by Cheryl Dyson
******
Upon the stairs outside the Great Hall, Brydon slammed into the wall as pain exploded into his mind through the link he shared with Toryn. He had forsaken all attempts at secrecy and had bolted down the stairs, nearly trampling the nobles who now sought to assist him. He was blind for a moment as waves of agony washed over him. He clamped down on Toryn’s link with all of his mental strength, nearly severing the chain in his urgency to shut out the pain.
When his link to Toryn quieted to the barest whisper, he shrugged off the concerned onlookers and pounded down the remaining steps. He feared for Toryn, but he could help neither of them if he allowed Reed access to his own. As he approached the doors to the Great Hall, he saw Jace and Kerryn appear from a side corridor, trailed by a group of armed men.
//I’ll handle Reed,// Brydon sent to Jace in a controlled burst of thought. //You get those doors open for the Gauntlet Knights.//
Jace blinked for a moment; it was the first time Brydon had used mental communication on him. Then he turned to Kerryn. “Signal your men to take out as many of Reed’s guards as possible and then help me get these doors open.”
Kerryn nodded. Brydon had not broken stride as he approached the open doors of the Great Hall. Without a pang of conscience, Brydon put the doormen to sleep with brutally efficient mental shoves and stalked into the room to see Reed standing over Toryn’s writhing form.
“Leave him alone, bastard!” Brydon yelled as he walked steadily down the aisle. Reed jerked his head up and ceased his attack on Toryn, who lay still as death. Reed stared at him in astonishment for a moment and then backed away a few steps before eyeing him warily.
“I thought I killed you,” he said.
“You thought wrong.” Brydon leveled a full-force mental blast that caught Reed completely unaware. The pretend-regent staggered back with a cry of pain and quickly raised his mental defenses. Before he could fully recover, Brydon was upon him, sword flashing down, barely deflected by Reed’s quickly raised blade. Brydon slashed again, but Reed danced back out of reach.
They circled each other, glaring. Reed panted noticeably. Had he been weakened from his battle with Toryn? Blood marred the white clothing he wore.
“The Redolian is worse than dead, you know,” Reed taunted. “I twisted his mind into ten thousand knots.”
Brydon, in mounting fury, restrained himself from looking at Toryn. Pain oozed through the tight grip Brydon maintained on their link, so he knew Toryn still lived.
“Then your death shall be doubly painful,” Brydon gritted. He leaped forward and attacked with a powerful move Rakyn had taught him. The blazing maneuver took Reed by surprise and left him with a bloodied shoulder. Brydon swore inwardly at Reed's speed; the move should have cloven his collarbone, but his reflexes were superb.
Reed watched Brydon through narrowed eyes as they circled one another again. He seemed to realize that Brydon had learned much since last they had crossed swords.
Darting forward, Reed forced Brydon back with a flashing whirl of his blade, searching for an opening. The action nicked Brydon’s right forearm and Reed smiled. Brydon glared, knowing that although the wound was small, in time the blood would seep down onto his sword hilt and make the grip slippery. He closed with Reed, forcing them into an impasse as both strained to thrust the other away. Reed’s dark eyes glared into Brydon’s and his lips twisted into a grimace. The red crystal glimmered on his breast.
Without stopping to consider his action, Brydon snatched the crystal and ripped it from the chain that held it. He shoved Reed away in the same motion, earning a painful slice on the ribs for his efforts, but the crystal was in his hands.
Reed’s smirked and the crystal began to glow. Brydon, startled, had only a moment to register the effect before a killing mental blast surged from the stone. Though stunned by the strength of it, Brydon deflected most of the impact, gritting his teeth with the effort. He knelt and dropped the crystal onto the floor, and then raised the hilt of his sword.
Reed, seeing what he was about, increased the mental force he poured into the crystal. At the same time, he rushed forward with a shout and lifted his sword for a deadly blow. Brydon’s sword smashed down on the crystal, shattering the red stone into a thousand shards. Reed howled an unholy scream and fell back, clutching his head. The waves of pain barraging Brydon ceased so suddenly he actually staggered and caught himself on the floor with one hand. He climbed to his feet and watched Reed warily; the man shrieked and slashed about wildly with his sword. Had the crystal’s destruction destroyed his sanity?
An arrow hit the floor near Brydon’s feet and gouged the marble before it skittered away. Brydon ignored the threat and a strangled cry told him one of Kerryn’s men had dealt with it. Brydon hoped Reed’s soldiers were more worried about the Gauntlet Knights than their stricken employer.
Reed looked at Brydon and his eyes gleamed feverishly. He charged forward like a madman, not even attempting to defend himself. Surprised, Brydon raised his sword, but Reed’s rush did not slow—he plunged straight onto the blade, impaling himself and wrenching the sword from Brydon’s hand in the process. Foam frothed from his mouth. He did not even seem to notice that he had been mortally wounded as he flailed at Brydon, growling incoherent sentences. He floundered and fell to the ground at Brydon’s feet; but even then his malice was strong and he crawled forward to claw at Brydon’s boots weakly. Brydon’s sword, still imbedded, scraped along the marble with an unpleasant sound. Blood oozed over the hilt and left a red trail on the floor. Brydon backed away, horrified. At last, even that small motion ceased.
Reed glared at Brydon. His eyes cleared for a moment and bloody bubbles burst upon his lips as he choked out a laugh. “The Dark Master will have you,” he said with dreadful clarity. Then his head dropped to the floor and his eyes went flat and lifeless.
For a moment, Brydon felt he had slain something inhuman. He shuddered and looked away; his gaze landed on Toryn. Before he could run to the Redolian, noblemen surrounded him, holding the weapons discarded by Reed’s men.
“You have slain the queen’s betrothed!” one cried. They all seemed uncertain what to do about the fact. Brydon looked at the steel-tipped bolts of death pointed at him and then a voice ripped through the room.
“Hold! The first man who touches him dies!”
There was a collective gasp throughout the room as everyone turned to look at Shevyn, who leaned heavily upon Kerryn’s arm. Her cousin had spoken, but she was the one holding a deadly-looking crossbow. At that instant, metal-shod hooves rang in the foyer and a dozen mounted Gauntlet Knights burst into the Great Hall. There was a massive scramble as the wedding guests strove to get out of the way.
The Knight-Commander reared his mare—a dramatic excess Brydon felt was warranted under the circumstances.
“Your Majesty!” he bellowed at Shevyn, who seemed to be using all her willpower to stand on her feet. She looked pale, but aware. “Shall we secure the castle?”
Shevyn gave him a curt nod and the knight-priests spun their horses and pranced out to hunt down Reed’s remaining soldiers. Jace walked forward to support Shevyn; he removed the crossbow from her hands.
Brydon turned away and knelt beside Toryn. He touched Toryn's throat; his pulse was weak and erratic. Brydon slowly released the tight grip he had on their link. Riotous emotion flooded over him once more—horror, fear, revulsion, nausea, rage. He fought the tide as it threatened to sweep him away and struggled to recall his lessons with Rakyn. He sensed no conscious thought from Toryn, only frantic emotion. He steeled himself and entered Toryn’s mind, hoping to follow the link to its end point, the very essence of Toryn.
He entered a maelstrom. Normally an ordered, calm place, Toryn’s mind was a chaotic swirl, a fog of alternating darkness and color. Images with no pattern assaulted him—barely glimpsed faces, landscapes, shadows and objects. The thin silver cord was only vaguely visible, stretching into the chaos. Brydon pushed forward, using it to guide h
im. Abruptly, there was a disorienting shift and he felt a moment of panic. Everything went black for an instant and then the fog was gone.
Brydon looked down, surprised to find himself in corporeal form. His body seemed solid enough—was he a figment of his own mind, or of Toryn’s? He shook off the bewildered thought to take in his surroundings; he stood at the edge of a blood-soaked field. Spears with impaled bodies stretched across the plain to the horizon like a grisly crop. Before he could get his bearings and pull himself out of the vision—to go where?—there was a fog-like swirl and he stood in front of a hide-covered hut, watching helplessly as five rough-garbed soldiers dragged a dark-haired girl from the building. My sister, he thought in anguish and then gasped. No, Toryn’s sister. Brydon struggled forward, but his feet were heavy, as though attached to lead weights. The more frantic he became, the slower he moved. He watched, moving as though through cold molasses, as ropes were bound to his (Toryn's) sister’s hands and feet. The ends of the ropes were tied to the horns of four snorting, pawing cattle, held fast by a number of men and then released. The girl was torn to pieces, screaming in agony.
“Caryn!” Brydon screamed. Oh please no, not her, he thought in anguish, oh Adona, not my sister!
He tried to shake off the image and the nauseating horror, and struggled to retain his sense of self. He didn’t have a sister. It was Toryn’s sister; and it wasn’t real. He had to find Toryn. Fog swirled again before he could hold onto the thought. He saw Alyn hanging from the edge of a high cliff by bloody fingertips. She screamed and Brydon leaped forward, able to move once more. He touched the cliff and found it solid, so he climbed valiantly and tried to reach her, ignoring the rocks that tore at his flesh. Her blue eyes were wide and frantic as he neared—his fingers brushed her arm as she fell. Not real, he reminded himself. It’s not real. Mist swirled again.
Brydon struggled against invisible bonds, trying to reach a burning, twisting man. Morgyn, he knew instinctively. My brother. Toryn’s brother. Brydon felt his sanity start to slip as he realized he was not only with Toryn—he was Toryn. He felt a moment of panic as he realized he could be trapped in this nightmare forever, unless he discovered a way to pull them both out of it. Rakyn had never taught him how to handle anything like this.
Brydon blocked out everything and concentrated solely on Toryn, trying to separate himself from his friend. A lurching sensation wrenched at him and he caught a brief glimpse of Toryn before a billow of black smoke obscured the image. Brydon felt calmer, more centered. He fought his way through the smoke, surprised that it felt completely real. It burned his throat and stung his eyes. He coughed and struggled not to inhale, wondering if it were possible to die of smoke inhalation in someone else’s subconscious mind. Better to operate on the assumption that it was, indeed, possible. Just when his lungs felt like they would explode, the smoke dissipated and Brydon fell forward, sucking air gratefully.
He looked up and was momentarily stunned when he beheld his own face. A second Brydon flailed in a pit of hot tar, slowly sinking while Toryn stood on the bank, frozen, unable to save him. Toryn yelled hoarsely and Brydon looked away from his own dying image. He forced himself to concentrate on Toryn. It unnerved him to hear his own voice calling for help. He ran forward and grabbed at Toryn, who turned to stare at him through maddened eyes. Toryn gaped, looking from one Brydon to the other.
“This is not real, Toryn!” Brydon yelled and shook him roughly. “Come out of here!”
Toryn turned his gaze to the Brydon in the tar, whose mouth filled with the thick, black substance as he continued to scream until silenced by the tar. Brydon felt a distinct chill, watching the sight.
“But—Brydon!” Toryn protested, gesturing at the dying figure.
“I am Brydon! That one is not real! None of what you have experienced here is real! Do you remember your battle with Reed?” Brydon shouted. Toryn’s eyes, red-rimmed with horror, burned into Brydon’s, but revealed no comprehension. Brydon gnashed his teeth. Though he doubted it would have any effect, he slapped Toryn hard. “Wake up!” he yelled. The Redolian’s head snapped back and then he glared at Brydon with perfect clarity.
Brydon grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Lead me to the center, Toryn. Show me what Reed did. I need to fix it.” Brydon was instantly enveloped in blackness, unable to see or feel anything at all. He kept both fists clenched tight, instinctively sensing that he still held Toryn in his grasp.
A torch flared. His hands still grasped Toryn’s shoulders; the light was in Toryn's hand.
“I can’t hold it back for long,” Toryn said in a grave tone. “Even now it’s clawing at me. Follow me, and hurry.”
Brydon nodded, sensing that Toryn referred to the nightmarish visions. Toryn took Brydon’s hand and pulled him along. They trod for what seemed like eternity and the blackness seemed to go on forever. Occasionally, things would brush Brydon’s legs or whir by his head. Though unseen, they made his blood freeze. He wondered if Toryn was simply leading him into another nightmare. Eventually, though, he began to envision brightness, glimpsed through the corners of his eyes and dismissed as illusion. The light increased gradually until he knew it was not his imagination.
Finally, the darkness gave way to a featureless gray plain where patches of light and color would occasionally flash—brief as lightning bolts. Brydon was glad to see that he still held Toryn’s hand and not the flesh of some creature, as he had begun to imagine. Toryn looked exhausted—he was shaking with effort. He halted and said nothing, but gestured upward.
Toryn’s mind was an infinite landscape to Brydon at this perspective. He concentrated for a moment and saw patterns in the grayness, something like a complex net made of light. Sparks of brightness raced along the lines, lightning-quick, like fireflies. Brydon had never envisioned anything like it. Toryn’s mind was laid out like a convoluted map. After a bit of effort, Brydon found that he could trace the pathways. Toryn gestured again impatiently. Brydon looked closer and discovered the damage Reed had done—there were frayed snarls of light where complete strands should have been. In that area the sparks were not traveling on the netlike lines, but leaping randomly into the grayness and disappearing.
“I can’t fight anymore,” Toryn said. “I’m too tired.” His hand vanished from Brydon’s and in the same instant a black shadow leaped from the gray area and swallowed him. Brydon saw a flash of white fangs and a fetid stench washed over him.
“Toryn!” he yelled but Toryn and the black shape were gone. Brydon shook off his stunned horror and turned his attention to the damaged neural net. There was only one way to help Toryn now. But how was he to fix it?
“Well, I can braid, can’t I?” he muttered. The strange landscape had not changed with Toryn’s disappearance, so he set to work. He carefully reached into the tangled mass of twisted light and marveled at the sensation. Sparks raced up his arms and made his hair stand on end, but it was not uncomfortable. He felt energized and realized he was immersed in the very essence of Toryn—every thought, every action, every word originated here. Feeling humbled and almost reverent, Brydon carefully grasped and separated each gossamer filament. Next he crossed, braided, and wove the individual strands, and prayed that he was making the proper connections and not making matters worse. Every link he made fused back into a smooth, undamaged strand, though he had no way of knowing if it was correct. He had to rely on Toryn’s mind’s ability to heal itself. It seemed an arduous, time-consuming task, but at the end, it looked flawless. When he was finished, he checked carefully to make sure he had not missed any. Reed’s damage had not been confined to one area.
Finally satisfied, he looked around and wondered how he would get out again. He noticed a faint golden cord stretching back into the darkness and assumed it was the lifeline that tied his consciousness to his own body. He turned and followed it until he could see nothing but glaring whiteness. He held up a hand to shield his eyes, but a physical likeness was longer evident. He felt a wrench, as though som
ething had grabbed his forehead and yanked him into the air. He cried out as vertigo assaulted him, but gradually the awareness of his own body returned to him.
His limbs were stiff and cold. He opened his eyes and blinked at the brightness; he still knelt beside Toryn on the marble floor. He slowly focused on Shevyn, who sat next to him with an anxious expression. Brydon was relieved that the effects of the drug seemed to have worn off—her blue eyes were alert and watchful. Pins and needles of returning circulation assaulted Brydon’s limbs and a pair of dark hands helped him recline into a more comfortable position. Verana rubbed his legs skillfully as she questioned him.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“I think I’m fine. Toryn?”
“There is no change.”
“How long was I… gone?”
“Over two hours,” she replied. “We were afraid to disturb you. Jace told us not to touch you, other than to make certain you were both breathing. What... did you do?”
Brydon shook his head, unable, and too exhausted, to explain. “I’m not sure. Move him to a bed and I’ll try to awaken him as soon as I can think clearly again."
Jace sat cross-legged near Toryn’s feet and Kerryn occupied a nearby bench. His features reflected confusion. A handful of Gauntlet Knights stood behind Shevyn and their expressions were equally disgruntled. Brydon supposed someone had broken the news to them about the gauntlet’s disappearance. He wondered if a contingent of the knight-priests had already been dispatched to find it. The wedding guests were gone—herded back to their rooms until their questions could be answered, no doubt.
Shevyn gestured. One of the larger Gauntlet Knights moved forward and carried Toryn out of the room as he would a sleeping child. Brydon struggled to stand and Shevyn held his arm, assisting him. His eyes met hers and she smiled. Brydon smiled back and would have kissed her if not for the presence of the others. The enormity of what they had done suddenly dawned on him. They had defeated Reed! Shevyn draped his arm over her shoulders and forced him to lean on her as they made their way from the room, followed by Jace, Kerryn, and the remaining knight-priests.
Brydon noted that Reed’s body was gone and had little doubt that the Gauntlet Knights had displayed it in some grisly fashion as a lesson to others, though the gesture seemed empty next to the fact the Shevyn’s family was dead.
“What about the priest conducting the ceremony?” Brydon asked.
“Imprisoned, along with the rest of Reed’s men,” Verana replied. “Only two of the Gauntlet Knights were killed in the onslaught. Three of Kerryn’s men are dead and one is wounded. I will tend the others now, if you think Toryn will not need my assistance.”
Brydon nodded as the procession made its way up the stairs. “We will soon know,” he replied. Toryn was placed in the room next to Shevyn’s. Brydon sank down beside him on the bed. Pulling forth the last of his energy reserves, Brydon mentally nudged Toryn into wakefulness. His green eyes opened and blinked for a moment before they settled on Brydon. A weak smile cracked his face.
“I’m glad you came,” he rasped. “It wasn’t very pleasant in there.”
“I noticed,” Brydon replied quietly.
“Do you think you could fix things a little sooner next time?”
“There had better not be a next time.”
Toryn closed his eyes and his tongue touched dry lips. Brydon helped him sit up and Verana held water for him to drink.
“Reed?” Toryn asked after his thirst had been sated.
“Dead,” Brydon answered. “How do you feel?”
“I feel like a castle was dropped on my head.”
“Rest. You need it.”
“As do you,” Verana said.
Brydon needed no further urging. Without bothering to even remove his boots, he sprawled next to Toryn on the huge bed. He gave Shevyn’s hand a quick squeeze and fell straight to sleep.