The Dreamer Stones (2 page)

The distortion
vanished. The wail receded to a bearable pitch and, heartened, they
strengthened the vibration, a full-throated monastic chant that
raised gooseflesh on every participant.

It was
beautiful, spiritual, uplifting, romantic and mythical.

The wail
vanished completely in the overwhelming notes. At first it was
drowned out and then it disappeared in truth.

All shuddering
stilled and was no more.

The hum
continued in homage and thankfulness, and the streak of light
slowed and coalesced into a glowing orb in the centre of the mighty
chamber. It gradually sank to zigzag its way as if searching, until
it halted before His Majesty and hung there.

The king
lifted the bullhorn to his mouth and quietly announced the danger
had passed. The orb dipped. The humming lessened. The king added
Cèlaver now knew how to counteract a future threat, should it come.
The humming stopped altogether and the orb dipped up and down as if
it pleased with the king’s insight.

His Majesty
lowered the horn and asked in a normal tone, “Is that right? The
hum counters?”

The orb dipped
again and then neared. It circled the king’s head once, twice,
three times and then hurtled into the magical heavens.

Trust in the
power of the Light.

The words were
an unspoken thought transmitted to all.

The orb
vanished.

On a striped
blanket a fair distance to the left of the king and his family, two
heads swivelled.

“It feels as
if Torrullin is with us,” the man said after a moment, and had to
clear his throat.

She nodded and
lay back to stare up at the magical heavens.

“That’s
because he is. Any day now, Krik, he’ll wander back into our lives.
Two millennia are now officially scrapped.”

Chapter
Two

I am not who
you think I am.

Everyman

It was not
easy returning to Cèlaver, for there were many memories,
particularly of Tristamil.

Yet to Cèlaver
Torrullin had to go, for that was where his guide to the abyss made
her home. He knew she waited, and it scared him more than his
memories.

Cèlaver was a
dead world on the surface. A nation of billions flourished in the
bowels of the ancient rock. Two thousand years ago he infiltrated
the planet’s underground civilisation with Tristamil. Their aim was
to discover the secrets to the invisible realms. He learned realms
were infinite in number, like the worlds in their expanding
universe, and equally varied. He learned he had to die to arise in
another place in physical form.

Here Torrullin
learned of the existence of the Plane. A Cèlaver sect dealt in
reincarnation and the High Priestess educated him in the
requirements.

And here he
was once more, searching for something similar. He did not seek the
reality of realms, though; this time he came for someone specific,
the one person well versed in those realms, the one who would be at
his side on his journey into the abyss if he asked it of her.

She was not a
High Priestess; this woman was immortal, a seer, and would have
seen his need and prepared herself to make the journey with
him.

Torrullin
stood on Cèlaver’s shale-like surface, reluctant to take the next
step in her direction.

He faced the
rocky outcrop containing within its insulating properties the only
habitat above ground, that of the royal family and their
retainers.

The stone door
was lowered, engineered and camouflaged against casual inspection.
There was a control panel and he searched for the bloody thing for
a time, impressed by the added ingenuity. When he found it, he
punched digits at random, knowing tampering would set off alarms to
act like a knock at the door.

Someone would
come.

The stone
portcullis rumbled up, vanishing into the rock above, and twelve
armed men stood braced facing him, weapons levelled. He expected no
less.

Blue
breastplates protected and sturdy sandals provided traction, but
other than a loincloth, they were unclothed. The air inside - a
closed system - was warm, sometimes humid, and dress was minimal.
The ridges forming part of their chitinous skullcaps stood out
sharply in the bright exterior light.

Spears
glinted, as did eyes. Again, he expected no less.

He had
mastered the Cèlaver tongue, but these men gave him no opportunity
to speak. The troop surrounded him, silent and intent and, while
nobody touched him, they would definitely not negotiate.

As before, he
would be ferried up and down interminable stairs to the Protector’s
offices or herded down to the cells. Although he was in no personal
rush to meet his guide, in truth he had not that much time … or
patience.

Thus he bent
his thoughts to a younger man, one whose mind would be receptive,
and took from him what he needed to alter their strategy and gift
him a position of advantage.

“His Majesty
King Privin will not appreciate this,” he murmured.

As he was led
to an opposite entrance, the stone covering thundered back into
place, shutting out the dangerous air and plunging the cave into
gloom.

The lights
came on and the man ahead came to a stop. He held a detaining hand
up.

“His Majesty
expects you? His Majesty is ill and is seeing nobody.”

A stroke of
good fortune. “And I am a healer.”

The man’s eyes
widened with dawning comprehension. He now had opportunity to study
the intruder and what he saw set his blood a-tingle. A fair man,
grey eyes - a sorcerer, one known to Cèlaver. His troop watched in
consternation as their leader dropped to his knees.

“Enchanter! I
apologise, my Lord! We were not expecting you!”

His face was a
mask of self-disgust, and gasps sounded from his men. It was a
terrible blunder.

“Rise. You are
not at fault. I was not free to send warning, not without making my
presence known to unwanted elements. Please lead me to your king
and consider your duty well done.”

The man bowed.
“I am Kishlanmoor, and it is an honour to serve you, my Lord.” He
made a gesture, causing his troop to straighten with alacrity.
“Return to your quarters. I shall lead my Lord to the royal
apartments.”

There were no
interminable stairs to negotiate this time, for Kishlanmoor led
Torrullin to a recess in the left face of the cavern, where he
pressed digits on a hidden panel. An elevator slid open.

It led
directly to the upper corridor of the outcrop.

No
rush
, Torrullin thought,
and yet it goes fast this
time.

A frisson of
anticipation overcame him. A pair of startlingly blue eyes arose
from memory to stare at him in young-old wonderment, eyes he would
shortly see again.

Kishlanmoor
prompted, and Torrullin followed the man into the elevator. It was
cooler than the cave and he breathed a sigh of relief. The doors
slid shut on the stares of eleven pairs of eyes. He hoped the
rumours of his coming would not reach her before he himself
did.

He wanted to
surprise her, knowing well she would not be surprised.

“What is amiss
with your king?” Torrullin asked as the elevator began its upward
journey.

An anxious
face looked back at him. “Nobody knows for sure, but there’s rumour
of foul play. The Prime Minister is suddenly very … er,
visual.”

“King Privin
is a good man?”

“A liberal, my
Lord. He spoke of renewed contact with the outside worlds, which
some are for and some are not. A good man, yes, but perhaps not so
great a politician.”

“The two
generally do not fit together well.”

“The king sent
for you, my Lord?” There was hope in Kishlanmoor’s voice.

“In a manner
of speaking, yes.”

“I’m glad.
Cèlaver will thank you if he returns to health.”

The elevator
came to a stop. Exit into the upper guardroom led to a hasty
conversation and then Kishlanmoor preceded Torrullin with measured
tread to the double doors at the end of the long, wide
corridor.

It was
deserted but for two ever-present guards, and on their right glass
as thick as a man’s upper arm gave view over the barrens of the
planet’s surface. Another hasty conversation took place before the
doors and then they were flung wide as if to admit an august
guest.

Kishlanmoor
took a steadying breath, and entered the antechamber like a
herald.

Torrullin
stepped over the threshold.

It was
overfull with people waiting to have a word with the king. As the
king was ill, the duty of hearing petitioners fell to a minister,
which no doubt strengthened a Prime Minister’s position. The
gathered were instantly a-bristle. It seemed the new arrival was
about to jump the orderly queue. They liked even less he had a
herald in the form of Kishlanmoor.

A harassed
individual collared Kishlanmoor to ask their business, throwing
suspicious glances at the visitor - who appeared unfazed - and the
one word spoken in reply took on a life its own.

“Enchanter.”

There were
gasps and then everyone spoke at once, some kneeling in dismay,
some throwing looks at Kishlanmoor, and others pushing forward to
touch. Questions, recriminations, apologies and welcomes flew and
the hubbub deafened.

All order was
lost.

“Quiet!” the
harassed man roared out and Torrullin glanced at him in admiration.
Quite a voice.

Silence came,
but not order. “Sit! No … go! There will be no audiences this
day.”

It caused
bedlam and Torrullin was ignored.

In the
resultant confusion Kishlanmoor opened the far doors a way, peeked
around and gestured for Torrullin to follow.

The audience
chamber, in the guise of a comfortable sitting room, where once
Torrullin conversed with King Ophuls, was no longer recognisable;
new king, new government, new interior decorating. It was to be
expected, yet felt strange.

Four men
talked together and Kishlanmoor drew breath to announce his
visitor.

Torrullin
touched him and shook his head. These four men were likely the
conspirators in a desire to wrest power, and he wanted their
measure without the fanfare.

Kishlanmoor’s
face fell, but he did as asked, and cleared his throat to draw
attention. One man looked up and then straightened. He jabbed an
elbow into his companion. A moment later both bent forward to
whisper to a man seated with his back to the door.

The fourth man
approached in ignorance.

“Kishlanmoor?
It’s been some time since you’ve needed to show your face up here.
Who is your guest that he requires personal service and, might I
add, lack of protocol?”

The man halted
a pace from the guard leader and did not once look at
Torrullin.

“Minister, I
apologise, but …”

“That is not
what I want to hear. I’m sure you have good reason. Answer my
question.”

“I am
Torrullin of the House of Valla,” Torrullin spoke up, a frown
creasing his brow. “And you are?”

“I have not
heard of you,” the man replied, looking at the visitor.

“That’s too
bad, but I’m not here to spar with you. I ask to speak to His
Majesty King Privin.”

The seated man
rose and the three in the sitting area mouthed like fishes.

“The King is
indisposed.”

It was a
challenge. This was an offworlder, someone with clout to force
himself into the royal chambers, and the minister did not like
having his authority put to the test. He ignored the hisses behind
him and stood braced, arms loosely at his sides, but his fingers
twitched as if ready to noose Torrullin’s neck. A man, then, with
few scruples.

Torrullin
folded his arms, placing his weight on his left leg. It seemed
defensive, but was far from it. His right foot tapped insolently on
the brushed weave of the carpet.

The other
three remained silent, as if they desired the fourth member of
their group humiliated.

“I know King
Privin is ill,” Torrullin murmured. “I would like to see him.”

“In his
absence governance falls to me. I am Santillana, and queries,
petitions, laws and unwarranted guests go through me.”

“But they
don’t go through you, do they? You vet nobody, for the buck stops
at your mouth.”

“How dare you?
You got in here, first surprise, you spoke a hole in Kishlanmoor’s
head, second surprise, but this is as far as you get. Speak - you
have one minute before I have you locked up.” Santillana,
overweight, overbearing and in love with himself and his position,
smiled new challenge.

Torrullin’s
gaze found the three men arrayed behind the Prime Minister. He
studied each in turn and said, “I am a healer.”

“We know,” one
said, and bowed.

“What are you
bowing to him for?” Santillana shouted.

Another said,
“Prime Minister, perhaps he is able to aid our king. Cease your
challenge.”

“And perhaps
he will finish it, Paul! How dare you trust a stranger?”

“Because of
who he is,” the third man said.

There was a
knock behind them and rather than have a harassed official reveal
who he was, Torrullin clicked a finger, locking the door. The sound
of an electronic lock engaging was almost silent, nonetheless
unmistakable.

Santillana
paled.

Kishlanmoor
sported a secret smile.

“Explain
yourself!” the Prime Minister roared, using bluster to cloak
shortcomings.

“With
pleasure,” Torrullin smiled. He stepped closer and Santillana
backed up, but was ignored. Instead, he pointed a finger at the
third man behind the minister. “You are in debt to the Prime
Minister and do his bidding with a heavy heart.”