The Dreamer Stones (5 page)

Deep birdsong
silence reigned while he pondered what to say. His mind, he
discovered, was a blank. As if sleep had wiped the slate clean.

“It gladdens
my heart to know nature is nurtured here. A gift given has returned
to me the gift of care. Cèlaver, you do me proud, but more, you do
yourselves proud. This is your greatest achievement. Well done and
thank you.”

He considered
his duty done, and moved to step down the incline, when a question
halted him.

“How long are
you staying, Enchanter?”

“A brief
visit, and this day I ask your leave to enjoy your magic.”

“It’s your
magic!” someone shouted.

It stopped
him. “I merely created the spark. Without your care this would
wither away. The magic you see today is of your creation.”

He said other
inconsequential things, nothing profound, but it satisfied the
crowds, for after fifteen minutes of questions and answers, they
let him go.

Rejoining
Lowen at the foot of the incline, he asked, “Where to? I need to
get away from people.”

She was
intimate with the feeling. “It’s not far.”

“Can you
transport?”

She smiled.
“Matt taught me, yes. Shall I take us?”

“Gods,
yes.”

It was a
platform created by nature’s vines amongst the canopy of trees in
the humid region.

Not many
Cèlaver went that way; living with daily humidity, they preferred
the cooler regions.

The platform
was situated high above the leafy divide, invisible from the forest
floor; unless one knew of it, one would not suspect. Unless one
knew how to transport magically, one could not reach it.

The loud
rumble of a nearby waterfall covered sound, yet did not intrude on
the peace of the enclave. It was sturdy, tightly laced, and smelled
of wild herbs. The surrounding foliaged branches created a bower, a
sun dappled latticework.

Torrullin
smiled with pleasure as Lowen set her basket down. “However did you
discover this?”

The waterfall
thundered, a soothing sound.

“Luck,” she
returned, shaking out a blanket and spreading it. Sighing with
welcome release from tension, she sat, stretching long legs before
her. She really needed a change in scenery, she realised.

First Privin’s
illness and then Torrullin’s sleeping - she barely moved more than
a few feet in days.

Cèlaver had
two styles of dress. One was the near naked state, unselfconscious
and generally preferred, and then the loose, flowing robe. Lowen
adopted the latter, and wore a simple grey robe, high-necked,
ankle-length, with wide sleeves that swished silkily as she moved.
Covered head to toe, it did not hide the fact that a little girl
had grown up.

Torrullin
averted his eyes, feeling incestuous, and she drew her legs up,
sensing his discomfort, to sit in such a way as to cause the robe
to pool shapelessly. Blue eyes hooded and she shook her straight
dark hair to mask her face.

“You must be
hungry after near thirty hours out,” she murmured, and rummaged in
her basket.

In short order
she laid out sweet and savoury breads, a selection of succulent
fruit, and a bottle of ice-cold wine. It was a source of continuing
amazement that everything edible in an underground habitat was home
grown.

Torrullin took
the bottle when her hands began to shake. “Lowen?”

She looked up,
her hair in her face. “I’m fine.”

He wedged the
wine in the latticed vines and moved closer. Reaching over the
food, he brushed her hair away, fingers lingering on her cheek.
“Tell me.”

She inclined
her head into his fingers and covered his hand with hers.
“Loneliness, Torrullin. The Cèlaver are friendly and sociable for
the most part, but alien in a way that makes no sense, and they
don’t really trust me. I’ve been around too long - you know how it
is.”

“Yes.” He
exerted pressure on her cheek and, responding, she pressed her hand
over his.

“Krikian,
bless him, is a loner. He needs no interaction and is somehow
accepted regardless of longevity. I guess they know he’ll live long
anyhow, being Valleur. Most, I think, don’t even realise he’s
immortal. He’s been a good friend, but doesn’t need me in the way I
need him.”

“You and
Krikian …?” He could not finish the thought. The idea they had an
intimate relationship was repugnant to him, despite the fact that
it made sense, and that he really liked the Valleur.

Lowen squeezed
his hand and removed it from her cheek. turning it in her hands,
she traced lines with one forefinger. “We came close once. Someone
we tried hard to help died and we were distraught … but it didn’t.
No spark - you know?” She looked up and he looked away, cold with
an unnamed dread. She released his hand with a laugh and said,
“Pass the wine, will you?”

“No. Forgive
me, I’m being selfish.”

He reclaimed
both her hands with both of his, elbowing a bread out of the
way.

“Loneliness
will be there always, even among those able to match you in time.
It doesn’t get easier, but you learn to accept, and the day comes
when you prefer it, believe me.” He was not giving comfort. “I
cannot lie with platitudes, Lowen, I’m sorry.”

Her face
twisted. “I hate lies.”

“Yes, I know
that about you.”

Her gaze
warmed. “I missed you most.”

“Why? You knew
we’d meet again.”

She dropped
her eyes. “Did I? There was a chance you’d change it.”

“True.”

She stared at
him then, before looking down again. “The connection we had is
gone.”

“You were a
child two thousand years ago.”

“But I thought
it would still be, and we’d know each other. I miss it. I miss
you.”

He nearly
snatched his hands from hers. “I’m here, and I’m not the one most
changed. You miss the girl and her freedom. Perfectly natural.”

She stared at
him. “Platitudes?”

He withdrew
his hands and leaned closer to capture her eyes. “No, truth. And,
Lowen, the connection is here, or we couldn’t talk this way.
Acknowledge that and you will acknowledge also it has grown.”

“Do you?
Acknowledge it?”

“I just
did.”

“You’re
stronger, I think.”

He looked
away. “I doubt it.”

Silence, then,
“There’s much I want to say, and dare not.”

His gaze
flicked back to her. “With time.”

Hers was
intent. “I think there are some things that cannot be said, ever.
The damage will be too great.”

Cold again.
“Yes.”

“See? It isn’t
there, not really, the connection we had.”

Oh, god. He
closed his eyes and opened them again ostensibly to look for the
wine.

“Don’t shut me
out.”

His eyes
snapped up, his cheeks taut with strain. “If you can sense that,
then the connection is in place. Stop questioning it.”

She stared at
him.

“Don’t you
see? We speak plain, yet we skirt, and we can do so for both sense
the other’s … discomfort. That proves a bond, but push too hard,
Lowen, and we may as well say the unsaid things also, and do the
damage you are afraid of.”

She reared
back. “Is that what you want?”

“Do you?”

A longer
silence. “No.”

“No,” he
echoed, and then his eyes fired. “Beware my self-control, for it is
tenuous. Know this about me, adult to adult, I am contrary, and
sometimes reach out for that kind of damage … because I can. You
are a living, breathing immortal seer - you know exactly what I
mean. Choose now to back off or fall into the abyss with me.”

Stricken, she
searched wildly for something to hold onto. She saw his white
fingers squeezing the neck of the wine bottle and settled on the
two glasses she packed. Grabbing them, she presented them to
him.

His gaze
lowered to the shaking offerings, and he took them, fingers curling
over hers as he removed them. Cold fire. But god, yes, both of them
knew the indistinct shape of the abyss that lay yawning under them,
and it was only a matter of time before they chose deliberately to
tumble into it.

Lowen, his
nemesis … but he was hers also.

He held the
glasses, poured, passed one to her. She took it, careful not to
touch him again. They drank in silence.

Then, “I tried
not to think of you on the Plane, Lowen, but I missed you. You had
my measure and I could have used your honesty there.”

Her shoulders
lifted and relaxed. Normal tone. She could reply to that. “Was it
hard?”

“Yes and no.
Mostly it was a surprise.”

“But you chose
it knowingly.”

His eyes
hooded as he stared at her. “Choice does not always mean you know
what you will find.” It was a reference to their earlier words. “I
was ill-prepared for the normality of the place.”

“Normality is
relative.”

“Indeed.”

“I saw it. The
Plane.”

He stiffened.
“How?”

She had
revealed too much. The Plane could only be accessed in death or
reincarnation, neither of which should be within her
experiences.

“I choked on
chalk dust in the lower caverns and couldn’t breathe …” His gaze
fixed on her. “Krikian said I died briefly before he brought me
back.” That was true, although the time was too brief for the soul
to exit. “I saw the Plane, although I couldn’t enter.”

“How could you
die so easily, being immortal?”

“Immortals can
die, Torrullin.”

He nodded,
giving her explanation the benefit of the doubt. “How do you know
it was the Plane?”

“A flatland
realm, with a sun and season for each region. A dark, depthless,
frightening ocean, without tides, yet moving. Land that was so
familiar it was alien, and a wormhole connection to our
reality.”

“You saw all
that in so brief a time?”

“From above,
like a blink in timelessness, and then it was gone, and I opened my
eyes and started to breathe.”

“Gods.”

She grinned.
“We’re driving ourselves mad. Come, let us eat and be normal.”

“Normal is
relative,” he smiled, his heart thumping over what she revealed,
and what she left unsaid.

“I know,” she
said, laughing. “Will you eat?”

Later she
said, “Krikian will pull us back into this reality.”

He did not
meet her gaze. “I thought as much.”

“He’ll be back
tonight.”

“And then we
go?”

“If you’re
ready.”

He barked a
laugh and did not speak.

“Tell me of
Valaris. Tell me why you came back.”

He looked at
her. “You make it sound as if I had the choice to stay away.”

“There was
more than one thing to bring you back. I’m interested to know what
that was.”

“Have you
heard nothing?”

“Down here?
Please, these people are too insular. Barring the twisting of this
cavern, an indication that some darak force was loosed, we heard
nothing.”

“Tymall is the
darak force and he is the reason I’m back.”

She drew
breath. “Oh.”

He grunted and
lay back on the blanket, twisting hands behind his head.

In a singsong
voice he told her what happened since his return from the
Plane.

He told her he
brought Margus back to help with Tymall, and revealed Tymall
kidnapped Saska and the subsequent rescue, the fall of Fay,
explaining she was Mitrill and Caltian’s daughter and Tannil’s
sister and fell for Tymall, and spoke about Samuel, the descendent
of Skye and Tristamil and therefore a Valla kinsman, Caballa able
to see, Tannil’s state of mind, the Throne and the secret endeavour
of Lucan and Samuel. He told her how close he came to entering the
realm of Aaru, hoping to find Tristamil.

With Lowen as
listener, one told all, and did so without excuses meant to qualify
one’s actions. And one kept one’s voice neutral so she could not
gauge one’s hell.

At the end of
the long and uninterrupted monologue, he rolled onto his stomach,
rested his chin on his hands, and waited on her first response. Few
people could surprise the way Lowen could.

She was not
looking at him and her face was pensive. “I cannot have
children.”

It was
unexpected and was such a complicated reaction he could say
nothing, but he lowered his forehead to his arms.

“It’s okay,
Torrullin,” he heard her say. “I meant only I can never know the
torment you live with. I wonder if I should thank my lucky
stars.”

He raised his
head, expression unreadable. “Do you want an answer to that?”

“What would
you say?”

Torrullin
pushed himself up, rose, and began to chuck leftovers into the
basket.

“You can’t
answer, can you?”

With a snarl
he tossed the empty wine bottle into the canopy. “No.”

“Tell me this,
had you the opportunity to do it over again, would you change
anything? Could you change anything?”

Somewhere
below glass shattered. “A foolish train of thought.”

“Then you
understand I don’t need sympathy or guilt from you.”

He
straightened. “What do you want of me?”

She bent and
retrieved the blanket. The outing was at an end. “I don’t think you
have the courage to face my answer.”

Some things
could not be spoken of.

Chapter
Five

The man stands
uncertain before the precipice. He cannot trust, cannot take that
leap of faith. It is dark below, black as eternal night, and he is
afraid of what lies in those depths. She steps up to him, in the
end the only one who truly knows, and takes his hand. His fingers
are cold, deadly cold. Grey eyes, blue eyes.

Lowen’s vision,
fourteen years after the Enchanter entered that other invisible
realm