 
Mere Acquaintances

Published by A. F. Grappin at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 A. F. Grappin

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes.If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

# Introduction

In Fall 2009, I had the idea: to find out what my friends and other readers want to read about, and to take their ideas and make a coherent whole, using as many of their ideas as possible, and to write a novel, posting it chapter-by-chapter, free for anyone to read. The ideas I received were outstanding and of great variety, and I was actually able to use most of them. As thanks, each one of the contributors had one character named (loosely) after them in the novel.

The following work of fiction is purposefully unedited. This was written as a single draft and was originally posted as a serial novel, chapter by chapter, on my blog, afgrappin.blogspot.com. It was a personal challenge, one I doubt I will ever undertake again, but one that taught me a lot about myself and about writing as a whole. I posted a chapter each week as I'd planned, so once it was posted, I couldn't go back and change what had come before.

I hope you enjoy this work, the result of the ideas of 21 individuals besides me.

#

# 

# Prologue

The river Swen was banked on one side by high, grassy ground peppered with brush and stunted trees, and on the other by black nothingness. For about two paces, the far bank looked just like the one Cheyne was standing on; rich dirt sloped up to contain the lazily flowing water and finally leveled to the same high grass and various foliage that could have banked any river anywhere. But after those two paces on the far side, it all just stopped, like a long sharp blade had simply cut through the earth and trees and peeled them away, leaving nothing but a black as dark as a murderer's heart. Even from this distance, Cheyne thought it looked thick, like molasses, like he could put out his hand and be enveloped in it. Staring at it made him feel more like a child than the hero others thought him to be. He wiggled his fingers, just to make sure they were still attached to his hand. Even knowing that it was on the other side of the river, for a moment, he had almost felt as though he had put his fingers into the black, and they had gone numb.

He lifted the heavy steel helmet from his head and ran a hand through his chestnut hair. His hand came back covered with sweat. His eyes never left the darkness on the other side of the river. It was broad daylight– just an hour or so after noon– but the darkness was complete. He squinted, trying to penetrate it with his gaze, but at the same time not quite seeing it. He could remember remembering a time when that blackness wasn't there, when plains– he had the vague idea it had been plains– extended far on the other side of the river, but the memories were not even half-remembered. A grimace tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was frustrating that his memory didn't extend as far back as it used to. The memories from some of his past lives, the ones he had lived longest ago, were fading. Decades were missing, decades of experiences he could remember remembering and thinking on, but that was all there was anymore. Still staring at the nothingness without seeing it, he began to wonder how much his next rebirth would remember. Who would that man be? What would he be like?

How much of the land will blackness like that cover then?

The grimace that had been tugging at him made its appearance, and he put a hand on the sword at his hip, gripping the hilt tightly as if afraid the blackness would attack and he had to be ready for it. It didn't waver. The one thing he was certain of, the one thing that was always a part of his lives, of all his memories, was the sword. Sonsedhor. Fine brown leather cord wrapped the hilt from pommel to the plain steel cross guard that separated hilt from blade. The blade itself was a bit wide, straight and double-edged, but tempered in a style that made it look like waves radiated from the center to the edge when the light hit it right. For all the old stories told about his former lives that involved Sonsedhor, all the legends that turned his lives and himself into a hero of legend, all the tales that made the famous sword into a brilliant weapon worthy of heroes, it wasn't really much to look at. It was a tool, made for a purpose, and no more. But it was a constant; it made Cheyne certain of who he was. Sonsedhor had always been connected to him, and him to it, for hundreds of lives– maybe thousands– even though there were only a dozen or so he could actually remember in detail.

The sword was centuries old, and had never been wielded by anyone but himself. His predecessors took pains to hide it before death took him, so only the next incarnation of himself would be able to find it. Whenever he felt death at his back, he would do the same, and wait until the Mother gave him birth again to find it.

The sound of footsteps– both human and horse– approached. His grimace turned into a smile without his thinking about it, and he finally tore his eyes away from the blackness across the river. The horse was the color of dust, a well-tempered mare with calm eyes that matched her owner's in color. But the similarities ended there. Above her own calm brown eyes, Senne's hair was deep brown, pulled back into an intricate pattern of twists and curls that would normally be seen on a lady in a city, not out here at the edge of the world, days from any settlement. Even her gown was more suited for city business than traveling, except that the fine silk of her skirts was in fact divided for riding. It was deep sapphire blue and covered with hundreds of tiny glass beads. Pure snowy white slashed her sleeves and the middle of her bodice, all of that too encrusted with beadwork. It was a gown made for court, but Senne would have nothing less than the finest, even on the road.

"So it's true, isn't it, love?" she asked, her voice as soft and sleek as the silk of her gown. She left her mare to graze and strode next to him, her hard-soled leather riding shoes making almost no noise in the grass that led up to the bank. Her arm went through his; he loosened his grip on Sonsedhor's hilt.

"So it seems," he replied. "There's nothing on the other side of the Swen. It just... stops."

"I was afraid to believe it when I heard the rumor. Thank you for bringing me out here." For a long time he watched her as she stared at the blackness, almost without blinking, until he found his own eyes locked on it again, trying to see through it.

The sound of rustling fabric broke him from his staring, and he turned to see Senne had stepped out of her shoes and taken off her stockings. Her hands were reaching behind her back, undoing the row of buttons that ran up the back of her bodice.

"What are you doing?"

"I want to see it up close. The river isn't flowing too heavily, now that the spring thaws are long past and it hasn't rained in nearly a fortnight. In fact, it's been so dry for the last month the Swen can't be very deep. So I'm going to swim across and see it up close. Are you going to come with me?" She shrugged her shoulders out of the bodice and slid her arms out of the sleeves. The fine gown cascaded to the ground, piling around her ankles. Even clad only in her shift, she was able to somehow look more commanding than any monarch he had ever met. Without waiting for his response, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts and continued, "You'll want to remove all your armor before you go in. It would weigh you down and drown you."

Ignoring the tone in her voice that made him feel like she saw him as a child, he methodically worked his way out of his armor and set it on the bank next to his own mare. She ignored him. Once he was stripped down to his simple cloth breeches, with a sheathed dagger at his belt, he and Senne plunged into the river together.

The water was cold but not icy, deep enough that he couldn't touch the bottom, but slow enough that it wasn't an issue. A few minutes of swimming saw him and Senne clambering up the far bank not too far downriver from the horses. He helped Senne to her feet on the grass, ignoring the fact that the water had set her white shift clinging to her every curve, that it being wet had made it almost completely transparent. Even with trying not to look, he could see every bit of her. She smiled slyly at him and brushed past him half a step.

Clinging to each other, they inched closer to the edge of the void. Cheyne found himself leaning forward, his nose reaching to the wall of blackness while the rest of him stayed further back. He straightened and pulled Senne back just a bit with him. He saw her reach out a hand toward the nothingness and somehow could not make himself reach out to pull her hand back. He held his breath as Senne's fingers came up to the blank wall of blank. For a long minute, her hand and the blackness sat there, suspended, frozen, and then one finger extended and breached the boundary of the void.

The black didn't swallow her hand like Cheyne thought it would. Instead, her hand stayed perfectly visible, the edges sharp and vivid as if he were looking at it in broad daylight. It seemed, for a moment, that her hand gave off its own light to break the blackness.

"It feels...... thick, but empty at the same time," Senne said, moving her hand slowly around and wiggling her fingers. "I wonder..." Again, before he could move to stop her, she was leaning forward, her head broke into the darkness, and she was looking down. "Oh, my..." Her hand moved from his arm to his back, settling against his skin between his shoulder blades.

Cheyne had never been an easily frightened man , but he hesitated before carefully leaning forward himself and peering over the edge of the black. Beyond the edge, the world just ended. The ground beneath him didn't even have any thickness to it. It was more like a sheet of parchment, stretched and scraped thin. He was suddenly overcome by vertigo and the feeling that the earth would break under his weight. Other than that thin crust that was the land he stood on, there was nothing in the black. Pure nothing, in every direction. He felt sweat breaking out on his still-clammy skin and realized he was trembling. As slowly as he had extended his head, he drew it back until green grass was beneath his eyes. Only then did he straighten up again.

On the return swim, the water felt warmer. When they emerged from the river, the sun was warmer, the breeze less bracing. The whole world seemed to be warm and more colorful, as if it were showing off how it was different from the abyss. He was grateful for the walk back upstream to where the horses were; the warm sun and wind dried him as he walked.

He helped Senne do up the buttons on the back of her gown before he started donning his armor. He straightened from fastening the last of his greaves and was reaching for Sonsedhor on its belt when a loud crack rang in his ears. A heavy weight slammed into him, pushing him bodily toward the river. His arms and legs became tangled in branches and leaves, and as he twisted to see, rough tree bark was all that was before his eyes. Completely winded, he tumbled down the bank and into the water, the tree dragging him with it. The weight of all the steel encasing his body dragged him down at the same time the tree tried to keep him on the surface. Water filled his lungs as he desperately tried to keep his head above water. He tried to free his arms from the tangled branches, but they were pinned too tightly. He whipped his head around as well as he could underwater, but the strap that fastened his helmet under his chin wouldn't move. It dragged his head down, keeping it under the surface. His lungs screamed for air. He could feel the current pulling him downriver. The water was suddenly freezing.

Senne watched emotionlessly as the uprooted tree floated downriver with Cheyne tangled in it. "My master thanks you for the kingly gift," she said sweetly to the drifting log. Before it was anywhere near out of sight, she turned away and reached for the sword belt with the scabbard and blade still in it, right where he had leaned it against one of the stunted trees. Without so much as a backward glance, she mounted on her mare and rode away.

She had not even gone a mile into the open plains when the late afternoon sun disappeared and she was swathed by darkness. Swirling black and gold and blue surrounded her, some of it moving so fast that it made her feel dizzy and sick. She reined her mare to a halt, practically throwing herself out of the saddle even before the horse came to a complete stop. Immediately she went to her knees, the sword in its scabbard on the ground below her chin.

Glancing up, she saw the swirling colors come together, solidifying into a man. His breeches and boots were black, his coat blue, all of it embroidered in sparkling thread-of-gold, even the boots. Black lace spilled from his cuffs and collar, bordering against the pale skin of his hands. The short hair atop his head was golden; his ears and the sides of his face pale. But where eyebrows, eyes, nose and mouth, cheeks and chin should be, there was nothing. Like the abyss on the other side of the river, his face was blank. Flat and empty.

One of the pale hands reached out. Hastily, she grasped the sword and proffered it to him, resisting the urge to jerk back once it was out of her grasp. He took the sword and wrapped stick-like fingers around the hilt, drawing the blade from its scabbard. "You have done well." A voice that was at the same time smooth and gravelly came from the blank face. The eyes that weren't there looked at the blade as he turned it this way and that to set light glinting off the steel. "You will go far in my service."

The air was pierced with a bone chilling scream before Senne could thank him. It came from behind her, where the river washed over a man doomed to die, his body tangled in a tree. His head could never have broken the surface, weighted down as it was by his heavy steel helmet, but the scream was as loud as if she were right next to him. The air shook with its force. At hearing that cry, Senne knew Cheyne was dead.

At the very moment the shriek ended, the bare blade wrenched itself from her master's hand, the scabbard flew from where he had discarded it by his leg, and both flew through the air back toward the Swen, a trail of smoky blackness dotted with gold trailing after it.

Senne stared after it, completely stunned until an iron grip surrounded her throat, choking her. She managed to turn her eyes up; her master's hands were motionless by his sides; his empty face turned down, looking at her.

"You will go back and get it, or so help me, you will die a thousand deaths before I'm through with you. Don't call my name unless you have it in your grasp." The grip tightened on her throat. She was lifted through the still air and felt herself be thrown, her rough landing ripping her gown at the same moment it knocked the breath from her. Looking back, there was nothing but uninterrupted plains. Her mare came trotting up to her, looking as if nothing had happened.

Tired and shaking, she got to her feet and then into the saddle, turning her horse's head toward the river Swen. Something in the deepest part of her knew she wouldn't find the sword there, or anywhere.

# 

# CHAPTER ONE

Ighosia Falls Insane Asylum– the board of directors had yet to change the name to Ighosia Falls Mental Institution even though there was a bill on the board– housed numerous patients who milled about aimlessly. Their behavior was placid enough that they could be allowed to roam the buildings and grounds without endangering themselves or others. The big common room that also served as game room and sometime cafeteria had enrobed patients scattered around tables, sofas, and the obligatory ping pong table. Most of them chattered with themselves or visitors or staff– those that were coherent or thought they were coherent. Some still had enough of their minds to be able to interact, but those that spoke in gibberish still wanted to be heard. Volunteers had grown used to the ones who just wanted to be listened to while they babbled on about God-knows-what. Some of the patients who had no desire to listen or speak simply sat, staring at a wall, a TV screen, their hands or laps, or nothing in particular.

One patient sat in a wheelchair, her back to the wall, watching with uninterested eyes the color of chocolate. Auburn hair tumbled to her shoulders. She was always quiet, often unresponsive when addressed, but the doctors, staff, and volunteers had grown used to her and no one tried to interact with her anymore. She was content to sit in her chair, sometimes with a book or a magazine in her lap that she did not read, and while away the hours simply being, in a silent and lonely world.

Without warning or any sort of catalyst, she suddenly tried to stand in her wheelchair, struggling against legs that didn't want to work. Her voice burst from her, hoarse from disuse. "I've lost it! I've lost it!"

Heads whipped around to look at her questioningly, a pair of nurses rushed to her to calm her down. A psychiatric doctor watched everything, immediately postulating what this sudden change in behavior meant. Was it, perhaps, the first sign of regained sanity, of awareness of surroundings? Or was it a delirium, with the lost "it" being something conjured in a fractured mind?

Necras was teeming with people, and they pressed in on Senne from all sides. Rumor that Cheyne Firdin had been reborn had reached her ears, leading her first to one city, then to another as the rumors developed. He was in Morena! No in Abem, or in Estria! No, he was in Necras! Wherever he was, the rebirth of the hero meant one thing: that the cursed sword Sonsedhor might again be within her grasp, or come within her grasp.

The crowds in Necras weren't encouraging. The rumors had only pointed to one thing: the Search. The celebration of the great hero's rebirth was nothing more than the setting forth of Seekers: men who believed they might be a rebirth of the hero, each one of them planning to go reclaim the famous blade and make a name for himself as a hero.

She pushed through the crowd; everywhere she looked were men wearing the silver braided cord of a Seeker. The cord came along with the oaths they made: to be honest, to do no harm to the innocent, and to seek it for righteousness rather than for glory. Those oaths freed men from all debts and obligations until one of three things happened: either they died, the sword was found, or the Seeker gave up and returned to paying taxes. Senne thought it all silly. Why should any man need to make oaths, or search for the sword? Whoever had once walked the world as Cheyne Firdin should know what had happened to Sonsedhor, hidden or not.

"He's here." The voice burst into her head like the boom from a firework. "The one who will find the sword. The one is here!"

In the middle of a crowd as she was, she fell to her knees from shock and elation. It had been so long. After her failure to bring him Sonsedhor back when Cheyne held it, she had been cut off from him completely and without mercy. Now, to hear his silken gravelly voice again was ecstasy.

As if he could read her thoughts– which he probably could, actually– his voice echoed in the back of her head again. "You are not in my favor yet, child. Do not believe you are. But perhaps you might redeem yourself. The one who will find that cursed blade is here. Bring him to me. Find the blade, and you may prove what little worth you actually have."

As suddenly as it had come, the voice was gone, the itching buzz in the back of her head abruptly disappearing. Shaking, she got to her feet, her eyes doing more than just passing over the individuals that made up the mass. Now, she actually saw them.

The plaza was filled to bursting with men and women, but her master had given her no way to tell which one of the men around her was the one. She picked out a chestnut-haired man not ten paces from her, but there was no guarantee Cheyne's rebirth would look like Cheyne himself had. The man around her were all as different as people could be. Dark-skinned and fair, blue-eyed Gaernin and brown-eyed Melistrati, black hair and red hair and brown and all shades in between... she even thought she spied a pale-haired Keidenelle savage among the rabble. She gave a start at seeing the man she thought was a Keidenelle. Either they were attacking and no one cared because there was only the one, or he was an attraction escaped from some menagerie or showman who had set up outside the city. She had seen menageries boast of captured savages before, but most often they turned out to be fakes, men or women who had drained all the color from their hair by a means Senne didn't know. This man's hair wasn't drained of color; it was more of a whitish-blonde, like fresh buttermilk or a none-too-clean linen shirt. He wasn't dressed like a savage either; his clothes fit in perfectly with the crowd. Perhaps he had drained the color from more normal brown hair himself, to instill fear in competition for the sword. No silver braid of a Seeker adorned his sleeve; the man wasn't out for the glory that would come with Sonsedhor. Senne dismissed him from her thoughts.

She worked her way through the crowd, her eyes darting around at man after man, wondering if perhaps her lover's relationship with Cheyne before would help her recognize his rebirth. A thought struck; would he recognize her? Would that be one of the memories that came to his rebirth? Had she been recognized already, and he was simply avoiding her? There were too many questions. He was here, but where?

Musicians were playing on every corner, and jugglers and acrobats performed wherever they could find space. Half the people in these crowds were drinking, the other half mostly drunk already, even though it was not yet noon.

She found herself among a cluster of braid-wearing Seekers close to one of the gates to the city. Outside the walls, the colorful sides of a tent stretched towards the sky. The menagerie. She sneered; she hated menageries. A painted wooden sign named this Jonal Keffinen's Traveling Sights of Wonder. A long line of Seekers were strolling among the large tent and the few smaller tents surrounding it that housed smaller attractions. She sauntered through the crowds herself, dropping a coin in the box near the entrance arch to pay her way in. Money was easily come by; she could waste it on this, even though she hated them. Cheyne might be among the crowd.

The smells of horses and mules reached her, and she wrinkled her nose. She let it stay wrinkled as she looked around and saw the people who wore vests made of the same colorful material as the tents; the vests marked them as workers of the Traveling Sights of Wonder. She glared at every one of them she saw. Menageries were peopled by nothing but con artists and freaks. Within one small open tent, a woman was contorting herself into all kinds of different positions that should have been impossible. Freak. In another, a man was "eating" fire and blowing it back out of his mouth. A small boy not wearing a vest darted among the crowd surrounding the fire eater. Senne saw the quick movements that showed he was picking pockets. No doubt he was employed by the performer. Con artist. A woman standing on a makeshift platform open to the air was swallowing daggers and knives and swords– nothing any honest person would do to make a living. Strange animals were in cages, strange items in large glass bottles and jars were lined up on a table, being watched over by a man with eyes far too large for him. He looked like an owl. A man with no arms wrote on a giant slate with his feet, his handwriting neat and perfect. Freaks and more freaks.

And the other people were eating it all up. Any man who was truly Cheyne wouldn't be taken in by all this. He was not one to be entertained by the unnatural. She walked purposefully out of the menagerie's roped-off grounds.

Back within the walls of the city, she got lost in the crowd and stood in one spot, looking around. Cheyne Firdin's new life was in here somewhere, but where?!

# 

# CHAPTER TWO

There was a certain window that looked out over the walled-in garden-slash-courtyard at Ighosia Falls, and it was there that one particular patient liked to spend most of his time. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and stony blue eyes. Once a formidable member of the police force, he now held no gun, had no uniform. He spent his time staring out into the courtyard, babbling softly to himself, occasionally shouting "Don't!" or "Please, stop!" The doctors knew the shouts were linked to the incident that broke him.

One intern just happened to be looking in his direction when something came over his eyes. So she was the only one to see his mouth clamp shut mid-babble, to see the sudden change in the look behind his eyes. He'd gone quiet, the abrupt change in behavior happening without warning, just as with the woman in the wheelchair. His change was certainly less violent and even less noticeable. But the intern was convinced there had been a change. Silence surrounded the big man; the cold look in his eyes became the only indication of life.

Ara Fusica leaned over the rail of the balcony overlooking the main plaza of Necras, her feet a few inches above the ground as she hoisted herself up to look at the rabble-rousing below. All she could see were heads covered with many different colors of hair and the colorful splashes of their clothes.

"My Lady, you shouldn't hang over the edge like that. You'll fall, and then where will we be?"

Ara let her feet come back down to the marble floor of the balcony and looked up to her sworn guard. Roark Dow was a broad-shouldered man in the prime of his life. He didn't wear all his steel battle armor here in the city; rather a set of thick hardened leather protected him. His coal-black hair, usually disheveled and spiky with sweat from being kept under his helmet at all hours, was now dry and sitting neatly on his head. His chin was smooth as a boy's despite his thirty-five years. His eyes looked down on the milling crowd, appraising everyone and generally disapproving of the carousing in the streets below.

This was the first time Ara could really see the onset of the Search; it only happened every fifteen years, and at age fifteen, had only experienced the last one as an infant. She was amazed now at the sight of all the men wearing the silver braid of Seekers. So many– it looked like nearly every man in the city wore one.

"Every fifteen years, the Seekers of Sonsedhor set out from the four capital cities of the world to search for the sword that was lost," she said, her words almost a recitation. "I never imagined there would be so many."

"And there may not even be one among them all who will find it. There have been nearly sixty Searches set out since Cheyne Firdin vanished, and they began long after his mysterious disappearance." Roark spoke matter-of-factly, his lips barely moving but his voice firm and commanding. Should the need ever arise, he would lead soldiers into battle to defend her.

"Have you ever thought of joining the Search?" Ara asked, looking up at her guardian. "Did you go on the last one? You would have been old enough."

"At the time of the last one, you were a babe in swaddling clothes in your mother's arms, my Lady," he replied, his voice remaining level, as if he were lecturing. "From the moment of your birth, I was bound to you, sworn to protect you, to give up my life to defend your own. I was not free to join the Search then, nor am I now."

"I could free you from that bond if you wished," she said, still looking up at him. She was not short– not for her age, anyway– but he still stood head and shoulders taller than her. "At one word form me, your oath could be undone. Do you wish it? To search the world for Sonsedhor?"

He turned his eyes back down to the rabble in the plaza. "I am not looking for glory," he said simply and firmly, ending the conversation.

She refused to let it end. "Then what are you looking for?"

He let out a loud sigh, but she thought he was about to answer, when below them, a hubbub began. A man shouted, his voice carrying over the raucous volume of the crowd. "That's my property! Stop him! Guards! Stop him!"

She jumped up to lean her chest against the rail again so she could really see what was below her. Roark mumbled something, but she couldn't make it out. Probably something about not leaning over the rail again. She ignored him and looked for where the trouble was.

Among the multi-colored heads, a pale-haired man seemed to be the center of attention. "Now what is happening down there?" she asked. "Go find out, Roark. Take some guards and sort this out. I won't have thieves in my city."

# 

# CHAPTER THREE

In the courtyard, on a stone bench, another patient sat calmly, looking around blankly at other people and humming softly to himself. He was squat but slim with a hollow quality to most of his features. His hair was brown so light it was almost blonde, his eyes green, and a small, neatly trimmed beard circled his mouth. He had enough control over himself that he could maintain his facial hair with an electric trimmer– under supervision, of course. He never complained about being watched like a child.

Now, sitting on his bench, he continued his humming, the one thing he did constantly. His professional background in music still showed through in his mannerisms: constant noisemaking, either hums or whistling. Sometimes it was Mozart or Rachmaninoff, Tchaikovsky or Bach or Wagner, or even Webern or Berg although no one wanted to be around him when he whistled the noise they called music. But sometimes, when he whistled something and was asked what it was– a question he always answered in detail– he would simply respond, "Mine," and go on with it. He had once been a composer and music teacher for a college two towns over from Ighosia Falls.

Draegon had come into Necras two days before the official onset of the Search, planning to perform at the ceremonies, or at least on the street corners if he couldn't get onto the official center-of-attention platform in the center of town. There were prizes for the best musicians and storytellers, especially for the best telling of the legends involving the renowned sword. On the day of the official onset, the contests began at noon. He had already added his name to the lists of storytellers, but he had yet to get up and tell his chosen tale; the tellings would go on late into the night. In the meantime, he had already made a decent handful of coins just from playing his hand dulcimer on a street corner.

People tended to walk wide of him in the crowds, at least once they registered what he was. He knew it was because of his hair. Only the Keidenelle had hair any shade lighter than golden-brown– excepting the white and grey that came with age, of course– and his was whitish yellow, marking him as one of the uncivilized nomads that wandered the land, brutalizing and robbing whatever people they came across. Even with him alone, and dressed as well as any successful bard, and acting and speaking just like any civilized person, the people avoided him. If no one else noticed, at least he knew he was not a savage, although he didn't like to think about what he had to go through to become civilized.

A man on one street corner stood on a small wooden box, shouting advertisements for the menagerie, Jonal Keffinen's Traveling Sights of Wonder. Had he not been standing on the box, he still would have been tall. He had a semi-tamed mop of black hair, a slightly crooked nose, and blue eyes that missed nothing. He looked like a man used to spotting trouble in a crowd. He spoke easily and cheerfully and with many grand gestures of the arms, and frequently stopped his advertising to banter amiably with a passerby. Draegon knew this man; he was Jonal Keffinen himself, the owner of the menagerie. He tried to step wide around him, but his own height and the fact that his pale hair marked him out in a crowd worked against him. He almost felt the moment Jonal's eyes fell on him, and the shout came aimed right at his shoulder. "That's my property! Stop him! Guards! Stop him!"

Just as suddenly as with the man on the balcony and the woman in the common room, the musician's behavior changed. He jumped up and shouted at the tp of his lungs and darted away from the bench, running at top speed across the courtyard, through the flowerbeds, and even plowing through people milling about.

"I'm no man's property!" Draegon dared to shout back before breaking into a run, careful to keep hold of his instrument cases so they didn't wind up lost or damaged. He pushed his way through the crowd; suddenly they no longer wanted to part for him. He cursed the days he had worked for Keffinen in the Traveling Sights. Those days were years gone, but they still haunted him. He cursed under his breath. He was no savage to be displayed anymore, no attraction to be viewed by gawking patrons for a few measly coins he would not see so much as a penny of. Not anymore. He was going to preserve his freedom even if it meant running.

One of those he ran into was another patient, a mild-mannered and constantly sad woman with dark hair and almost purple eyes.

Before he could slow down or turn, he barreled headlong into a merchant's wagon, throwing what looked like some rather expensive-looking porcelains and mechanical toys into the road, breaking them into pieces on the stone road upon impact. His momentum halted, he couldn't help but make eye contact with the dark-skinned and dark-haired woman sitting atop the wagon. Rich azure eyes stared into his, seeming to delve into his core.

"Someone caught you and tamed you young, didn't they?" she said, sounding more amused than he was comfortable with. Too out of breath to reply, he gave her an apologetic look before beginning his run again.

The salt-and-pepper policeman took it on himself to stop the ruckus, running through the halls and plowing over people himself to get at the running musician.

More and more he ran through the crowd, plowing past people and mumbling out-of-breath apologies whenever he could. The crowd seemed to be thickening around him. Jonal Keffinen's condemning shouts still followed him, ringing in his ears and threatening a cage again. He refused to let his screaming legs rule him and make him slow; the crowd was making him go slowly enough.

He ran headlong into a solid wall, and arms wrapped around him immediately, keeping him from continuing his sprint. A guard looked down at him, stern face glaring and accusing. "You've been called before Lady Ara of Melistrat."

The crowd around him was silent. All eyes were on him and the guards; a wide empty ring had opened up around them. Three guards– that was what they had sent to capture him.

"Mother punish that damned Jonal Keffinen," he muttered under his breath. Whatever punishment the Mother sent to him would be too good, he decided as the guard holding him released him from the tight bear's hug he'd had him in and marched him towards the largest building edging the plaza. Behind him, another guard called, "Anyone else who is involved with this man, come before Lady Ara."

Draegon could hear both the sound of wagon wheels– the merchant woman's cart– and Jonal Keffinen's slimy voice trailing after him.

# 

# CHAPTER FOUR

In an effort to understand exactly what had happened in the courtyard, Dr. Carolyn Anderson had the three involved patients brought together under her supervision. Ryan Pellin the musician, and Emery Landers the former policeman, were both out of breath from their running and were now under the watchful supervision of a few of the burlier nurses. Lydia Rhys, the woman Ryan had barreled over in the courtyard, had voluntarily followed after Emery without being told to accompany them.

The three patients sat in chairs facing each other in a bare-walled room. A two-way mirror sat on one wall, and behind that Dr. Anderson and her intern Becca Smitts observed their interactions with each other. The conversation baffled them both, though for a long time at the beginning, none of them said a word.

"I want to know exactly what happened out there." Lady Ara Fusica said from her high seat on the dais of the audience chamber. It wasn't a throne room, nor was her chair a throne; she was no queen. Lady of the Land, yes, but no monarch. "I want the truth, from one of you at a time, with no interruptions from the other. Is that clear?"

Before waiting for the Keidenelle man to agree, the dark-haired man stepped forward. "My name is Jonal Keffinen, my Lady, and I am the owner of the great menagerie outside the very walls of this grand city. If my Lady hasn't yet seen the wonders of my Traveling Sights, I would like to take this opportunity to invite you to a private showing– free of charge, of course– anytime you wish." Keffinen made grand gestures as he spoke, making many flourishes of a cape he wasn't wearing. The young Lady looked bored with him already, but she made her thank-you and bade him get on with his explanation of his actions in the streets.

"I have known this man since he was a child," Keffinen began, letting his voice boom as if he were introducing performers in his tents and addressing his story not only to Lady Ara, but to all those in attendance. "Some years ago, while traveling– this was before my show grew to its present grandeur, of course– I came upon a squalling child in the wilderness. The baby had been abandoned by his savage parents and left to die. I expect he was meant as a sacrifice– you all know what those Keidenelle are like, of course. But I could not, of course, allow an innocent, helpless baby to die alone like that. So, even knowing of his bloodlines– for he had a bit of that pale hair even as a baby, my Lady– I took him into my wagon and vowed to raise him as my own son."

Even though none of the three patients had spoken a word yet to provoke him, Ryan made a protesting sound.

"Did you not agree to listen to each other's story without interruption, sir?" Lady Ara snapped the moment Draegon opened his mouth. He got out no more than a grunt. Keffinen gave him a wry look.

"For years I raised him, until as a young child, he showed a desire to learn a trade. My show was growing splendidly at this point, my Lady, so I had many performers of many different skills. He was showing that he had indeed become civilized under my careful parenting, so I wasn't afraid to let him to his own devices. My performers taught him anything he wanted: tumbling, high rope walking– I have an exceptional trio of high rope walkers I'm sure would delight you, my Lady– animal handling, fire eating..."

Draegon suppressed a grin at Lady Ara's annoyed expression. Keffinen noticed as well, though his only response was to develop a tightness around his eyes and cut off the list of his performers abruptly.

"By the time he had reached his teen years, he had shown an aptitude for music, so I bought some instruments for him to learn with. As his talent grew, I allowed him to perform a bit and even let him keep a percentage of the profits as his own pay. But the price of the instruments had yet to be paid off, since his profits have been rather measly of late.

"Imagine my surprise seeing him walking the crowds of the city when I had expressly told him to remain in the menagerie area and perform! And with my instruments, no less! The ungrateful wretch must have thought to bolt today, thinking he could simply disappear into the crowds. It's a good thing I never tried to hide his heritage by using color on his hair, or else he might have gotten away! And it's another good thing that I happened to be making my advertisements in the plaza and saw him as he tried to escape. You see, he has the instruments on him, my instruments, the ones I so generously bought for him. They are still my property, you see, and worth a great deal."

Ryan's jaw clenched along with his fists. Still silence between the three patients, but he looked absolutely furious. That was when he spoke.

"The truth of matters, my Lady, is not in any word he has said. I was sold to him by a slave trader when I was a child, and Master Keffinen made me an attraction in his menagerie. He made no efforts to civilize me, much less treated me as his son. Ask him to name me, and he wouldn't have a name for me. I was nothing more than a savage to him."

It was Keffinen's turn to open his mouth to protest, and Draegon did his best not to look gratified when the Lady ordered him quiet.

"The onset of Search fifteen years ago found his show in Gaern, and it was there that man broke open the cage that held me. I will not lie and say I completely understood everything at the time, as I had no semblance of a civilized education, but the man was my liberator. Now I know he was a particularly greedy man, a bard, and he was only kidnapping me to use me for his own profit. It was that bard who taught me music and made the efforts to civilize me. And he gave me my name, Draegon.

"But I was still little more than a means of moneymaking to him, and some years ago, I managed to make my escape from him and begin building my own life. The instruments I carry were bought honestly, with money I made myself."

Ryan finished his nonsensical story, spoken so quietly Dr. Anderson and Becca Smitts could only completely make out one sentence in every three. Emery kept his eyes on him, then flicked them to Lydia when she began speaking– more loudly, but no more understandably.

The woman merchant whose wagon had been hit said very little. "This Keidenelle man was running and my cart happened to be in his chosen path. Obviously, being pursued as he was, he wasn't able to take time to pay me back for what was broken, but he did take the time to apologize for his actions, even if it was only in a look. I had some wares broken, but I don't think the price of what was lost is worth anyone being imprisoned over, my Lady."

Draegon's eyes widened. She wasn't angry? Keffinen's eyes were wide, too, but more likely he was surprised that the thought of money could be so easily put aside.

For a long few minutes, Lady Ara thought over what she'd heard. "Here is my decision," she said finally. Draegon was glad; he was growing tired of the nearly murderous looks Keffinen was shooting him. "No matter which of your stories is true, they do agree on one point. Master Keffinen has been derived of property that was rightfully his. But whether that property was taken by Master Draegon or it is Master Draegon is of no matter. Either way, he is responsible. Personally, I do not approve of the slave trades, and I have outlawed them in my own lands, but it is not in my power or right to free a slave that is not mine."

Out of the corner of his eye, Draegon saw Keffinen's smile grow more and more. No doubt thoughts of money were running through his head.

"I give you three options, Master Draegon. Number one, you may return to Master Keffinen's custody. You admitted freely yourself that you were his slave, and I admire your honesty in that. I would think any other man would deny it, especially since it was something your accuser didn't mention. Slavery is a touchy subject for all. So your second and third options will allow you your freedom. Your second option is to simply give Master Keffinen your instruments. They are, after all, the property he claimed. Your third option is to pay Master Keffinen the full value of either the instruments or yourself as a slave, whichever price is lower, to offset the costs of the property he lost. Mistress Merchant?"

"My name is Gossard, my Lady. Mistress Gossard." The merchant woman looked frightened.

"Mistress Gossard, you do not wish recompense for your lost wares?"

"No, my Lady. As I said, it is not worth someone losing his freedom for a few broken vases."

The young Lady nodded as if pleased. "Then all I have for you is a small request for your services. If you would, please appraise Master Draegon's instruments. And if you are comfortable with it, appraise Master Draegon, as well. We need to know a fair price for him to pay Master Keffinen if that is what he should choose."

Draegon felt awkward as Mistress Gossard looked him up and down, judging him as one would a horse. At least she didn't check his teeth. He didn't want to part with his instruments, but a single reassuring look from the merchant made him more willing. She turned the carved wooden hand dulcimer, his silver-chased flute, and his rather plain tambour over in her hands one by one, gently plucking out a few notes on the dulcimer for tone and thumping the tambour twice to test them before handing them back.

"Considering the fine quality of his instruments and the physical shape Master Draegon is in, I would judge them to be of comparable value. Somewhere around seventy-five gold marks."

Keffinen's eyes glittered while Draegon's fell. Seventy-five marks? And gold marks, too! He didn't have that kind of money.

"Master Draegon? What is your decision?"

Draegon looked at the lords and ladies lining the walls of the audience chamber. Each of them avoided his eyes as if he were a fearsome animal, even though it should have been obvious from his behavior during this whole interval that he was no savage. No matter what, he wouldn't go back to being one in their eyes. No one would cage him again. He fell to one knee and put a hand over his heart.

"Before the eyes of those around me and the ever-graceful and loving eyes of the Great Mother, I pledge myself to the Search for Sonsedhor. I will speak no untrue word. The innocent will fear no harm from me. It is for righteousness that I Seek, not for glory. Until the fabled blade is found or I pledge myself to another cause or master, I will Seek. This is my oath."

Keffinen burst out with a string of obscenities that caused Lady Ara to have him removed from the chamber. "You realize what you have just said, Master Draegon?"

He only held out his hand in response. "My braid, my Lady."

Sighing, Lady Ara produced a silver braid of the Seekers from somewhere about her and placed it in Draegon's hand. As he tied it around his arm, he repeated, "This is my oath."

"The oaths you have just made free you from all debts and obligations for the time being, Seeker Draegon," Lady Ara said with resignation. "But do not believe it puts you in my good graces. It is a coward's way out you have chosen, and I place no trust in cowards. Your oath only frees you from my verdict until the sword is found, until you die, or until you give up and begin again paying taxes to some lord or lady. But I will not even let you get away with that. If you are ever seen without your braid, you forfeit your oath, and you will be required to pay twice what you owe to Master Keffinen: a sum of one hundred and fifty gold marks. And to ensure that you don't simply return to a life of performing and make your escape, my man Roark will accompany you on your search." A single glare at Roark from Ara ensured he did as he was told.

Emery let out a grunt that could be taken for surprise, then mimicked Ryan's behavior in kneeling with his hand over his heart and murmuring something neither the doctor nor her intern could hear.

# 

# CHAPTER FIVE

Vale Stapleton had been one of the patients in the courtyard during Ryan's outbreak, and he had seen it all: Emery watching at the window, Lydia being bounded into, the staff rushing to contain the incident. He had been close enough to Emery's window– partly opened because of the warm weather– to hear the man's mutters. At the same time, he just happened to be close enough to Ryan's bench to hear some of the words he half-mumbled, half-sang. But he'd been far enough removed from the incident that he wasn't considered an associated party.

Parts of him remembered being a journalist once, and he maintained that observational nature even as a patient in the asylum. He locked away all the information he could from what he had seen and heard from Emery and Ryan, the whole time sitting still and looking stoic, a picture of good behavior in a crazy world.

Around the edges of the greater plaza in Morena, capital of Gaern, the manor houses of the highest noble families were clustered together, packed in like beggars in the sanctuary on alms day. Seven great and powerful families, and no less than ten manor houses between them. It was enough to make Jaidyn sneer. His own family was as old as any of theirs– older, probably– and yet his father still did not occupy one of the great seats on the council that ruled the city and nation. That injustice was only one of the reasons he'd decided to abandon Morena completely and wear the braid.

The other reason was because he knew he would be the one to find Sonsedhor. He was Cheyne Firdin reborn; that had been a certainty of his for the last few years. The children of the sanctuaries taught the catechisms, all about the memories that came to everyone, of lives lived long past, and Jaidyn had come into the memories of Cheyne Firdin. He hadn't told anyone yet– he didn't want to give himself away until he had his sword. Yes, his father would be upset when he found out his oldest son and heir had cast off his birthright to become a Seeker. He would get over soon enough, when Jaidyn came home triumphant, fabled sword in hand, and claimed rule of all of Gaern for House Huntley. Seven councilors be taken by the Dark Father, he would set things right.

One of his memories crept into his head, and it wasn't Cheyne's. This memory belonged to a more recent life of his, that of a former member of the council. Lexan Hallech had been unfairly dismissed from the council nearly a hundred years ago, and House Hallech had ended with him. But instead of House Huntley taking its place, no, House Advissen had been chosen to replace it. It made Jaidyn want to clench his fists and shout in anger, but his self-control prevented him. No sense in wasting energy. He would need all his strength to reclaim his sword. And it would do him no good when he returned if he was remembered as a foolish man who shouted at nothing.

The worse of it was, Lexan hadn't deserved to be dismissed as he was. Not to mention executed. That he definitely hadn't deserved. The teachers of history painted him as a tyrant, an arrogant power-driven man who sought to make himself a king. But Jaidyn had the truth of it from his memories. He had always been just and generous, and so selfless that the other noblemen grew jealous of his popularity. They brought him down simply because he didn't seek personal glory and comfort like they did. He undermined them by doing what was best for the commoners, not for the Houses.

The memory was of one of the many land ownership disputes he had settled. A pair of neighboring farmers had come to him, each arguing that the strip of good land between their farms was his. What could he do but settle it the way he had all the others? The strip of land they were arguing about couldn't be both of theirs, so why seem to favor one man over the other? He rejected both their claims to the land and claimed it for his own. All the money made from selling the produce from it went straight to alms and to the government coffers, of course. He'd actually gotten lots of "tax land" as he called it, this way, until by rights, nearly a fifth of the farmland around Morena had technically been his. None of it was a single stretch suitable to call a farm, though. An acre here, a half-acre there. But it certainly brought in the money.

And he'd been deposed for that! It was infuriating!

There was movement on the balconies of the great manor houses. Men in clothes even finer than Jaidyn's own came into view, the councilors of Gaern, some with their sons. Endren Prake, tall and fair-haired with his sickly son Burgess; Rabian Hartume, darkly handsome with his son Meck; lithe young Fastolph Kerning; Lec Ravits, who wore a strange contraption of lenses and wire over his eyes he claimed let him see better; Berrot Larac, the woman who dressed in men's clothing as though it actually made her a man. Jaidyn thought it was silly, the way she paraded around in trousers and a coat; the woman was well old enough to be his grandmother. Her husband had been a councilor before her, but when he had died, she had insisted on taking his seat rather than her oldest son, the proper heir to the seat. What a to-do that had been. Riots, mobs, brawls, fighting... but there she was, among the men, wearing her men's clothes, and no sign of her son. And what was worse, she refused to remarry and set a man in her place. For that, she should be deposed.

And there was the seventh Councilor: short, dark-haired Banjay Advissen. And next to him, his ridiculously tall son Zanthys. Jaidyn sneered at the young man he considered his rival. Two years younger than Jaidyn, Zanthys held the place that should have been Jaidyn's, not to mention the romantic interests of half the young women in Morena. Zanthys was tall and lithe, with strong features but a bone structure so delicate it should have belonged to a woman. A ready smile sat underneath ice-blue eyes that by all rights should have radiated frost, but more girls swooned at a glance from him than even looked twice at Jaidyn. His chestnut hair was always clean and pulled back into a short ponytail that looked soft even from this distance. And even though Jaidyn was older– nineteen years old!– he couldn't manage to grow more than scraggly whiskers on his lip, while Zanthys kept a well-trimmed patch of hair on his chin.

Zanthys had all the power and respect that by rights should have been Jaidyn's, and there he was, up on the balcony, waving and overlooking the Seekers and Gaernin people he would one day share the rule of. Jaidyn wasn't sure how the insufferable man– no, at seventeen, Zanthys was still a boy!– managed to pick him out in the crowd, but he saw the look of recognition and acknowledgment in his eyes, and knew that one flick of the hand– was that supposed to be a wave?– was directed at him. Jaidyn let his lip curl into a sneer. House Huntley stood behind House Advissen. Jaidyn's own father was a supporter and advisor for Zanthys's father Banjay. As a result, he had actually met Zanthys, even played with him a bit as a child. And as much as he wished Zanthys's manners and politeness were a façade, the simple fact was that he was a truly nice and honorable young man. There wasn't a drop of arrogance in him, even though he was a notorious gossiper. If he had a fault, it was his fondness for gossip.

"Zanthys is waving at us!" came a familiar voice behind him. And there was stout Hoeth Karzark, the sixteen-year-old son of Viddad Karzark, Rabian Hartume's right-hand man. Hoeth was of the same noble station as Jaidyn himself, and he had been a much closer childhood playmate than Zanthys had been. That still didn't mean Jaidyn had to like him. As third son of his House, Hoeth's chances of inheriting anything worth having were slim, so the silver braid on the boy's arm was not a surprise. He was stretched up on his tiptoes– at least he was shorter than Jaidyn– and waving frantically at Zanthys and the other councilors' heirs.

"Quit stretching like that," Jaidyn snapped. "You'll give yourself a hernia." His eyes went back to the braid on Hoeth's arm. He plucked at it. "Did your father approve of this?"

"He suggested it," came the reply. The younger man's boring brown eyes contemplated Jaidyn's own braid. "What did your father say?"

"He doesn't know yet, but I need to go on this Search." Darting his eyes around to make sure no one was listening, he leaned in close to Hoeth. "What I'm about to tell you is in the strictest of confidence, Hoeth. It's not something you can tell anyone else. Do you understand?"

His eyes brightened. "I love a good secret! What is it?"

"I am Cheyne Firdin reborn, Hoeth. I have the memories. But I don't want to publicly come out with it until I have Sonsedhor. But all those times you and I and your brother Jairome played at being heroes when we were younger, you remember? Those weren't made up adventures. I drew a lot of those out of the memories I have from Cheyne. They were stories of things that really happened– that I really did in my past life!"

Hoeth's eyes went huge, making him look like a child hearing stories at his mother's feet. "Really, Jaidyn? You're really... So what happened to you? To him? Cheyne? Why did he... you... he disappear all of a sudden? And Sonsedhor– where is it? Where did you leave it?"

It struck Jaidyn suddenly that his memories didn't answer those questions. What he remembered told him nothing of Cheyne's disappearance or the location of the great sword. But he wasn't about to let Hoeth know that. He would doubt, and then he would spread the story. "Look, Hoeth. Those memories aren't something I'm emotionally prepared to deal with right now. Just thinking about actively remembering them is making my throat close up. I have so many wounds tied to that old life that I can't really deal with– can't really talk about, anyway– until I have the sword and come into my own. I know where it is, though, and I'm going to get it; I just can't talk about it. But don't ask me to talk about them. It opens up a lot of old scars."

Turning away from the fervently-apologizing Hoeth, he let his eyes wander back across the milling crowds and up to the balcony where the councilors were. Some were still there, the masses apparently forgotten by them, as they were chatting among themselves. The others were gone, Zanthys Advissen being one of those missing. He didn't do anything to suppress the sneer that curled his lip.

"I'm going to leave this afternoon," he said, interrupting what was probably Hoeth's twentieth apology. "You can come along, if you like. Maybe you'll get mentioned in the tales the storytellers spin."

"Really?" his mouth spread into a broad grin. "Which way are we going? Where's Sonsedhor?"

"I told you not to ask. Especially here. Others might hear if I were to answer you, and they would go after the sword themselves. We can't have someone unworthy taking hold of Sonsedhor now, can we?"

No one will get what is rightfully mine, he thought. Part of him wondered if that thought was his; it almost made him think of Lexan Hallech.

# 

# CHAPTER SIX

To the unobservant eye, it looked like Emery, Lydia, and Ryan were just sitting on the grass in the courtyard. Not talking, not even really looking at each other– just sitting. But Vale knew better. He could see their expressions changing, their hands gesturing ever so slightly; he could even see, when he really looked, the almost undetectable movement of their lips and tongue as they spoke so softly only they could hear. He didn't like being left out of events like that. Ever. Sitting himself hard on a bench, he kept watching them, even though he couldn't hear. His eyes were riveted on them.

Surrounded by common people, many with the Seeker's braid on their arms, Zanthys watched as Jaidyn and Hoeth turned and left the plaza, pushing their way through the throng. Even with Jaidyn whispering, he had heard what was said. So Jaidyn believed himself Cheyne reborn. That is some information many people would be very interested in.

Turning, he made his way through the crowd. He hated these kinds of festivals. On normal days, the commoners would realize who he was and make way for him, even if he didn't have his guards around, shouting for them to move. That was only proper. But on festivals, they didn't seem to see him, or if they did, they simply didn't care to give him his way. And he had slipped out of the manor without his guards. Good thing, too. Had Jaidyn heard them shouting to make way, he would never have heard Jaidyn's "secret". That in itself was worth being jostled a bit, he supposed.

Finally, he came to the door of his father's plaza-side manor– the other manors were either in less busy parts of the city or out in the country– and nodded slightly to the servant who opened the door for him. He strode the carpeted hallways towards his chambers, thinking about exactly how to approach this information. What gossip! A few whispers in a few choice ears could make things very interesting in Jaidyn, Cheyne Firdin-supposed-reborn. He actually found one of those choice ears in the hallway, a man in the gold and white livery of House Advissen. He whispered his words along with an order to pass to another fellow, and dismissed him. That other fellow would see to it that Zanthys knew exactly where Jaidyn was when he needed to.

His bedchamber was empty when he stepped in and closed the door behind him. Striding to his study, he smiled at the many full bookshelves. Once his father had learned of his love for books, he had begun buying every one he could get his hands on. Zanthys had one of the largest collections in all of Gaern. But the book he took from the shelves was probably not in any of the other collections. It was a chronicle of the known lives leading up to Cheyne, including a rarity: a full description of the legendary blade, Sonsedhor.

Sitting at his desk with the book and a writing box, he copied the description and went on to commit it to memory. It couldn't hurt, after all, to really know what it looked like. The twisted grin on his face felt strange; he wasn't usually one to play jokes like this, but Jaidyn was asking for it. He couldn't be Cheyne Firdin reborn. Zanthys liked to think he could see the good in anyone, but it was very difficult to see anything in Jaidyn except spite and envy. Perhaps this would put some humility into him.

Certain he had the description memorized, Zanthys tucked the copy into his pocket. A word to his father, and the best blacksmith in the city would be to work within the hour. Zanthys had no training with the sword. He had never even touched one, not even in play. There was no need. Dozens of others, scores even, would do any fighting required for him, would die in an instant to protect him from the slightest threat. But if he told his father now that he wanted a sword, Banjay wouldn't object. And Zanthys wanted a sword. This sword.

# 

# CHAPTER SEVEN

Joanna Bailey sat in her wheelchair in the common room, absently watching the other patients play ping-pong– the ones that could, anyway– or watching cartoons, or simply sitting and talking. She didn't move, except to blink and observe.

It was Becca Smitts who noticed Ryan enter the common room, Emery on his heels looking tired or bored or both. Ryan looked around and wandered by the others in the room, looking and pointing and smiling without saying a word. Emery seemed to committed to looking bored and tired.

If he hadn't known firsthand what life in a menagerie was like, Draegon was sure he would have found the Traveling Sight of Wonder much more enjoyable. He'd overheard children saying they wanted to join the menagerie– out of earshot of their parents, of course– and the freedom was probably a draw for anyone, but inwardly he shook his head at the people who thought foolishly that menagerie life was desirable. Still, he was enjoying the shows at least a little bit, mostly because this was Keffinen's domain and there was nothing the bastard could do to touch him. So he strode among the patrons and the attractions, basking in the sudden feeling of being unshackled that the silver braid on his arm gave.

He actually recognized some of the performers in the menagerie. And when he thought about the ones he did think he knew, often some hint of a name would come back to him. The girl who ate fire was named Rin. Rin... Ramkan? As he watched her display, he managed to catch her eye, and she actually almost spluttered as she wrapped her mouth around the flaming end of a thin metal stick. Lucky for her she managed to recover instead of choking on the fire. Was it recognition or just the fact that he was Keidenelle?

The other watchers clapped and moved on, some of them tossing a few coins into the cracked bowl next to the little painted wooden sign advertising Rin's bit of the show. Draegon waited by the bowl, hoping for a word with Rin. If she was afraid of him for being what he was, she hid it well, and after he told her who he was and why he was allowed in the menagerie without Keffinen breathing over his shoulder, she went away laughing.

There were others who remembered him, and who he remembered. The six acrobats had been much younger the last time he saw them– they were brothers, or claimed to be– but the years hadn't been so bad to them that they didn't still look like themselves. He had memories of extra water brought to him by them, of kind words spoken through cage bars– even though he hadn't learned enough language back then to know what the words meant– of one of them simply sitting next to his cage now and then to keep him company. He told them, too, of the situation with Keffinen, and of his own good, semi-successful life as a traveling bard. Everyone he could tell about that, he told. Let them know what happened before Keffinen got into a huff at them and started spreading lies.

The only fly in the honeycake was Roark, the hefty man Lady Ara had set to keep watch on him. The hulking ox didn't leave his side. Apparently, the oath he took, he took very seriously. Draegon didn't think he would get out of Roark's sight until his oath was fulfilled or broken. But why would he break it? There was too much profit in keeping the Seeker's Oaths. He could walk freely without worrying about hiding from anyone, he got to keep his own instruments– give them to Keffinen, indeed!– he actually got to be part of the Search– he had never considered it before it was necessary– and now he had his own personal guard! This was the high life! He should have faced off with Keffinen years ago... if there had been a Search then...

A contortionist was performing in another of the little roped-off areas that caught Draegon's eye. She couldn't have been more than a handful of years younger than him, judging by her eyes, but her body looked younger. She was very lean and had a girlish figure, and were they up close, she would probably only come up to Draegon's shoulder.

The contortionist spotted him straight away when he approached– even though she was in the middle of her performance– and gave a start that almost made her lose her balance. But she managed to recover, and all through the rest of the frightening positions she twisted herself into, her eyes kept finding him and staring. The words behind her tan eyes were "I remember you."

Draegon couldn't say he remembered her, but he stayed and watched her through the end of her display. When she was done, she approached him.

"I don't have any money to give you," he said immediately, for the first time feeling sheepish for not tipping the performers

"I remember you," she replied. Either she hadn't heard his money comment, or she didn't care. "You used to be in a cage."

"I don't remember any contortionist."

"Well, I wasn't one back then. But do you remember a little girl? I used to bring you treats."

He narrowed his eyes. Treats. Like a dog. But he did remember, a younger version of the woman in front of him: a wide-eyed, jolly little girl who would slip him bits of food now and then, almost treating him like a favorite dog– one that had gone feral. Well, maybe not so much like a dog, because he had vague memories of her sitting next to his cage after dark, when he was alone, and her talking to him even though he didn't understand.

"You do remember me," she said, smiling as she saw the recognition in his eyes. "But I would be surprised if you remembered my name. Well, to avoid an awkward moment, I'll just go ahead and tell you I'm Kemeny. Did you ever get a name?"

Yep, this woman was definitely that little girl, all grown up. "Draegon."

"Ooh. That's a very Gaernin name."

"My old master was from there."

She smiled at him gently. "I'm happy for you. I won't bring up the past and ask you what happened since you disappeared, but I will ask what you're doing now... besides Seeking." She reached out and gently plucked at his braid. Well, she certainly didn't lack for nerve!

Behind his shoulder, the hulking Roark shifted his weight heavily from one foot to the other and let out a low grunt that was undoubtedly meant for Draegon's ears alone. The guard was undoubtedly fed up with the menagerie and was ready to go out and do his duty. So Draegon gave Kemeny the short version of what was going on and what had transpired with Keffinen. She bristled at that but didn't say a word.

"Good luck, Draegon," she said gently, lifting up on her toes to kiss him softly on the cheek. "I always wondered what happened to you.

# 

# CHAPTER EIGHT

Dr. Anderson listened patiently as Becca Smitts spewed out her conjectures about the behavioral changes in the patients Ryan Pellin, Emery Landers, Vale Stapleton, Lydia Rhys, and Joanna Bailey. In watching recordings of their interactions with each other and their time alone, she noted that each of them had frequently used the phrase "sun setter". Since all of them had done it at one point or another– Ryan using it most often and Lydia the least– it had to have some significance. But her research only brought out the literal meaning, or perhaps a setting sun as a metaphor for death. But her instincts told her it was something different to the patients. They spoke of it with some emphasis, as if it were proper– the name of something.

Life around Necras finally returned to normal, and it infuriated Senne. The majority of the Seekers had left a week ago, the stragglers within the last four days. But some remained, a handful who seemed more interested in sitting in taverns, trying to keep the festivities going by drinking themselves into a stupor every night and picking right back up when they woke in the afternoon. She had trouble believing that her quarry was one of those who lingered, but there was always the chance, so rather than throw her lot in with someone who had already departed, she had chosen to remain and hope that one of the stragglers was the one.

What it really came down to, though, was that she was at a loss of where to go from here. Her master had said Sonsedhor's master was one of the Seekers in Necras, but she'd had no hints pointing to anyone in particular. It would be found, and where would she be when it happened? Still in Necras, waiting for one of the braid-wearing men with his face buried in a mug of ale and a serving girl's bodice to suddenly produce the sword from underneath his chair? That thought brought a sneer to her lips. Maybe she should have followed after some random Seeker.

She ignored the hoots and lewd suggestions aimed at her as she walked through the common room of the inn, past the Seekers who were already out of control of their mouths even though it was still an hour before dark. She walked undisturbed to another inn, where she rented her room. The simple curtains at the window were pulled back, letting in the warm mid-evening light. Light that fell on the far-from-warm figure of the Dark Father himself, leaning back on his elbows on the bed, dressed in black accented by metallic blue and gold embroidery. He looked not at all pleased.

What more could she do than fall to her knees before him? She did, pressing her face to the floor.

Becca's discussion with Dr. Anderson was cut short somewhere in the middle of discussing possible meanings for "sun setter" by the notification that one of the patients was having some sort of an outburst. When they reached her room, they found Joanna on the floor of her room. She had fallen from her wheelchair and was on her knees. The woman's injuries had not left her completely immobilized, but movement from the waist down was very difficult for her.

She was crying, but whether it was from pain or something else wasn't something she would explain. In fact, she didn't seem to notice anyone around her at all.

"Have you already found my sword?" The Dark Father was outraged she could tell, although there was still no face to go by, only the black nothing where a face should be. "Or have you given up already? Is this task, simple as it is, too difficult for you?" She could hear the sneer on his nonexistent lips, feel the contempt coming off him in waves, settling on her shoulders like a mountain of weight. She pressed herself further to the floor, trying to flatten herself against the floorboards, or better yet, to sink into them and disappear. "You have proven yourself to be well below worthless. Give me one more reason why I should not strike you dead where you grovel."

Silence. Did he want her to speak? He had asked questions, given her an order to answer him. "I... you... you gave me the powers..."

"And I can take them away, if I chose. But that would take more effort on my part than it would to destroy you. So I ask again, why should I not strike you dead? You have made me ask twice, flea. I will not ask a third."

"I am faithful, master," she blurted, her voice quavering and weak and desperate. "I can find him. No one else..."

"Do you think you are the only one searching? Are you so arrogant to think you are my only servant? Don't you believe I have others? Dozens, hundreds of servants, both human and not? With your behavior, you've fallen below even the beasts! Get out of my sight!"

Her body twitched. This was her room, and he could come and go as he pleased, she knew, but he had ordered her away...

"Get OUT!"

Without even bothering to gather her skirts to keep her from tripping, she flew out of the room, out of the inn, out of Necras completely.

# 

# CHAPTER NINE

Dr. Anderson sat in her husband's recliner with a snifter in her hand and the lights dimmed, staring at the blank television screen and seeing nothing but Joanna Bailey with her face pressed to the floor, completely limp but somehow beyond the nurse's ability to lift and replace in her chair. She heard Ryan Pellin's humming and footsteps as he dashed through the courtyard for no obvious reason. She heard "sun setter" mumbled in the voices of each of the five patients, and nothing else.

Whatever was happening with her patients, it wasn't improving. She couldn't say for certain if it was really "worse" for the most part, there were no injuries. None of them seemed to be out to hurt themselves or anyone else, but this behavior was so out of character for them. It was nothing she had seen before from any of them, and the lack of cause was infuriating. And the fact that she hadn't been the one to notice the repeated phrase...

Becca was speechless when Dr. Anderson informed her that the board had voted to allow her to do some independent– but guided– study on the "sun setter patients".

Ryan and Emery sat on the grass near a flowerbed in the courtyard. Becca watched them from a window, taking notes and making comments to a handheld tape recorder for later reference. For the past few days, the two men had spent almost all their time together in the courtyard, but then whenever they were indoors, they passed by each other with hardly a glance. Half the time, Vale seemed to be spying on them. Becca would see him out of the corner of her eye, peering around a wall or over the back of a couch or a chair. Joanna maintained her distance from them, but seemed to also always be watching them, whether indoors or not, sitting and observing from her chair. Lydia appeared to have completely lost interest in them.

The plains stretched on to the horizon, unbroken and actually pretty boring. Necras was out of sight of the camp Roark and Draegon had made. Roark had to admit the bard could at least take care of himself, even if he was somewhat infuriating in his behaviors. He seemed completely content to wander, leading but not saying where exactly they were headed, if he even had any idea where he was going. He would hum now and then, or sing softly to himself while they traveled– to Roark's mind anyway– aimlessly.

But at least he was able to build a campsite and a fire and didn't have to have his back watched constantly as Roark had been afraid. And the tune he was strumming on his hand dulcimer as he sat by the crackling flames was relaxing. Roark had never had much of an ear for music, but even though he didn't know the song he was hearing he could at least say it was music.

The other noise that reached him was something he did have an ear for: movement. The light of their little fire didn't extend far, the moon was new, and the stars were obscured by thin clouds, so it was really the worst possible light for Roark to scout in. But it was the best kind of light for someone to ambush them. He limbered his sword in its sheath and squinted out into the darkness, searching and straining his ears for the sound of the movement again.

Draegon looked lost in his music, and the horses in their grazing. Roark refused to be so blasé about his situation. He took his sword from its scabbard and set to it with his whetstone, giving whoever was trying to sneak up the impression that he was unaware of his or their presence. He prayed there was only one.

Becca watched as Joanna suddenly and slowly began wheeling her chair along one of the walkways, inching closer and closer to Emery and Ryan.

Roark thought the rustling stopped, and he strained his ears to pick up any other sounds. But then he found it, only quieter than before. Whoever this was wasn't too terrible at stalking; just not good enough to sneak up on him. He could almost feel the intruder at his back. Draegon was still strumming his hand dulcimer.

The approaching sound stopped, at his best guess, a handful of paces behind him, probably well out of the firelight's small reach. He tensed his legs, ready to spring.

"If you mean to do us harm," Draegon suddenly spouted, "we both know you're here, and you won't catch us by surprise. If you don't mean us harm, show yourself now, and we might consider letting you go uninjured."

Unable to stop his movement as quickly as he wanted, he spun, only to find himself face-to-face with the contortionist, Kemeny. She had a knife in hand and had managed to get closer to him than he had thought– another half a pace and she would have been within arm's reach of him had she wanted to stab him.

"Sit down, Kemeny, and put away the knife. Roark, either finish sharpening your sword or put it away. And you sit down, too. You look silly standing there with your jaw open." The faint notes from the dulcimer gave a light accompaniment to Draegon's voice. Roark wondered if he meant the music to do that so perfectly. "What are you doing here, Kemeny?"

The slim contortionist crossed her legs beneath her and settled onto the ground near the flames, extending her hands out for warmth. "I don't know why, but when you came, I just... I suddenly realized how stuck I was. I felt trapped. I felt like I was in a box, only it wasn't like in my shows. I can squeeze myself into a tiny wooden crate and feel nothing, but I felt like... like I couldn't move at all, and I didn't like it. The Traveling Sights– they were something I suddenly realized I might never wriggle my way out of, so I left while I could."

"While our dear Master Jonal Keffinen's back was turned, you mean," Draegon said, sour notes punctuating the man's name.

Kemeny nodded. "And I'm not going back. Ever. So I decided, since you're the one who helped me realize how stuck I was, I would come with you."

Draegon flicked one sour note and stopped playing abruptly. He opened his mouth at the same moment Roark felt his open to spew protests, but Kemeny only raised a hand and shut them both back up.

"I'm not after glory, and I'm not after the sword. I'm not in Keffinen's pocket, just in case you're thinking he's sent me after you. I'll stay out of the way, I promise."

"This isn't some walk in the gardens, Kemeny," Draegon finally stammered. "This is serious. Who knows where we'll end up, where this adventure" –his eyes flicked at Roark– "will lead us? There might be danger, and I don't know if we can really protect you, especially if we run across some Keid... bandits."

She put her fists on her hips. Even sitting, she managed to make herself stand taller, so she seemed to be looking down on them like a mother at two little boys who had been telling lies. "I have just now taken my freedom and my fate in my own hands, Draegon. As a free woman, I have the right to go where and when I wish. And if where I want to go just so happens to be the same direction you're going, then so be it. Of course, I'd hate to be traveling alone when there are two so very fine gentlemen so nearby. But know that I will follow you no matter where you go, and if some bandit makes off with my head, I'm blaming both of you!"

# 

# CHAPTER TEN

The papers and video tapes made a huge clutter on Becca's tiny desk, and the amount of material she suddenly had access to was astounding. She had never imagined that she would be doing a study like this, but both Dr. Anderson and the Board of Directors seemed eager to see what she would come up with. All this was Dr. Anderson's notes on each of the patients involved. She stared, but her eyes didn't really see them; she was more lost in chewing the eraser on her pencil– a middle school habit she had never quite broken.

Sun setter. It meant something to them all, but what? The phrase wasn't given any importance in Dr. Anderson's notes; then again, incoherent mumbling was to be expected from people in a place like Ighosia Falls.

Becca disagreed with the good doctor's thoughts on the phrase. She had the feeling that it was actually one word, but it would be hard to prove. It was hard to pick out spaces between words when people talked, but there were differences in the ways people said two words and the way they said one. What Dr. Anderson was certain was a two-word phrase, she had a hunch was one longer word. But that still got her no closer to uncovering the significance of it. Why were the patients so obsessed with it? There had to be a connection.

The hulking, broad-shouldered blacksmith was carrying a long cloth-wrapped bundle when Zanthys let the man into his chamber. With a flourish, the tradesman pulled back the cloth and unveiled the sword, exactly as he had described. It was Sonsedhor, down to the last detail. Zanthys grinned broadly as he ran a finger along the steel blade.

"No steel finer, M'lord," the blacksmith said gruffly, at the same time caressing each word as he talked about his work. "Balanced true, and sharp as a cold wind. But far below what M'lord should truly carry. If I might say, a sword with more decoration would better suit M'lord's station. A fine carved bone hilt with gilding and silver chasings, beaten brass and gems, gold, carved wood, whatever M'lord's preference! Even other tempering methods would make a finer sword for M'lord to wear at his hip. Etchings along the steel could make M'lord a sword to hand down to his heirs."

Zanthys shook his head at the man's suggestions and suppressed a scoff at his frequent bows. He wrapped his hand around the hilt and lifted the sword. Lifted Sonsedhor. The though made his grin reappear; he could feel it broadening, trying to split his face in two. For all his rambling, the man did good work. At least, by Zanthys's untrained eye, he did. This was the first real sword he had ever actually touched. Even as a curious child, his fingers had never touched anything more than a dinner knife. The weight of it, the knowledge of what such a weapon could do, filled him with a feeling he couldn't quite describe.

"I suppose I will take you up on that offer," he said to the still-complimenting blacksmith. Make a sword grand enough to suit me, as a great lord of Morena. I want one that I will not be ashamed to wear when I take my father's place. And I want it in two days. Or less."

The man scurried away, and a moment later, a servant had been summoned and sent of with orders to call on the finest leatherworker in the city.

He couldn't make himself put down his Sonsedhor replica until the leatherworker was announced. He explained to the man what he wanted: two fine scabbards, one for this sword, one for the sword the blacksmith was set to making at this very minute. Both were to be the finest leather and decorated in thread: the plainer sword's in gold, and his own in gold and silver. And maybe a few gems on his, too. He had to stop himself calling the plain sword Sonsedhor in front of the man; that could ruin everything. But he was adept at making people hear what he wanted them to hear.

"Two days," he finished, sending the man back to his shop.

At first, Vale ignored the nurse who brought him his food. The chicken, buttered corn and peas, roll, and the little dish of pudding went untouched until they had grown cold. It was when the nurse came back and tried to talk him into eating that he lifted his eyes and looked at her from underneath scowling eyebrows. The look was menacing enough to make the nurse take a step backward.

With nothing left to do but wait, Zanthys decided to take his horse for a ride in the city. His ears were tuned to gossip, and he picked up enough to make him giddy. The city was abuzz with rumor that one of their own natives had already declared himself Cheyne reborn. The seeds had sprouted perfectly. There was a deep sense of cold satisfaction in knowing that the rumors were his own doing. Now all he needed was the scabbard.

# 

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lydia Rhys was born on July second. As a student, she had been very promising, graduating early, with colleges practically knocking down her door to offer scholarships. She took a few years off to let herself mature– she attended cosmetology school in the interim– so she would not be too terribly much younger than other college freshmen. But before she made her decision on where to go, or even what to major in, she fell head-over-heels for Robert, and was pregnant with her daughter not long afterward.

Lauren was three when Lydia divorced Robert and five when Lydia married Daniel. Lydia had managed to get out of a physically abusive relationship– only to find herself deep in an emotionally and verbally abusive one. After two years of enduring, the abuse became physical, and she feared for her life and that of her daughter. Terrified, she eventually managed to get out of her second marriage and moved to start a new life with now ten-year-old Lauren.

They settled in Hapsburg, and Lydia landed a full-time job at a local bank to support her daughter. Lauren adjusted quickly, made friends, and excelled in school, just like her mother. A straight-A student, Lauren joined the band in sixth grade, played softball, and showed a promising future in law– she was a fierce debater. Especially with her mother.

And then something happened when Lauren became a teenager. For all Lydia could see, Lauren snapped. The A's fell to B's then to C's in a matter of months. The debating became mouthing off and then cussing out. At first, she tried to attribute it to being a teenager, but the change was so sudden and so drastic she couldn't convince herself it was just the result of puberty attacking her daughter.

Lauren's friends changed, and suddenly Lydia began uncovering secrets. Lauren was sneaking out of her classes at school– and out of the house, even– and smoking. And drinking, when she could manage it. At age thirteen!

Lydia sought professional counseling for her troubled daughter– and for herself– but things only got worse. Stress levels at work rose from downsizing and staffing issues, plus a corporate merger with another bank. She was having a hard enough time keeping herself stable, much less reining in the wild Lauren.

Then she found 17-year-old Brian naked in bed with Lauren when she came home from work one day a month before Lauren's fourteenth birthday. When she confronted the teen about her "boyfriend" and their "actions" Lauren spewed that it was far from the first time she'd had sex.

Lydia snapped, and a week later, was committed to Ighosia Falls Insane Asylum by her social worker– since there was no other family to do the deed.

Becca looked over Lydia's background file and made her own paraphrasing of it all, trying to sort through the details to get to the real meat of her patient. Lydia had been a beautiful woman, no doubt, maybe a little tall for her weight, with very fine long dark hair and almost purple eyes. It was hard to reconcile the limp-haired, empty-eyed patient with the woman in the photo attached to her files.

She made a note of the daughter Lauren's current location. She was in the custody of the state since her biological father and her ex-stepfather wanted nothing to do with her, and since all her grandparents were dead. According to the files, there had been no aunts or uncles to take her in; no cousins or even close friends had stepped in to watch over the girl. Becca felt the urge to weep at the thought of being so alone– for Lydia and her daughter both.

# 

# CHAPTER TWELVE

Weslyn Gossard let her horses choose their own pace as they drew her wagon down the hard-packed dirt road from Necras to Abem. She had checked and rechecked her load of porcelains and mechanicals before heading out this morning to make sure the jostling of the wagon wouldn't shake a gear loose of chip a cup or a vase.

But now, her goods were far from her mind. It had been days since the incident back in the city, and that man, Draegon, was still on her mind. She couldn't help but feel bad about what he'd had to do to keep his freedom– giving up whatever life he had to become a Seeker. That was just another loss of freedom, in her mind. Just by looking at Draegon, seeing his eyes, she had known the truth of things. It was so upsetting that the fellow Jonal– by his eyes a greedy, uncompassionate man– should win out, forcing not only Draegon but also Roark into the Search. Her father had always said she had an eye for appraisal, not just for goods, but for people too. She had never really believed him– about the people part, anyway– until that day.

She couldn't get Draegon out of her mind now, and it wasn't just because of his eyes. Yes, they were very pretty eyes, dark green and full of emotion, but there was so much more to him, more that made her unable to push him from her thoughts. Overall, she was definitely attracted to him in a physical sense, and she kept finding herself sighing over his shoulders, his chin, even that strange pale hair. And then her thoughts would wander to his poise as he told his story, as he demanded to take the oaths. She had to admire his spirit.

Yes, her father was right. She could appraise people well, and she had judged Draegon correctly.

A strong bump that shot her up out of her seat and set her bottom back down hard brought her back to awareness of her surroundings. She was far off the road, her horses still at that lumbering pace of theirs, amidst the brushy plain lands of... somewhere between Necras and Abem. She couldn't even see the road from where she was. All around her was just scraggly bushes and grass and... there, to the side and behind her and not all that far off, another wagon. Squinting her eyes, she tried to get a better look at it.

The wagon was drawn by what looked like a huge horse, far bigger than either of hers. There was no cloth covering, no carriage house... this wasn't a merchant's wagon or a transport wagon. It drew closer, and she could make out that it was followed by a small crowd of people on foot, and every head among them was light-haired.

Weslyn's heart caught in her throat. It was a Keidenelle wagon! And they've seen her; they're heading straight for her. She almost thought she could hear that gigantic horse picking up speed. It was a big black beast, racing toward her over the uneven ground. For the terrain, that kind of speed was dangerous.

But she would have to go faster than that if she wanted to get away with her life. She urged her team into a walk, then a trot, and finally into a gallop, ignoring the jostling of the wagon beneath her as the bumps and pits on the ground rattled her to her bones.

Lydia must have gotten a little too close to the tree the starlings were nesting in, because out of nowhere, a pair of them dive-bombed at her head, chasing her away and sending her running across the courtyard.

She could hear them gaining on her, but she dared not turn to look behind her. The first arrow to thunk into the side of the wagon startled her into yelping; the second arrow made her scream outright. They began to fall like rain. She was surprised to find herself wondering how they could shoot so well while running– there was no way the owners of those arrows were all crowded into that one wagon.

She hunched her shoulders when she felt an arrow part the air a finger's length from her cheek, then pitched forward as an axle broke and the wagon went straight down beneath her. She bounced against one horse's rump and hit the ground next to the team, picked herself up without even trying to catch her breath, and ran. Part of her gave a thought for the horses– hopefully they would either somehow free themselves or maybe be rescued– and for her wares– they're not worth risking her life to save!

The starlings kept at Lydia, chirping frantically and swooping around her, until she tripped over Ryan where he sat in the grass. She toppled right into the middle of the space between him, Joanna, and Emery.

She found herself suddenly in the arms of one of the Keidenelle, and she beat at him with her fists as well as she could until she heard a woman's voice. "Look, I don't like his music much either, but that's no reason to thwump him like that."

Opening her eyes, Weslyn looked up into the face that had been stuck in her mind for days: Draegon's. She collapsed against him, and the details of her morning rushed out of her so fast she could hardly stop for air. At least he seemed to understand.

"Keidenelle?" Draegon repeated. His face darkened.

"We can do one of two things," said the woman's voice. Weslyn suddenly noticed Draegon's companions. One was the broad soldier Lady Ara had sent along to keep an eye on Draegon. The other was a slim, petite woman with a saucy look about her. "We can either stand our ground against these Keidenelle and hope to get rid of them, chase them off... or we can run."

"With both our horses riding double," the soldier put in. "We'd never keep ahead of them."

"I've got two more horses back at my wagon," Weslyn muttered.

"Where's the wagon?"

She pointed. "On the other side of the oncoming Keidenelle band."

There was only a moment between her lowering her hand and the sound of steel on leather. The big soldier had drawn his sword, and Draegon had produced some knives from somewhere on his person.

"You're actually going to fight them? There are dozens of them!"

Draegon turned to her, his green eyes fiery. "And we'll kill every one of them."

"But aren't you Keidenelle?"

The fire turned to ice. "I am no more Keidenelle than you are." He looked insulted. "We fight."

# 

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Emery Landers was the second of six children. His older brother Samuel was the model of perfection in his father's eyes, and he spent his first few years trying to live up to that model. His sister Rebekah came along when he was six, Mary when he was eight, David when he was ten, and Levi when he was nearly twenty. Andrew Landers, his father and the local preacher, had special places in his heart for the younger children, too, but something of a sore spot for Emery, though neither Emery nor his mother Sarah could ever pinpoint a reason for it.

Dodging Bibles was a daily exercise for Emery for most of his life. It was a favorite punishment for Andrew, to throw the heavy tomes at his second son in an effort to "batter some decency into him".

No one was surprised that when Emery left for college, he dropped out in his sophomore year and didn't return home.

Physically sound, he got a job with the police force in Winterbrook. He married his college sweetheart and had one son, but the marriage was unsuccessful– his son turned out not to be his– and he never even tried to date again after that . He contented himself with his job.

A bullet to the hip forced him to settle permanently behind a desk by the time he was thirty-one, and for ten years, he got by doing paperwork. His physical health deteriorated, and it was a complete fluke that he was the only officer in the area when Silvia Hopkirk threatened to jump off a five-story building.

He was simply passing by on his way home, walking the last two blocks from his bus stop to his apartment, when he saw the crowd outside the office building. Silvia, a twenty-year-old, was shouting that she was going to jump. She had nothing left to live for– she'd miscarried her second pregnancy, had been diagnosed with AIDS, her boyfriend of five years had left her, she was stuck waitressing at a diner– her list of woes went on. Emery did everything he could to talk her out of jumping.

But his years of training weren't enough. Silvia flung herself off the roof at the same moment police sirens became audible in the distance, approaching to deal with the situation. She hit the pavement a moment later, and as the concrete shattered the young woman's body, the sight did the same to Emery's mind.

Becca had never thought of the big Emery Landers as a younger, fitter man in a police uniform, but after reading his profile, she couldn't picture him any other way.

Finding his ex-wife Anna Jane, his sisters and brothers, and his parents would be a challenge. And even so, she wondered how much help his family would be. It had been decades since he'd had any contact with his siblings– from what she could surmise from the files, anyway.

# 

# CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was a rare sight at this point to see Ryan, Lydia, Emery, and Joanna apart. At the moment, they were having their own little picnic near one of the benches in the courtyard. But like most picnics, they were inevitably attacked by a cadre of ants.

The band of Keidenelle fell upon them abruptly, but they weren't unexpected. Roark danced his sword silently, keeping an eye on the woman as well as he could. Draegon he was leaving on his own; the man had proven himself able to at least protect himself decently, so he was far down on Roark's immediate list of concerns. He took a split second to make sure none of the Keidenelle he was slashing at wore the proper clothing that Draegon did; he would hate to find out, when the dust cleared, that he had actually killed his charge.

The savages weren't really terribly fierce, nor were they organized or trained warriors. They didn't fight as a group; each man or woman– he was surprised to find that some of the "warriors" were women– fought on his or her own, slashing a blade wildly or swinging fists without any real sense of skill. Their "tactics" seemed to be more to overwhelm opponents with numbers and then to fight dirty. More than once, he defended against a below-the-belt kick, and he had to watch his back constantly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kemeny taking his spare sword from the scabbard on his horse's saddle. The tiny little thing actually joined the fight. At least she wasn't the target of many of the savages; they seemed to have realized he and Draegon were the real threats and were concentrating on them. The little contortionist was completely untrained and swung the sword wildly– almost as wildly as the Keidenelle with their crude blades.

Scanning for Weslyn between swings, he found her, crouched on the far side of the horses, scared frozen. Draegon was not too far from her, his eyes mirroring the frenzy that was in the eyes of their attackers. It was frightening how similar he looked to the savages then. He seemed to have lost himself in the fight, in his knives and the use of them. More than once, he plunged a blade into a side or a back repeatedly without thought of mercy. The sneer of his mouth was murderous; he seemed to have a personal vendetta against every one of them. Roark shook his head. Whatever the bard claimed, he was of the same blood as these people– some of the savages didn't really seem sure how to react to him.

For himself, he didn't like to kill if it wasn't necessary. Sure, he brought down those who were immediate threats to the two women, but unlike Draegon he didn't go out of his way to slay the others. As a master of the "sword and board" he didn't have any trouble neutralizing threats without taking lives. Draegon was doing enough of the killing for them both. Roark feared he was becoming overwhelmed by bloodlust and wouldn't stop even when they were on the retreat. Even Weslyn wasn't cowering anymore, but staring agape at him and the gore he was reveling in.

The retreat began as quickly as the attack had, and the few that were still alive clambered onto their wagon and hurried off as rapidly as they could. That murderous light still in his eyes, Draegon flicked a knife at them, and one of the fleeing savages took it in the back, causing her to fall form her place on the wagon.

As for the bard himself, he looked a general mess and seemed unaware of Roark, Weslyn, and Kemeny staring at him. He was covered from head to toe in blood– some his own, most of it not– and sweat. Without a word, he began to search methodically among the dead, retrieving knives he'd thrown and cleaning them before replacing them up sleeves and elsewhere on his person. He suddenly became aware of the others watching him, and Roark heard him mutter something about "rotten savages" and "choosing to be uncivilized".

Finally, he dragged a sleeve across his mouth, smearing the blood and sweat together across his chin, but managing to somehow look cleaner. "Come on," he said. "Let's go get these horses of yours, Weslyn."

# 

# CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The beginning of Vale Stapleton's life wasn't particularly different from anyone else's. But from a very early age, he showed an interest in observing, in retaining information, and in telling stories. As he got older, this turned into gossiping, and he became known as the neighborhood snoop. His mother said it meant he was destined to be a news anchorman. His father said it meant he was nosey and a disgrace to the family name because of it.

Vale was seven the first time his father David beat him, and it only got worse from there. The abuse became a daily ritual, and in time, his mother took him out of school to avoid questions about the bruises. She tried teaching him herself, but the then nine-year-old was unresponsive to her affections and her teaching. A tutor was hired, and the expense of his schooling was only more fuel for his father's rage at him. The beatings grew worse.

Maria, Vale's mother, died one weekend while Vale was eleven and out at the park. There was not a mark on her, but there was a good deal of bleach in her stomach and corrosive internal burns form drinking it. David was suspected of the murder he was not convicted. Maria's death was deemed a suicide– only her fingerprints were on the bleach jug.

The abuse only grew worse after Maria's death. When Vale was fourteen, his father came into his room one night while he was asleep. The abuse went beyond physical beatings. Vale was raped by his own father that night. He took to barring his bedroom door after that– there was no lock– and though the physical abuse got even worse, he welcomed it over being sexually attacked.

On Vale's fifteenth birthday, David Stapleton died in a drunk driving incident. It was two in the afternoon, but David was smashed from multiple whiskies, and he hit an SUV head-on. He died instantly. The man driving the SUV came away with multiple non-fatal injuries. His six-year-old daughter, who had been in the backseat, suffered minor injuries. His wife in the passenger seat was also killed after being rushed to the emergency room.

After his father's death, Vale did everything he could to block out memories of the man. And he succeeded.

As his mother had guessed, he became a journalist, but not an anchorman. He reported for a local newspaper, everything from charity events to crimes. There was nothing he was too squeamish to cover.

When a young local boy went missing, he was covering the story. He followed the searches and listened to what the police and family said. And even though it was against all ethics and even against his better judgment, he began to think about where to look himself. He acted on his conjectures, and was the first to find the boy.

He was already dead.

Vale knew he should have called the police with his theories of the boy's whereabouts rather than going and looking himself, but he hadn't. And his were the first eyes to see the scene. Even untrained in forensics, in analyzing a scene and figuring out what had happened, he could tell what had transpired. The boy had been beaten by his kidnappers– there had probably been three or even four– beaten repeatedly, raped repeatedly, and then stabbed to death. Then the kidnappers had simply left him there in the motel room for someone to find.

In the shock at seeing the six-year-old's battered body, all those repressed memories came flying back to him. When the policemen arrived at the scene, he flew into a frenzy, even attacking one of them, crying out in rage at his father, at anyone who could do this. He was committed by order of a judge.

The thought of such abuse made Becca sick to her stomach. After a few days, when her nerves had settled and her anger at the thought of tat kind of treatment faded, she found archived newspapers of Vale's reports, as well as the reports of the boy's disappearance and discovery. It only made her sick again.

# 

# CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Zanthys liked the feeling of his own sword at his hip. He had always felt at his best when on horseback; wearing the blade made him feel all the more noble. It made him hold his chin higher, look down just a bit more on those beneath him. This was right and proper, for him to be set even higher above the common people. Too bad they wouldn't see him about the city with his sword too much. He was leaving.

The pigeon messages from his scout told him Jaidyn hadn't gone too far form the city since his departure. In fact, at the rate he'd been going, he was just today going to reach the border of Gaern and Melistrat. Going at a decent clip, Zanthys would catch up to him in a few days. Jaidyn had been slow, meandering aimlessly. He really didn't have any idea where he was going.

Banjay Advissen didn't have a clue where Zanthys was really going. He'd told his father this was just going to be a routine jaunt to Necras to visit the court there. It was only proper for him to make such a visit– it was a common practice for young lordlings of marriageable age. His father had sent a handful of guards with him. And Zanthys had his swords– his own handsome blade and the false Sonsedhor, concealed in a bundle on his saddle. It would be such a great game to plant the false sword for Jaidyn to find.

He urged his guards to a ground-eating pace. The sooner he caught Jaidyn, the sooner the game would begin.

Dr. Anderson patiently read over a report Becca had left for her.

I tried speaking to Vale about Sunsetter, since he's the one who mutters about it the most lately. But as I mentioned it, I was only met with laughter and scoffing. He stated one thing clearly, however, something I have listened to over and over on the recording of our conversation. I am certain he said, "It's not Sunsetter, you peasant!" And then he went on to pronounce it more clearly in a different way: SAWN-said-door. He didn't go into spelling it, but I have a few ideas how it might be spelled. I will begin research on this immediately.

# 

# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The playhouse had been in the asylum courtyard since before anyone could remember. Then again, the asylum had originally been a children's hospital, so it wasn't surprising there would be a playhouse on the grounds. No one went in there anymore, but no one dared tear it down– it was too much a monument to the patients that had been there decades ago.

But someone had gone into it now. Vale. And try as anyone might to convince him too, he wouldn't come out.

The little village of Dracmere sat nestled on the border of Melistrat and Gaern. It was one of those tiny twenty-family villages where everyone knew everyone else. But unlike most villages of its size, Dracmere boasted a full seven inns. It sat right on the road, and any trader who wasn't smuggling took the road, so the village was always bustling. At any given time, roughly half the people in the village were strangers, merchants and travelers, bards and– especially now– Seekers.

Jaidyn had wanted to try and avoid rubbing elbows with any other wearers of the silver braid, but he must not have been the only one wanting privacy. Each innkeeper told him there was at least one Seeker staying the night already. No inn had more than two, so at least there were only a handful of them in the village. Sneering at the thought of being so close to the pretenders, Jaidyn paid for a room in The Border Stag. Hoeth paid his money for a room, too. There was only one other Seeker there, a greasy-looking man sitting in the common room drinking deeply from a mug of ale.

Ordering a meal to be sent up to his room, Jaidyn headed up the stairs, away from the greasy man and other prying eyes. Hoeth was hot on his heels and even followed him into his own room, tossing his saddlebags on the floor by the door and flopping onto Jaidyn's bed.

"You still haven't told me where we're going," the younger man said. "Where Sonsedhor is."

"I've told you a dozen times since we left Morena: it's not something I want to talk about. Especially not here, where there are ears everywhere. Someone might hear."

Hoeth leaned up on his elbows. "I don't think you've said that many words to me at once since we left. You've been so quiet, Jaidyn. Distant. We're friends, right?"

We're friends, right? He remembered someone else saying that to him, a long time ago.

"We're friends, right?" Prett Moura sounded like he desperately needed reassurance. "Lexan?" Too bad his station was far below Lexan's own; friends like that were beneath him. "We are, right?"

"Of course we are," he remembered saying, contempt dripping form his voice. Prett was completely oblivious.

Jaidyn shook his head, dismissing the memory. He hated memories from Lexan. It was his memories from Cheyne he preferred, even though they were rare. He had to work to make them come.

"Sure we're friends, Hoeth. Sure we are," he said passively. "But I really need some rest now. We'll talk when we leave in a few days, okay?"

Before Hoeth could argue, he ushered him out the door and sank into bed, still grappling with Lexan's memory.

"I'm Cheyne reborn. Cheyne!" he whispered fiercely to himself. The part of his mind that insisted on dredging up Lexan's memories laughed at him.

# 

# CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ryan Pellin's childhood was uneventful. As a teenager, he decided he wished to pursue a career in music and got first his Bachelor's Degree, then his Master's and eventually his Ph.D. in music composition and theory. While studying for his Master's, he met Denise Archer, and the two were married a few months after his graduation. Within a year, he got a teaching job at a public university not far from the town of Ighosia Falls. By the time he was thirty-five years old, he had tenure. Doctor Pellin was a very popular professor. He regularly composed music for his students– sometimes even dedicated to them– and was always ready with advice or for friendly conversation.

Denise Archer-Pellin, however, seemed to think her husband spent too much time at work, too much time involved with his students, and nowhere near enough time with her and their son Owen. Ryan never saw the divorce papers coming. Denise took Owen and left, refusing to even give him a chance at joint custody of the boy.

Ryan buried himself in his work throughout the divorce proceedings and even further when it was all finalized. The following fall, the cutbacks in the music department began to hit hard. Adjunct faculty were let go, class sizes rose, and Ryan's workload practically tripled.

He fell into depression. Some nights he wouldn't even leave the university and go home; he simply slept in his desk chair or on the couch in his office. He spent his few waking hours composing the symphony he had promised the orchestra by mid-spring.

It was his graduate assistant, Sara Kenney, who kept him going. Acting as her mentor was perhaps the only thing that kept him from sinking completely into his composing. She was a music composition major, too, but she already had a second Bachelor's Degree in psychology, and she recognized the signs in her mentor. She tried everything she could think of to keep Dr. Pellin from sinking further into his slump, and for awhile, it all seemed to be working positively. They both knew exactly what she meant to him.

But despite her knowledge of the human psyche and her ability to size up other people's characters, Sara got into a relationship with a young man with an anger problem. By the time she finally realized the situation she was in, he had become so attached and possessive of her that he refused to let her break up with him. He put two bullets in her head.

The loss of his friend and confidant crushed what little desire to live Ryan had. One afternoon, he swallowed a ridiculous number of sleeping pills. Another professor called the hospital before they could do their work, though. Ryan didn't return to the university.

At reading Ryan's childhood profile, Becca had been relieved to see he'd had a normal youth. No abuse, no hatred, not like the others had endured. But his adulthood was just as bad. She found the website of the university he had attended and found a recording of a student ensemble playing one of the pieces he had composed. It made her cry.

# 

# CHAPTER NINETEEN

The four inseparable patients were gathered so tightly around something that no one else could see it from any angle. Their voices were so soft no one could hear them. Becca had been watching them, of course, studying them from across the courtyard and wishing she had a microphone or tape recorder somewhere near enough to pick up their whispers.

She thought the item they had gathered around might be something Vale had carefully placed there earlier. He had taken his time making certain it was in just the right place, and he had constantly been looking over his shoulder when he did. But it wasn't as if he were looking for observers– more like he was trying to observe something else himself. Finally satisfied with his placement of... whatever it was... he had wandered off and squatted by a flowering shrub to watch.

Before Becca could get to the object and inspect it, Ryan had led his group– she decided he was the leader from his tendency to well, walk in front of them– to where Vale had left his object. Now all she could do was watch them and hope to catch a glimpse of whatever it was that had them so enthralled.

Days had passed uneventfully, and it was enough to make Draegon scream. None of the others complained of boredom, though, but they weren't in this for adventure. He had hoped to make a story, an epic, a great lasting song out of his experiences in searching for Sonsedhor, but except for the skirmish with the Keidenelle band, there was nothing to sing about. Even the attack wasn't much for subject matter. There was no glory in that kind of a fight. Thankfully, none of the others had mentioned the savages or his resemblance to them again.

He was so desperate for something interesting to happen that when Kemeny said she thought she saw a sword laying abandoned on the side of the road, his mind leapt to the thought they had actually found Sonsedhor. For a few seconds his mouth was dry, his palms sweaty, and his eyes looking frantically for the sword. Then his right mind came back to him. Sonsedhor would not be lying abandoned on the side of the road just this side of the Melistrat-Gaern border. And even if it had, well, he knew there was a village, Dracmere, not far from where they were. The border village would probably be teeming with Seekers, too, and if Sonsedhor had been lying in the path, it would have been snatched up already.

Even so, he decided to take a look at the blade. He dropped out of his saddle and scanned the grass where Kemeny was pointing. Sure enough, there in a rut next to the packed dirt road, was a fine-looking scabbard and the hilt of a sword sticking out from one end.

"She's not kidding," he said, walking forward and lifting the scabbard. It was indeed fine, though the hilt of the sword looked much too plain for such a sheath. He ran a few fingers up the leather of the sheath. "Too long of a blade for me, though. Give me a few good knives. Here Roark." He tossed the still-sheathed sword to the soldier.

Roark rolled his eyes. "This was likely cast aside because it is a substandard weapon," he said. "I'll keep with my own swords, thanks."

"Oh come on!" Weslyn chided. "At least look at it! Besides, the scabbard's definitely worth something even if the sword isn't!"

Kemeny spoke right on the tail of Weslyn's words. "Yeah, Roark! Let's see it!"

Roark let out a soft, annoyed sigh and gripped the plain leather cord-wrapped hilt.

Draegon caught a glimpse of the wide, brilliantly shining blade as it was drawn. As the point of the blade left the scabbard, a harsh gust of cold wind rose, and bright sunlight flashed off the blade, blinding him. As his eyes regained their focus, he could have sworn Roark's face had changed. He looked older, and his short-cropped black hair looked more auburn in the light. Dense stubble dotted his always-clean-shaven chin and cheeks. But then he blinked, and Roark was before him, unchanged, still holding the sword. He saw Kemeny and Weslyn rubbing their eyes. Had they seen the other face, too?

Roark opened his mouth to speak, but a pained grunt came out instead of words, and he dropped the sword. The palm of the soldier's riding glove was stained red.

"What happened?" Draegon asked, walking up to where the sword had landed. The steel of the blade wasn't as brilliant as he'd thought, and there was a bloody handprint on the hilt.

"Don't touch it!" Roark growled, dismounting without his usual grace. The soldier snatched up the sword. He turned a glare to Draegon; his eyes looked hunted. He doubled over; Draegon feared he would impale himself on the blade.

"I... I remember everything," he muttered. "Cheyne... everything. I... I need to go see where he... where I died." Slowly, he straightened. His eyes were full of something new. It looked like uncertainty, or perhaps even fear. "This... this is Sonsedhor," he said simply.

Draegon half-smiled. "Well that was easy."

"That's not funny, Draegon," Kemeny admonished. "Something's wrong."

Roark nodded. "I can't put my finger on what, exactly, but something is wrong. I know this sword. It's mine. My Sonsedhor," he whispered the name, caressing it with his voice. "But this... it isn't the blade that I remember. Something's... changed it."

Draegon heard something in the distance. "Riders are coming up the road, I think." He turned to look at each of the others in turn. "I think we should keep moving to the village. It's not far."

"Yes, let's move," Weslyn agreed. "And you can make your proclamation, Roark. You are Cheyne Firdin reborn!"

Roark shushed her vehemently at the same time both Draegon and Kemeny said, "No!" The two of them looked at each other, startled. Weslyn looked at Draegon questioningly, but it was Kemeny who spoke up.

"If he proclaimed himself, it would only send Draegon straight back to that bastard Keffinen. None of us want that, right?"

Understanding washed over Weslyn's face, and she considered Draegon for a few long moments before responding. "You're right. But... what then? All the stories say that when Cheyne reappears, it's because the world desperately needs him."

"He can save the world without everyone knowing who he is," Draegon put in. He turned to look at the still-silent soldier. "Right?"

Roark's stony blue eyes traveled over them one by one. There was only more silence as he looked at them, then at their surroundings. The riders coming up the road were very near, a pair of strangers on horseback. As they drew closer, silver braids were visible on both their arms. Without stopping for a word or even slowing, the pair rode by at a gallop, their horses' hooves kicking up small clouds of dust.

"I need to go," Roark said once they were well out of earshot. "To the river Swen." He looked significantly at Draegon. "Where I died."

Draegon replied with a simple nod.

When evening fell, Ryan and Lydia could be found alone in the common room. The pair stared at each other for the longest time, silent, their eyes never wandering even though there was much happening around them. When they finally began to speak, their voices were drowned out by the Wheel of Fortune on TV.

The common room in The Full Casque in Dracmere was too full of gawkers for Draegon to want to stay long. He didn't mind crowds, especially when they paid well, but he didn't even offer to perform for them. The innkeeper would have been eager for the entertainment– most innkeepers were– but Draegon had the feeling these people would have used more of their energy staring at his hair and eyeing him warily for signs of violence than emptying their pockets for him. So rather than offering to play his hand dulcimer and tell tales of valiant deeds and former Seekers' adventures, he retired to his room.

He wasn't even all the way up the stairs when Weslyn caught up to him. "Draegon, can I talk with you for a bit? I don't want to be alone, but Kemeny is staying in the common room and I'm tired of the noise already."

"Of course," he replied, showing her into the room he had rented for himself. He would have shared a room with Roark, but the man was being distant, and Draegon had decided against intruding on that contemplative solitude.

"Something is on your mind," he said when the door was closed. Weslyn sat gently on the edge of his mattress, so he took the only chair. "What?"

Weslyn bit her lip. "When I was a little girl, my father always told me I had an eye for appraisal."

"As demonstrated by your services at my trial?" he put in coolly.

She nodded. "But he said I was a good appraiser of people, too." She paused, it seemed almost hoping for him to interject again. When he stayed silent, she went on, taking a deep breath to brace herself. "Since Necras, I haven't been able to get you out of my mind. You're a good man, Draegon."

He looked at her sternly. "I'm a Keidenelle savage, Weslyn. Wherever you're going with this, stop. Please."

"You're not a savage!"

He stood and walked to the small table in corner which held a washbasin. One by one, he produced nearly a dozen knives that he had hidden about his person. With a small flourish, he set each one next to the basin. "You saw what I did to them. I'm no better than they."

"You have every reason to hate them, I think," she replied softly. "But that hatred isn't all there is to you. There's so much more that I see in your eyes, behind them. So much pain, but happiness and pride, too. I saw it all that first time I looked at you, when you tried to upset my wagon." He blushed a bit, glad his back was too her so she couldn't see. "I could even see the anger burning inside you that day, Draegon." She sounded closer to him, like she had stood and walked up right behind him. "Even knowing all I did, I still couldn't get you out of my mind after you left. I... think I love you, Draegon."

"Why did you have to say it?" he said, spinning to face her. There was barely a hand's length between them.

She looked crushed. "You knew?"

"I suspected," he admitted, "though I had hoped your looks were directed more towards Roark than at me. He would be better for you."

"It's not him I want," she said. "But you don't feel the same way..."

"I didn't say that," he said quickly, "but I'm not going to say I'm in love with you, because... well, I don't know you very well yet. I can't read people like you can." The corner of his mouth twitched up in a smile. "But if it's really me you're interested in, I am definitely interested in you."

She stepped in closer, bringing her face within inches of his. "That's good enough for me."

He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers.

# 

# CHAPTER TWENTY

Joanna "Jo" Bailey began taking dance lessons when she was five. Her father got transferred to another state not long afterwards, and her dance lessons stopped because they couldn't find a decent dance studio in their new town. But when she was eleven, her mother discovered a new studio run by an accredited instructor. Jo was enrolled there that fall. She took ballet, tap, and jazz, eventually earning her own teaching certificate by the time she was seventeen.

Her life completely consumed by her passion for dance, she didn't marry despite having a good number of men who tried to catch her. She didn't quite have the ideal body for a dancer: she had a little too much in the bust and was just a bit too thickly-built to really be the kind of dancer who made watcher breathless. That is not to say she was unattractive– far from it. But the combination of her build and the touch of clumsiness she had kept her from making it big as a performer. Performance wasn't the life she wanted anyway. At age twenty-eight, she had saved up enough money to open her own dance studio.

Students flocked to her as a teacher. Even if she wasn't a performance-quality dancer, she was a teacher of great certification, and she held her students to a high standard that most parents found admirable. A handful of her first students stayed with her for years, eventually earning their own teaching certificates. One eventually went to Broadway and managed to get onto the stage there.

By the time she had had her studio for nearly ten years, Jo had achieved a contentment with her life most people can only dream of. In the summer, when her studio was closed to coincide with the school year, she spent a week in the country with a childhood friend. While horseback riding (a passion shared by her and her friend) something spooked the mare Jo was riding, and the animal threw her, despite Jo's riding ability. She landed off the trail, twisting her back badly against a fallen tree.

Numerous surgeries kept her from being completely paralyzed. But they couldn't repair everything. Even after all the procedures and months upon months of rehabilitation, Jo could hardly walk anymore. Dancing was out of the question. Getting out of her wheelchair took great effort.

Since she had moved to a larger city away from her parents to open her studio, she had grown somewhat distant with her family. She and her parents and brother were still on very good terms, but eventually they did have to return home after the accident. She was capable of caring for herself, after all. And with cell phones and the internet, the communication lines with them were open if she needed anything. It was only a three-hour trip between her parents' house and the home Jo rented.

When her parents left to go home, Jo was left completely alone. Her friend who she had been riding with lived out in the country, so she wasn't nearby enough to visit daily. Jo had no boyfriend to cling to, no other real close friends nearby, and now no students.

She felt abandoned and confined in her wheelchair. Her last act before completely giving up on herself was to talk to a psychiatrist. She followed his advice and committed herself to the care of the staff at Ighosia Falls Insane Asylum.

Becca tried to imagine what it much be like to have the one driving factor of her life ripped away from her like dance had been from Jo. It wasn't something she could fathom.

# 

# CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Senne knew that Sonsedhor had been found. There was a twisting feeling in her gut, followed by an emptiness, and there wasn't a doubt in her mind that Cheyne and his sword had been reunited. Before her stomach had even had a moment to recover from the twisting feeling, and before the emptiness had even really completely settled in, she heard a voice she recognized and feared more than anything else.

"You still haven't found him?! You are without question the poorest choice I ever made in my servants."

"But Dark Father..."

"Don't you dare call me by such a term! I deny you as a child of mine! I deny you even the freedom of the grave! The dead belong to me, and I will not have you! I dismiss you from my servitude and my presence! I cast you away! You, failed servant, are condemned to live on with your failure, knowing your inadequacy."

In her bed in the middle of the night, Jo began to toss and turn as if in a nightmare, though her eyes were wide open. Her whimpers and screams were wordless, and slowly, her frightened expression and screams gave way to tears and sobs. After nearly a half hour, she stopped thrashing about and awkwardly curled up on her side. She stayed there the rest of the night, completely oblivious to the staff who had rushed to help her.

The void left by the Dark Father's dismissal ate at Senne at first. She knew that the blessings he had first bestowed on her when she pledged herself to his service had been ripped away from her. Part of her wondered if she was now vulnerable like any normal person, if her longevity had been removed and her body made weak again. For nearly a day she considered testing that though; she even went so far as to place the point of a dagger to her own breast.

But as a hole is meant to be filled, the void inside her began to fill. With her freedom from the Dark Father came an openness to something inside her she had forgotten long ago: ancient memories from before she had pledged her life away. Her old life, her former self, Masithina Crasier. She recalled ages ago, lives far back, dozens of lives, and in every one, she and Cheyne Firdin– both of them under many different names, of course– had been involved. Life after life, they knew each other, often as colleagues, sometimes as lovers.

Masithina was the one who had, for a reason Senne still couldn't remember, pledged her soul to the Dark Father– even the evil deity's name returned to her, but she refused to think it or say it aloud. It was Masithina who had made the damning oath and then died, only to be reborn again as Senne Moyers, the woman who betrayed Cheyne Firdin to the Father of Evil and Lies.

She cried.

# 

# CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

The mattress of the bed in Roark's room smelled of clean straw and didn't have very many lumps in it. As a soldier who had once fought in a drawn-out war, he didn't need to be comfortable to sleep. He could lay on a bed of rocky ground with a boulder for a pillow and achieve a very restful slumber.

But he couldn't sleep. There was a feeling tugging at the back of his head, one that he couldn't explain. The memories that had flooded into his head at drawing Sonsedhor that morning had settled in; they weren't the problem. It was bloodlust.

He tried to fight it down, the desire, the need to kill. The urge to take the life of a man, to watch the last bit of light go out of his eyes. As the night went on, the feeling grew. As hard as he fought it down, it still bloomed in his mind.

Kill... Take a life...

It was very late– probably very near midnight.

Kill... He wrapped his hand around Sonsedhor's hilt, could almost feel the bloody imprint warm against his hand. The whole sword was warm; it pulsed in his hand. Kill... Do it...

He opened the window of his room and dropped to the ground from the second floor.

Emery hadn't spent much of the afternoon with his usual companions. In fact, he'd spent most of it in his own room, alone. But toward evening, he wandered out into the hallway, looking around as if he was lost. Becca noticed him and kept her eyes on him as he meandered around the furniture and the other patients, tense as a guitar string. Before anyone could tell what he was doing, he had his hands around the throat of another patient, Kristen Censor. Kristen screamed and went into a seizure-like fit, crumpling to the ground and screaming rather than fighting or even struggling against Emery's grip. It took three nurses to pry him away from her and drag him, still fighting, back to his room. More than one of those nurses has bruises the next day.

Roark kept the murder of the woman in Dracmere secret from his companions. He tried to leave for the river before they woke, but Weslyn and Draegon were already up, having breakfast together and talking, when he entered the common room.

Four days' hard riding took them to the riverbank. Three nights passed, and on every one, the urge to do murder took him until he couldn't fight it anymore, snuck away, and killed whatever person happened across his path. Twice, he came upon the camps of Seekers and did his bloody deed, apologizing even as he thrust the blade between ribs or into a gut. The other night he happened on a trio of hunting Keidenelle and slaughtered all three before they could even think about defending themselves.

It was the after murdering the three Keidenelle that he realized, to his immense relief, that one death sated his bloodlust. Something had been done to him that made him kill every day. Every night...

The fourth day, they reached the bank of the Swen. He recognized the blackness that lay on the other bank. It was nearer than he remembered from Cheyne's dying day. Then, there had been some land on the other side of the river, a few feet of bank on the other side to stand on. Now the water went straight up to the edge... and stopped. But the river was still deep, still had a strong current. The water didn't run off the edge into the void. But there was no bank to contain it as there had been when he was Cheyne. He stared at the black. He had stood on the opposite bank with Senne and looked over the edge.

Senne. The memory rushed into his head like a charging bull and hit him with as much force. She had betrayed him, been directly responsible for his death, for him drowning.

One murder everyday. Staring into the black, he relived the four murders he had already done. He could feel the others nearby, Weslyn, Kemeny and Draegon.

I won't. Not to any of them. I'll kill myself first.

In the end, he doubted he could sink a blade into his own flesh. Part of him doubted that would do anyone any good. It had to be the sword's doing, Sonsedhor's doing. Somehow the sword had acquired its own will, and the will was evil. If he died, would it seek another owner? He couldn't risk sentencing someone else to that fate. This was his burden; he wouldn't try to escape.

But he could try to turn the sword's evil will to good. Killing innocents was unforgivable; he knew he was already damned for it. But there were plenty of wrongdoers, criminals in the world. If he sought the murderers, rapists, and thieves out instead...

# 

# CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

The sound of water trickling in the stone fountain in the courtyard could be heard even in Emery's room, even through the barred window. He appeared calm, much calmer than the evening before, when he had tried to choke Kristen to death.

Becca managed to obtain permission to bring his friends by his room– with him under supervision, of course– and allow them to speak to each other through the little viewing window in his door.

Senne could only describe herself as emotionally drained. Guilt filled her, ate at her. Cheyne had been intertwined so much in her life, all her lives, and she had betrayed him to the Dark Father for no other reason than to earn her own immortality, an immortality she had anyway, through the memories of her lives. So selfish, so foolish.

She found herself nearing the river where she had committed her last transgression, but she wasn't alone at the river's edge. There were four others, and one of them......

She recognized Sonsedhor in his hand. As if sensing her presence, he turned and looked straight at her, sheathing the sword at his hip as he turned. She knew he recognized her.

Emery behaved for the entire morning, very calm and in control of himself. Under the watchful eyes of a half-dozen nurses, he was allowed to go out to the courtyard for some fresh air. But as soon as he reached the stone walkway, he saw Joanna in her wheelchair, and he went into a rage, throwing himself at her in a fierce attack.

"You sent me to hell," he said softly, his eyes burning. "Senne."

"Cheyne......"

"Cheyne is dead!" he bellowed, not moving a muscle. He didn't shake with the fury he must be feeling, didn't so much as twitch his cheek. Even his expression didn't waver. He could have been a statue for all his body gave away. But his voice... the strain, the rage in it... it was painful. "It's Roark now."

"Roark......" he didn't interrupt her this time, just stared at her with those hate-filled blue eyes. "I... I'm sorry..."

"Why? Why did you do this to me? Why did you murder me?"

She could feel the tears coming. She had told herself over and over again that it hadn't been murder. It wasn't murder... the water killed him; she just pushed him in... but she knew it for a lie. "It was... he wanted Sonsedhor."

"Who?"

The tears came in earnest, making her sob uncontrollably so she couldn't answer. Cheyne... Roark... had to demand an answer twice before she got control of herself. "The Dark One... the Dark Father."

Roark recoiled as if from a viper. "You sold yourself to him!"

"No, please, I' don't belong to him anymore!" She sank to her knees. "He dismissed me. I'm... I'm no use to him anymore."

His eyes narrowed. "Your master threw you away, so you come crawling back to me? I loved you once Senne– many, many lives ago– but I see what that meant to you."

"I was a fool, Roark! I'm sorry!"

"Apologies aren't enough."

"But he's still after you... the Dark Father... he still wants Sonsedhor. I can help you."

He took a few long steps toward her and grabbed her by the neckline of her dress, pulling her roughly to her feet. "Why does he want it so badly? It would do him no good. It's just a sword. Sonsedhor is nothing but a tool."

"It's a means to control you," she replied haltingly. "If he controls it, he controls you. You know you and Sonsedhor are tied together, but you were created by the Mother, her tool. Control of one is control of the other."

"I follow the Mother's will!"

She gasped for air, staring up at eyes that had went from molten flame to solid ice in half a heartbeat. His hand released her; her knees gave way and she crumpled to the ground, sucking in breath after sweet breath. "But Sonsedhor's his now, isn't it? He's tainted it. You did deliver it to him." She heard the soft rasp of steel on leather, saw the sword in his hand. "If I have to kill someone today, let it be you. You actually deserve it."

Still short of breath, she scrambled to her feet and ran. He didn't chase her.

# 

# CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Vale spent his day as usual, glaring at everyone around him, saying nothing, doing nothing.

Jaidyn first heard the rumors in a tiny village so small he didn't even bother asking the name. Cheyne Firdin was reborn! He had claimed Sonsedhor! He had already gone forward to fight the Dark Father. No, he was serving the Dark Father! Cheyne's rebirth was a servant of the Dark One. No, he had been born a Keidenelle. No, he had tamed a Keidenelle. There were dozens of rumors, and he would overheard one rumor from one man, then a few minutes later, a different one completely contradicting the first one he told. But they all agreed on one thing: someone had claimed to be Cheyne reborn.

He kept silent about it. These fools actually believed this kind of rumor? Where was the proof? Where was this false hero? No rumor gave any hint of his whereabouts. Jaidyn simply chose to ignore the rumors.

The tiny village claimed only one tiny inn. He stopped walking right in front of it, when he realized Hoeth had fallen behind. When he turned, the younger man was looking at him accusingly, his chin thrust forward and his eyebrows pulled down angrily. "You duped me," he said. "You lied to me. You said you were Cheyne!"

"I am," he replied calmly. It was, after all, the truth. He was Cheyne. He was!

"I don't want to hear any more of your lies!" he yelled, drawing eyes to him. "No more of your stories! If you were, then why isn't this news about you? Why don't you have Sonsedhor yet? Why don't you ever give me a straight answer when I... Nevermind. I'm finished, Lord Huntley. I'm ridding myself of you." He took a few steps toward the inn's front door. Before he got halfway to the door, he spun and pointed a condemning finger at him. "You are not welcome under the same roof as me." Turning on his heel, he disappeared into the inn.

"Fine! But when the truth comes out, don't try to apologize, Karzark!" He stormed off, his ears straining– against his will– for more of the rumors. He heard a handful of rumors, then a dozen variations of them, then a dozen variations of them, until it was enough to make his head spin and made him desperately want a drink.

He finally found his drink, in the makeshift tavern some old lady ran. He didn't know how much he downed, but the lady didn't stop him so long as he paid the coin before she gave him each bottle. But the rumors followed him into the little one-room tavern, and even the wine he was trying to drown his thoughts in didn't make them go away. As the rumors grew more and more elaborate, even to the point of detailing his proclamation and triumphs he'd already had, Jaidyn's mood grew hotter and hotter. Finally, well past dark and furious enough to start spitting, he stumbled out of the tavern and headed to the inn.

He barged in, empty wine bottle in hand, and was on the point of shouting Hoeth's name when his eyes focused on his former friend and companion. The young lordling was laughing, sitting at a table with his arm around a pretty dark-haired woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties. As he stood there, watching, he saw Hoeth actually lean over and sneak a kiss.

It was only a few moments before Hoeth saw him. He leaned over to the woman and whispered something in her ear. She covered his mouth with her fingers, stifling a giggle. Then Hoeth leaned and whispered to a man at a nearby table. The whisper passed around the room, and a wave of laughter followed behind it, with a lot of pointing at Jaidyn. The laughter faded and was replaced by jeers. Apparently he'd told everyone about Jaidyn's "lies".

His anger reached the boiling point, and he stormed out of the inn and back into the street. There were still a surprising number of people out-of-doors, considering the time of night. He thought he heard whispers and felt fingers pointed at him as he passed. Gossip spread quickly in a small place like this. The story had already spread far beyond the walls of Hoeth's inn.

Try as he did, he couldn't even get a bed in the stable loft.

Something different came over Vale's eyes, but since he never really let anyone see them, no one noticed.

He curled up next to a half-rotted barrel that sat next to a house and tried to sleep. His fury had yet to really cool, and it kept him from keeping his eyes closed for more than a moment. He kept seeing faces: people laughing at him, some unidentified man holding Sonsedhor, Hoeth jeering and accusing...

There was someone looking down at him, someone with a face he invisible in the darkness.

"I know what they've done to you, the injustices, the mockery they make of your life," the man said in a cool voice.

Jaidyn jumped to his feet. "Who are you?"

"I am...... that is all. I am." He paused, as if to let those words sink in. "I have seen everything you have gone through, my son. And I can help you."

He furrowed his eyebrows. Someone had been watching him? Who?

"I see you are suspicious. That is healthy. But I know everything, can see everything, Jaidyn. I know the memories you have, that fight with you. Lexan's memories."

He hadn't told anyone about that. He backed up, but the wall of the building was at his back.

"You need not be afraid, my son. I am here to help you. Accept my pity, my reborn king."

Reborn king? I am Cheyne reborn! I knew it! "Mother? Are you The Mother?"

The man made no move, and Jaidyn still couldn't see his face, but he got the impression he smiled.

"I thought you were a woman."

"I take many forms," he replied. "You have respect for power, so you see me as a strong, hale man."

"Why can't I see your face... Mother?"

"It is not for mortals to see, no matter how highly esteemed I may hold them." There was that impression of smiling again. "Will you accept my help to right the injustices done to you, my son? To claim what is rightfully yours?"

"Yes! Yes!"

"Then go out into the open, where you are all alone. You must be unarmed. I have other followers, ones who will find you, but only if you are out in the open and without weapon. Will you do this?"

"Of course, Mother! Of course!"

"Then I will mark you as my own, so they will know you." With one last impression of a smile, the man disappeared in a flash that left blue and black and gold lights sparkling before his eyes. One of the black lights came to him and settled onto his forehead. There was a burning sensation for a split second, then nothing. He reached up to his forehead and felt where the black light had touched him. He felt nothing. Would these followers see it?

# 

# CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Becca was not the first person to think of Dissociative Personality Disorder concerning the five Sunsetter patients– as they were commonly called now by everyone– but she was the first to speak to anyone else about it. Dr. Anderson appeared pleased with Becca's diagnosis, agreeing wholeheartedly that it was highly likely the case for all five patients. And from simply observing the behavior of the five, Becca had even come to a guess of how many personalities each had. Ryan, Emery, and Lydia she thought each only had one other personality– one other person with a whole other name and past. But Vale and Joanna, she thought, each had two...... maybe more.

But what still had both Becca and Dr. Anderson baffled was what had them connected so closely and why. As far as their files showed, none of the five of them had had any contact with the others before coming to Ighosia Falls. So why were they connected now? They had all arrived at the asylum at different times– in some cases, years apart. Was it because of their DPD? What exactly were the identities of their alternate personalities? Why was Emery suddenly getting so violent? And what had caused them all to split so suddenly? None of them had shown such tendencies towards alternate personalities until this whole mess began.

The Sunsetter mystery was the key, Becca was certain.

Weslyn knew better than to talk about what had happened at the river. For nearly ten days, she and the others had kept quiet about it; in fact, none of them had said much of anything at all since then. Draegon was now almost constantly riding and puffing away quietly on his flute– his way to deal with the silence. Kemeny kept quiet, except for occasional whispers of encouragement and affection to the horse she'd borrowed from Weslyn. Roark kept his eyes forward, locked on the ever-distant horizon. He hadn't so much as looked at any of them since he'd scared that Senne woman away.

It was because of his eyes, Weslyn knew. Roark didn't want any of them to see what was behind them. But she didn't have to see his eyes to know. He was struggling. She hadn't quite understood the last thing he said to the woman: "If I have to kill someone today, let it be you. You actually deserve it." but she could guess. Every night now, Roark disappeared for an hour or more. There was something very wrong, and the only thing she could think to blame it on was the sword. The big soldier certainly wasn't offering any explanations, but she believed she had everything pretty much pieced together.

Lydia approached Joanna while she was alone in the courtyard. The wheelchair-bound woman was usually unresponsive unless she was with all the others, but for once, she actually acknowledged the other woman. The two talked softly until it grew dark and some staff members escorted them back inside.

Kemeny was on watch when Weslyn woke in the middle of the night. It had been twelve days since the events on the Swen's bank. It must have been either near midnight or early in the morning; Roark was asleep on the ground, his back to the fire and his companions. He must have already gone out to do his deed and returned.

For a long time, Weslyn wasn't certain Kemeny knew she was awake. The contortionist sat staring at the low, crackling flames as if nothing else existed in the world.

"He's going to try and chase us all away," Kemeny said suddenly.

Weslyn walked to Kemeny and sat down next to her. "You think so, too?"

"He's afraid of hurting us. He keeps coming back from... wherever he goes...... with this anxious, hunted look. But where's he going and why? I haven't figured that out yet."

Biting her lip, Weslyn looked at the sleeping reincarnation of the great hero. "I think he's killing people. At the river, he said Sonsedhor's tainted. I don't know exactly what kind of taint we're talking about, but... I think he's killing people, and for some reason, I don't think he has a choice but to do it. And he's going to try and chase us away so he doesn't hurt any of us." She paused. "I don't blame him. I would probably do the same thing."

"We can't just abandon him."

Weslyn nodded. "But I don't think we can all stay with him, either. As much as it hurts to say it, I think we are in real danger from him. If Roark has to kill...... what happens if there's no one else around for him to do in?"

Kemeny nodded. "I know what we need to do."

Once the two men were awake and, more importantly, alert enough to pay attention to them, Weslyn and Kemeny told them what they had decided. "Draegon, you and I are going to take the road to Morena. Then we go south. Maybe to Estria and eventually to Abem. We're going to make sure the everyone knows that Cheyne is back."

"And I'm going with you, Roark," Kemeny said, her posture and the authority in her voice making her seem much taller than she was, "whether you like it or not."

The two men were so startled that neither spoke; they simply stared incredulously at the two women. Weslyn tried to imitate the pose Kemeny had adopted, fixing an intimidating look on Draegon as he tried to find his voice.

His reaction was satisfactory. "I suppose..." he shot a quick glance at Roark, who didn't return it, "...we have no choice... but I don't see why we really need to split up. I mean, Roark can declare himself while we're all with him." He stopped for a second, obviously thinking. "Although I guess it would spread the news faster if we split up. Still, I'd rather we stayed together."

"Go with Weslyn, Draegon," Roark said softly. "Please."

The bard slowly turned his head to look at Roark in disbelief. "You swore to watch me..."

"Sonsedhor's been found. You're free of your oath. Go."

"DON'T LEAVE ME ALONE!" Kemeny's shout startled them all, and as one they turned to look at her. Her eyes had grown wide and glassy, partly rolled back into her head. Her mouth had dropped open, forming a silent scream. The whole of her was shaking uncontrollably. "Don't leave me, please, not alone. I don't want to be alone, please! Not like this!"

The three others all stared at Joanna as she had what seemed to be a seizure. Her mouth formed words, but only creaks and strained grunts came out. She finally managed to get out a shout, "Where am I?!" before the fit stopped, as abruptly as it began.

Her screaming stopped. One moment Kemeny was shouting pleas and shaking, the next she was standing, still with that authoritative, self-pleased look on her face. Weslyn and the two men exchanged worried looks. Sneaking a glance into Kemeny's eyes, Weslyn saw nothing, no evidence that she knew anything strange had happened.

"Are you alright?" Draegon asked her.

She looked confused. "I'm fine, why? Don't change the subject, singer."

He arched an eyebrow at her but didn't reply.

Weslyn leaned over to Kemeny and whispered in her ear. "I think we should change plans. I'll go with Roark, you go with Draegon."

"Why?" she whispered back. "I thought you wanted to go with Draegon because you... well, because you said you two shared 'some deep feelings' the other night."

"Well, look, something just happened that was... a little strange." She looked over her shoulder at the two men. They gave no sign of hearing them and made no move to get closer and eavesdrop. "You kind of went crazy."

"Crazy?"

"And I don't know that Roark would be well-suited to protect you if something like that happened again. But Draegon will. And Roark wouldn't hurt me. I'm not worried."

Kemeny's expression finally went fearful. "If you're sure..."

"I am. Just... keep Draegon busy while I do something, okay?"

They immediately began dividing up the camp supplies and packed their packs. But while Kemeny kept the two men at task after task– men should really be doing the bulk of the physical labor, after all– Weslyn secreted herself on the other side of the horses and wrote out a note to Draegon. While his back was turned, she slipped both the note and a purse of money into the leather case for his hand dulcimer. It fit in there comfortably, but he was sure to find it right away when he opened it next.

As she came back into sight– the men hadn't even seemed to miss her, which was exactly what she wanted– she couldn't help but notice that Draegon was a bit too sweaty to account for the work he'd been doing. He also looked pale.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He looked surprised to see her suddenly in front of him and forced a smile. "Oh, it's nothing."

"Really," she said, gently laying a hand on his arm. "You know you can tell me."

He sighed. "I'm just worried, with us actually proclaiming Roark... what if I run across Keffinen?"

She gave him a soft smile but had already made up her mind not to tell him about the purse she'd secreted in his dulcimer case. If he came across the menagerie owner, and if the greedy man demanded his seventy-five gold marks, that purse held more than enough. Just in case. She couldn't bear the thought of him being behind bars.

"It's getting pretty late... almost noon," Roark said, still not looking anyone directly in the eye. "We should get moving. All of us."

Weslyn stood on her tiptoes and kissed Draegon gently on the lips. "We'll find each other. Soon."

"Meet me in Necras?" he asked, his green eyes hopeful.

She smiled.

# 

# CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Someone had turned the TV in the common room to an educational channel, and a nature show about undersea life was on. Huge schools of pale, silvery fish glinted in the sunlight that filtered through the shallows of the water. It was impressive how they swam in a cluster and seemed to move as one. Vale's eyes were locked on the images, but his mind was racing.

The plain could definitely be called "the middle of nowhere." The Mother had told Jaidyn to go out in the open, and here he was. He had followed instructions, and... nothing. He had already been out here for two days, waiting. She had said help would find him. Well, where was this help?

Had the Mother lied to him? Of course not, he chided himself. The Mother was the epitome of goodness, the mother of every living thing: animal, plant, and person alike. Why would she lie to someone who would so blindly follow her, was so devoted to her that he didn't question her?

He was still surprised that the Mother had appeared to him, and in the form of a man. Then again, she is a goddess; she can do whatever she wants. She could have fixed everything in a second had she wanted to. So why didn't she? Probably some cock-and-bull reason– wanting him to earn it himself, right the wrongs of humans only by pointing other humans in the right direction– something like that. If he had her powers, he would definitely make sure things always went the way he wanted.

The Mother had actually appeared to him; there was a part of his mind that kept dwelling on that point alone. The Mother had appeared in bodily form– if as a man– to him. That sealed it in his mind: he was the true Cheyne Firdin rebirth. He was the one destined for greatness, not this as-yet-unnamed fellow all the rumors spoke of. The Mother was had spoken to him personally, had told him help was coming, was sending someone to right the wrongs done to him. She had even called him "my reborn king" which had to mean a throne was coming his way.

Had Cheyne been a king once? He tried to remember, searched for something to tell him the answer, but he only kept coming to memories of Lexan. She would get rid of them. She hadn't said so outright, but she had said she would help him. She knew about them; she would do something. He kept telling himself that over and over as memories of Lexan tried again and again to force their way to the forefront of his thoughts. He kept fighting them back.

"No! I don't want you! It's Cheyne I want! I'm Cheyne!" He screamed at the thoughts of Lexan that kept barging in where they weren't wanted. He scratched at his head, at his temples, trying to dig them out. "Save me, Mother! Save me from these cursed memories!"

"You... the one," came an unfamiliar man's voice.

When Jaidyn looked up, he was surrounded by men and women, all dressed in skins and with hair ranging from pale buttery yellow to gold. Keidenelle. He was completely surrounded by them. There was an ungainly pair of wagons outside the circle they made around him; each wagon held more of the savages. Each man and woman of them carried some sort of weapon, be it a blade, a wooden staff, or a bow.

He fell to his knees, darting his eyes from one savage to the next, trying to watch them all at once and waiting for them to attack. "Please, I'm unarmed! Don't hurt me, please!"

They gave no sign that they understood, only looked down on him with eyes that were boldly colored green or blue or violet. It was like looking into a strange sea of jewels. One man, with a mop of hair the color of a canary and eyes so blue they made the sky seem plain, squatted in front of Jaidyn and pointed a long, tan finger at him. "You... our master..." His finger inched forward until it touched Jaidyn's forehead, where the black speck of light had burned him.

His eyes widened. These were the Mother's followers? The savage Keidenelle? Part of him groaned inwardly, but part of him rejoiced. The sliver of his mind that he associated with Lexan was positively delighted. There was fear attached to the Keidenelle. What an army they could make!

Trying to hide the trembling of his knees, he got to his feet and looked the man in those frighteningly blue eyes. "I am your master," he said.

The savages surrounding him made strange noises that sounded negative to him. The man shook his head and pointed again. "Your master, our master. Knew you come. Great servant. We follow."

Well, at least they would follow him. That was good enough. "I am Jaidyn," he said, striking himself importantly on the chest.

"Alaykichihaahoush," the Keidenelle man, who Jaidyn took for some sort of a leader, said, imitating Jaidyn's chest strike.

"That's uh... some name," Jaidyn said sheepishly. "Um...... I'll call you Alay. Alay," he repeated, pointing at him to emphasize that he was to answer to the nickname.

Alay seemed to understand. He turned to the wagons and shouted something Jaidyn didn't understand. The others began gathering and the men driving the wagons spurred the horses to move. The rest of the band began following the wagons.

"Come," Alay said, motioning for Jaidyn to follow. He did so gladly. What a way to proclaim himself! He couldn't wait to get to a city and proclaim himself Cheyne reborn. He had conquered the Keidenelle!

# 

# CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

As if they had disappeared from the face of the planet, Ryan and Joanna stopped talking to Lydia and Emery, who ignored them right back.

It had been some years since Draegon had last ventured into Morena, but his memories were surprisingly accurate. The Gaernin people were, for lack of a better word, snooty. Many of them either turned their noses up at him or simply didn't look at him, pretending he didn't exist. They didn't want to see a man who so closely resembled a Keidenelle savage, so they just didn't see him at all. There was a reason he had been so long away from here; no matter how good a singer and storyteller he was, no one paid him any attention.

At least people listened to Kemeny when she talked. They spend their evenings going from inn to inn, Kemeny drinking and gossiping with whoever would listen– which was pretty much everyone. The people of Morena were notorious gossipers. Out of necessity, Draegon stayed in the background, sometimes as far from Kemeny as possible, so that she wouldn't be ignored because of her association with him. Occasionally, an open-minded innkeeper would let him play the flute or the drum and tell a story, but that was it.

Ryan sat at the piano in the common room but did not play. He sang softly, however, strange sad tunes that seemed made up on the spot but had the repetitions and form of completed pieces, almost like folk songs. None of the songs had tunes Becca recognized, and the words... the stories told by some of the songs, were nothing she recognized, either.

There was a lot of gossip flying around concerning the Search, even before Kemeny tried to start spreading the news of Roark. There were two tales that were most prominent.

The first was that some insane man was going around claiming to be Cheyne reborn, claiming that his plain sword was the great legendary Sonsedhor. But he went around killing people left and right and was, in all actuality, a servant of the Dark One. He was a bloodthirsty demon of a man, frightening to look at. No one they heard the story from had actually seen him, but they each knew someone who knew someone who had been there when the false Cheyne came and killed someone nearby.

The second most prominent rumor– one that made the Gaernin swell up with self-importance even more than usual– was that the real Cheyne had shown up and was, in fact, a young lordling from their own city. His name was Jaidyn Huntley. Even before he left on the Search, he had exhibited the memories of Cheyne, but still had yet to openly declare himself. The only person he told his secret to was another lordling, Zanthys Advissen, the heir to one of the Morena High Seats. He was the one with proof that Jaidyn was Cheyne reborn; he claimed to have seen Sonsedhor with his own eyes.

Kemeny stated the obvious when she said they should talk to Zanthys. But Draegon knew it wouldn't be easy for commoners– and foreign commoners, for that matter– to get in to see the heir of one of the High Seats. They would need to be invited into his presence.

"Well, nobles like that are always having feasts, aren't they? And entertainers? Who's to say they won't want a bard sometime soon?"

"First of all," Draegon replied over a glass of wine, "there's no guarantee that I would be chosen should they want a bard. Second, even the commoners here don't want a..." he made a face, "......don't want me performing for them. Nobles will be even less inclined to hire me."

"If we dyed your hair, you wouldn't look so... like that," she said. "And I've heard you play. You're one of the best dulcimer players I've ever heard, and your voice isn't bad to listen to, either. Let me dye your hair and I swear you'll be hired to play for them within two weeks."

He sighed. "Fine."

The herb she washed his hair with turned his pale buttery head into a cap of chestnut brown. When she finally let him look in a mirror, he almost didn't recognize himself. "You know, this might actually work," he said, turning his head one way and the other. "Not that I'll want to keep it like this permanently, but it's definitely interesting."

He played at a different inn every night after that, always the flute so the patrons could dance. On occasion, he picked up the drum and used it to punctuate a story, but he never opened his dulcimer. He was saving that for the nobles. Word spread of him quickly, with people often asking where the Dragon Bard was playing so they could be at whichever inn or tavern he was performing. He had to admit, he liked the title they gave him, even though it stemmed from a simple mispronunciation of his name that spread like a rumor through the city. That kind of notoriety was sure to get him noticed by the nobles.

Every third night, Kemeny washed his hair with the herb again. By the third time, he was definitely getting sick of it. "Once we get done here, I'm never changing my hair color again," he commented as she rubbed the herb on his scalp. She pulled a lock of his hair, making him yelp.

In the cafeteria, another patient happened to drop her napkin in front of Ryan. He snatched it up.

After eleven days of playing inn after inn every night, the keeper of the inn they were staying at presented him with a sealed envelope.

"Is that what I think it is?" Kemeny asked as he broke the seal of the envelope.

He scanned over the folded page inside and nodded. "We're in."

# 

# CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Kemeny followed Draegon to the great manor house where he was to be performing for a dinner party thrown by one of the High Lords of Gaern. They were greeted by a servant who led them to a small anteroom so Draegon could prepare himself. He opened his dulcimer case.

"What's this?" he asked.

There was a folded parchment and a small washleather purse nestled in the case next to the instrument. Draegon warily lifted the parchment and read it. His emerald eyes began to tear up. "Weslyn..." He plucked the purse from the case and undid the drawstring, upending it over his other hand. Gold coins spilled into his palm. "She's given me the money to pay my debt to Keffinen."

She took the parchment from him and read it. "She loves you," she said.

"I can read!" he protested, half chuckling, half-fighting against sobs. "I love her, too."

Neither of them said anything else as he tucked the gold back into the dulcimer case and proceeded to tune the instrument. It wasn't long before another servant came to bring him into the hall where the nobles were socializing.

The room was full of noblemen and women dressed in their finest silks. The coats and gowns were dully colored, mostly blacks, greys, and browns, but colorful embroidery covered most of them from ankles to neck. Even the few small children– closely watched by nurses– were decked out in so much embroidery the colors of the silks were hard to determine. It was easy to pick out the High Lords themselves– they had the most gold and silver in their embroidery and the most hangers-on around them. But which of the young men was Zanthys Advissen, the one they were looking for? Kemeny stayed close to Draegon, not wanting to stand out in her woolen clothes, but she still got good looks at everyone she could, trying to figure out which one was their man.

No one made a move to announce the arrival of the evening's entertainment, but Draegon didn't seem bothered by it. He strummed a chord on his dulcimer and immediately broke into a half-sung, half-spoken tale of Cheyne Firdin. It was one of the most traditional tales of him, one of the first linking him to Sonsedhor, when he had instead gone by the name of Masty Boroksen. He sang the verses of the forging of Sonsedhor and the first kill Masty made with it, a greed-driven noble miser who kept his commoners in poverty, keeping them as chattel rather than as liege men.

There was no applause at the end of the tale, though many eyes and ears were tuned to his voice and instrument. He continued with another righteous tale of Cheyne, when he had gone by that name. He followed that with the last sad song of Cheyne's saga, his disappearance. She noticed tears in some of the women's eyes as he held the last note in a clear voice. Kemeny swore she could hear the crying of the world in his tone.

"If my lords would permit," he said after giving the silent room time to collect themselves, "I would now like to perform a piece of my own creation, never before heard."

There were no objections.

He started with a few sorrowful strums of the dulcimer. He looked down sadly at his fingers as they brushed the strings of the instrument, but Kemeny thought he looked like he was thinking. What was he up to? She hadn't known he was writing something for tonight. Or was he planning on making something up as he went? What was he doing?

He kept his head down, but Kemeny saw his eyes suddenly roll back into his head as his voice came forth. He started singing in a strange, foreboding voice, telling what she recognized as Roark finding Sonsedhor and knowing something had warped the great sword to do evil. He never mentioned Roark's name, though, as he went on with the song, never looking up, sitting stiffly and seemingly unaware of the people around him.

But as the sky grew dark and the windows grew black, Draegon's tale of Roark began to change. He started changing the name of Sonsedhor to Tyrfing– a name she didn't know. Where had that come from? She heard the names Svafrlami, Arngrim, and Angantyr, but they were names strange to her. The story changed, still being about a man whose sword forced him to kill someone every time it was unsheathed, but in this story, the word became the undoing of every man who wielded it.

Thunder and lightning crashed outside, but the people in the hall were focused only on Draegon as he poured out this tale that was completely new to all of them. But the thunder seemed to strike a chord with him and brought him back to Roark and Sonsedhor. The story changed again, to the story they had really come to tell.

When he finally came to an end– or what passed for an ending, since the story didn't have a conclusion yet– Draegon was pale, sweating, and shaking. The nobles were staring at him, baffled. Even with the strangeness of the occurrence, Kemeny recognized the similarities between the two stories Draegon had told, although this was certainly a strange way to try and get people to support Roark. Draegon wasn't moving from his seat, but she knew he was finished for the night. She mumbled a hasty thanks to the nobles for their invitation and generosity. Awkwardly, she lifted Draegon's arm around her shoulders and part-dragged, part-carried him back into the anteroom. He seemed to recollect himself there and gathered his things himself. He managed to walk on his own two feet through the streets and back to the inn.

Before they even got to the inn's front door, someone tapped Kemeny on the shoulder. She spun around, coming face-to-face with a dark-cloaked figure. His hood was pulled low so all she could see was his chin. He thrust a slip pf parchment into her hand and hurried off without a word.

In a neat, precise hand, it read, I want to meet with you and talk of Sonsedhor. I'll find you.

It was signed, Zanthys Advissen.

# 

# CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

It was still a shock to Jaidyn to wake up and be surrounded by Keidenelle. Even though the savages never made so much as a threatening gesture toward him, he still felt very out of place. Few of them were able to communicate with him, to understand anything but the most simple words he spoke. And he couldn't make hide nor hair out of the gibberish that made up their language. They all had strange, long names like Lyeskelkin and Drarisechjokkein and Ararditwudynold. He eventually gave up trying to pronounce any more than the first syllable or two of each person's name. In the end, he completely gave up trying to remember their names altogether. Alay served as translator, guide, advisor, and companion all in one. He was the one Jaidyn could not have functioned without.

Most mornings, he woke to see either Alay or a small standing over him, staring down at him while he slept and went through that awkward phase between asleep and awake. Some of them had worry on their faces when he woke. Alay explained, in what broken language he had, that Jaidyn did a lot of tossing and turning in his sleep and seemed disturbed most nights. Jaidyn didn't tell him that his sleep had been troubled with disturbing dreams ever since he had joined up with their band. Each night, he dreamed strange mixtures of his remembered stories– no, his memories, he corrected himself– of Cheyne and his other unwanted memories of Lexan.

His waking hours weren't much better. The Keidenelle didn't offer much in the ways of comfort or luxury. Washwater was cold, earth was his pillow, his blanket was roughspun, he had no shelter from sun or rain... it wasn't the sort of traveling circumstances worthy of a great reborn hero.

There were times they came near villages, but the Keidenelle seemed loathe to get too near them. Come to think of it, he had never actually heard of the savages raiding villages; their attacks were always more along the lines of banditry. It was only traveling merchants and the like that were threatened by them. But he missed civilization, and oftentimes, when he knew they were near a village, he would make them wait for a day while he went in.

He didn't like what he was hearing in the villages. Cheyne was on everyone's lips, but his name wasn't the one attached to the rumors. And the rumors weren't fading, either. At each new location, he heard a half-dozen new stories about this or that that the new Cheyne had done.

"It's all lies," he told himself one evening as he strolled through a village. Well, he had to admit it was much more than just a village. Bigger than a town, even. This place was a small city. And his name was completely unheard of here. It was enough to drive a man mad. But he couldn't rightly proclaim himself yet; he still hadn't found his sword. If the Keidenelle were supposed to be helping– leading him to the sword, he thought– they were doing a sorry job of it.

Then he looked up and saw it: a finely made sword of rich steel, gold, and gems, leaning against the side of a building with no one to tend to it. "Now that is truly the blade of a hero," he muttered to himself, strolling toward it and wrapping his hand around the jewel-studded hilt. It was almost too heavy for him, but he still lifted it and began walking away, nearly running into the sign that named the building a blacksmith's shop.

He didn't stop until he was back among the Keidenelle. When Alay had managed to gather everyone– even though many had already been asleep– he held up his find and proclaimed himself Cheyne reborn, proudly wielding the great sword, Sonsedhor. Only one man could be worthy of a blade such as that one, and it had found its owner.

To his great delight, the Keidenelle lifted their left hands to the backs of their heads one by one and pushed their heads into a bow. It was one of the few gestures he had learned of theirs. It was the acknowledgment of submission. When two Keidenelle had a fight or and argument, the loser made that gesture before the victor. The entire band had just made him their leader. Even Alay held his head down.

This was only right.

Becca stared at the monitor that was giving her a live feed of the patients. There was almost no point in even watching them anymore. Every day, it was the same. They had started putting them all in the only recorded room nearly two weeks ago, but their actions practically never changed. They acknowledged each other or didn't– their alternate personalities conversing and doing... whatever it was they did. She was convinced they weren't aware of reality. They were sharing delusions, somehow. The "how" and "why" were what Becca was most interested in uncovering now.

Emery had been confined to a straightjacket now to keep him under control, but none of them seemed to mind or even notice– even him.

The patients' individual profiles were on the desk before her, detailing the lives she had studied until they were as familiar to her as her own life. The files even included psychological profiles from when they had first started seeing therapists– before any of them even came to Ighosia Falls.

Five different people, five different traumatic reasons for a split personality to develop, for a mind to fracture. Every one of them faced an event he or she couldn't deal with. But how did these personalities find one another? The principles of DPD stated that at the moment of the event, the personalities would split, and the alternate one would spring to life. So how did these personalities know each other when the originals didn't?

She thought she had them all down now, had figured out whose personality belonged to whom:

Ryan- Draygun

Emery- Rowark

Lydia- Weslyn

And she was certain now that both Vale and Joanna had two. Joanna had Sen and Kimminy, and Jaden and Xanthis belonged to Vale. Such strange names...

There only arose more questions. More questions, and no answers.

# 

# CHAPTER THIRTY

The great gilded city of Estria was within sight, its outer wall sparkling in the late afternoon sun. It wasn't actually made of gold– though the city natives liked to claim everything was, from the streets to the roof tiles of the poorest house– but it certainly had a nice effect. There was, however, gold dust brushed over nearly everything, which was what gave it all that luminous sparkle. Being anywhere near Estria at noon could be very hard on the eyes, with the sun bright on all those flecks of gold everywhere. The glare could blind.

Senne had been to Estria before, but the look on her companion's face plainly showed that he hadn't. Hoeth's eyes were wide and his mouth close to hanging open. She smiled at him. They had been traveling together since meeting in the inn in that tiny village, and even though she never said a word about feeling something for him, she did. And she thought he felt something for her, too, though he never mentioned it either. She didn't know if she would call it love yet, but it was getting close. He was sweet, if a little naïve, but he had a good heart and a good head– so long as he had someone telling him what to do.

He still wore the silver braid of a Seeker– another thing she didn't bring up. She couldn't bear breaking his heart by telling him Sonsedhor had already been found. He'd been hurt by a friend, lied to... she didn't want to make him feel even worse by knowing his search was futile. It was probably one of the worst things she could do– lie to him– but he got so dismal when something reminded him of that friend that wronged him. Seeking made him feel like he had a purpose; how could she take that away from him?

All the inns in Estria had names like The Gilded Monkey and The Golden Brick and other things that mentioned gold in some way. They settled in at The Ingot, one of the less ostentatiously-named places. They took a meal in the common room, had some wine, and sat together, watching the sky change colors as the sun set outside the city walls. Not long after the sky had gone from deep blue to inky black, there was a loud, high-pitched wail, followed by another, and another, until the night was full of the wails.

Then the screaming began. People started dashing past the windows looking panicked. Some of the other inn patrons opened the doors and yelled at the running people, demanding to know what was happening.

"Keidenelle!" someone finally shouted back in passing.

"Keidenelle are in the city walls!" came another cry.

Sure enough, moments later, pale-headed, roughly-dressed savages could be seen in the crowds, pursuing and catching fleers, dragging them to the ground or simply thrusting a blade into them where they stood. The screams grew louder, filling the night. But even over the terrified shrieks of the victims and the war cries of their pursuers, a shout could be heard.

"The sword you see before you is the great Sonsedhor! The name I was given is Jaidyn Huntley, but you can remember me as Cheyne Firdin reborn! Surrender your city to me and my army and your lives will be spared!"

Jaidyn Huntley...... the name sounded familiar to Senne, but she couldn't put a finger on why. Hoeth put her uncertainty to rest as he drew his sword and headed for the door to go outside, shouting curses at "the great liar Huntley" as he headed off to try and face him one-on-one. Senne couldn't stop him in time and wound up chasing him through the city streets as he searched for his former friend.

Senne was too far off to stop him from rushing at Jaidyn when he found him, standing on the base of a statue in a great plaza. People were going everywhere, getting hewn down by savages, running into each other, some trying to fight back. But there was a clearing around the statue Jaidyn had perched on to watch the carnage, laughing the whole time. Hoeth made straight for him, sword out, shouting at the top of his lungs.

Their swords met with a resounding twang that seemed to shake the ground. Senne kept running after Hoeth. Being rash like this would only get him killed! She'd abandoned one love to a terrible fate; she couldn't just sit and watch another get hacked apart.

Before she reached the open space where the two men were dueling, a dark, thick cloud settled over the two of them, encasing them so she couldn't see. But then a band in the middle of the cloud cleared, and she could spy Hoeth twisting his sword so fast it was a blur, sweating heavily, defending from Jaidyn's onslaught. Jaidyn was easily the better swordsman. She reached out a hand towards the cloud......

And her hand came to an abrupt stop as if she had tried to put her hand through a window. It just came to a stop in thin air, and she couldn't move it any further. She knew she couldn't reach them. So she looked up.

Just as she'd thought, there was a visage over the cloud, faceless head peering down on the dueling men.

"Please," she whispered.

The head whipped around to look at her, but the Dark Father said nothing.

"Please, spare Hoeth. He's not part of this. Spare him, and... I'll be yours again."

"Why would I want you?" His voice boomed in her head. There was a swirl of blue and gold, and he was suddenly in front of her. "You didn't leave me; I cast you away. Why should I take you back?"

"Spare Hoeth, and... and I'll do whatever you wish. Just spare Hoeth's life."

She swore she could see a wicked grin spread across the Dark Father's nonexistent face. "Swear me your complete servitude."

"And you'll let Hoeth go?"

"And I won't kill him. Swear, or he dies now."

Peering through the cloud, she saw Hoeth on his back on the gold-dusted cobblestones, his sword out of reach. Jaidyn had the point of his sword at Hoeth's throat, a sadistic, pleased look in his bloodlust-filled eyes. Hoeth inched away, but the sword followed him, inch for inch.

"I so swear," she said, her voice cracking.

In the span of a heartbeat, all her memories– of Masithina, her lives before that, of Cheyne– were ripped away from her. Swirls of yellow and orange appeared in the air in front of her. She knew it was her memories, her essence– everything that was her was in those whorls of color– but she couldn't make a move to recover them. They swirled about her, then to the hand of the Dark Father. They formed a ball there, which he smirked at for a long second, the light given off by the colors doing nothing to lighten the blackness of his face. Then, without a word, he crushed the colors with his fist...

And he had a face. It was handsome and pale, blue-eyed and smooth-skinned, but in his eyes she saw everything she feared– had feared before. Now she felt nothing.

"Thank you for your soul," he said, moving his tongue over his teeth as if enjoying the sensation of having them. "You've allowed me to truly touch the world by giving it." A hand came out and stroked her chin. "Such a good servant..."

His eyes looked left and right, looking at the chaos that was still going on in the plaza. "This won't do at all," he said. "Not in my city. THIS IS MY CITY!"

As if someone had hit a switch, the chaos stopped. Each of the Keidenelle fell to his or her knees; the other people fell to their faces on the ground. Behind him, Jaidyn and Hoeth stared at him in shock, their eyes wide. Jaidyn still had his sword to the prone Hoeth's neck.

"Mother......" Jaidyn said softly.

" The Dark Father..." Hoeth whispered.

"You can both call me by my mortal name," he smirked, running his tongue again along his teeth and gently running a finger along one eyebrow. His eyes went to Senne. "You, too. You can now call me Akotherian."

"Mother?" Jaidyn said again.

Akotherian spun around to face the young man, grinning a shark's grin. "I am not the Mother, boy," he spat, "but I am your master. Now drop your blade and kneel to me."

As if forced, Jaidyn did as he was bid. Akotherian turned his too-blue eyes to the terrified Hoeth. "Senne."

She was at his side in a moment.

"I cannot kill this boy because of our deal," he said, letting his gaze slide from Hoeth to her and back. "Dispose of him."

Feeling nothing, she knelt before the whimpering lordling and wrapped one hand around his throat to keep him in place but not cut off his air. Methodically, she began to beat him, softly telling him that once she let him up, he was to leave and never return.

# 

# CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

The TV monitor was off. Becca had finally decided to stop watching both the videos and the live feeds of the patients interacting. It was all the same, and she no longer believed she would get any of her answers from them that way. Dr. Anderson encouraged her new idea: that she should really dive into the patients' pasts and see what more she could find out. The answers, they both thought, were in who the patients were, not in who they are now.

The Keidenelle were on the move. In the distance on most days, Roark saw bands of them hurrying westward, apparently not caring that there were potential victims within sight. They seemed to be in too much of a hurry. He was grateful not to have to deal with the brutes. He had had enough of killing.

Weslyn must have fallen asleep at the watch, because the Keidenelle were upon them before Roark realized it. He had been wrong about being ignored...

He fought like a madman, but he could tell from the onset there was no way he was coming out of this victorious. They numbered in the dozens. If he had been prepared, maybe he could have taken more of them down. As it was, he only managed to thrust Sonsedhor into the stomach of one before he was set upon by a dozen more, who subdued, forced him to the ground, and tied him. Weslyn was wide awake by now, having never had a chance to fight back. Ropes were tied around her wrists, and another around her neck served as a lead line. The other end of her rope was in the hands of a skinny, pale-haired woman with hard deep grey eyes.

Roark began his struggling anew as he was jerked to his feet and one of the savages laid hands on Sonsedhor, trying to pull it from the big man's hands. Roark thrashed and toppled the other man, but the Keidenelle won out. Sonsedhor was taken to one of the wagons and thrown into the back, and Roark and Weslyn's lead lines were tied to the end of a long line of prisoners neither had noticed before.

They were herded along like animals, poked and prodded by the Keidenelle when they were too slow or if they started talking to one another. Roark bore it all with solemn wariness, his eyes either darting around looking for an opportunity or locked on the back of the wagon where Sonsedhor was. He was more than a little worried about his sword. He had to kill someone every day because of the damned thing– what would happen if someone else used it? Not only that... he had already killed some of the Keidenelle today; that would sate him for the night. But what about tomorrow, if they lived that long? What would happen if he couldn't use Sonsedhor to do someone in?

There were quite a few other prisoners; the line stretched far in front of them. And the line was added to constantly by savages going out in groups and returning with other prisoners. So they weren't just "on the move" anymore. Now they were full-out taking everyone they could captive.

It became plain to him early on that they weren't killing their prisoners. Once they finally stopped for the night, small parcels of dried meat were handed out, waterskins passed, and guards set. Weslyn and some of the others fell asleep out of exhaustion. It was only after everyone was fed that a great fire was built, and the Keidenelle who weren't watching the prisoners began a dance around the fire, chanting in their strange, high-pitched language. It was like a prayer, but he knew it wasn't a prayer to the Mother. Who else could they be worshiping but the Dark Father?

As if to confirm his guess, the woman at the front of the prisoner line was untied and dragged over to the fire. The chanting grew higher and louder as the woman's clothes were torn away and she was wrestled to the ground. Afraid of what she would see, he wanted to turn away but couldn't make himself. The more he knew about his captors, the better off he would be when the time for escape came.

Blades were brought out, and the shrieking woman was subjected to very methodical removing of fingers and toes; then hands, feet, and ears; scalp and arms and breasts; and finally, when she had bled so much she must surely be dead– at least her horrifying screams were silenced now– her legs were removed, and all the parts of her, from fingers to torso, were thrown into the great fire. The air became putrid with the stench of burning flesh; more than one of the prisoners who was still awake threw up his or her dinner. Weslyn and some of the others remained blissfully asleep despite the racket the Keidenelle and the woman had made. He thanked the Mother that Weslyn had been spared that grisly sight.

He was almost asleep himself– the chanting and dancing of the Keidenelle had grown softer and somewhat hypnotic– when the smoke over the fire seemed to congeal. He swore a man's face appeared there, blue-eyed and pale and handsome.

"Needringhusshuck," came a smooth voice. Roark couldn't quite tell if the man's lips actually moved, but the voice was clear. At the sound of his voice, the Keidenelle halted their dance and fell to the ground, prostrating themselves. Except one man. He went to his knees instead, his hands raised to the floating face. "Needringhusshuck," the voice said again. Was that the Keidenelle man's name? It seemed unnecessarily long to Roark. "You have done well. You have found what it is I seek. I can sense it, even through the fire. Sonsedhor! I touched the blade once, long ago. It's throbbing now. It knows I'm near! It's mine, marked and forged!"

Golden fire appeared behind the great blue eyes of the ethereal face, and his gaze traveled over the prisoner lines until finally, they settled on Roark, as he had known they would. He struggled to his feet.

"You feel the pull, don't you?" said the Dark Father. Roark had suspected the man's identity, but now he knew for certain. "You feel the desire to serve me, the need to kill, the urge to main, all brought on by the tool I've left you. You are my tool now. You are my servant, unwilling or not. Whatever you believe you may be, you are mine."

"What belongs to the Mother can never serve the Dark Father. That includes people," Roark replied.

The Dark Father's face sneered, and the eyes went back to the Keidenelle man. "He will need to kill, with or without the sword. Let him sate his thirst on people of your choosing, Needringhusshuck. Let him kill struggling hostages, weak or dissenting Keidenelle, those who deserve death. But do not let him have his sword. I don't want his Mother-stained hands touching my blade anymore. Let his murders be done hand-to-hand. Make it sport for the others to watch. Let him fight to kill, fight for his life. Make him fight every night, before the fires. Let him kill your sacrifices. It will please me."

The face disappeared into the smoke. The Keidenelle man turned and settled his own gaze on Roark. He smiled.

# 

# CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

As much as she hated telephones, Becca certainly spent most of her morning on it. She spent a good forty minutes talking with the director of the group home where Vale had spent his late teen years, but the woman didn't have much to say about Vale's mental faculties. As a matter of fact, the woman was the former director; she had retired six years ago. And the only reason Becca spent so much time talking with her was because she seemed to be one of those aging ladies who was all alone and just loved having someone to chat with. When Becca asked if Sawnsador meant anything to her, she had to repeat the word four or five times before she just dropped it.

Her next call went out to Vale's former employers at the newspaper. While some of the coworkers of his that she talked to were interested in hearing how Vale was doing, they had no real insight on Vale's personal life, either. "He was a very private person," seemed to be the most common description of the former reporter. Sawnsador meant nothing to them, either, nor did any of the other patients' names.

She hung up the phone and put her forehead on her hands. She'd talked to a handful of his colleagues, and they'd all said the same thing about Vale– almost verbatim. The only one who had deviated from the mantra about Vale's personality was a girl who had worked in the mailroom and had claimed to see him everyday. "He always seemed to be the jealous type," the girl had said. "And even though he never was a group person, he seemed to hate being excluded."

None of the other journalists could give her the names of any friends Vale might have had outside of work. One man went so far as to say he would be surprised if Vale had friends at all. Becca gave that up as a dead end.

The man who slipped quietly into the rented room Draegon was sharing with Kemeny was dressed well underneath a wide cloak that did little to keep his identity a secret. He had to be Zanthys Advissen, the nobleman they wanted to speak with, even though he didn't waste time with introductions.

"Tell me where that tale you told came from," he said, more of an order than a request. Draegon didn't think this young man had ever been disobeyed. "I've never heard that one before, but it seemed... familiar. Where was it from?"

Kemeny had agreed to take the lead in this, since Draegon was still feeling a little off from performing the night before. She had told him what had happened, but he didn't remember anything from what she said happened. He had completely blacked out, felt like he was falling, like he was somewhere else, or even... someone else. It had been distant, though, strange and familiar all at once. It was disconcerting. He was still shuddering now and then just thinking about it.

Kemeny gave Zanthys the whole story, starting from the four of them joining up in the Search and then Roark finding Sonsedhor. She gave him lots of details, from where they found Sonsedhor to the looks on their faces to the colors of the flowers and the scent in the air. Draegon was both surprised and impressed– the girl could certainly tell a story.

When she started detailing just what Sonsedhor had done to Roark– the curse– Zanthys went pale. He said nothing, however, and Kemeny didn't comment. She just went on and finished the story.

Zanthys swallowed, letting the silence linger, and looked ready to leave. Draegon wasn't about to let that happen. Something was up here. This lordling was holding something from them. "Now tell us about this Jaidyn," Draegon said, suppressing another shiver. "You say he's proven himself to you that he's Cheyne reborn. Tell us how that is, when we've seen another man holding Sonsedhor."

The proud young man eyed the door, looked back at them, eyed the door again, and swallowed. Kemeny, her attention now on him rather than on telling her story, realized what he was considering and pulled a chair between Zanthys and the door, plopping herself down into it. "Yes. We're very interested in hearing about Jaidyn."

He went even paler at the sight of his escape route being blocked, and now Draegon and Kemeny had him flanked. He glanced warily from one to the other. Draegon swore he could see the sweat starting to form on the his forehead.

"It was a fake, alright? I had a sword made to look like Sonsedhor! It was just a hoax! Who could believe that the sniveling Jaidyn Huntley was actually Cheyne reborn? I overheard him telling Hoeth Karzark at the onset of the Search, and I thought it would be funny to play a joke on him. It was just a joke! I planted the sword for him to find, but... he never did... where you said this Roark found it...... that's where I left it. I followed Jaidyn to Dracmere. I knew he couldn't be the real rebirth... it was a joke..."

All this he spilled out, practically spinning in place to say a few words to Draegon, a few words to Kemeny. The little contortionist glared at him. "Well, Zanthys, my lord, that prank of yours has caused much more trouble than it was worth, and no laughs."

"Kemeny," Draegon said, "but if not for that plant, Roark might not have ever found Sonsedhor..."

"Maybe not, but who's to say it's really the time for him? I mean... what danger is the world really in that we need Cheyne back? Not to mention the sword is cursed! Maybe this has all gone wrong!"

"The Mother's plans don't go wrong, Kemeny."

"Well, the plans of men do. And I'm not going to let this little prudish lordling get out of righting his wrongs." She seized Zanthys's arm. "I'm not sure how, but we're sorting this out, and you're coming with us."

Draegon raised an eyebrow. "Um, Kemeny? Where exactly are we going?"

# 

# CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

Lauren, Lydia's daughter, was living with a foster family that lived an hour away from Ighosia Falls, and Becca was actually invited to meet with her rather than do their talking on the phone. Lauren was now seventeen, tall and beautiful like her mother, but she had the cold resentment of someone abandoned in her eyes.

The girl was snappish when the subject of her mother was approached, and she had nothing positive to say. It was clear that she blamed Lydia for everything, from her first failed marriage to her mental instability. Lauren wasn't interested in hearing explanations; she pointed the blame at her mother, and that was that. Becca had been able to look at some of the reports from the group home where Lauren had been staying before placed with her foster family. She had been seeing an appointed therapist, and there was improvement behavior-wise, but she still had a lot of therapy to undergo. A brief phone conversation with Lauren's therapist– no confidential information was shared, of course– told Becca what she had already figured out: that little or nothing Lauren said concerning her mother could be taken at face value. Lauren was an only child, her father and stepfather had nothing to do with her, her mother was out of reach, her grandparents were dead, and any other extended family was far away and out of touch. Lauren was very alone in the world and wrongly held her mother accountable.

So Lydia and Lauren had no extended family to contact. While she was in the city, she found the bank Lydia had worked for and got in to speak with Maria Ferrera, Lydia's old manager. "Lydia was always a good teller," Maria said. "She never brought personal drama with her to work, so I have to say it was a surprise when she broke down like she did. No one here, her coworkers or customers, had any idea what she was going through."

More dead ends. Well, there were still Lydia's two ex-husbands who might have something new to tell her. She wrote notes to herself to find them ASAP.

Jaidyn didn't like this new man who was bossing him around. Akotherian. What a silly name. It was worse than the names of the Keidenelle. The one good thing about the man was that he knew Jaidyn was Cheyne reborn and kept helping him fill those holes in Cheyne's memories. Akotherian told him things should have been readily remembered but could never quite grasp in his mind. Under Akotherian's guidance, he was growing more and more comfortable in his role as Cheyne reborn. Once, he actually let Akotherian hold Sonsedhor so the man could affirm it was, in fact, the great sword of legend.

What really bothered him was that Akotherian seemed to think he was in charge. He never actually sat in the ruler's chair or made decrees, but he seemed to think Jaidyn should obey his every word and whim, and he expected that obedience. Well, he never actually gave a real order or made his own decree, but the effect was the same. People he overheard talking in the castle corridors knew that Akotherian was the real power behind the occupation, even though Jaidyn was really the face of it.

After all, wasn't it Jaidyn who sat in judgment when a pair of Keidenelle had a squabble? Wasn't it him who decreed that any female prisoners should be brought to him for inspection. He had already, in just a few short days, built up quite a nice little harem. Some part of him remembered passing a decree like that before. He shook it away. Lexan wasn't barging into his thoughts now. Akotherian did help with that. And wasn't he the one with Sonsedhor, with the memories of Cheyne Firdin in his head? Yes, they were incomplete, but whose memories of past lives weren't full of holes?

The ruler's chair wasn't a throne, exactly. Arlennia didn't have a monarch exactly. Estria, the capital, was the seat of the ruling body. A new ruler was voted on every six years. Well, the poor sap who had been occupying the seat was dead now, slaughtered by that woman, Senne, by order of Akotherian. If there was one other person who never took an order from Jaidyn, it was Senne.

He wasn't completely sure what it was between Senne and Akotherian. Were they lovers? Partners? What? He had finally come to the conclusion that Akotherian might not be the Mother. At least the man didn't claim to be her anymore, but he didn't outright say who he really was. Some sorcerer, perhaps. Either way, he was a thorn in Jaidyn's side. And Senne was right by him pretty much constantly.

Jaidyn sat in the ruler's chair idly. No one was bringing him any prisoners to look at today, things were going well. Keidenelle kept coming in, the Arlennians were subdued, and surely word was going out that Cheyne's rebirth was settled in the city. Soon more followers would come. Soon, he would take his army out of the city and search for this false Cheyne he kept hearing about, this man Roark who served the Dark Father, killing everyone he came across. He was giving Cheyne a bad name, putting fear into the people and generally making Jaidyn's job harder. He would set things right. Soon the whole world would know who the real Cheyne was.

But for the moment, he was bored.

He slid down from the chair and made for the rooms he had claimed for himself. Akotherian and Senne had taken the former ruler's rooms for themselves, leaving Jaidyn the second-best rooms in the castle. Another slight, but one he couldn't argue with. There were times he did have to listen to Akotherian. He was the only one who really kept Lexan's memories at bay. Besides, his rooms were still spacious and very fine. He would have the best rooms soon enough.

Before he even got to the corridor his rooms were in, he happened upon Akotherian and Senne. They were in their rooms, secluded, but the door was open. As he walked by, he just happened to pass closely to the door, and his ear just happened to lean in enough and strain just enough to hear what the man was saying.

"...have him. My servants found him. At this very moment, they are bringing Cheyne and Sonsedhor to Estria."

It felt like he had run into a wall. What did he mean "they are bringing Cheyne and Sonsedhor to Estria"? They were already in Estria. He was Cheyne, and his sword was Sonsedhor. Akotherian had told him himself, affirming what Jaidyn already knew.

Or had the bastard been lying? Was everything false?

It couldn't be. Akotherian was playing a joke on him. That was all. He had heard Jaidyn coming and was playing a little joke. That was all.

Trembling, he hurried to his rooms. A part of his mind screamed at him, telling him that this man wasn't just some sorcerer, that maybe he was... He forced the thought away. He didn't want to think about the Dark Father right now.

He flew into his room and closed the door behind him. Where had that thought come from, that Akotherian was the Dark Father? He didn't follow the Mother's enemy. But... the man had power. With that kind of power, Jaidyn could challenge the Mother herself. She had abandoned him, abandoned him to this suave, oily... very powerful man. Hadn't he come and gone at will? Wasn't he giving Jaidyn everything he wanted? Wasn't he bringing Sonsedhor– Jaidyn's birthright– to Estria? If he was the Dark Father, so what? If the Mother had really loved him, she would have stepped in herself and saved him.

He stumbled away from the door and to the ornate marble washstand. There was a small mirror attached to it. He looked up at his reflection. "I serve the Dark Father..." he whispered. A smile crept across his face. "I serve the Dark Father, and I have power!"

He let out a loud laugh that echoed through the room.

# 

# CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

Denise Pellin was more than friendly on the phone when Becca called. It had been a few years now since she had heard anything concerning her ex-husband, and she was eager to hear how he was doing. Becca didn't go into all the details; she didn't want to worry the woman. Besides, since she and Ryan weren't married any more, she was no longer privy to his medical information.

When Becca started asking about any peculiarities in Ryan's behavior before his committal, any strange habits or interests or anything she could benefit from knowing, Denise provided.

"Ryan was always obsessed with mythology. It was an interest he picked up when he was still in grade school, and he was something of an expert by the time I met him. Greek, Roman, Norse, Egyptian, you name it, he knew it. The stories, they were his inspiration. The music he composed was always named after, inspired by, or about some myth or another. It even carried over into our personal life. Our son's name is Owen... Ryan called him Odin, after the king of the Norse gods. It was sort of a pet name. He's sixteen now, our son, and he's actually going by Odin in school now. I suppose it's his one last tie to his father.

"It's through Odin that I sort of kept tabs on Ryan after the divorce. He had grown so distant I don't really think I was part of his thoughts anymore. But he and Odin talked on the phone sometimes, even though from what Odin told me, Ryan just talked about his compositions. He wasn't very fatherly."

Over the phone, Becca heard a sniff from Denise. Had she begun sobbing?

"The last I heard before we found out Ryan had been committed, he was working on an opera. It was going to be his masterpiece, Odin told me. About some sword. A cursed one, from Norse mythology. Tyrfing, or something like that."

Becca nearly dropped the phone. Tyrfing? She had heard that before. She politely ended the conversation and rushed to the viewing room, searching through the tapes of Ryan and the others. When she found the one she was looking for, she popped it into the VCR. There was Ryan, the day he had randomly started singing more than usual. She fast-forwarded to where he had started spouting what sounded like an epic poem. She leaned in and turned up the volume, straining her ears to really pick up what he was saying.

There it was! He'd said "Tyrfing"! He kept using it, and using "Sawnseddor" over and over, interchangeably in what she could make out of the tale. Was this text from his opera? It didn't matter. She knew what Sawnseddor was. It was a sword!

At first glance, Zanthys didn't recognize the short young man in the streets of Estria. The young man was bruised and bloody, dusty from travel, and all in all looked like he had seen much more of the world than he wanted to see. In peering beneath the bruises and the dried blood and dust, he recognized Hoeth Karzark. At least, he believed it to be the Karzark boy; that whole family was low-blooded enough to be beneath his notice.

The afternoon found Hoeth in his small family manor. Though reluctant to accept guests, Hoeth's father showed Zanthys, Kemeny, and Draegon in anyway. Who were the Karzarks to refuse Banjay Advissen's heir?

Hoeth looked as bad as Zanthys had thought. He might have bathed, since much of the dust was gone from him, but he still looked travel-worn and was completely covered with bruises and bandages that concealed half-healed wounds. He rose as Zanthys entered his sitting room, his eyes completely void of glow and emotion.

"I'll make this quick," Zanthys said, shooting a quick glance at Draegon and Kemeny. The two bothered him. "When and where did you last see Jaidyn Huntley?"

"I never want to hear that name again," Hoeth said weakly. "He lied to me for months, then stole the woman I love and had me beaten nearly to death. Whatever misfortune falls on him is well deserved."

"But where was he last?" Draegon asked urgently.

Hoeth spat and rubbed at the unkempt facial hair growing on his chin with a shaking hand. "Estria. With a man... a man I believe may be the Dark Father incarnate."

Zanthys let out a snigger. Children's stories. But Kemeny and the bard looked ready to believe anything. Kemeny immediately touched Zanthys's arm. "We know where he is. You're coming with us to talk some sense into Jaidyn. Hoeth, you should come too. Jaidyn knows you."

"I'm not going back," Hoeth said, snapping his head up to look at her. His eyes showed the first bit of emotion they had since the audience first began, and it was fiery refusal. "I've been fed nothing but lies since I left, and I'm ready to forget the outside world even exists and stay here. So what if I inherit nothing? The only woman I love is gone. Senne sided with that liar and with the Dark Father. I'll never see Sonsedhor or the true Cheyne reborn– if he even really exists– and I don't even care anymore. Go deal with him yourself, and good riddance."

As they left the Karzark manor house, Kemeny commented, "Wasn't Senne the name of the woman at the river?"

Zanthys had no idea what she was talking about, but Draegon nodded.

A few quick calls to Lauren Rhys and to Vale's coworkers told her that Tyrfing meant nothing to them. It wasn't really a surprise to Becca.

Another round of calls gave her nothing but disconnected numbers and hang-ups. Joanna's family was unreachable. They really had all abandoned her, and some even had "do not contact" notes in Joanna's files. No wonder the woman had issues.

Through much searching, she had actually managed to track down phone numbers for both of Lydia's ex-husbands. Her first husband, Robert– Lauren's father– hung up the moment he heard Lydia's name mentioned.

Her second husband, Daniel, did talk for a bit. Lydia had been desperate for love the whole time they dated and all through their marriage. He supposed it stemmed from how badly her first marriage had gone. As time went on, she only got worse: more and more clingy, emotionally demanding, and constantly seeking acceptance. It got to be too much for him. Yes, he probably shouldn't have gotten abusive, but she had deserved it, even expected and welcomed it.

And no, Sawnseddor and Tyrfing meant nothing to him.

# 

# CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

Senne's view from the balcony in the palace in Estria was really breathtaking. In the fading light of sunset, the city practically glowed, every fleck of gold glinting in the last rays of the day. It would have been beautiful, had the strange black wall not been in the distance.

She couldn't say where the horizon was, because the black was there, just... cutting off sight of everything. It was too early for it to be night's darkness, and too solid a black for it to be anything except... what she had seen a long time ago. For whatever reason, she remembered that blackness. It had been all the way across the river so long ago, then just a bit nearer as recently as a month ago. What was happening to bring it so close now?

Akotherian was sleeping in the next room. The man was still adjusting to being worldly– so he said– and he had to rest often. But she wasn't tired.

"Sonsedhor and Cheyne are coming," he had told her days and days ago. His servants were bringing them. But how soon would it be there? And would it do for him what he thought it would? He was concerned. The world was shrinking, he had told her, dying. Slowly, all of the world they was giving way to a bleak blackness even he was afraid of.

But Sonsedhor would fix everything. If only he could take hold of it– take hold of the Mother's gift to the world– he could force the blackness back. With Sonsedhor in his hands, he could even challenge the Mother herself and take control of everything!

She wondered what happened on the other side of the nothingness. How far in each direction did it really go? Her thoughts went to Hoeth for what felt like the thirtieth time this evening. Had he gone through the blackness to whatever lay on the other side? Was it death? Did the man she thought she might have loved even exist anymore?

The man she thought she might hate– who she had made exist– stirred in the next room. He was her soul. And more than once since she had sacrificed that part of her to him, she had come to realize he was sensitive to her. He could feel her emotions, even the faintest ones. Thinking about Hoeth was dangerous, she chided herself. Akotherian could seize on anything, any weakness, and use it against her. She had sworn complete obedience– and Akotherian would abuse that in an instant and order her to kill Hoeth if the opportunity arose again. She wished she could pray to the Mother that Hoeth would never come back for her. If he did, it would undoubtedly mean his death.

The few whispered words to the mother, her prayer, never came to her lips, but even so it was enough to bring Akotherian to her side. Silently, he wrapped a hand around her throat. But he didn't squeeze.

"Emery was a great cop," Deputy Chief Don Harson said over the phone. "Even after his health started going, he was a great example of an officer. Not one of those stereotypical desk-job doughnut cops." He chuckled. Emery's old boss seemed pleased with his wit– or lack thereof. "It was that jumper that did him in. But I'm sure you've seen the files on that, being at the mental hospital and all." He rambled on for awhile, not really telling Becca anything new, but the man seemed to really have liked Emery. It was good to see that at least one of her patients had actually had a friend of sorts.

More calls told her that Sarah Landers, Emery's mother, had passed away half a decade ago. His father Andrew was still alive, though, and Becca decided to give him a try. Even the files told her that Emery and Andrew had never seen eye to eye, but it was worth a shot.

Andrew was less-than-forthcoming concerning his second son. He was still helpful in pointing her in the direction of Emery's sister Rebekah. The two had been fairly close as children– so he thought.

Excited, Becca hurriedly hung up with Andrew and dialed the number he had given her for Rebekah. She was more than happy to talk about her brother.

# 

# CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

Rebekah chattered about her brother for nearly ten minutes before Becca could get a word in. How was Emery? Was he behaving? Doing well in treatments? Had he asked about her at all? Has he made any friends there or is he still closed up in his shell? If Becca hadn't known better, she would have thought Emery's younger sister was actually his mother.

When she finally got to start asking the questions, she mentioned the other patients first, hoping vainly for a bit. The files told her none of the patients had known each other before coming to Ighosia Falls, but she still wanted to have all her bases covered. She didn't expect to get anywhere with it, but...

"Joanna Bailey? I remember Jo! She and I met in elementary school. Jo's two years older than I am, but that didn't stop us from becoming friends! Oh, my gosh, I haven't heard anything from her for years! Is she a patient there? Pity. What happened?"

As much as Becca wished she could, she wasn't allowed to give Rebekah information on Joanna's condition. Rebekah– "Oh please, call me Becky!"– understood completely, thank goodness.

"Jo and I were best friends through elementary school and into junior high. But when I was in seventh grade– Jo was in ninth, and Emery was a senior– the two of them started dating. As much as I hate to admit it, I was angry. Emery did steal my best friend. My and Jo's friendship sort of petered out that year. But it was okay. She made other friends in high school and I had friends my own age. Things like that happen.

"But while we were friends, we always had our heads together. We played "Pretend" a lot, even into middle school." Becca thought she could hear the blush in Becky's voice. "We were both tomboys, so we didn't exactly pretend we were going out to lunch dates and having tea parties and stuff. We had adventures. Jo loved He-Man."

There was a pause at the other end of the line. Becca wondered if Becky's cell phone had dropped the call. But then Becky's voice came back. "Would you like to meet in person and talk more? You seem really interested in this. And I really hate phones."

Becca couldn't agree quickly enough.

Weslyn hated watching the nightly ritual that the Keidenelle forced Roark into. Every night, the savages made a ring around him, gave him an opponent, and made him fight to the death. Sometimes the opponents were Keidenelle, sometimes prisoners. Either way, it always ended the same. Roark would fight against the curse Sonsedhor had put on him, fight against his urge to kill the person in front of him, but in the end, he had blood on his hands. The Keidenelle he fought were fighting for their own honor and were determined to make him fear for his own life. Some of the prisoners thought winning could earn them their freedom, or maybe better treatment. Whatever their reasons, they always fought back, and Roark was forced to kill them. She could tell he tried to make it painless, make their deaths as painless and merciful as possible, but sometimes that just wasn't an option.

Tonight, he was against a slim Keidenelle man who only came up to his shoulder. The little man was quick and held himself ready to attack. He and Roark circled each other, each looking for his opportunity. The ring of Keidenelle onlookers shouted cheers, jeers, and insults at them, depending on which one they had bet on. She had noticed– more than once– weapons, loot, and even children changing hands as betting losses were paid.

The Keidenelle man made a feint, trying to catch Roark off-guard. Roark didn't even twitch, somehow knowing the feint for what it was. The man feinted again, then stepped quickly the other way, trying to get around Roark. But Roark was having none of it. He twisted to face the Keidenelle man and his hands shot out, grabbing the man by shoulder and wrist. There was a quick jerk, a sick pop, and the man's shoulder was dislocated. Weslyn had to hand it to the man; his pain tolerance was high. He didn't let out so much as a gasp or a short shriek as his shoulder came out of place.

She looked at Roark's hands as he held the Keidenelle man still for a moment. Weeks of fights had left his hands blood-stained. Not all fights went as non-violently as this one had. They never let Roark wash, so the blood of his victims had left his hands a sickly red-brown.

How did they know what Sonsedhor had done to him? They had singled Roark out that second night they were with the band, and he had been forced to fight every night since. Was it mere chance? She didn't think so. Somehow, the Keidenelle knew.

The fire dance would begin once the fight was over. Every night, after the fight, the Keidenelle dismembered the loser and tossed him or her into the gigantic fire they made. They danced and chanted. It was some sort of ritual, she thought, but she didn't know what it was for.

"Think of your friends, your family!" Roark's voice rang over the cheers and insults. Weslyn looked up at him. Or rather, down at him. Roark had fallen to his knees in front of the Keidenelle man, but he wasn't looking at him. His eyes were focused much further up, to the sky. "There is something to live for. You have lots to live for! What about your parents? Your dreams! There is a future beyond this!"

One of the Keidenelle shrieked and pointed to the sky. Weslyn's eyes followed her pointing and at first, didn't know what she was pointing at. But then, in the distance, a star winked out. And another. Minutes ticked by, and stars winked out, like a black curtain was being drawn over them, far away but gradually creeping nearer. Her eyes clouded for a moment, and she closed them to try and refocus. When she closed them, though, a face appeared in front of her. It was a young girl, a teenager, tall and beautiful with sleek brown hair and brown eyes and a petulant mouth. A name popped into her head to go with the face.

"Lauren......" she whispered, bursting into tears. The image inside her eyelids faded and she opened her eyes. But instead of seeing the ring of Keidenelle, Roark and his opponent, she saw a garden in full bloom, a flowering courtyard, complete with a small pond and stone benches. She was sitting on one such bench– she could feel the stone beneath her bottom.

Another name came into her head. Lydia...

She kept crying. She'd never felt more confused or lost in her life. Who were Lauren and Lydia? What was that garden? Where?

A heavy, deep-voiced grunt brought her abruptly back to reality. The slim Keidenelle man had resumed the fight on his own. He was beating the still-kneeling Roark about his head and shoulders with his one good arm and kicking his lower back. Blood began trickling down Roark's face in a handful of places: his nose, one of his ears, cuts on his scalp and forehead.

The Keidenelle were whooping with excitement. Would Roark be killed? Would they let him die? He had killed so many...

She shouted his name but was drowned out by the din the savages were making. More blows landed on Roark's ears and shoulders. The Keidenelle man danced around him, taunting in between strikes.

Without warning, Roark bounded into his opponent and knocked him to the ground. He planted himself atop the other man's chest, seized his head in his hands...

A quick twist, and the fight was over. The onlookers went silent. Wordlessly, Roark rose, strode through the stunned crowd and walked the short distance back to the wagons where Weslyn was. He stood with his wrists together, waiting to be tied back up.

Roark had only glanced at her once, for a brief second, but she had seen something different behind his eyes.

# 

# CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

The café where Becca met with Becky was small enough to be called quaint, but large enough to do very good business. Becca and Becky sat in a corner booth– to minimize the number of people that might overhear private information. Becca set up a small tape recorder with Becky's permission and asked her to elaborate on her friendship with Joanna.

"Well, like most girls, we played pretend a lot. But unlike most girls, we didn't just play at being princesses, the damsels in distress who required knights in shining armor to rescue them. We did our own rescuing. We were princesses sometimes, but we were also Robin Hood-esque brigands and pirates and tribal savages and everything we could think of. There were times when Emery would join in, as a soldier or a knight or a nobleman; he never liked playing princes or kings– too boring.

"But it wasn't just one adventure and then a completely different one next time. Our games were all connected. They could have written a history of their world based on the adventures they had, one after another. The world was the same, with the same places, kingdoms, and all that. Our characters got older, got married, had children...

"Now, when you think of an imaginary character having a child, say... one of my brigands having a daughter... I think most girls would make that daughter, grown up of course, her next character to pretend to be. Not us. We didn't want to be people from the same family, the same part of our world. We wanted to branch out, to create other families, other pasts that would change who we were when we played. But we didn't want to just start from scratch with new characters, either. We wanted to be able to remember what we had done in the past, let the villains we made up come back more than once.

"It was Jo's idea. She had learned about the idea of reincarnation from... somewhere... and she ran with it. Our new characters were our old characters reborn. They were, as we came to term them, 'rebirths'. A rebirth could remember everything her past lives had done, back for centuries as our games went on."

Becca thought the whole concept was interesting, but it didn't really shed any light on her patients' behavior... or did it. "Does the word Sawnseddor mean anything to you? Or Tyrfing?"

"Sonsedhor?! Oh my God, I haven't heard that name in a long time! Sonsedhor was Emery's sword! The sword all his characters used. In all the games he joined in on, it tied his characters together. Since he didn't always play, his men sort of became legends in our world. Sonsedhor was a legend, too, since no one but Emery's characters could use it."

"Was it ever cursed?" Becca asked, thinking of the information she had managed to look up about Tyrfing. A cursed sword from Norse myth, it had forced its wielder to do murder every time it was unsheathed. When Ryan had spoken of it, he had used its name interchangeably with Sonsedhor.

"Cursed? Sonsedhor? Never! It was a great sword, a tool of good. Never evil."

"So what happened to your friendship. You said Emery and Joanna dated in high school?"

"Mm-hmm. For almost a year. Then, not long before Emery graduated, they got into some big fight, but I don't know what it was about. A few weeks later, Emery was off to college and Jo and I had fallen apart by then. Everything was just...... over. But our games... what we had... you can't forget a friendship like that."

"Do you know if Emery and Joanna kept in contact?"

"I doubt it. Emery pretty much abandoned the family while he was still in college. I can't see him keeping in touch with Jo after what happened. I think their fight was the last time they saw each other."

"Until they came to Ighosia Falls."

Becky nodded.

Becca wanted to burst. Finally, some answers!

# 

# CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

"This isn't exactly what I hoped my first visit to Estria would be like," Zanthys said.

Draegon couldn't agree with him more, although he had been to Estria before, multiple times. The Gilded City was just on the other side of the hill they were on. They could see the shining walls– and the blackness around it that unsettled them all greatly– but he couldn't even begin trying to figure out how to get into the city to talk to Jaidyn. The whole city was swarming with Keidenelle, and they even had numerous camps outside the golden walls.

Wagons were scattered everywhere, and there were people tied in lines to them–prisoners, most likely. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. The savages milled about between wagons, some occasionally looking at the nothingness that brought the horizon closer all around them. Looking behind him, Draegon swallowed at the blackness far off behind them. If they had stayed a few more days in Morena... what had become of the city?

He rummaged in his pack for a spyglass, hoping against all odds that he might see some way to get in through the mass of Keidenelle. Before he could even raise the glass to his eye, he heard an uproar from the crowd below him.

A wagon was racing toward them, coming up the road from almost the same direction he and his companions had. A number of Keidenelle and bound prisoners were sprinting next to the wagon, all racing ahead of the blackness that crept gradually towards them all. When it finally reached the edge of the gathered masses, the wagon slowed to a stop. He lifted the glass to his eye then.

He supposed the two big Keidenelle men were leaders of some sort. They were talking animatedly, and one of them began shouting at the other gathered people. They parted, a path opening up to allow the wagon to reach the city gate. The line of prisoners began moving.

Draegon's heart leapt into his throat. Weslyn was among the prisoners, her wrists bound together and a rope around her neck joining her to the line of other prisoners. Every fiber of him screamed to go and rescue her, but his head cried against it. He would stand no chance of getting in and getting her out in that crowd. Watch and wait for a chance, he told himself. He forced himself to rip his looking glass from her and scanned the prisoner line slowly, searching for Roark. He found the soldier tied separately, at the driver's seat of the wagon, right behind the horses. He was being kept separate from the other prisoners. He looked dismal, beaten. His hands were covered with some reddish-brown filth. Dried blood? He didn't have to check to know he didn't have Sonsedhor on him. The Keidenelle would have disarmed all their prisoners.

The wagon passed into the city. Still peering through the spyglass, he glanced over the interior of the city. The Keidenelle filled the streets. The great ruler's palace was close enough that he could make out some detail, even at this distance. All the balconies of the great building were teeming with savages, too.

"I'll wager anything that's where Jaidyn is," he said once Kemeny and Zanthys had taken looks into the city. He returned the spyglass to his own eye and watched as the wagon Roark and Weslyn had come with stopped outside the palace. Roark was released from the wagon, and the lead of the prisoner line untied and led into the palace, the whole line– including his Weslyn– trailing after. A Keidenelle woman rummaged in the wagon and came out with a sheathed sword Draegon was fairly certain was Sonsedhor. She followed after the prisoners.

He lowered the spyglass and thought deeply. He began to feel numb when he realized what he was considering. But it might have been the only way to save Weslyn and Roark.

"Do you think they all know each other?" he asked.

"I don't know," Kemeny replied. "But there are a lot of them. Thousands. They can't know everyone, can they? Why?"

"Because...... I think I might know how to get in and save them. But... do you trust me?"

Zanthys opened his mouth, no doubt to respond negatively, but Draegon cut him off. "Zan, you don't have a choice. You're to blame for a lot of this as it is; you do what I say. But you, Kemeny, do you trust me?"

After a moment, she nodded.

Draegon was glad his hair had returned to its normal color.

# 

# CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

Becca could hardly sit still as she looked at the piles of papers and tapes on the desk in front of her. So much information, that before had been nothing but cryptic...... but she thought she might have some answers now.

The personalities her patients had made for themselves... weren't even part of this world. It seemed painfully obvious now. Even though it had baffled her so long. She felt sheepish that she had let that theory escape her. Just because she didn't read fantasy novels didn't mean no one else did. More calls to family and friend contacts had earned her the answers that yes, all five patients were huge fantasy literature nerds. Even Vale hadn't been able to hide that from his coworkers. Lord of the Rings, The Wheel of Time, A Song of Ice and Fire, Dune... all five were avid readers who, long before coming to Ighosia Falls, escaped into other words via novels. Now their worlds had become real, and they were part of it.

But their profiles suggested that all five had split their personalities before being committed, Dr. Anderson would ask. Becca thought she had her mentor pegged and knew how she would respond to this new theory. If that were true, if their personalities were developed before coming to Ighosia Falls, then how did they become so connected?

Becca thought she had the answer to that, too. The characters Cheyne and Masithina– the names had been given to her by Becky– were already part of the world. Looking back, she knew she had heard those names mentioned before, but not as direct address toward someone, so she didn't think they were Emery's or Joanna's alternate persona. But the world was familiar to both patients. It was contrived by them as an adventure game when they were children. It was only natural that when their minds split, they would cling to something familiar, something from a happier time. That would explain the two of them.

Ryan... his study of mythology, legend, and fantastical writing, as well as his emotional sensitivity and creativity could connect him with them. His recent work on the Tyrfing opera would have given him another tie to Emery's sword, Sonsedhor.

Lydia was much simpler. She had a need to belong, a desperation to be accepted and loved. That would have been enough to pull her in: the need to be part of a group.

Vale was more difficult. What could draw him into such a group? His coworkers had given her the answer: jealously. He hated being excluded.

Everything made sense all of a sudden. But what to do with this knowledge? Helping her patients was the ultimate goal; understanding them was just the first step. So how could she treat them when they were in a completely different world? Rowarck, Weslyn, Draygun, Sen, Kimminy, Jaden, and Xanthis had no idea where they were really, probably had no clue what a doctor or a mental hospital were. They were so deep in their delusions, their alternate world, that she wouldn't fit in. She wouldn't know what to do anyway, to interact with them.

She could very easily turn her speculation and research over to Dr. Anderson for her input, and maybe eventually publish a study about them, but to what end? She still hadn't cured anything. At best, it was still all conjecture.

What could she really do differently anyway? For months, none of the patients had responded to any sort of therapy, group or individual. None of them had even acknowledged the presence of a psychiatrist. Which of them was the real person now, the body's identity or the mind's? Was Emery truly and completely Rowarck now? Was Joanna Sen or Kimminy? Or was she still Jo?

She finally decided that all she could really do was wait and see how things panned out. Would they stay like this indefinitely, or was this their own form of therapy? Things like that had been known to happen. They might just one day snap out of it.

It could go any way.

# 

# CHAPTER FORTY

Kemeny could see why Weslyn was attracted to Draegon when he stripped down to almost nothing. He wasn't muscular, but he was well-built and lean, and there was enough definition to his muscles to know they were there. She wondered whether or not Weslyn had actually seen Draegon without his shirt on. If not, she was in for a treat whenever she did. If she ever did. For a moment, Kemeny actually considered stealing him away from Weslyn, but she overcame that desire quickly.

By the time she had decided not to start flirting with Draegon, the bard had crept down the hill and was nearly to the closest Keidenelle wagon. He had chosen his target and waited for the better part of two hours until finally, it was left unguarded. There weren't any prisoners tied to it, and it was on the outermost edge of the masses. She just hoped he could reach it unseen.

Holding her breath, she watched him approach the wagon, keeping a lookout for unwanted guests. He finally reached it, rummaged around in the back of it until he came away with a large bundle. He hurried back up the hill to her and Zanthys, panting, and showed off his prize: an assortment of clothes, mostly sewn animal hides– some with the fur still on– just like the Keidenelle wore.

He sorted through the bundle until he came across some pieces that looked like they would fit him. Once he had gotten dressed, he looked like he would fit in perfectly with the crowd down there.

"How do I look?" he asked somewhat dismally. She could tell he was having a hard time really coming to terms with what he was doing.

"Silly," Zanthys muttered.

"Almost perfect," she replied, drowning out the snide lordling. "Hang on." She bent down and rubbed her hands in the dirt for a moment, then ran her hands over his face and arms and through his hair. Once she was done, he was thoroughly dirty and had very mussed hair. "Now it's perfect. I almost don't recognize you."

"I you're sure..." he said, producing a length of rope from his bundle. He bound her and Zanthys's wrists– with more than a little protesting on Zanthys's part– and ran between their necks, making them part of his own little prisoner line. "This should work... One more thing."

He took his instrument cases, wrapped them in a few of the unused articles of Keidenelle clothing, and fastened the whole bundle to Zanthys's back. "I am not leaving my instruments out here. Well... let's go."

"Do you even know how to get in?" Zanthys said suddenly, his face contorted in anger. "These are savages we're talking about! They'll mark you for civilized the moment you open your mouth! How can you really expect to pull this off? It'll never work!"

"I'm working on it!" Draegon snapped back. Taking the end of the lead line in his hand, he led them down the hill. When they reached the swarm of savages outside the city gates, Kemeny heard Draegon take in a breath and hold it. She didn't blame him; she wanted to hold her breath, too. But what they needed was for the charade to work. She hung her head, trying to look like a beaten prisoner.

As they moved among the wagons, no one gave them a second glance. Sweat appeared on the back of Draegon's neck– the only part of him she could really see as he led them. He was terrified. Still, in some distant past, he was one of them. She felt sorry for him.

He led them in a winding pattern, slowly making their way to the gate. He breathed again, and she could tell his ears were cocked, trying to pick up bits of conversation, to learn how they spoke to each other. Kemeny made an effort to listen, too. She picked up broken bits she could understand– fragmented, poorly constructed sentences– that were aimed at prisoners that were still among the wagons. But to each other they spoke a completely different language, guttural and strange-sounding to her ears. Now she was getting frightened. How was he going to pull this off?

They finally reached the gate. Before the bard could open his mouth to say a word to the few lingering savages who seemed to be guarding it, they were swept through by the current of people, and then they were in the city. Letting out a whoosh of air in relief, they kept walking. The current continued to pull them, leading them towards the ruler's castle.

# 

# CHAPTER FORTY ONE

Surrounded. By enemies. Even in the middle of a war, Roark had never been completely surrounded by enemies before. It wasn't a feeling he relished. He now understood what it must feel like to be a wild animal caught in a trap: frightened, knowing that trying to escape would only end in injury or even death, but so desperate to be free that any price is worth it.

It was hard not to lose hope. He had seen the number of Keidenelle he would have to fight through to regain his freedom, and it was staggering. And he and Weslyn had now been separated. She was still in the big audience chamber, but she had been crammed into a far corner of it with a great deal of other prisoners. Sonsedhor was still in the hands of the savage he assumed was the leader of the band that had captured him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind– the part of him that noticed every detail of his surroundings and analyzed them for tactical purposes– he couldn't help but notice how similar the big audience chamber was to Lady Ara Fusica's chamber in Necras. The sudden, unbidden thought of the girl hit him like a hammer. What had happened to Lady Ara? He had practically raised her– not alone, of course– but he had been set as her personal guard almost from the moment she had been born. It was only natural that he should feel a fatherly connection to her, but... what had happened to her since he'd left? With everything that was happening in the world... had she been taken by the blackness? Attacked by Keidenelle? Was it possible... could she be among the multitudes of prisoners here in Estria?

Once that possibility entered his head, he couldn't help but scan the room for her. The large bunch of prisoners in the room were perhaps a twentieth of all the prisoners the Keidenelle had brought. Odds were if Lady Ara was a prisoner, she wouldn't be in here.

Another movement caught his eye. The Keidenelle man carrying Sonsedhor was approaching the dais in the center of one wall. Atop it was an ornate chair– the ruler of Estria's chair– and in the chair, a haughty- looking young man sat sideways, one leg thrown carelessly over an arm of the chair. His pitch black, wavy hair was swept aside from eyes that had once surely been handsome but now looked somewhat lifeless. If not for a defiant fiery twinkle in the depths of his eyes, Roark would have thought the young man completely apathetic.

The savage offered the still-sheathed Sonsedhor up to the young man, who practically leapt down form the chair to seize it from him. He rapidly unsheathed the blade, throwing the scabbard aside like trash. He ran a hand up and down the wide blade, caressing it like a lover. Roark narrowed his eyes. He swore he could almost feel those caresses on his soul, sending shudders up and down the core of his soul. From the handful of paces away from the dais, where the Keidenelle were holding him, he could see that Sonsedhor had changed again since he'd seen it last. His bloody handprint was still on the hilt, but the blade– the once brilliantly silvery-white blade– had darkened to the sickening rusty, blackish red-brown of old, dried blood.

The young man kept his grip on the hilt and one hand on the flat of the blade, smiling at it. Roark could see the greed in his eyes, almost feel the desire for power it radiating from him in waves. For a long while, the Keidenelle stood silent, watching him.

"Kill them all," the young man said suddenly.

The prisoners began to scream and the whole mass of them trembled. The Keidenelle exchanged looks, but it was Roark's lead man who spoke. "Dark Father orders not to kill man," he said, gesturing to Roark. "Dark Father's order first."

The Dark Father?! They followed the Dark Father? Mother save us all, he thought. They actually received orders from the enemy of all that was good? Roark began struggling against the savages holding him. He had to get out, had to get Weslyn out, to get Sonsedhor out of the hands of the Keidenelle and this sulky youth.

"I said to kill them all!" the young man shouted, his face turning red. The tiny spark of fire in his eyes had turned to a full blaze. He brandished Sonsedhor grandly, holding the blade over his head. Light from outside glinted off the darkened steel, making it gleam sinisterly. "I hold Sonsedhor! I am the ancient hero Cheyne Firdin's rebirth! I am the legend, the perfect tool and chosen agent of the Dark Father himself! I will be obeyed!" Lowering the sword, he charged through the mass of Keidenelle toward the huddled prisoners. At random, he began pointing them out and ordering torturous deaths for them: boiling in oil, slow skinning and dismemberment, disemboweling, burning alive, and every other horrible fate he could probably imagine.

Eventually, his finger found Weslyn, and he began to detail how she would be enclosed in a metal chamber and have a fire set underneath it so she would roast to death. Weslyn's eyes grew wide with terror. Roark narrowed his and vowed to himself that he would sooner die than allow someone as sweet as Weslyn come to that sort of a death. Somehow, he would find a way to save her and as many others as he could from the sick, twisted whims of this youth who fancied himself Cheyne reborn.

But how could he do it? Even if he somehow managed to free himself and all the prisoners– a nearly impossible feat in itself– the Keidenelle still outnumbered them at least three to one. Then there was the question of interference from the Dark Father. Was he really able to give orders directly to the Keidenelle and to this youth? If so, could he take action to stop any plans Roark tried to act on?

There was too much doubt. It would be difficult enough getting himself out. Weslyn and Sonsedhor were his priorities. Two people would be easier to get out than four hundred.

The young man was still going on with his torture assignments, but he had moved past Weslyn. The merchant girl caught Roark's gaze. Her dark rich blue eyes were full of terror.

Swallowing, he made himself a different vow. If there's no other way... if I must, to save her from a worse fate... I'll kill her myself to save her.

The young man seemed to have tired of his sport in scaring the prisoners. Or maybe he had simply run out of ideas. Either way, he turned now to face Roark. "You're the one he wants... you're the one who found Sonsedhor first." He sneered. "I can't believe those filthy hands touched my sword..." He turned to the nearest Keidenelle. "If Akotherian wants him alive, take him to him. Get this usurper out of my sight."

As a pair of Keidenelle dragged Roark from the chamber, the last things he saw were Weslyn's terrified eyes and the youth fastening the re-sheathed Sonsedhor to his own belt.

# 

# CHAPTER FORTY TWO

Senne stiffened a bit when the two Keidenelle– a man and a woman– brought Roark into the chamber she was sharing with Akotherian. Without wasting a moment to put on more clothes than the little he was wearing, Akotherian stood and walked to Roark so the two were face-to-face.

"Where's Sonsedhor?" he demanded.

One of the Keidenelle said in his halting speech that Jaidyn had taken it.

Akotherian went into a rage. "Sonsedhor is mine! You were told to bring it to me, not to him!" He slapped the Keidenelle man who had spoken across the face with the full extent of his strength. The savage didn't even stumble, but looked at Akotherian with a mixture of defiance and humility. Did the man actually believe the Dark Father had the right to treat him like that? Senne knew she would never understand the savages. She ventured a glance at Roark. He was unreadable.

But Akotherian wasn't finished with being angry. He seized one of the Keidenelle women who had brought Roark and unceremoniously took her head in his hands and snapped her neck like breaking a twig. Without another word, he dashed out of the room. She felt the tug at her core, the pull she associated with him being further than arm's length away. Her essence longed to follow, to be near him. It was almost painful. But she could endure it.

The Keidenelle man seemed to have forgotten Senne and Roark were there. When he was certain Akotherian was gone, the man knelt and tenderly lifted the lifeless body of the woman and carried her out of the room, turning a different direction down the corridor than the Dark Father had gone.

She was left alone with Roark. Slowly, the big soldier turned his stony eyes to her. She returned his gaze, wondering what he saw in her eyes, what he remembered from before.

"I loved you once," he said softly. "I remember."

Faint remnants of memories tugged at her, but it wasn't the face before her that she recognized. It was Hoeth, the young, naïve man who held her heart now– what was left of it. She had no love left for this unshaven, blood-covered bear of a man who stood before her.

As if sensing her feelings, he nodded and left.

# 

# CHAPTER FORTY THREE

The great chamber had erupted into madness. An oily-looking man in black and blue clothes had stormed in and without a word, begun attacking the frightening young man who had stolen Sonsedhor. The two men were grappling over the weapon. The Keidenelle were just watching the two of them fight, wordlessly staring. Weslyn was a little surprised they weren't placing bets like they had with all of Roark's fights, but then she realized that this new man must be important.

She was standing on the edge of the group of prisoners. They had been untied from each other, but their wrists were still bound. Enough of the Keidenelle were still keeping watch over them that she didn't dare trying to untie herself.

She watched as the two men kept struggling. For one moment, the youth had the upper hand, then the oily man. It changed with every breath. Even if both men were servants of the Dark Father– she had heard the evil deity mentioned more than enough to suit her for one day– she hoped the man won. The youth frightened her. Anyone who could so quickly come up with two dozen horrific deaths as he did was someone to be feared. She didn't want to see what he would be like if he had the power to make those torturous deaths happen.

A hand grabbed her arm and began to pull her away from the group. Looking up, she saw a Keidenelle man had hold of her and was trying to make off with her. Wishing she had managed to untie herself, she began beating at him as well as she could, kicking at him, struggling to get out of his grasp. He dragged her past a window, and all she saw outside was black. No streets, no buildings, no golden glint of the dusted and painted city. The black nothingness had reached the outer walls of the castle.

Others noticed it, too, and the prisoners and the Keidenelle broke into a panic almost all at once. People began screaming at the top of their lungs, men and women dashed for the doors– although where they were running to was anyone's guess. She kept beating at the Keidenelle who had her. He was shouting now, but she couldn't hear what he was saying in the din. She didn't care; she'd heard enough of their strange language to know he wouldn't say much she could understand.

Another hand grabbed her other arm, and she looked up into Roark's face. Before she even had the time to sigh with relief at seeing the big man, Roark had slammed a fist into the Keidenelle's face and knocked him to the floor. Pushing Weslyn aside, Roark dove onto the reeling savage and began pounding him with fists, over and over again, beating the man until blood spattered onto the tiled floor.

The savage didn't stand a chance. He was half Roark's size and was only weakly able to defend himself. It was a few moments later, when much of the crowd had cleared out of the room and their screams had faded out in the corridors, that she heard her name called.

The Keidenelle man was shouting her name. And Roark's. He was begging Roark to stop.

Weslyn caught one of the soldier's big arms and tried to hold him back from hitting the man again. Roark stopped long enough to recognize Draegon beneath him.

By the way he was twitching and the way he groaned and protested when Roark tried to help him to his feet, she knew there had to be a great number of bones that were broken and fractured. Draegon stay lying on the floor in a pool of blood that was slowly growing. His hair was matted with the stuff, no doubt from a crack in his head where Roark had slammed him against the floor, trying to rattle his brains. He feebly moves his arms and legs. "I think... you crushed my shoulders..." the bard muttered faintly. "And my hips." He coughed; droplets of blood flew from his mouth, dotting his crude clothes and his face with red. His breathing came shallow and with difficulty.

"Kemeny is...... here," he said despite Weslyn's insistence that he not talk or try to move. There was a terrible look in his eyes, like he was seeing everything for the last time. He was already convinced he was going to die. She knew it was too late for him, that Roark's beating had done him in as surely as a knife to the throat, but she didn't want to believe it. If he just stops talking and stays still, he'll live, she told herself, even as she chided herself for having false hope.

"Kemeny...... in the crowd... looking for you." He coughed up more blood this time. His eyes wouldn't stay open, but she could tell he was trying to keep them from closing. "With Zanthys... lordling... he tricked..." He took in a rattling breath that made his whole body tremble violently. "I love you... Wes...lyn." His fingers twitched. "Go... get out..."

She felt the tears welling up behind her eyes as Roark grabbed her by the arm again. She stood rooted where she was, not wanting to leave Draegon while he was still alive. She could at least be with him to the end, so he wouldn't die alone.

"Just...... go," the bard whispered hoarsely.

Roark pulled at her arm harder, forcing her feet to move. Feeling hollow, she trailed after him, barely registering his voice saying, "I think I saw Kemeny."

# 

# CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

Zanthys had already forgotten who he was supposed to be looking for. The savage fool Draegon had only given him names and vague descriptions anyway, and how was he supposed to find two complete strangers in this chaotic, panicking crowd? People, both Keidenelle and civilized, were running in every direction, cowering in alcoves, breaking things, screaming at the top of their lungs, pushing each other, and everything else people do when they've been driven mad by uncertainty.

The great doors of the castle stood open, showing only blackness. That thick, congealed-looking darkness scared him, froze him right to his soul. And what was even more terrifying was that some people were actually running straight out the doors and being swallowed by the nothingness. They just... disappeared. For one moment, they existed, then in a second they were gone, swallowed up so that their screams were cut off completely. They disappeared. Zanthys didn't want to think about what happened on the other side of that black wall.

He backed away from the open doors, wanting to put as much space between himself and the blackness as possible. Where had that foolish bard Draegon gotten off to, and that girl Kemeny? Zanthys scoffed at the thought of the two of them. He shouldn't even be here! It wasn't his fault someone else picked up his fake Sonsedhor! No matter what had happened since then, it was a fake, and if it had caused problems for this Roark fellow, well he shouldn't have picked it up anyway. Zanthys couldn't control that, much less reverse his actions now. What were they really expecting, him to apologize and for that to make everything better?

He passed by a wide arch that led into an audience chamber and did a double-take when he glanced into the room. There was a dead body on the floor– Keidenelle by the looks of him– and a pair of men grappling on the throne's dais.

One of the men he recognized immediately as Jaidyn Huntley. Anger welled up in him at the sight of the man who had ruined everything, all his plans, his prank– it was really Jaidyn's fault that Zanthys was here, trapped in a castle with scores of Keidenelle savages. He drew his sword. He might not know how to use it– not really, anyway– but he knew which end to stab people with. He rushed toward Jaidyn and the man he was fighting with. He realized they were grappling over a sword, a sword he recognized: his false Sonsedhor.

Jaidyn glanced up as Zanthys hurried forward, sword drawn. His eyes flashed with sick amusement, and Zanthys saw for a moment a very foreign look in his contemporary's eyes. Jaidyn looked– he couldn't think of another word for it– possessed. Like someone else had taken him over and was looking through his eyes. Glancing at Jaidyn's opponent, he saw the very same look mirrored in this stranger's eyes. It was foreboding, calculating... evil. He shuddered but did not stop advancing.

Somehow, the two other men both got hold of the false Sonsedhor's hilt and raised it to meet the descending slash Zanthys aimed at them. The fury of a demon came over Zanthys– he wasn't sure from where– and his sword became a blur as he slashed and swiped with it wildly, pushing the two other men back. Neither of them relinquished his hold on the hilt, and together they parried blow after blow, not struggling for possession of the sword anymore, but for an advantage to dispose of Zanthys. It was almost as if they were of one mind; Sonsedhor moved smoothly, arcing, slashing back, flicking...

The two other men took a step backward. Sweat beaded on Zanthys's forehead as he pressed on, pushing the mad-eyed men back one step after another. Through an open doorway they went, through a small antechamber, and onto a balcony.

The moment Sonsedhor crossed the threshold onto the balcony, somewhere between the balcony rail and the black curtain that loomed dangerously close, lighting flashed.

# 

# CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

Everyone's gone mad, Kemeny thought as she watched the Keidenelle and their prisoners fight mercilessly against each other. Frightened at the chaos that had erupted around her after splitting up with Draegon and Zanthys, she had found herself a hiding place in a large audience chamber, and she was still there. Panic had rushed like a wave through the people, savage and civilized alike, and they had scattered like rice on the wind. One small fight had remained, two men grappling over a sword, and then a third man had joined them, but they were gone now. All that had remained in the chamber with her was a body lying in a pool of blood. She hadn't seen what had happened to that man– a Keidenelle by his clothes– but she suspected he had been knocked down and trampled in the madness as everyone rushed out.

Before she could squeeze herself out of the low little alcove she had twisted herself into– thank the Mother for her flexibility– the crazed masses had rushed back in, but this time they were fighting each other rather than running aimlessly. Savage fought savage; prisoners fought Keidenelle in pairs, in threes; women brawled with men; people died. Once what seemed like hours had passed and calm settled back in through the chamber, she was alone again, but instead of one body on the floor, there were now dozens. The sounds of fighting still came now and then from the hallway outside.

Trembling, Kemeny squeezed herself out of her hiding place and picked her way among the bodies, not daring to call for Draegon or Zanthys, not sure where to start looking for Weslyn and Roark. Part of her was afraid they she would find one or more of her friends– deep down, she even considered Zanthys some sort of a friend, even if an unwilling one– among the bodies.

It was Draegon she found as she carefully stepped between corpses. His face was battered and blood-covered; his shoulders, chest, and hips looked sunken. He had been dead for some time before she got to him. She wasn't certain, but she thought he might have been the one who had been trampled–or whatever had happened to him.

She stood in shock, looking down on the lifeless face of her old friend. His eyes were closed, thank the Mother– she thought she might have vomited if he had been looking at her with dead eyes. Even so, her stomach heaved just a bit so she had to turn away from the bard's body. The tears came then, rushing from her eyes in torrents, turning the rest of the bodies surrounding her into unidentifiable blurs. She was grateful for that; she feared turning around would only bring her to Weslyn's body, or Roark's, and she couldn't deal with that at the moment.

Thunder rumbled outside. She had seen flashes of lighting flickering through the room all during the battle that had taken place. There was no accompanying sound of rain, though. Had the world gone mad?

Stumbling among the bodies, blinded by the tears that wouldn't stop, she found herself up at the dais where the men had been fighting before. A heavy sob racked her, and she fell to her knees on the rug-covered floor.

Approaching footsteps reached her ears, and she wiped her eyes to look up. A woman had come into the room and was standing a mere six or seven paces from her, across the dais. The woman was lovely and finely dressed, but the look in her face screamed that she had seen and done and endured far more than anyone should have to. She looked tired, defeated, and in a strange way, empty. She was missing... something.

The other woman's eyes lit up at the sight of Kemeny, and some of that missing something seemed to filter back into her.

"I know you," Kemeny found herself saying. She stood, and she and the stranger approached each other.

The other woman nodded. "I'm Senne. I... know you, too. You're......"

"Kemeny," she finished. They were now so close they could touch without extending an arm very far. For a second that lasted an hour they stared into each other's eyes. Kemeny felt a smile grow on her face and saw it mirrored in Senne's.

"Jo..." she said at the same moment Senne said it. She knew who she was, who this other woman was. Jo. She remembered Jo, remembered dancing. Reaching out, she wrapped her arms around Senne in an embrace. The other woman held her right back. She felt whole.

If any eye had looked into the room at that moment, they would have found it empty save for dozens of dead bodies.

# 

# CHAPTER FORTY SIX

Roark couldn't let his remorse for murdering Draegon get to him; he still had Weslyn to protect. They were running now, running through the castle and finding nothing but frenzied people fighting, hopeless people waiting to die, and dead ends that put them face-to-face with the black nothingness that sent cold chills up their spines.

As they ran, they came across numerous Keidenelle. Blood lust had taken over many of the savages, and they were killing people left and right– anyone and everyone they came into contact with, Keidenelle or no. More than once, Roark had to let go of Weslyn's hand for just a moment to deal with a crazed man or two, terrified that when he went back for her hand there wouldn't be a hand to grasp anymore. He still had it in his head to save her, no matter what happened. He could still save Weslyn.

But every exit was blocked, opening only to blackness. Even some corridors ended not in a door, but the vast nothingness he didn't dare get too close to. He had once, he remembered, ages ago as Cheyne. Something told him now that crossing the blackness would be his end.

Save Weslyn. He turned and ran another way, shoving threatening Keidenelle out of the way with his shoulders. What if there was no way out except the black? It was far too unknown; he couldn't condemn Weslyn to Mother-knows-what. Could he?

He decided he couldn't. If there was no other way... he could still spare the girl a gruesome or uncertain death. He could give her that. But only if he had to, if there was no other way.

They came to another black dead end. He turned, pushing Weslyn ahead of him. They passed a junction where their corridor met another, and a handful of Keidenelle spied them and gave chase. Urging Weslyn to go faster, he continued to glance over his shoulder at their pursuers. They weren't gaining much.

Up a set of stairs, through a wooden door, and Roark found himself and Weslyn at the crenellated top of a guard tower. Black surrounded the castle on all sides, even cutting through the walls in some places. What was left of the world was less than half the area of a farmer's field. Everything outside the castle was just... gone. In a cruel mockery, the sky overhead was pale blue and clear, but still lighting flashed from nonexistent clouds, striking stone balconies that were still undisturbed by the black. Not too far away, the sounds of a heated sword battle came, but he couldn't see who was doing the fighting. But the shivers that ran up and down his spine at the clanging sounds told him that Sonsedhor was one of the swords being used. That meant the fellow Jaidyn was down there, as well as the man he suspected to be the Dark Father.

The door tried to burst open, but Roark threw his weight against it. Their pursuers must have caught up. Nothing but the unknown before them, and a bloody death at the hands of Keidenelle behind. He fought against the feelings of despair that began to creep up on him, but they were overpowering. There was a way out of everything, but... there was no way out of this.

The Keidenelle on the other side of the door pushed in earnest, but Roark kept his weight against it as much as he could. That was one advantage he had over the Keidenelle– every one of them he'd seen was half his size or less. They were a lean people. Gradually, his weight and strength closed the door. Bit by bit, the gap narrowed, narrowed... closed.

He slid the bar into its slot, keeping the Keidenelle sealed out. Then they began to bang against it, probably using their own shoulders as battering rams.

"Pray," he told Weslyn. "Pray it holds."

Turning to look from the door to the merchant woman, he saw her on her knees, staring at the blackness. Was it his imagination, or had it gotten significantly closer while his back had been turned?

"Mother, I beg your mercy, I beg for safety," Weslyn's voice was thin and shaking as she stared at the black. She fell to her knees, trembling violently from shoulders to toes. She wrapped her arms around herself, repeating her prayers. Roark could see the blackness approaching, slowly taking over stone after stone of the battlements. Behind him, he heard the wood of the door creaking, cracking, beginning to give. It would only be a matter of time before the Keidenelle broke it down. But would that happen before or after the nothingness overtook him and Weslyn.

There is nothing else, he told himself dismally, trying to separate his emotions and his conscience from what he was telling himself he must do. There is no other way... I can still save her...

Quietly, he stepped up behind the kneeling Weslyn. He held his breath as he reached his hands out for her thin, pale throat. She wasn't aware of him as she kept mumbling her prayers, her eyes locked on the approaching unknown.

His big hands wrapped around her neck, and he pressed as firmly but as gently as he could. She gasped, the last breath he would allow her to have. Her hands shot up to his, clawing. She leaned back against his legs, her lovely blue eyes looking up at him, pleading, not understanding, begging. He didn't loosen his grip. He could feel her throat pulsing beneath him, hear her silent screams, feel her body crying desperately and trying unsuccessfully to get air.

Finally, she went still. He gently laid her on the stone floor of the battlement, not letting himself look at her. No... he was simply unable to look at her. Seeing her unmoving form would break him, he knew.

He rose and squared himself to look at the blackness that was still creeping toward his place by the door. He ignored the constant banging on the door behind him; the Keidenelle no longer mattered. His fate was in the blackness; he would wait for it.

# 

# CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

Zanthys was amazed he was still alive. Here he was, an untrained swordsman, wildly swinging his sword with no idea what he was doing, slashing without a care who or what he was aiming at, fighting against two men who were so desperate to have their hands on the false Sonsedhor he had had made that neither of them were willing to let a finger of their hands loose its hilt. Jaidyn and the stranger– whom he'd heard Jaidyn curse at multiple times using the name Akotherian– were fighting each other as much as they were fighting Zanthys. Maybe that was the only reason I'm still alive, he thought.

Neither of the other two men seemed at all aware of what was happening outside their little balcony, but Zanthys was. He heard shouts from somewhere, banging, running, screaming, and other evidence of mass chaos and panic. He thought he smelled blood, but even he had to admit that smell was probably imagined. None of the men near him had even a scratch, and who else could be close enough for him to smell their blood?

But the sounds and imagined smells did nothing to frighten him like what he saw did. Every time he let his eyes flicker toward the railing of the balcony where they fought– which was becoming more and more frequent– he could only see that blackness that made bile rise in his throat. It was growing closer. He knew that there was no way something like that could be moving as fast as he thought, but it seemed that every time he looked at the wall of nothing, it had gotten an arm's length or more closer. He kept telling himself over and over in his head– between clashes of sword on sword– that it could only be an inch closer, or two maybe. But not the whole length of an arm, no matter how much closer it seemed to be.

Akotherian seemed to have the upper hand at the moment in his private skirmish with Jaidyn, and he flicked their shared sword at Zanthys's head so Zanthys had to duck to dodge it. He stumbled and fell, rolling a bit as he lost his balance. His sword fell out of his hand. He ended up at the railing at the edge of the balcony, his nose an inch from the approaching blackness. The railings had already been halfway overtaken by the nothingness. He scrambled away from it in a poor imitation of a crabwalk, his hands and eyes searching frantically for his sword.

He found it just out of his reach. Jaidyn saw it too, as he struggled to regain the upper hand– or at least an equilibrium again– with Akotherian. But he still had a moment to glance at Zanthys's sword, grin, and kick it further from where Zanthys was. He resumed his grappling with Akotherian in earnest, Zanthys forgotten in less time than it took to take a breath.

Zanthys crawled around the edge of the balcony, looking frantically for something to use as a weapon. Anything. All that was around him was masonry from the castle, and all of that was still attached and whole. He locked his eyes on his sword and bit his lip, praying that he would be able to get to it before either of the other men came out victorious and ran him through with his prank sword.

As he steeled himself to dash for his blade, he felt something sting his hand and looked down. A line of blood was forming on the palm of his hand. A few large shards of glass were on the floor of the balcony. Looking up, he saw a broken window– one of the decorative colored-glass ones from the audience chamber they had come from what seemed like ages ago. Not caring if his hand got slashed even worse, he grabbed the largest, most pointed shard he could find and got to his feet. The glass shard was colored red– It had probably once been part of some picture– a lord's robe maybe, but all he could think of was blood. How appropriate. All this had to end now.

In the time it had taken him to stand, while Zanthys hadn't been looking, Jaidyn had somehow managed to finally wrest the fake Sonsedhor from Akotherian and was standing over Zanthys's abandoned sword, glaring derisively at the panting Akotherian. The defeated man's back was inches from the black wall that had now completely overtaken the balcony rails. Fiery hate filled his eyes.

Staggering forward, Zanthys extended his arm towards Jaidyn, planning to bring everything to an end, prepared to sacrifice his own life, if need be. He was ready to be finished with Jaidyn, with his failed prank, with everything. Death would be welcome. As the sharp shard of glass neared Jaidyn's torso, the man seemed unaware of it. Leaning forward, Zanthys prepared to make a final lunge to close the last few inches of distance, but Jaidyn wasn't as oblivious as he'd seemed. The mad-eyed hero-wannabe shifted his weight and twisted; Zanthys's lunge missed his target, and he stumbled, trying to correct his balance. He twisted in turn, his arm brandishing the glass shard flung out wildly. Blood and sweat covered his hand; the glass slid out of his grip as he overcompensated for his fall and instead followed his arm to the side, falling part-backwards, part-sideways.

The feeling that coursed through him as he hit the ground was one he couldn't easily identify. Every muscle in his body clenched, twitching rapidly. He felt... blue, a crackling white-blue like lightning. His whole body convulsed, but screaming was impossible; any noise he tried to make got caught and fizzled before it left his throat.

It seemed ages before his eyes found their focus. Events were moving in slow motion. Akotherian's hand was outstretched towards himself and Jaidyn. The forked pale blue lightning that erupted from his fingers had found its home in Zanthys's chest and was still wreaking its havoc on his muscles. Forcing his head to twist around, he saw Jaidyn, Sonsedhor still in hand, his other hand at his chest. A dark patch of fabric stood out on his shirt towards his stomach, where the shard of glass had struck, sinking deep into flesh. A look of surprise was on Jaidyn's face, but that quickly gave way to rage.

Akotherian seemed to be trying to pull his hand upward, to move the lightning that was still wracking Zanthys's body to strike Jaidyn instead, but the sweat and panic that bloomed on the man's face belied his ability to do it. He looked tired, worn out, used up, and it was all he could do to keep the deadly bolt in existence, much less move it. There wasn't a doubt in Zanthys's head that this was his end. He would die from this, here on the balcony.

Despite the growing patch of blood on his shirt, Jaidyn kept his feet and locked his eyes on Akotherian's face. Zanthys had no faith left in him for mercy; they were all going to die here. Murder was in Jaidyn's face, as sure as the glass was buried in his gut. He lurched towards his target, stretched out Sonsedhor, and without a word, buried the tip of the steel blade into Akotherian's chest.

All at once, the twitching, white-blue crackling feeling left Zanthys; the lightning disappeared from sight; Akotherian cried out, his voice echoing, seemingly against the black wall that was so close Zanthys thought he could smell it; and Jaidyn fell to his knees, his hand still gripping Sonsedhor's hilt. Struggling visibly to control his trembling arm, Jaidyn turned his wrist, twisting the blade into Akotherian's chest.

Unable to keep his eyes open, and his mind focused, Zanthys tried to his last prayer up to the Mother before he lost himself completely, but once again, the words wouldn't come out.

# 

# CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

For a long time Roark stood staring at the black wall, waiting for it to devour him. Minutes passed before it occurred to him that the blackness had stopped its approach and gone still, not closing in so much as a hair's breadth. It had stopped less than a finger's span from the edge of Weslyn's dress.

Disbelief that it really had stopped flooded through him, and he waited, now counting the seconds until it moved again to swallow up him and the bodily remains of the sweet merchant woman. Minutes passed by his counting: three, five, eight, eleven. A quarter of an hour went by, and the black wall hadn't moved a bit.

Weslyn would have lived...

The thought hit him like a hammer. She would have lived. Had he not been so certain they faced their deaths, had he not acted in haste... if only he had put his faith in the Mother to save them, she would still be alive, pulse beating, lungs taking air next to him.

She would have lived...

Falling to his knees next to Weslyn's cooling body, he threw back his head and howled. Oaths flew from his mouth afterward, shouted curses for everything from himself to the Mother Above to the Dark Father– and everything in between. Time froze as the minutes and hours passed with him damning everything he could think of. Part of him, deep down, pleaded with the Mother to let him take it back, to let him die in her stead and send her back to the living world.

When he finally opened his eyes again, having completely drained himself of tears, the blackness had receded. It had more than receded; it was completely gone. The nothingness surrounding him, swallowing up everything, was gone as if it had never existed at all. Beyond the balcony, the glittering gilded walls of Estria shone in the late afternoon sun. He suddenly became aware that the banging on the door behind him had stopped. When had the Keidenelle given up their pursuit?

Weslyn's body was gone.

Unbarring the door, he cracked it open, but there was no ambush. There were no Keidenelle savages waiting for him on the other side of the door– in fact, there wasn't a single soul to be seen in the corridor. Not a bit of dirt from a boot, a shallow depression on a rug from a footprint– there was nothing to suggest people had been in the castle recently.

Warily, Roark explored the castle. He passed through chambers he'd been through before, knowing there should be corpses, bloodstains, abandoned weapons, something! For all he saw, he could have been the only man left in all the world, in all of– what was the name of this place? "Ighosia" came into his head, and he decided that must be the name he was searching for. Was he really the only man left in all of Ighosia?

Weslyn would have survived. If I hadn't killed her, she would have lived, and I wouldn't be alone...

The pristine walls that surrounded him were unsettling. Hurrying, with only the echoing sound of his boot heels striking the floor, he strode through the great audience chamber that reminded him of Lady Ara's and out to the balcony for some fresh air.

He wasn't the only man left in Ighosia! There were three men lying on the stone floor out here: one was plainly dead; Sonsedhor stuck out from his unmoving chest. The other two were young men– lordlings by their clothes– and both on the brink of death themselves. One had a shard of glass sticking out from his gut, the other didn't have a mark on him, but not and then his whole body twitched violently. Only the one with glass in him– the young man who had claimed Sonsedhor for himself, Jaidyn– showed any sign that he was aware of Roark's presence.

Calmly, as if he had all the time in the world– which he really did, he thought with a smirk– Roark sauntered to the body Sonsedhor was buried in. Wrapping his hand again around the familiar hilt, he drew the sword from the corpse's chest, not bothering to wipe the blackish blood from the metal. Jaidyn didn't make a sound as Roark stood over him, legendary sword in hand, but his eyes screamed his fear. The other young man still showed no sign that he was alert to anything that was happening around him. Rather than let that young man suffer, Roark decided to put him out of his misery, too.

One well-placed swipe with Sonsedhor ended the lives of both young men.

Roark threw back his head and laughed. Without needing proof, without having to see if it was true, he knew he was the only man left in all of Ighosia. It was his. The world was his.

"Finally mine!" he shouted between hearty laughs.

#

# 

# Epilogue

It had been like flicking a switch. Becca couldn't believe it, but the evidence was there in front of her. Whatever had happened between the five Sonsedhor patients and their alternate personalities, everything had come to an end. At least, it seemed to be at an end.

Things had seemed so calm for so long. For months, Emery's violent streak had seemed contained, easily averted by restraints, but the events of the night of November fifth had come as a surprise.

Fortunately, his unprovoked attack on Ryan had been thwarted. But then, as he was being restrained, he managed to overpower the nurses and turned his attentions to Lydia. He had been much harder to hold back then.

No one was sure how he managed to get out of his room after being locked in and bound in a straitjacket, but the former policeman had somehow done it. By the time his escape had been discovered and they found where he'd disappeared to, Vale was already dead. His body was removed the next morning. There was no question– he had been beaten to death by the big ex-cop.

Thanksgiving saw Becca in Dr. Anderson's office, seated in a corner and simply observing as Dr. Anderson spoke to Jo Bailey, whose recovery had come as a surprise. It had been like flicking a switch, she thought again as she studied her former patient. Jo wasn't even in her wheelchair; walking was difficult in her physical state, but it wasn't completely impossible. Once she had come to her senses, she had insisted on doing away with the chair and walking under her own power, even though it took her a long time to move across a room. She had spirit, a desire to live in her chocolate-brown eyes.

"I'm ready to go home," Jo said softly, looking at her hands in her lap. "I believe I'm done here."

With a nod, Dr. Anderson replied, "I will gladly support that statement. You will be missed around here, Joanna, but it is time you went back to the real world."

Jo's head snapped up at that– as quickly as her head could snap, anyway, which was still fairly slow– but she didn't say anything.

"We will, of course, keep observing you for a few months while you readjust to life outside the Institute," Dr. Anderson continues, smiling. Becca knew the smile was for the recent bill that had finally passed judgement by the board of directors, renaming the place Ighosia Falls Mental Institution. Jo simply nodded. "And we have, of course, contacted your family. Your parents are ready for you back at their home, since your apartment was rented back out some time ago."

Jo nodded again.

"You look like you want to say something. Please, go ahead Joanna. Feel free."

Something familiar to Becca flashed in Jo's eyes. "I want to see the others." Dr. Anderson and Becca exchanged looks. Joanna kept her gaze level on Dr. Anderson's face. "I know there were others. Please, can I see them?" There was no pleading in her voice, just simple need.

Dr. Anderson nodded.

Jo walked with the intern, Becca, down a hallway lined with doors. Dr. Anderson hadn't come with them, but Jo didn't care much for the doctor anyway. There was something familiar and warm about the young intern, and she was a welcome guide to her companions. Something told Jo that Becca... understood. She didn't know what it was about the young woman, but she knew she could trust her, deep in her core.

"This is Lydia," Becca said, opening a door. The intern entered first, speaking softly and soothingly to the room's occupant.

In the woman before her, Jo recognized Weslyn, but there was something wrong with her. The woman, Lydia, refused to lift her head. She made no move, gave no inclination that she might speak. Jo didn't press her; she simply nodded to Becca and slowly made her way out of the room.

"She's become much more functional since... that night," Becca explained, "but Lydia's emotional condition has fallen drastically. She's battling deep depression suddenly. She won't speak to anyone.

That's because she's dead, Jo thought, but she said nothing. That Weslyn had died was a certainty to her, but she didn't know how she knew it. She hadn't seen Weslyn die, but there was no doubt it had happened.

She was introduced to Ryan next, and in him she knew the bard Draegon. But Ryan eyed her askance, darted as far away from her as he could, and cowered in a corner behind a desk chair. Like Lydia, he had regained the better part of his sanity since November fifth, but his temperament was now marked with constant fear and paranoia. Constantly looking over his shoulder, Ryan jumped at the slightest sound or voice. Throughout her short visit, he muttered about constant nightmares, each one of the same thing: murder. Over and over, murder.

Jo remembered seeing Draegon's body in the chamber... bloody and battered, beaten until he had hardly looked like himself anymore. She didn't blame Ryan for having nightmares about that.

Becca hesitated over taking her to the last of the others. Emery had killed another patient, she was told. His victim had been Vale Stapleton, who had also been one of the others involved with her, Lydia, and Ryan. At the name Emery, Jo's heart skipped a beat. Her recognition came as no surprise to Becca.

"You two knew each other as kids," the intern said.

"More than just kids," Jo whispered back.

Nodding as if she already knew that, Becca led her to the last door. This was no simple hallway door with a small viewing window like Ryan and Lydia had. Emery's door was reinforced metal, and instead of a window, there was a barred panel. They kept him like a prisoner.

Flashes of Kemeny's and Senne's memories flooded her mind as she peered through the bars at Emery. The big man sat on the floor unmoving. As if sensing he was being watched, he lifted his head, and a pair of stoney blue eyes met Jo's. His mouth didn't move; he didn't blink or even seem to breathe. But those eyes pierced her to the core. Somewhere deep in the depths of her mind, the parts of her that were Senne and Kemeny trembled.

"I loved you too, once," she whispered. Turning to Becca, she took the intern's arm. It helped her walk more steadily to have support. "Now I'm ready to go home."

<<<<>>>>

Follow me on Twitter:

http://twitter.com/afgrappin

Subscribe to my blog:

http://afgrappin.blogspot.com
