The Multitude, стр. 75
“No.” Abelia’s gentle voice drifted to his ears from a thousand miles away. “Her name here is Maynya.”
The cosmic whirlpool latched on to Brewster again, sweeping him through its spiral and depositing him into a subterranean corner of the modern-day world—windy, acrid, chillier—a subway platform. A roar rose from somewhere within the tunnel, and the tracks hummed from the vibration of an approaching train. The lead car burst into the station.
A woman lowered her head, ran forward, leaped in front of it.
He caught a glimpse of Carla’s tight-lipped expression a moment before impact.
His knees went wobbly.
Once again, the wormhole snatched him away.
“Open your eyes, Brewster,” Abelia said.
“No. You’re killing me.”
“You need to see the cause and effect.”
The thick forest atmosphere closed in on him again. Although he kept his eyes shut tight, she somehow projected the images through the lids.
As one of the frontier men lifted a sword to kill Maynya, the shadowy outline of another woman swept into her from above. The two merged as one, and thousands of screeching rats raced out of the brush from all directions. The other thug shouted and ran, leaving the man with the sword to fend off the rodents alone. He fell to the ground, lost his weapon, and skittered backwards until a tree trunk prevented further retreat.
Maynya kicked him in the balls and fled.
The scene faded. Brewster staggered back, but Abelia held fast to his hands. “Carla and Maynya shared a dormant power for casting illusions. When Carla killed herself, Maynya gained the ability to harness it—in this case, bringing the rats. One woman died so the other might live.”
He clenched his fists. “That’s great, but I need to go back and stop Carla from jumping in front of that train.”
“Because you love only her and have no feelings for the other half?”
A new series of images burst before him, carrying the vague familiarity of remembered dreams—the bodies of two murdered settlers outside their burned cabin, a confrontation with bloodthirsty monks, and a woman, Adala, producing a sketch done in chalk. Brewster’s heart swelled with the identical love at first sight the soldier experienced upon glimpsing Maynya’s portrait. As if he were that soldier.
“The two of you share the same soul,” Abelia said.
“No. He’s an alter ego my crazy imagination kicks up when I’m dreaming, especially lately.”
“Don’t deceive yourself. You know you never dream.” Abelia’s soft voice warmed his mind like a blanket. “You shift between realities. These memories have become more vivid recently because you share a blessed bond with Carla. Her aura has been pulling the two halves of your soul closer together.”
The lighting dimmed. Brewster found himself in a wedding tent. And he knew everything that had happened as if he’d been there all along.
“You were, Brewster,” Abelia whispered. “Or should I say Quintus?”
In a sudden burst of motion, the frozen wedding guests sprang back to life. Orelea grabbed Maynya by the arm and pressed a knife against her throat.
“Cut the witch apart!” someone shouted.
“Burn her at the stake!” cried another.
“No,” Orelea hissed. “The king should decide her fate!”
All heads turned, but not to Albus. That cruel ruler had been rendered into salt.
Everyone looked to him for direction—the dead king’s brother. Long live the king. He’d become Quintus, as he had in every Latin-speaking dream since his boyhood. Except this time, he was also Brewster—two sets of memories sharing a single head.
The back of his neck prickled. He was no leader, just a soldier born with the wrong blood in his veins. If he found the courage to say what these people didn’t want to hear, they’d probably kill Maynya anyway and turn on him, as well. That thieving raider, Phineas, already had murder in his eyes. Whose direction would the other soldiers follow, the deceased king’s head of state or his disenfranchised brother?
Abelia released his hands.
The world brightened. He’d returned to the cemetery.
Henry Stoddard’s psychic companion had tears running down her cheeks. “If you go back and prevent Carla’s death, Maynya won’t be alive in that tent. She’ll have died at the hands of the two barbarians a year ago, because she wouldn’t have been able to conjure the illusion to scare them off. Brewster, Maynya might be the messiah the people of Sanctimonia, Virtus, and all the lands beyond need so desperately.”
“Wait. Let me process this.”
“You and Quintus love her!”
“What do you mean me and Quintus? We’re the same guy, right?” This concept of duality was as dizzying as if she’d swept him into the wormholes again. He never dreamed? For his entire life? His self-identity went beyond businessman and writer to include somebody who mixed it up with crazed monks?
She nodded.
A shiver of dread ran down his spine. He’d shared Quintus’s emotions in the tent—the man’s fear and uncertainty. His own fear and uncertainty. Did Abelia realize the full scope of the sacrifice required to ensure success against the angry mob? “You’ve shown me that if a host body dies, the two half souls converge, making the survivor stronger.”
A shadow of worry creased her forehead. “You shouldn’t draw conclusions beyond the need to leave Carla dead.”
“The premise is true, though, isn’t it?”
Abelia wouldn’t meet his eyes.
A half-baked notion had his hands trembling. “You want Maynya to live, but she’s gonna die in that tent if Quintus doesn’t rescue her. Do you really think he’s strong enough?”
“He’s a warrior. We have to let things play—”
Beads of sweat stung his forehead. No way could he summon the courage to kill himself, even with the absolute certainty that rather than die, he’d simply be shifting all of his awareness to a different head. But if he was with the woman he loved, doing it together with her… “Send me back to Carla.”
Abelia’s eyes widened. “You don’t know what you’re asking!”
Brewster closed his hands into clammy fists. “Yes, I do.” He turned to Henry. “Did you see the visions Abelia gave me?”
Henry scowled. “She came to bring you a message. I’m only the fool who risked his