The Echolone Mine (43 page)

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 widespread. 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. Then, while the elements ruled, he 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 … and
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

Teroux was
busy with Sanctuary’s business, but 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.”