"With both our horses riding double," the soldier put in. "We'd never keep ahead of them."
"I've got two more horses back at my wagon," Weslyn muttered.
"Where's the wagon?"
She pointed. "On the other side of the oncoming Keidenelle band."
There was only a moment between her lowering her hand and the sound of steel on leather. The big soldier had drawn his sword, and Draegon had produced some knives from somewhere on his person.
"You're actually going to fight them? There are dozens of them!"
Draegon turned to her, his green eyes fiery. "And we'll kill every one of them."
"But aren't you Keidenelle?"
The fire turned to ice. "I am no more Keidenelle than you are." He looked insulted. "We fight."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Emery Landers was the second of six children. His older brother Samuel was the model of perfection in his father's eyes, and he spent his first few years trying to live up to that model. His sister Rebekah came along when he was six, Mary when he was eight, David when he was ten, and Levi when he was nearly twenty. Andrew Landers, his father and the local preacher, had special places in his heart for the younger children, too, but something of a sore spot for Emery, though neither Emery nor his mother Sarah could ever pinpoint a reason for it.
Dodging Bibles was a daily exercise for Emery for most of his life. It was a favorite punishment for Andrew, to throw the heavy tomes at his second son in an effort to "batter some decency into him".
No one was surprised that when Emery left for college, he dropped out in his sophomore year and didn't return home.
Physically sound, he got a job with the police force in Winterbrook. He married his college sweetheart and had one son, but the marriage was unsuccessful– his son turned out not to be his– and he never even tried to date again after that . He contented himself with his job.
A bullet to the hip forced him to settle permanently behind a desk by the time he was thirty-one, and for ten years, he got by doing paperwork. His physical health deteriorated, and it was a complete fluke that he was the only officer in the area when Silvia Hopkirk threatened to jump off a five-story building.
He was simply passing by on his way home, walking the last two blocks from his bus stop to his apartment, when he saw the crowd outside the office building. Silvia, a twenty-year-old, was shouting that she was going to jump. She had nothing left to live for– she'd miscarried her second pregnancy, had been diagnosed with AIDS, her boyfriend of five years had left her, she was stuck waitressing at a diner– her list of woes went on. Emery did everything he could to talk her out of jumping.
But his years of training weren't enough. Silvia flung herself off the roof at the same moment police sirens became audible in the distance, approaching to deal with the situation. She hit the pavement a moment later, and as the concrete shattered the young woman's body, the sight did the same to Emery's mind.
Becca had never thought of the big Emery Landers as a younger, fitter man in a police uniform, but after reading his profile, she couldn't picture him any other way.
Finding his ex-wife Anna Jane, his sisters and brothers, and his parents would be a challenge. And even so, she wondered how much help his family would be. It had been decades since he'd had any contact with his siblings– from what she could surmise from the files, anyway.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was a rare sight at this point to see Ryan, Lydia, Emery, and Joanna apart. At the moment, they were having their own little picnic near one of the benches in the courtyard. But like most picnics, they were inevitably attacked by a cadre of ants.
The band of Keidenelle fell upon them abruptly, but they weren't unexpected. Roark danced his sword silently, keeping an eye on the woman as well as he could. Draegon he was leaving on his own; the man had proven himself able to at least protect himself decently, so he was far down on Roark's immediate list of concerns. He took a split second to make sure none of the Keidenelle he was slashing at wore the proper clothing that Draegon did; he would hate to find out, when the dust cleared, that he had actually killed his charge.
The savages weren't really terribly fierce, nor were they organized or trained warriors. They didn't fight as a group; each man or woman– he was surprised to find that some of the "warriors" were women– fought on his or her own, slashing a blade wildly or swinging fists without any real sense of skill. Their "tactics" seemed to be more to overwhelm opponents with numbers and then to fight dirty. More than once, he defended against a below-the-belt kick, and he had to watch his back constantly.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kemeny taking his spare sword from the scabbard on his horse's saddle. The tiny little thing actually joined the fight. At least she wasn't the target of many of the savages; they seemed to have realized he and Draegon were the real threats and were concentrating on them. The little contortionist was completely untrained and swung the sword wildly– almost as wildly as the Keidenelle with their crude blades.
Scanning for Weslyn between swings, he found her, crouched on the far side of the horses, scared frozen. Draegon was not too far from her, his eyes mirroring the frenzy that was in the eyes of their attackers. It was frightening how similar he looked to the savages then. He seemed to have lost himself in the fight, in his knives and the use of them. More than once, he plunged a blade into a side or a back repeatedly without thought of mercy. The sneer of his mouth was murderous; he seemed to have a personal vendetta against every one of them. Roark shook his head. Whatever the bard claimed, he was of the same blood as these people– some of the savages didn't really seem sure how to react to him.
For himself, he didn't like to kill if it wasn't necessary. Sure, he brought down those who were immediate threats to the two women, but unlike Draegon he didn't go out of his way to slay the others. As a master of the "sword and board" he didn't have any trouble neutralizing threats without taking lives. Draegon was doing enough of the killing for them both. Roark feared he was becoming overwhelmed by bloodlust and wouldn't stop even when they were on the retreat. Even Weslyn wasn't cowering anymore, but staring agape at him and the gore he was reveling in.
The retreat began as quickly as the attack had, and the few that were still alive clambered onto their wagon and hurried off as rapidly as they could. That murderous light still in his eyes, Draegon flicked a knife at them, and one of the fleeing savages took it in the back, causing her to fall form her place on the wagon.
As for the bard himself, he looked a general mess and seemed unaware of Roark, Weslyn, and Kemeny staring at him. He was covered from head to toe in blood– some his own, most of it not– and sweat. Without a word, he began to search methodically among the dead, retrieving knives he'd thrown and cleaning them before replacing them up sleeves and elsewhere on his person. He suddenly became aware of the others watching him, and Roark heard him mutter something about "rotten savages" and "choosing to be uncivilized".
Finally, he dragged a sleeve across his mouth, smearing the blood and sweat together across his chin, but managing to somehow look cleaner. "Come on," he said. "Let's go get these horses of yours, Weslyn."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The beginning of Vale Stapleton's life wasn't particularly different from anyone else's. But from a very early age, he showed an interest in observing, in retaining information, and in telling stories. As he got older, this turned into gossiping, and he became known as the neighborhood snoop. His mother said it meant he was destined to be a news anchorman. His father said it meant he was nosey and a disgrace to the family name because of it.
Vale was seven the first time his father David beat him, and it only got worse from there. The abuse became a daily ritual, and in time, his mother took him out of school to avoid questions about the bruises. She tried teaching him herself, but the then nine-year-old was unresponsive to her affections and her teaching. A tutor was hired, and the expense of his schooling was only more fuel for his father's rage at him.
The beatings grew worse.
Maria, Vale's mother, died one weekend while Vale was eleven and out at the park. There was not a mark on her, but there was a good deal of bleach in her stomach and corrosive internal burns form drinking it. David was suspected of the murder he was not convicted. Maria's death was deemed a suicide– only her fingerprints were on the bleach jug.
The abuse only grew worse after Maria's death. When Vale was fourteen, his father came into his room one night while he was asleep. The abuse went beyond physical beatings. Vale was raped by his own father that night. He took to barring his bedroom door after that– there was no lock– and though the physical abuse got even worse, he welcomed it over being sexually attacked.
On Vale's fifteenth birthday, David Stapleton died in a drunk driving incident. It was two in the afternoon, but David was smashed from multiple whiskies, and he hit an SUV head-on. He died instantly. The man driving the SUV came away with multiple non-fatal injuries. His six-year-old daughter, who had been in the backseat, suffered minor injuries. His wife in the passenger seat was also killed after being rushed to the emergency room.
After his father's death, Vale did everything he could to block out memories of the man. And he succeeded.
As his mother had guessed, he became a journalist, but not an anchorman. He reported for a local newspaper, everything from charity events to crimes. There was nothing he was too squeamish to cover.
When a young local boy went missing, he was covering the story. He followed the searches and listened to what the police and family said. And even though it was against all ethics and even against his better judgment, he began to think about where to look himself. He acted on his conjectures, and was the first to find the boy.
He was already dead.
Vale knew he should have called the police with his theories of the boy's whereabouts rather than going and looking himself, but he hadn't. And his were the first eyes to see the scene. Even untrained in forensics, in analyzing a scene and figuring out what had happened, he could tell what had transpired. The boy had been beaten by his kidnappers– there had probably been three or even four– beaten repeatedly, raped repeatedly, and then stabbed to death. Then the kidnappers had simply left him there in the motel room for someone to find.
In the shock at seeing the six-year-old's battered body, all those repressed memories came flying back to him. When the policemen arrived at the scene, he flew into a frenzy, even attacking one of them, crying out in rage at his father, at anyone who could do this. He was committed by order of a judge.
The thought of such abuse made Becca sick to her stomach. After a few days, when her nerves had settled and her anger at the thought of tat kind of treatment faded, she found archived newspapers of Vale's reports, as well as the reports of the boy's disappearance and discovery. It only made her sick again.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Zanthys liked the feeling of his own sword at his hip. He had always felt at his best when on horseback; wearing the blade made him feel all the more noble. It made him hold his chin higher, look down just a bit more on those beneath him. This was right and proper, for him to be set even higher above the common people. Too bad they wouldn't see him about the city with his sword too much. He was leaving.
The pigeon messages from his scout told him Jaidyn hadn't gone too far form the city since his departure. In fact, at the rate he'd been going, he was just today going to reach the border of Gaern and Melistrat. Going at a decent clip, Zanthys would catch up to him in a few days. Jaidyn had been slow, meandering aimlessly. He really didn't have any idea where he was going.
Banjay Advissen didn't have a clue where Zanthys was really going. He'd told his father this was just going to be a routine jaunt to Necras to visit the court there. It was only proper for him to make such a visit– it was a common practice for young lordlings of marriageable age. His father had sent a handful of guards with him. And Zanthys had his swords– his own handsome blade and the false Sonsedhor, concealed in a bundle on his saddle. It would be such a great game to plant the false sword for Jaidyn to find.
He urged his guards to a ground-eating pace. The sooner he caught Jaidyn, the sooner the game would begin.
Dr. Anderson patiently read over a report Becca had left for her.
I tried speaking to Vale about Sunsetter, since he's the one who mutters about it the most lately. But as I mentioned it, I was only met with laughter and scoffing. He stated one thing clearly, however, something I have listened to over and over on the recording of our conversation. I am certain he said, "It's not Sunsetter, you peasant!" And then he went on to pronounce it more clearly in a different way: SAWN-said-door. He didn't go into spelling it, but I have a few ideas how it might be spelled. I will begin research on this immediately.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The playhouse had been in the asylum courtyard since before anyone could remember. Then again, the asylum had originally been a children's hospital, so it wasn't surprising there would be a playhouse on the grounds. No one went in there anymore, but no one dared tear it down– it was too much a monument to the patients that had been there decades ago.
But someone had gone into it now. Vale. And try as anyone might to convince him too, he wouldn't come out.
The little village of Dracmere sat nestled on the border of Melistrat and Gaern. It was one of those tiny twenty-family villages where everyone knew everyone else. But unlike most villages of its size, Dracmere boasted a full seven inns. It sat right on the road, and any trader who wasn't smuggling took the road, so the village was always bustling. At any given time, roughly half the people in the village were strangers, merchants and travelers, bards and– especially now– Seekers.
Jaidyn had wanted to try and avoid rubbing elbows with any other wearers of the silver braid, but he must not have been the only one wanting privacy. Each innkeeper told him there was at least one Seeker staying the night already. No inn had more than two, so at least there were only a handful of them in the village. Sneering at the thought of being so close to the pretenders, Jaidyn paid for a room in The Border Stag. Hoeth paid his money for a room, too. There was only one other Seeker there, a greasy-looking man sitting in the common room drinking deeply from a mug of ale.
Ordering a meal to be sent up to his room, Jaidyn headed up the stairs, away from the greasy man and other prying eyes. Hoeth was hot on his heels and even followed him into his own room, tossing his saddlebags on the floor by the door and flopping onto Jaidyn's bed.
"You still haven't told me where we're going," the younger man said. "Where Sonsedhor is."
"I've told you a dozen times since we left Morena: it's not something I want to talk about. Especially not here, where there are ears everywhere. Someone might hear."
Hoeth leaned up on his elbows. "I don't think you've said that many words to me at once since we left. You've been so quiet, Jaidyn. Distant. We're friends, right?"
We're friends, right? He remembered someone else saying that to him, a long time ago.
"We're friends, right?" Prett Moura sounded like he desperately needed reassurance. "Lexan?" Too bad his station was far below Lexan's own; friends like that were beneath him. "We are, right?"
"Of course we are," he remembered saying, contempt dripping form his voice. Prett was completely oblivious.
Jaidyn shook his head, dismissing the memory. He hated memories from Lexan. It was his memories from Cheyne he preferred, even though they were rare. He had to work to make them come.
"Sure we're friends, Hoeth. Sure we are," he said passively. "But I really need some rest now. We'll talk when we leave in a few days, okay?"
Before Hoeth could argue, he ushered him out the door and sank into bed, still grappling with Lexan's memory.
"I'm Cheyne reborn. Cheyne!" he whispered fiercely to himself. The part of his mind that insisted on dredging up Lexan's memories laughed at him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ryan Pellin's childhood was uneventful. As a te
enager, he decided he wished to pursue a career in music and got first his Bachelor's Degree, then his Master's and eventually his Ph.D. in music composition and theory. While studying for his Master's, he met Denise Archer, and the two were married a few months after his graduation. Within a year, he got a teaching job at a public university not far from the town of Ighosia Falls. By the time he was thirty-five years old, he had tenure. Doctor Pellin was a very popular professor. He regularly composed music for his students– sometimes even dedicated to them– and was always ready with advice or for friendly conversation.
Denise Archer-Pellin, however, seemed to think her husband spent too much time at work, too much time involved with his students, and nowhere near enough time with her and their son Owen. Ryan never saw the divorce papers coming. Denise took Owen and left, refusing to even give him a chance at joint custody of the boy.
Ryan buried himself in his work throughout the divorce proceedings and even further when it was all finalized. The following fall, the cutbacks in the music department began to hit hard. Adjunct faculty were let go, class sizes rose, and Ryan's workload practically tripled.
He fell into depression. Some nights he wouldn't even leave the university and go home; he simply slept in his desk chair or on the couch in his office. He spent his few waking hours composing the symphony he had promised the orchestra by mid-spring.
It was his graduate assistant, Sara Kenney, who kept him going. Acting as her mentor was perhaps the only thing that kept him from sinking completely into his composing. She was a music composition major, too, but she already had a second Bachelor's Degree in psychology, and she recognized the signs in her mentor. She tried everything she could think of to keep Dr. Pellin from sinking further into his slump, and for awhile, it all seemed to be working positively. They both knew exactly what she meant to him.
Mere Acquaintances Page 6
