The Dreamer Stones (85 page)

Torrullin
noted the movement of Tymall’s hand a second after the Tracloc. A
bolt of purest blue erupted across the chamber, but the Tracloc
held a shield of scarlet light up, diffusing the strike and
absorbing its power into the magical device.

“Ty, for
Goddess” sake! Not in Grinwallin!”

“The Goddess
is powerless, father, but I am not.” The Warlock circlet appeared
upon his brow and both his hands lifted spear-straight before
him.

“Elixir, you
have before you a choice,” the Tracloc murmured. In one gloved hand
he held the scarlet shield and in the other he hefted an emerald
javelin, a deadly weapon.

“Choice? My
father has no choice.” Tymall’s left fingers curled.

“I have a
choice.” Torrullin inserted his body between the two, where
either’s sorcery would find him. “Either I help you escape him,
which would be foolhardy, or I assist him.” He turned his back on
the Tracloc. “I choose to assist him, Tymall.”

“Why? We can
fix it, all of it.”

“Perhaps, but
it’s also too late.”

“Too
late?”

“Valaris will
suffer if you remain outside of Digilan and I’ll not permit harm to
be revisited. It would be permanent hell.”

A twisted leer
tore onto Tymall’s face. “Then I fight both of you.”

“I’m going
with you to Digilan,” Torrullin said as Tymall’s fingers crackled
with energy.

Dead silence.
Tymall’s hands dropped. “What did you say?”

“You heard
me.”

“Why? You
engineered it so it would be unnecessary to go. Is he forcing
you?”

“Digilan dares
not force Elixir,” the Tracloc intoned.

“I requested
entry, Tymall.”

“
Why
?”

“Because I
need to see, because I need to know there is a life to be lived
there …”

“Crap, all
crap. You, you, you. Selfish as ever.
You
need! What about
me?”

“For pity’s
sake, act your age. Tracloc, take him.”

As Tymall’s
hands lifted to counter, the Tracloc immobilised him, throwing a
silver-blue rope into a spiralling twist. Tymall’s wrists were
jerked down as the rope encircled, dragging them flat against his
body, and from there coiling, torso and legs. If he attempted to
take a step, he would fall. He attempted to undo the binding,
muttering, eyes reddened in rage, and then impotent fury. Nothing
he did or said budged a frayed end of the rope, nor was there a
fray. It was a perfect weapon; effective, unresponsive to anyone
but its wielder, and entirely harmless to the victim.

“It is time,
Elixir.”

“Lead the
way.”

The Tracloc
lifted Tymall and threw him over his shoulder, and Tymall glared
hatred at his father.

Torrullin
ignored him. “Grinwallin will not accept an entry into Digilan,
Tracloc.”

“We exit from
Valaris,” the creature murmured and dematerialised with his burden,
leaving Torrullin to follow.

It mattered
not to him whether Elixir came or not, knew the decision was not
his to make.

Torrullin
followed the Tracloc to the point of entry Tymall used to enter
Valaris, the place where an entire family was wiped out to protect
the Warlock’s anonymity.

Not even the
Throne knew he left one reality for another.

Chapter
Sixty-Seven

Men build
castles and forts as fortresses against enemies of future
generations. A castle, after all, requires decades to raise, and
the enemy during the raising may not be the enemy a son or grandson
must face after completion. Palaces are a different matter. A
palace has little to do with protection; ostentation, proof of
wealth and status (proof that frequently leads to debtors’ prison)
… unless the core is the fortress and the trappings of wealth the
lure.

Excelsior,
Manifest of Buildings

A blur against
the snow clad landscape.

Before it, the
Tracloc waited with Tymall squirming on his shoulder. As Torrullin
alighted, the Tracloc stepped into the blur. Torrullin
followed.

Into a grey
roiling mist filled with whispers and threats. His skin crawled and
he swiftly checked behind him in time to see the snowy field on
Valaris contract into a pinhole reality and disappear. For better
or worse, Digilan had him, as it had Tymall.

The terrible
whispering grew in intensity and viciousness. The Tracloc stalked
through uncaring, but Torrullin felt unseen and unmade fingers tug
at him everywhere and smelled the foulness of long dead breath, and
snarled, “You would mess with Elixir?”

A giggle,
quickly cut short. A sibilance, and the whispers retreated.

“Better,”
Torrullin muttered and kept the figure of the Tracloc in sight. The
mist enshrouded walk took time, but eventually the Tracloc’s
indistinct form cleared and lightened, as if he stepped out into
sunlight.

He lowered
Tymall to the ground as Torrullin drew abreast, recalling the
binding rope as he did so. Tymall leapt to his feet … and was as a
man defeated.

The three were
in a misty environment and some kind of light was nearby; Torrullin
hoped to high Aaru it was sunlight.

The Tracloc
bowed low before Torrullin. “Elixir, it has been an honour. I leave
you now to report, but if you require assistance during your visit,
hesitate not to call on me.”

“I thank
you.”

The Tracloc
turned to Tymall and bowed as deeply before him. “My Lord Warlock,
forgive me thwarting your desires; the command was not mine to
ignore.”

Tymall stared
at him, a strange glint in his eyes. “You may go.”

The Tracloc
nodded once and turned away to be swallowed in the mist.

Tymall turned
to his father. There was regal bearing about him absent on Valaris
and Luvanor. “A visit. How nice for you.”

“What lies
beyond this mist?”

“Distraction,
father? How subtle.”

“Ty, I realise
you don’t understand …”

“Please. Do
not explain. This is Digilan. I am Warlock once more.”

He snapped his
fingers and a staff settled into his hand. A moment later, a
starred blue and silver cloak settled upon his shoulders. The gem
upon his brow glittered bright blue … like kinfire.

Tymall
chuckled. “Yes, it is like kinfire - a comparison I made also.
Come, I shall show you what lies beyond the mist.”

His son
possessed power here, frightening power.

Torrullin
forced unconcern, and followed as Tymall turned to exit the
shrouding.

It was a
palace, a massive edifice with walls six feet thick, windows two
storeys high, wider than the average house.

Pure white
stone, crystal glass, pale wood the thickness of ancient tree
trunks. The palace stood upon a hill and towered impossibly into
the heavens, ten, twelve levels, window upon window, with ornate
silver balconies before each. A moat at least a sal wide encircled
the hill; filled with liquid so thick it would be instant death to
attempt it. An enormous bridge spanned the divide; silver cables
the size of a man’s waist threaded through loops along the edges
and attached to gigantic pulleys upon a lower battlement. The
bridge was retractable and when raised covered an entrance eight
storeys high. A sliding grille of dark iron, the portcullis,
lowered into the massive entryway leaving a gap of ten feet for
admittance.

It was unheard
of scale.

The hill and
surrounds was an indeterminate brown, slushy like a drought-ridden
place where the first rains turned everything into mud. There was
not a tree in sight, or anything approaching nature. The sky
overhead was purple-red, a half-hearted sunset that rarely altered.
There was a sun, but it was a weak, colourless object shining
through swirls of high, shifting fog. The light that lit the mist
was artificial, upon closer inspection. Huge halogen beams from the
great walls of the palace, some piercing the mist, which seemed to
be everywhere but near the palace, and some lighting the giant
edifice itself, a vanity and a show of mastery in a gloom-laden
land.

It was a
warning, perhaps even fear.

It did not
matter; Tymall awaited his reaction.

Torrullin’s
brows rose as he took it in. “I would go mad here,” he said,
displaying no undercurrents.

Tymall’s eyes
hooded. “Hmm,” was all he returned before swirling regally about to
set foot on the huge drawbridge.

As they closed
in on the entrance, Torrullin noted the presence of guards,
thousands of them upon the layers of battlements, in turrets, along
the base of the walls, at the head of the bridge and at every
window. Garbed in white, the camouflage worked for the palace and,
no doubt, in the shrouding mist.

He wondered
whether the mist was of sorcery or whether the palace was built to
hide in it. One or the other, the mist appeared permanent. The
palace was immovable - was it inviolate also?

Paces from the
portcullis, and every guard in sight bowed low, maintaining the
stance until Tymall swept past. Not a murmur was raised; no one
doubted the cloak, staff and circlet. Curious eyes followed,
Torrullin saw, as he shadowed the Warlock.

Within was a
gigantic space, the ground chiselled quartz, and filled with more
guards. Ahead, another portcullis and the first of a series of
inner walls, each taller than the last. Halogen lights beamed out
into every shadowy corner. The occupants of this edifice were
either paranoid or had something tangible to worry about.

Beyond the
second grille, a difference. A number of Tracloc stopped what they
were doing when Tymall entered. No expression changed, but they
were aware the Warlock returned under duress. As one, they
bowed.

Tymall
muttered over his shoulder, “The Tracloc enclave, second defence
after the guards of the first wall.”

“Why are you
this heavily fortified?”

“A Warlock
keeps his power as long as he holds the accruements - that is one
reason. You’d think it matters not how many Warlocks come and go,
to these,” and he swept a vague hand, “but contrary to expectation,
they believe there’s something in continuity, and therefore aim to
keep a Warlock in power as long as possible, particularly as most
would be booted out when reign changes. Well, not the Tracloc or
the Magus Caste. They are untouchable.” A sneer twisted his
mouth.

The Magus
Caste. The true rulers. The status quo of Digilan the Tracloc
referred to.

“And other
reasons?” Torrullin asked as they passed beyond the Tracloc
enclave. Ahead was an ornate entrance, the huge carved doors wide,
a single round figure waiting there. Flagstones rang hollow
underfoot in the cavernous space.

“The evil
masses of Digilan. Revolution is but a breath away,” Tymall
replied, and came to a stop. He gestured at the figure in the
entrance. “See him? That is Magus Olera, the most prominent
sorcerer. A devious creature; do not be fooled by his bland
features. The fact that he deigned to meet us means there is
something a-foot, something of his design. Let us enter my
hidey-hole and find out, shall we?”

He swept
forward, a small smile on his lips.

Torrullin
suppressed a shudder; this was not a Tymall he knew.

He
followed.

It transpired
Magus Olera’s apparent servility was for Elixir, not the
recalcitrant Warlock.

He greeted
Tymall with barely veiled contempt, but introduced himself to
Torrullin with respect.

“Olera, you
are a pest in my sight,” Tymall said. “Get away from me.”

The Magus
glared. “I would wish the Tracloc failed in his mission. Still,
something good came of it. Your father accompanied you.”

“Good, Olera?
What do you know of good?”

“Shut up, boy.
Have you no respect?” The Magus glanced at Torrullin.

“Don’t be
hypocritical,” Tymall snapped. “This apparent respect was missing
when I laid before you my plan for Valaris and my father.”

Olera was an
average man. A little short, carrying a bit of excess weight, but
otherwise quite unremarkable. Brown hair, brown eyes, the kind of
face lost in a crowd, easily forgotten.

His eyes,
however, sparked with anger now. “You always were the upstart,
Tymall! What a pity you wear the accruements.”

“Your true
colours show, Magus. I suggest you hold your tongue before I have
due reason to have you executed.”

“The Magus
council will hang you from the walls.”

“And you will
be dead. I can take that, I think.”

“Magus Olera,”
Torrullin interrupted, “will you excuse us, please. I would have a
word with my son.”

“Of course,
Elixir,” the man said, dipping his head. “Call on me when you have
need.”

He retreated
into the building that was a wall of the palace twenty feet wide.
Beyond laid another space and beyond that, the true palace
began.

“’Call on me
if you have need’,” Tymall imitated. “You’ll have Digilan eating
out of your hands.”

“Perhaps you
should curb your own tongue and use that,” Torrullin murmured.
“From where I stand, you’re not exactly feted as Warlock. Use me,
Ty.”

“Why?”

“The Path of
Shades has no place here and if you seek to hold your position you
will need leverage. Me. As Elixir I can come and go, and they know
that. Let them think I am on your side and you will have a freer
hand, despite the shadows you bring back and, an added advantage,
the Magus Caste will ensure you hold onto those accruements.”

Tymall was
transfixed. “I ask again, why?”

“Good or bad
or in the middle, my son should reign in his realm without
interference.”

“Ah, a pride
issue.”

“Partly. It is
also the Valla way.”

“Stuff the
Valla way; look where it got me. Look what it does to my son.”
Tymall turned and entered the cavernous wall space.