There were no objections.
He started with a few sorrowful strums of the dulcimer. He looked down sadly at his fingers as they brushed the strings of the instrument, but Kemeny thought he looked like he was thinking. What was he up to? She hadn't known he was writing something for tonight. Or was he planning on making something up as he went? What was he doing?
He kept his head down, but Kemeny saw his eyes suddenly roll back into his head as his voice came forth. He started singing in a strange, foreboding voice, telling what she recognized as Roark finding Sonsedhor and knowing something had warped the great sword to do evil. He never mentioned Roark's name, though, as he went on with the song, never looking up, sitting stiffly and seemingly unaware of the people around him.
But as the sky grew dark and the windows grew black, Draegon's tale of Roark began to change. He started changing the name of Sonsedhor to Tyrfing– a name she didn't know. Where had that come from? She heard the names Svafrlami, Arngrim, and Angantyr, but they were names strange to her. The story changed, still being about a man whose sword forced him to kill someone every time it was unsheathed, but in this story, the word became the undoing of every man who wielded it.
Thunder and lightning crashed outside, but the people in the hall were focused only on Draegon as he poured out this tale that was completely new to all of them. But the thunder seemed to strike a chord with him and brought him back to Roark and Sonsedhor. The story changed again, to the story they had really come to tell.
When he finally came to an end– or what passed for an ending, since the story didn't have a conclusion yet– Draegon was pale, sweating, and shaking. The nobles were staring at him, baffled. Even with the strangeness of the occurrence, Kemeny recognized the similarities between the two stories Draegon had told, although this was certainly a strange way to try and get people to support Roark. Draegon wasn't moving from his seat, but she knew he was finished for the night. She mumbled a hasty thanks to the nobles for their invitation and generosity. Awkwardly, she lifted Draegon's arm around her shoulders and part-dragged, part-carried him back into the anteroom. He seemed to recollect himself there and gathered his things himself. He managed to walk on his own two feet through the streets and back to the inn.
Before they even got to the inn's front door, someone tapped Kemeny on the shoulder. She spun around, coming face-to-face with a dark-cloaked figure. His hood was pulled low so all she could see was his chin. He thrust a slip pf parchment into her hand and hurried off without a word.
In a neat, precise hand, it read, I want to meet with you and talk of Sonsedhor. I'll find you.
It was signed, Zanthys Advissen.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
It was still a shock to Jaidyn to wake up and be surrounded by Keidenelle. Even though the savages never made so much as a threatening gesture toward him, he still felt very out of place. Few of them were able to communicate with him, to understand anything but the most simple words he spoke. And he couldn't make hide nor hair out of the gibberish that made up their language. They all had strange, long names like Lyeskelkin and Drarisechjokkein and Ararditwudynold. He eventually gave up trying to pronounce any more than the first syllable or two of each person's name. In the end, he completely gave up trying to remember their names altogether. Alay served as translator, guide, advisor, and companion all in one. He was the one Jaidyn could not have functioned without.
Most mornings, he woke to see either Alay or a small standing over him, staring down at him while he slept and went through that awkward phase between asleep and awake. Some of them had worry on their faces when he woke. Alay explained, in what broken language he had, that Jaidyn did a lot of tossing and turning in his sleep and seemed disturbed most nights. Jaidyn didn't tell him that his sleep had been troubled with disturbing dreams ever since he had joined up with their band. Each night, he dreamed strange mixtures of his remembered stories– no, his memories, he corrected himself– of Cheyne and his other unwanted memories of Lexan.
His waking hours weren't much better. The Keidenelle didn't offer much in the ways of comfort or luxury. Washwater was cold, earth was his pillow, his blanket was roughspun, he had no shelter from sun or rain... it wasn't the sort of traveling circumstances worthy of a great reborn hero.
There were times they came near villages, but the Keidenelle seemed loathe to get too near them. Come to think of it, he had never actually heard of the savages raiding villages; their attacks were always more along the lines of banditry. It was only traveling merchants and the like that were threatened by them. But he missed civilization, and oftentimes, when he knew they were near a village, he would make them wait for a day while he went in.
He didn't like what he was hearing in the villages. Cheyne was on everyone's lips, but his name wasn't the one attached to the rumors. And the rumors weren't fading, either. At each new location, he heard a half-dozen new stories about this or that that the new Cheyne had done.
"It's all lies," he told himself one evening as he strolled through a village. Well, he had to admit it was much more than just a village. Bigger than a town, even. This place was a small city. And his name was completely unheard of here. It was enough to drive a man mad. But he couldn't rightly proclaim himself yet; he still hadn't found his sword. If the Keidenelle were supposed to be helping– leading him to the sword, he thought– they were doing a sorry job of it.
Then he looked up and saw it: a finely made sword of rich steel, gold, and gems, leaning against the side of a building with no one to tend to it. "Now that is truly the blade of a hero," he muttered to himself, strolling toward it and wrapping his hand around the jewel-studded hilt. It was almost too heavy for him, but he still lifted it and began walking away, nearly running into the sign that named the building a blacksmith's shop.
He didn't stop until he was back among the Keidenelle. When Alay had managed to gather everyone– even though many had already been asleep– he held up his find and proclaimed himself Cheyne reborn, proudly wielding the great sword, Sonsedhor. Only one man could be worthy of a blade such as that one, and it had found its owner.
To his great delight, the Keidenelle lifted their left hands to the backs of their heads one by one and pushed their heads into a bow. It was one of the few gestures he had learned of theirs. It was the acknowledgment of submission. When two Keidenelle had a fight or and argument, the loser made that gesture before the victor. The entire band had just made him their leader. Even Alay held his head down.
This was only right.
Becca stared at the monitor that was giving her a live feed of the patients. There was almost no point in even watching them anymore. Every day, it was the same. They had started putting them all in the only recorded room nearly two weeks ago, but their actions practically never changed. They acknowledged each other or didn't– their alternate personalities conversing and doing... whatever it was they did. She was convinced they weren't aware of reality. They were sharing delusions, somehow. The "how" and "why" were what Becca was most interested in uncovering now.
Emery had been confined to a straightjacket now to keep him under control, but none of them seemed to mind or even notice– even him.
The patients' individual profiles were on the desk before her, detailing the lives she had studied until they were as familiar to her as her own life. The files even included psychological profiles from when they had first started seeing therapists– before any of them even came to Ighosia Falls.
Five different people, five different traumatic reasons for a split personality to develop, for a mind to fracture. Every one of them faced an event he or she couldn't deal with. But how did these personalities find one another? The principles of DPD stated that at the moment of the event, the personalities would split, and the alternate one would spring to life. So how did these personalities know each other when the originals didn't?
She thought she had them all down now, had figured out whose personality belonged to whom:
R
yan- Draygun
Emery- Rowark
Lydia- Weslyn
And she was certain now that both Vale and Joanna had two. Joanna had Sen and Kimminy, and Jaden and Xanthis belonged to Vale. Such strange names...
There only arose more questions. More questions, and no answers.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The great gilded city of Estria was within sight, its outer wall sparkling in the late afternoon sun. It wasn't actually made of gold– though the city natives liked to claim everything was, from the streets to the roof tiles of the poorest house– but it certainly had a nice effect. There was, however, gold dust brushed over nearly everything, which was what gave it all that luminous sparkle. Being anywhere near Estria at noon could be very hard on the eyes, with the sun bright on all those flecks of gold everywhere. The glare could blind.
Senne had been to Estria before, but the look on her companion's face plainly showed that he hadn't. Hoeth's eyes were wide and his mouth close to hanging open. She smiled at him. They had been traveling together since meeting in the inn in that tiny village, and even though she never said a word about feeling something for him, she did. And she thought he felt something for her, too, though he never mentioned it either. She didn't know if she would call it love yet, but it was getting close. He was sweet, if a little naïve, but he had a good heart and a good head– so long as he had someone telling him what to do.
He still wore the silver braid of a Seeker– another thing she didn't bring up. She couldn't bear breaking his heart by telling him Sonsedhor had already been found. He'd been hurt by a friend, lied to... she didn't want to make him feel even worse by knowing his search was futile. It was probably one of the worst things she could do– lie to him– but he got so dismal when something reminded him of that friend that wronged him. Seeking made him feel like he had a purpose; how could she take that away from him?
All the inns in Estria had names like The Gilded Monkey and The Golden Brick and other things that mentioned gold in some way. They settled in at The Ingot, one of the less ostentatiously-named places. They took a meal in the common room, had some wine, and sat together, watching the sky change colors as the sun set outside the city walls. Not long after the sky had gone from deep blue to inky black, there was a loud, high-pitched wail, followed by another, and another, until the night was full of the wails.
Then the screaming began. People started dashing past the windows looking panicked. Some of the other inn patrons opened the doors and yelled at the running people, demanding to know what was happening.
"Keidenelle!" someone finally shouted back in passing.
"Keidenelle are in the city walls!" came another cry.
Sure enough, moments later, pale-headed, roughly-dressed savages could be seen in the crowds, pursuing and catching fleers, dragging them to the ground or simply thrusting a blade into them where they stood. The screams grew louder, filling the night. But even over the terrified shrieks of the victims and the war cries of their pursuers, a shout could be heard.
"The sword you see before you is the great Sonsedhor! The name I was given is Jaidyn Huntley, but you can remember me as Cheyne Firdin reborn! Surrender your city to me and my army and your lives will be spared!"
Jaidyn Huntley...... the name sounded familiar to Senne, but she couldn't put a finger on why. Hoeth put her uncertainty to rest as he drew his sword and headed for the door to go outside, shouting curses at "the great liar Huntley" as he headed off to try and face him one-on-one. Senne couldn't stop him in time and wound up chasing him through the city streets as he searched for his former friend.
Senne was too far off to stop him from rushing at Jaidyn when he found him, standing on the base of a statue in a great plaza. People were going everywhere, getting hewn down by savages, running into each other, some trying to fight back. But there was a clearing around the statue Jaidyn had perched on to watch the carnage, laughing the whole time. Hoeth made straight for him, sword out, shouting at the top of his lungs.
Their swords met with a resounding twang that seemed to shake the ground. Senne kept running after Hoeth. Being rash like this would only get him killed! She'd abandoned one love to a terrible fate; she couldn't just sit and watch another get hacked apart.
Before she reached the open space where the two men were dueling, a dark, thick cloud settled over the two of them, encasing them so she couldn't see. But then a band in the middle of the cloud cleared, and she could spy Hoeth twisting his sword so fast it was a blur, sweating heavily, defending from Jaidyn's onslaught. Jaidyn was easily the better swordsman. She reached out a hand towards the cloud......
And her hand came to an abrupt stop as if she had tried to put her hand through a window. It just came to a stop in thin air, and she couldn't move it any further. She knew she couldn't reach them. So she looked up.
Just as she'd thought, there was a visage over the cloud, faceless head peering down on the dueling men.
"Please," she whispered.
The head whipped around to look at her, but the Dark Father said nothing.
"Please, spare Hoeth. He's not part of this. Spare him, and... I'll be yours again."
"Why would I want you?" His voice boomed in her head. There was a swirl of blue and gold, and he was suddenly in front of her. "You didn't leave me; I cast you away. Why should I take you back?"
"Spare Hoeth, and... and I'll do whatever you wish. Just spare Hoeth's life."
She swore she could see a wicked grin spread across the Dark Father's nonexistent face. "Swear me your complete servitude."
"And you'll let Hoeth go?"
"And I won't kill him. Swear, or he dies now."
Peering through the cloud, she saw Hoeth on his back on the gold-dusted cobblestones, his sword out of reach. Jaidyn had the point of his sword at Hoeth's throat, a sadistic, pleased look in his bloodlust-filled eyes. Hoeth inched away, but the sword followed him, inch for inch.
"I so swear," she said, her voice cracking.
In the span of a heartbeat, all her memories– of Masithina, her lives before that, of Cheyne– were ripped away from her. Swirls of yellow and orange appeared in the air in front of her. She knew it was her memories, her essence– everything that was her was in those whorls of color– but she couldn't make a move to recover them. They swirled about her, then to the hand of the Dark Father. They formed a ball there, which he smirked at for a long second, the light given off by the colors doing nothing to lighten the blackness of his face. Then, without a word, he crushed the colors with his fist...
And he had a face. It was handsome and pale, blue-eyed and smooth-skinned, but in his eyes she saw everything she feared– had feared before. Now she felt nothing.
"Thank you for your soul," he said, moving his tongue over his teeth as if enjoying the sensation of having them. "You've allowed me to truly touch the world by giving it." A hand came out and stroked her chin. "Such a good servant..."
His eyes looked left and right, looking at the chaos that was still going on in the plaza. "This won't do at all," he said. "Not in my city. THIS IS MY CITY!"
As if someone had hit a switch, the chaos stopped. Each of the Keidenelle fell to his or her knees; the other people fell to their faces on the ground. Behind him, Jaidyn and Hoeth stared at him in shock, their eyes wide. Jaidyn still had his sword to the prone Hoeth's neck.
"Mother......" Jaidyn said softly.
" The Dark Father..." Hoeth whispered.
"You can both call me by my mortal name," he smirked, running his tongue again along his teeth and gently running a finger along one eyebrow. His eyes went to Senne. "You, too. You can now call me Akotherian."
"Mother?" Jaidyn said again.
Akotherian spun around to face the young man, grinning a shark's grin. "I am not the Mother, boy," he spat, "but I am your master. Now drop your blade and kneel to me."
As if forced, Jaidyn did as he was bid. Akotherian turned his too-blue eyes to the terrified Hoeth. "Senne."
She
was at his side in a moment.
"I cannot kill this boy because of our deal," he said, letting his gaze slide from Hoeth to her and back. "Dispose of him."
Feeling nothing, she knelt before the whimpering lordling and wrapped one hand around his throat to keep him in place but not cut off his air. Methodically, she began to beat him, softly telling him that once she let him up, he was to leave and never return.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
The TV monitor was off. Becca had finally decided to stop watching both the videos and the live feeds of the patients interacting. It was all the same, and she no longer believed she would get any of her answers from them that way. Dr. Anderson encouraged her new idea: that she should really dive into the patients' pasts and see what more she could find out. The answers, they both thought, were in who the patients were, not in who they are now.
The Keidenelle were on the move. In the distance on most days, Roark saw bands of them hurrying westward, apparently not caring that there were potential victims within sight. They seemed to be in too much of a hurry. He was grateful not to have to deal with the brutes. He had had enough of killing.
Weslyn must have fallen asleep at the watch, because the Keidenelle were upon them before Roark realized it. He had been wrong about being ignored...
He fought like a madman, but he could tell from the onset there was no way he was coming out of this victorious. They numbered in the dozens. If he had been prepared, maybe he could have taken more of them down. As it was, he only managed to thrust Sonsedhor into the stomach of one before he was set upon by a dozen more, who subdued, forced him to the ground, and tied him. Weslyn was wide awake by now, having never had a chance to fight back. Ropes were tied around her wrists, and another around her neck served as a lead line. The other end of her rope was in the hands of a skinny, pale-haired woman with hard deep grey eyes.
Roark began his struggling anew as he was jerked to his feet and one of the savages laid hands on Sonsedhor, trying to pull it from the big man's hands. Roark thrashed and toppled the other man, but the Keidenelle won out. Sonsedhor was taken to one of the wagons and thrown into the back, and Roark and Weslyn's lead lines were tied to the end of a long line of prisoners neither had noticed before.
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