The Dreamer Stones (79 page)

“Those were
tense times.”

“She told no
one, certainly not Cat, who may have decided to live had she known
a part of you was in her womb. Young Lowen suspected and confronted
Saska. What they said to each other then caused the enmity between
them. The day Margus mutilated me they were in Menllik and Saska
confessed all. Saska, the Lady of Life, murdered your child,”
Tymall stated and it gave him no pleasure. “I’m sorry,” he said and
meant it.

Torrullin’s
eyes were tortured. “Perhaps she wasn’t sure …”

“She should
still have voiced suspicions.”

“But … why,
for pity’s sake?”

“You left her
with a woman who was so grief stricken it spoke more clearly of how
you felt about Cat, than how you really felt about your wife.
Jealousy, but mostly doubt. You can’t blame her.”

Torrullin held
a hand aloft. “Enough.”

Tymall
sighed.

Torrullin
said, more to himself than his son, “If time played fair I could
forgive, but there’s a mere eleven months between Torrke’s demise
and this news, for me. Fresh, too fresh. Gods, and Lowen said
nothing.” He added, not looking at Tymall, “Go to the Keep; we’ll
go to Luvanor from there.”

He walked out,
deliberate steps that spoke of the struggle to regain control.

Pity was
something Tymall had never felt for his father, but he felt it
then, and wondered at how the small reality of an unborn child, his
son, had become a large factor in his life, large enough to
understand his father, large enough to wreak irrevocable
changes.

As Torrullin
exited Linir he felt a shiver and thanked the Goddess for something
to distract him.

“Declan, do
you feel it?”

The Siric
cocked his head and then nodded. “The shift.”

“Southeast, I
reckon, deep sea. Be careful.”

Declan bowed
and left.

Now he could
not leave for Luvanor right away. “Ty.” He sensed Tymall behind
him. “Go to Grinwallin with Samuel. Teighlar will let him in. I
have something to do first.” Torrullin glanced at Samuel, who
pursed his lips and joined Tymall.

Together the
two vanished.

“Torrullin
…”

“Not now,
Lowen,
not yet
. We go to the Keep.”

As she nodded,
he opened his palm, calling for the Lumin Sword. Murmuring a word,
he sheathed it in a plain black scabbard that appeared to encircle
his waist.

“Elixir’s
weapon now,” he said, “but I rename you Elianas, for you deserve no
more.” He shivered as he said thus, knowing there was an unexplored
link to another Elianas, and then, without checking to see if Lowen
was there or had left, he dematerialised.

She was still
there. White-faced, she stood rooted to the spot. Elianas.
Nemesis.

Torrullin was
angry.

Chapter
Sixty-Two

Secrets, kept
from general knowledge or view, tending not to disclose
information, clandestine or confidential, beyond ordinary
understanding, mysterious, known or shared only by initiates
(rites)

Titania
Dictionary

The Keep was
forlorn and deserted.

Caballa,
Krikian and Marcus were inside, but the emptiness was overwhelming.
He alighted on the western battlement and watched Lowen appear in
the courtyard and look up. He turned away and faced west.

Caballa exited
the southern stairwell and froze.

“I know you’re
there.”

Drawing on
depleted reserves, she approached. They met at the southwest
corner.

“Get it out in
the open, Caballa.”

She neared and
pulled him to face her, staring into his eyes. “You are more
yourself, I see. Did Lowen do this for you?” She was angry as well,
and it gifted her courage and strength.

“Yes.”

“Gods, will
you never learn? How many people will you hurt before it’s
enough?”

He flinched.
“This is not what you really want to say.”

She pushed him
away. “No.”

“Say it. We
must move on.”

“I hate what
happened yesterday, I hate that I lived and I hate that you could
do such a terrible thing.” She did not falter or look away.

He did her the
honour of not lying, not belittling her declaration. “This is why I
need you, Caballa. You are honest, you do not make excuses. To the
last, no one else has mentioned yesterday, as if everyone is
forcing forgetfulness, forcing a whitewash on me - except you. I
hate what happened as well and will never as long as I exist excise
it from memory or conceive of extenuating circumstances and I
cannot forgive myself. If I could die, this singular act would send
me to the eternal netherworld, even if I spend ages in good deeds
from here on. It cannot be forgiven. I am, however, glad that you
live.”

Her face
twisted at those final, gentle and utterly sincere words. She
reached blindly for him and his arms encircled and held her while
she cried. He smoothed her long golden hair, absorbing her grief,
using it vicariously as an outlet for his, for he dared not give
vent to his true feelings.

He was
frightened of what self-hatred could do.

Caballa leaned
back and lifted her head. Even tear-streaked and blotchy she was
beautiful. “I’m leaving … for a while. I have to. Will you send me
through the seal?”

“Of
course.”

She bit at her
bottom lip and then reached up to draw his head closer. “I may be
gone some time, I may not be here when you leave Valaris for good,
but we’ll meet again. Torrullin, I …”

But she could
not say it even then and thus joined her lips to his for a brief
touch in farewell. His hand behind her head prevented her drawing
away, and he altered a small reverence into a real kiss, holding
her to him afterward.

When they drew
apart, she said, “I want to leave now.”

In answer, he
extended his hand palm up and the Dragon Taliesman nestled there.
“Touch it and I shall send you through.”

She stared at
it and then looked at him. Her hand lifted to lie flat on the coin.
“Till we meet, Torrullin.”

“Till we meet,
Caballa,” he returned and withdrew his hand. A moment later, she
had vanished.

I love you,
Torrullin.

He closed his
eyes, sensing what she could not say.

He doubted
they would meet again soon.

The day was
about to get worse.

Was it not a
strange phenomenon that words could cause as much damage as
full-scale war?

Descending the
stairs, Torrullin found Lowen waiting for him.

“I want you to
erase memory of last night from my mind.”

“No,” he said,
brushing past.

She grabbed
his sleeve and hissed, “Yes!”

He turned.
“Gods, why?” He leaned closer. “Because of what I said?”

“Because you
love Saska and if you’re to have any hope of a marriage, she must
not see the truth in my eyes, that’s why.”

Torrullin
laughed. “There’s no way in
hell
my marriage will work
again.” His eyes glittered with inner resolve.

Lowen released
a resigned breath. “Damn Tymall.”

“No. Why did
you not tell me?”

“You lay this
at my door? How dare you! I’m not guilty here! You wanted peace,
thus we spoke of the thing lying between us! Was I meant to betray
a confidence? Was I supposed to be responsible for this truth? It’s
between you and Saska!”

“You knew! Cat
was your blood, our child would be your blood, and you say you
cannot be responsible? You are Dalrish!”

“And the child
would be Valla! No one dares interfere with Valla blood!”

“You did in
withholding this!” They were shouting, uncaring of witnesses, which
was a sum total of two - Krikian on the southern balcony where the
guest quarters were, and Marcus Campian coming out from the
Throne-room.

“I won’t bear
responsibility for Saska’s error, Torrullin! If you want to shout
at someone, shout at her, and
do not
make me the scapegoat
for your troubles!”

“You …”

“
No
!
Cat was your loose end, remember? Blame whomever you like, in your
mind and in private, but be honest, will you? Saska had reason,
wrong and twisted though it was, and I was a teenager, an
inexperienced one who didn’t know enough to prevent a tragedy, and
both of us dealt with something you didn’t finish!” She drew
breath, and, “Gods, it was so long ago.”

“Eleven
months, Lowen, less than a year.” He leaned forward again and
whispered, “I can still feel Cat in my arms, I still smell her in
my dreams, and she was pregnant, alone, unwanted, ostracized …”

“Not by me,”
Lowen whispered back, eyes brimming with tears. “I couldn’t reach
her, and my father tried … she wouldn’t listen. I’m sorry, I forget
how little time has passed for you.”

His eyes
closed and he breathed slowly.

“You loved
her, Torrullin, and Saska sensed that …”

“Yes, and it
does not excuse the murder of an innocent.”

Lowen was
silent and then, “How dare you of all people make that kind of
judgement?”

It hit him
hard and he reeled. Anger followed astonishment, which in turn led
to a sense of futility.

Chastised, he
murmured, “Of course. How right you are, again. Well, I know I
shall never forgive myself. She carries the same burden, does she
not?”

“Yes.”

“That is the
barrier I sensed.”

“You must
cross it. She can’t.”

“I can’t
forgive this.”

“Has the
Hounding taught you nothing?”

“Not this,
Lowen. I have no sons.”

“Your son had
two sons, your other is about to become a father. They, those
grandchildren, are your true Immortality. Another child would not
have averted the path. Let it go, please. It’s done, cannot be
changed. Gods, Torrullin, father another if a direct heir means so
much even now.”

“That is
downright mean.”

“Oh, live with
it.”

He stared at
her. “Did last night really happen or did I merely pander to my
favourite fantasy?”

“Oh … oh …”
Lowen could not get words out.

“Come, Lowen,
I said favourite fantasy - that should stroke your ego.” He turned
from her and headed for the Throne-room.

“Bugger
you!”

“A pleasure,
my dear.” He walked on.

“Erase my
memory! I don’t want to remember anything!” She ran after him. “Not
for you or Saska, but because I can’t believe what you’ve turned
this into!”

He stopped,
whirled. “No, no, and no. Live with it.”

As he walked
away, she murmured, “Sometimes I really despise you.”

Better than
fear
, he sent and entered the Throne-room, gesturing for Marcus
to follow.

Declan saw the
platform first because it was real and tangible; a gigantic
rectangle floating upon the waters of the ocean where the
incredible depth below guaranteed calm.

Camouflaged in
blue, green, grey, quickly overlooked, but he searched for heat
signatures, and the platform, although of sturdy wood awash with
salt water, was warmer than the sea upon which it rode, in much the
same manner as land having a markedly higher temperature than the
oceans surrounding it. He picked it out at a distance, a strangely
disproportionate shape warmer than the otherwise empty ocean, and
closer investigation revealed the platform.

Far south, in
cold water, but not close enough to the southern icebergs to
entangled with them.

He could
employ farsight to enlarge the image, but dared not use magic in
the vicinity. This was reconnaissance only. No time to become shark
bait. He had to get closer, unseen and without being sensed, to
view the status of the shift. He deliberated options and chose the
most uncomfortable one. Ice-cold sea. Drawing a deep breath, he
dived in before he could talk himself out of it.

Siric hated
water, particularly cold water. Their wings shrunk to winglets and
their pale skins turned blue. Siric blood was colder than most,
thus their dislike of cold conditions.

Declan swam,
using motion to keep him warm, rising to the surface periodically
to take in oxygen. He felt the painful contractions of his
shrinking wings and ignored them, concentrating on the fact that it
streamlined him, made his stroke easier. Still, he felt the cold
enter and knew he could not remain long in these conditions.

Coming up for
air after countless risings, he finally saw the platform nearby.
Treading water, he peered through the troughs, losing sight every
other moment, but not daring to rise higher.

At least there
are not sharks in these cold waters.

Agnimus
perched precariously at one end of the rectangle while four
draithen paced. Two of the building blocks sat to either side, four
in total. Agnimus was in the process of placing the third on the
left. Sturdy, waterproof parchment, the symbols large and blue on a
green background. This creature left nothing to chance; he
dismantled the shift after the catastrophe of the previous day.
Rebuilding was a small discomfort.

Declan’s teeth
chattered so loudly he thought the draithen might hear him. He had
to get away.

Before I
freeze to death
.

Yet he hung
there treading water to witness how Agnimus erected the shift, in
what order the symbols went, how long it took and what would happen
when it was complete. It was personal curiosity, and vital to their
cause. And he would be dead if he did not get away to somewhere
warm soon. Forcing calm - he had endured worse - he studied the
scene between troughs.

The sixth
block was in place. Shoulder height. Agnimus was upright, balancing
with his legs spread. He pulled a flat square from a pouch at his
waist, shook it so that it unfolded into a cube. He checked the
symbol and placed it in position. The eighth followed, then nine
and ten, the latter two above head height. The two pillars were
approximately six feet apart- two, maybe three abreast could exit.
The arch was next and then the shift would be a portal between
realities.