The Dreamer Stones (13 page)

Samuel found
it difficult to grasp, but nodded.

“All very
well, but what does it mean to us, here, now, the task in hand?”
Lucan said.

Caballa and
Kismet glanced at each other again.

Samuel found a
seat on a nearby chair and sat with his elbows on his knees. He
looked intently at Caballa. “You know something.”

She gave a wry
smile. “You even sound like him.”

“Like a
rebirth,” Kismet muttered.

“I’m not
…”

“I know,”
Kismet said. “It’s uncanny, that’s all.”

Lucan spoke,
“The Sentient Lady of Valaris …”

“You saw her?”
Kismet gasped, golden eyes astonished. It was a rare thing indeed
to surprise Kismet.

“And spoke to
her,” Lucan nodded. “She saw we were getting nowhere.”

“You’re
blessed,” Caballa murmured. “Few have seen her, and of those, most
think her a figment of their imagination.”

“She was
real,” Samuel said.

“Lost, that’s
what I am,” Hinckley frowned. “What Lady is this?”

Macmir sported
a satisfied air; he adored hearing good news. He was about to
enlighten Hinckley and Byron when Caballa interrupted, “She came to
your aid, thus she revealed something.” She fixed Lucan with a
gaze. “And you think it has bearing on Samuel’s signature.”

The Xenian
heaved an uncertain sigh. “I don’t know, but if you hear her words,
well, it might help.”

Caballa
glanced at Samuel, disconcerted. He watched her, still waited for
her to be more forthcoming. She steeled herself. “What did she
say?”

He smiled,
knowing she put him off. She was also, however, serious in her
estimation of the Lady’s probable contribution.

For her part,
seeing that knowing smile, Samuel reminded her in that moment so
much of Torrullin she nearly gasped for breath, barely managing to
control the impulse. Kismet sent her a look, but held his peace.
Kismet, curse him, knew her too well.

Samuel said,
“The Lady of Valaris told me I am the essence of another, but that
I already know.”

Kismet’s brows
rose high. “How, may I ask?”

“Torrullin
told me.”

“He did? Then
he knows and this is why he asked you compare signatures in
secret.”

Samuel’s brows
rose, in challenge.

“Tristamil’s,
Samuel. Who do you think it will call to first?” Kismet murmured.
“I hope to high Aaru you two protected yourselves in this
discovery.”

Lucan said,
“Naturally.”

Kismet gave a
smile. “I like your style, Dalrish.”

“Likewise,
Elder.”

“Enough. I
want to hear what Samuel has to say,” Caballa said.

Samuel was
silent for a time. “She mentioned I carry the twin’s genetics …”
Caballa nodded. “… there was more, but the thing that got me the
most was she told me I’m the new Priest.”

His gaze
shifted between Caballa and Kismet, trying to gauge both reactions
simultaneously.

“
Really
?” Kismet murmured.

“Is that so?”
Caballa whispered, staring down at her hands to avoid Samuel’s
intelligence, and then she looked up at Kismet next to her. “Do you
think he knew that, too?”

Kismet bit his
lip. “Gods, I hope not.”

Samuel leaned
forward, watching them both, but saying not a word. Sometimes it
paid to be silent.

Lucan had not
yet learned that. “What, for pity’s sake?”

Caballa seemed
to come to a decision. She rose, stared at Kismet, who jerked a
nod, one which clearly signified agreement for her, for she faced
Lucan next.

“Forget trying
to unravel this signature. It can’t be done.” The Xenian mouthed at
her. She looked at Samuel next. “Come with us; we need to
talk.”

Samuel stood.
“Lucan should hear it.”

Kismet shook
his head. “Not this. No offence, Lucan.”

Lucan stared
at Kismet. “Oh, none taken.”

Samuel dug in.
“Excuse me, but Torrullin asked Lucan to do this thing. You imply
Torrullin knows what the result will be. To me, it implies Lucan
has been vetted for
anything
that comes from this.”

Lucan
murmured, “Samuel, it’s all right, man.”

“No, I’m
sorry, it’s not. Your blood oath is as binding as the blood itself.
In my book that means you’re in all the way.”

Kismet
muttered, “
Really
?”

Caballa
sighed. “Matt’s oath?”

Lucan inclined
his head. “Yes.”

Caballa threw
her hands in the air. “Well. Kis, it appears all tattered ends are
being reforged. Fine, Lucan, you’re in, and I apologise.”

Lucan
bowed.

“Caballa?”
Byron said in a quiet roar, a frown creasing his high forehead.

She forgot he
was there, and Hinckley and Macmir. The Valleur would know his
place, Hinckley was aware he was not high in the hierarchy, but
Byron Morave was another matter. She turned to him, hoping he would
not be stubborn now.

“Forgive me,
Byron, the news has me off-guard. I trust you, but this is a
personal matter. So personal it may not be shared outside the …
circle.” One could almost hear her berating herself for saying too
much again.

Byron picked
it up. “Circle, Caballa? Who or what is that?”

Kismet and
Caballa locked gazes and even Macmir craned forward to hear the
answer. “Well?” Kismet prompted.

“My big mouth.
I guess there’s no harm in revealing it,” Caballa responded. “You
tell, Kis.”

Kismet was
clearly unhappy, for he said nothing.

“I feel like
I’m in a bloody school yard, excluded from the important stuff!”
Byron roared.

He drew
himself up to his considerable and brawny height. His white
eyebrows bristled with ire.

“Now hear
this! Folk out there starve and die, cut into pieces by bloody
darklings, and you lot want to go on keeping secrets! Personal is
one thing, but if it has bearing, there can be no such thing as
personal … do not play with us!”

Caballa
squared her shoulders. “We’ve become friends, right? We trust each
other with our lives, right?” The big man nodded. “Fine, then hear
me now. Certain things happened a long time ago pertaining to the
Vallas that has no bearing and can’t be revealed. It’s not because
we hold it secret; it’s for protection - yours, all Valarians, the
Valleur, but mostly the protection is for the Vallas themselves.
Please trust me on this.”

She pointed at
Samuel. “The lineage is ancient, Byron, and has become thinly
stretched; we are afraid to jeopardise it. I think the Valleur
would fall apart without the Vallas. We formed a circle, which is
an enchantment, to hold these things close. A circle is generally
formed in distress, and two thousand years ago there was great
distress and despair. The current circle includes me, Kismet,
Mitrill, Saska and Teighlar of Luvanor, and another, but his name
may not be spoken here.”

“The
Enchanter?” Macmir enquired, eyes alight.

“No.”

“He doesn’t
know of this,” Kismet added. “Generally, the Vallas remain unaware
of the circle.”

Caballa glared
at him. “Keep your mouth shut, will you?”

Kismet
shrugged. “You opened the can of worms. Have you considered
Torrullin knows exactly what’s going on?”

She shook her
head. “Not likely. Byron, please. I promise, if it proves pivotal
to our situation I’ll personally sit you down and tell you
everything. Just allow me the space to determine that first.”

Byron Morave
gave a sour grin, and nodded.

“Thank you.”
Caballa glared at Kismet again, gestured at Samuel and Lucan, and
left the chamber.

The three
followed her out.

“Mac?” Byron
demanded the instant they were out of hearing range.

The younger
Valleur shrugged. “I wasn’t born until five centuries ago, Mr
Morave. I haven’t a clue and that’s the truth of it.”

“I don’t like
secrets,” Byron muttered.

“Secrets
fester,” Hinckley said.

Macmir
laughed. “My friends, Valleur deal in secrets the way others do in
currency. You’d better accustom yourselves to it.”

Byron
frowned.

Hinckley
cleared his throat. “Who is this Sentient Lady of Valaris?”

Macmir
grinned, rubbed his hands and enquired, “Do you have time for a
tale?”

Chapter
Twelve

Now bear the
consequences, friend.

Awl

It had been a
late night, not only due to the unprecedented broadcast of support,
but also due to the bad news continuing to trickle in from all over
the country.

Food
shortages, supplies not reaching points owing to darkling attacks,
missing people, leaders murdered - the list was endless. The lack
of leadership proved most trying. Marcus could no longer contact a
mayor’s office to speak to someone in authority, for the remaining
deputies were too frightened to assume the role. Both he and MJ
reached beds shortly before dawn.

The sun
climbed when MJ entered the Electan’s bedchamber. It had been a
late night, but the Electan had duties, such as the ambassador from
Xen III downstairs. MJ already postponed the man twice. Bleary-eyed
or not, Marcus had to show his face.

The drapes
were drawn, the deep emerald shining with the volume of sun behind
them. The huge four-poster bed was silent, its brocaded curtains
closed. It seemed obvious the Electan did not want to be disturbed.
MJ waffled a bit in uncertainty and then took courage in hand. They
would make an early night of it tonight, and that was that.

“Mr Campian,”
he called out and when there was no reaction he raised his voice.
“Mr Campian!”

A muffled
sound came from within the depths and then silence.

“Mr Campian,”
MJ tried again. “Ambassador Len is downstairs.”

Another mumble
came, this one louder, with an edge of panic … panic? And then
there was more silence.

And then, a
blood-chilling scream.

MJ tumbled
into the curtaining seeking a way through to the bed space, finding
his way thwarted by material, and all the while the unearthly
warble continued.

“Marcus! What?
For god’s sake,
what
?”

Finally he was
through, but the interior was too dark. Cursing, he tore the
swathes of cloth aside and then leapt out to the drapes, hauling
them open. Light spilled in, fat rays, and MJ froze, afraid of what
he would find.

Leaders were
being picked off one-by-one.

The screaming
continued, although softer, and with a mind-numbing sadness
underscoring the initial terror. MJ forced himself to turn.

Marcus
coughed, sighed, and whimpered like an injured puppy. It was more
frightening than the screaming was.

Complete
silence, then.

MJ approached
the bed, looked, ready to bolt, and frowned. What?

“Come closer,
Mr Jackson,” Marcus’s shaky voice sounded.

MJ closed in.
“Mr Campian?”

“How do I look
to you, Mr Jackson?” The Electan’s voice was stronger, but somehow
resigned.

Maybe a
nightmare
, MJ thought, who suffered a few recently,
and he’s
projecting, not fully awake
.

He studied the
still form, lying amid silk sheets and coverings, head comforted in
plump pillows. The hair was out-of-control wild, but that was
normal, Marcus having more hair on his small head than a man twice
his size and half his age.

“You seem
fine, Mr Campian.”

Marcus
attempted a smile. “There is that, then.”

MJ sat on the
bed, evidencing his consternation in the act. “What’s wrong,
Marcus?”

“Look at me
carefully. This is me. Would I be lying here into the midday not
even bothering to prop myself up to shout at you for daring to wake
me?”

“No,” MJ
whispered.

“No. Well, at
least I’m able to talk and reason, thank heaven. It’s the mind that
drives us, after all.”

“Marcus,
what’s wrong?”

“I’m
paralysed,” Marcus stated. “I can’t move anything, except my mouth
and eyes.”

MJ gasped and
peered in. And that was when he recognised the unnatural posture.
The Electan looked at him with his eyes swivelled.

“
No
!”
he cried and then covered his mouth with both his hands.

“Punishment
for my outspokenness last night.”

“I … oh god …
this can’t be happening!”

“Mr Jackson,
snap out of it. It’s real, but it isn’t the end of life. I expected
to be dead this morning, my faithful friend, so this is good. I
received a shock earlier, no doubt about it, and I like this not,
believe me, but I’m alive. I …”

He fell silent
and closed his eyes. A tear slid out from under one lid.

MJ swallowed
and leaned forward. Lifting the edge of the sheet, he wiped that
drop of moisture away, his heart breaking. The Electan could not do
that simple act for himself, and he hated to show weakness.

Reality set
in.

Marcus opened
his eyes. “Thank you.”

Silence, a
nod.

Marcus closed
his eyes again to shut out what he saw in his colleague’s gaze.

MJ inhaled.
Action would help. Be busy, stay proactive. “Mr Campian, forgive me
for leaving now. I must send the ambassador away and I must arrange
for a doctor.”

“Yes, do
that,” Marcus said without opening his eyes. “And send Lati up, but
prepare her first.” Lati was his housekeeper.

“I’ll be back
shortly.” MJ rose, stood and then, “I’m sorry. If I hadn’t pushed
…”

Marcus opened
his eyes. They were bright with unshed tears. “Don’t shoulder the
blame, please. I did what I did willingly and would do it again.
Besides, when Torrullin returns … well.”

“Yes!” MJ
cried, straightening with fresh hope. “He can heal you!”

“If I ask
nicely,” Marcus murmured, the ghost of smile on his lips. “All is
not lost, hmm?”