The Dreamer Stones (94 page)

He nodded,
feeling cold inside. “And after?”

“What do you
care? Where I go, what I do and whom I sleep with from this day is
no longer your concern. I’ll remain on Valaris until after our
divorce and then I’m moving on.” She threw Lowen a pitying look and
stalked out.

I care
,
he sent, unable to stop the reaction,
no matter where, how far,
or how long, I shall always care.

She did not
turn in sending back,
I know. How sad for you.

Torrullin gave
a dry laugh.
Touché, Saska.

Then she was
gone.

“Well. The
Keep still stands,” Lowen muttered.

“No levity,”
he said, swinging towards her.

“No, no
levity.”

He stared at
her. Nemesis. She was not to blame for sundering his marriage -
that was his alone - but she was the reason he had not fought for
its continuance.

“You aim to
leave me behind?”

He drew
breath. “It is of no consequence. We both know we have an invisible
bond and time only aids it.”

“I didn’t plan
this.”

“No? What did
you see as a child?”

“It is of no
consequence.”

He smiled deep
into her eyes. “You followed your visions. You lie only to yourself
now.”

“Nay, I
attempt to confuse you,” she murmured. She went to him and touched
his cheek. “See you around, my Lord.” Smiling, she left him
there.

He would not
see her for weeks.

In trying to
drive them away, he bound them to him into eternity. Frayed, loose
ends.

Dear gods,
would it ever be simple?

The solstice
arrived with its longest night, a night of icy, dry weather, and
then came morning, the countdown to spring, a morning bright and
filled with promise.

Torrullin’s
last day on Valaris.

The Keep was
boarded, the Dragon doors locked. The Throne was cloaked until the
future could be determined.

Menllik was
alive with Golden laughter, sights and sounds of a bustling city.
No one there realised the Enchanter Vallorin was leaving, maybe
forever.

He did not
enlighten them. Farewells wrenched.

Torrullin went
to Galilan for a breakfast meeting with Marcus Campian. Government
structure was reinstalled and working well. A council of Valleur
Elders, resident in Menllik, formed part of the daily routine of
governing.

Marcus met him
personally at the door to his restored manor. He returned to a
place he now hated in the name of continuity. “Torrullin,
welcome.”

“Marcus, all
is well?”

“Smooth, with
much to be done.”

“These things
take time.”

“A drink
before you go?” Marcus smiled and gestured inside.

“Why not?”

Torrullin
followed the sprightly little man into his study. A surprise
awaited him. Byron Morave sat nursing a mug of coffee, laced with
brandy by the smell of it, and alongside him was Larkin, the sea
captain responsible for bringing Samuel, Marcus and Byron to the
western isles to see Tannil. Lifetimes ago. In addition, there were
Kismet and Krikian, two of the elders on the council, both having
elected to remain on Valaris, both aware, as was every member in
that study, Torrullin did not intend to return. “And what’s
this?”

“Hen’s party,”
Byron slurred.

“Having too
much coffee in the morning, are we?”

“It’s a wake,
that’s what this is!” Byron blurted, white eyebrows bristling. “Now
listen, Torrullin, we need you here!”

“Need has no
end, my friend. I would stay beyond my sell-by date and that
doesn’t please me. It’s time to move into the next chapter.”

“Book,” Larkin
murmured.

“Excuse
me?”

“You live
long, Enchanter. We have chapters, you have books, every time you
change direction.” Larkin popped his teeth out and grinned a wide,
gapped smile.

“Yes, well!”
Torrullin spluttered.

“He has a
point,” Marcus murmured, passing a glass of mulled wine. It was
cold out. “We’ll miss you.”

“Well, Marcus,
never thought I’d hear you say that!” Byron boomed. “You were such
a bigot …”

“Shut up and
drink your poison, Byron!”

Torrullin’s
shoulders shook. “I leave it in good hands.”

Byron sat up
waving his mug. “What of the west?”

“Kismet?”
Torrullin prompted.

“The islands
will be resettled, but we won’t be autonomous. Any human willing to
work hard and, yes, play hard, is welcome to join them. In the long
run we hope the islands and the continent will form Valaris’s
inhabited lands together.”

“You’ll stay
on the continent?” Marcus asked.

“Yes, and
we’ll encourage trade until the lines are so blurred we are a
people,” Kismet said with confidence.

“Golden and
human?” Larkin murmured. “Bit of a reach.”

“Valleur and
Valarian - listen how close they sound. We are already near. Human,
Valleur, Xenian, whoever chooses to live here and love this world,
we can be one.” This from Krikian, his face serious.

“I’ll drink to
that,” Torrullin said, raising his glass.

“Indeed,”
Byron murmured, smiling so brightly it was evident he was not as in
his cups as he appeared.

“You dog,
still playing devil’s advocate?” Marcus teased. “That’s why I need
you around.”

“The future
looks rosy,” Larkin muttered, draining a mug of ale.

It did indeed
look rosy. That was a good thing. Smiling at them, imprinting their
faces into memory, Torrullin listened to the talk.

As it got
heated, a drunken bantering, he unobtrusively vanished. He was
wrong; they were aware of him and noted his silent disappearance,
realised he preferred it that way.

A long silence
followed his leaving.

Many in varied
places saw Torrullin that day.

In Galilan,
Farinwood, Gasmoor, Tor Island, the northern peninsulas, and Two
Town. He greeted everyone who came over, not staying long enough
for conversation. His eyes, all remarked after, were shining
silver, sad.

He ended the
day in the west, silently walking the deserted halls of Tannil’s
Palace - the ruined stairway repaired, he noted. No doubt Kismet.
The Valla Palace would be maintained, and he wondered how long
before a Valla again set foot in it. Perhaps Samuel would choose to
raise the three boys here. It was not his decision anymore.

As night fell
over Valaris, Torrullin stared into the starred heavens.

This world is
in my blood. I shall miss it.

A shooting
star. He sighed and forced himself to leave.

It was not
easy.

Chapter
Seventy-Six

When lights
shine in the heavens, hope is reborn.

Arun, druid

Naming
Day.

A spring day
imbued with the fragrance of flowers, the aroma of Valleur dishes
and the headiness of sole wine.

Valla castle
in the heart of the jungle lost its battle with nature and thus was
the ceremony held on the white sands of the crescent shaped Bay of
the Moon, the warm climes of southern Tunin.

Thousands came
to witness the first Naming of a Valla on Luvanor. The mood was
festive.

Torrullin was
nervous, and Samuel’s nagging did not help.

“They should
be here,” Samuel insisted.

“The Syllvan
will return them once they reverse the Medaillon. Now, leave be; I
have to find calm for this naming.” Torrullin paced the large,
brightly hued tent under the only tree on the beach.

Samuel stared
into his wine glass.

“And for
pity’s sake, stop drinking, will you? Tonight you must learn the
ways! You need a clear head.”

Samuel was
about to rebel …

“Samuel,
please, now is not the time.”

The man
swallowed it down. Anger, confusion, concern over his family’s
continued absence, and the wine. “Fine.”

“Have you
decided where to live?” Torrullin asked, sitting. He dragged a
glass closer, dumped wine into it messily … and then did not
drink.

“Valaris. It
is our home. It is Teroux’s home as well.”

“I’m
glad.”

Samuel smiled
at last. “It’s a beautiful world. Now I truly see it.”

“Sometimes one
has to leave to come back, yes. Where on Valaris? Torrke is closed,
the Keep boarded, but if you desire to raise them there …”

“Too many
ghosts right now. Maybe in the future.”

“Hmm.” Samuel
was not wrong.

“I thought of
returning to my farm, but I suspect the boys’ safety will be an
issue.”

“If you’re
prepared to live with guards, it’s not impossible. The rural
environment may be exactly what they need.”

“One
guard?”

“More than
that. Including a taster, a chef, a tutor …”

“Menllik,
then,” Samuel sighed. “It makes practical sense, I guess.” He
brightened. “Parks, libraries, theatres, Valleur heritage and
culture surrounding us. We can do it. A holiday to the farm
periodically, entourage and all. Menllik it will be.”

“Excellent
choice. Be sure to take them to the islands, to the sacred sites,
and bring them to Luvanor also. One day one of them will be
Vallorin; they need experience their inheritance as much as
possible.”

“Of course.
Torrullin, you suggest Tristan is in line also?”

“It hasn’t
occurred to you? I am mixed blood also; he cannot be disqualified.
Unfortunately, the succession isn’t clear. It should be Teroux, but
let’s not rule out the plans Tymall laid out. In the end, Tristan
could be the wisest choice, and Elders and Throne will decide when
this youngest Valla is also of age.”

The latter
nuance he decided on after leaving Digilan.

“Who is your
choice?”

“I’ll play no
part in it.”

“I’m asking,
if your decision, who would you choose?”

Torrullin
sighed. “I prefer not to say.”

“I need to
know for when the time comes.”

“You will be
predisposed.”

“Is that a bad
thing?”

Torrullin
stared into the distance, perhaps even saw a glimmer of the future,
and then he blinked. “No, it is not a bad thing, but beware of envy
among the boys.”

“Naturally.
Who, Torrullin?”

“My choice
would be Tristan.”

Samuel was
silent a while and then, “You have surprised me.”

“He’s a lot
like me.” Torrullin smiled. “Don’t let that cause you to think ill
of him.”

“He should be
flattered.”

“Thank you for
that,” Torrullin said and rose. “Gods, I wish it were night so this
thing is done.”

“What’s
worries you?”

“This name is
this boy’s future. I worry while I pray his road will be
smooth.”

“Shall I
go?”

“Please.”

A few moments
later he was alone. As he paced the tent he wondered how long
before he left it behind. A Naming, a divorce, a taliesman to
destroy – again - a decision on the Throne, the Medaillon, and
then, hopefully, he could be on his way. Days, please let it be
days; he was tired.

Unless, and he
might scare monsters out from under the bed in thinking it, unless
Grinwallin was not done.

Night came
starry-skied, balmy and wind still.

The fires of
the day’s cooking died to amber embers. Music, haunting melodies of
historic events, accompanied the great feast on the white sands.
Valleur drank their health, toasted each other, the past, the
future and anything that was an excuse to raise a glass to.
Laughter rang out, the music got rowdy, and the hour approached for
the Naming.

Gradually an
expectant silence developed. Wine was put aside for later,
leftovers covered to enjoy when hunger bit again- Valleur loved a
good to-do and would continue until there was nothing left. The
embers were stirred and slow-burning logs added. As the fires lit
the dark, all was quiet.

In the centre
of this merry-making a circle of pristine sand was covered with a
circular gold and blue rug, the Valla colours. To one side a tripod
held aloft a copper bowl filled with rosewater and other mysterious
properties. The scrying bowl. Vannis used a wooden bowl as ancient
as his people, but that was long gone, and Torrullin used the
glazed blue one from Ardosia, but that had not survived the
destruction of Torrke, and now there was this copper vessel, native
to Luvanor. It would be the first time a Valla bent over it.

Torrullin
delved the silence and sensed readiness. He gestured to Samuel and
they left the tent without speaking.

Sitting on two
cushions on the circular rug, they waited.

Expectancy
mounted.

An Elder,
Primula, brought the babe forth. Shy of three weeks, he was
rosy-cheeked healthy and pretty as an angel. His eyes were baby
indigo, true colour coming a little later than usual to him, but
his hair was as fair as his grandfather’s. He made no sound as he
lay before Torrullin, feet facing the older man, bare, pink,
innocent feet.

Torrullin felt
a lump rise in his throat, and swallowed hard before studying the
child’s face. Eyes wide, unafraid and curious stared back at him.
Very aware. A clever child. The man would be more so.

Torrullin tore
his gaze away and nodded for the bowl. As it approached a song rose
on whispery wings into the night air. A song of praise, of hope, of
good fortune, and again he swallowed. He loved his people; how
could he ever part from them? He smiled his thanks and the song
died away. Hundreds of smiles beamed back.

“Vannis showed
me how to do this, Samuel,” Torrullin murmured. “I did it once, for
the twins. You never forget.”

“Are you all
right?”

“Far from it,”
Torrullin returned almost inaudibly. He stared at the bowl, taking
care not to involve himself in its depths. “This is rosewater and
tirlif extract, a calming herb - wonder what the Elders are afraid
of to put that in? Pure rainwater would do, any clear substance as
long as it’s not chemical. The trick is to believe in yourself, not
the liquid; the liquid is a reflector, not a conductor - you are
that. Even the bowl does not matter, but tradition helps.”