The Dreamer Stones (43 page)

“I suppose it
is not the same,” Quilla added.

“This has
happened before. I know this time.”

Quilla’s eyes
closed and he breathed slowly.

“What,
Q’li’qa’mz, no comeback?” Torrullin queried in a prickly voice.

The birdman
turned his back on the view of the courtyard and folded his arms
across his chest. “It is better to believe it is new.”

“Baloney. My
instincts tell me I better recognise what’s happening or I’ll make
the same mistakes.”

Quilla sighed.
“And?”

“Tonight ends
badly,” Torrullin murmured, his tone serious, “and I have no more
than feeling to guide me. What mistake I am to avoid to alter the
outcome escapes me.” He ceased perusing the milling crowd and
captured Quilla’s gaze. “What do you know of this night?”

“I am not an
adept, Torrullin.”

“Are you lying
to me?”

“No, I swear
to you. I have abilities different to yours, but this is not within
my power. I know the curve exists, but it is based on the
extra-sensory and long meditation. What is and will be, what was,
is merely recognition of the curve, to my perceptions, not a
concrete realisation of events.”

Torrullin
looked away. “Thus, despite instinct, I’ll be blind tonight.”

“Give thought
to your words and actions, my friend; that is the best you can do
in any situation.”

Silence, and
then the grey gaze returned to the birdman. “It should be you,
Quilla.”

Quilla knew
what that meant. “We shall neither of us choose.”

“I know.
Forgive me.”

“Give your
attention to these instincts of yours. We can come to terms with
this other thing later,” Quilla said. He dropped his gaze from the
intensity before him.

“How do the
Q’lin’la feel about being under my rule, old friend?”

“Whether one
or all of us, there is no issue. This is a new universe. Now, go
down …”

“… because the
quicker I get the show on the road … yeah, yeah.” Torrullin laughed
and pushed away from the wall. Turning to the stairs he said, “I
would miss you, Quilla.” Then, with swift steps, he strode
away.

“And I would
yearn to be the one eternally in another realm,” Quilla said in an
undertone, and picked up the pace to follow Torrullin into the
crowded courtyard.

It went
well.

The crowd,
Valleur, human, dignitaries from all walks and worlds, was subdued,
welcoming, willing. The cheer that usually erupted when the Throne
accepted a Vallorin went unuttered.

Instead,
mindful of Torrullin’s preceding words, it was a smattering of
applause. They were reeling.

“… undertake
this duty only as a measure to bridge us. I cannot and will not sit
as ruler into eternity; I swear that on the souls of my mother, my
father and my son Tristamil …”

It was a blow.
Tannil was dead and so was his son and heir. Even the unknown
entity in Tristan was passed on. Who would take over?

“… set your
minds at rest. Samuel is Valla and can still father a child or
become, if necessary, a future Vallorin, and Fay is reinstated to
the blood. Once her union with Tymall is sundered she may bear a
future heir …”

They reeled,
his Valleur. His words spoke of an uncertain future. They liked it
not, and their sense of unease communicated to their neighbours,
and thus, when the acclaim went out, it was sombre and hesitant.
Even the offworlders were uneasy.

Torrullin was
silent upon the golden seat, grey eyes moving over the gathered. He
understood their negativity and knew it was not personal. His
people were long-lived and, by extension, took the long view. Were
he wed to a fertile woman the lack of heir would not bother
them.

He glanced at
Saska sitting on a chair amid the attendant Elders, Quilla, Lowen
and the human leaders - Marcus Campian in a special chair with
Byron Morave at his side - and saw his thought mirrored there. She
swallowed and looked away.

Torrullin rose
from the welcome warmth of the Throne. How addictive the damn thing
was.

“There will be
no celebration this night. We said farewell to loved ones this day
and neither you nor I would insult their memory with revelry. My
staff prepared a suitable repast out on the level beyond the Dragon
doors; please go out and enjoy and I shall be among you
shortly.”

Beckoning to
Vannis, he went to Marcus Campian.

For Marcus the
journey to Torrke had been terrible.

It was not
pain, for he could not feel anything - it was the pity from fellow
passengers on that southbound train. No one wandered past without
saying something. Oh, comfort they meant, but he saw the pity and
sliding eyes, nervous hands, the need to get away once they
completed their duty, misplaced as that duty was.

Then, those
two Elders. He forgot their names, but so superior - there to
transport him and Byron to the Keep. As if a horse and chariot was
not sufficient, and his loaded aboard in Galilan.

An argument
broke out and Byron’s boom eventually overrode protest. Halfway to
the Keep, smooth as the road was, he wished he accepted the magic
transferral, and hated that he could change his mind. Not
uncomfortable exactly, the ride, and Byron lowered the chariot’s
roof to enjoy the view of Torrke, but long, the road crowded with
people heading for the Keep.

That was when
he heard Torrullin was to be Vallorin and hated he was not already
in the hallowed halls to politic. His rivals, the ambassadors, were
there, putting their words into listening ears. His muttered curses
only came to a stop when Byron reminded him of the reputed
sentience of the valley, and it repudiated those with dark thoughts
in their hearts.

Arriving at
the Keep, it changed.

Torrullin
interred family that morning and was speaking to no one other than
those close to him. No ambassador had the briefest glimpse.
Realising the strain Torrullin was under, Marcus forgot his
situation. He was paralysed, not dead, or worse, brain-depleted;
Torrullin, mobile, lost his grandson and great-grandson, and
Samuel, dear Aaru, lost his little boy. There was no sight of
Samuel, and who could blame the poor man?

When one of
the Elders who met them at the station came forward with an offer
to take them up to a suite, Marcus accepted, and then apologised
for his behaviour, something so unlike him, Byron stared at him
nonplussed.

The Elder
smiled and then stayed in the suite a time bringing Marcus and
Byron up to date, which, in itself, put him so far ahead of the
ambassadors he was in prime position, not that it occurred to
him.

Marcus, late
in life, had discovered compassion.

At the actual
ceremony, Marcus had eyes only for Vannis. For him, it was even
more astonishing than the Enchanter’s return. Dear Aaru, how had
they ever thought to contain the Golden in the west? These people
were so powerful they could have taken the continent back a long
time ago. Into his deepest heart, Marcus acknowledged the Golden as
a race of good souls.

From Vannis he
looked to Torrullin sitting on the Throne. Anguish. He hid it well,
but the man’s soul was in torment. Marcus stared down at his
hanging, lifeless hands. He would not ask a healing; there were
more important things than a healthy body and he had one.

He, Marcus,
had a healthy soul, and it counted above all else.

Thus, when
Torrullin knelt before him as the chamber emptied, and as Vannis
lowered beside his grandson, Marcus gazed at the two of them with
tears in his eyes.

“I am finally
whole.”

Vannis
frowned, not cognisant of the Electan’s background, but Torrullin
smiled. “Yes, Marcus, you are.”

“You’re
better?” Byron, beside him, queried.

“What counts
has healed,” Marcus said and painstakingly moved his head to look
at his friend.

“But …” Byron
glanced at Torrullin.

“Then this is
a gift,” Torrullin murmured. He reached out to take the lifeless
hands and drew them to his chest. Saying nothing else, he held them
there.

Gradually,
texture. The weave of Torrullin’s stiff, formal tunic. The brush of
silk from the cloak with the Dragon emblazoned in gold upon black
that slung slightly forward when Torrullin knelt. Under his
fingertips.

Movement. Very
small.

Torrullin
smiled into the tear-filled eyes. “It will return slowly, Marcus,
to give your mind a chance to keep pace with the process, but you
should be walking by morning.” Gently he replaced the hands on
Marcus’s lap, and looked to Byron. “See to him, it will be
stressful.”

“Thank you,”
Byron murmured, shaking his head in wonder.

Marcus was
speechless, and Torrullin smiled. “Your eyes speak for you. There
will never be need for words on this.” Then, rising, he indicated
Vannis. “I want you to meet someone …”

Later he moved
through the crowds stopping for a word here, a joke there, holding
a glass of wine, not drinking.

A prop. He
waited. The night was not over and his sense of disquiet
escalated.

Saska, on his
left arm, murmured, “You’re tense.”

“Not the best
of occasions.”

“Quilla said
to be alert.”

He looked down
at his wife and marvelled anew at her emerald eyes. “Quilla cannot
keep his mouth shut, can he?”

“You know
Quilla.”

“Indeed. Fine,
something does not sit right, but it’s no more than a feeling.”

“Okay, so I’ll
be alert.”

Interlude.
Walking, talking. A few chuckles, a number of congratulatory
remarks.

Then …

“
Torrullin
!” Vannis’s voice from the edge of the gathering.
“
Look up
!”

Everybody
looked up.

Nothing
appeared amiss. Black night sky. Silvery sparkles against warm
velvet … until they vanished in groups to reappear an instant
later. Dark silhouettes of something blotting the stars as they
meandered the near heavens.

Saska was
mystified, concentrating hard to discern what the shadows
signified.

Torrullin took
a step back, nearly stumbling. “Dear Goddess, no, not like
this.”

Quilla’s
broken wail rent the stilled air.

His head
jerked in that direction and he barged carelessly through the crowd
to reach the birdman.

“Kismet!” he
roared as he threw the slow from his path. “Get them down! Take
them to the Lifesource!”

“Yes, my
Lord!” Kismet acknowledged from somewhere.

Torrullin
reached Quilla. The birdman stared up in transfixed dread into the
night sky, kneeling without hope in the dampened earth. An island
of space surrounded him as both human and Valleur retreated from
the terrible emotion on that small, pale face.

“Quilla.”
Torrullin lowered to his haunches. “Quilla, look at me.” No
reaction. Just the horror, frozen in an upward gaze. “Quilla …” he
tried again, and then slapped the birdman on the cheek, gritting
his teeth. “Look at me!”

A moment and
the cherubic face lowered and empty eyes swivelled. “Tonight I hate
you, Torrullin.” Quilla rose unsteadily as Torrullin drew from his
reserves to absorb that. “Stay away from the Lifesource. I shall
deal with the … aftermath.” He vanished.

In the light
speckled dome above the valley, Kismet and three others caught the
meandering shadows. There were not many, but more than there should
be considering the source. The sound of retching was heard from one
of the conscripts, a telling sound, and then they disappeared as
bid, with their burdens.

Torrullin came
to his feet as Saska bent over him. “What, for all gods’
sakes?”

Torrullin
replied in a dead voice, “Tymall murdered the Q’lin’la. The
bastard, to parade them like trophies, in pieces … Quilla is
distraught, I must go …”

“Not wise,” Vannis said. He caught Saska to him as she
swayed. “Grant him space, son. Words are intrusive.” Saska
struggled then in his arms and he bent to her ear. “Saska,
Torrullin is genocidal. Give
him
space now.”

She turned,
but her husband had already vanished.

Chapter
Thirty-Four

“
You cannot
change it now. I’m so sorry.”

Words of
support, lament … a platitude

Torrullin
stood at the foot of the lightbridge staring over the abyss into
the glowing Lifesource Temple when Vannis alighted beside him.

“We cannot
help him in this,” Vannis began, but his grandson paid no heed.

With a snarled
curse, Torrullin began to run like the wind across the bridge,
leaving Vannis little choice but to follow.

Long before
they reached the western arch with its message of peace inscribed
in the curve, they heard the unmistakable sounds of battle
within.

Understanding
Torrullin’s anxiety, his carefully controlled anger, Vannis’s oath
rivalled his grandson’s.

They tore into
the Temple.

Madness.

The
dismembered bodies of the murdered Q’lin’la lay scattered like the
putrefying remains of someone’s vomit, bright feathers swirling
accusingly over them, and amid the splashes of colour Kismet and
the three Valleur conscripts were engaged in a desperate struggle
for survival. They fought with sword and sorcery, but all four were
wounded and bleeding. Drops of scarlet plinked soundlessly upon the
dead.

Quilla lay
senseless in a far chamber, one of his wings torn off at the
shoulder joint, his fingers curled in paralysed fury. Phet’s bright
blue plumage accused in the mess of leftovers.

The interior
of the Temple was a smoking ruin, the chambers within chambers
tumbling down in slow time, the great magical space shrinking to
reality as its supports and charms were breeched and sundered.