The Dreamer Stones (88 page)

“It … fine.
Um, about Curin …” Samuel stopped there. Torrullin was like the
time after the wholesale vanishing at Torrke. Dead. Not really
there.

“Soon. Let us
deal with the draithen first.”

“Right. I
guess I’ll see to those arrangements.” Samuel glanced at Lowen and
descended the stairs.

Teighlar,
Saska noted, stalked into the Great Hall and set up a furious
pacing there. Baby? Luvanese army? What had she missed in such a
short time?

Then she saw
them.

Torrullin’s
back was to her, but there was a sense of waiting in his stance.
Lowen stood looking up at him, blue eyes unmoving. Then, slowly,
eyelids lowered over that bright gaze and she said, “I cannot.”

Keeping her
eyes down, she walked past him and entered the Great Hall.

Torrullin
stood on for a while, and then his hands reached for his head.
Saska thought it was to thread his hair, a familiar gesture, but
instead his fingers curled into fists and he rested them on his
crown. A foul muttered curse, and his fingers spread wide.

The next
instant he ran down the stairs.

Had he and
Lowen … but, no, too much tension there … and who was she to judge?
Saska bit at her bottom lip, out of her depth, ignorant of
developments, and looked west towards the great plain.

The morning
sun highlighted it, catching glints of … metal?

She gasped as
she realised. A vast army. The Luvanese host.

Saska turned
for the Hall and stalked up to Teighlar purposefully. Answers.

She wanted
answers.

Chapter
Seventy

It is time to
release the monsters.

Darak Or
Oran

A low, thin
fog swirled among the trees and dew was cold underfoot.

Morning sun
pierced the canopy in suffused beams, transforming the natural into
the mystical. In this unwitting mysticism, the Senlu horses were
beasts of another world, huge and dangerous, largely unseen, and
soft snorts were the heralds of unmade creatures.

“Who goes
there?” a whisper sounded from somewhere above and Torrullin was
startled.

Gods, he was
jittery. “Torrullin.”

A slithery
sound, and a man landed on the path before him. A Senlu warrior
garbed in forest tones. Bright green eyes peered at him and then
there was a smile of welcome. “My Lord.” He bowed. “It is early. Is
something wrong?”

Torrullin
shrugged. “Personal issues. Needed quiet.”

“Quiet there
is, but no privacy.”

“Unless I
approach the precipice beyond the forest.”

The man’s
smile vanished. “It’s dangerous there.”

“I know, and
it is what I need. Perhaps you can walk with me.”

A moment’s
thought. “I can at that. It’s not today, I think.”

Torrullin
sucked at his teeth. A fatalistic statement. The Senlu fell in
beside him. “You speak of Grinwallin?”

“The Emperor
told us to prepare defence against invaders, but didn’t specify.
We’ve done more than prepare. We’re ready to attack at short
notice, a change in strategy the Emperor didn’t attempt to rectify
or even remark on. What does that tell us?” The Senlu looked
sideways at Torrullin.

“The invaders
are worse than expected?”

The Senlu
laughed. “What invaders? Who can get through the enchantment? No,
the threat is from within, and it isn’t from the Valleur. The
threat can only be Senlu in origin … right?” Vocalising a thought
had a way of making things mundane, unthreatening.

The man
deserved the truth. “The threat may be averted, know that from the
outset, but you’re right, it is internal. My son has been and gone
and has left unfortunate surprises, and therein lies the problem.
What he left behind is not the threat, but it may be the catalyst
that awakes something old and dangerous.”

“Grinwallin,”
the Senlu murmured.

“Right, but
it’s not Senlu in origin - it’s Luvan. Grinwallin is older than any
living city in the universe. There is power here that goes back so
far no one remembers anymore.”

“But we feel
it.”

“We do.”

“The
preparations are in defence of the city?”

“It is not the
stone of Grinwallin you will defend against, or attack if you are
able, it is what lies beneath. The Grinwallin you see is the heart,
the life blood of something hidden.”

“What lies
beneath?”

“I don’t know,
friend.”

“Man … does
the Emperor?”

“No.”

“We should
evacuate!”

“I believe the
thought crossed your Emperor’s mind.”

“Why doesn’t
he order it?”

“Like me, he
no doubt believes it alone could be the catalyst. Leave, and the
beast will rise to save itself. Where will you run to?”

“Beast?” the
Senlu echoed.

“Forgive me -
a term loosely employed. I cannot guess form.” Torrullin paused on
the path. “It may not come to pass.”

The Senlu knew
of the birth in the night. “And it may.”

“And that is
why you are ready.” Torrullin halted. “Leave me here. I must go on
alone.”

“My Lord, I
say again - it’s dangerous there.”

He squeezed
the Senlu’s shoulder and vanished up a dark, misty path.

As he climbed,
sure-footed despite the slippery slope, he pondered on the
baby.

His son’s son.
Like Tannil was Tristamil’s son. He did not see Tannil grow up and
barely knew the man before his untimely death. He would have it
otherwise, wanted to spend a lifetime with that grandson. Now there
was another, an innocent new to the tribulations that beset Vallas
at every turn. An innocent to be shaped? Would it be enough? This
child carried his father inside; how long before this child
strayed? How long before he rejected love?

Better to
distance himself. Samuel was the perfect surrogate. Better for
everyone. Including the boy.

Torrullin
broke the tree line and the precipice was there. He threw the
original Dragon Taliesman into the depths here; he knew this place,
but an unsuspecting wanderer through the forest, had he been brave
enough to delve that darkness, would hurtle into the chasm, the
reason the Senlu was most unwilling to have him come.

Strange how
most treated him as a mortal.

The divide was
a huge space between two mountains, so deep the sun never pierced
the depths. No man, of whatever race, had walked below or climbed
the faces - only death lay below. No creature, be it lizard or
spider or ant, lived in the mighty space. It was a dead zone,
lifeless, dark, impenetrable, and bird and bee alike gave it a wide
berth. Nature’s own, or a legacy of ancient sorcery? Perhaps the
Luvans, architects and builders of Grinwallin?

Torrullin
stared down, watching the sun light the ever-present vapour, much
like Digilan’s pervading mists. That was why he came.

To know
Digilan intellectually was to lose oneself in the chasm yawning at
one’s feet.

Torrullin
stood on the edge a long time and gradually the harshness of loss
began to ease. It was not cessation of grief, never that, but it
was a way to bear it, to hold it within, to function until time
worked its intrinsic magic. Tymall was not dead, merely beyond, and
a father would have to accept.

He drew
breath, feeling as if he had not breathed in hours, closed his eyes
on the bright white mist, felt the magnetism of gravity tugging at
his feet, and smiled.

So easy to let
go. His body would succumb … and his eyes snapped open. His body
would not succumb. He was a Walker of Realms. He sighed as it
finally penetrated. Not even the mercy of forced or irreversible
change.

What a curse
Immortality could be.

Saska had her
answers.

Teighlar held
nothing back, and Samuel did not either, joining them after
installing a wet nurse in the Valla house.

There were
intricacies she understood only Torrullin could fill in, but for
now she had the basic overview, and many questions.

What she did
not know with certainty was what the strange behaviour she
witnessed between Torrullin and Lowen earlier meant, and she dared
not ask.

Samuel excused
himself to be home when Leila brought the newborn, and Teighlar,
glancing over her shoulder, murmured he had better be on his way.
Turning, she saw her husband enter the Great Hall. His hair was
damp, his cheeks reddened by the bite in the air.

As he
approached, his gaze expressionless, Kismet transported in.

“My Lord
Vallorin, the army is ready to move.”

Torrullin
halted mid stride and frowned.

He does not
want to commit them to a war on Valaris.

“Thank you,
Kismet. Tell them to hold.”

“How long, my
Lord?”

“Until we have
no choice, Elder,” Torrullin snapped.

Kismet
frowned; it was poor strategy to ready a host and then enforce
inactivity. A waiting army grew impatient and disgruntled. “Is that
wise?”

“Probably not,
but better than unnecessary transports through the spaces. Krikian
has forged and distributed amulets, or he should have by now. If
they are successful we may not need to send the host to
Valaris.”

Kismet sucked
at his teeth. An amulet? It was news to him, and he was no
fool.

“Forgive me,
my Lord, but I suspect you think these amulets may fail. You have
not disbanded the army.”

“There are
ways around most things, but we give them the opportunity to prove
worth before we commit to war. Agnimus isn’t at full strength, yet
he will attack soon. Elder, our fate will be known in mere hours,
maybe sooner. Keep your troops mobilised and uphold the
spirit.”

“They will be
disappointed if your command them to stand down.”

“That I can
live with.” He walked on when Kismet bowed and left the Hall. He
came to a halt before his wife. “Saska, I plead forgiveness. I was
unfeeling earlier.”

“I know why,
my husband.” She cocked her head. “You’re not wholly here yet.”

“I forget how
you know me. I keep thinking of Digilan. I didn’t see much beyond
the Warlock palace, which is a monstrosity. It’s evil, disgusting,
filthy … gods.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose, falling silent
before his words became a torrent of confession.

“What can I
do, my love?” she whispered.

He drew her
close, holding her almost desperately. “Just be here,” he murmured
into her hair.

All we have is
now. Soon all will change.

Her strange
look as he released her caused him to wonder if he inadvertently
sent that, which in turn cause him to wonder why she did not say
anything.

Both Saska and
Torrullin recalled the twists in time during the Game Infinity
devised.

Then days
seemed like years.

This present
everything was fast. A blur. So much changed between dawn and dusk
it was hard to wrap a mind around reality and hold on. Reality had
a way of altering in a moment - reality was perception, and not one
of those involved in present days perceived in the same manner.

At the very
moment Torrullin released Saska reality was changing. Something he
hoped to avoid was about to come to pass.

Declan, last
of the Lumin Siric, sent a call thin with desperation, anguish so
real it pierced the seal and came directly to him.

Torrullin spun
on his heel. “The host goes to Valaris forthwith.”

Saska was
forgotten as he marched the Great Hall like a general in combat
calling for the Senlu Emperor. Saska saw them get together, their
heads close, an animated back and forth, and then Torrullin left
the Hall in haste. She saw the same resignation in Teighlar she
felt and hurried after her husband.

She caught up
with him at the Valla house where he conferred with Samuel. Samuel
wanted to go to Valaris, and Torrullin shook his head.

“You are the
Protector of three Valla heirs. No harm dare befall you.” It was a
Vallorin’s tone. “You, alone among the Valleur, have not given your
oath as subject …” His eyes were flinty. “You misunderstand. I
don’t expect it, for you have proven loyalty beyond doubt. However,
after myself, you are the oldest Valla and your duty, your oath, is
to the future of this family and will not be denied.
Understood?”

Torrullin
glared, desiring no recalcitrance at this critical point, and no
misplaced heroics.

Samuel’s lips
tightened. “Understood.”

“Thank you.”
Torrullin’s eyes warmed briefly and then reality intruded again.
“Be alert to Grinwallin … do you understand that?”

“I think
so.”

“Gods, if only
I had time,” Torrullin muttered, aware even as he said it how
ironic it was. “Take care, Samuel.” He turned, saw Saska. “You
should stay here.”

“I’ve had a
fill of misplaced protection.”

He stared at
her. Then, “Yes, I would suppose so.” He continued downward, tier
after tier.

Following
again, she asked, “Is that all you’re going to say?”

“It is all I
have time for.”

“Torrullin,
for pity’s sake …”

“No time for
pity, wife.” Time for guilt, yes. And grief, but those were private
and did not require explanation. “The amulets have failed, for
Declan sent a call that pierced the seal.”

“Then he is
…”

“… desperate,”
Torrullin finished. “War.”

“Then why are
we using our feet?”

He stopped
dead and turned. By the empty look in his eyes she realised he had
no answer.

“You don’t
want to send the army in?”

“They are too
few, may the Goddess protect them.”

Then, certain,
she stated, “There’s more.”

A wry smile.
“No black and white, right?”

“For very few,
Torrullin.”

He nodded and
admitted, “I am loath to return to Valaris, the real truth. My
heritage, my birthright, and I harmed it. Gods help me, I don’t
want to do so again.” He met her eyes squarely, a rare moment of
truth.