The Dreamer Stones (26 page)

Tannil
faltered to look at her, and saw her dilemma.

Tymall, with a
further pain-filled cry, astonishingly real, vanished.

All movement
ceased.

Tannil froze
as he glared at the emptied space in fury. His Valleur heaved
around him.

Fay clambered
to her feet. Real tears coursed over her cheeks. “Tannil.”

Like a man
emerging from a trance, he gradually focused and turned his head in
her direction. She saw madness touched him still, and wondered how
deep it went.

What he saw
tore at his heart. There was distress, and he relinquished the
monster clinging to his back, for her.

“Fay, thank
all good things, you’re all right!”

He opened his
arms and she flung into them.

Explanations
were spoken, ruffled feathers smoothed, reparations promised, and
Tannil sat despondent in the luxurious hotel suite as the law and
politicians finally left him in peace.

Four
Beaconites died in the chapel and two Valleur. Another Valleur was
grievously wounded, and eighteen onlookers were cut in the rain of
glass.

Worse was his
blind fury. Fay nearly died in his selfish desire for revenge. He
had not known his capacity for killing rage. It was a
revelation.

Fay.

Tannil lifted
his head. He could hear her crying in the other room. How unfeeling
was he? He was no better than Tymall. She needed him.

He stood and
poured a stiff drink, swallowed it, then poured another and carried
it through to the adjacent room.

“Fay. Here,
this will help …” He sat on the bed and touched her shoulder.

She lifted a
tearstained face from the pillow. “Nothing will help, Tannil. I’ve
been stupid and blind and I thought, I really thought I could stop
him, take his mind from … but now …”

“Now you’re
married to him.” He looked away.

“Yes!” she
wailed and sat up, grabbed the drink, took a sip … and remembered
the baby. Pulling a face, she set it down on the bedside table.

“How did this
happen?”

“He brought me
here and I was so glad to get away from that darkling castle I
didn’t notice his odd behaviour. I guess I should’ve seen something
in the way he made me dress, the way he dressed, but thought it was
to blend with the Beaconites - what do I know of Beacon’s ways? The
chapel I thought a place to visit, like tourists, wanted to humour
him. Tannil, he gets angry, there’s no reasoning with him, better
to do as he says, you know?”

To his shame,
he did know. The bit about being too angry for reason. He nodded.
“Go on.”

“We were
inside and I was claustrophobic, he held my arm as I tried to
leave, and the next minute it was as if I was enthralled, hearing
words, but powerless to stop them …”

“It’s over
now,” Tannil interrupted. “Hush. You were forced, we’ll have it
annulled.” His voice turned grim. “We’ll convene a council of
Elders to speak the annulment as soon as we get back.”

No!
Fay
drew a slow breath and said. “I’d like that, but it occurs to me
there may be advantage in this. Don’t you think?”

“What do you
mean?”

“I mean he
obviously wanted to marry me, must care for me in some way. I say
we can use it- how, I don’t know, but we shouldn’t be hasty. I
think we should think it through first, be objective.”

“You think I
can be objective about this?”

“I think you
are Vallorin, brother, and this is a tool that could prove
useful.”

Tannil stared
at her and then sighed. “Fine, granted. I’ll call the Elders and
we’ll present this to them, so a later annulment won’t be
questioned.”

“Fine.”

“And we must
speak with the war council; you must tell them what you’ve seen,
heard and everywhere you’ve been.”

“Of course.”
Clearly, Torrullin had not revealed the castle.

“Are you okay,
sister? Physically?”

She nodded.
“And you? I’ve never seen you so angry.”

“My son grows
up without his mother. Of course I’m angry! No, I’m furious, filled
with rage …”

“Vania is
dead?”

A long silence
ensued in which they stared at each other.

Fay, thinking
Tymall was less than forthcoming, and Tannil, thinking Fay was kept
in the dark … and the purpose for that was not comforting. His
uncle had not said anything - to protect her or to keep her
quiescent? One of those led to this marriage fiasco. Why? Surely
not out of love?

“Vania is
dead,” Tannil echoed. “He didn’t tell you?”

“No. I’m
sorry, Tannil.”

“It was him -
there’s no doubt,” Tannil murmured. He said it in the event she was
under Tymall’s spell.

Fay stared at
her hands, biting back tears. “I’m so sorry, brother.”

“Our
relationship became meaningful. I loved her, Fay, in the end, and
we looked forward to long years ahead as husband and wife.”

“Oh, gods, I’m
sorry!” she cried out and flung her arms about her brother, rocking
him. He began to sob on her shoulder. Oh god, oh god, how to cope?
She loved her brother as well. “She’s safe now, she’s all
right.”

“I know,” he
wailed into her neck, “but I want her back!”

There was
nothing she could say. She held him and cried with him, and then he
pulled away and stared at her through reddened eyes.

“If he told
you nothing, then you can’t know the rest of it.”

Cold. “The
rest?”

“Mother … and
Caltian.”

“Dead?” Her
voice was barely there.

He nodded and
could say nothing more.

“My mother and
my father?” Fay was ashen. “Liar! How could he? Not my father … oh,
dear god, now I know how it feels to really hate someone!”

This time
Tannil was the one who drew her into his arms. She fought him, too
angry to accept comfort.

“Where is
Torrullin in all this?”

“I told him to
go away, Fay, I was angry after … anyway. Apparently he’s in
another realm.”

When he said
the latter, Tannil was stoic.

She glared.
“What? Why?” Then she knew. “To find the way to kill his
treacherous Valla-murdering whelp! Well, good! Someone needs to …”
and then she started sobbing, great dry heaves of terrible
grief.

Tannil took
her into his arms and she clung to him body and soul.

Thus it was
that Fayette Valla was brought to Luvanor where it was believed she
would be safe from Tymall and protected from her inner
contradictions.

She arrived on
her brother’s arm.

The prodigal
daughter returned.

She was made
welcome.

Unconditionally.

Chapter
Twenty-Two

Kneel,
penitent. The time for prayer has come again. Lower your head,
penitent. The time for inner reflection has come again.

Arc, poet

High on the
mountaintop stood a tiny birdman, the white feathers of his crown
ruffling in the breeze.

He stood as if
turned to stone, only his childlike eyes periodically moving, small
hands clasped before his chest in an attitude of prayer or
meditation. The same, he would have said. His strange webbed feet
splayed across the rock for purchase, the little claws digging into
the stone.

Hours of this
day he stood thus, hours yesterday, the day before, and the day
before that, coming from the pinnacle only to eat and drink.

His companions
waited at the foot of the large outcrop, among them Phet, the
Enchanter’s one-time shoulder companion. They were a close group,
relied on each other, and each revered the one on high. He was
their leader, their advisor, their spiritual guide and their
teacher. He was also closely bound to the Enchanter, the reason he
meditated, and they waited to hear his words, for they revered the
One who transformed them by calling out their true names.

Including
their leader, they would die for the One, an oath spoken a long
while ago. Phet, alone among them, loved the Enchanter above even
his leader, and waited with growing impatience.

Quilla had
been long in isolation this time, and it boded ill.

The birdmen -
the Q’lin’la - were on Xen III, and having conferred with the
Dalrish sorcerers asked permission for a period of meditation in
the wide empty spaces of the Coral Desert, a region of plains
interspersed with wild mountains and dangerous rivers, one such as
they camped beside. The river tumbled over sharp rocks, through
narrow gullies and down precipices that boggled the sane mind. Used
for drinking water only, the Q’lin’la approached the shifting banks
with great caution.

Phet’s
farseeing Falcon eyes left the still form on high to concentrate on
refilling the water bottles. He found a place sheltered from the
tumbles of the contrary watercourse, but employed what would appear
to someone uninitiated with the river as exaggerated care.

There was
nothing verdant along the banks of its winding seaward journey. The
winds of the desert covered anything that aspired to life with
suffocating sand. Sand as white as the snow in colder lands. A
strange place. A good position to meditate and pray. Not that good
to wait in.

The waiting
would soon be over, he felt it in his bones, and was why he kept
glancing aloft, expecting to see Quilla descend before the dark of
night set in.

Something
large happened elsewhere, he knew it, and if he did, then Quilla
did. They would know soon.

Phet rose, the
sun’s rays catching his blue feathers, sparkling them onto the
surrounding rock, an effect he did not tire of. Grinning at his
vanity, he hefted the water bottles to return to camp.

The Q’lin’la
numbered eleven, ten of whom camped in expectation. Once they were
in hibernation as Eagles and Falcons, transformed into birdmen by
the Gathering call sent out by Quilla and then subsequently freed
to roam the universe by Torrullin at the actual Gathering. He
achieved it by revealing their hidden names.

Phet smiled at
Mil’ta’su, the old Eagle leader, remembering that time. Funl was
his name then, and he preferred it for daily use, as M’flu’tu, the
old falcon leader Kras, frowned in irritation when he was called by
his mouthful of a name. He was Kras longer than M’flu’tu, he was
wont to say. Phet’s own name was Q’li’phe. He, too, preferred the
shortened version. The Q’lin’la tongue was a series of clicks that
rendered their true epitaphs incomprehensible to others.

Kras took a
bottle from him, pointed it towards Pra’to’si, Elle in common
usage, who bent over a cauldron stirring methodically. “Elle thinks
he’s a wizard today, bent over his cauldron of potions.”

Phet grinned
and closed in to investigate. Vegetable soup - the Q’lin’la were
fanatically vegetarian. Considering, as Eagles and Falcons they
hunted as their raptor cousins did, it was strange.

“Smells
good.”

Elle did not
look up, but said, “Quilla will be down soon, and hungry.”

“Indeed,” Phet
responded.

“It has been a
strain this time, I think,” Funl murmured from a shady perch under
a rock overhang a couple of feet up. “The Enchanter must be in some
kind of … difficulty.”

Phet did not
answer. He was afraid of that.

“I worry we’ve
added to the difficulty by disappearing from the arena,” Kras
muttered. “Valaris has darkling problems on top of imminent
starvation.”

“Hark,”
R’lu’mar, Prom, previously Falcon, said, “Quilla comes.”

They looked
up, with Phet cursing his inattention of the pinnacle, and indeed,
Q’li’qa’mz descended. All movement in the camp, but for a periodic
cauldron stir, ceased. They waited.

Then he was
there, his cherubic face tired and pale, the usual pink cheeks lost
to internal strain. The Q’lin’la did not tan under any sun, no
matter how harsh.

Kras held out
a water bottle, and Quilla drank long, and then lowered it to smile
at Elle. “It smells outstanding, my friend. Is it ready?”

Elle nodded
and began to ladle the fragrant mixture into a bowl, bringing it
over with a hunk of fresh bread Funl earlier baked in a pot.

Quilla took
the offering, found a perch in the shade of the overhang. “Eat.
Talk will hold a few more minutes.”

They did not
want to eat, they wanted to hear, but in deference to Quilla’s
obvious hunger and his need for an oasis of calm, they helped
themselves to soup and bread, eating with due relish after all.
Elle smiled.

Finally Quilla
took the breath that signalled he was ready.

Bowls were
laid aside and eyes fixed on him.

Quilla stood,
clasped his hands into a cradle.

“How old do
you think we are, my friends? I attempted to calculate the vast
period and am defeated in the task. We are ancient, prehistoric,
pre-everything in this universe, and as such have learned to take
the long view. We regard time as something invented by those who
cannot grasp its true nature. They think linear, therefore they
tally linear, their lives too short to take note of the curve. We
see it as an element that has no beginning or end, for it is an
eternal circle, tiny and gigantic simultaneously. It is, was, will
be, and then beyond, and we ride the curve. How do you put a number
to that? An instant is forever and forever is an instant. Time can
be distorted, stilled, hastened ahead, and change nothing or change
everything. It is its own master.”

Quilla paused,
looked up at the soaring pinnacle he descended from earlier.

“We are
insignificant, yet we are blessed. To ride the curve is an
extraordinary gift. Why do we subvert this blessing?” He paused
again, returned his gaze to his companions. “We are all at fault,
Q’lin’la, Kallanon, Dinor, darkling, Valleur, human, Mysor, Siric -
I can list races for days and at the end of it I would return to
one race to lay a large portion of the blame. Do you know of whom I
speak?”