The bucket was overflowing. She grasped the tough rope handle in one hand and picked up the second bucket. This was full of the afternoon’s harvest. With both buckets swinging, she strode into the tunnel.
Emerging into the cavern, she saw that Mirar was lying on his bed, staring at the roof high above. There was an air of melancholy about him. He turned his head to look at her, then slowly sat up.
“Dinner,” she said as she reached him. He said nothing. Setting the buckets down, she looked at the large, smooth boulder she had rolled into the cave two days ago. What had been a shallow natural depression in the stone was now a deep hollow. “Thank you.”
He looked at her, but did not speak.
Leiard must be in control, she decided. It wasn’t the melancholy that told her. Mirar was also prone to low moods, but he would have made a quip or comment as soon as she had appeared. Mirar was, by far, the more verbose of her two companions.
She poured some of the water into the hollow then began tearing the leaves into strips.
“You’re not going to cook those, are you?”
She looked up to find him regarding the ears of fungi dubiously.
“No.” She smiled. “I’ll dry them later. For my new collection.”
“Your collection of...?”
“Medicines. Cures. Amusements.”
“Ah.” His brows rose. She sensed thoughtfulness, then disapproval. The latter, she guessed, was at the realization of what she meant by “amusements.”
Talking to Leiard was like constantly reminding an elderly man of information he’d forgotten. No doubt he had accessed Mirar’s memories about her even as she had answered, learning that she sometimes worked as a healer and had occasionally been a seller of concoctions for the entertainment of rich nobles. He could also be a bit judgmental.
It wasn’t easy to make conversation with Leiard. He could not answer the questions she normally asked when she wanted to get to know somebody. Questions like: “How long have you been a Dreamweaver? Where were you born? Parents? Siblings?”
Her reluctance to believe he was a real person also held her back. He was probably an aberration - a personality that had somehow become grafted to Mirar’s. Though Mirar could not remember why or how this had happened, or if he’d welcomed the grafting or not, he was clearly not happy with the situation. She worried that by talking to Leiard, she might strengthen his sense of identity and so make his hold on Mirar stronger, but she also doubted Leiard was going to go away if she simply ignored him.
Perhaps I need to talk to him in a way that weakens him instead. I could try to make him doubt his sense of identity. That might help Mirar regain full control.
But what if she was wrong? What if Leiard was the real person and Mirar was just a residue of link memories - as Leiard believed? Was there any way of proving who was the true owner of that body?
She stopped working and stared at the stone depression full of water. Mirar’s face was reflected in the surface, but the expression on it belonged to someone else.
Mirar is a Wild. He has Gifts no ordinary sorcerer has. The ability to halt the aging of his body. The ability to heal perfectly, with no scarring. If he can still do these things then he must be Mirar.
She could test him. A few exercises to prove he was a Wild might do it.
Unless Leiard is a Wild too.
She shook her head. While not impossible, it was too great a coincidence. What chance was there that a new Wild had been born looking just like Mirar?
Unless... unless he hadn’t been born looking like Mirar, but, having gained so many link memories that he was no longer sure of his identity, he had subconsciously started to change his appearance. Mirar had told her he had looked considerably different two years ago.
She shuddered at the thought. To have one’s own personality slowly subverted by another’s to that extent...
Yet at the same time she felt a selfish elation. Did she really care if someone she didn’t know lost their identity if it meant she got Mirar back?
I am an evil, evil woman, she thought.
She lifted the fungi out of the bucket and set it aside. In the bottom of the container were several freshwater shrimmi lying in a finger-width of water, their feelers still waving weakly. Drawing a little magic, she heated the water in the stone depression. When it was boiling rapidly, she grabbed the shrimmi and tossed them in the water, two at a time. They gave a high-pitched shriek as they died, but it was a quicker death than letting them slowly suffocate in the air.
Leiard recoiled slightly, then leaned closer. She sensed a sudden lightening of his mood and when he looked up at her and smiled she knew Mirar was back.
“Mmm. Dinner looks good. What’s for dessert?”
“Nothing.”
He pouted. “I sit here slaving over the cookware all day and you can’t even find me a bit of fruit or honey?”
“I could get you some flame berries. I’ve heard they’re quite sweet - on the tongue.”
He grimaced. “No, thank you. I prefer to be blissfully unaware of my intestines and their function.”
She lifted the shrimmi out of the water then added the shredded leaves. They wilted quickly. When they were cooked to her satisfaction, she picked up two wooden plates and divided the meal. From jars nearby she took some salt and toasted nuts and sprinkled them over the vegetable - a little seasoning for a bland but nutritious dish.
Mirar accepted a plate and ate with his usual enthusiasm. This was one habit Leiard also exhibited. They both appreciated food. Emerahl smiled. There was something lacking in a person who didn’t enjoy good food.
“What else did you do while I was out?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Thought. Talked to myself.” His nose wrinkled. “Argued with myself.”
“Oh? Who won?”
“I did, I think.”
“What did you argue about?”
He peeled a shrimmi and tossed its shell into a bucket. “Who owns this body.”
“What did you conclude?”
“I do.” He looked down. “I recognize it. You recognize it. Therefore it must be mine.”
She smiled. “I thought I’d come up with a way to prove that today. If you could prove you were a Wild, you would know that your body was yours.”
He chuckled. “And?”
“What if Leiard is a new Wild who has been infected with your link memories and you have been using his powers to change his body to make it look like your own?”
“Infected?” He looked hurt. “That’s not a flattering way to look at it.”
“No,” she agreed. She met his eyes and held them.
He looked away. “It is possible. I don’t know. I wish I could remember.”
She sensed his frustration and felt sympathy. Then she felt a flash of inspiration. “Memory. Perhaps that is the key. You must regain those memories you’ve lost in order to know who you are.”
Mirar looked uneasy. “If all I am is a manifestation of link memories there will be nothing to regain.”
Standing up, she began to pace back and forth. “Yes, but if you are not, you will have memories that Leiard can’t possibly have.”
“Like what?”
She drew in a deep breath. “The tower dream. I suspect it is a memory of your death.”
“A dream of death that proves I’m alive?” He smiled crookedly. “How would that prove this is my body? It might simply be another link memory. I might have projected the experience to another, who passed it on to others, who passed it on to Leiard.”