Draconis' Bane (5 page)

“Is your mind clear?”
He asked quickly.

“Y…yes.” replied
Tristan.

“Excellent. Alright,
your mother needs me to do some damage repair from inside your
mind. I need you to listen to me son. Can you do that?”

“I’ll listen…I still
don’t see what is going on.” Tristan fearfully admitted.

“That will come in
time….I hope.” Muttered Downing.

Tristan’s eyes both
focused on him.

“You hope?!” He
demanded in a panic.

“Son, you’ve been
unconscious for over a month. We don’t exactly know what happened
or why, all we know is this; you were training with Fallon, do you
remember Fallon?”

“My Swordmaster…”
Tristan blurted.

His eyes once again
registered shock; he blurted it out before he’d even thought of it.
Uncertainty crept up inside Tristan again. What was wrong with him?
Fallon, his Swordmaster, and Gerald, his mentor…or Dana as his
people call them. His people…what the hell was going on? He didn’t
have people. Tristan, the skinny little big eared lonely introvert,
didn’t have people. He was alone.

Not alone.
A
female voice echoed inside his mind.

“WHAT?!” Tristan
shouted aloud, falling off the pew again.

You aren’t alone
son.
The voice consoled.

He really was going
insane. Now voices were inside his head, not just in some creepy
empty church in front of a dead body.

You are as sane as
I am.
She assured him.

Oh that’s comforting,
Tristan thought to himself.

The female voice
laughed lightly in his head. He couldn’t place the feeling, but her
musical voice calmed him and helped Tristan clear his mind as he
was asked. In his mind’s eye his world was still ripped in two. He
could now hear into the other world too. He could hear the musical
laughter coming from above and behind his head. He craned his neck
slightly back, trying to see who was laughing at him now.

I’m not laughing
at you my Mykl.
She said quietly, invoking the pet name she
used for all of her children.

Tristan continued to
crane his neck back barely making out a soft maroon silken gown,
pale arms and a mane of black hair before being unceremoniously
torn back to the church.

“What in the hell are
you doing!?” His father screamed.

Eight years old
again, he sat alone in the front of a church staring inside the
coffin at his dead grandfather. His father came storming up the
aisle towards him and fear began to creep into every fiber of his
young body.

“I said; What are you
doing?!” He demanded.

“I’m just sitting
here, like Mom told me to.”

“You’re supposed to
be out front with the rest of us.”

“But…Mom told me…”
His voice died in his throat as his father’s iron grip tightened
around his bicep again and he dragged him out of the church.

Just inside the
church doors his father released him and brushed out the wrinkles
he’d caused in Tristan’s jacket sleeve. He pushed him
unceremoniously towards the door once he was satisfied that the
wrinkles were gone. That’s right, get rid of the evidence, Tristan
thought bitterly. God forbid anyone sees what you do to me behind
the privacy of our doors.

“Found him sitting in
the church, sulking like a baby.” His father whispered.

“Come here and hold
your sisters hand.” Hissed his mother.

Fighting mightily not
to roll his eyes, lest he get another yard stick snapped over his
rear end, Tristan marched forward and grasped his sisters’ pudgy
hand. Standing there, like the robot he was expected to be for the
next twenty minutes he tried to think about what had just happened
in the church.

Fight.

What?

Again, that soft
musical voice filled his head.
Fight it Tristan.

Fight what?! You both
told me to calm my thoughts! Make up your minds!

Calm your mind so I
can bring you home Mykl.

Stop calling me that!
I am home. Look at them. Abusive father, neglectful mother and
spoiled sister; this is home. What more could I ask for?

An image came into
his mind’s eye, an image of a family, six of them, standing there,
smiling at him. Tristan shook his head. Another day dream, now he
was having them so often that he was standing and sometimes in
conversations as they were happening. He felt as though he was
being torn in two. One boy, eight years old, frightened abused and
alone, the other boy, so much older, happier and nourished.

Please Mykl.
Please, let me help you!
The voice called urgently.
Tristan!

Tristan grunted and
his hand shot out of his pocket and to his right temple making
those near him flinch and pull away from him.

“Stop acting like a
baby!” His father hissed in his ear.

Through clenched
teeth Tristan faced his father, anger like burning embers in his
eyes.

“I…am…not…a…baby!” He
hissed.

The look he was
rewarded with wasn’t apologetic, not angry…it seemed…excited.

“We’ll talk about
this when we get home.” He announced with relish.

Once again, fear
griped his very soul. He knew a lashing was coming again, no one
else in his family seemed to have witnessed the exchange, and no
one was going to save him. At the edge of the crowd Tristan caught
sight of Father Downing. His eyes were unreadable but his posture
obviously protective.

Your father will save
you Mykl. Let him. Let me. Please Tristan!

“Stop calling me
that!” He screamed out loud.

Everyone turned and
looked at him. His mother began making apologies of the usual sort,
stress of losing a loved one, grief, guilt and so on. His father’s
iron grip once again found his bicep as he squeezed harder than
ever, half-dragging Tristan back to their car. He unlocked the
door, rolled the window down barely an inch tossed his son
unceremoniously inside the car and slammed the door.

“Don’t you move from
that spot! You’re an embarrassment!” He shouted.

Rubbing his arm where
the skin was slowly turning back to its usual shade, Tristan’s eyes
filled with tears again. Staring out the window he felt the sweet
musical voice in his head as Father Downing came walking brusquely
around the building towards the car.

Mykl. This isn’t your
home, this isn’t your life. You’ve been attacked; I couldn’t even
get to you until today. I’m not giving up on you. Please! Fight!
Calm your mind and allow me to help you!

“Tristan. I know it’s
hard, I know you don’t know who to trust and who will bring you
more pain. You were in the training room in our palace, can you
remember?” Downing asked as he approached.

“NO! I can’t
remember! I remember you teaching me meditation and healing. I
remember Joy showing me love and compassion. I remember Grandpa
showing me…” Tristan broke off as finally he began to cry.

Tears streamed down
his face as he attempted to wipe them away as quickly as they fell.
His father would be so angry that he was crying again.

“I’m not angry.”
Downing commented.

“What?” Asked
Tristan

“I’m not angry. I’m
proud.”

“Proud that I’m
crying like a little baby?!” Demanded Tristan, his temper flaring
again.

“Tristan. Lesser men,
fully grown men, have died because of the spell that was cast on
you. You never gave up, you fought…you survived. The spell is
losing its power, we’ve never seen this before, your Dana isn’t
sure if it’s going to kill you or set you free. Our time is up. We
must wake you.” He urged.

“I don’t understand.
I…this is my life. I don’t know what you’re TALKING ABOUT!”
Screamed Tristan as the pain in his head intensified.

Tristan could hear a
loud smash as the window to the car was broken; a bloody hand
reached in and unlocked the door. Father Downing got into the car
and sat next to him.

“Face me Tristan.
Turn and face me.”

Tristan slowly,
painfully turned in his seat; each miniscule movement caused a wave
of nausea and pain to sweep over him. He nearly vomited from it
until he finally had turned to face Father Downing.

“Remember the temple
chakra Tristan?”

“Y…yes….” Tristan
grunted through clenched teeth. It felt like his mind was going to
explode.

“Put your hands on my
temples.”

Slowly, hands shaking
and his face losing color by the moment Tristan reached up and
touched Father Downing’s temples. A bloody hand and a clean one
reached up and made contact with Tristan’s temples. Immediately the
pain ceased and Tristan’s eyes shot open. His vision was torn in
two again, the left eye saw Father Downing, the right eye was back
in the candle lit room, staring up at a fabric canopy over his
head. Slowly, almost imperceptibly the right image began to shift
over the left one.

That’s it Mykl!
You’re doing it! I’m so proud! Keep fighting!

“I CAN’T!” He
screamed out in pain. “IT HURTS!” Tristan cried out.

“You can son! You
must! Fight!” Urged Father Downing.

“Oh no.” Tristan
whispered in terror.

Dion! He’s
coming!

From around the
building Tristan’s father was storming over the church lawn,
undoing his belt as he came; the anger coming out of him was like
waves of intense heat. All of the color drained from Tristans’ face
as he realized with uncanny certainty; He’s going to kill me.

No he isn’t! You have
to fight! You’re almost there! FIGHT!

Tristan’s father was
getting closer, the image he perceived out of his left eye was half
the size it used to be, and the right was becoming more crowded.
Four people were standing over him, concern on their faces. A young
girl was crying, her tears running down her cheeks and onto his
hand.

Wait - onto
his
hand.

He’s getting it Dion!
Hold onto him! Mykl! Fight Mykl! FIGHT!

“I am! I…”

An ear piercing sound
like an enormous window shattering was abruptly followed by
absolute silence and darkness so profound that it swallowed his
very soul.

“How long has he been
like this?” Asked a concerned male voice.

“Four days.” Replied
a quiet female voice.

“He hasn’t woken up?
Eaten anything?” Asked another male voice.

“He’ll be fine!”
Insisted a young girl.

“Eurydice,
sweetheart, he’s been through something unheard of. We don’t know
what’s going to happen next. He could very well die…” The female
voice choked off at the end.

“…but not today….”
Tristan grunted.

The mood in the room
immediately changed. Everyone, charged with emotion shouted his
name.

“…why do you all keep
shouting at me like that?” He grimaced as a wave of dull pain
washed over him.

“Son? Can you hear
me?” Asked the second male voice.

Slowly and very
painfully, Tristan opened his eyes. The ceiling, unlike the hard
stone church rafters he remembered from his split vision, was a
rich blue fabric connected at four black wooden posts.

Immediately the wind
was knocked out of him as a small body leapt onto the bed with him
and wrapped its little arms around him. The pain shot through him
like a hundred little needles.

“Eurydice! Be
careful! You could hurt him!” Her mother scolded.

“…don’t yell at her!
I’m fine!” Snapped Tristan.

Unnerved by his
protective impulse towards this small child, he couldn’t be
distracted from the millions of questions blurring his mind. All he
could mutter was;

“I’m starving…”

“I’ll see to it” The
first male voice said.

The door opened and
shut with a metal clang as the handle swung back and tapped against
the locking plate. The room began to come into focus as he slowly
turned his head to the side. The man he took to be his father,
looking exactly how he remembered Father Downing, had his hands on
the shoulders of a regal looking woman with dark hair and green
eyes filled with tears. This was his mother he assumed, the other
male voice must have been his brother, the little arms painfully
synched around his stomach must be his sister, he placed his hand
on her back and rubbed her reassuringly.

“I’m fine Euri…I’m
fi….”

“He remembers me!”
She squealed as she released her hold on his middle and wrapped her
arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.

Tristan hesitated, he
didn’t know how he knew her name, couldn’t remember seeing her ever
before and was confused by the intense feeling of protection and
affection for this small child. He held onto her, sat up and turned
so that he could hang his feet over the side of the bed. Eurydice
slowly released her stranglehold on his neck and sat down on his
lap, her arms circling around him again as she buried her head in
his chest.

He tried to focus his
eyes on the room again, this time taking in his surroundings. There
was a large stone fireplace off to his right. At the foot of his
bed was a large stained glass window in the shape of a bright blue
dragon belching green and purple flames, to his left he saw the
same large wooden dresser he remembered from his room…or…his
nightmare’s room…or…he sighed, it was still so confusing.

The door opened again
as an impossibly large man walked in with two servants trailing
behind him. They placed a tray of fruit, cheese and some rye bread
on his bedside table and bowed their way out of the room. Much like
the other furniture in the room, this table was made of the same
weathered looking black wood. On the table they had also placed a
pitcher of crystal clear water and a decanter of what looked to be
wine.

Eurydice slowly and
reluctantly released her grip on him as her mother came over and
gently lifted her off of Tristan. He took a deep breath. He noticed
the faint humidity in the air and the fresh smell of a recent
spring rain. Reaching over he grabbed a metal platter and put some
fruit, a chunk of cheese and a slice of the rye on it. He poured
himself a glass of water and guzzled it down his dry throat. He
poured another and placed it on the table as close to him as
possible.