Mere Acquaintances

  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 chi
ded 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. r />
  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.