"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 t
hem. 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 th
ought 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.