Chapter 6

It was very strange.

He couldn't help but think about it as he returned to his room, with Sapphire riding comfortably on his shoulder, his fearsome little guardian that would ensure that absolutely nothing or no one threatened him again. He had been involved in a fight for his very life, and there had been very little fear. He'd never had to fight like that before, not when it mattered so much, or at least not that he could remember. And yet there had been very little fear. There had been worry over the poisoned weapons, a little desperation when he accidentally summoned the Firestaff by accident, and definite concern and awareness of the finality of losing the fight… but no real fear.

In a way, it had felt… familiar. They said he'd been quite a dangerous fighter, and he'd been in so many fights that it was probably second nature to him to fight like that. But that Tarrin was lost for the moment, buried in the deepest tunnels of his mind, ensnared in the submerged alternate consciousness that had once been merged with his own. Had that other him somehow emerged during the fight? Or was it such an automatic response for him to fight by now that even with amnesia, he could respond to such a dangerous situation without fear paralyzing him? He certainly felt some of that fear now. The understanding that one scratch may have killed him certainly seemed more frightening to him now than it had during the heat of the moment. The fighting had been nothing like what he had expected.

And then there was the knowledge of the finality of it. Three men had died in the course of the fight, and Tarrin had been directly responsible for two of them. The third had died at the hands of one of his own companions, victim of the spell that the Firestaff had placed over them. Tarrin's pinning move had killed one from the very poison meant for him, and the second was his direct responsibility. He had killed the man ruthlessly, knowing that his poisoned weapon was a threat to him no matter how injured he was. Tarrin had made a conscious choice to kill him.

And there was no guilt. Of course, all his friends would tell him he was crazy for thinking that he should feel guilty. Those men had tried to kill him, and they had tried it with a tool so underhanded and cowardly that it would offend a man with honor. Poisoning was considered the lowest form of cowardly backbiting among the Ungardt. Any man not strong or brave enough to face an enemy like an Ungardt didn't deserve to own an axe. But still, some part of him told him that he should feel something for what he had done.

In reality he did, but it wasn't what he expected to feel. He felt relieved. He was relieved he had gotten away from them, relieved that he'd killed them. If any of them had gotten away, they would try again. And again, and again, and again, until they either died or got to him. What he was carrying, men were going to willingly risk death to try to gain it. If anything, now he perfectly and completely understood that one simple concept. There were some things that some men were willing to die over, and the chance to become a god would certainly reach that level of devotion. He doubted those men had acted on their own. He was certain that someone sent them… but on the other hand, how could an organization trust men enough to send them to acquire an item that could give those very men the power to rule the world? Either they didn't tell them just what it really was they were after, or they had to trust those men absolutely to bring the prize back. One of them had called the Firestaff by its name, so he had the feeling that those three knew what it was. They must have been very devoted to their organization to be willing to give away the power to be a god.

If it had come to that. The Firestaff had them in its spell, and he had the feeling that if they would have taken it from him, they wouldn't have been handing it over to anyone. They would have killed each other over possession of it, and the winner, if there indeed was one given that all of them had poisoned weapons, would have run away with the prize. The Firestaff's corrupting power over men would make it very difficult for one man to send another to retrieve it for him and expect him to return with it. It made him see the deadly, destructive power of the artifact. As long as it was present, no man could be trusted, and the one who possessed it couldn't even trust his own friends. The Firestaff did not choose its owner, it called to all, seeking one who would take it up and use it in the way it had been created to be used.

Should he feel guilty over killing two men and being responsible for the death of a third? Should he have felt fear? Serious questions, and he had the feeling that the answers to them were locked up with the missing memories in his mind. He felt that fragments of his lost personality were starting to reassert themselves. He had remembered in the carriage, remembered things forgotten. Was it a stretch to think that in the heat of a fight, with such emotion surging through him with the adrenalin and the knowledge that it was a fight for his very life, that the part of him best suited for dealing with the situation would resurge within him? It wouldn't have been the first time fragments of his old self made their presence known. The Cat had literally attacked Koran Dar when his magic got too close to it. Maybe the old Tarrin had been released from his prison inside him for a few brief moments and gave him the courage and experience and proper mindset he needed to get out of a very bad situation.

Whether he liked that Tarrin or not, if that was the case, then he was very glad that he was still around.

But maybe it wasn't all the forgotten Tarrin. He'd been rather calm even after the fight. He knew exactly what he had to do, and he did it. Even after that, going to see Jenna, he didn't have a breakdown or go into histrionics. Someone had just tried to kill him, and it was like it was just something that occupied the time between bathtime and breakfast.

Well, maybe he wasn't quite that nanchalant. There had been a little heart-pounding, that was for sure, but it came more or less after he was safe. Almost like that was when he realized he had the time to let it out.

The whole thing had disrupted his plans for the day, that was for sure. He was back in his room, where they were waiting for Jenna to come and set the Ward. There were already two Knights at his door, and what was more, pairs of Knights were stationed at every passage intersection and stairway landing on his room's floor and two floors up and two floors down. If anyone even wanted to get within two floors of him, they'd have to get past a virtual gauntlet of fiercely protective Knights. And they were fiercely protective. They were standing outside his door in full armor and with their swords drawn, as if wasting the time to draw them would be too long a time to wait. A servant needing to do work on Tarrin's floor had to explain himself and subject himself to search about ten times. Nothing that even might be used as a weapon was being allowed to pass the Knights. No brooms, no buckets, not even long-handled feather dusters. Sapphire was in his room, sitting on his desk and looking at one of the porcelain figurines that had been given to him as a gift curiously. It was a figurine of a small child kneeling with her little hands pressed together in prayer.

"Not a single dragon," Sapphire sniffed in disapproval. "If I knew you fancied trivial decorations, I would have sent you one."

"Well, it's not that I fancy them," he said. "But they were gifts. Custom among my people is that if something is given to you as a gift, you have to use it or display it. I'm really not that fond of some of these things, but they were given to me. It's an insult to the good wishes of the giver for me to just put them in a box and stick them under the bed."