The Dreamer Stones (8 page)

He turned.
“Was that in your vision?”

“Two strangers
talked about the time of the Animated Spirit being near. What does
it mean?” She closed in on him, he could sense it. Her sense of
place was uncanny in the darkness. “This scares you. What is
it?”

“The future,
but not this day. Come, we need rest.” He made to move away, but
she stopped him, hands reaching out, finding skin - his tunic was
open.

“It’s you, is
it not? A timeless man, a Walker, Enchanter. You are the animated
breath of Time itself.” Her nails raked him.

“Lowen.” His
voice was forced. “I am not doing this with you, not here in the
dark when all I have is touch. Get away from me.”

Long moments
passed and then her hands were gone. A sigh escaped her, and then
she was gone.

He left by
another door and wandered the remaining dark hours up on the
battlements.

There were
dark rings under Lowen’s eyes in the morning and Torrullin was
impatient with everything.

Krikian looked
from one to the other, and told them to find a private place each
to renew for the coming trial. Neither argued; both left in
different directions. Krikian, watching them go, saw clearly what
lay between them.

Two women lay
there, stood there, walked there. One was a ghost known as Cat and
the other was a flesh and blood woman called Saska.

Remove them,
which was unlikely, and nothing would keep those two apart.

Nightfall.

Fire lit. A
gathering of three. Strained supper.

Lowen looked
up. “Say when, Enchanter.”

He looked past
her to Krikian. “If anything happens to us in there, tell them.” He
drew breath. “Tell Saska first.” Krikian nodded. “Tell her I love
her and I shall be back.”

Krikian said,
“It will be so, my Lord.”

Torrullin
glanced at Lowen. “When.”

She nodded and
rose, went to her carpetbag and removed objects. These she inserted
about her clothing. A pocket-knife went into a breast pocket, a
flashlight into a hip pocket, a small vial, a lighter, a tiny
cosmetic bag, a ring dangling from a chain and an ancient rosary
went into various other pockets.

“I need my
hands free,” she explained, noticing the two men watching her. “I
refuse to be unprepared.”

That
translated as the way ahead was rough.

Torrullin rose
and checked himself over. In the black as ever, sword against his
right thigh, Medaillon against the warmth of his chest under his
tunic. He needed nothing else.

“What comes
next?”

Lowen found
the ring on its chain, held it aloft. “This draws the doorway.”

It was old,
beaten gold, a broad band with a dusky garnet setting, a man’s
ring. He knew it from old prophecy books, realised Krikian had to
be in possession of its twin, the connection that would call them
back to this time.

He wondered
where she found them.

“Those are
dangerous tools.”

“You know
them,” Lowen said. “They are of Cèlaver, used in reincarnation
ceremonies. Fell into disuse a long time ago, when it was thought
death itself should determine the realm.”

“They are
older than Cèlaver. They are from Earth’s sages. Cèlaver, it
appears, did have a close connection to the first humans.”

Lowen stared
at the ring. “How could those people have known?”

“Magic is
almost as old as time,” Krikian murmured. “Humans forgot, Valleur
did not.”

Lowen’s eyes
flicked back to Torrullin, and they narrowed. “Do you need to
destroy them afterward?”

She did not
like it, he understood. “No.”

Then she was
suspicious. “Why not?”

“They can do
no harm.” He meant to say something else, hesitating at the last
second.

She must have
heard it and she said nothing.

“No harm, yet
you call them dangerous tools.” Krikian did not have the same
ability to understand as the Xenian seer.

“Dangerous in
the wrong hands. I think you and Lowen may be entrusted with their
care.”

Krikian
smiled, pleased.

“It is time to
go, Lowen.”

She put the
ring on her finger. It was over large for her slim digit, the chain
hanging from the curve underneath; she curled her fingers over the
slack and drew the chain into her palm. Then, looking significantly
at Krikian, she stretched her fist before her.

The Valleur
touched the area around his neck; his ring lay there waiting. The
two smiled at each other, both strained.

The rings
worked when one believed they would. Mind over matter. It made them
dangerous, yes, for belief could accomplish much; in themselves
they were harmless and without power. They did not require
destruction, for they were not intrinsically magic, and few knew of
their existence.

Had he said
that to the two intent people who spent long years training for
this, he negated their belief in the rings and nobody would go
anywhere this night.

Lowen, he
suspected, had her suspicions. She would not question them now, not
at this pivotal moment.

A slight,
papery crackle.

His head
jerked to it.

Around Lowen’s
hand, there was a disturbance in the air. A darker area, an oval,
man-sized.

A threshold
into another realm.

“Come,” Lowen
whispered.

He drew
breath, stepped closer. Belief worked.

“Take my hand
to go through,” she instructed as he came alongside.

Merciful
Mother of all good things protect us now
, he prayed, and
gripped her fist, swinging through.

Krikian heaved
a great sigh as both vanished from this reality.

He hoped they
would be fine.

He hoped he
would not succumb to the wait.

Chapter
Seven

“
Light
drives out the dark; sun after night, candle in gloom, fire at
gathering, star against velvet Aaru. Even the shadows play their
part, for they are proof that light shines somewhere. What a gift,
light.”

Queen Abdiah,
Dragonne

It was not
darkness, not the absence of light he expected.

His cry of
dismay lifted into the air.

The still,
desert air.

“You wouldn’t
look, Torrullin.”

“But this,
Lowen? You could’ve warned me about this!”

A tear slid
over her cheek. “No.”

The cage. His
nightmare. He was on the inside, she was on the outside, and his
hand curled around her fist joined them. The portal was gone; this
tableau replaced it.

For it was a
tableau. Waiting to animate.

The faceless
creatures of year after year’s dreaming were frozen in various
poses, one of which stood with his spear point within the bars of
the cage, in the act of thrusting.

“This is not a
real place. I imagined it.”

“Torrullin,
don’t let go of my hand. Listen first …” She gazed at the images
around them. They were as familiar to her as they were to him.
“They are real because they are part of you. This is a real place
because you created it for yourself. I painted it because I saw
your places of dread. It was in my art; you just had to look to
see.”

“As Walker I
could never find this. This is not a place of the dead, this is a
place of dead emotions - mine.”

“Basically.”

“The rings are
merely a focal point - to me.”

“Yes. In
knowing they had no power, you trusted your own abilities. You
brought us here.”

“Lowen,
why?”

“You have to
divest yourself. You have to put it away one step at a time. That
is what I saw, but the true why only you can answer.” She reached
through the bars with her free hand and cupped his face. “I’m here.
I won’t abandon you, I swear. We can do this together.” She took
her hand away. “When you let go, it begins.”

“This is
madness.”

“An answer
lies in this madness.” Deliberately she tugged her fist from his
tight clasp.

“
No
!”
he cried, and then hurled across the cage as the spear came
whistling at him. Noise erupted, loud raucous laughter, ugly
taunts, shouted curses. “Lowen!”

“I’m here.”
She stood calmly in the frantic melee, untouched, unseen by his
tormentors, her eyes bright with tears. “I shall not leave you, I
swear it.”

He drew a
ragged breath, threw his head this way and that, eyes rolling madly
to see everything, to dissect, to know his predicament. The spear
came at him again, accompanied by roaring laughter, and then, on
the back of that, his red-hot fury.

With a snarl,
an animal trapped, he launched forward to meet the point and
gripped it with both hands to pull hard. With a cry of rage, he
jerked it to him and stood bent in the low cage.

“You want a
piece of me?” he thundered, holding the spear threateningly.
“
Then come
!”

A deep
silence.

And …
nothing.

No cage. No
faceless taunting. No noise. Just him, the spear, the desert and
Lowen.

“What?” he
croaked.

“You have
overcome the faceless fear. You are more ready than I thought.”

He heaved and
poured the recent meal onto the dry, lifeless earth. Tossing the
spear aside, he heaved again and again until there was nothing
left.

He
straightened. “I think I hate you for this.”

She swallowed.
“Fine. I’m a big girl now.”

Torrullin
started to laugh. “Oh, indeed, you are all grown up! And you’re a
stranger to me!”

She raised her
chin. “I am who I always was. You convinced me of the connection,
remember?”

“Lowen, I
wonder if you understand the true nature of the
connection.
”

She swallowed
again. “I do.”

He stared at
her, but heading in that direction was not wise. “You could have
warned me this would happen.”

“And what
would you have done differently?”

“I was never
afraid of those animals that put me in a cage.”

“You put
yourself in a cage, and now you proved you’re ready to break out
and did. The faceless fear is you. Now you go on and face what you
fear.”

Snapping his
fingers he brought forth a canteen of water, proceeded to rinse his
mouth, and then drank deeply. All the while his unreadable gaze was
on her. Lowering the bottle, he offered it. She shook her head.
“Suit yourself.” He closed it and, holding it in one hand, started
to walk away from her.

“You’re going
the wrong way.”

He stopped and
turned. “Then lead the way, my fine immortal seer.”

She approached
and put a hand up …

He stepped
aside. “Do not touch me.”

She breathed
hard. “Are you afraid of my touch, Enchanter?”

“Now I am.
Which way?”

All directions
were identical, but she pointed at a right angle to the way he
went. He walked past her and she followed.

“What’s next?
The race across the Plains of Medinor? Why has it a name?”

“It’s a
parallel. Some place you saw sometime and used as an image.”

Silence. Then,
“So what’s next?”

“The
Hounding.”

Ahead, she
heard him laugh in total disgust.

After, he
could not tell how long they wandered across the desert plain.

A day, a year,
an eternity. There was no night, just one continual day, and the
plain was endless. A dun coloured nothingness. In the distance
mirages shimmered, a product of extreme heat. It was eerily silent
but for the faraway cry of a hunting eagle, or an alert
vulture.

They walked,
plodding tiredly, for uncountable hours, and with every step
Torrullin expected the faceless horsemen to ride him down, or the
pounding of approaching hooves to sound behind them.

There was
nothing and he found that worse. Waiting for something to happen
was infinitely worse.

Stopping often
to eat and rest, a number of times they fell asleep where they sat.
Real rest it was not, for the sun burned through closed lids. Lowen
stopped talking and he was relieved.

Silence,
waiting, and boredom eroded complacency, if ever there was any. It
certainly felt like there was once a sense of acceptance, but it
was no longer present.

Hours after
their last stop, Torrullin turned to snarl at Lowen, and then said
not a word. She swayed, her eyes rolling backward.

He returned to
her and then was forced to hold her back as she continued walking
past him unaware of her surroundings.

“Lowen, it’s
time to rest.”

“Must go on or
will surrender to the pain,” she mumbled, but her head sank to her
chest and her knees buckled.

He caught her
and helped her sit. Using his mind he created a shady pavilion and
a soft mattress to absorb her exhausted form. Lifting her to it, he
laid her down - she was instantly asleep, deep and away.

Sitting at the
edge, he looked down at her. He was a real idiot to not notice how
she hurt. Which pain had she referred to?

Thirst,
exhaustion … ah, feet.

His feet were
killing him; hers had to be far worse. How could he be so selfish?
He drew her stout boots off. Dear god, angry welts, white, watery
blisters, purple flesh, clammy and wrinkled. How long since she
wore boots, let alone walked far in terrible heat? He was an
unfeeling bastard, but there was no bloody need for martyrdom
either.

With a gentle
touch - she flinched in her sleep - he laid his hands to healing,
and heard her sigh relief.

She should
drink something, he mused, looking up at her pale … no, severely
sunburnt face. He leaned over her, laid a soothing hand to her skin
and watched the red-hot glare fade. She moaned, turned and he let
her be. She needed rest more than water.