Part 9 (1/2)

As she thought, a peculiar, somewhat familiar, and terrible sensation was beginning to stir in her mind. It was a subtle pressure that she'd often felt when her mind was at its bleakest. She could not describe it, but somehow she knew that this was far stronger than she had ever felt before. The source seemed to be the fingers at her temples. They were not moving at all, and yet she could feel them digging deeper and deeper. It felt as though they were pressing in not on her skin, but her mind. She began to repeat her mantra more intently. At least it isn't Epidime. At least it isn't Epidime. The sensation grew. At least it isn't Epidime. Where had she felt this before? At least it isn't Epidime. Slowly she realized that there was not one voice chanting in her mind, but two . . . two of her own.

Like a flash of lighting, the burning fear of realization swept through her. The other voice, she'd been haunted by her own voice in her mind before. That was the sensation, the feeling she recognized. It was an intruder in her own mind. Why? How? Her racing mind was further muddled by the second voice. Before long she couldn't tell her own thoughts from those of this intruder. Finally she silenced them all. She did her best to do the mental equivalent of closing her eyes and covering her ears. Silence . . . Stillness . . . At least it isn't Epidime. The thought was not hers.

”You!” she cried, eyes opened. ”You are Epidime! You were the one who hounded me every time I was stretched to the limit, whenever my spirit nearly gave out! You were the one who tried to push me to the edge.”

She shook his hands away and tried to stand. He grasped her shoulder, wrenched it painfully, and forced her to the seat again. She made a desperate attempt to cast a spell only to be instantly and painfully reminded of the restraint on her neck. With his free hand, her mysterious captor summoned the halberd to him. Once within his grip the gem mounted in its blade shone brightly. Immediately the sensation in her mind intensified. It was almost too much to bear. She shut her eyes tightly again and turned the full power of her mind to the task of keeping the intruder out. The restraint about her neck flared again. She pulled back, gathering her strength deeper within her mind. The burning at her neck decreased, but still tore at her. She retreated farther and farther into her own mind, hiding from this foreign presence. Myranda found that if she pulled all of her strength deep, she could avoid the effect of the collar and still keep the dark, infiltrating force at bay. It was a monumental effort, every bit as taxing as any of the trials she'd faced in Entwell. Time pa.s.sed, though how much was impossible to say. Her mind screamed for relief. As she felt her efforts waver, she began to think to herself in an attempt to keep her mind sharp.

”This was a mistake. I should have known better,” she thought, feeling a sudden intense impulse to open her eyes. A brief attempt nearly led her to lose focus. ”Keep your eyes shut, Myranda, keep your mind focused. What was I thinking? The Army has brought me nothing but trouble for my entire life. Why did I think I could trust them? Was my a.s.sumption that they would help me even my own? Did he somehow force me into this leap of faith? But he agreed when I said that he wanted the Chosen so that the war could be brought to an end. Maybe there is still hope. Perhaps this is a test of my loyalty. Perhaps I should give in, I have nothing to hide . . . No! Remember what Desmeres said. Epidime is not to be trusted under any circ.u.mstance. He might be one of them, those creatures, like the cloaks that attacked me. But then, Desmeres has lied to me before . . . or has he? No! He was always honest. He wouldn't have warned me about Epidime unless he knew that meeting him could cost me my life. I must resist. Is he weakening? No, no, just keep him out. Don't stop until he does, Myranda, don't take a chance . . . Why do I think he is bad? Desmeres said to watch out for him, but did he say he was bad? No. This man may be reasonable. After all, he could have killed us all if he is as strong as he seems. And he did let me go on his own. He could have easily strangled me to death, but he let go. I wish I could see what is going on. That feeling . . . he has tried this so many times from afar. Trying to warn me. Why didn't I listen? Now I resist. I should just let him into my mind. That would bring this torture to an end. I want to see what is going on. He is an intelligence officer in the Alliance Army. He has been one since the start of the war. He knows what happened to my father. I must see what is going on. There is no reason to keep my eyes closed.”

Her thoughts weaved more and more deceptively as her eyes ventured open. Instinctively she braced for a dizzying rush of pressure that would shatter her concentration and end the struggle. None came. The room was dark. Blue light pulsed dimly from her collar and the halberd, illuminating the table beside them. There were the potions, the bandages, the book, the dagger, and a gold glove. The glove . . . had it been in the bag? She searched through her memory and received a very strong yes as a response. Furthermore, something inside of her urged that she put it on. She reached for it . . . when had her hands been freed? The thought dropped away unanswered. She stopped suddenly when she realized that Epidime was staring, albeit through half lidded eyes, directly at her. Surely he would stop her. She questioned why she had even wanted the glove in the first place, and when Epidime had moved from behind her to in front. The answers that came were numerous. She ventured her hand out again but stopped. This wasn't right. She had to stop this fiend from trying to invade her mind. A notion forced its way to the front of her mind. The halberd.

”Yes!” she thought. ”He uses it like I use my staff. If I can get it away from him, he won't be nearly as powerful. I may even be able to use it against him!”

She reached out, slowly. As she did, his grip on the weapon visibly loosened. A feeling of alarm in the back of her mind was brushed forcefully aside. Her hand, trembling in a combination of exertion and fear, was nearly upon the weapon when her fingers snapped shut around it of their own will. Her arm quickly pulled the halberd away from Epidime's grip while the gem within it surged powerfully. Myranda tried to drop the halberd, but her hand would not obey. The gold glove she had felt the inexplicable need to put on rose into the air. Now there was no doubt that Epidime had been the source of her confusion. He was much more in control than she was now. Out of desperation she searched her mind for anything that might chase him from it. Her thoughts were swiftly and forcefully torn away as soon as they arose. She could feel the dark influence of Epidime's will slipping past her defenses into the deepest reaches of her thoughts. Finally she pulled together all of the will she had left and forced it to the surface.

There was a brief, unnerving surge inward as she removed her defenses, but immediately after came what she was hoping for. Agonizing pain. By forcing her magic back to the surface, she incurred the collar's effect. She cried out aloud and in her mind, and from deep within her, a second voice cried out as well. She felt the intruder's grip loosen just a bit, but it was enough. She forced him from her mind. Before her she saw the eyes of Epidime brighten back to life. She threw his halberd away and redoubled her defenses. The pressure of his invasion was gone though, in its place a loud grumble halfway between pain and anger.

”Well, that was a new one. Teloran! Get in here!” he cried.

Myranda hesitantly opened her eyes. He was standing, pacing angrily with his halberd in hand. The door swung open and Trigorah entered.

”Take her to a cell, I have had enough of her for today!” he ordered.

”Have you managed to learn anything?” she asked, gripping the wavering girl by her upper arm and hoisting her to her feet.

”TAKE HER TO A CELL!” he repeated viciously as he rubbed his neck. ”AND HAVE SOMEONE CHANGE THE CRYSTAL IN THAT COLLAR!”

Myranda was led up the stairs, where she was joined by a pair of torch wielding Elites. She was suddenly acutely aware of just how much effort she had put into her defense when she found that getting her legs to cooperate was just a bit past her mind's ability. The Elites fairly carried the ailing girl to the nearest cell, one floor up. After being dumped inside, the door slammed shut behind her and the jingle of keys followed by the click of a lock could be heard. After sufficient time to gather the strength to do so, Myranda raised her head to look around. The cell was spa.r.s.e, to say the least. A pile of shredded cloth in the corner was likely intended to serve as a bed. The only piece of furniture was a chair, though by the looks of the ankle and wrist shackles attached, it was intended more for restraint than comfort. She tried to stand, stumbling against the bars in the process. The motion was accompanied by a jingle around her neck. She felt at it to find that a chain ran down from either end of the collar she wore and connected to a crystal larger than her fist. Just as before, it hurt when it touched her, only now she could feel it leeching her strength away. There was, at least, one benefit to the larger crystal. It provided more light. Without it, she would have been in almost complete darkness.

She collapsed backward onto the chair, finding that standing was not worth the effort at the moment. A moment later her eyes came to rest on something that most definitely was worth the effort. A bowl. A full bowl. She leapt with a strength she didn't know she had at the food. When she reached it, she found that food was a rather generous word for the contents of the bowl. It was a substance that would have brought dishonor to the word gruel. More correctly, it seemed as though someone had mopped up a kitchen spill with a loaf of bread and wrung it out into a bowl. Of course, neither this, nor the possibility that the stuff was poisoned was enough to keep Myranda from gulping it down without so much as a spoon. The sound of boots clicking upon stone only just penetrated her hunger crazed mind as she finished draining the bowl. When she was satisfied that she had swallowed every last drop of the horrid stuff, she looked up to see who had chosen to witness the spectacle. Standing before her was Trigorah. The General looked down at the girl, forcing her to realize she was still huddled in the corner where she had found the bowl. With great effort Myranda stood, attempting to salvage what little dignity that she might have left.

”Come to gloat?” Myranda asked.

”I don't gloat. Particularly at a victory that is not mine. You have been asleep for ten hours. Epidime was beginning to fear you might die rather than wake,” she said.

”He was worried I might die?” she said. ”I would think he would have preferred it.”

”Another perhaps, but not you. Seldom does he encounter a subject that offers a challenge,” Trigorah said.

”I am a challenge, am I?” Myranda asked.

”You resisted him for more than six hours. You forced him out in a way that no one had before. For this you have earned his interest,” Trigorah informed.

”Well, I am honored,” Myranda said defiantly.

”Don't be. It only means that he will continue to try. Harder and harder. And when he does find his way in, I doubt he will take the time to leave your mind as he found it. He might not leave any of it at all. Frankly, you will be lucky if you've enough wits about you to remember to keep breathing when he is through with you,” Trigorah said.

Myranda drew in a deep breath.

”Come here. Give me your hand,” Trigorah said.

”No. Why?” Myranda resisted. Though she had been drumming it into her head that Trigorah, at least, could be trusted, the events of the day had shaken that belief.

The General held out a loaf of bread and a canteen. Myranda s.n.a.t.c.hed them away. A bowl of glorified water was hardly enough to curb a days old hunger.

”Why are you giving this to me?” she managed between swallows.

”I can't be sure he will feed you . . . you deserve a chance,” she whispered, leaning closer. ”Listen to me. No one has resisted him. He has been through my mind and a hundred others. Whatever he wants to know, he will know. Just . . . fight him. Do your best. Someone has to show him that . . . that we can resist.”

”We . . . what do you mean? It is true? He isn't human or elven or . . . anything like that?” Myranda asked.

Trigorah cast a cautious look in either direction before slipping silently back into the darkness. Once again, Myranda was alone and in danger. It was hardly the first time that such was the case, but this time was different. This time it might be the last. She was in a cell, far below ground, waiting for a fiend to make his next attempt at forcing his way into her mind. She wracked her brain, desperately seeking some shallow hope to cling to. There was one. It was possible that those who held her would make the same mistake they had before, that they would not pay the price on her head. That would bring Lain to rescue her again. It was far from likely. The pair of Generals seemed to agree on nothing but the fact that her previous captors must be paid. That didn't matter. It was hope, a s.h.i.+ning light at the end of the tunnel to lock onto. Until then, she had to save her strength. Epidime would be back.

A week pa.s.sed in the most wretched manner possible. She was restrained at all times. Each day she would be fed a thin bowl of food by one of the guards whose faces were hidden behind a mask and submitted to a variety of Epidime's attempts. Most were marathon sessions that pushed each to their limits. Others were short, subversive attempts under the guise of all manner of other things, ranging from attempts to recruit her to offers to release her. In a way, the worst part was that each day she was moved to a different cell. A feeling of safety would have been impossible, but now she was denied even a feeling of familiarity. She was reflecting on this fact and trying to ignore the horrible taste that was clinging to her tongue when Epidime approached for the day's torture. This day promised something new. Epidime had brought a second chair bearing similar restraints into the cell.

”Well, Myranda. I believe the time has come to meet some of your neighbors. You know this one very well. He hasn't stopped cursing your name since we found him,” Epidime remarked smugly as he forced a s.h.a.ggy, blindfolded old man into the second chair.

The old man hung his head low. Drooping in the chair, he swayed slowly, almost deliriously. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn't place it. A scraggly, gray beard adorned his chin, and wiry gray hair ringed a bald head.

”Well? This is the quietest I've heard you, old man. She is here, in this room. Haven't you anything to say?” Epidime said.

”I am waiting for her to speak,” croaked the old man. His voice was raw, as though it had been badly overused. It, too, had a familiarity to it.

”Why?” asked Epidime.

”I want to know where her throat is . . . so I can wrap my hands around it,” he said.

The old man raised his head, revealing a worn and soiled priest's collar.

”You are the priest. The one I met just after I found the sword!” Myranda realized.

He lunged forward with all of the strength his feeble body could muster. Epidime easily pushed him back to the chair.

”I am. I knew that you would only bring sorrow. Look at me! Look what you have done to me. You witch! You wretch! Because of you, I will be spending the last years of my life in this stinking, festering hole in the ground. I pray nightly that you meet an end suited to your treachery! I take solace in the fact that you were finally brought here! I hope you never see the light of day again!” the old man spat with disdain. He leapt to attack Myranda again, but Epidime held him back.

”Why is he here!? Why do you have him?” Myranda demanded.

”For the same reason everyone else is here. They may have touched the sword. The prophesy, if properly read, holds that the sword will find its way into the hands of a Chosen One. We will have the Chosen, but to be certain of that, we must capture anyone who may have touched that sword,” he said.

”You condemned us! ALL OF US! You carried that sword like a plague and MADE CRIMINALS OF US ALL! CURSE YOU! CURSE YOU, YOU WITCH!” he cried before his voice gave out and he was left wheezing and gasping.

”I will give in. I will give in right now if you will release them,” Myranda said.

”Oh no. These captives will never be released,” Epidime said flatly.

”But why! Surely you read their minds! You must know that they are of no use to you!” she cried out.

”Indeed,” he said.