The Dreamer Stones (30 page)

Number Twelve.
“No question.”

“No
statement?” Torrullin taunted.

“Very well, if
you must. This then. You know far more of the realm of sorcery than
you employ. You are wary of your power; you use it sparingly,
generally when you have no other choice. Stupid, Elixir! Use your
knowledge and peace may hasten forward. That is, of course, if you
desire peace, which I doubt, given your progress. You are happy in
your unhappiness, you feel more alive. That is masochistic.
Surrender your inhibitions to discover what lies beyond them. One
last point, the realm of sorcery
is
a realm, not merely a
state of mind.”

Torrullin
sucked at his teeth as the being lapsed into silence. “How can an
empty vessel feel so peeved?” He drew breath to prepare for the
next question. “Let this be done. Next.”

“Where do you
go from here?”

“Luvanor, for
news … ah. Where do
I
go from here? I suspect I begin the
cycle anew. Anger, guilt - who knows?” The latter was spoken
quietly, in realisation of how uncertain the immediate future
was.

“I am last in
line,” Number Fourteen said, waving its branches. “Last is first,
first is last. My question to you is thus. Will you tell them you
are Elixir?”

“Who would I
tell? Why? What possible difference can it make? How? When I am not
sure what it implies? I already knew I am to live forever, so what
has changed?”

“Questions!”
Number Seven barked out. “Without answers! How defeatist! But, a
final boon. You will know when to tell them and what it means to be
Elixir. The choice is yours. The courage is personal. Use it or
not. And now, Master of Reaume, it is time to leave here.”

Torrullin
opened his mouth to say more …

… and he
stood, with Lowen, before Krikian on Luvanor in the moist, musty,
pest-ridden Valla castle.

Chapter
Twenty-Five

Listen to your
youth, Mr President. They are the future of your society. And try
and listen to your aged. They know more than you are willing to
admit.

A note in
Beacon’s political manifesto

Returned from
Beacon and Luvanor, Tannil took over the leadership of Valaris.

A visit to
Marcus Campian resulted in the Electan’s formal handover of power,
a state of affairs he subsequently broadcast to the nation from his
sickbed. Rumour had now become fact.

There was no
trouble.

Tannil
requested an overview of the situation on the ground and spent long
hours studying statistics, listening to practical suggestions and
actions taken.

He learned the
Western Isles were untouched by poison or destruction. The Valleur
re-instituted the methods able to feed many in a crisis. The waters
were unsullied in the west and thus human fishermen went out to
haul with Valleur aid. Produce from the farms in the isles was
brought in to the relief centres, as well as sufficient to feed
Torrke. As for the continent - teams of five Valleur chanted to
lift the spells left in the darkling aftermath. To all of it Tannil
gave his blessing.

Looting
stopped and relief stations were protected from the continuing bad
weather. Looters gave no trouble once they realised matters of aid
were on track.

In one day the
results of firm leadership echoed throughout the land.

The storm
abated and then it was over.

Dams, lakes
and rivers were full and fresh. Farmland recovered with amazing
speed, the water having washed away poison residue. Seeds were
sown, their growth aided to normal seasonal status with magical
help. The oceans posed no further hazard.

Cattle, sheep
and other livestock could not be conjured out of thin air, or fish
grown from nothing, and Tannil gave the order to have stocks
brought in from offworld at exorbitant prices he paid without a
murmur. He would cripple the Valleur treasury, but Valleur never
held such things in high esteem.

As Torrullin
confronted the Syllvan in the darkness below, Valaris and its
people began the recovery of a world … and waited. How long would
it last?

Tymall was not
done.

Then word
came. Teroux was ill.

Tannil went
crazy.

It transpired
the boy’s illness was no more than a child’s cold, arrested by
Senlu healers.

Tannil went to
see his son, satisfied himself the boy was in no danger and
returned to the Keep.

Unfortunately
something had snapped inside him after the news was relayed of
Teroux’s sickness, and it was not long before the other residents
of the Keep realised their Vallorin had himself fallen ill.

For his
illness there was no easy cure, none but the march of time. And
that was no guarantee.

Time in the
invisible realms had no bearing on time in reality. Sometimes a day
in Torrullin’s dream space equalled many days on Valaris, and
sometimes a day on Valaris meant many days beyond. Thus, as
Torrullin stood before the Syllvan with Lowen at his back, asking
and answering questions, time sped by elsewhere. Those hours he
stood in the darkness below saw the hours and then days of Tannil’s
illness - it came, it intensified, it did not go away. It could
not, for Tannil too fell over the edge. He fell into his personal
abyss.

It was a
disease of the mind and soul.

Vania’s
unnecessary death - a taunting from Tymall to cause his brother’s
son suffering - and Mitrill’s horrible murder with that of her
husband Caltian, a loved surrogate father, caused the coiling anger
Valleur were wont to nurse for hundreds of years. Fay’s downfall
factored into that, and then nearly killing her in his indecent
rage made it worse.

Anger,
disappointment and guilt.

Add to it
other blows - death on Valaris, annihilation of the Guardians - and
the result was loss of control. In addition, his son’s illness,
although a small thing, quickly gone, but when Tannil heard the
news he already teetered on the edge. Teroux’s recovery did nothing
to return sanity.

In the
background there was the spectre of his grandfather Torrullin.
Tannil was not weak, but felt overshadowed by the personality of
the Enchanter. He measured himself and came up wanting - in his
mind.

Wisely, the
Elders kept him at the Keep. There was no need to scare the boy,
the Valla heir, and in their wisdom there was also growing
sadness.

Had Tannil not
been Vallorin they would have confined him to a safe place, taken
years of healing time to reach the inner, sane being, but it was
not to be. Valaris - and Luvanor - required a strong leader.

The Vallorin
who days ago gave sound orders to aid a world to recovery was gone.
Admittedly, he had forced down growing madness, hiding it from
everyone, mostly from himself, but he had acted as a Vallorin was
expected to. It was no longer so.

Tannil ranted
and raved, calling down curses from the sky, threatening to kill
everyone, he no longer cared who lived and died, and terrible
thunder and wind swept through the valley, its sentience no match
for resident insanity.

It was
insanity and there was no reasoning with the man. The Elders were
lost. This was not a Vallorin; this was a husk that once was
Vallorin.

Then came
Quilla and his Q’lin’la.

They alighted
in the courtyard, took stock of the pacing, wild-eyed figure.

Quilla turned
to his companions. “Go to the Lifesource and wait.”

Wait. It was
the only way left. Resigned, they left in silence.

“Tannil.”

The Vallorin
stormed forward, foaming at the mouth. He worsened by the moment,
had surrendered his normal self. “Birdman! How gracious of you to
come!” A sweet, vacant smile followed that swiftly transformed into
fury. “But, see, you are not welcome, so
leave
forthwith
!”

Quilla backed
away, and nabbed a hand-wringing Elder. “Prester, what is
this?”

“
Go,
birdman
!” Tannil screeched.

“Gods, let us
get from his sight first, then I’ll tell you,” Prester, from
Luvanor, gasped out, dragging Quilla into the small administration
suite near the Dragon doors.

Those doors,
Quilla noted, were shut and guarded. He suspected it was to keep
Tannil in.

Hail the size
of fists rained down and everyone ducked for cover, two women
pushing in behind Prester and Quilla.

“What is
this?” Quilla demanded.

“Another
curse,” one of the women muttered. “I say we throw him on the
Throne …”

“Hush, Zell,”
her companion said.

“Tannil went
over the edge, Quilla,” Prester murmured, drawing him into an
adjacent office. “When he heard Teroux was ill - no, the boy’s
fine. Tannil, however … well, too much, we think. He’s not as
strong as the Enchanter.”

No one is
as strong as the Enchanter,
Quilla thought with foreboding.
Aloud he said, “I know of Mitrill and Caltian …”

“… and Vania,”
Prester said. “And by all accounts the two patched their strange
marriage. It hit him hard.”

“Oh,” Quilla
whispered.

“And speaking
of marriage, Tannil nearly killed Tymall on Beacon when he heard
that twit was marrying Fay - he nearly killed Fay also.”

Quilla stared
open-mouthed.
Our meditation period may have been at an
inopportune time.
“Are they married?”

“Apparently.
Fay is now at Grinwallin under Teighlar’s protection.”

“It doesn’t
make sense,” Quilla muttered and then shook his head. He could deal
with those ramifications later. “Anything else?”

“Many, many
deaths and we feel terrible. Tannil had a greater share and Teroux
being sick was the final straw. He knows the boy is fine, but
cannot believe something bad can be averted. Teroux is all he has
left.”

“It is
understandable. This state is a type of defence.”

“Yes, and a
rant and a rave is fine, gets the darkness out, but he is far
worse.”

“He protects
himself against further pain, Prester.”

“I understand,
but how long will this carry on? We need him sane and in control.
Valaris will suffer otherwise.”

Quilla nodded.
“I’ll speak to him.” He made to leave and paused. “How long has he
been this way?”

“Three days,
each worse than before. We think it started with Fay.”

Quilla nodded
again. And where Fay was, there was Tymall. Perhaps Tymall planted
seeds to help insanity along; no mind surrendered this swiftly,
particularly not a Valla mind. He squared his shoulders and made
his way back into the courtyard.

Tannil kicked
hailstones into the mosaic pool and Quilla approached with
crunching ice his accompaniment. “Tannil, please look at me. It’s
me Quilla and I am no threat to you.”

A harsh laugh
and he twirled around, throwing his hands in the air. “Quilla! Come
to save the crazy man? Huh?”

“I want to
help.”

Tannil closed
in, prodded Quilla in the chest. “I don’t require help, birdman,
and especially not from one of the Enchanter’s familiars!”

“I am your
friend also, Tannil.”

Tannil’s head
bobbed up and down. “Yes, yes, so you say, but, but …” He paused, a
frown creasing his brow. “What was I saying? Oh.
Get
out
!”

The usual
reaction was to do as bid and get out, but Tannil deserved better.
Quilla would never forgive himself if he turned his back on
Torrullin’s grandson now. He weaved a paralysing spell … to no
effect.

There were two
types of personalities immune to sorcery, one being a stronger
force, the other an insane mind. Insanity meant neurons misfired
and therefore the patterns could not recognise sorcery. Tannil was
further gone than anyone realised. And dangerous, for he could
still do magic.

This had to be
Tymall’s doing. Had that creature made his new wife a promise not
to kill her brother, therefore opting for something that was a kind
of death? Tymall could claim he had nothing to do with this
downward slide. Vile … and clever. When would Torrullin return; he
should deal with this.

“Hungry! I’m
hungry!” Tannil burst out. “Want to eat, Quilla?”

Contradictory.
A sure sign. “Yes, whatever you’re having.”

“Good, good!”
Tannil grabbed Quilla’s wing and dragged him across the courtyard
through the chambers to the back of the Keep where the kitchens
were.

The maids and
cooks were rapidly scarce.

“Tannil, shall
I rustle up an omelette?”

Tannil looked
back at him in surprise, as if he could not remember why he had the
birdman in tow, and then nodded. “Yes,” he grinned and let go.

Shuffling his
wing into a semblance of its usual pose, Quilla went to the fridges
and foraged for ingredients. He said nothing, giving Tannil time to
come to grips with the situation. A simple situation. Someone was
going to make him something to eat.

“Green pepper
and garlic,” Tannil muttered, sitting at the huge kitchen table. He
lowered his head to his arms and said nothing more.

Ten minutes
later Quilla placed an aromatic omelette before him. “Eat, my
friend.”

Bloodshot eyes
raised and stared at the plate, the steaming meal.

“Hungry,” he
whimpered and wolfed it down, pushing huge pieces into his mouth. A
minute later he keeled over, hitting the floor with a hard thud
before Quilla could reach his side.

“What did you
do?” Prester whispered, entering.

“A sleeping
potion. He will sleep for two days. I shall take him to the
Lifesource to determine the depth of the problem. Maybe he can
overcome this, and the Q’lin’la will do what we can to aid
that.”

With hypnosis,
Quilla attempted to reach Tannil’s disturbed psyche.