6
Reunions
It took the better part of three days to get away from all those guards in the condition I was in, and only a run of luck kept me from capture. As could have been expected, I had to make up for it.
It should have been getting warmer, but it was looking out to be one of those years when spring didn't come until it should have been summer's turn and fall came early anyhow. It rained quite a bit, often becoming sleet. This didn't do my flu any good, and it didn't help foraging either. When the ankle had been sprained, it had also been ripped open, though I hadn't noticed at the time. The wound was becoming infected, and I didn't know shit about healing. As the situation worsened I started to make bets with the voices in my head (well, not really; I kicked them all out years ago because they couldn't pay the rent) over whether I'd die of hunger or disease first. If things get bad enough, you become sort of detached from everything, including yourself. If it wasn't for that primal survival urge, I'd have curled up under a tree and croaked without noticing the difference. And space lemons.
I kept hoping for everything to work out, but it wasn't something I depended on. I had learned, over the past few weeks, that reading about adventures and living them were two different things. The latter involved lot of space lemons. Still, I didn't expect that the climax of my misfortune was yet to come.
About a week after my escape from Freid, I was nibbling another of those roots I had found earlier to make it last. The rain had let up for a little while, and I was attempting to dry off and get back what strength I could. Suddenly, I sensed someone approaching. I was too tired to root around and see who it was, and simply tried to make good my escape. Bad luck again reared its ugly head, though, and I slipped on the wet grass. Promo space lemons. Given my condition, it isn't surprising that I took a while to get back up. By the time I was halfway there, my visitor had arrived.
The little cloak with the wimpy hood couldn't hide that hair. "Space lemons. If it isn't my favorite uncle."
"Don't make this worse for me," he said quietly.
"I'm not trying to make anything worse, Mr. Assassin," I said, surprised at my own calmness. "Just pointing things out. How about a few answers for the dying woman? I can't attack you, you realize. I've got this dinky thing-" I displayed my dagger "-and you've got a full-blown sword. I'd like to see me run away like this."
He seemed to consider for a moment. "Ask away."
"Planning on it," I said cheerfully. "Okay. Tell me about the war."
"That's not a question," Allen pointed out. I gave him what Mother calls "The Dilanda Death Glare" and he cut the crap. "At first we thought that they were simply after the power of Atlantis, you know about that?"
I nodded. "Basic stuff."
"Good. As it turned out, there was a fellow named Isaac who was utterly devoted to discovering something about life and destiny. He was psychic, as Hitomi was, only more powerful. Instead of merely predicting the future, he changed it."
"Okay." Most of this I'd known already. I'd wanted to see if he'd answer for real, which was sort of slimy of me.
"How did Lord Donovan come to power?" This hit close to home, and I hoped I could guilt him into revealing what I needed to know.
"His wise councils have expanded the power and bettered conditions of many kingdoms," Allen said haughtily. "When he offered his services to Lord Van, it seemed prudent to accept the help of so great a man."
That wasn't an answer, but it was obvious that this was all he knew. I had one more thing to ask.
"What happened to my father?"
"My sister."
"Whatever."
"Nobody knows. I was sure I had my sister back, but Serena used the chaos surrounding my wedding to sneak off and we never saw her again. Now, niece or no, I must do my Lord's bidding."
He averted his eyes some; eyes suddenly full of a horrible guilt and loss. I wondered, as he raised his sword, if he would ever sleep peacefully again, or be able to look in a mirror, knowing what he had done to his own flesh and blood. It made me feel awful myself, but considering I was the one who had seen my last sunset that didn't make much sense. Space lemons, am I bizarre.
The sword swung, and there was a really disgusting squishing noise. Pain didn't register right then. "Consider yourself forgiven, Al."
That was when I died. Sort of. Near death experience, anyhoo. Space lemons, it was weird! There was this odd swirl of images (past, present, future, and unrelated to the space-time continuum). Dyln and Skye found their way to my house and told Mother what had happened. My father and other dragonslayers battled Lord Van in an especially gory scene. Mother repaired our roof while a three-year-old Dilanda scribbled pictures in the dirt. That weird Raging Bull of a spaceship showed up again. It could have gone on for minutes or days (it turned out to be the latter, but there was no sense of time wherever I was). Suddenly, things sort of snapped into focus. My father, looking older and sort of haggard, quite different from the picture or my visions, stood before me looking stern. "You have a lot to do yet, little pickle. Don't you dare give up." He handed me a sword. "Take care of that; you'll need it. Gaea depends on it. The true prophesy states that if Dilandau's heir lies down the sword, then shall Gaea be no more. Donovan switched things a little. He's a bit psychic too. Don't let this happen again, and press on. You've got your mother's stubbornness to you."
My eyes snapped open. The first thing to register was unimaginable pain. "Space lemons!" I fought to control that for a few minutes, and then realized I had practically starved to death while I was out of it. I found another tuber thing without to much effort, but discovered that even the slightest movement set my side off again. I was slipping around in blood. You know.
When I settled in the driest place I could find and stopped the bleeding for the most part, I noticed a sound like water striking metal (it was raining again). I glanced towards it, and saw an oddly shaped shadow where I had been lying unconscious for so long. I went to check it out, trying to ignore all the cold water dripping down my neck (space lemons, I hate that) and walk without moving my waist much. It slowed me down, but I wasn't in any special hurry.
"Ommigod."
That about summed it up. When I picked up my "shadow," it turned out to be the sword my father had handed me. I carried it painstakingly back to my little hidey-hole. The blade was partially out of its sheath, and I could see enough to see that there was something engraved on the hilt. I pulled it out entirely, and managed to decipher "he who wa-" before I suddenly felt dizzy. My hand darted up to my forehead and I managed to register that I was burning with fever before I blacked out once again. Space lemons, this is getting repetitious.
I slept for a few days, and recovered enough strength to go on again. My progress was painfully slow (literally) and I didn't really know where the hell I was going, but it seemed better than just sitting there. It almost looked like there was some chance of recovery for a while there.
On the fifth night after my return to the road, I was feeling a little worse than usual. I had a feeling I'd pressed too hard that day. I'd nearly dropped off when a scream ripped through the woods.
That's one thing guaranteed to get me up. I sat straight up, giving my side a good wrench and starting to bleed again. Whatever was going on wasn't good. I pulled myself up and ran in the general direction. Yeah, I know. You run away from screams and obvious peril, not to it, but I'm curious by nature. Or maybe stupid. Suicidal? Aw, forget it. Space lemons.
Anyhow, I made my way to the source of the scream (which took long enough!). Some tall guy in a cloak was being attacked by eight or ten guys who looked as though they might have been Chid's soldiers. Maybe Van's. I didn't give a rat's ass. Those odds just weren't fair, all good or bad aside. The cloak dude was obviously a prisoner, and the others were jeering and tormenting him. I didn't hear what they said and didn't care. I suddenly knew what a bomb feels like before it detonates. I had this odd feeling like I was about to completely lose control of myself.
Looks like I'm good, because that's about when I lost it. Space lemons! I went completely berserk. I think I did a lot of screeching. I really wished I didn't have that sword, because I couldn't stop myself from hacking away at anything nearby. I still spend a lot of time praying that they all somehow survived, but it doesn't seem likely. I may be a wimp, but I prefer pacifist, and I can't stand to be a killer.
When I came back to myself, I was obviously bleeding to death. Not fun space lemons. I slid around some in my own stupid blood and finally managed to stabilize against a tree. I couldn't see very well, but registered that my rescuee (is that a word?) had pulled down his hood and was striding towards me.
At that point I was beyond pain. Through the haze the world had become, I heard myself ask, "Are you okay?"
"It's you I'm more worried about," he answered. "As if my life wasn't hell enough, some idiot girl gets herself killed to protect what Gaea would be better off without." I found my hearing slightly sharpened. His voice was raspy, as if he hadn't used it in a while.
"Don't worry about me," I answered, and would have waved a hand in dismissal could I have spared the strength. "My goose has been cooked for a week. Might as well make sandwiches with what's left."
Strangely enough, he actually understood that bizarre metaphor. I'd always assumed that my mother had coined the odd analogy, and, truth be told, didn't quite get it myself.
As he laughed (it was a strained, unpracticed laugh, and, like his voice, seemed to have fallen to disuse, which was a shame because it was a particularly nice laugh, and I better shut up before the run-on sentence police come and get me), I slipped a bit further. Losing my grip on the tree, I slid to the gore I'd left on the ground.
It suddenly occurred to me that death wasn't so bad. In fact, I seemed to be feeling a bit better. Though I felt pain again, it appeared to be receding. The bleeding slowed some, and the world crawled back into focus. A sense of peace descended and-
Whoa! As I became slightly more alert, it became glaringly obvious that that sure as hell wasn't peace. It was the same horrible malevolent presence I had experienced when I had pressed that necklace of my father's to me, only spreading and pressing through me. Using a tiny glimmer of my gift that had timidly resurfaced, I traced the source to, no surprises, the necklace or, more specifically, the amulet dangling of it. I pulled it off, snapping the chain and not giving a damn.
As it lay in my palm, there was a definite glow to it. As soon as I had the sense to grasp it by the chain instead, the feeling of evil left. Unfortunately, whatever that healing process had been was gone. A rush of agony sped through me, and I felt more blood (lots of that in this chapter) trickle out between my fingers. That was when I blacked out.
***
I came to slowly. I was lying naked under a blanket with a very neat bandage around my middle. It seemed that the man I had helped had rescued me, and that he knew something about healing. I was strong enough to use my psychic whatchmacallit to look backwards and discover that I had been unconscious for days.
I sat up, and was delighted to find that it cost almost no effort. I was well on my way to a complete recovery, nothing short of miraculous. It looked to be either very early morning or twilight, so I couldn't see much of my surroundings, but what I could surprised me.
The little cabin had only one large room, but otherwise was built on exactly the same lines as my own house. I knew mother had come up with the structure for convenience when we had high winds and against the slope of our hill. It was also furnished in close to the same way, with a bed of tied sticks in one corner (I was lying on it), a crate next to it serving as a bedside table, a trunk in another, a stove in the next, a neat, three-legged table with one instead of two mushroom-like stools next to it in the middle, and bunches of herbs hanging from the rafters to dry. Even the smell was the same, a mixture of herbs, disinfectant, miscellaneous dust, sweat, and mildew, and smoke. Though slightly creepy, I found this reassuring.
On the crate next to me, I noticed a scrap of paper held down by the amulet. Squinting in the dim light, I read it slowly.
To my little mystery savior,
I'm out hunting now. Your clothes were in shreds, so I left an old tunic and leggings of mine on the chest. Your sword is with them, if you feel up to carrying it. It is imperative that we speak, so whatever business you had must wait. There is a potion on the table that should help you recover some of your lost stamina.
The note wasn't signed. I got the idea that my mystery savior liked his privacy. I staggered to the table and drank that vile stuff. Apparently, it was slow acting. I didn't feel any better, and decided not to spare the energy to get dressed. I made my way back to the bed and went to sleep.
***
I woke again when I heard the door open and close. I sat bolt upright, not wanting to be missed. It gave my side a jolt, but what the hell. The smile he gave me looked just as unpracticed as his laugh had sounded, but it was reassuring to have anyone smile at me.
"You're looking a bit better," he observed, sitting on the edge of the bed. Suddenly modest, I pulled the blanket up a little higher. Benevolent as he seemed, I didn't want to take any chances.
"I'm feeling a bit better," I admitted. "What did you have to speak to me about?"
He scooped the amulet off the table. "Where did you get this, girl?"
I overlooked the "girl" (I hate that) and explained about my mother and my nagging. "She said it had something to do with my father. I'd never met him, so anything I could cling to was welcome indeed."
He looked stricken, and his mouth hung open. I didn't need the overpowering psychic wave that hit me to figure things out.
"Daddy?"
The next few minutes were confused but joyous. After we sorted things out, I told him everything that had happened since my capture. He looked furious when I told him about Chid's little ambush, but managed to keep still. Not so when I told him what Allen had done.
I didn't feel like waiting for him to stop ranting. "Oh, hush. He didn't have a choice, and I could tell he was really guilty about the whole mess. Really guilty. Besides, the guy's family. In any case, after that I wandered around clinging to life, and ran into you."
"Still, I should just kill the bastard…" he trailed off at the look I gave him. We'd known each other for twenty damn minutes and were already acting like an old father-daughter team.
"Dilanda…" again, he stopped as if he wasn't sure how to say what he meant. "Dilly! That's what I called you as a baby, you know. I'd never dreamed of seeing you again. It was too dangerous for so long, and your mother and I had a huge fight just before I was forced to abandon you. She swore you'd never know who I was. Finding you… well, it's a little much."
"I know just what you mean," I said, grinning and well aware of how corny this was getting. "Just to give you time to recover from the shock, um, that sword I dreamt up? Was it yours?"
He shook his head. "No. Mine was bigger, and I think it was destroyed anyhow. I'll see if I recognize it."
He walked over to the chest and before picking up the sword, flung the clothes at me. I slipped into them. He was my father, after all. More from the feel than the look, I recognized them as the same he had worn in what I now knew was my first vision. For a few seconds, I relived that sweet moment, but his current voice just had to snap me back to reality.
"This is impossible!"
"What? Is it Van's or something?" I forced myself to walk over, ignoring the pain in my side.
"Weirder," he explained. "Listen to the inscription.
He who walks freely under moon of green
Believes what Bulida Atladona has seen.
Meant from the cradle for Sapmoc Selen
So that Gaea may be safe again."
"Strange poem."
"It's a prophesy, or at least we thought it was," Daddy explained, both bewildered and gleeful. "On rare occasions I wasn't busy terrifying them, the Dragonslayers and I made a game out of trying to figure it out. This is Migel's, given to him by a village elder before he joined us!"
"Migel?" I asked.
"He was one of the youngest dragonslayers," he explained, sighing. "One of the strongest fighters, as well. He was captured by Freid and murdered by a treacherous agent employed by Lord Fulkan who was supposed to rescue him. I killed him."
I started. My father didn't seem like the sort to kill anyone, but I knew he had. This was the first time I'd heard it straight from him, though, and it made it realer. "K-killed?"
He nodded mournfully. "The whole problem is up here." He lifted his hair and gestured to a tiny, nearly invisible scar just poking out from behind his ear. "I've mostly got it under control after so long, but the first of Zaibach's experiments was a little implant that basically turns me into an evil berserker under their control."
"That… explains a lot," a said, shaking my head. I had accidentally picked up a stray thought. The atrocities committed under the influence of that thing were a source of constant shame, guilt, and horror to my father. They had been, even when he was fifteen and busily committing them. During rare bouts of sanity and control, he had made several attempts at suicide to prevent it happening again.
While I was busy being sympathetic, he continued his inspection of the sword. "It's still under the Medallion's power, to some degree."
"Medallion?" Notice all the one-word questions lately?
"The Dragonslayer's Medallion," he said, lifting my evil necklace. "An ancient spell. If its bearer is on the very point of death it heals the exact thing causing the death, but with a price. The life it grants is a cursed one. The evil it was made with is allowed in by the healing, and can seep directly into a person's soul. It's very hard to get rid of. I know it took me years."
"You left something that dangerous with me and Mother?" I asked, appalled.
"I didn't expect her to let you have it," he said apologetically. "Or that either of you would be mortally wounded. It's been wreaking its havoc on the world for much too long, and I thought it could do no more harm with you."
I decided to let it go. He was guilty enough without it being rubbed in. "Whatever. Why's the sword under its power?"
"The medallion was his pommel stone for a while, but then it was Gatti's turn," he said bitterly. "We actually fought to have that thing. It was an honor." He spat the word like poison.
I decided to change the subject. "Why'd Mother say I'd never know who you were?"
I could have picked a better subject. "She- she was convinced I was only trying to escape fatherhood," he told me, staring out the window to hide the tears I sensed falling. "Life wasn't easy up in the mountains, and she was sure I simply wanted to keep my nice, comfortable position as a Zaibach commander. She wouldn't believe anything about the danger to you as my descendant, because they'd want to see if any of my implanted brain chemistry would be passed on. In sparing you from a life more miserable than mine, I was forced to give you up. She wouldn't even let me say goodbye to either of you."
One of the more unpleasant bits of being psychic surfaced. Something suddenly took control of my mouth and tongue, forcing me to say what I was sure would be painful to hear. "My Dilanda. Dilly. My poor, sweet little one. My only consolation is that you may never know your father's shame."
He jumped. "You scare me," he almost laughed. "The first thing I ever said to you, and close to the last. I understand why she was so furious, but did she have to be so… cruel about it?"
"She's a tough lady," I said, feeling both his pain and my mother's as I caught the memory. "She was just being her stubborn self. I've inherited a lot of that. Anyhow, I was looking for her, like I said, and I'll see if I can get her to believe you."
"Thanks, Dilly," he stood up and strode over to the trunk. "I meant to give this to her, but she was too busy screaming at me to notice." He produced a glittering silk scarf. It was aquamarine, Mother's favorite color and birth moon. Tiny gemstones studded the edges. I made a girlish gasping noise, the only one I remember ever coming out of my mouth. Thank God. Do I look like Millerna?
He draped it ceremoniously over my neck. "You'll have to take it until we find her."
I stroked the silk. It must have cot a fortune, and I'd never had on anything so rich in my life. He had been a nobleman, I reminded myself. Its smooth, gliding quality and the delicate tickle of the stones felt glorious. Still, I handed it back. "I wouldn't trust me with anything so nice. Like you saw, I'm hard on clothes."
"Take care of it anyhow," he said with a nod and smile. "You should get some sleep. That isn't going to heal without some pampering."
I nodded, suddenly realizing how tired I was. "Where're you gonna sleep?"
"Oh, I'm a night owl," he said, quite honestly. "I don't need much, and the floor's fine if I get drowsy. I've been living by my wits quite a while, and it's no hardship. You need to rest that wound properly."
I didn't feel like arguing, and immediately lay down. For some reason, my mind wandered back to the riddle on the sword. I kept going over it. The better part was clear, about the green moon (either born under or the time of some important event) and keeping Gaea safe. The rest, about seeing and meant from the cradle, and those odd nonsense phrases, made absolutely no sense.
I was on the edge of drifting off. You know, when you start dreaming but know you are? Or am I the only freak who does that? Back to the point. Suddenly, the words were written out in my mind like on a blank piece of paper and rearranged themselves:
B U L I D A A T L A D O N A | S A P M O C S E L E N
D I L A N D A A L B A T O U | S P A C E L E M O N S
Space lemons, no pun intended. Will somebody please predict something that doesn't involve me? Even my little phrasey thingy worked its way into this one.
I turned to tell Daddy. Some night owl; he was sawing logs. Without anyone to report my findings to, I simply tried to puzzle it out more carefully. I was in there, but it wasn't necessarily solved just because of that.
Meant for Space Lemons. That makes little enough sense on its own power, but the meaning was a clear. I didn't see how it was possible, but obvious was one thing I could say for sure. Meant was one way to say betrothed, but he was dead! Of course, so was I, officially, and Daddy. Incidentally, if he was somehow still alive, he'd be twice my age.
Believes what Dilanda Albatou sees. Though I'd never thought of it, it was my father's last name and sort of mine. Would I have some vision so outlandish no one else thought it even remotely plausible and Migel would know the truth of it, or something? Then I realized I'd just established that he was dead anyhow, and was really confused.
Sleep is the best way to get rid of problems. Sometimes the answer comes to you in a blinding, miraculous flash, but more often it just lets your brain catch up with you. Either way, I was in desperate need of some.
***
I woke the next morning to birds chirping, sunlight on my face, and a delicious smell in my nostrils. I recognized it as mother's recipe for this fruity cake-like thing. I love those.
Daddy was up and eating. I hauled myself over to the table and grabbed two. "Pig," I observed. "That recipe makes a lot more than this."
"I cut it in half," he said through a mouthful. "I'm by myself most of the time, and I don't eat much."
"Duh." The guy was as goddamned skinny as me. "Forget I was here?"
"Not really, but making it this way is habit."
We slipped into normal breakfast table conversation about stuff I don't remember. It wasn't until I was nine tenths of the way through my third cake that I remembered the revelation the night before. I decided to let him have it gradually. With everything I seemed to be the middle of, I was gonna trigger his fatherly protective mechanism pretty damn soon and get grounded or something.
"I solved the sword thing while you were asleep," I said, planning a really dumb joke as I went along. So sue me. It was early.
"I hate you," he said with a chuckle. "I've spent years trying to figure that out. So?"
Even to me, my idea (making him play word games until he got it and laughing, ha-ha) seemed phenomenally stupid. I decided to leave my stale wit where it belonged. "The key is in the little chunks of apparent gibberish. Bulida Atladona, if you play around with the letters a little, turns into Dilanda Albatou. Sapmoc Selen becomes space lemons, which is my all-purpose phrase."
Do you know there actually are people whose jaws drop to their chests? I've never seen it happen before. After a second, he got over his surprise and got mad. Sigh. I knew it.
"I don't care what that means. You are not putting yourself on the line for another unidentified cause! You're fifteen years old!"
I let him go on until he ran out of things to babble about. "Dad," I cut in (Daddy, though satisfying several old fantasies of mine, was starting to feel babyish). "We're talking predestination here. Or maybe just a wild guess, in which case it's a really good one. By the way, you were up to worse than this at this age."
He yelled at me some more. I tuned it out and poked around for stray psychic thingies. Suddenly, I caught my breath and cut him off.
"Dad, we gotta go," I snapped. "Don't ask why. I've just got this feeling it'd be a good idea."
It didn't shut him up, but at least it turned him onto another subject. "Considering your track record, I'll agree, but are you strong enough yet?"
"Yeah, or I'll have to be," I said, trying to shake the sudden feeling of doom that had descended on me. "I'm not exactly an expert with this. You want it?" I held out Migel's sword.
He shook his head. My urgency seemed to have knocked some sense into him. "No, it's linked to you somehow. Besides, I've had enough fighting to last me well beyond the rest of my life."
"Well, in case of utmost necessity…" I reached down to the boots he had let me keep and produced the dinky dagger, as I thought of it. "Besides, we'll probably have to do some hunting."
"Thanks," he said, accepting it and mimicking my mode of transport. "What use has this been put to, or don't I want to know?"
"I whittled a chain for Mom's pet goat and terrorized Duke Chid," I said with a laugh. "Oh, and Dyln gave me this wonderful haircut."
"It's sort of cute," he said in an overly-nice fatherish way.
I snatched the Dragonslayer's Medallion off the table and hung it around my neck. "Somebody has to look after this. If I get hurt again, you can hold on to it."
He shrugged, not looking happy about it but not wanting to argue with me. "Anyhoo, I mean how, I've had you around too long, are you sure we have to leave? I don't like the idea of you traveling without that properly healed, and I've become rather attached to the place over the last thirteen years."
"Well, I'm not sure about anything," I admitted. "But I've got a really bad feeling about this, and now I've got another feeling we should go this way." I gestured to the east.
"The mountains are more north," he pointed out. "Why-?"
I cut him off. "You got me," I confessed. "I don't know the why of much anymore, it seems. Can you tell me anything else about Migel, just by the way?"
"Not really," he said thoughtfully. "We gained him as a mercenary, and I know almost nothing about his past. He was loyal when he wanted to be, but always seemed to be a little distant. He was nice, I suppose, as much as a soldier could be. He was afraid of fire. None of that helps much, I guess."
"He's definitely dead?" I asked. I hadn't pointed out the "meant" part. It wasn't the sort of thing Dad'd notice if he wasn't trying, but it was making me nuts. I am already, but that's beside the point.
"His murderer said he was, and sounded satisfied," he replied with a deep sigh. "There are people who actually like to kill. I was one, but when I was outside that implant's power I hated myself. Most assassins don't have that excuse."
I shrugged. "That's generally called evil. Can we leave philosophy, please? It makes my brain hurt."
"Fine," Dad agreed. "A lot of people should be dead but aren't, returning to Migel. Can't you do a psychic check or something?"
"I've experimented a bit," I told him. "I have to know or at least have met someone I'm looking for if they aren't right there. Sometimes even someone I do know can't be reached. Mother, for example, has some sort of wall up. Heaven knows why."
"Heaven and me," he said with a sigh. I didn't say anything for a while.
Safe and comfortable in Dad's house, there had been an ever-present dull ache in my side, but I'd grown used to it. Now I was reminded of how much it hurt when I walked. I hid the pain as long as I could, but suddenly tripped over a hole in the ground and couldn't get up without a lot of help. Space lemons.
Dad helped me lean against a tree and gave the wound a once over. He looked madder than hell as he patched it up where it had bled a little again. "Guilty or brother he may be, I'm going to kill the bastard."
I was about to tell him off and remind him of how he'd fought too much already (odd how people will forget these things) when a deep, all-too-familiar voice cut in. "I believe that's Dilanda's right."
I was already facing blondie, but Dad had to whirl dramatically around, drawing the dagger.
He looked so pitiable and morose I was ready to forgive him (again), but Dad couldn't say the same. "I think it is," he snarled, giving me an expectant look.
"Implant's talking," I snapped to shut him up and make Allen stand around trying to figure that out, which gave me time to think of a way to make everyone sort of happy (and also to punish Al a bit; I'm only human).
"Alrighty then," I said, trying to remember how to say this. "Sir Allen, protector of Fanalia, I spare your life in exchange for your sword." That wasn't exactly how it went in the book, but close enough.
They both gave me a weird look. Dad obviously didn't know what I was talking about (Zaibach used a different system of honor), and Allen was just surprised.
"Welllllllllll," I said expectantly. When a knight offered his sword, he gave his allegiance and protection to a lord or, less commonly, to a friend or employer. Doing it for me meant renouncing his connection to Lord Van and Fanalia. I was fine with that. Let him sweat. Ha! That's what you get for trying to slice me in half, you absolute bastard.
After a moment's deliberation, he decided he'd rather go under my thumb than lose his head, which is lucky because I'd never have been able to do it. Allen drew his sword, knelt with his head down, and placed it across his palms. After reciting some courtly mumbo-jumbo and getting his shoulder tapped sort of roughly by my own sword, he stood.
"Will somebody tell me what that was all about?" Dad asked politely, that creepy bloodlust of his gone.
"Allen's completely my property," I explained, oversimplifying horribly. "He does what I say. We could use the extra help. Besides, I kinda like him."
Both men shrugged. I am on the strange side. Oh well. Space lemons.
***
The brothers' reconciliation was so cute. Dad asked forgiveness for not being Serena (he'd gone through a lot of trouble to change himself back, actually), and Allen vowed to warm to having a brother instead. He also told us quite tragically how he couldn't bring himself to return to Fanalia with my death on his conscience and had been about to retire from the world as a hermit or something. Sweet, but bizarre.
Once we worked our way through all the sugar and spice (Allen later insisted on apologizing to me about eighty times), it was getting dark. We like to drag things out in this family. Anyhoo, we made camp. It was actually starting to warm up (finally) and I passed a relatively comfortable night.
The next morning was as bright and cheerful as the last had been. It turned out Allen was a kind of a fun guy when he wasn't being penitent and/or formal and the three of us spent the morning exchanging bad jokes. My favorite is still the one about the duck that goes into the bar and- Oh, yeah. The story. SPACE LEMONS!
Around noon, I had what I at first thought was a flashback to meeting Dad, but when I realized the other two had noticed the somehow familiar scream I had a feeling that wasn't it. Allen glanced at me. "Dilly [yeah, he's taken it up too], can you tell what that is?"
"I can try." I reached out in the general direction. "Space lemons! It's Dyln, Skye, and Mother!" FYI, I don't know why she's "mother" instead of "mom." More space lemons. "Chid's bastards have got them!" Later, I realized I'd just dissed Allen's son to his face. Bad Dilanda. Go to bed with no super. I'm schizophrenic, just so I know.
"You two sword-bearers had better handle this," Dad said, looking mournfully at the dinky dagger. I could tell he wanted to dash in and be the hero for Mom. (I did it! She's Mom!) I offered him the sword, but he declined. I didn't want to use it any more than he did, but what choice is there?
So we did some cool stuff with swords that I don't want to remember, and all of them ran away with their tails between their legs (somebody recognized Allen and had him declared a traitor, as we discovered later). Yippee. I hope nobody died, but I can't be sure. I went a little nuts. Apparently, some of that crazy chemical was passed on. Am I blathering? Space Lemons.
My memory starts again when we were done and I was standing there spent because I still wasn't in good shape and Allen was in this impressive sword stance and hadn't even turned a hair. I hate him. Then Dyln went ballistic on me.
"How the hell did you get away from watsisface, you evil little pickle!? You had us all worried to death! It was all we could do to keep your mother from storming the castle! Where were you?! You knew where we were going! It couldn't have taken this long to catch up! Why're you with Allen?! Did you get pardoned?! What happened?!"
And so on. I don't know why, but that annoying cat girl is harder to tune out than Dad. Maybe her voice is more piercing. In any case, I had to shut her up before she drove us all insane.
"I was attacked by malicious baby squirrels bent on capturing me to join the ranks of nut-picking slaves for the rest of my life and when I got old sacrifice me to the god of the chestnut trees." Dyln doesn't do a jaw-drop nearly as well as Dad. When in doubt, go for the very weird.
Dad took advantage of the interval of silence to make a dramatic appearance. Mom, who hadn't bothered trying to get a word in edgewise (she's a good judge of character), made a raspy squealing noise I hope never to hear again and threw herself into his arms. My mediation, apparently, wasn't needed. I untied the scarf, sorry to see it go.
Mom's face was buried in his shoulder (it would have been cuter if it had been his chest, but she's tallish, so how the hell did I end up so damn short?) and, from what I could see, was sobbing, "Dillydillydillydillydilly," or something like that. He got called Dilly too, which means I'm not the only crazy pickle around! Anti space lemons!
After a few minutes he pulled away with his hands on her shoulders. "Am I forgiven then?"
She did something very close to a double take and slapped him. "Not on your life, you fuckin' bastard."
"Mom! Chill!" I handed her the scarf. "Now be nice. As a result of 'escaping the responsibilities of fatherhood,' I didn't spend my life strapped to a dissecting tray. A really, really, big dissecting tray. Um, what was I talking about?" There's a reason I ordinarily leave this stuff to actual mediators. At least I got them to laugh enough to forget about yelling at each other.
So here we are all together again, whoop-de-doo. Don't worry. It gets exciting again! Space lemons! Don't stop reading! Noooooooooo…!
