The Disjointed Tales Of Renryre Island

25-1: Two Halves Of A Whole

"So you see," said Deklow. "It's as simple as that."

Merilyce remained quiet for some time. She was trying to work out exactly how the world held itself together.

"That... that just can't be right."

"That's it," said Renryre Island's most famous innkeeper. "Just make sure you're concentrating. You don't want your two halves to become... disjointed."

"And if I want to... rejoin my two halves?"

"Two halves make a whole."

"And what about three halves?"

"Ah, you are getting ahead of yourself, Lyce. First you create two halves, then you rejoin, then we can talk about expansion."

"Alright. Shall I try this now?"

"For your first mission as my apprentice," said Deklow, scribbling on a map, "I need you to go to a cave on the beach on Bluntooth Peninsula."

*    *    *

"Follow you?" asked Tailfin. "Where to? There is only one entrance, and no other way out of this cave."

"Well, okay," agreed Merilyce. "Then we will just wait here for a while until The Three leave, and then you can follow me... out of that one entrance."

A few nods of agreement rolled through the cave in the dim light. Merilyce liked it. She liked that people were listening to her. But then the silence lingered, dragged on into discomfort.

"So," she began, "how are you all?"

A chorus of uninformative grunts echoed in the secret chamber. Merilyce counted the band of men she'd rescued. Tailfin she recognised, and The Scribe too. She imagined the leader was Kyrnrie – the thief that Deklow had mentioned. He looked familiar. She suddenly recalled running into him before, if only momentarily, as he and his friends departed for the desert. That girl he was with had been very rude.

"I'm Merilyce, if you didn't catch that," she said, smiling at the thief.

"Kyrnrie," he said, then pointed out the rest. "Tyke, Pektyne, Rendyle, Tailfin, The Scribe."

Her eyes settled on The Scribe.

"Do you remember me?" she asked, hoping her grin came across as both evil and smart at the same time.

"I remember," he said sceptically, "I thought—"

"... that I was a throw-away character. I remember. Yet here I am. What are you going to write now?"

The Scribe glanced at his ever-present parchments.

"I told you, I wasn't writing your story."

"Then who's story are you writing?"

"Mine!" said Tailfin. "A Tail of Revenge, it's called. T-a-i-l."

The Scribe sighed and dropped his head.

"What?" said Merilyce. "Shouldn't it be T-a-l-e?"

"Just... don't bother," hissed The Scribe.

"Fair enough. And, now that I'm here, am I back in this... tale of yours?"

The Scribe studied her for some time. He appeared to be thinking about something much more complex than the simple and obvious answer.

"It would appear so, though I'm still not quite sure why."

"Perhaps you don't have enough characters," she suggested. "Maybe you needed me all along."