The Sword And The Pen (9 page)

I stood between them and listened to the murmur of the crowd.

"The judges have made their call," a voice overhead said. "Contestant Number Three--I don't seem to have your name here--could you step forward?"

The short, plump woman next to me gave me a poke in the side. When I glared at her, she said in a sulky voice, "He means you. You won."

A man came toward me holding a small silver chalice and an envelope, and the other women filed off the dais.

"Congratulations on winning the Serilda lookalike contest! Here's your prize," the man said, and handed me the chalice and envelope. He next spoke into his microphone: "And now let's bring all the winners on stage so the audience can get some pictures. Afterwards, you're welcome to come up for autographs and have pictures taken with your favorite character."

Though I wanted to bolt off the dais, I stood frozen as the man continued, "Come on up. Mauri, Hausic, Jole, and Donoval!"

Stunned, I watched as pretend Mauri, Jole and Hausic climbed the stairs and came to stand alongside me. Their similarities to the people I knew and loved made me feel dizzy and disoriented. When the fake Donoval bounded to my side and bent me over his muscled arm, at first I didn't react. The envelope and chalice slipped from my grasp and clattered to the floor. But as his wet lips slobbered over mine, my first instinct was to shove the sword I clutched in my damp palm through the imposter's belly.

I resisted, and jerked my lips free of his. He smiled and straightened, but didn't remove his arm from my waist. When I twisted out of his grasp, his smile faded.

"And where would Serilda be, if not for her archenemy?" the announcer paused for a moment. "Andre Roark!"

At the sound of Roark's name, I went still. A cold sweat prickled down my spine. I forgot that this was all make-believe, that Mauri, Jole, and the others didn't exist in this world. Other than myself, none of the people around me were who they pretended. They were all chimeras.

Over the roar of rage in my head I heard people clapping, whistling and yelling. I turned my gaze toward the man who'd haunted my nightmares for the last ten and five years, the man who'd destroyed my world and killed nearly everyone I loved.

Dressed in typical, dark skintight leggings and a loose silver tunic over a white full-sleeved shirt, at forty and nine Roark wore his years well. Only a few strands of grey at his temples marred the midnight black of his shoulder-length hair. Tall and thin with almost feminine features, he had the look of an artist rather than a warrior, but I knew well the strength of his sword arm and the evil that lurked in his heart.

A smile on his deceptively handsome face, his hand outstretched in an unfamiliar gesture, he moved across the dais toward me. Unease slithered down my spine.

Where were Roark's weapons? His guards? He never ventured out of his stronghold unattended, weaponless. What manner of trap had he set?

No matter. I tightened my grip on the hilt of my sword. Physically and mentally, I prepared myself to strike. A few more feet, one quick thrust and my nightmares would end.

*** *** ***

Brandon saw the telltale signs of a warrior about to attack in Seri's wide-legged stance. Her sword was held in a firm but careful grip, and her eyes tracked her target. How could the rest of the cheering crowd be oblivious to the tragedy about to unfold? He'd never get to her in time.

"Seri! No!" he screamed above the noise. It did no good; she attacked.

At the last moment, she pushed her thrust up and to the side. Color drained from the fake Roark's face as her blade sliced through the air over his shoulder. A lock of black hair floated to the floor. He stopped in his tracks. "What the hell?"

A shout of excitement rolled through the crowd. In relief, Brandon released the breath he'd been holding then pushed his way up on stage.

As he reached Seri's side, confusion and horror darkened her gaze. She leaned into him. He took the sword from her trembling hand and tossed it to the young man from the weapons booth who stood waiting.

"I think we'd better get out of here before anyone realizes what almost happened," he said.

Seri nodded.

Over the noise of the crowd, Brandon heard the Roark contestant yelling at the contest coordinator, but everyone else seemed sanguine. Cameras flashed. People surged forward. Seri huddled against Brandon's side as they moved off stage and away through the crowd.

"Hey, wait!" the young man from the weapons booth followed them. "You forgot your prize! And you need to return the costume to Rick. I really liked that last bit with the sword, though. Very dramatic."

Brandon took the chalice and envelope, and thanked him. "How much for the costume?"

The young man named a price. Brandon dug the money out of his wallet and shoved it at him. "Keep the change."

"But what about the lady's dress?" The youngster held out a plastic bag.

"Thanks." Brandon snatched it and hurried Seri toward the mall entrance.

He ignored the contest coordinator who called after them, "Wait! I need your name!"

By the time he tucked Seri into the passenger seat of the SUV, she was pale and shivering. Despite the warm outside air, he turned up the heat and pulled the SUV out of the parking lot and headed toward home.

For a long while Seri said nothing. With her head back and her eyes closed, he'd almost believe she was asleep. Except for the tense look on her face.

About twenty minutes into the trip she spoke. "I almost killed that man," she said in a strained whisper.

"But you didn't."

He looked over at her. Tears ran down her cheeks. The Serilda he'd created never cried. Never showed fear. Never had a moment of doubt. Common sense had told him to turn this woman over to the authorities, and his hesitation in doing so had nearly cost a man his life. What the hell was he doing?

"He wasn't Roark, was he?"

"No, he was just some guy in a stupid costume." Brandon fought annoyance with both himself and this woman's charade.

"What manner of world is this?" She dashed the tears from her cheeks and twisted to face him. Her tone grew stronger. "To what purpose did you bring me here?"

He rubbed his hand over his jaw. "For the last time, I didn't bring you here. I'm not a wizard. I'm just a writer. Serilda's world and the people in it are pure invention. They don't really exist. And you're not Serilda."

"If I'm not her, who am I?"

"I don't know." As he looked at her, another wave of compassion swept him, the same emotions that had attracted him to her all along. He reached over and put a hand over hers. Her flesh felt dry and insubstantial. He had the oddest notion that if he squeezed too hard she would crumble to dust. "I know you're a flesh and blood person, though, not some fictional character out of the pages of a book. My book. Somewhere out there you have a life and people who care about you. Let me help you find that life."

She shook her head. "You make me want to believe, but my memories, my feelings, and everything inside me says I'm Serilda. My life and the people I care about are in Barue."

Brandon fought despair. "Well, if you can't consider the possibility that you're suffering from some kind of mental delusion, I really have no choice but to turn you over to the authorities."

Of course, even if she didn't realize it, his words were an empty threat. He couldn't abandon her. All his life he'd run away from his problems, taken the simplest path rather than facing his life's challenges, compromised what he really wanted and took what required the least risk on his part. As a child he'd been trapped by his mother's disconnect with reality. He'd learned early on to go along to get along. After she died and he went to live with his grandmother his life got better, less psychotic, but the damage was done. He'd even created his fictional world as a place to hide. Turning Seri over to the police would be another concession. In a way he was responsible for her delusion, her situation. This time he found he couldn't, didn't want to run away.

"If I agree to consider your truth, you'll allow me to remain with you?" she asked.

He knew he should refuse, that he should head toward the nearest hospital and have her committed. His need to help her himself was a bit selfish. Yet in the short time she'd been in his life, something inside him had changed. Whether for good or ill he didn't know yet, but he was determined to see things through to the end. "You have to promise no more swords or weapons of any kind, no matter the provocation."

She hesitated for a moment then said, "By the light of Algidar, I do so swear."

Brandon groaned. She'd used the most sacred oath of his fictional world's deity. "Okay, but one slip and you're gone."

"I understand. Earlier you mentioned mid-meal. Is that still possible?"

"Yeah, sure. There's a drive-in just ahead. We'll stop there." He glanced over at her. She seemed relaxed again as she gazed out the window at the fields of corn and soybeans, and at the small farms they passed. How quickly she seemed to recover from her confusion and fear. He wished he could do the same. But thoughts of what might have happened kept running through his head. He shivered.

On the outskirts of town, about twenty minutes from home, he turned in to the drive-in restaurant lot. Along with the scent of moist earth and newly mown hay from a nearby farmer's field, the smell of hamburgers and fries wafted on the summer air. To the west dark clouds gathered, heralding a coming storm, but for now the sun still shone bright and warm. The sound of a distant tractor provided a background to the hum of cicadas and the chirp of the sparrows hopping around looking for forgotten crumbs.

This late in the afternoon, the lunch crowd was gone and the dinner crowd had yet to arrive, so other than a few people inside the drive-in's small dining area they had the place to themselves. After a quick look around, he led Seri to one of the concrete tables outside. "Don't go anywhere," he warned her; then, with a feeling of misgiving about leaving her alone even for a minute, he headed around the other side of the building to get their food.

*** *** ***

The sun warmed the chill in my soul as I sat on the hard stone bench and watched the wizard disappear around the corner of the building. He believed I'd put aside my reaction to almost slaying the Roark imposter, but the truth was, my insides still churned. While often necessary, killing did not come easy to me. I certainly did not want to slay an innocent.

This world differed in many ways from the one I knew. Here, well dressed and well fed, the people moved about without fear or constraint by those in power. Shops overflowed with merchandise, fields grew an abundance of food. Even the weather seemed less harsh. The sun shone mild in a cloudless sky; breezes blew fresh with the scents of rich soil and growing things. Was it as idyllic as it appeared? Experience warned me to be wary. The shiniest apple oft times hid the biggest worm. What lurked beneath the surface of this perfect world?

And, could I do as the wizard demanded? Forget who I was? Abandon my life? Become a person of his world? Is that why he'd summoned me here, to grant me a real existence? Then, why did he not just say so? Why deny that he'd created me? Perhaps I had to prove myself worthy, pass his tests, before I could lay claim to reality and true independence. But how to do so? Did I accept his views as stated? Or, was this a different test?

My head ached from the dilemma. Did I even wish to become part of this world? And, if I did, what would become of the others I left behind, my friends and allies? I wanted to question the wizard about this, but his threat to turn me in to the authorities tied my tongue. In Barue, many of the authorities were corrupt or answered to Roark. I already had knowledge of Roark's hospitality. I had no desire to learn how this world treated unwanted guests.

Until I discovered more, I'd acquiesce to the wizard's dictates; I'd pretend to reject my true identity. I'd follow Brother Eldrin's wise counsel:
When the wolf wishes to catch many sheep, he doesn't snarl and bare his teeth and charge blindly forward, he hides his true nature and moves quietly among them. The time to attack presents itself.

My decision made, I let all tension drain away. The scent of frying meat made my stomach growl with hunger.

"Hi, do you want a kitten?"

At the sound of a voice behind me, I jumped up and whirled around. The near-tragedy, confusion and hunger made me lax. Despite my promise to the wizard, I instinctively reached for my sword--which fortunately was in the vehicle.

Wide eyed, a boy of perhaps ten and one stared up at me. In his hands he held a box made of a hardened brownish paper.

"I didn't mean to scare you. Just wanted to know if you'd like a kitten." He plunked the box down on the stone table in front of me. "They're free. Dad said we have enough cats in the barn. We keep our girl cats spayed, but some city person dumped a pregnant one on us. She had a litter of eight. I found homes for five of them so far. Got these three left. Take a look."

I stood frozen as the boy babbled on. Most of what he said washed over me unheard. My eyes focused on the small mewing bundles of fur that he was carrying.

Phelines. Though I'd never seen one, I'd heard tales of these amazing creatures. Because of the constant strife and fighting and resulting lack of food, animal companions were rare in Barue. Despite the legends surrounding them, the few canids and phelines left usually ended up in someone's cook pot. As a result, rats and the diseases they carried abounded in Barue. To see these creatures of myth and legend rendered me speechless.

"Hey, lady. Are you all right?" When I looked at him, the boy took a step backwards. "Well, do you want one? I've gotta get home."

"You wish to give me a pheline?" I couldn't believe my good fortune. Legend held that phelines bestowed wisdom, wealth and power upon their companions. Legend also said that those who misused those gifts would suffer. Of course, Roark was said to have many phelines in his palace, and as far as I could tell, he had yet to pay for his crimes.