The Dreamer Stones (27 page)

He smiled when
they looked at each other uncertainly.

“It is not
disrespect, my friends - he would agree.”

“The Valleur?”
Kras rasped out, ruby feathers quivering.

“The Golden,”
Quilla affirmed. “An arrogant race, more so than others, including
the powerful Kallanon. Perhaps they were simply blind. They lived
long years and continue to do so, yet not long enough to take stock
of the reality that is time. Something done a billion years ago,
measured time, should surely not influence the present? Something
done now should surely have no effect on a billion years into the
future. It does, of course, for time is a circle, a meandering
curve that returns, always.”

Quilla drew
breath and then frowned. “This is hard to say, for I love the
Enchanter …” Phet’s heart constricted. “Torrullin did not see it
either. He did not realise the prophecies ruling his life were
spoken aeons ago by adepts who were cognisant of the curve, or that
they are yet to be spoken many, many aeons into the future. He has
balked at every prophecy, he has altered some, he has overridden
others, and yet, in the end of the beginning, he has achieved
exactly what was seen. Now the time comes when he will understand
at last. He will be horrified, sickened by the deeds of the Golden
that set the tone for the prophecies. Because of them, he is, and
because of the Enchanter the Golden were and are …”

Phet jumped to
his feet. “It is not Torrullin’s fault!”

“Nothing is
that simple, Phet. It is not a question of fault; it is a state, a
truth, a concept, and Torrullin rides the curve as the only, the
only
, true Immortal. Thus far he has shied from what that
means, but … listen, hear …”

Quilla paused
to stare at them, leaning forward.

“If time is a
great circle - never-ending, objective, going from one side of the
curve to the other endlessly, without pause - it means the past can
be the present and the future, and the future is the past. Ancient
prophecies are yet to be written. If we take all that and add to it
that the One is a true Immortal, what do we arrive at? Phet? Dare
you speak this truth?”

Phet stumbled
back and sat down hard. Sharp stone dug into his small buttocks -
he felt nothing. “He was there at the beginning. He has always
been.”

“He is
Elixir,” Funl whispered.

In dawning
horror the Q’lin’la stared at each other.

“Soon
Torrullin will grasp all I have spoken of, for he has gone where it
will be revealed to him. The intricacies are manifold, their
effects far-reaching, but the one we shall now concern ourselves
with is the one that affects us directly.” Quilla sighed. “It has
already begun for others. One Centuar and one Siric left. Somewhere
soon other Immortal races will count themselves in singular, as we
shall. The animated spirit that is Elixir requires only one
companion from every immortal race, whether Light or Dark, for his
cabinet for the future.”

Quilla closed
his eyes and whispered, “The Q’lin’la too must face this.”

“Goddess, no,”
Kras murmured.

“Torrullin
will choose this?” Phet gasped.

Quilla opened
his eyes. “It is as it will be, Phet, and whether he chooses or not
makes not one iota of difference. He is the Enchanter; he is the
One - why did we not realise it meant he is the only candidate for
Elixir?”

“Surely we can
alter this?” Funl asked. “Get to him before anything happens?”

“My friends,
he may not have a hand in our annihilation. We may die in a natural
disaster and one will survive as he companion to Elixir and it
cannot be stopped.”

“No!” Phet
cried out and then slumped back. “He will hate himself, he will not
want this.”

Quilla pursed
his lips and then said it, for it had to be said. “He readies
himself to kill his last surviving son, and if he can do that, he
will accept anything.”

“Dear gods, we
stand at the edge of the Abyss,” Elle muttered, “and we are about
to be pushed over.”

Quilla gazed
at his companions, loving them. “We are indeed at the edge of the
Abyss.”

Chapter
Twenty-Three

“
True
repentance is a rare occurrence; absolution is rarer still. We need
past mistakes in judgment to grow in wisdom; forgetting negates
that.”

Father Rees

The image was
of Lowen on the treetop platform in the magical Cèlaver
chamber.

Saying,
there are some things that cannot be spoken.

She could not
remember if she said those words, but she certainly thought them.
It was strange, looking at herself. A mirror gave an inverted view;
this was herself as she had never seen. She could not look away.
Her dark hair shone and she could not believe her eyes were so
blue.

He heard those
words, he remembered, and it made no difference whether they were
voiced or thought in private. He recalled agreeing. Some things
could never be spoken.

Tearing his
gaze from the image, he gazed at the reality. Lowen was fixated on
herself. Maybe that was better, for she would not read him.

Of course, as
these things go, she then looked at him.

She cleared
her throat. “I’ve seen many things of your past and most was … not
good. Not for you or from you. You’ve done much that required
atonement and you would agree it’s good to have it gone. You also
faced happy moments and I find it a pity you had to release those
as well. Empty vessel … ha! No one is empty, ever. You can’t erase
memory, can you? I …”

“Lowen.”

“No,
Torrullin, hear me out. I know I’m not making sense, but it’s hard
to formulate thoughts when I’m this tired. Please. I don’t entirely
get this cleansing. Root out guilt and pain and all those grey
areas, I can sympathise with. Good to get the rot out, so to speak,
right? But the opposite? Why? Why take out remembered joy and
laughter and the good times that bolster us in the darker
hours?”

“Arrogance.
Joy not fully recognised for its simplicity, but used as a crutch.
See, I did good! A smokescreen, a mask. All had to go, but you are
right, an empty vessel? No, not really. Cleansed of feeling, past
feeling, yes, but memories cannot be removed, not like this. That
would take greater sorcery, a deliberate dischant, and that happens
not, nor should it. Everything is in its niche, remembered for what
it was without the burdens and crutches. Not so bad, I find.”

In the future
he would think back on those words. He would recall stating memory
could not be removed … and would wonder how he could be so utterly
and terribly wrong. It was not this day.

“Does it
change you?”

Torrullin
considered and then, “I’m too tired. I’ll know soon, I suppose.
But, Lowen, there is this.” He looked back on the stilled image, so
real he could reach out and touch. “It is not done. It must be
done, for I need to get back to Valaris.”

“I’m not doing
this.”

“The irony is,
I have to, and I want to even less than you.”

“I require no
forgiveness.”

“Perhaps she
does, the woman of that moment.”

“No, she, I,
knew what I was saying and I heard you. No forgiveness is necessary
on either side, not then, not now.”

“Then it’s
something else.”

Ashen.
“What?”

Silent seconds
ticked by. “Recognition.”

The image
vanished.

“What does
that mean?” Lowen cried out.

He sighed and
rose stiffly from his cross-legged position. His breeches were
dusty from the desert floor, his boots camouflaged in sand. He did
not answer, heading to the pavilion where a single lantern
illuminated the dark in a steady yellow pool, a puddle in infinity.
He flung face down into the soft mattress he created earlier, days
ago he realised with a start.

“Will you
answer?” she cried, rising too and approaching.

“No,” his
voice muffled.

“Torr …” she
began again, and then stopped.

He was
asleep.

He awakened
with dawn, rolled over groaning, then sat up rubbing a stiff
neck.

Gods, he was
thirsty. He conjured a pail of fresh, ice-cold water, ducked his
dusty head in, washed his face, his hands, and then brought forth
water to drink, slurped it down.

Where am
I?

He stared
about, uncomprehending. Desert.

Mist.

Oh.

Lowen.

He whirled
around and saw her sleeping. She lay next to him. She was as dusty
and dry as he was minutes ago, her dark hair dulled to an
indeterminate grey, streaks of hardened sand across her cheeks, her
brow. One hand curled into a fist, the other clutched at her jerkin
as if protecting herself against nocturnal invaders. Two nails were
broken, he noticed, and his heart contracted. It was trying to see
what she had seen. Torrullin, the murderer, the bastard, the
womaniser, the fence sitter … and he smiled.

He felt light
as air.

All that
history, and today was a new day. Finally he understood. He was
ready now to take on the next millennium, and the one after, and
then beyond.

“You’re
smiling.”

“I’m new.”

She lay on her
back. Yes, he was rejuvenated. Lucky. She felt as if a thousand
burdens crushed her soul. Then
she
understood. She took them
on and wondered if there was magic to do for her what was done for
him.

“Mist,” she
muttered.

“Right, and
the hill is ahead.”

“Ah. Big day,
then.”

“I never did
look at your painting. What lies in the darkness below, Lowen?”

She sat, saw
the water, reached for it and drank deeply.

“Your turn to
not answer, I take it?”

“Sorry,” she
said, rising. “Look that way; I need to relieve myself.”

He swallowed a
snort of laughter as she wandered around behind the pavilion and
moments later heard a tell-tale tinkle. The desert must be
grateful. When she returned, he took his turn, chuckling.

“You’re a real
pain when you’re in a good mood, you know that?”

Torrullin
laughed. “Hungry?”

“Very.”

A nourishing
meal later, and they stood dusting themselves down. The pavilion
dissolved into the thickening mist.

Time to go.
Time to climb the timeworn steps to the temple where the abyss lay
gaping.

It was a long
walk, all of another day, tiring, but also cleansing. Purpose had
come again, the purpose of future, and that was good.

Night found
them at the foot of the stairs, and they camped there, preferring
daylight in the mist for the climb.

It was not
like his dream.

There was no
urgency, nothing following him, no fear. Sometime in the last few
days the fear went, too.

Moreover, he
was not alone this time.

Lowen climbed
the slick, rounded stairs in silence behind him. He could not hear
her breathe and knew it to be the sound dampening of the enveloping
mist.

Innocence was
an empty vessel to be filled anew with fresh experience. The babe
he carried carefully in his dream was now within. He was that empty
vessel awaiting the future.

It would not
last. His experiences would cloud the gains of the last few days;
recreate in a manner what he was. True innocence lay in the
unending wonder of every experience, good or not so good, without
burden or crutch, and he was not like that. Intrinsic to his nature
was the sad reality of taking it in and then not letting go.

The entrance
to the temple loomed, a narrow aperture in the old stone of an
ancient edifice. Strange how his dream had been a realm between the
spaces. He had much to learn and had time to, eternal time.

He paused and
waited for Lowen to come up beside him. They glanced at each other.
He stood here many times; she had already entered. He nodded at her
and thus she preceded him, knowing more, and he followed.

It was warm
inside though tendrils of mist swirled in through the doorway and
narrow window slits. A glow from a hidden source akin to covered
lanterns. The interior was hexagonal with the corners rounded. Dark
uneven flagstones, and a solid black patch in the centre, also the
rounded hexagon.

No, not a
patch. Not solid. A hole. Deep, ebony nothingness.

Torrullin’s
heart turned over. Slithering fear. No, nothing to be afraid of, he
chided. He approached and stood over it. Pitch black. Cold
dread.

“Torrullin.”

“Lowen, I’m
afraid after all.”

“You’re
reaching back - reach forward. It will pass.”

Easy to say.
And then he was not afraid. Easily done. Perhaps he was more ready
than he thought earlier.

“What lies in
the darkness below?”

“I don’t
know,” she replied. “I didn’t see. I could not go in without
you.”

“Your
painting?”

“An ebony
swathe of matt black paint.”

“You could
have told me.”

“You could not
look or hear,” she returned with amusement.

He nodded and
was unsmiling. “Yet you knew enough to tell Krikian how to get us
back, right?”

“That is
science. I knew that anyway.”

“Now
what?”

“We go
in.”

“How?
Jump?”

“That would
work.”

“That would be
foolhardy.” He lifted a brow.

“I agree.”

“Lowen …”

“The
Medaillon, Torrullin.”

His hand
covered his chest. “Gods, what if I had it not? It was pure chance
…”

“Was it,
Enchanter? You have it, don’t you? Lost for time out of mind in the
time warp you tossed it into, unable to destroy it, and yet it is
with you. Chance is not part of your vocabulary.”

“Saska nearly
died because of it.”

“And thus she
was returned to you.”