointed task.

Declan hung
there, treading water, trusting nothing to chance, and only when
his inner tension began to ease did he hoist himself from the water
and vanish.

He found the
Keep deserted, and discovered he had no wherewithal to care.

Declan
wandered into a guestroom, stripped his wet clothes off and fell
naked into the bed, drawing the covers up tight in search of
warmth, and fell promptly asleep.

For a Siric to
switch off, it meant exhaustion akin to death, and that day he had
both. Exhaustion and death. Declan slept.

Midmorning he
would rise. The nubs on his back would have sprouted new glorious
wings and his strength returned tenfold.

Eager to go,
he would rise to find Krikian alone in the courtyard draped over
the table in the cold, fast asleep.

This time, he
would realise, every one of them was pushed to the very limits.
Some would break, but most were strong in spirit enough to
overcome.

After a good
sleep.

“What is this
doing here?” Teighlar demanded, squeezing past the statue-like
Tracloc.

“He is here
for Tymall,” Torrullin explained. “He won’t harm anyone.”

“Please! I’ve
run into his type before.”

“Emperor, this
is not your fight. Step aside.”

“This will not
happen on my watch, Elixir!”

“Kismet, take
him away.”

Teighlar
glared at the Valleur Elder coming into view behind the unmoving
Tracloc. “Touch me, Elder, and you’re a dead man. Torrullin, I’m
warning you …”

A blur of
movement, and Teighlar slumped senseless to the floor. Torrullin’s
hand returned to his side. “Kismet, take him to the Great Hall.”
Kismet did as bid, his expression woeful.

In the interim
Tymall and the Tracloc had not moved; they stared at each other,
the Tracloc with dead eyes, Tymall with eyes stricken.

Then Tymall
relaxed and smiled. “I’m not going back.”

A minute
movement in the creature’s eyes. “I didn’t expect to take you
without a fight.”