The Sleeper Sword (74 page)

She paused,
uncertain how far his knowledge stretched, afraid of causing
further pain and a possible rift, by voicing something he may not
be aware of.

“I know about
the baby.”

Dear god.
“
We
didn’t, not until she miscarried. It was three months
after, and we were to start the trial with the formula. No one
suspected. Mitrill wasn’t much further than her and showing large.
However, excuses won’t alter the guilt …”

“Guilt?”

“Mine,
Torrullin. It was your child. I would’ve loved it as my own, and I
thought after it was my impatience with her that blinded me to her
condition.”

“It was not
your fault; it was mine.”

“You can’t
blame yourself either.”

“Of course I
can,” he growled, and twisted off the hammock, nearly toppling her
as well. Doing his breeches up, he said, “I knew she was pregnant;
I should’ve told her. Maybe she’d have coped.”

“Lowen
knew.”

“I told her I
suspected. Did she say anything?”

“She tried to,
but everyone was focused on Torrke, including Cat in her grief. We
didn’t hear. I overheard her once exhorting Cat to bear in mind she
could be pregnant, but Cat wailed life was unfair and wouldn’t give
her such a gift. I was so furious thinking of you sleeping with her
I denied the possibility completely. We were all to blame; we
didn’t do enough to restore her to acceptance. Poor Lowen, she was
white-faced shocked when Cat lost the baby. She came to me soon
after …”

The stalking
Torrullin came to rest. “Lowen’s journal mentioned that, but she
left the space blank rather than record the conversation.”

Saska wandered
the roof balcony. After a while she said, “With good reason. She
said you loved Cat and it would hurt you to know we failed your
child. She was so mature, she spoke to me as if I was the younger
…” She halted before him. “Did you love her?”

“Yes.”

“Then we
failed your child, my Lord, and I can never atone enough for
that.”

He turned from
her to the nearest wall. For a long time he stood there, head
bowed, while she stood as he left her, hands twisting. And then he
sighed.

“Teighlar in
his wisdom told me tonight leaving those gone where they belong, in
the past, is an opportunity to begin anew. I choose to do so, here,
now. I refuse to hold onto something I can no longer change. I move
on; I forgive myself; I start fresh.” He closed his eyes and
reopened them. “I’ll tell myself that over and over until I believe
it, and you must do the same. We won’t have this thing between us.
I love you too much to have to look at you around guilt that has no
place in this time.”

She nodded,
but knew for her it would remain. She prayed it would not drive him
away. Twice the barriers she erected drove him into another woman’s
arms.

“I’ll try,”
she murmured, and walked into his embrace.

Chapter
65

A dreamer is an
old soul

A dreamer is a
new spirit

A dreamer is an
alter ego

A dreamer is
unique

A dreamer is
everyman

~ The Unknown
Poet

Torrullin
summoned Lucan.

The young
Dalrish took his time arriving, and Torrullin was impatient by the
time he did. He did not come alone, and his companion explained the
delay.

Marcus
Campian, Electan of Valaris, had come to Luvanor.

Torrullin
first stared at him in surprise and then started to laugh.
“Electan, when you decide to take your first trip offworld, you
decide on a Valleur world?”

Marcus
shrugged and grinned. “In for a dian, I suppose. When young Lucan
here told me he is called to Luvanor, I asked to see it. I think he
wasn’t too happy.”

“I wasn’t sure
how you’d react,” Lucan murmured.

Torrullin
gripped his shoulder. “It’s quite all right. By the way,” he added
for his ears alone, “you are welcome at my side. No
reservations.”

Lucan’s face
split into a huge grin.

“Go grab some
coffee through there - our guest has somewhat altered my plan for
this morning.” He faced Marcus as Lucan sauntered off floating on
air.

“The Dalrish
boy reveres you, my Lord,” Marcus said.

“A blood oath,
Marcus, and one I can no longer deny him. Come, walk with me.” He
led the way outside, where the Senlu were about the morning’s tasks
with laughter, their bright clothes in evidence everywhere.

Marcus was
wide-eyed agog. “They aren’t Valleur.”

“They are
Senlu. This eastern region of Tunin belongs wholly to them. In much
the way you make space for the Valleur back home, we made space for
them. As we were first to Valaris, so they were to Luvanor.” It was
not strictly true, but the Elder race had long gone and the Senlu
had claim.

“Am I the
first human to see them?”

Torrullin
smiled. “No, three Dalrish have the honour.”

“The Dalrish
are close to the Valleur, aren’t they?”

Torrullin
nodded without answering, and moved on to another matter. “Tell me
in your words how it goes back home.”

Marcus glanced
at him - the Enchanter had only been away a few hours short of a
day - and realised he asked for the human point of view.

“I’m surprised
at how quickly we accepted the Golden. I dare say it’s as if the
last two millennia was a bad dream and it feels as if you never
left the continent. There are naturally die-hard xenophobes, but
they are by far the minority. I’d almost say humankind rediscovered
itself on Valaris, from seeing ourselves in a favourable light
through another’s eyes. My people feel whole again, if that makes
sense?”

“It does.”

Marcus nodded.
“And they love you as much as the Valleur do. You are hero, healer,
saviour.”

“That will not
last. My son has plans to the contrary - his curse on love.”

“Then stop him
before he does anything.”

Torrullin led
the Electan under the great arch onto the massive steps of
Grinwallin’s entrance and halted there. The great plain spread
before them in the soft light of early morning, with the view of
the greater portion of the continent beyond. It was a breathtaking
sight. Next to him Marcus drew an audible breath and gazed around
him in inspired awe. He could not voice it for there were no
words.

“Here I
realise how insignificant I am,” Torrullin said and shrugged. “He
is my son, Marcus; how do I stop him? You tell me how I cut the
father away from the sorcerer and I shall gladly do it.”

Realisation
dawned. “You love your son.”

“Does a father
stop loving a child when that child errs? Does he turn forever away
when that child follows a path against all teachings? What kind of
father acknowledges only his own absolutes? My son has chosen the
dark path, but he is still my son.”

Marcus puffed
his cheeks out. “Then someone else must stop him.”

“Murder on my
command is murder by my hand. Besides, any I send I send to doom.
Murder by default.”

“Then you’re
stuck.”

Torrullin
laughed.

Marcus asked,
“If this is yours, why Valaris?”

“That’s akin
to me pointing out Beacon and Xen are human worlds, so why Valaris
for you. I was born there, as you were. It is as much my birthright
as it is yours, Marcus. My mother was conceived there, although
born beyond the Rift, and my father was born and raised there in
the times before Drasso. That heritage alone, my human ancestry,
makes Valaris a part of me always.”

“Your son then
has a similar claim.”

“Yes, but we
shall deny him it, as is the right of the majority.”

“I thought you
don’t hold with democracy.”

“Are you
taunting me, Electan?”

“Just
curious,” Marcus shrugged.

“Democracy is
wonderful when it works, which it rarely does, at least not
smoothly. But take the Valleur and think on what democracy would do
to us. I dare you to tell me it would work.”

“It would be a
disaster. I’ve thought about it and I came to the conclusion you
are strong one and all, too strong for choices to be simple. You’d
have factions and civil strife such as few races have, for each
claimant would be on an equal footing. No, democracy works where
there’s both strong and weak. The Valleur need only one ruler and
the thing that makes it unassailable.”

“The
Throne.”

“Yes, I heard
about that.”

Torrullin
spluttered. “I’m beginning to really like you.”

The Electan
coloured. “Likewise.”

Torrullin
slapped Marcus on the shoulder and turned back into Grinwallin.

Marcus pulled
a face and followed.

Samuel and
Curin were charged with entertaining the Electan, and Teighlar, as
ever aware of who came and went in his domain, sent a dinner
invitation for that evening.

“Do you ride,
Lucan?” Torrullin asked, as he descended the city tiers.

“I take you
mean horses?” Lucan muttered. “No.”

“I do,”
Tristan said. “My father taught me. I can ride any horse.”

“Shall we
teach Lucan?” Torrullin teased.

“Ah, no, I’ll
watch if you’re going to be crazy enough to get on an animal’s
back.”

Tristan
giggled. “People have been riding animals since the beginning of
time; there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’ll stick to
transports, magical and technological, thank you,” Lucan stated,
causing the boy and the man to burst out laughing.

In that vein
Torrullin led them into a nondescript building set flush with the
northern wall. Overhead the giants from the forest beyond trailed
amber and gold colours of autumn. Windowless, stark within, the
only item a circular fireplace, cold, empty. Torrullin flicked a
wrist and the single entrance sealed, plunging them into dark, but
moments later he tossed a small globe of light into the fireplace.
It was still within, and pleasantly warm.

“Relax,
Tristan. Magic is internal not external; this is a simple
meditation chamber,” Torrullin murmured.

“Sensory
deprivation,” Lucan muttered, not liking it.

“It can be,
but we’re not going to sit in the dark without sound and certainly
not long enough for that kind of deprivation to have effect. This
is merely a private place where we won’t be interrupted.”

“Lucan knows?”
Tristan whispered.

“Not yet,”
Torrullin said, and told them to sit around the fireplace. Taking a
position where he would be directly opposite Tristan, he lowered to
the flagstones. It was warm to the touch. A cold uncomfortable
experience would leave the boy with baggage.

“What is it,
my Lord?” Lucan asked.

By way of
answer, Torrullin said, “Tell me about dreams, Lucan.”

The young
Dalrish looked from one to the other. “Wow, you two look so alike,
like father …”

“Dreams,”
Torrullin prompted.

Dangerous
territory. Lucan cleared his throat.

“Dreams, the
nocturnal wandering of the mind, and let me qualify by saying that
is the accepted view or description. In fact, a dream isn’t bound
to the dark hours, but may occur any time a subject reaches a
semi-aware or unconscious state. Of course, images come in a
heightened state of awareness, but we call those visions or
daydreams - they are closely linked, the mind being the factor that
binds.

“Now, the
wandering of the mind can be wishful thinking, a fantasy conjured,
which is either helpful or harmful, because it has effect on
wakeful activities. If the subject is unhappy, conjuring a
better-life fantasy may provide inner peace and the confidence to
achieve it, but it may also spiral the mind into a state of
depression when the subjects wakes to find it unreal. In much the
same way dreams of the perfect mate has an up and a down side - ask
me, I know about that. But … all right.

“Dreams are
problem solvers, particularly effective for those niggling matters
of daily existence, and are generally direct, the trick being to
recall solutions before dreams fade on waking. I’d say those are
most frequent, and includes psyche symbolism. For instance, a
person feeling smothered by those around him would dream of
drowning, so his unconscious is prompting a change, to take control
again. Unluckily, they’re largely ignored. The mind can also take
one into a comfort zone, the place or time one felt most content,
like childhood or an enjoyable picnic with loved ones, and on
waking one is refreshed. Your mind is thus also your healer.

“In much the
same way you may recall a lost loved one and the images of
familiarity may aid you in the future, approval given for living on
- better than grief and guilt. Often it’s the strength of your
mind, and your memories, which determines which road to take -
positive or negative.”

Lucan drew
breath and looked up.

Tristan
watched him intently, while Torrullin relaxed with head bowed.

“Then there’s
the linked dream. This type is generally related to past
incidences, an event, forgotten or relegated to memory as solved,
no longer pertinent, then abruptly those results from the past come
forward to play a new role, leaving the subject confused - dreaming
the link brings it back into focus. Those are rare, a force only
when the past is deliberately locked away.” Lucan smiled. “I didn’t
know I knew so much about dreams …”

When Torrullin
raised his head, his smile vanished.

“Right. Now we
come to the opposite - external images, not a result of personal
experience or memory. Often these are confused with fantasy, where
fantasy isn’t wishful thinking but fairy tale, the latter being
unattainable utopia or, horribly, nightmare wanderings of a
disturbed psyche. Dreams can be good, comfortable or a nightmare,
and everything I said applies to the latter also.”