"Ryan was always obsessed with mythology. It was an interest he picked up when he was still in grade school, and he was something of an expert by the time I met him. Greek, Roman, Norse, Egyptian, you name it, he knew it. The stories, they were his inspiration. The music he composed was always named after, inspired by, or about some myth or another. It even carried over into our personal life. Our son's name is Owen... Ryan called him Odin, after the king of the Norse gods. It was sort of a pet name. He's sixteen now, our son, and he's actually going by Odin in school now. I suppose it's his one last tie to his father.
"It's through Odin that I sort of kept tabs on Ryan after the divorce. He had grown so distant I don't really think I was part of his thoughts anymore. But he and Odin talked on the phone sometimes, even though from what Odin told me, Ryan just talked about his compositions. He wasn't very fatherly."
Over the phone, Becca heard a sniff from Denise. Had she begun sobbing?
"The last I heard before we found out Ryan had been committed, he was working on an opera. It was going to be his masterpiece, Odin told me. About some sword. A cursed one, from Norse mythology. Tyrfing, or something like that."
Becca nearly dropped the phone. Tyrfing? She had heard that before. She politely ended the conversation and rushed to the viewing room, searching through the tapes of Ryan and the others. When she found the one she was looking for, she popped it into the VCR. There was Ryan, the day he had randomly started singing more than usual. She fast-forwarded to where he had started spouting what sounded like an epic poem. She leaned in and turned up the volume, straining her ears to really pick up what he was saying.
There it was! He'd said "Tyrfing"! He kept using it, and using "Sawnseddor" over and over, interchangeably in what she could make out of the tale. Was this text from his opera? It didn't matter. She knew what Sawnseddor was. It was a sword!
At first glance, Zanthys didn't recognize the short young man in the streets of Estria. The young man was bruised and bloody, dusty from travel, and all in all looked like he had seen much more of the world than he wanted to see. In peering beneath the bruises and the dried blood and dust, he recognized Hoeth Karzark. At least, he believed it to be the Karzark boy; that whole family was low-blooded enough to be beneath his notice.
The afternoon found Hoeth in his small family manor. Though reluctant to accept guests, Hoeth's father showed Zanthys, Kemeny, and Draegon in anyway. Who were the Karzarks to refuse Banjay Advissen's heir?
Hoeth looked as bad as Zanthys had thought. He might have bathed, since much of the dust was gone from him, but he still looked travel-worn and was completely covered with bruises and bandages that concealed half-healed wounds. He rose as Zanthys entered his sitting room, his eyes completely void of glow and emotion.
"I'll make this quick," Zanthys said, shooting a quick glance at Draegon and Kemeny. The two bothered him. "When and where did you last see Jaidyn Huntley?"
"I never want to hear that name again," Hoeth said weakly. "He lied to me for months, then stole the woman I love and had me beaten nearly to death. Whatever misfortune falls on him is well deserved."
"But where was he last?" Draegon asked urgently.
Hoeth spat and rubbed at the unkempt facial hair growing on his chin with a shaking hand. "Estria. With a man... a man I believe may be the Dark Father incarnate."
Zanthys let out a snigger. Children's stories. But Kemeny and the bard looked ready to believe anything. Kemeny immediately touched Zanthys's arm. "We know where he is. You're coming with us to talk some sense into Jaidyn. Hoeth, you should come too. Jaidyn knows you."
"I'm not going back," Hoeth said, snapping his head up to look at her. His eyes showed the first bit of emotion they had since the audience first began, and it was fiery refusal. "I've been fed nothing but lies since I left, and I'm ready to forget the outside world even exists and stay here. So what if I inherit nothing? The only woman I love is gone. Senne sided with that liar and with the Dark Father. I'll never see Sonsedhor or the true Cheyne reborn– if he even really exists– and I don't even care anymore. Go deal with him yourself, and good riddance."
As they left the Karzark manor house, Kemeny commented, "Wasn't Senne the name of the woman at the river?"
Zanthys had no idea what she was talking about, but Draegon nodded.
A few quick calls to Lauren Rhys and to Vale's coworkers told her that Tyrfing meant nothing to them. It wasn't really a surprise to Becca.
Another round of calls gave her nothing but disconnected numbers and hang-ups. Joanna's family was unreachable. They really had all abandoned her, and some even had "do not contact" notes in Joanna's files. No wonder the woman had issues.
Through much searching, she had actually managed to track down phone numbers for both of Lydia's ex-husbands. Her first husband, Robert– Lauren's father– hung up the moment he heard Lydia's name mentioned.
Her second husband, Daniel, did talk for a bit. Lydia had been desperate for love the whole time they dated and all through their marriage. He supposed it stemmed from how badly her first marriage had gone. As time went on, she only got worse: more and more clingy, emotionally demanding, and constantly seeking acceptance. It got to be too much for him. Yes, he probably shouldn't have gotten abusive, but she had deserved it, even expected and welcomed it.
And no, Sawnseddor and Tyrfing meant nothing to him.
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
Senne's view from the balcony in the palace in Estria was really breathtaking. In the fading light of sunset, the city practically glowed, every fleck of gold glinting in the last rays of the day. It would have been beautiful, had the strange black wall not been in the distance.
She couldn't say where the horizon was, because the black was there, just... cutting off sight of everything. It was too early for it to be night's darkness, and too solid a black for it to be anything except... what she had seen a long time ago. For whatever reason, she remembered that blackness. It had been all the way across the river so long ago, then just a bit nearer as recently as a month ago. What was happening to bring it so close now?
Akotherian was sleeping in the next room. The man was still adjusting to being worldly– so he said– and he had to rest often. But she wasn't tired.
"Sonsedhor and Cheyne are coming," he had told her days and days ago. His servants were bringing them. But how soon would it be there? And would it do for him what he thought it would? He was concerned. The world was shrinking, he had told her, dying. Slowly, all of the world they was giving way to a bleak blackness even he was afraid of.
But Sonsedhor would fix everything. If only he could take hold of it– take hold of the Mother's gift to the world– he could force the blackness back. With Sonsedhor in his hands, he could even challenge the Mother herself and take control of everything!
She wondered what happened on the other side of the nothingness. How far in each direction did it really go? Her thoughts went to Hoeth for what felt like the thirtieth time this evening. Had he gone through the blackness to whatever lay on the other side? Was it death? Did the man she thought she might have loved even exist anymore?
The man she thought she might hate– who she had made exist– stirred in the next room. He was her soul. And more than once since she had sacrificed that part of her to him, she had come to realize he was sensitive to her. He could feel her emotions, even the faintest ones. Thinking about Hoeth was dangerous, she chided herself. Akotherian could seize on anything, any weakness, and use it against her. She had sworn complete obedience– and Akotherian would abuse that in an instant and order her to kill Hoeth if the opportunity arose again. She wished she could pray to the Mother that Hoeth would never come back for her. If he did, it would undoubtedly mean his death.
The few whispered words to the mother, her prayer, never came to her lips, but even so it was enough to bring Akotherian to her side. Silently, he wrapped a hand around her throat. But he didn't squeeze.
"Emery was a great cop," Deputy Chief Do
n Harson said over the phone. "Even after his health started going, he was a great example of an officer. Not one of those stereotypical desk-job doughnut cops." He chuckled. Emery's old boss seemed pleased with his wit– or lack thereof. "It was that jumper that did him in. But I'm sure you've seen the files on that, being at the mental hospital and all." He rambled on for awhile, not really telling Becca anything new, but the man seemed to really have liked Emery. It was good to see that at least one of her patients had actually had a friend of sorts.
More calls told her that Sarah Landers, Emery's mother, had passed away half a decade ago. His father Andrew was still alive, though, and Becca decided to give him a try. Even the files told her that Emery and Andrew had never seen eye to eye, but it was worth a shot.
Andrew was less-than-forthcoming concerning his second son. He was still helpful in pointing her in the direction of Emery's sister Rebekah. The two had been fairly close as children– so he thought.
Excited, Becca hurriedly hung up with Andrew and dialed the number he had given her for Rebekah. She was more than happy to talk about her brother.
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
Rebekah chattered about her brother for nearly ten minutes before Becca could get a word in. How was Emery? Was he behaving? Doing well in treatments? Had he asked about her at all? Has he made any friends there or is he still closed up in his shell? If Becca hadn't known better, she would have thought Emery's younger sister was actually his mother.
When she finally got to start asking the questions, she mentioned the other patients first, hoping vainly for a bit. The files told her none of the patients had known each other before coming to Ighosia Falls, but she still wanted to have all her bases covered. She didn't expect to get anywhere with it, but...
"Joanna Bailey? I remember Jo! She and I met in elementary school. Jo's two years older than I am, but that didn't stop us from becoming friends! Oh, my gosh, I haven't heard anything from her for years! Is she a patient there? Pity. What happened?"
As much as Becca wished she could, she wasn't allowed to give Rebekah information on Joanna's condition. Rebekah– "Oh please, call me Becky!"– understood completely, thank goodness.
"Jo and I were best friends through elementary school and into junior high. But when I was in seventh grade– Jo was in ninth, and Emery was a senior– the two of them started dating. As much as I hate to admit it, I was angry. Emery did steal my best friend. My and Jo's friendship sort of petered out that year. But it was okay. She made other friends in high school and I had friends my own age. Things like that happen.
"But while we were friends, we always had our heads together. We played "Pretend" a lot, even into middle school." Becca thought she could hear the blush in Becky's voice. "We were both tomboys, so we didn't exactly pretend we were going out to lunch dates and having tea parties and stuff. We had adventures. Jo loved He-Man."
There was a pause at the other end of the line. Becca wondered if Becky's cell phone had dropped the call. But then Becky's voice came back. "Would you like to meet in person and talk more? You seem really interested in this. And I really hate phones."
Becca couldn't agree quickly enough.
Weslyn hated watching the nightly ritual that the Keidenelle forced Roark into. Every night, the savages made a ring around him, gave him an opponent, and made him fight to the death. Sometimes the opponents were Keidenelle, sometimes prisoners. Either way, it always ended the same. Roark would fight against the curse Sonsedhor had put on him, fight against his urge to kill the person in front of him, but in the end, he had blood on his hands. The Keidenelle he fought were fighting for their own honor and were determined to make him fear for his own life. Some of the prisoners thought winning could earn them their freedom, or maybe better treatment. Whatever their reasons, they always fought back, and Roark was forced to kill them. She could tell he tried to make it painless, make their deaths as painless and merciful as possible, but sometimes that just wasn't an option.
Tonight, he was against a slim Keidenelle man who only came up to his shoulder. The little man was quick and held himself ready to attack. He and Roark circled each other, each looking for his opportunity. The ring of Keidenelle onlookers shouted cheers, jeers, and insults at them, depending on which one they had bet on. She had noticed– more than once– weapons, loot, and even children changing hands as betting losses were paid.
The Keidenelle man made a feint, trying to catch Roark off-guard. Roark didn't even twitch, somehow knowing the feint for what it was. The man feinted again, then stepped quickly the other way, trying to get around Roark. But Roark was having none of it. He twisted to face the Keidenelle man and his hands shot out, grabbing the man by shoulder and wrist. There was a quick jerk, a sick pop, and the man's shoulder was dislocated. Weslyn had to hand it to the man; his pain tolerance was high. He didn't let out so much as a gasp or a short shriek as his shoulder came out of place.
She looked at Roark's hands as he held the Keidenelle man still for a moment. Weeks of fights had left his hands blood-stained. Not all fights went as non-violently as this one had. They never let Roark wash, so the blood of his victims had left his hands a sickly red-brown.
How did they know what Sonsedhor had done to him? They had singled Roark out that second night they were with the band, and he had been forced to fight every night since. Was it mere chance? She didn't think so. Somehow, the Keidenelle knew.
The fire dance would begin once the fight was over. Every night, after the fight, the Keidenelle dismembered the loser and tossed him or her into the gigantic fire they made. They danced and chanted. It was some sort of ritual, she thought, but she didn't know what it was for.
"Think of your friends, your family!" Roark's voice rang over the cheers and insults. Weslyn looked up at him. Or rather, down at him. Roark had fallen to his knees in front of the Keidenelle man, but he wasn't looking at him. His eyes were focused much further up, to the sky. "There is something to live for. You have lots to live for! What about your parents? Your dreams! There is a future beyond this!"
One of the Keidenelle shrieked and pointed to the sky. Weslyn's eyes followed her pointing and at first, didn't know what she was pointing at. But then, in the distance, a star winked out. And another. Minutes ticked by, and stars winked out, like a black curtain was being drawn over them, far away but gradually creeping nearer. Her eyes clouded for a moment, and she closed them to try and refocus. When she closed them, though, a face appeared in front of her. It was a young girl, a teenager, tall and beautiful with sleek brown hair and brown eyes and a petulant mouth. A name popped into her head to go with the face.
"Lauren......" she whispered, bursting into tears. The image inside her eyelids faded and she opened her eyes. But instead of seeing the ring of Keidenelle, Roark and his opponent, she saw a garden in full bloom, a flowering courtyard, complete with a small pond and stone benches. She was sitting on one such bench– she could feel the stone beneath her bottom.
Another name came into her head. Lydia...
She kept crying. She'd never felt more confused or lost in her life. Who were Lauren and Lydia? What was that garden? Where?
A heavy, deep-voiced grunt brought her abruptly back to reality. The slim Keidenelle man had resumed the fight on his own. He was beating the still-kneeling Roark about his head and shoulders with his one good arm and kicking his lower back. Blood began trickling down Roark's face in a handful of places: his nose, one of his ears, cuts on his scalp and forehead.
The Keidenelle were whooping with excitement. Would Roark be killed? Would they let him die? He had killed so many...
She shouted his name but was drowned out by the din the savages were making. More blows landed on Roark's ears and shoulders. The Keidenelle man danced around him, taunting in between strikes.
Without warning, Roark bounded into his opponent and knocked him to the ground. He planted himself atop the other man's chest, seized his head in his hands...
A quick twist, and the
fight was over. The onlookers went silent. Wordlessly, Roark rose, strode through the stunned crowd and walked the short distance back to the wagons where Weslyn was. He stood with his wrists together, waiting to be tied back up.
Roark had only glanced at her once, for a brief second, but she had seen something different behind his eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
The café where Becca met with Becky was small enough to be called quaint, but large enough to do very good business. Becca and Becky sat in a corner booth– to minimize the number of people that might overhear private information. Becca set up a small tape recorder with Becky's permission and asked her to elaborate on her friendship with Joanna.
"Well, like most girls, we played pretend a lot. But unlike most girls, we didn't just play at being princesses, the damsels in distress who required knights in shining armor to rescue them. We did our own rescuing. We were princesses sometimes, but we were also Robin Hood-esque brigands and pirates and tribal savages and everything we could think of. There were times when Emery would join in, as a soldier or a knight or a nobleman; he never liked playing princes or kings– too boring.
"But it wasn't just one adventure and then a completely different one next time. Our games were all connected. They could have written a history of their world based on the adventures they had, one after another. The world was the same, with the same places, kingdoms, and all that. Our characters got older, got married, had children...
"Now, when you think of an imaginary character having a child, say... one of my brigands having a daughter... I think most girls would make that daughter, grown up of course, her next character to pretend to be. Not us. We didn't want to be people from the same family, the same part of our world. We wanted to branch out, to create other families, other pasts that would change who we were when we played. But we didn't want to just start from scratch with new characters, either. We wanted to be able to remember what we had done in the past, let the villains we made up come back more than once.
Mere Acquaintances Page 12
