The Sword And The Pen (4 page)

Despite my efforts to prolong the meal I finished in minutes. I sat back with a sigh of pleasure and summoned a loud belch of appreciation.

Brandon's fork clattered on his plate. "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?" I asked.

"Belch."

"To express my gratitude for the meal you prepared."

"How could you know? I never included that custom in my final drafts. Not even my agent knows. No one does."

"It is an old custom. One no one has used in years, but the monks insisted. If it offends you I will not do so again."

He stood. "No, that's not it. It's just. . ." He stopped and stared at me.

His lengthy appraisal made me uncomfortable. Training and instinct told me I should be wary of this man; he held my existence in his hands. But long weeks of sleepless nights and waking nightmares along with battles gone badly had drained my energy. Now a stomach full of delectable food left me feeling sleepy. Besides, I still had yet to decide what action to take. Better to rest and study the situation before I did anything.

I watched through heavy eyelids as he paced the floor muttering, "It's not possible. I'm losing it. You can't be Serilda."

"It may not be possible, but here I am. Whether you wish it or not, I am Serilda--apparently your creation."

A yawn caught me off guard. I forced my eyes open. This man might not look or act the powerful wizard, but he'd brought me from my world into his. I'd do well to remain alert.

He stopped in front of me, leaned down and placed his hands on the arms of the chair I sat in. His face hovered inches from mine, his breath warm against my cheeks and scented with citrus from the orange drink he'd poured for us. Instead of pulling away in anger, my usual reaction when anyone invaded my personal space, I found myself wanting to draw closer, to find comfort in his embrace. This longing for something I'd never had startled me.

His aqua green eyes locked on me. Unable to hold his intense gaze, I studied his face.

On closer inspection, his resemblance to King Donoval the Golden faded. The color of the ocean, the wizard's eyes held depths Donoval's lacked. They changed color with his mood. Despite his greater masculine beauty, Donoval's face didn't fascinate me as the wizard's did. Though they were both handsome, this man's features revealed more character. The lines bracketing his mouth and fanning out from his eyes gave a physical record of his life's challenges.

I resisted the urge to raise my hand and smooth the frown from his brow. A faint stubble of beard covered his cheeks. Like Donoval's, the wizard's facial hair was a few shades darker than the golden blond hair on his head. I wondered what it would feel like against my skin. A sudden heat coursed through my veins.

"There's one way you can prove to me who you are." He leaned closer. "Tell me your enchanted name."

His whispered demand chilled my blood. "No." I shook my head. "I cannot. I will not." No one but myself knew the name I'd chosen when I reached the age of awareness at seven. With knowledge of my enchanted name, even one with little magic in them could control my every action.

Members of the royal family had been blessed with great magic. Until their foul murders they'd wielded that power to the benefit of all Barue. Roark used deceit to get close to the royal family and his small magic ability to kill them. Their deaths threw Barue into civil war, a war that yet raged. Since then, use of magic had fallen into disuse. Each year that passed fewer people took enchanted names and even fewer continued to believe in magic. I now had proof it existed.

"You will tell me!"

The wizard's façade of patience crumbled. He grabbed my arms and yanked me to my feet. I didn't know this man. His gentle demeanor had blinded me to the strength and power contained in his body. Gone was the clumsy oaf who stumbled over his own feet to escape my attack. Gone was the charming host who fed and cosseted me. In their place stood a fierce warrior determined to claim what he believed was his by right.

"As my creator you already know my enchanted name, but unless I speak it aloud you cannot use it against me." Or could he? Did the rules of my world apply here?

"I have to know the truth." His grip gentled along with his tone. "Are you really my creation? Or are you just a figment of my imagination, a result of isolation and writer's block? I may be crazy but I know I'm not delusional. Serilda's enchanted name exists nowhere but in my mind. I've never written it down or told anyone. If you know it. . ."

"No!" I twisted free of his hold. Arms wrapped around my middle, I backed away from him. "I'll not say it. Not even Roark's master torturer could make me speak it. Kill me. Write me out of existence if you will, but I'll be no man's slave."

At that moment, he looked more horrified than I felt. He took a step back and held up a hand in a conciliatory gesture. "All right. Either you're mad or I am. You're either an Oscar-award winning actress or, God help me, you're Serilda. In my thirty-five years I've inspired affection or aversion, respect or contempt, but never terror. I don't much care for the feeling. Relax, I'm not going to hurt you."

Shame at my fear made me lash out. "As if you could."

The guilt in his eyes faded, replaced by anger. "You forget, if you really are Serilda I can make you grovel with a stroke of my pen."

I pulled my sword. "You'll have a hard time using a pen with no hands."

His bark of laughter caught me off guard. The man didn't have normal reactions!

"I guess we have a bit of a stand-off. You can cut me down with your sword or I can cut you down with my pen." He cocked his head. "You know, someone once said, The pen is mightier than the sword."

The sight of his crooked half smile drained my anger, and I snorted. "Perhaps if the sword is very short and the pen is very sharp." With a mere flick of my wrist I could sever the hand he stretched out to me. Instead, I sheathed my sword.

He laughed again and nodded to his hand. "Agreed. Shall we call a truce? I won't write anything to hurt you and you won't do anything with that sword of yours to hurt me. Deal?"

"Truce." I clasped his hand in mine. Though the skin of his fingers and palms was smooth, his grip felt firm and sure. A strange tingle traveled up my arm. I snatched my hand back and rubbed it against my thigh. "What do we do now?"

He shrugged. "Without your enchanted name I really can't be one hundred percent sure you're a character out of my imagination."

I went stiff.

"Relax, I'm not going to insist you say it."

"Insist all you like, I will not," I growled.

"Okay, I got that. I'm just saying I still have my doubts about you being one of my fictional characters come to life. It's too farfetched even for this fiction writer. I suppose I'd rather think that you're the insane one, not me. But if you're crazy, what am I going to do with you? I don't guess that you'd like to take a trip into town to see the local head doctor or the chief of police?"

I shook my head. Despite his previous words, his tone screamed disbelief.

"Let's go into the other room and sit down. Maybe we can sort out this mess." He opened the door and motioned me through. The feel of his gaze on my back made my stomach lurch. We seated ourselves; he lounged on the overstuffed couch facing a large fireplace, while I perched on a chair.

For several minutes he sat and looked at me until I felt like I had when called to task by Brother Eldrin for some minor infraction of a monastery rule. Finally he asked, "What do you suggest we do next?"

I shrugged. "How should I know? You brought me here."

"I told you, I didn't."

"You are inept for a wizard. Do you always practice magic without regard for the consequences?"

"That's the point! I don't practice magic. I'm a writer. I write stories!"

"There is magic in words, of course, especially when put to paper. Brother Eldrin and the other monks believed the power of the written word was without limit. But they never used it as you have. Nor"--a shadow of grief made me pause--"did it save them from Roark's sword."

He leaned forward. "How do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"Keep saying things about my books that I only had in my head, back-story that I never revealed. You must have studied them intensely to remember all the details and to glean the meaning behind the characters' actions. But the real question is why? What do you hope to get out of this little charade? I'm comfortable, but I don't have enough money to make whatever you're doing worth all this time and effort. And despite your bizarre entrance into my life, somehow you don't strike me as being a real nutcase. So what's the hook here? What do you want?"

He'd asked the one question for which I had no answer.

What did I want?

Brandon leaned his elbows on his knees and scrubbed his hands over his face. What to do? He knew he should call the authorities, but with what? Serilda--no, the lunatic--had destroyed his phone. He had to stop thinking of her as Serilda. That way led to madness.

Once again he remembered his grandmother, her tales of sorcerers who created worlds with the power of their minds. She'd meant them as warnings, but those fanciful stories had inspired him to write. But, he'd never believed them. Fictional characters just didn't come to life.

But he couldn't seem to dismiss her dire warnings about what happened to the sorcerers in her stories, either. When the worlds they created took on lives of their own, when they obtained a reality beyond the sorcerer's imagination, the sorcerers were destroyed. Like his father had been?

He shook his head. Nonsense! Utter nonsense! Real was real. Fiction was fiction. And this woman was as real and solid as a person could get. He just had to figure out what to do about her.

Because he couldn't get reception in his area, he'd never bothered to get a cell phone. Even his Internet connection was erratic at best. Still, once he decided what to do about her he'd give that a try.

"Perhaps if you show me what you're writing about me and my world, we can figure a way for me to return there."

He looked at her. As crazy as it made him, he found himself wanting to buy in to her delusion. Besides, he didn't think she'd be thrilled with the direction her story had taken. "That's part of the problem. I haven't been able to write. Ever since lightning struck the house and fried my monitor, I've been suffering from a major case of writer's block."

"Monitor?" Her brows pulled together in a puzzled frown.

"You really do have your act down pat. If I didn't think it would make me as nuts as you, I'd almost believe it."

"Nuts? What do nuts have to do with this? Believe what you like, but I speak the truth. I understand most of the words you say, but sometimes the meaning of your phrases is lost."

"Okay, for now I'll play along. What do you want to know?"

She looked thoughtful for a minute. "What is this writer's block?"

Her question confused him. How could she not know what writer's block was? "It's an ailment that afflicts authors from time to time."

"Do you suffer from it often?"

Damn, if she didn't sound concerned, too! "Actually, writer's block has never been a problem before. I'm considered a fairly prolific writer. In the last ten years I've had ten books published, six of them Warrior Woman books. Usually my writing just flows. Until this latest book I've never had any trouble. Writing's always been my way of coping. When the real world gets to be too much, I escape into a simpler world, a world I control with my keyboard and mouse."

It surprised him how easily he opened up to this woman. How much he revealed both to her and to himself, more than he had to Wanda in their two long years of marriage. Had his desire to change the direction of his writing and life given rise to the block? Almost as if the world and characters he created objected. He didn't know.

"You have a mouse as a familiar?"

He laughed at the shocked look on Serilda's face then sobered. He really had to call her something else. He'd only go so far in humoring her. "Do you have a nickname? Something you like to be called other than Serilda?"

"Mauri sometimes calls me Seri."

Her eyes softened at the mention of the little slave girl. Brandon smiled. The eager but inept Mauri had been a delight to create.

He mentally shook himself, trying to remember that she wasn't what she claimed; she was just some wacko fan. But equal parts of relief and disappointment left him feeling dizzy. Why should he be disappointed? There was no way this woman was his creation. What would be the point? If he decided to create a woman for himself, she wouldn't be anything like this. She'd be. . . Well, he had no idea what she'd be like. Since Wanda left, women hadn't really been a factor.

"What will happen to Mauri, Jole and the others in my world? Do they live or will they cease to be?" Serilda asked.

Seri, he reminded himself. He had to make a distinction.

The look of longing in her eyes tugged at Brandon's heart. Whoever this woman really was, she was lost. Though he knew he should turn her over to the police or at least take her to a doctor, he also knew he wouldn't. In a strange way he felt responsible for her, and didn't want the harsh world to beat her down. Her delusion sprang from his writing.

"I haven't planned out their entire lives, but I don't intend to kill them off." Disturbed by a pang of guilt, he glanced away from her, unwilling to reveal just whom he did plan to have die.

Seri touched the back of his hand with her fingertips. Warmth shot up his arm and down to his groin. Surprised by his visceral reaction, he jerked his hand back. Suddenly three years of self-imposed celibacy felt like three centuries.

Since his break with Wanda there hadn't been any other woman in his life. Even when they'd been together, he hadn't been all that interested. That was part of the reason they'd split: Wanda wanted more than he was willing to give. Brandon could understand why she'd hated and mocked his writing. She claimed--rightly so--that he saved his passion for it, that there was nothing left for her. Even if their reasons were different, in this he and Donoval were alike. They were both emotionally unavailable.