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 spreadin
g 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...
&
nbsp; "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.