The Dreamer Stones (17 page)

It was as
imagined.

The perfection
related in fairy tales. Dales and dells of smooth green, rounded
hills of perfect symmetry, purple-blue mountains that hearkened to
the soul. Gentle, babbling brooks, wide, slow rivers of ice-melt
blue, picturesque bridges of stone and wood crossing the divides.
Lakes round and oval, jagged and straight-edged, each having a
place in the encompassing whole. Lovely cottages, the smell of
fragrant wood smoke, pretty gardens, white fences, emerald hedges.
Stately trees, young saplings, rounded shrubs, flowering bushes.
Trimmed and perfect. Animals of the imagination, creatures of
reality, the people and beings of the past, present and future, of
the known universe, of the not so known. Laughter, happiness.

Peace,
tranquillity.

Sedation.

It was so
perfect he would suffocate.

And endless.
An eternal universe of perfection. If he were to begin walking now,
he could walk into absolute eternity and never reach the end. If he
were to begin transporting in giant leaps, that too would never
find an ending. It was everything, everywhere, for all time.

Aaru. For
those of the Light. The fortunate few who were eternally
rewarded.

How was it
possible to find one individual? Time was his enemy and not one
soul here would understand that truth.

Tannil said
his wife heard his overriding desire to see her and came to him.
Was that it? Was he to wish his mother to his side? He felt that a
selfish intrusion.

Torrullin
stepped onto the nearest path, unique only in its proximity. He
began to walk. And knew it was not only Millanu he sought, but
Taranis, his father. And Tristamil. He would face all three, seek
forgiveness, for he had not the strength to enter again after
further confrontation with his past in that other hellish realm, in
which, god help her, Lowen waited.

No, he would
finish it this one time and forbid himself this place thereafter.
This suffocating realm of eternal beauty. He was not made for this,
was created to wander the paths of shades in other realities, often
in the deeper shadows. He felt comfortable there and knew what it
made him.

Was time here
relevant to what was beyond? He wondered about that as he crossed
one bridge, then another. A lone horse lifted its head from the
sweet grass to eye him in mild curiosity. Behind the creature a
group of blue-skinned females watched him pass, appearing puzzled.
They reminded him of Infinity, the devilish dara-witch. Was a day
here a day outside?

He passed a
row of identical cottages adjacent the path. Two girls played in a
sandpit, an old man watching over them, a habit ingrained, for
there was no danger here. Did they grow older or did death reward
them with an eternity of youth?

Eternal
stasis. What a terrible thought. Stagnant in perfection.

He stopped and
looked at the old man, wondering if he should ask. Was it important
to know? Shaking his head as the old man rose, he thought not, and
went on and did not look back.

A word placed
in someone’s mind, however well intentioned, could incite
rebellion. It was not something he desired to cause.

Home was where
he should be, not here salving his questing psyche. This was a
mess, all these side-tracks, and it was selfish, as if he mattered
more. He mattered not at all, he considered, other than to bring
living hell to others. Everyone that touched his life. Everyone he
touched.

Yet his life
was so mapped that even Lowen altered her future. What did that
say? That he mattered so much, others changed course for him? Or
was his power such, unconsciously he changed those around him,
readying them for the time he would have need of them? The latter
filled him with self-loathing, and then he had his answer.

If he could
enter Aaru, a carrier of the Dark, then he could draw those nigh
across time and in the guise of prophecy on occasion, and use them
when the time was right. Yes, he walked the path of shadows,
therefore his unconscious would not, could not, discern the torment
he caused. He saw only the aftermath.

Now, the
ultimate. To sacrifice innocence. To no longer care, to put it
another way. Every past pain, his or another’s, confronted, would
empty him further, divest him of human hang-ups, the proverbial
chip on the shoulder - manifold. Until he could function alone,
unencumbered, the past in the past. Free? He doubted it. Merely
empty. A vessel of nothing.

Until he
discovered what it was awaiting him in the darkness of the abyss.
Why did he bother, forsaking pressing duties, when he already
knew?

Salvation? For
the ultimate crime.

Laughable.

There was no
such thing.

The path began
to climb. On his left a river steadily descended as he ascended. He
paced a wide curve, deep in thought, and then halted.

A waterfall,
foamy and musical. A lookout platform with a sturdy wooden rail. In
this place of no death, why? A fleeting question, to gain time for
equilibrium.

A woman and a
man stood side-by-side, their backs to him as they gazed into the
swirling depths below.

Millanu and
Taranis. His mother and his father.

They were
unaware of him, entirely content in their togetherness.

Nothing random
here, evidently. For expediency he chose the nearest path and it
led him directly to his mother and father. He put a hand over his
heart and breathed deep and slow.

Dear gods, it
was unnecessary. Millanu forgave him a long, long time ago. She
forgot the moment he silently and rebelliously transgressed,
quietly understanding what drove him, and this journey was for him
to forgive himself. He was his own worst enemy.

He released a
slow breath. He could back away unseen. They would never know. He
could leave them to the harmony they shared, for they needed no
words from him to make it perfect. He had no need to correct
anything here. He did not have to speak forgiveness or ask it to
receive; it already was.

Having
realised, in an instant he was relieved of the burdens of
millennia. He could back away and his goals would be fulfilled. The
one he faced with Lowen as witness and the one he knew he would
confront in addition in coming face-to-face with his father. Where
Millanu was, there would be Taranis.

If he stayed
now, however temporarily, it was a gift. A gift received. They did
not need him; he needed them. He needed this final farewell. And
understood why it was he came.

To say
goodbye. He did not have the opportunity when Millanu died - her
death was unexpected, a freak accident. And Taranis? Anger
overshadowed that parting, anger at Tymall for causing this man’s
death. The first death happened when he was a teenager, trying to
understand his mother, and the second death came when he began to
know his father. Yes.

He needed
closure.

Thus he
stepped forward, calling out softly not to startle, not their
names, but Mother, Father, a child happy in his parents’
presence.

Innocence
lost? No. Innocence understood.

They turned. A
tall, golden woman as beautiful as a glorious summer morning, and a
tall, dark-haired man as strong as the mighty oak in all seasons,
his eyes as grey as his son’s.

A quizzical
smile. “Torrullin?” His father’s voice, missed.

“Son?”
Millanu’s musical tones, long silent.

“Yes,” he said
and smiled. A brilliant smile, free, as not one person in all his
time had seen light his face. “I have come to say farewell.”

There was no
sadness and no regret in that statement, only joy over the
priceless gift.

Then he was
between them and their hands were upon him, touching him in
amazement, hugging him in turn, stroking his cheeks, running
through his hair and their lips kissed his, then laughed and spoke
simultaneously, gibberish, sweet gibberish.

Later, without
the terrible wrench of a final parting, he left them there and
continued on the path, over the hill, down the other side.

To find his
beloved son.

Find me,
father, come find
me
, was what Tris said the night he
died.

And here he
was. All paths led to home, and this place was where his son
belonged. A perfection that will have soothed Tristamil’s troubled
soul. Thank the Goddess for that. A miracle.

Another guilt
lifted. Tristamil would thrive in this realm without strife, having
been peacemaker all his life, in every situation. He, Torrullin,
thought it too perfect, but he was not like them. Certainly no
profound peacemaker - that happened by accident.

From the
height of the hill he saw the path wind through a small forest,
crossing a bridge in its heart, and even from this distance he saw
the man waiting there, the form made tiny, but as familiar as if
standing before him.

Tristamil.

The small
figure lifted his head and turned to look his way. The space
between narrowed to nothing as the connection was made,
acknowledged and called to.

And a father
stood before his son, drinking in the clear, contented grey gaze,
the smooth, golden cheeks, the streaked auburn and gold hair. The
long fingers lifted to a father’s face. A beautiful smile of
welcome.

With a small,
pained gasp, Torrullin wrapped his arms around his son and held
him, long, wanted to hold him forever, and healing tears slid
unnoticed down his cheeks.

Tristamil
gently disengaged, holding his father at arm’s length and then
lifting hands to smooth away tears.

“Father, don’t
weep in this place.”

His voice, the
one that haunted his father’s dreams, was calm and even. A trace of
sadness, as if he understood and could not change anything.

“I weep for
joy, my son,” Torrullin returned, his voice barely above a
whisper.

Tristamil
smiled. “Then weep all you want, for here there is joy in ample
measure.”

Would he tell
him about Skye’s son Tristan, about Samuel and his son bearing the
same name? Would he tell him about his twin, about the screwed-up
hell outside? No, if he did not know, he did not need to be
told.

Torrullin
returned the smile. “I have not much time, Tris; I merely came to
say goodbye.” He touched his son’s cheek, gaze tracing the path of
his fingers.

“You came to
lay me to rest at last,” Tristamil qualified. “Good, for I’m beyond
anything out there, and remembering me with pain hurts only you.
I’m glad you came - to see I belong and to leave me here.”

“I see it now.
I love you and from this moment I shall think of you with joy
only.”

Tristamil
smiled again. “Then you have won your first peace, my father. All
guilt is gone, every desire to change it. No more seeking to atone,
no need to be forgiven. I love you, too, with all my heart, and now
it is in place, we are in place, you and me, as one, and our peace
is real.”

His smile
vanished. He leaned forward.

“I’m not to be
your taliesman, a feeling brought forth as the epitome of what joy
should feel like. That would be creating a new lie. You are your
own taliesman, father, and if you seek true happiness, share it
with someone. Let someone in.”

Torrullin
closed his eyes and then snapped them open. Time was now precious
and he could not afford to waste a single moment of seeing his son,
real, not a dream, not this time.

“Do you have
someone to share it with, Tris?”

A beatific
smile. “Skye.”

He did know
about Tristan. Perhaps he even knew his son in this place. A
fortunate man. A happy man.

“You are
complete.”

A small shadow
in Tristamil’s eyes. “I’ll always be incomplete, for you’ll never
join us in eternity.” A sigh. “I’ve accepted it, but … seeing you …
has …”

He closed his
eyes and Torrullin understood. He felt similarly lost until seeing
Millanu and Taranis again. His son needed to say farewell also.

“A gift, son,
one that stills the pain forever.”

Tristamil
opened his eyes and they cleared. “Yes. You know. Thank you for
this.”

Again father
and son held each other and then it was time to go. More, and they
could not part. This was a wrench, hard, painful, and both felt it,
and perhaps it spoke of the great bond between them, proof they
would ever hearken to each other.

They would go
on, remembering in joy, recalling this last meeting with wistful
happiness, but always, always, they would miss each other.

That could not
be emptied, ever.

A shimmer in
the air.

Lowen studied
it intently, and then he was there. Torrullin. Transformed. Joy
shone from every pore, and a lurking sadness he could not yet
shake.

It was in that
sadness that he turned to her, calling to her desperately, and she
ran to him, hurting, and held him to her.

Chapter
Sixteen

“…
you will
all suffer for this …

I swear this
on my unholy soul.”

Tymall, during
the incarceration leading to his suicide

Luvanor
sparkled in Tennet’s bright glows, a world glorious to behold.

It had five
major continents and any number of islands. Deep oceans, many
rivers and lakes. High mountains, deserts, equatorial forests. A
world of contrasts and variety. Three continents were inhabited by
the Valleur, with the fourth and fifth gradually being populated.
The land was farmed, yet respected. The oceans were plied, yet
largely unchartered.

The Valleur
were the sentient manifestations of their world, people of contrast
and variety. From the simple farmer to the cosmopolitan city
dweller. From the uneducated layman to the educated academic. And,
tellingly, there were the differences in colouring, pointing to
ancient survival collaboration with humans. Dark hair and eyes were
rare, but not unheard of, and then there were auburns with amber
eyes, strawberry blondes, green eyes. Grey eyes were rare, blue did
not exist. Still, the majority were Golden, largely regarded as
purebloods, but unions between the different colourings took place
daily and without prejudice.