The Sword And The Pen (16 page)

Hot tears warmed my frozen cheeks, but couldn't touch the ice encasing and crushing my shattered heart. My whole life was a lie! Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside me. Of course it was a lie. I wasn't real. Nothing about me existed. Not my past. Not my present. Not my future. The future I had yet to read.

As I lifted the pages, darkness blanketed the room. I screamed in frustration. Lightning answered my plea, a series of flashes, and with that intermittent illumination I read on.

Though Brandon found he enjoyed reconnecting with his old friend--he didn't even mind looking at dozens of pictures of Sam's new baby--he returned from his trip to Chicago even more confused than when he'd left.

Despite his best efforts over the last few days, Sam hadn't found out anything about Seri. No birth records. No Social Security number. No missing persons reports. No wanted posters. No airline, train, or bus tickets to Council Falls or any town within walking distance. No cars rented by anyone matching her description. Nothing. Before she'd appeared in Brandon's living room, she hadn't seemed to exist. Sam was baffled.

Few people were capable of leaving no trail. In spite of her wild claims, or perhaps because of them, Brandon didn't believe Seri was one of those few.

In the growing darkness, he pointed his rental car toward home. Wind buffeted his vehicle as he drove, and ahead, lightning streaked the horizon. Rain splattered against his windshield.

Though he and Seri parted with nothing resolved between them, he was eager to be with her again. Being apart had given him more time to consider. Even if they never discovered her true identity, even if she clung to her odd story, somehow he'd find a way to make their relationship work. Whoever she was, wherever she'd come from, he wanted her in his life. He just needed to convince her to stay.

As the miles passed, primal instinct urged him to hurry. Something felt wrong. As if to delay him, the storm increased. Torrents of rain worked the wipers overtime; his car's headlights struggled to pierce the watery gloom.

He hunched forward and peered through the fogged windshield. As the storm's intensity grew, so did his apprehension.

Ahead, his house stood silent and dark. No lights glowed through the windows; there were no sounds but the roaring storm. Brandon ran through the rain and into the house. Breathing hard, he skidded to a halt. Where was Seri? The kittens? Chilled and empty, his home felt as vacant as his heart.

Bolt after bolt of lightning lit the sky, illuminating the rooms through which he passed. Thunder roared, shaking the house, charging the air. His skin prickled with dread as he reached the kitchen.

Over the thrum of the pounding rain he heard it: a low agonized cry. It came from his office.

His final manuscript! No, she couldn't read it! Why had he thoughtlessly left it lying on his desk? There were things about the world he'd created that Seri didn't know, things that would shock her. Things that would hurt her. Things that might push her over the edge of sanity. He dashed up the stairs and burst into his office.

Head bent, shoulders bowed, Seri stood by the window. The sheaf of papers she held fluttered in a phantom breeze, or from the trembling of her hands. The light of the storm cast her face in unforgiving shades of black and white.

"Seri?"

At the sound of his voice, she looked up. Her face devoid of emotion, she met his gaze.

He started toward her.

"Don't." She shook the papers violently. "How could you? My world. My people. My life. They all mean nothing to you. Toys. Puppets to manipulate. To what purpose? You are indeed a wizard--and if you create worlds and people solely to make them suffer, an evil one."

"Seri." He moved toward her cautiously. "They're just words on a page. They're not real. You are."

He jumped back as she grabbed her sword. Maybe denying her delusion was not the wisest course.

She held the manuscript above her head and pointed her blade at his heart. "For a short time, I almost believed you. I deluded myself that I could be 'Seri.' That I could remain here. That I could abandon my world, my people. That I could be with you." Her voice trembled then grew hard. "But I am Serilda d'Lar of the kingdom of Barue. I will deny that no longer."

She dropped the manuscript, and its pages swirled around her to the floor. Gripping her sword in both hands, she held it above and before her. Almost impossibly, lightning appeared on its tip, glimmering, sizzling. And with a crack of thunder, it streaked downward to encircle her.

Seri's body undulated. Her hair danced around her head, crackling with pinpoints of light. Her mouth opened in a scream that was drowned out by another boom of thunder. For one endless moment, their gazes met. Then, as Brandon watched in helpless horror, she vanished.

He stood alone in the middle of his office. She was gone. Shock made him oblivious to the pain he knew he'd soon feel.

The smell of ozone and burnt paper hung heavy in the air. Scorched sheets of his manuscript fluttered across the floor in another phantom breeze. Outside, the rain fell in heavy sheets but the windows were closed. Thunder grumbled like ancient plumbing.

With a snap, the power came back on. Brandon heard his computer beep. His desk lamp cast a circle of light over the paper-littered room.

He sagged into his chair. Against all reason, he now believed she was what she claimed: Serilda, his fictional character. Or maybe it was not so unreasonable. Seeing her vanish in a flash of light dispelled all doubt. "If all possible explanations are ruled out, then the impossible must be true," he muttered.

Too late he believed. She was gone.

Another author complaining about suffering from writer's block had once told him that in fiction, the writer was God and all the characters were atheists. At the time, he'd laughed, not entirely sure what the man meant. Brandon didn't consider himself God, and Serilda was no atheist. But she was his creation. Yet, she was gone.

He snatched a sheet of paper out of the air. His own words stabbed into him, shredding his blanket of numbness. She'd read them. Discovered the secret of her shrouded past. Learned of his deceit. Accepted her fate, gone back to it willingly. Pain squeezed his chest until his breath came in ragged gasps.

The memory of that look of betrayal, of fear and resignation in her eyes as she disappeared exposed Brandon for what he was: a liar, a cheat and a coward. For years he'd lied and cheated himself out of living a real life. And was too cowardly to accept Seri for herself. But what could he do? The situation was beyond his understanding, beyond his control, beyond his ability to change.

But, was it? The paper crumpled in his fist. He swung around to his desk and attacked the computer, drew up a file and began. Possessed by a sense of urgency, his fingers flew across the keyboard.

Words were his strength, his weapon, his shield. With words he could do anything. He spilled them upon the screen like blood across a battlefield. He drained them from his body, from his very soul.

Lightning streaked the sky. Thunder crashed. Lights flickered, threatening to go out. The image on the monitor rolled; his heart stuttered then steadied.

He typed faster, his words coming without thought as he attempted to alter Seri's destiny.

Lightning flashed. Power surged. Pain flared.

Brandon fell into darkness.

PART TWO

Serilda woke. A dream hovered at the edge of her mind, a warm, sweet illusive temptation to return to slumber. Then it faded, leaving her feeling as if she'd lost something precious but unsure of what it might be.

Better she not remember. Dreams had no place in her life. Existence in Barue was not for dreamers. Those who stopped fighting in order to dream soon died of harsh reality.

In the three years she'd been fighting Roark, she'd watched many good men die. Too many. But long before that she'd known of his evil. He'd killed her family, murdered the monks who'd raised her. As trusted advisor to the king, he'd murdered the royal family as well, but it took another fifteen years before the government recognized him for what he was. During those years he'd used his position as head of the ruling counsel to oppress the people, fatten his coffers and amass an army. Then, when he felt assured no one could oppose him, he struck, seized control of the government.

He'd misjudged not only his own strength, and the strength of the council, but also the strength of the people. They hadn't sat placidly. They'd risen up against him, and she was happy to lend her sword arm to the cause.

Though she and her troops had managed to keep Roark from gaining complete control, the devastation he'd wrought with his tyrannical government that he did control had damaged Barue and its people. It was past time to bring Roark's reign of terror to an end. Serilda intended to do so.

She started to stretch. Bruised and battered, her muscles protested the movement. Squeezing her eyes shut, she groaned.

Another memory had her touching her throat to assure herself her head remained attached to her body. Battle the previous day had not gone well. By ignoring Hausic's wise counsel against a frontal assault, she'd led too many good men to unnecessary deaths--another remorse to weigh down a soul already burdened with guilt. Now Roark was forewarned of her presence. He'd retreated inside his castle fortress, and a sneak attack on his encampment was no longer possible.

Sitting up, Serilda shook off her sense of impending doom. One lost battle did not lose a war. As long as she breathed, Barue would not cede completely to her enemy.

The tent lay in shadows. Dawn had yet to break. She pushed aside the bed robes. Naked, she shivered in the chill morning air. In the small stove, white ash coated the coals and gave off no heat.

As she shifted to rise, her hip bumped a source of warmth beneath the bed robes. Snatching up her sword she shot to her feet.

The lump groaned but didn't stir. She used the tip of her sword to shift the bed robes aside.

"Donnie?" she asked. Though he lay with his face turned from her view, she recognized him. Reluctant pleasure mingled with her surprise at his presence in her bed. Since they'd parted, she'd often regretted the lack of his warmth next to her.

He sprawled across her bed on his belly in all his naked splendor.

Despite the white ragged lines of the battle scars marring the perfection of his golden skin, splendid he was. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, taut buttocks and trim hips. Muscles corded his arms and legs. Even his feet were well formed. Serilda knew the tangled golden hair framed the face of a seraph.

In the years since she'd kicked him out of her bed, out of her life, out of her heart, she'd forgotten--or told herself she'd forgotten--the beauty of his form. She'd lied. Warmth flooded her belly and lower.

Why was he here? When she'd declined his offer of life bondage in favor of returning to Barue to oppose Roark, he'd given her arms and supplies but refused to send his troops. Had he changed his mind?

Along with the remembered heat, hope unfurled inside her. What would she do to convince him to help? What would she offer him? What would she sacrifice to see Roark defeated?

"Donnie." She prodded his hip with the tip of her sword.

*** *** ***

Something pricked my hip. Damned kittens! I reached out to grab the blasted little varmints and drew back my hand with a yelp.

I bolted upright. My head spun. My vision blurred around the edges. When I tripped over that damn dog, I must have hit my head harder than I thought. Blinking away the spots, I stared in disbelief at the blood welling from the shallow slice across my palm.

"Don't just sit there bleeding all over my bed." Sword in hand, Seri stood over me. She tossed me a piece of cloth.

Confusion and pain flared in my mind and body. Every muscle and bone ached. My head continued to pound. The cut on my hand stung.

What had happened to me? I pushed past the throbbing in my head to think. Fingers of panic unfurled in my belly.

The last thing I remembered was typing frantically to change the ending of my final Warrior Woman book. In my attempt to put an end to the series, the final confrontation between Serilda and Roark had ended in both their deaths. When Seri vanished in front of me, I'd accepted the truth: she was my fictional creation. To save her from the deadly fate I'd written for her, I'd attempted to rewrite the ending. Had I finished? I didn't know. A haze clouded my memory.

I must have done something right, because Seri stood in front of me, alive, angry and gloriously naked. Desire hit me hard and fast. Even in the dim grey light that shadowed and leeched the color from the room, her body glowed. At eye level the crisp hair between her thighs tempted me to lean forward and taste her. I gulped, thankful for the scrap of cloth resting in my lap, and tore my gaze away.

Where was I? I looked around the room--anywhere but at Seri.

Not a room, a tent! Above me, canvas rippled. I sat on a bed. A pile of fur robes softened the simple wooden frame. My head whirled in disorientation.

I reached down to cover myself. The flat side of Seri's sword smacked my hand.

"You'll get blood on the bed robes. Here."

I strangled my shriek of alarm as she used the tip of the sword to lift the cloth from my groin and deposited it across my bleeding palm. Clutching the cloth to my hand, I managed to wrap a fur around my waist and stood. Blood rushed from my brain, leaving me woozy. I tried to blink away the dark spots dancing in front of my eyes.

Seri seemed to have no problem with her nudity. Anger faded from her gaze. A smile played around her lips as she watched me fumbling to preserve my dignity and maintain my precarious balance.

"Why are you here, Donnie?" She laid down her sword and shrugged into a robe.

Once her body was covered, my heart rate settled to near normal. My breathing eased. But my mind and vision didn't clear. Where was I?