Chapter 40: Payment Due

“Yren, I need you.”

Yren’s eyes snapped open to unfamiliar, warm blue walls. He shuddered for a moment, consciousness coming over him unexpectedly. He drew a deep quavering breath, the pins and needles of inactivity filling him.

He was confused. He didn’t know where he was. He wasn’t even completely sure who he was. For a moment that seemed to stretch into infinity, he stood there trembling in complete and abject fear.

“Yren, I need you.” He heard it again, but it was just an echo reverberating through his mind.

The words echoed through him, pulling life into his dormant muscles. More than hearing the words, he could feel them rising inside of him like a gale driving a hungering storm. The words filled him, expanding inside of him until he felt he could burst.

Anger. Worry. Reluctance. Resignation. They ran into him and through him. They were not his emotions. They came from outside him. They came from beyond him. He could feel Bena in the emotions. He could feel her, and she felt close. She was in danger and upset but she had no fear.

She had called. He would answer. It was a truth he felt in his very bones.

Was he back? Had he ever left? The ‘Time of Remembrance’, the time with his family – his dead family – had that been real?

He felt so confused. Nothing made sense. His memories were jumbled. HE was jumbled.

He was ... standing. Should he be standing? It was strange – whenever he’d woken before, he’d always been lying down. What did it mean? Reality or delusion? Had he gone crazy?

He was standing – and there was a weight about him. A heaviness, pulling him. Slowing him. His vision was obstructed. Tunneled forward.

He was wearing armor. He was standing and wearing armor. His armor. It was ... wrong. It felt ... different. It felt like a part of him, but a part of him that had changed. Everything felt different.

The incongruity troubled him, but he had no time to ponder it. There was an insistence upon him.
A calling. A need. Instead of trying to get to the bottom of the strangeness, almost before he could even think, he strode through the doorway and into the hallway beyond. A calm settled over him – but no peace. His eyes turned hard, his face bleak and his nerves raw. His own anger bubbled up inside of him, slowly rising to a blind fury that someone would endanger his family. It felt like a foreign thing, though. It felt distant.

As distant as Bena. Was it him feeling this? Or was it her? At the moment, he wasn’t certain where he ended and his sister began.

His mind flashed back to a stronger anger not long ago. An anger fueled by hatred and rage. An anger fueled by an all-consuming need. A towering rage at the sight of his second father, dead.

The reminder jolted him. He paused, feeling his heart break anew. Ardt was dead. His father was dead. In that moment, he felt it all over again.

“Yren, I need you.”

The words were an echo and a reminder. They filled him, called to him and pulled him. His hesitation was momentary, the words drawing him back. They galvanized within him, pushing out all the doubts and renewing his rage.

The anger he felt now was a pale imitation of what had gone before but he recognized the boundaries of the anger were artificial and self-imposed. He was limiting his rage because it terrified him. What he had become before terrified him.

In the midst of the anger, confusion tore at him. He could not trust what he was feeling. He could not trust what he remembered. There were – gaps. Pieces missing. Time hopping and skipping, like what he’d just experienced during the ‘Time of Remembrance’. He felt ... fractured.

But had it been a dream? If it was, was this part of it? He felt – confused. He felt frustrated that he could make no sense of things. He felt like he was quickly getting out of control.

His memories weren’t complete. He remembered seeing Ardt’s deadening eyes, the surprise etched upon his father’s face. He remembered feeling the metal as it was being pulled out of the dead body. He remembered the rage, a towering wrath filling and consuming him. He remembered the hatred – hatred of these people, hatred of anyone who would harm his family – magnifying that anger until it glowed to a brilliance he could literally see.

Then ... he remembered Bena. Only, not-Bena. Deia-as-Bena. He remembered the choice he could not make. The choice which was made for him. The choice Bena had made.

Was that – memory? Or was it a dream? Where was Teran?

The thought of his sister filled him. With her memory, moments of time, of his past, flashed through his mind. They confused him. They pulled at him. He recalled bathing with her. He dredged up forgotten feelings of disgust as she drew the razor down her armpits and legs. He remembered little hairs bobbing in water.

Scenes shifted and he saw them playing. Tag. Racing. Climbing trees. He remembered whispering secrets with her which seemed so important back then but were lost to the ravages of time and the inadequacies of memory.

He saw them as lovers. He could feel his love for her – one that she returned. He remembered so many stolen moments with her. Moments when they’d just sat, quietly, in each other’s arms, whispering hopes and fears. Where was Teran?

Bena had made a choice. He’d given his life for it. Then ... nothing. A gap. A strangeness. He remembered suddenly rising from the darkness in a clearing – a burnt out clearing. He could still hear the crackling of fire. He could still smell the ash and soot.

He stumbled as his memories came back. A figure was there. The princess and – something else. Someone else.

The mage. She was there. She was ... frightened. Terrified. Of him.

A fireball! The Princess! He dove, unthinking – but only in memory. His life for hers. It was a reasonable trade, made more reasonable by the fact he wanted to die. He needed to die. His own life hurt far too much. The memory of Ardt – of another father – dying was too much to bear.

No death. “Be my champion! Please, Yren. Be my champion! Deliver my justice.”

Purpose had filled him. He remembered the feeling, the warming sensation of a sudden need.

A need which filled him again. Re-filled him. Different ... and yet the same. It called to him, then as now. He couldn’t die. Not yet. He wasn’t allowed. He was needed.

He strode on, filled with doubt. The doubt, though, was secondary to the need. It was secondary to the anger. Purpose filled him and he felt – more than he had been. He was ... changed. Something else. Exactly what he had become, he could not know. He just knew that he was ... becoming.

He tabled his doubts as he stepped through the door. The hallways he’d strode through looked vaguely familiar. The large room beyond with its tables and benches. Recognition tingled at the back of his mind as he strode out into the daylight. He was at the domen. He wasn’t certain why he was here – but he knew where he was.

Sunlight blinded him and he blinked, his hands rising above his eyes. Sir Givens would have his head. He had forgotten one of the earliest rules – when in danger and moving from darkness to light, give your eyes time to adjust before leaping out. In a battle, moments of blindness could be costly.

“Yren?” It was Bremer’s voice, near him. He turned his head – but he could only make out a shadowed shape. Images of a clear, blue sky flashed before his eyes and the summer’s bright sun blinded him.

He closed his eyes tightly, willing them to adjust. He could smell the musky scent of the forest and the sweet smell of honeysuckle. There was a slight breeze, and it carried the smell of grass and hay. The smells evoked memories, but he tabled them at what he heard.

He heard – metal. Metal on metal. It was a familiar sound. He heard the sounds of swords striking. Not all training had been done with wooden swords. The metal, though, sounded different. The strikes were ... more desperate. Less measured. There was a real battle going on – one he could not yet see.

He opened his eyes and blinked, his eyes watering. He reached to wipe them, but he was wearing gauntlets and he only managed to strike his hand lightly against his helm. Instead, he shook his head, forcing his watering eyes to stay open, forcing a few small tears to run down his cheeks.

“Bremer?” he rasped, his voice feeling foreign. It was as if he were talking with rocks lodged in his throat. “Bena? Where is Bena? She ... she called me.”

“I’m here,” the voice called from his left.

His eyes adjusted, focusing on Bremer. She had a bow, half drawn, her features set in stunned disbelief.

He turned. Bena was smiling softly at him. She didn’t hold a sword ... so where had the sound of metal striking come from?

Then, he knew. Foreign but familiar language filled him. Foreign words, or pictures, or feelings, or a combination of all of those and more. The metal spoke to him – but it wasn’t a language so much as a passing of information. The metal communicated but not in any way he could explain.

Yren just knew.

Four swords. A few decorative chains. A few knives. Some gold rings. Metal in a saddle – a buckle, a bit. He could feel them, or hear them, or know them.

Sir Givens was holding his own against two men, but he was being pushed back. The strikes against him seemed ... desperate. His were measured. His sword moved into position to block, and no more. He was giving ground but not attacking. The men against him had had some training but he was holding back. Yren didn’t know why.

Confused, his eyes glanced beyond the combatants. Behind them, on horseback, was ... a fat man, dressed in a green tabard with golden piping. A sigil was sewn into the tabard’s chest – the sigil of Tyln. A fat priest sitting on a brown and white dappled horse that somehow managed to look decidedly upset at the corpulent burden it had to bear.

“An old friend came to visit you,” Bena explained earnestly, her voice sounding sad and sarcastic. She was seemingly unconcerned that Sir Givens was fighting with two armed men. Was this, then, a dream? If Bena were really near Sir Givens fighting, shouldn’t she be concerned about it?

Yren focused on the men swinging at Sir Givens and frowned. The men were some kind of guards, from the look of them. There was an insignia stamped into their leather armor. It looked familiar but Yren’s mind wasn’t completely working at that moment.

“How do you feel?” He heard the words in Bena’s voice, but his ears didn’t seem to be working correctly. There was another voice present and it seemed to be overlayed over his sister’s voice.

The absurdity of the whole scene struck him. It was as bizarre as his ... dreams? Out of body experience? Fantasies? It was as strange as his ‘time’ with his birth mother, birth father and birth sister had been. Was he still ... dreaming, or whatever he had been doing?

“Came to visit me?” he repeated as a question, trying to buy some time to resolve all the perceived inconsistencies. He ignored Bena’s own question. He couldn’t answer it even if he had wanted to.

As he finished his return question, he gave up. He discarded his mangled memories. He pushed away any though of meetings with Deia masquerading as Bena. He ignored memories of taking a fireball unscathed. Attending the Time of Remembrance with his family – even with Ardt. And with people he’d ... had he really killed all those people?

He shook his head in irritation. All of it didn’t matter. Even if he was touched in the head, he needed to act like he wasn’t. If he didn’t, people he loved could be hurt.

“Well, honestly, he came to visit me,” Bena admitted. “He came to take me back to the Abbey. He wouldn’t accept my promotion as Deia’s high priestess and wanted me to return to Tyln. As if I’d ever do that.”

She shook her head. “However, since you know him, I thought you might like to talk to him.”

“You’re – you’re...” Yren’s voice trailed off, his mind assaulted with images. Deia-as-Bena. It had really happened? “You’re Deia’s high priestess?”

“Oh.” Bena’s eyebrows raised, a flicker of pain surging across her features and just as quickly gone. “I guess you didn’t know. After the – the choice – Deia asked me to be her high priestess. I agreed.”

Yren blinked rapidly, trying to make some semblance of sense out of Bena’s words. He still wasn’t certain this was real. What Bena said seemed to be wrong, somehow – Bena had been studying to be Tyln’s priestess. Images of Deia-as-Bena flooded through his mind, and he knew he couldn’t tell reality from fantasy just then. Shaking his head again ever so slightly, he moved on.

“I know him?” Yren shook his head, the other part of her words sinking into his addled mind. There was too much information coming too quickly. “How do I know him?”

“From the orphanage,” Bena supplied.

Yren looked at the man on the horse and all of the pieces suddenly clicked. Long suppressed memories surged through him. The man on the roan was older, his brown hair had turned gray and receded. His face was fuller, and the man had added a chin or two. Yren did know him, however. He remembered him – and his body turned cold.

Dark rooms. Touching hands. Demands. He remembered being there with others. Little girls. Little boys. Naked. His clothes ripped from his body. Clothes ripped from other bodies.

Crying – there was a lot of crying. Not from him. In the darkness of his despair, he had vowed he’d never cry. He’d never give the man the satisfaction of his tears.

Things forced inside of him – his mouth, his butt. Violations.

The sound of Hatred and Rage sliding from their scabbards made a sibilant hiss. He remembered now. He remembered everything.

He strode to the two men fighting Sir Givens, Hatred and Rage brought up to the ready.

“You men,” it was his voice and yet it wasn’t. It was words he’d ordered his mouth to say, but the voice came out wrong. It was a rich, dark voice. It was a deep, foreboding voice. “Put down your swords. Now. If you put down your swords, you’ll come to no harm. If you don’t, I’ll hurt you - badly.”

The fighting paused, all three men breaking off and taking a hesitant step backward.

“Sir Givens,” Yren said evenly, not waiting for the guardsmen’s replies. “Please get back. I’ll handle this.”

Tergin Givens hesitated, his brows knotting. He was a retired knight. He was a leader of men. He was not used to retreating. He was not used to leaving the field of battle while the men he was fighting were still alive.

“This is my fight,” Yren explained, his eyes never leaving the fat priest on the roan horse. “Thank you for keeping Bena safe – but this is something I must do.”

Tergin looked at the younger man, pursing his lips. He sighed and nodded, stepping away.

The two guards looked at their new foe warily. Fighting a swordsman and archer was one thing. Fighting a fully armored knight with two deadly black swords was another. They hesitated, their faces doubtful.

“I’m not sure what he promised you,” Yren continued angrily, his voice low and tight and his eyes boring into the fat man on the horse. “I’m sure it seemed like a good deal. It wasn’t. The man is vile. You should go.”

“We-we-we have to protect the Holy Clergy of Tyln,” the guard on the right stuttered, readying his sword towards the much taller, broader man in blue armor. “Our fight is not with you. We look only to serve our god. The Brother of Tyln says he’ll have the girl. If you turn her over, there’s no more need for violence.”

Yren’s cold eyes flickered towards the man.

The guard on the right gulped when those blue orbs fell upon him. He trembled for a moment, his faith in his god wavering as he saw the impending violence in Yren’s cold, blue eyes.

“You’re wrong,” Yren replied quietly, his voice still dark and husky. “There’s a great need for violence. What we’re negotiating is how much of it I expend on you. The fat man is dead already – I just don’t want to go through you two to get to him.”

Hatred and Rage rose, their points coming to the ready. “I will, though. If you make me, I will. I promise to try hard not to kill you – but I’m going to kill the thing on the horse.”

Yren could tell the two men were afraid. He could almost smell their fear. They still held their swords firmly, though, and the points of those swords remained in the ready position.

He needed to offer the men one last chance. His conscience wouldn’t allow him to do otherwise. He needed to give them one last chance to get out of this whole. “The man is a rapist. A molester of children. He takes them into dark rooms – sometimes two or three at a time – and forces them to do unspeakable acts to him and each other.”

“Yren, you shouldn’t fault the priest for that,” Bena spoke up disingenuously. Yren resisted the urge to turn. “Tyln has forgiven him of those minor transgressions. Brother Dal told me so himself.”

“Really?” Yren called back flatly. His eyes moved from the two guards back to the man on the horse. “Then I won’t feel any guilt sending him to Tyln’s waiting arms.”

Holy Brother Dal’s face had gone white at Yren’s accusations. With the helm in place, the man didn’t recognize the tall, imposing knight. Who the knight was really didn’t matter, though. He had only entertained silly little orphans. There was no way the knight could possibly know of his dalliances. At least, not firsthand. After all, the thought of an orphan becoming a knight was ridiculous.