Avaelyn
HE DREAMED EVERY night and it exhausted him.
For years dreams left unacknowledged in the morning, and those that were visions also were few. The dream of Lowen calling for help in strata was the last remembered visitation, and now visits in the hours of darkness would not let him alone.
Torrullin found, in the dark, he could suffer his own memories with greater equanimity than he could suffer the real aching of others. For there the dreaming took him, night after night - to the pain of others. He gradually accepted he could not remain isolated forever. It was a selfish wish and, while he preferred his own company, the words, expressions and feelings of loved ones were missed.
He understood the scales were levelled. On the one side balance ruled, and on the other, unbalance, and he further realised it would sometimes tip to either side, with years of peace opposing years of anarchy. That was the way of it, and it was right.
Yet he knew also Elixir was not an entity that could withdraw from either and merely watch the scales from afar. At first he believed he could do so - others, after all, achieved what Elixir had in the past - and then recognised that nothing functioned long in a vacuum.
It had little to do with power; it was about the soul. A man could be alone and prefer it, but a soul could be lonely and know itself lost.
The dreams were an inner prompt. His absence now created an unseen void and into that emptiness came suffering. Elixir saw, heard, touched and tasted sorrow, and relieved it by sending out the Kaval, and he no longer did so. In later years his presence alone, without the deployment of senses, largely quelled pain, but abdicating completely, in thought also, brought it rushing back.
Yet it was not Elixir who dreamed, or the Enchanter, not the seer or the Dragon within; it was Torrullin the man, his soul bereft.
It hurt.
TORRULLIN AWAKENED SWEATING.
He threw the bedclothes off and shivered as cold air found him. A fork of lightning lit the space and he looked outward.
Storm.
The first event since his arrival.
He rose and put a robe on, ambling to the ledge. The storm was far out over the ocean, but it was a big one. The foundations would shake this night.
Sitting and curling his feet into the robe, he watched it near.
FIRST HE HAD cleared the dwelling of rubble, dust, cobwebs and bird droppings and then commenced restoring comfort.
A fire range in the kitchen cavern with a chimney emitting smoke through the rock above, laying in of firewood, creation of basic utensils and a table and chairs - that was first.
Food was both of nature and what he conjured when he desired something tasty. He ate frugally.
Thick rugs again adorned stone floors and the atrium foliage underwent a decent pruning, the new shoots filling him with delight.
When everything was to his satisfaction, he furnished his bedchamber with a huge floor-bed, luxurious bedding with many cushions, a plain, soft rug, and candles in hollowed rock. Also a small fireplace; he knew from experience it could grow cold exposed to the elements. The first time he slept in his new bed was also the first time he dreamed, and it was unceasing since.
It was not the bed.
Selfishness required unselfishness. Scales.
Two days ago he hankered after something to read.
Knowing how to remedy it, he first pondered long on the advantages and disadvantages of doing so, and the advantages finally won out.
Cautiously he began transferring his stored possessions from the cottage on Mariner Island, Sanctuary. He brought everything, for he did not know the arrangement of the storing and was thus unaware which chests contained books. Once everything was scattered about his feet in an empty chamber, he set to unpacking.
Had anyone paid a visit to the cottage, they would have found it empty. Nobody checked, and now the trail was cold, and it suited him.
He smiled over treasured books, and created shelves to lovingly slot them in one after the other.
Clothes he hauled to the small dressing room off his bedchamber, and ornaments gathered from various worlds found special places in the dwelling.
He discovered papers and mementos forgotten about, and created a beautiful desk to hold them, and a chair to sit at it. Already he spent time at that desk.
When everything was satisfactorily cleared away, he stood in what was a library, and smiled ruefully.
We are creatures of habit, he thought, always, and some things cannot ever change.
An arrangement of armchairs followed, a low table upon a thick rug, and he took a book down and sat until darkness came.
That was last night, and the dream that followed left him weak and gasping.
THE STORM CLOSED in with alternate hot and cold gusts.
Lightning was uninterrupted and thunder a living monster. The foundations shook, and so did his premise of life.
Torrullin lifted a hand to his chest.
The Maghdim Medaillon was safe in its receptacle, glittering when he found it, warming to his skin when he put it around his neck. It was simultaneously heavy and light, being of metal and magic, and he remembered Elianas shouting about it in delirium. He wondered now if that had meaning.
He wrapped a hand around it and urged the storm nearer.
THE FIRST DREAM was about a child, a boy.
He was crying in a dark corner somewhere, red welts over thin arms, eyes so hopeless the universe should come to a shuddering halt. A dark presence stood over him brandishing a whip.
It was not Elixir who dreamed, but it was Elixir who meted out justice.
The boy was now on a ship of orphans and bound for Sanctuary.
Other dreams followed the same pattern. Someone helpless and suffering, someone the cause of it, and it was never Elixir who used his senses to delve out these small incidences. It was a soul bereft, a soul in sympathy. It was, however, Elixir who changed those lives, and he was careful to leave no sign. Quilla would latch on if he did.
Others dreams were worse. These were not small incidences; they were evil enacted on a larger scale.
The first of those was of a group of twelve women, young and old, branded as witches by a host of lustful men. Literally branded - he could still smell burning flesh - and raped repeatedly after. The youngest was a girl before puberty and the oldest a grandmother of some years. The men tied them to stakes and set fire to them. The women, without hope, welcomed death. He could not stop it and, after, realised the lives they would live coping with such trauma would not be life. The men, however, were another story. Suffice to say, they too were branded and not one would rape a woman again.
Last night’s dream was different. Last night he was as helpless as those in the dream.
It was a small village. Villagers huddled in filthy huts unable to change their fate or even their soiled clothes as they succumbed to an unnamed disease one after the other. The dead lay where they fell, spreading the disease ever faster. He tried to reach out, to send healing, but it was useless. Healing required touch. He beat himself senseless against an invisible barrier until he finally collapsed on his bed, and dreamed the last of them dying.
This morning he tried to leave Avaelyn, not to go to the village, not to aid another, but to test whether he could leave.
He could not.
Transport all over Avaelyn, yes, but no further.
He had now fallen prey to his own unseen void.
Torrullin wondered how long he would accept the enforced isolation - different now without choice - before calling to Quilla for help.
RAIN CAME DOWN hard and he was soon wet and cold.
He sat on, one hand clutched around the Medaillon.
The dream he awakened from was similar to the one last night. An incurable sickness, healers at a loss, this time in a hospital in a city. Ten already dead and four more as he dreamed, and no doubt many more as he sat here in the storm.
Dream was reality, out there. The mysterious disease was wide
spread. How many would die before he could shatter the barrier keeping him grounded?
Even had there been no barrier, he could not leave. The storm shut down communication and transport. He was as helpless as they were helpless.
While the elements ruled, he therefore started to think, assuming an entirely different tack.
If he could not get to them, they needed to reach him. Yes, but Avaelyn was far-flung and the price of a berth exorbitant. He could not himself transport people to Avaelyn - he would succumb within hours - and then there was the danger of a sick person travelling, by whatever means. Some would not cope and others were too ill to move.
He thought more.
Over the years he received many gifts, most of which were given to the Valleur and used for Kaval funds, but some remained, some possessed great value, sufficient to buy a ship, enough to sponsor a crew and pay landing fees. He knew of two ships on Ceta’s concourse, and there were sure to be others for sale. With crystal propulsion and a few magical devices, a journey of ten years to Avaelyn could be completed in ten days.
A Mercy Ship and, when running, it would be sponsored by others also as his treasures dwindled. If not, he would create wealth, use his Enchanter skills for something noble.
He twitched as lightning struck the plateau, and was grim again.
A Mercy Ship would take planning, negotiation and time. He would need people to come to Avaelyn to hear of this, sit and plan it and, when operational, he would have to deal with hordes of sick men, women and children. Was he prepared for that? Others would come also, via other transport means; such was the way of it, the gift of healing often a curse to the healer.
It would change every dynamic on Avaelyn. He would lose isolation.
Perhaps not.
If he built a landing zone far from his home and erected a facility nearby, no one need ever see or visit his home. Planning could be achieved at the selected site - and he grimaced. Sanctuary already possessed the necessary facilities; this was overboard, a waste of energy. What was he thinking?
He was thinking the dreams would not leave him alone unless he did something constructive. Scales again.
Torrullin swore, released the Medaillon, and stood. Turning his back to the storm, he went in search of dry clothes and something warm to eat and drink. Within half an hour he was at his desk planning, sketching and making notes.
It occurred to him later he managed to put Elianas from his mind for hours.
THAT REALISATION CAME with the sun’s rays. A new day, the storm moving north. He smiled when he realised he had not given thought to loss in the preceding hours; it meant he was himself healing.
By afternoon, he paced the plains a hundred sals away, looking at it with the eyes of an engineer. By evening he knew he needed an original copy, if not the original, of the deed that proved ownership. He needed to lay down the law for Avaelyn from the outset.
He did not sleep that night, not merely to escape another dream, but to continue planning.
Time was of the essence.
Sanctuary
The Villa
ALTHOUGH BUSY WITH Sanctuary’s business, Teroux made time to aid in the deeds search.
This morning, as he entered to join Quilla for an update, he seemed harassed. He flopped into a chair.
“Gods, Quilla, I’ve been forced to quarantine Mariner Island. There’s an outbreak of a new disease and it’s spreading fast. Damn it, the sick are coming in for treatment and putting the entire planet at risk, yet how dare I turn them away? This is Sanctuary.”
“We have heard of this, but did not realise it was widespread.”
“It would not be if folk stayed put, but as it is even the crew of the last two ships are grounded. If this carries on, the landing site will look like a parking lot.”
“Has it been isolated?”
“Scientifically? Not yet.”
“Deaths?”
“Not here, but elsewhere, yes.”
“The Kaval must get on this. This is more important than a deeds search.” Quilla rose.
“Actually, Quilla, now we really need to find him.”
Quilla sank down again. “That bad?”
“Potentially. If we could track him, we could ask that he treat the sick in an isolated place to prevent it spreading. The more it spreads, the greater the burden on him.”
“Ah, that is why you made time for this meeting.”
“Quilla, Rose is sick.” Teroux’s face pulled, but he managed to swallow his fear. “We must find him.”
“I am sorry, my friend.”
Teroux cleared his throat. “I could be ill and may already have passed it to you.”
Quilla paled.
“Exactly. Now where do we stand regarding the search?”
Quilla thought back over the preceding weeks.
Tianoman approached the Elders of Valaris for the records of Ardosia. When the Valleur left the universe fifteen thousand years ago all records went with them, but Yiddin said those records were burned on Ardosia by Margus’ hand. Even the New Oracles were burned; there was nothing left. Yiddin further denied memory of a deed in Torrullin’s name.
Luvanor’s Elders had records only from the time of the Nine, thus was that a dead end. Tianoman then asked the Elders of Akhavar to search the mountain enclave for ancient records, but to date nothing had surfaced.
Quilla, hampered by duties, managed to have a search engine installed in Titania’s databases. It was running and had not spit anything out. Jonas, too, was in on the search.
“Jonas came up empty-handed. Our hope lies now with Titania.”
“I have someone going through Xen’s archives, and I had a word with Lowen, hoping she could get into the secret stash. She promised she would, but is stuck on Valaris with the new Electan.”
“We have nothing,” Quilla sighed.
Teroux leaned forward. “Maybe something. Yesterday an orphan ship docked, among the passengers a young boy severely abused by his father. In the interview with one of our counsellors he claimed his father stood over him about to beat him, when he sensed this presence in the room. His father apparently turned at bay, fearing for his life, and suffered a fatal heart attack on the spot. The boy heard a voice in his head telling him where to go and how to find a ship bound for Sanctuary, and listened.”
“You think Torrullin helped him?”
“I do. This kid is so traumatised he’s either in an imaginary world now or he’s telling the truth.”
“I shall check his story. Where does he come from?”
“Drinic. Area 4, Impus Town.”
Quilla rose. “I shall do it now, before Tristan delegates new duties.”
Teroux nodded and added, “Protect yourself. We don’t want this disease spreading to Drinic also.”
“Damn. I shall do what I can.”
“Oh,” Teroux called as Quilla headed out, “I have heard Drinic records go back far.”
“But to get anything from them is another story. I shall have a sniffle.” He was gone.
Teroux rose wearily. He would rather be sick with Rose than healthy away from her.
He transported back to Mariner Island.
Mariner Island
THERE WERE GUARDS on the bridges now, to prevent people leaving, not entering.
Entry was guaranteed. Huge notices in the common tongue were placed at each bridge entrance to warn people they entered at their own risk.
The island was congested. Halfway homes were overfilled, the facility itself was overcrowded, and a sea of tents rose where level land permitted.
Teroux found Rose among the sick children, telling them a story to keep their minds occupied. He waited until she finished and then motioned her away.
Out in the corridor he asked, “How are you feeling?”
“No worse, but some of these kids won’t last long,” she murmured as she leaned against him.
The sickness had no outward manifestation other than terrible pallor, and thus ill
nesses like plague and smallpox were ruled out. It acted like poison, as if a chemical overrode oxygen in blood and gradually shut down vital organs. It was painful; when the screams began they knew death approached fast. Whole villages succumbed, and many towns and cities lived in fear. Nobody had pinpointed the source, but it was now widespread. It was, unfortunately, airborne.
Rose said, “There must be a way to know the ill from the healthy, Teroux. Some of these kids come in fine and are sick within days. It’s not fair.”
“They are working on it.”
They were. Scientists everywhere laboured to isolate the virus, bacteria, chemical or whatever the culprit was and, in the meantime, the ill came to Sanctuary, trusting in Elixir’s place of peace to work a miracle.
“Did you tell Quilla about Jimsin?”
“He’s on his way to Drinic, yes.”
“Let’s hope Torrullin left a trace. The man should be here.”
Teroux cupped her face. “If I lost you, I would also remove myself from society.”
She smiled sadly. She kissed his cheek and shooed him away. “I’m going to tell them another story.”
Drinic Homeworld
QUILLA DISCOVERED A huge quarantine camp on Drinic.
The disease had spread wider than they thought. In fact, as he was about to enter Impus Town, he had a call from the Dome. Tristan, no doubt, had now heard how rife the illness was. He temporarily ignored the call to track a man who left no signature.
He heard from an old woman about the man who had a heart attack, yes, leaving his son an orphan, and was pointed to the house. The front door hung ajar and he gagged on the filth he found inside, his heart going out to that poor child, as Torrullin’s had.
Quilla stood in the mess, concentrating hard. Indeed, it had been an interference, but Torrullin left no trace. Quilla left the terrible place and headed out of town. At least he knew Torrullin was aware, and that was good. Give the man enough suffering, like this mysterious disease …
Lore of Sanctum Omnibus Page 95
