Divided against Yourselves (Spell Weaver) (15 page)

Vanora doubtless knew her approach was flawed. Perhaps that was the reason for using three separate protections, and probably she intended to reinforce them every day. Still, if Morgan found allies, she might penetrate the hospital anyway. I had pretty well talked myself into the need to revive Carla as fast as possible.

In the meantime, exhausted as I was, I squeezed one more spell out of myself. I used a protection spell that covered only her room and kept out anyone of evil intent. I could only do so much spell casting before resting, and I knew the protection would be relatively weak, but having set up some additional security made me feel a little better, and I knew I could reinforce it tomorrow, when I would be fresher.

I managed to drive home, but by the time I got there, fatigue had settled on me like a lead fog. I got through dinner on small talk auto pilot; my parents were used to giving me a little latitude by this time and didn’t call me on my relative disengagement.

I dragged myself up the stairs, physically and mentally spent, as eager as I had ever been to climb into bed and forget the rest of the world for awhile.

And there, sitting on my bed and staring at me sheepishly, was Stan.

I did a kind of groggy double-take. “Stan? Is that you? Why didn’t my parents tell me you were up here?”

“They kind of…don’t know,” replied Stan. “I just couldn’t take the whole getting invited to dinner thing tonight, and I knew that’s what would happen if I came over to talk to you, so I just slipped in while your mom was bringing in the groceries this afternoon.”

I looked at Stan uncomprehendingly, my brain dragging itself through a conversation that seemed to flow like molasses. “Why…Oh, yeah, Nurse Florence told me you were having trouble with your previous-life memory trying to take over again.”

As my dangerously overtired mind finally started focusing on Stan, I realized that though he was trying to keep his voice calm, there was fear in his eyes, more than I had sometimes seen there in combat.

“Don’t worry, Stan. I can fix this. Let me just see—”

“Wait! You better know what you are up against first. He doesn’t want me to tell you, but I think you should realize who you are dealing with.” Stan paused, seemingly struggling for words.

“It’s OK, Stan,” I said reassuringly. “Whoever you were isn’t going to matter to me.”

Stan went pale. Suddenly I realized he wasn’t just struggling for words—he was fighting his past self, and it was costing him. He put his hand to his throat as if he were having trouble breathing, and his eyes now looked frightened and desperate.

“Stan, just relax! Stop trying to tell.” However, Stan didn’t seem to be taking my advice. In seconds he fell out of the chair he had been sitting in and hit the floor like a sack of cement. Then he started writhing convulsively.

His past self was not just trying to keep Stan from talking. He was trying to actually take over Stan’s body. The situation was far worse than Nurse Florence had realized. I had to do something fast…but just minutes ago I could barely put one foot in front of the other and was running only on adrenaline now. Still, I had to do what I could. If Stan lost control completely, getting him back in control later would be all the harder.

I went down on my knees next to Stan, grabbed one of his hands, and tried to enter his mind. I was greeted by a wave of mental static so intense that it sent a tremor through my whole body. Well rested, I could have cut through the chaos and reached Stan, but in my present condition, it was just as likely that the chaos would spread to me.

I tried to get up and head for my harp; if ever I needed musical reinforcement, now was the time. Unfortunately, at precisely that moment, Stan jumped up awkwardly. Even before I looked into his eyes, I knew that Stan had left the building.

I should have been on my guard at once, but my reflexes were as limp as everything else, and Stan’s past self managed to smack me before I got into a decent defensive position. Already a little off balance, I toppled backwards, and the past self advanced on me, sword out. The only saving grace was that he didn’t use the Hebrew phrase that caused the sword to increase his muscle mass. Stan had been training and working out, but I was still in better shape than he was.

Of course, that advantage would have meant much more if I hadn’t been exhausted…and if I didn’t have to use extreme care in a fight to keep from injuring Stan’s body, a constraint his past self would probably not feel towards me.

Stan’s past self took a swing with his sword that I only barely managed to dodge. No, whoever had control of Stan’s body did not seem to have qualms about hurting me or even killing me.

Crap!

Reluctantly I drew White Hilt, hoping its flames would deter whoever had taken over Stan long enough for me to think of a way to get control of the situation again.

Indeed, Stan’s past self dodged back a couple of steps, his blade still up, his eyes watching me warily.

“Now,” I said as calmly as I could manage, “it is time for introductions.” “Stan” looked at me, plainly not understanding. Then I remembered that this particular past life spoke ancient Hebrew, so I repeated the sentence in that same ancient Hebrew.

“What evil have you done to bring me here?” asked Stan’s past self, brandishing his sword threateningly.

“Bringing you here was not my doing. Perhaps I can return you where you belong.”

Just lose focus on me for a second, and you will be gone as fast as snow in July.

“I don’t trust one word you say! You use witchcraft!” he added accusingly.

I had deduced, when working with Stan right after his awakening, that the past self that was giving him trouble was an Israelite warrior. Well, I had been one myself, centuries before I had been the original Taliesin. That life’s memories were mere shadows compared to Taliesin’s, but if I concentrated hard enough, perhaps I could draw sufficient memory from that earlier self to communicate better with Stan’s earlier self—assuming he hadn’t gutted me before I could do that.

“What makes you think I use witchcraft?” I asked in my most innocent tone.

“I have seen you cast spells, and now you stand before me with your flaming sword. How can you deny your guilt?”

The problem with that kind of argument was that I could probably not find any way to counter it that would be consistent with his world view. His mind probably saw everything in black-and-white terms, and all I had to offer him were subtle shades of gray.

“And how comes it that I am in a body not my own, hearing the thoughts of someone else?”

Ever try explaining reincarnation to an ancient Israelite? Well, don’t bother!

I remembered Stan telling me once that there were Jewish mystical texts, starting with the
Zohar
, that acknowledged reincarnation, but I was sure that the past self I was dealing with came from a time before such mystical speculation had been dreamed of.

“I told you, I am not the one who put you in your current body, but you and I both agree that it isn’t yours. I can tell you are a moral man, one who would not steal another’s body. Help me to restore the rightful owner.

“He…he is an ally of yours. You have corrupted him!”

Interesting way to look at the situation.

“Even if that were true, the body is still his, not yours.”

“You are trying to confuse me, just as you have confused him.”

I realized I needed to change direction a little. “Why are you so quick to assume that I am evil? We fought side by side to defeat Ceridwen. You were the one most responsible for smashing her evil altar.”

Stan’s past self looked troubled. “I was so confused then, and everything was happening so fast. Yes, you and I did fight on the same side then. And this…Stanford…whose heart is open to me, he believes you are good. Yet I see the evidence before my eyes. The Lord has commanded us not to allow a witch to live.”

“I know how this must look to you,” I said, making a quick, fiery stroke with White Hilt. “But if, as you admit yourself, I fight evil, why could my power not come from the Lord? What of Moses? Did not he perform mighty works through the power of God?”

The more religious among you might cringe at the comparison. No, I didn’t really think I was as important in God’s plans as Moses. Still, if you believe that God has a plan, why couldn’t the original Taliesin have been part of that plan? Why couldn’t I have been? It wasn’t exactly as if I worshiped Satan or drank the blood of human sacrifices to gain my power or something like that. OK, so the original Taliesin had been a practitioner of the Old Religion, but he was an ally of the Christians at Arthur’s court, not the evil forces gathered against them.

Of course, convincing an ancient Israelite that people of different religions working together might be part of God’s plan was not going to be an easier sell than reincarnation, so best to gloss over that part with him.

“How can I be sure that your power comes from the Lord?” asked Stan’s past self, still eying me with suspicion. At least I had made a little headway with him.

“You and I pray to the same God and follow the same moral code. You know this from Stanford’s memories. Have I ever used my powers for anything but good?”

Stan’s past self shifted uncomfortably. “Not that Stanford knows, anyway. Yet your ways are strange.”

“Many, many years have passed since your time upon the Earth,” I pointed out. “I’m sure that much of what you see is strange, but strange and evil are two different things. My customs are far different from yours. That doesn’t mean my heart is.”

“I should be able to pray to the Lord and receive an answer to this question,” said Stan’s past self in obvious frustration. “Yet I cannot, for I have sinned so gravely that the Lord will not hear me.”

Well, that piqued my curiosity—to say nothing of the fact that knowing who I was dealing with might help me to be more persuasive.

“Surely your sin cannot be as grave as you imagine,” I prompted, hoping that perhaps he would reveal what it was.

He stared at me, his mistrust overshadowed by the most massive guilt I had ever seen. “I cannot even bring myself to say what it was. It was too terrible to speak aloud.”

Well, he wasn’t going to make this easy.

I cursed myself for not paying more attention to any possible clues the first time I had healed Stan. Of course, then my priority had been putting him back together, not investigating his past self, and, though dominant, his past self had not been as strong as he seemed to be now. Then his responses had been more colored by Stan’s personality, not purely “non-Stan,” as they clearly were now. Hell, now he was so far removed from Stan that he didn’t even understand English.

If only I were not so exhausted, I could probably have read the past self’s true identity from where I stood, but now I didn’t think I could pick up a strong enough signal without being in physical contact, which I did not think Stan’s past self would allow.

“Having already broken faith with the Lord so completely, I will not casually ignore His commands. I must find some way to test you.” The stranger in Stan’s body had gone back to eying me suspiciously.

At last I actually got a lucky break. As he spoke, I looked into his eyes and caught a glimpse of someone I had known almost three thousand years ago. No, it couldn’t be…yet every instinct told me that it was.

“David, the Lord forgave you long ago,” I said in a fairly neutral tone, though my emotions were profoundly mixed.

David looked stunned.

“David, son of Jesse, we knew each before, long ago.” And so we had. Ever since my awakening, I had possessed really specific knowledge of the original Taliesin and all my lives subsequent to that one, but much more vague recall of the lives preceding the first Taliesin. I recalled my interaction with King David as if it were a half-remembered dream. Yet now, with David once again before me, my relationship with David suddenly seemed as if it were yesterday. I wasn’t as used to playing my past self from that time period as I was to playing Taliesin, but I needed to make the best effort I could. Everything might depend on it.

“Surely you have not forgotten Heman, the son of Joel, the son of Samuel? I was one of your musicians, and I was a prophet of the Lord as well.”

“You lie!” hissed David. “You are nothing like Heman.” Once again, he was making menacing moves with his sword.

“And you are nothing like David, as you well know. Yet you are David. I am nothing like Heman, yet I am Heman. Both of us have been reborn long, long after we first knew each other. Neither one of us has ever heard of such a thing, yet here we are. The Lord has the power to do as he wills. It is not our place to question.”

“How do I know you speak the truth?”

I could understand David’s unwillingness to believe me. Nothing in his world view could prepare him for what I was trying to get him to believe. Having recovered my memories of that life, however, it was easy enough for me to give him the proof he needed. I could remember every single detail of our lives together—and, being roughly the same age and having been thrown together early in life, there were thousands of details I could easily use.

As I tried to undermine his skepticism, I realized what the problem was, why he was so tortured by guilt. When I had first awakened, many of my previous selves were thrown into a state of shock in which they kept reliving their own deaths. The David I was dealing with was not the too-young boy who had been the only one brave enough to face Goliath, nor the somewhat older general who won the hearts of all the Israelites with his unmatched record against the Philistines, and certainly not the much older and wiser king who finally came to be at peace with himself. David was not reliving his relatively untraumatic death over and over; he was reliving the most traumatic events in his life: his adultery with Bathsheba and the subsequent murder of her husband to prevent the adultery from being discovered.