The Dreamer Stones (86 page)

The giant
windows let the artificial light in, causing strange surrealism. It
was entirely empty, with two great doors on either side as the huge
wall curved left and right.

He stopped in
the centre, his hollow footsteps echoing long after movement
ceased. “What do you suggest I do?”

Torrullin
moved closer. “What is this space? One cannot speak here.” His
words echoed as well.

“Audience
chamber. Petitions. A task required of the Warlock and the Magus -
they come demanding atrocity. Murder of a neighbour, torture of a
brother, rape, sodomy, the like, because they have not the power to
do it themselves.”

“You have to
do it?”

“If deemed
due. Before you ask, I have upheld judgements … the reason why
Margus’s humiliation was easy for me.” He stalked towards the far
exit. “We can talk in my quarters.”

They crossed
another space, entered the palace proper, the internal edifice
protected by walls wide enough to house legions in. His quarters
were at the top of the inner monstrosity, underneath the massive
roof patrolled by two hundred white clad guards. The guards, Tymall
explained, were loyal to him, handpicked, and inhabited the floor
below his quarters also, a buffer against intrusion.

They entered
an elevator and whisked directly up. The elevator was protected by
a password; visitors to his chambers were forced to take the
laborious route and that took them through the guards’ terrain for
clearance.

Tymall’s
apartment was gothic, a term that conjured black and metal, studs
and leather, straps and anger.

The sitting
room, large as it was, was made small by black walls and floor.
Metal shutters lowered over huge windows and thus light was from
several grey candles that served to hide more than they
revealed.

Tymall
gestured to a set of deep red couches and Torrullin, holding back
criticism, took a seat. Before him, an angular leather and metal
table sported a sculpture, a spiked hand in mottle grey-black, red
roses dripping blue blood. He shuddered as he looked at it, and
knew he had to get away from Digilan before it got the better of
him.

“Nothing to
say.”

“I have not
much time. Let us not waste it in judgement,” Torrullin said.

“This is
Digilan. Doubled time. You need to be back in Grinwallin by morning
- was that the plan? You have ten hours at your disposal. I think
we may waste a little time on judgement.”

“Fine. This
place of yours messes with your head. Change it and you change
yourself.”

“I wouldn’t
survive were I to show the least sign of softness. Light here is
halogen and candles. This blackness mitigates their influence. Does
it mess with my head? Damn right, as do the things meted out in the
name of judgement.”

Torrullin
shrugged and leaned back. “Who cooks for you?”

“The guards
have a roster. I am well taken care of, don’t worry. All my
physical needs, including women … not an issue now.” A twist of
hatred marred Tymall’s smooth face and then he sighed and flung
into the couch opposite his father. “Maybe that’s a good thing. The
women here are not women, merely a hole to plunge. Gods, this place
does suck.”

Torrullin sat
up. “Tymall, your position is in danger. I believe you will have
challengers beating at your door in no time, and the Magus, despite
their desire for continuity, may look the other way.”

“Agreed.”

“Take Olera
out now, before he can campaign among potential rivals.”

“You advise me
to commit murder?”

“Yes. This is
Digilan; the rules are different.”

“Well, well,
we see something alike, after all. Fine, but you heard Olera. If I
execute him, the rest of his caste will hang me out to dry. I have
not the power to fight all of them.”

“You won’t
have to fight if you have my authority behind yours.”

A moment of
silence. “And how do I get them to believe that?”

“Call a
meeting and I shall tell them myself.”

Another
silence. “And then?”

“I’ll kill
Olera to prove I mean what I say, and then I’ll leave. I swear
never to interfere again.”

“And if I have
need of your authority?”

“You may speak
of it, use it as leverage, but I shall not interfere again. When I
leave, I leave forever.”

“The Path of
Shades?”

“A short step
from the dark.”

“Killing Olera
…”

“… puts me too
close.”

Tymall nodded
and then, “You’d be a terrible Warlock, the best Digilan has ever
known.”

“I would be
the Darak Or no one can imagine,” Torrullin said.

“Digilan would
not hold your power.”

“No. I would
break loose.”

“Universe
beware,” Tymall whispered.

“Time beware,”
Torrullin stated. “How long before you can get them together?”

Tymall rose,
eyes glittering. “I’ll send the word - an hour or two maximum.” He
walked over to a door near the elevator, paused. “You are close to
the dark, are you not?”

Torrullin’s
eyes hooded. “I shall not discuss it.”

“Speak of the
devil and you bring him forth?”

“Leave it
be.”

Tymall laughed
again. “It frightens you. You are afraid of something. Well, well,
well.”

Torrullin rose
and speared his son with his silvery gaze. “What frightens me is
how much I want it. Leave it be.”

Tymall turned
away. “No wonder you can’t remain Vallorin.”

He opened the
door and had a whispered conversation with someone outside. By the
time he returned to the sitting area, Torrullin had himself in
hand.

Tymall stared
at him, wondering if he should push hard enough to carry his father
over that final edge, but then an image of his son’s innocence
invaded and he knew he would do nothing. His son needed this man.
Unpalatable truth, but reality nonetheless.

“The guard
will bring word,” he murmured, turning away. “Shall we have
something to eat? I can cook.”

A smile lit
Torrullin’s severe features. “A good idea, son.”

Chapter
Sixty-Eight

A headless
chicken running amok is still a dead chicken.

Tattle

The Magus
gathered in the audience chamber, rustles and whispers magnified a
hundredfold in the echoing space.

The acoustics
were probably a deliberate invention and they employed it to
increase the volume of their numbers to effect.

There were
seventy and most were humanoid, while a number were alien. Four
were Murs Siric, obvious when one thought about that particular
race, and two were darkling, which was a surprise, being soulless.
One was akin to the green giants, while another was insectoid. Yet
another was a blob of grey matter, a sentience Torrullin had not
had the misfortune to meet elsewhere and did not recognise.

They milled,
assured of their authority and power, coming to rest minutes after
Tymall called for silence. Not even Torrullin’s presence prevented
them reaching for that small victory. They wore white, hooded
robes, except the blob. The insectoid appeared comical with holes
for its multiple protrusions and the Murs robes split in back to
accommodate wings.

Finally, there
was silence and in it Tymall climbed up to a metal platform that
raised him above their heads. Torrullin followed more slowly,
taking the time with each measured step to study those below. As
per his advice, Tymall said nothing and the silence lengthened to
become unnatural and a number of furtive looks passed. Tymall
waited.

Olera stepped
forward. “Warlock, what is the meaning of this? If you have
something to impart, best you get to it. We have duties.” He
implied Tymall had not.

Tymall cut an
imposing figure in his black garb with the blue and silver cloak
flung back from his shoulders. His hair was unbound and long.
Behind him, Torrullin vanished into obscurity.

“I have called
you together to thank you,” Tymall began, his voice filled with
confidence after
his
small victory. “You brought me back and
I realised the error I nearly made. I belong here, not out there.
This is my true territory. As it is yours. I would like to say a
particular thank you to the creators of the new cloak and staff.
They fit well, and in being the first wearer and bearer of new
accruements I am able to adjust them to my individuality.”

Here he smiled
openly, throwing down the gauntlet
.

Let
challengers dare
, he implied,
cloak and staff are more mine
than the old accruements were, beware
.

“I desire to
present to you my father, but before I do so would like to address
the matter of continuity. This is the tenet upheld by you. In the
realm of horror and terror, disorder has no value to those of
intelligence. Order keeps the masses in control. Digilan is not
unique in that. Yet now you aim to depose me, you aim to promote
disorder. How many challengers have approached you, seeing an
opportunity where before there were none? Have you chosen one
malleable to your ways?”

Olera
interrupted. “We brought you back because you are our continuity,
not to depose you.”

Tymall smiled
down at the little man. “You will not do it yet, Olera. You
prevented revolution in my return and you will permit due time to
calm it. But you are ready with a replacement; you will strike.”
Tymall pointed a finger as the Magus opened his mouth. “Please do
not insult me. Know this, were I to sit back and await challengers
I would grow more and more accustomed to these accruements, and
your puppets will find it difficult to wrest away, believe me.
However, I shall not quietly fade into my quarters!”

His voice was
thunderous and a number of fearful glances exchanged. It was
gratifying and Tymall gave a placating smile, feeling
vindicated.

“Allow me to
introduce my father to you at this point. He has asked that I give
him no title; he will present himself.”

Torrullin
stepped forward and Tymall relinquished the podium.

Torrullin
began calmly, deceptively so. “I shall not pretend. I want to wipe
Digilan out in its entirety.” A silence so absolute, the mist
swirled audibly. “Do not doubt it is within my power to do so.
Perhaps the Tracloc you sent out informed you of the event on
Valaris? A small thing, easily done, and Digilan will be no less
easy. I am Elixir, the animated spirit that was when time began and
will be when time ends. Do not mess with me. Do not mess with my
son. I am the Light, the Shadow and the Dark and nothing,
nothing
, is beyond me. I ask you now, before we continue, if
you require visual confirmation.”

He paused and
waited.

Feet shuffled,
but no one dared say anything.

“Magus Olera,
if you will speak, please,” Torrullin commanded, fixing the man
with a stare that would force him into compliance.

Olera was in
the limelight against his will now. “Through the ages there was
tell of an individual who would one day assume the mantle of
ultimate power. In this person resides histories of worlds,
nations, time itself. He is Elixir, the drink of life, the
transcendence of matter and spirit. He is, was, and will be all the
planes and divides of light and dark. You find him in the shadows
if you look hard enough. Thus it was told, but no one could tell
when he would arise and most called it legend, but Elixir already
was and could not be seen or known.”

Olera’s eyes
streamed at the effort to stop his words. He explained power and it
boded ill for his caste.

“Then came the
One, seven-times-born, and the spaces between worlds and realities
shivered, some buckled in anguish, and those among us who knew the
legend saw with great dread a coming fulfilment.”

Olera’s voice
died as Torrullin released him. The Magus gripped his throat.

“Speak now
with your own will, Magus, and tell us what happened next,”
Torrullin said, no longer looking at the man. Behind him, Tymall
had turned to stone, hearing for the first time the truth that was
his father.

Olera cleared
his throat and shook his head.

“Speak,
Olera!” a Magus behind him shouted.

Olera glared
over his shoulder and perceived a threat there, for he turned and
looked up at the platform.

“In the
universe in which you were born, sorcerers, necromancers, seers,
prophets, theorists and the like began frantically studying ancient
texts and delved the realms of supernatural sight. Everything found
pointed to the One preparing to take on the mantle of Elixir. It
was both terrible and exciting, the anticipation that swept through
us. Then you became
The
Enchanter and that was a further
sign. However, you confounded everyone by vanishing for two
thousand years. Peace unprecedented followed and after a time of
confusion we realised it was a sign, the forerunner to Elixir’s
rising. Relief at your absence was short-lived, for we knew then
the Enchanter could walk Reaume. If you did return as expected, we
knew the One was as foretold and it would only be a matter of time
before Elixir Became.”

A Magus
elbowed Olera aside and stared up. “We chose Tymall as Warlock to
protect Digilan against you, a Walker of Realms.”

Tymall
spluttered.

Be
still
, Torrullin sent. “I commend such clear-sighted defence.
Remarkable foresight, and yet you harked to his oath. Why?”

“If he
succeeded, the annexation of Valaris would be a further defence,”
the Magus who elbowed Olera said.

“Why depose
him now? What kind of defence is that?”

“He has done
enough harm beyond for you to want him to stay here forever, and
for him to remain Digilan must endure,” Olera forced out. “It
matters not in what guise.”