“I’d like to meet him,” Lorie said guardedly.
“Perhaps that may yet occur,” Yaerilys said with a short nod before reaching up and rubbing the pauldron over her left shoulder. “Forgive me; t’would seem the golems’ claws pierced even this robust casement.”
“Are you ok?” Randall asked with genuine concern.
“’Tis but a scratch,” she assured him in that metallic voice which erased all identity—her gender, her age, or even her mild but memorable accent—from her words. To Randall, that voice perfectly symbolized the transformation which Rimidalv had forced on Yaerilys. She was no longer permitted to be herself, and the bastardly White Blade even kept Ravilich around where he was forced to watch his loved one slip away, bit by bit, until nothing remained but the pieces which served Rimidalv’s agenda.
“I can take a look at your wounds if you’d like,” Randall offered, expecting her to decline—almost certainly at Rimidalv’s urging—but extending the offer regardless.
“Thou have a good heart, Randall,” she shook her helmeted head side to side. “But thy help is unnecessary.”
There were at least a dozen things Randall wanted to say at that moment, but he opted for silence.
“I will await my Squire,” she said as she turned to make her way back to the keep’s courtyard, “but first, we should dispose of the corpses with fire.”
“Agreed,” Randall grudged, and they set about to do precisely that.
Two hours later, the stench of the burning corpses was thick in the air. Thankfully Randall was as used to the smell as he hoped he would ever get, so he only gagged a handful of times before finishing the grizzly work of heaping and lighting the dismembered body parts.
“The fire will cleanse the corrupted flesh of its taint,” explained Yaerilys, who had worked alongside Randall and the others to stack the bodies, “but the true danger is not from the flesh, but the Heart Stones.”
“The crystals?” Randall gestured to the small pile of seemingly inert crystal fragments.
“Indeed,” the White Knight nodded. “There is no known way to destroy them entirely; given time they will seek to recombine with each other.”
“Obviously that’s something we don’t want to happen,” Randall offered.
“T’would be a travesty for this world entire,” she said grimly. “Still, we have little choice in the matter. Burn them, smash them, toss them into the sea or even cast them into the underworld, it matters not—they will eventually reform.”
Randall looked skeptically at the greyish crystalline shards, most of which were around the size of a finger with a few larger fragments along with a pile of pea-sized pieces. He knelt beside them and reached out hesitantly to touch them.
“Do not do that, Randall,” Yaerilys said sternly, “lest their corruption infect thee as well.”
Randall cocked his head dubiously, “I think these things are…well, dead.”
“I told thee,” she shook her head as Randall’s friends looked on quietly, “they may appear inert, but they will surely reform.”
“I’m telling you,” he countered firmly, “they’re dead.”
Yaerilys seemed ready to repeat her objections, but she paused before she could do so. Randall shot a look her way when he realized she must have been communicating with Rimidalv, and that look turned ever darker with each passing second of silence.
“I see…” she said, casting an awkward look toward Randall’s friends as she moved closer and lowered her voice so they could not hear, “dost thou believe thy blade somehow quenched the Spark within them?”
“The Spark?” Randall repeated with a cocked brow.
“Tis the seed of magic which powers all truly permanent magical creations,” she explained. “The Heart Stones contain such a spark, as do the blades to which each of us serves as wielder.”
“I don’t serve anyone, Ser Cavulus,” Randall said through gritted teeth, “and neither should you.”
“Thou mistook my meaning—“ she began.
“No, I took it perfectly,” he snarled, stopping himself from saying more as he tried to control his breathing.
The White Knight’s impenetrable helmet concealed whatever emotions, if any, that Yaerilys retained the ability to express. Randall refused to back down, even though he became acutely aware of the imposing figure she cut in the White Knight’s armor with Rimidalv strapped across her back.
Randall? Dan’Moread’s voice suddenly sprang into his mind.
“Dani?” he said in surprise. The last time he had lost contact with her she had been ‘unconscious’ for far longer than this, and he had expected her to be out of touch for at least that long this time.
Randall…we need to speak, she said, her voice coming through somewhat faint but her words were clear enough to his mind.
“Thy Flylrylioulen glimmers,” the White Knight observed.
“It does,” he grunted, standing from the pile of Heart Stone shards and making his way to the back of the main house, “I need to be alone for a few minutes.”
“Of course,” Yaerilys said, but there was something different about her voice and posture compared to a few minutes earlier. She was clearly on alert, and Randall silently cursed himself for his emotional outburst of a few moments earlier.
When he reached the rear of the main house he drew Dan’Moread, so as to improve their communication however much he could. He then sat cross-legged where he could keep an eye on the White Blade and its wielder. “Dani, are you all right?” he asked as soon as he was situated and had taken a moment to clear his mind.
I am, she agreed, thank you for asking. Randall…you must not antagonize the White Blade.
“I wasn’t antagonizing anyone, Dani,” he said dismissively.
I overheard much of your conversation, Randall, she said seriously. Do not attempt to deceive me—or yourself.
He ground his teeth angrily as he fought to keep his voice to a whisper so as to keep their conversation private, “You know…I would have thought you’d understand my anger, Dani. Rimidalv has taken something from both of us, but what he’s taken from me is only a tiny fraction of what he’s taken from you—let alone from her! Of all the people here who have reason to be offended, I should be at the very bottom of the list!”
Randall, I do not know what you think Rimidalv took from me, she said warily, but I can assure you that I do not recall any offense great enough to give me reason to antagonize him in this way—especially not after he came to our defense and, I might add, to the defense of your friends.
Randall shook his head in confusion. “How could you have forgotten what he took from you, Dani? How could you forget about Kanjin?”
Kanjin? she repeated skeptically. Who is Kanjin?
Randall’s eyes narrowed, “You honestly don’t remember him?”
Randall, I am not in the habit of deceiving my friends, she said with more than a hint of irritation—irritation tinged with what could only be fear, which likely stemmed from her concern at hearing she did not remember one of her previous wielders. Who was Kanjin?
For a moment Randall thought it was possible, however unlikely, that Rimidalv was somehow behind Dan’Moread’s worrisome amnesia. After all, the White Blade had taken Yaerilys’ memory so what was to keep him from doing the same thing to others?
But he quickly dismissed that possibility since, if Rimidalv was actually capable of erasing the memories of people who were not his wielder, he likely would not have permitted the majority of the real Ser Cavulus’ former retinue to quit his company. Their departure had clearly impacted the White Knight’s ability to conduct whatever business Rimidalv thought was in his best interests, so if he could have simply erased Drexel’s and Eckol’s memories he almost certainly would have done so—to say nothing of Ravilich, who it seemed to Randall had the strongest case against the White Blade’s tyrannical abuse of power.
“Dani…” Randall said under his breath, “Kanjin was your wielder before me.”
No, she objected, my former wielder was Tavleros. I remember my time with him only too well… she trailed off bitterly.
“Kanjin was before Tavleros,” Randall explained. “You fought together, alongside Ser Cavulus—the real Ser Cavulus—against the Storm Lord at Mount Gamour. Tell me if any of this rings a bell.”
She was silent for several seconds, I met Tavleros at Mount Gamour…
“That’s right,” he nodded, “think back to the fight beneath Mount Gamour. It was against the Storm Lord; you told me that he wielded Ahsaytsan in the Underworld, where the real Ser Cavulus died…where Kanjin died,” he added solemnly. It seemed cruel and unusual to recount such painful memories to the person who was fast becoming his closest friend in all the world, but Randall needed Dani to be fully informed if they were to have any hope of making the right decision about what to do next.
Ahsaytsan… she repeated as the barest hint of recognition flavored her ‘voice.’ She was the Grey Blade we fought against in the Underworld beneath this keep.
“Yes,” he nodded, “she was, but you fought her before at Mount Gamour.”
Again she was silent for several moments before saying, Assume I believe you, and that Kanjin died in the battle against Ahsaytsan. What grievance could possibly exist between Rimidalv and myself as a result of the Storm Lord’s actions?
“The Storm Lord didn’t kill Kanjin,” Randall said regretfully, “and neither did Ahsaytsan…Rimidalv killed him, along with the real Ser Cavulus.”
Randall’s ears were slowly filled with an intense, ringing sound in the ensuing seconds, and he soon became aware that Dan’Moread’s hilt was vibrating softly in his lap. Randall…if you are lying to me—
“I wouldn’t do that, Dani,” he said gravely. “You told me about all of this; I wasn’t at Mount Gamour, and I never met the real Ser Cavulus. Frankly, I’m getting more than a little concerned about your memory loss. You still can’t remember any wielders from before Tavleros?”
No, Randall, she said as her vibrations subsided along with the ringing in his ears—neither of which he had ever experienced in her company, which was cause for alarm in and of itself. But if you say that I told you about this ‘Kanjin,’ I believe you. I do admit to feeling a strong sense of hostility toward Rimidalv during the fight with the Fleshthings…
“Then maybe your memories aren’t all the way gone,” he offered hopefully. “Maybe we can find some way to restore them?”
Perhaps, she said, her telepathic voice resuming its usual cool, confident tone.
“Do you remember Yaerilys?” Randall asked tightly.
I do, Dan’Moread said, much to Randall’s relief.
“So you know that she’s ‘Ser Cavulus’ now, and that Rimidalv has taken her memory of who she was from her?” Randall continued, his own ire rising as he spoke.
I do…though certain details seem to elude me, she said irritably.
“He’s taken her identity from her, Dani,” Randall explained. “He killed Kanjin and he killed the real Ser Cavulus, and now he has taken Yaerilys’ memories from her—Lady’s tears, he might have been responsible for your memory loss! And now Ravilich, Yaerilys’ lover, is forced to make the impossible choice between abandoning the woman he once loved but who no longer even remembers that love, or following her as Rimidalv continually chips away at who she is—at who she was!—while discarding the pieces he doesn’t want. I can’t imagine a greater crime can be committed against a person than the systematic destruction of their memory…against their identity, Dani. Even if you try to kill someone outright there’s a chance they might turn the tables on you. This is just…” his grip on her hilt tightened until the knuckles in his hand popped one by one, “it’s monstrous! I can’t imagine that she would have willingly signed up for this.”
What if she did, Randall? Dan’Moread asked grimly. What if she knew everything about the Union with Rimidalv, that by becoming his wielder she would lose her own identity? What then? she asked, and from her tone Randall knew in one of the few truly crystal clear moments of his life that they were both thinking precisely the same thing.
It was, to be certain, an insane idea that they shared, but Randall knew he could not live with himself if he did not stand up to such injustice.
He drew a breath as he considered his next words. But try as he might, he could not find a way to permit such an atrocious act to stand. Randall had never had anything approaching real power in his life—not until he had joined with Dan’Moread, that is. He had been a street rat, a bartender, and a gigolo who would have lived his entire life in the Native District of Three Rivers without ever wielding the ability to make an actual difference in the world.
But now, sitting there with Dan’Moread laying across his lap, he knew that was no longer the case. He could make a difference—he could right injustices. He knew the risks were grave, but he could not see any other path that would not amount to tacit approval of Rimidalv’s barbaric actions against his wielder—a person with whom he should have been a partner rather than overlord.
He exhaled and closed his eyes. He knew that he could never craft the perfect reply to Dani’s query, so he did not even try, “Anyone who would ask such a sacrifice from another is unworthy of receiving it, Dani. If Rimidalv requires such drastic ‘submission’ from his wielders…then the world would be better off without him.”
What of the good he has wrought? she challenged. You said yourself that he was there when the Storm Lord fell at Mount Gamour. Who will take up such causes if Rimidalv and his ilk are removed?
Randall’s eyebrows lifted as he realized what she was really asking. “We will,” he said with a degree of previously unheard of confidence as he rose to his feet. “If the price of their help is the trampling of the very things we love, then we’ll have to learn to stand on our own.”
You need to understand something, Randall, she said seriously, if not for your feelings on this issue, I would not choose this course of action.
“Are you saying you think this is the wrong thing to do?” Randall asked.
No, I am not, she said hesitantly. It is simply…I am merely confessing that your friendship is the deciding factor in my decision to stand against this subversive brand of evil. I have no qualms confessing—or accepting—that I am too weak to make such a stand on my own.
Randall was struck by her candor and openness. Dan’Moread usually hid behind dry wit and outright scorn when conversations turned to such personal matters. That she was being candid in this particular moment was both unexpected and appreciated. “I appreciate that, Dani,” he said. “In a very real way, your friendship is the reason I’m willing to stand against it.”
Then we are in agreement, she said as he felt the now-familiar thrill of her possession run up his arm.
Randall nodded with conviction. “We give him a chance to release her and restore her memory,” he said tightly as Dan’Moread helped him adjust his armored bracer, “but neither of us expects him to take the peaceful option, do we?”
No, she said as they finished adjusting the bracer, after which Dani let the armored skirt down to protect his legs, we do not. Neither do we expect the other White Blades to do so when they inevitably seek us out for what we aim to do now.
“No,” he agreed as they strode purposefully toward the courtyard, “we don’t.” As Yaerilys’ armored form turned toward them, Randall felt more than slightly intimidated at the sight of her. “You know this is insane, right?” he whispered loudly enough that only Dani could hear him.
I do, she agreed, but there is no one with whom I would rather stand in this moment.
“Likewise, Dani,” he said gratefully as they came to stand before the White Knight’s imposing form. “Likewise.”
Chapter XXIV: Disarmament
16-2-6-659, Late Afternoon
What is the meaning of this, Dan’Moread? Rimidalv asked after Dani had come to a stop just outside of striking range.
You killed Kanj
in, Rimidalv, she said, still having difficulty processing the revelation Randall had just hit her with. She did not remember Kanjin’s death—or even Kanjin himself—but she trusted Randall enough to believe him. You killed my wielder, you killed your own wielder, and now you commit an act so foul against your current wielder that it can only be called a rape of the soul.
You are distraught, Dan’Moread, he said as Yaerilys’ posture stiffened, I have forgiven such emotional outbursts from you in the past, but my patience with you is at its end. Sheath yourself before you commit to a course you cannot hope to survive.
How could you do it, Rimidalv? she demanded. How can you treat your wielders—your companions—like this? She felt her emotions rise to nearly uncontrollable heights as she continued, How could you treat my wielder like that?!
Ever the child, I see, Rimidalv said grimly as Yaerilys moved her hand to the White Blade’s hilt. They are not our companions, Dan’Moread—they are our wielders! At best they can prove themselves worthy of their posts, and at worst they are dross to be discarded like so much chaff from a crop of wheat!
She was dimly aware of Randall’s friends making fearful noises nearby as they moved the children to the gate house, but Dan’Moread was not about to take her focus from the White Blade and his wielder.
Release Yaerilys, Rimidalv, she said hotly.
Or what, Dan’Moread? he sneered as Yaerilys drew him from her back. We both know you are not my match in a duel; why throw your life—or the life of your wielder—away like this?
“Don’t do this, Yaerilys,” Randall pleaded. “Fight back against him—you don’t have to be his slave.”
“To whom dost thou speak?” the White Knight asked as she lowered into a fighting crouch. “Thou would be well-served to sheathe thy weapon, Randall. Thy blood need not mingle with that of the abominations’ at our feet.”
Dross (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 2) Page 28