The Dreamer Stones (3 page)

Santillana
spluttered.

“Silence!”

It was an
enchantment, for nobody could speak then. Only Kishlanmoor did not
panic.

Torrullin
ignored the effects and spoke to the second man. “You are overly
ambitious and yet your love for your King redeems you.”

The man in
question stilled a hand roving at his throat and stared at
Torrullin.

“Neither of
you have fallen far; both may seek forgiveness in honesty with your
King.” Torrullin turned to the man Santillana named Paul. “You are
wholly duped by this creature. You are an honest man with a heart
unmarked. You may now speak.”

The man Paul
tried his voice and found it returned. “My Lord, you’ve looked into
their hearts and seen this?”

“I have.”

Paul’s eyes
locked onto the Prime Minister’s. “Are you seeking power for
yourself, Santillana? Is that it? It wouldn’t surprise me; you were
ever a dark horse …” Then his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “His
Majesty’s illness? God, tell me you didn’t!”

The man could
not respond in words, but his eyes said it. Reed-thin Paul,
snarling, jumped at him.

Torrullin
motioned at Kishlanmoor, who inserted himself between the two,
throwing Paul off, and stepping back to level his spear at
Santillana.

Kishlanmoor
had his voice back. “I place you under arrest!”

Santillana
used his weight to propel himself across the floor to the door. For
a big man he moved with astonishing agility, but he forgot the
doors were locked beyond his ken to open. There he turned at bay,
spreading his arms, and growled through the silencing
enchantment.

“Enough,”
Torrullin said, and the big man froze in position. “Paul, take me
to your king.”

Paul glared at
the creature at the door with loathing, and nodded. “Kishlanmoor,
place all three under arrest.” He stared with less hostility at the
other two. “If the Enchanter has the truth of it …”

Kishlanmoor
saw how wide Santillana’s eyes became.

“… you won’t
long be in custody, but until I know what’s going on here, you are
to comply.”

They nodded at
Paul and assisted the guard leader in hoisting Santillana. By the
time they tried the doors, it was to find them unimpeded.
Kishlanmoor grinned and then bowed his thanks to Torrullin, before
dragging his fat captive away. The man would shortly be shouting
the guard leader’s head off.

The other two
followed.

Into the next
chamber, sitting room, then into the next, a library, through that
and into the king’s bedchamber, Torrullin followed Paul, who wanted
to ask how, why and what, but was temporarily more concerned for
the welfare of his ruler.

He would make
an excellent Prime Minister.

The king lay
on a great bed, breathing shallow, laboured breaths, his face
deathly white. He seemed shrunken, insubstantial.

Keeping vigil
around the bed were three people, two of them women … and one had
his attention instantly.

She looked up.
Blue, so blue, eyes.

His heart
stopped and he was cold. Never had he been so cold.

She was
surprised. Then not. She smiled.

His heart
resumed its beating. He dared not dwell on his reaction, not then.
Not ever.

Paul stared at
him.

“Torrullin.”
Her voice was husky. Matter-of-fact. As if no time had gone by.
“King Privin needs your help.”

Gods. He
dragged his gaze from hers and looked to the man on the bed. He
could not for the life of him move. Then had to, or he would be
lost. “Poison?” he managed, drawing nearer.

Paul swore
behind him, but stayed where he was.

“Yes,” she
said. “No antidote.”

King Privin
was near death, so close it was a mere thread and hope that held
him rooted to this reality.

Torrullin the
healer bent his attention to his patient, unaware Paul motioned the
others away. He was aware she remained on the opposite side of the
bed, watching him. He lifted his hands, saw they trembled, dear
gods, and placed them over the prone man’s abdomen.

Frowning, he
felt sluggish blood, fast racing poison over it, but was not close
enough to change anything. Her slim hands intruded into his
narrowed field of vision to lift aside the robe, and he stared at
them, and then let that go to place his fingers, steady now, skin
to skin on the dying man.

Cold, clammy
skin … and barely in time.

A moment
passed, two, and he held his hands there, willing away poison,
speeding up and oxygenating the blood, reversing damage to organs,
and then lifted them away. Hers slid the robe back into place.
Again he stared at them, before finding the strength to turn and
look at the king’s face for signs of returning health.

King Privin
groaned and drew a shuddering breath, then lurched into a seated
position. His skin was ruddy with renewed blood flow and his green
eyes were angry, seeking justice.

“Where is
Santillana? The bastard tried to kill me!”

Paul rushed
forward and so did the other two doctors, one lifting the ruler’s
wrist - to be shooed away.

“Arrest
Santillana!”

“It is done,
my King,” Paul said, tears brimming.

“Clever Paul!
Witness! This man is my new Prime Minister - should’ve appointed
him in the first place.”

Torrullin
retreated and lifted his gaze to the woman.

She smiled,
rounded the bed, stepping past the frantic activity, the raised
voices, the emotion, and came to stand before him.

“Torrullin,”
she said again and reached out.

Dear god. He
drew her into his arms, cold all over.

“Lowen.”

Chapter
Three

Danger lurks
in shadows and in the corners of curves, those being in the mind.
Keep eyes open even in daylight.

Awl

On Valaris the
Warlock Tymall took on the guise of his Enchanter father, a ruse to
fool Valarians into believing Torrullin was not to be trusted with
their well-being.

Tannil,
Vallorin of the Valleur, grieved over the deaths of his mother
Mitrill and surrogate father Caltian.

On Cèlaver
Lowen led the way to a suite of chambers not far from the royal
apartment, with Torrullin trailing her. Over time she became the
link between the rulers of Cèlaver and was afforded a place within
the outcrop.

She stood
aside and waved him in before glancing back and forth along the
corridor. No one there, but she could not be too careful. Jealousy
was a powerful incentive, and Torrullin was a magnet, particularly
after healing the ailing king and having deposed a corrupt Prime
Minister. She entered and locked the door, and turned to study him,
seeing more of him in her personal surroundings.

Two thousand
years he was away in another realm.

This was the
beginning of a new life.

He, in turn,
studied her suite. One could learn much from another’s space, and
he took the time to look before facing her, here, where it was
quiet after the explanations to the king, and where it was private,
dear gods.

When he in
another realm, he ran from her.

This was the
start of something he should avoid.

Spartan. Pale
walls, unadorned. Functional furniture, a table, four chairs in a
white painted finish. A bench with flat green cushions along one
wall. A bookshelf with tomes on languages, and a computer on a side
desk. The bulb overhead lacked a shade, was bright. The concession
to comfort was on the floor - a luxurious carpet, purest white.

She had no
need of a comfort zone? She spent little time here? Or she dared
not collect anything that revealed permanence?

“Torrullin.”

He jumped,
unfamiliar with her adult voice. She was a teenager when he last
saw her. A smile fixed to his lips. “How are you, Lowen?”

“Pretence, my
Lord, after I’ve waited long?”

Gods. To the
point. He stepped away, approached the bench and lowered into it.
It was uncomfortable. “I am unprepared.”

“Patently. But
don’t hide behind politeness. Speak to me. I’m not a child
now.”

He grunted and
smiled for real. “Still as honest, I see. Lowen, why? Dear gods,
why did you do this thing?”

She did not
answer immediately. There were things that could not be said yet.
Perhaps would never be said. And he asked why, not how or when.

Sighing, she
dragged a chair from under the table, sat. “Gods, I’m stiff.
Privin’s vigil lasted days. Thank Aaru you came when you did.” She
paused. How to answer? “A vision led me to the point of choice.” A
rueful smile. “But I had no idea how long you’d be gone. Knowing
two thousand years would pass is not the same as trying to survive
them.”

“Did Krikian
help you?”

She laughed.
“You worked it out, did you? Good. Yes, dear Krikian showed me the
ways, told me where to go and did the Ritual with me. I was strong
mentally and certainly had the will for it, but knew not the magic.
Krikian did. He’s in the industrial sector assisting with
mechanical failures - he discovered he’s rather handy there.”

“Why
here?”

“Twofold.
Knowledge and hideaway.”

“You could’ve
gone to Valla Island once versed.”

“No, I could
not.”

Silence and
then, “Must I ask?”

She smiled.
“You just did, and it means you don’t understand.”

“So tell
me.”

“You had to
find me, Torrullin. You needed to suspect what I did and then you
had to find me. Why? Because the seeking means you’re ready to
stand before the precipice.”

He drew
breath. “The abyss.”

Lowen looked
away. “I’ll stand beside you.”

He grunted and
said, “I hoped you’d offer.”

“I hear the
old Torrullin.” She looked at him again.

That cold
feeling returned. He rose and moved from her field of vision. “You
did this for me?”

“I did it for
me. I am a seer, and visions have no sense of timing. The
Immortality Ritual was a natural progression, a way to further my
talent. What I saw of you merely prompted me. You know I saw a
future with you and me in it when I was a girl. We both saw it
before you left.”

“Yes.”

“There were
other images, but the abyss was the real prompting. Luckily that
was early on …” She grinned and he could hear it in her voice.

“Meaning?”

“Imagine I
decided to undertake the Ritual during my decrepit years? I’d now
be standing before you leaning on a walking stick!”

He liked the
sound of her laugh. He liked that she was not old. He wished to all
gods she were old. Torrullin managed an answering chuckle. “There
is that, yes.”

“There is no
need for guilt.”

It was more
than guilt. “Cause and effect, Lowen. I feel guilt; how can I
not?”

“Cause and
effect, yes.” She rose and moved to see him. “Why can you not look
at me?”

He stilled and
turned from his blind perusal of her bookshelf.

“Truth? You
are - hell, Lowen, yesterday you were a child to me.” He paced
forward and stood before her, looking down into her eyes. “Ten days
on the Plane translates as two millennia here. For me, not enough
time passed for you to grow up, never mind the rest. I attempt to
reconcile who you are with who you were … yesterday.”

“Ten days.” It
was a statement, made with sympathy.

He looked
away. “Ten long days.”

“Do I remind
you of her?”

Torrullin
closed his eyes. “No. Yes.”

“I am not
Cat.”

“I know.”

She touched
him. He flinched. Her fingers curled into the sleeve of his tunic,
forcing him to open his eyes and look at her.

“I know what
it was like for you. I saw those I love pass away. I wish sometimes
I hadn’t hidden in the shadows to see them go, slowly, so very
fast, but I do know it can’t be changed. Letting go is not easy,
for they and the time they lived in formed us, making us what and
who we are, and let go we must, for this new time to have meaning.
We create our destinies with each new, long day, and holding out
for the past is and will always be an impossible dream.”

He took her
hand from his arm and folded it in his. She flinched, but he did
not see. “Lowen. So wise, so rooted. How do you stand it?”

She snatched
her hand away. “With difficulty.” She left him and returned to the
front door where she vanished through an opening to the side of it.
“Coffee?”

Lowen was not
as calm as she was as a girl, not quite the same person. He pushed
too hard and she did not deserve that. Entering a kitchenette
behind her, the space too small for two, he apologised.

“No need. Do
you want coffee?”

“Yes, please,”
he murmured and withdrew.

She leaned on
the counter, pushing on her hands.

Dear Goddess,
I did not ask for this, not this.

Over dinner,
cooked by Lowen in the tiny kitchen, they discussed the situation
on Cèlaver.

“Privin is a
good man, but the proverbial bull in a china shop. He tends to rub
people the wrong way, unintentionally. Poor man, he’s an innocent,
and that’s how Santillana got close. If ever there was ambition on
two legs, that man is it. I suspected him, but he was too clever to
leave proof, and when the king did take ill, I couldn’t find a
suitable antidote. You came just in time. Privin has no heir and
that other creature would’ve taken over.”

“Is Privin
married?”

“He’s getting
married in forty-two days.” Lowen grinned. “Totally mad about this
woman, he is.” She looked down at her plate. “Did you know they set
great store by days here? They measure time in days, not weeks, not
months, and a year has gone by when three hundred and sixty-five
days have elapsed.”