The Dreamer Stones (41 page)

Caballa shook
her head.

“There is no
easy answer,” Torrullin responded. “However, you are Elders,
trusted, respected, and the Valleur need you of sound mind to
function. I need you to be clear-headed.”

Both
nodded.

“I’m going to
tell you something now I shared with nobody, not even Saska, and
perhaps you will understand the depths of my despair in losing
Tannil to the Throne. It may ease your way also … and you may find
you agree the blame is mine alone.”

“My Lord?”
Kismet murmured, yellow eyes round.

“You are to
tell not a soul.” Both nodded, eyes fixed on him. “Very well, it is
this, the Throne repudiated Tannil before he even sat on it.”

“What?” Kismet
gasped.

“He was no
impostor, Kismet. Tannil was a good Vallorin before the Throne was
raised and a good one after. However …”

“The Throne
chose you,” Caballa whispered.

“Yes, and I
asked it to recognise Tannil in my stead. I did not want to be
Vallorin, but more than that I did not want to hurt my grandson by
negating what he was.” Torrullin gazed at them. “It was a mistake,
despite good intentions. Had I assumed the role of Vallorin, Tannil
would now be alive.”

“No.” Caballa
took a pace forward. “Torrullin, had you assumed the role of
Vallorin, Tannil would’ve died before this.”

Kismet stared
at her. Man, she had called him Torrullin to his face.

“And how do
you figure that?” Torrullin asked, eyes glinting.

“Tannil was a
good man, but he also needed status to prove self-worth …”

“Caballa,”
Torrullin growled.

“Hear me out,
Torrullin.”

Kismet groaned
and moved back a pace.

Both ignored
him. “Speak, then.”

“Tannil always
thought he was inadequate, as husband, as Valla, as leader. Had you
taken the Throne away he’d have been over the edge within a
week.”

“He was not
inadequate.”

“We know that,
but he didn’t. Had Vania lived, had his marriage held, it would’ve
come, the innate confidence, self-trust and worth. It didn’t happen
that way.”

Silence and
then, “The fault remains mine.”

“No, the fault
is Tymall’s. He is responsible for all of it, even Tannil’s
father’s death …”

“… and who,
Caballa, was responsible for Tymall?”

“Tymall was,
is and will be responsible for Tymall. He wasn’t raised in terror
and abuse. The boy wasn’t stupid; the man wasn’t blind. He made his
choices. He is his own worst enemy. Torrullin, I know you love that
child, but don’t take blame where it isn’t due.”

He stared at
her. “You test me to the limits sometimes.”

“I am a free
thinking Valleur, not a doormat.”

“Gods,” Kismet
groaned.

Torrullin
smiled. “Thank the gods for free thinking Valleur. Caballa, how
many emotional scrapes have you pulled me from now?”

She smiled.
“About as many as you helped me from.”

Kismet stared
at the two of them, mouth hanging open.

“Kis,” Caballa
snapped, “close your mouth.”

Torrullin
burst out laughing.

On the amble
back to the Keep Torrullin said, “Caballa, I need ask a favour of
you.”

She looked up
at him.

“Please remove
the urn with Tristamil’s ashes from the shrine on Valla
Island.”

She swallowed.
“Where do I put it?”

“With Millanu
and Taranis. No fanfare.”

“It will be
done.” She touched his arm, drew breath and looked ahead.

Silence
reigned.

Then, “The
Valleur need a Vallorin.”

Kismet
nodded.

Caballa asked,
“What do you have in mind?”

Kismet
stopped. “Not Samuel, surely?”

Torrullin
said, “The Throne won’t accept him. The boys are beyond our reach
and Fay’s child is unborn …”

“Dear god.”
Caballa was horrified. “Tymall’s child?”

“A future
problem, or another death soon, that.”

“Hell,” Kismet
managed.

“You will be
Vallorin,” Caballa said. “This is what Tymall planned for.
Magnificent stage management.”

“In a
nutshell.”

Kismet
grinned.

“Don’t look so
happy, Elder,” Torrullin said. “I don’t want this, but I have no
choice. The Valleur cannot be leaderless during this time or it
will loop continually until I do ascend the Throne. It could lead
to civil war, and that I shall never allow. No, by evening I shall
be Vallorin once more … and gods help us all.”

“The people
will accept you, my Lord,” Caballa said. “They prefer a Valla to a
regency of Elders.”

“Ah, yes, the
Vallas.”

“If not Valla,
then another name, my Lord.” This from Kismet. “Or a race long
faded into obscurity. How can we deny what the Vallas have meant to
the Golden?”

Chapter
Thirty-Two

How do you
choose a cabinet you can trust to back you in times of crisis? You
try your best, and when you’re disappointed, you learn from your
mistakes.

Beacon,
political writing

The Keep was
overcrowded and yet the stranger was noticeable.

An abashed,
nervous man seated near the mosaic pool sipping at a glass of wine.
He was reed-thin, very tall, his hair snow-white, his eyes a bright
and searching hazel. His skin, and there was plenty in evidence,
for he wore only an elaborate loincloth, was midnight black. A
hefty, engraved spear lay at his feet, his toes twiddling it back
and forth.

Torrullin’s
heart gave an uneven thump and he waved Caballa and Kismet away to
other duties.

“My Lord,” a
retainer hurried up, “I didn’t know what to do with him.”

“You did
fine,” Torrullin murmured.

He approached
the seated form. Vannis, he noted, lounged against the old tree at
the head of the pool. Keeping watch. How easy it was to expect to
find him where one thought to look. He sent the man a smile and in
it all was said, the knowing and receiving. Vannis winked back.
Gods, the parting, this time, would really hurt.

The black man
jumped up, spilling wine, and dropped the glass. It shattered.

“Forgive me!”
His voice was a glorious tenor that entirely belied his sparse
frame.

“A mere
glass,” Torrullin returned, his smile welcoming and wary
simultaneously. He raised his voice. “More wine, please, and fresh
glasses.” He sat at the table and waved the stranger back. “Please,
sit. Is there something I can do for you?”

Before the man
could formulate a suitable reply, a serving girl bustled up with a
tray bearing a bottle of opened wine and three glasses. She
correctly assumed Vannis would join then, which he did as she left,
blushing under the pleased smile Torrullin bestowed on her.

“Speak,
stranger,” Torrullin said, leaving the tray untouched, a gesture
that bespoke caution and mistrust.

Next to him,
Vannis leaned elbows on the table to study the man. It made him
nervous, as it was meant to. Torrullin swallowed a knowing
grin.

The spear
rolled back and forth, back and forth, under frightened toes. “I’ve
arrived at a bad time, forgive me. I wasn’t aware Vallorin Tannil
passed on. Had I known I would have waited.”

Torrullin
inclined his head. “Who are you and whom do you seek?”

The black man
drew himself to his feet and stretched out to his considerable
height.

Valleur guards
straightened.

“I am Fuma of
the Immortal Deorc.”

Again
Torrullin’s heart skipped. Black skin and Deorc.

“I am the last
of my race and I seek Elixir.” The man’s eyes flicked between
Torrullin and Vannis - both possessed an unmistakeable aura of
power.

Vannis rose.
“This is yours alone.” He dropped a hand on Torrullin’s shoulder
and moved off.

Torrullin was
expressionless. “Sit, Fuma. I am Elixir.”

The man
slumped in his seat, his gaze avid on Torrullin’s face. It was
difficult to judge his age, the age of Ritual, for the white hair
spoke of wisdom, while his unlined face spoke of youth. “I am
honoured, my Lord Elixir, to be in your presence. You were
expecting me?”

A bleak smile.
“I expect a representative of each Immortal race and look forward
to it not.”

“We are the
last,” Fuma said.

“Indeed. Do
you know why?”

“Why only one
of each I cannot answer, for I do not see the sense in it. I do
begin to understand why we are called to you, my Lord. We are akin
to the lost Guardians, under Elixir’s command.”

“How were you
made aware?”

“When you see
those you love pass on, certain matters become clear,” Fuma replied
without inflection.

“I know how
that is.”

“You are
Valleur, my Lord Elixir?”

“In the ways
that count, yes.”

“And are you
the only immortal of your kind?”

“There is one
other currently, but his was expedience. It will be reversed.”

“Ah, yes, I
heard of the Temple. I heard tales of Valaris, but, forgive me, I
do not know who you are, other than you claim to be Elixir.”

Torrullin
barked a laugh. “This is a first for me, and novel. Generally, my
reputation precedes me. Elixir, of course, is still new, a
reputation not yet known.”

“You confuse
me.”

“My name is
Torrullin.”

The man’s
demeanour underwent a change. His mouth dropped open, his eyes
glittered. “The Enchanter is also Elixir?”

“I see my
reputation is not unknown.”

“My Lord! I
didn’t know!” Fuma frowned and muttered to himself, “And how not,
idiot, when it is now obvious?”

“I wish it
were as obvious to me.”

Fuma stared at
him. “It really is new.”

“Indeed.”

“Am I the
first to come?”

“Two of the
lost Guardians have joined. Declan of the Siric and Belun of the
Centuar.”

“Ah,
naturally. No Sylmer? No, they immortalise four at a time, and do
not qualify. Thus, three are in the fold. Of true Immortals, eleven
must still present.”

“Ten. The
Sagorin reversed.”

“That is
unfortunate. Not only are the green giants formidable, but you
won’t have the full fourteen.”

Torrullin
sucked at his teeth He had not realised. There had to be fourteen,
but he had not taken the time to think it through. It made sense,
for when had his fate not been mapped by the formalities of
sorcery?

“There is
another, an Immortal Xenian.”

“And you must
be Elixir to discuss this calmly.”

“Calm?”
Torrullin echoed. “Oh, I am not calm. I am angry.”

“Ah. Our
leader used to say anger benefits only one’s opponent.”

“I am my own
opponent, Fuma, most of the time.”

The hazel eyes
saddened. “That cannot be comfortable, and it will get worse, my
Lord.”

“Yes. Now, to
a practical matter.”

“You are
engaged in a battle and have not the space to give us full
attention. We need to gather away from here and await the time of
commencement. Might I suggest the Dome?”

Torrullin was
expressionless. “On the mark, Deorc. Might I enquire as to your
speciality?”

“I am a Mind
Delver.”

“I do not like
having my mind delved.”

“You do not
read, my Lord.”

“Am I to
assume you guessed?”

“Educated
guess. The Dome was the Guardians’ base of operations and served
them well. Why mess with something already proven?”

Torrullin
leaned forward to pour wine into two glasses. He passed a filled
goblet to the Deorc. “You are aware the Dome was destroyed?”

“And now I
know you are the Enchanter also. The Dome is not beyond your
ability to recall.” Fuma sipped delicately.

Torrullin took
a pull and put his glass down. “It can be made whole, yes.”

“How much time
do you need to recall it?”

“Minutes.”

Fuma stared
into his glass. “You are a powerful man.”

“While our
purpose beyond the obvious escapes me, the Dome must be readied and
made operational. The gathering of the Kaval will begin there
…”

“Kaval?”

“You are
Kaval, Fuma.”

“Ah, I
see.”

“Belun is
eminently qualified to …”

“You called,
Torrullin?” Belun asked, appearing at his side.

“Unconsciously, but yes. Meet …”

“Fuma and I
know each other,” Belun said, smiling at the Deorc. “We have
campaigned together in the past.”

“Excellent. We
were discussing the Dome.”

The Centuar
bent his glorious gaze over Torrullin. “Is this a test? We did feel
it, Declan and I, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Feel
what?”

Fuma looked
from one to the other. It was clear they knew each other well.

Belun lowered
uninvited into a chair. He pointed a finger at Torrullin. “You
began the recall about a minute ago, right? We felt the
shiver.”

Fuma’s mouth
dropped open.

Torrullin
inclined his head at Belun. “Another two minutes and it is cleared
for entry.”

Belun grinned
and slapped the table. “Great!”

Fuma simply
sat there.

Torrullin
smiled. “It is to be the gathering for the Kaval, Belun. You are
Dome Leader. Tailor the gathering call to Elixir’s frequency - Fuma
can help there - for I cannot be interrupted here by arriving
Kaval. Then prepare the sacred ogives for new entrants. There will
be fourteen Kaval.”

“The Dragon
ogive is part of the fourteen, Torrullin,” Belun pointed out, “and
I cannot alter that. The Dragon entrance is permanent.”

“Then give
Lowen access through my ogive.”

Belun shook
his head. “You are the Dragon. Only you can change it.”

“I don’t need
these details now. Make a plan. Do what you must so fourteen may
enter. I’ll think on the Dragon ogive another time.”