Memory's Wake Omnibus: The Complete Illustrated YA Fantasy Series (43 page)

“I’m not going to say ‘I told you so,’” Hope said.

“Just did.”

Memory sat down on one of the small benches and blew a raspberry. Hope sat on the seat opposite, her legs crossed the same way, looking so similar but different. The two watched each other, like sitting in front of a twisted carnival mirror. Memory realized the whole scene was creepy, but somehow it comforted her. If a magical ghost of her past self insisted on following her around, she might as well take advantage of the company. Part of her longed for Hope to be real, desperately curious to get to know who she used to be.

“I really wanted him to see,” Memory said softly.

“To see what? You dressed as a boy?” Hope scoffed.

“No, I wanted him to see you. For one thing it’d prove you’re real. And also, I thought that maybe he’d be happy to see you, to see the girl he waited so long for. He must be so disappointed. He finally found me, and I’m not that girl anymore. Not you. He doesn’t talk to me much, and he avoids touching me like I’m a leper or something. But if he saw you-”

“He can’t see me. You can’t let anybody know about me. Promise me you won’t tell.” Hope stood up, agitated, staring Memory in the eyes. “If you do, they’ll work out that your soul is broken. We don’t want that, do we? I want to be with you, and I bet you want to be with me too. We’re meant to be together, but it has to be our secret, just the two of us. Secret best friends, okay?”

Memory looked up at Hope. She was right. She couldn’t let anyone know how broken she was. “Okay.”

Come back, I can’t keep up.

Will ran ahead of her. Scrawny little boy version Will. So small, she should be able to keep up. Her legs glided in place, aching from effort, not moving anywhere.

Wait for me. Don’t leave me.

Wind gusted and slammed against her chest. Will got farther away, running down a long corridor of squeaky Formica and grimy beige walls. Memory called out again and realized her voice wasn’t working. The words just jangled in her head. Will was big now. Bare-chested, beast-like. How could such a small boy grow so big? The hallway stretched on forever, and Will ran out of view, so far away.

She checked in each of the small rooms she ran by, looking for him. All the rooms were the same. Her room from the children’s home. Wind swirled again, and her feet smacked the ground, finally able to move again, bare feet slapping on the artificial coating, slippery with water. She wasn’t alone.

The man up ahead of her now wasn’t Will.

He carried a mop and grinned at her. Memory reversed, smacking her back against a cart full of cleaning equipment. The janitor dropped the mop and came after her, saying something she couldn’t hear over the sound of rushing wind in her ears. Her feet skidded on the wet floor. Her body exploded with panic as she broke into a sprint, pushing past dangling tree roots, stumbling down stairs and around dark cavernous turns. The wide-set man remained just steps behind her, no matter the breakneck speed she moved at.

The janitor’s cart blocked her way, and she wondered how she’d done a complete loop. She slipped past it and came to a dead end, dark and rocky. Fumbling through the cart, all her instincts turned to self-preservation. She grabbed a box cutter and held it out.

The figure loomed in front of her like a giant made of nothing but shadow.

Memory awoke, sweating, half fallen out of her bed. She struggled to extract herself from tangled sheets, and her hand pressed against something sharp and stung fiercely.

Her knife lay on the sheets, spotted with blood dripping from the gash on her hand. The knife she’d left at the underground lake.

Did I really leave it there?
Sleep hazed her thoughts. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she just remembered wrong, and the knife had been here all along. Either that or some of the dream was real, and she’d Veil doored again without meaning to, this time in her sleep. But if some of the dream was real, how much of it and which parts?

Memory closed her knife and tucked it carefully under her pillow like it used to be. Wide eyed and sleepless, she slouched out of bed and into her bathroom. She washed her bleeding hand down in the sink with a sigh then looked up at herself in the mirror. Her shoulders shook as the image startled her. Some blonde girl in a lace-edged sleeping gown.

That’s me now,
Memory reminded herself. She stared at the mirror, trying to hold onto what was real. But the lines between real and dream, new and old, tangled in her head.

“I’m not sure I’m fooling anyone,” Memory said, walking out of her first class as Tristan. She felt at home in pants, but the stiff-collared coat, hat, and tie felt clunky and uncomfortable. Clara had even found her a wig of bowl-cut mousy brown hair for the disguise.

Roen walked beside her down the second floor hallway of the finishing school. The sun shone warmly in through the arched windows, disguising the fact the wind that buffeted the glass was brisk and chilled.

Roen stopped walking for a moment and made a show of eyeing her up and down. “I don’t know. I think you make a fairly convincing boy, albeit a twelve-year-old one.”

Memory punched him playfully in the stomach. “Yeah and you’d make one pretty lady.”

“Watch it, Tristan. Don’t you know it’s wrong to hit girls?”

Memory started walking again, grinning back at Roen. The sunlight hit him from behind, making his golden hair glow.
He really can be beautiful sometimes
.

“Are you sure you don’t mind me using your brother’s name? I feel like I’m somehow shaming his legacy.”

“Not at all. It’s an honor, and I’m sure if Tristan were alive he’d be very fond of you. He was my closest brother, not in age, but in every other way.”

“Which one was closest in age?”

Roen looked away from her, out the windows at the treetops swaying in the wind, rasping against the glass. “We… don’t talk about him.”

“Oh, that one.”

Roen shook his head and when he looked at her again he was still smiling. He stopped at a door and bowed to her in a flourish. “Delivered safely to your next class.”

“You’re coming in with me, right?”

“Sorry, you’re on your own for this one. I’m not enrolled for magic classes.”

Memory looked at the floor. “Can you come in anyway? I’d really like someone I trust to be there. Given my history with magic, I’m…” Memory took a deep breath, her nerves shaking her up. Her magic was explosive at best. Even the only spell she could really cast, the Veil door, was going wonky on her. “I’m scared,” she admitted.

“You’ll be fine. Tristan is tough,” he said, reaching out for her hand and giving it a squeeze. “But Memory is even tougher.”

A group of girls walked past, giggling hysterically to see what appeared to be two boys holding hands in the hall. Roen and Memory looked at one another and laughed as well.

“I don’t think you can hold my hand while I’m being Tristan. People will begin to talk, and I genuinely think that Avall isn’t ready for it if it's not even up to women's liberation yet.”

“That’s a shame.”

Memory smiled as Roen loosened his grip, but instead of letting go completely he quickly, and surreptitiously, kissed her hand.

Memory blushed. Roen didn’t let go of her hand.

“So, what are you going to do now?” Memory asked, pretending everything was normal and her heart wasn’t racing. “Oh! You should totally dress up as a girl and go to my etiquette classes for me.”

“I should. I agree, I’d make a good-looking girl.” Grinning wickedly, Roen looked down at himself and nodded as though he liked what he saw. “I’d call myself Roena. She and Tristan could court.”

Memory laughed loudly in reply.
He’s just joking, right?
She and Roen always joked around, but she started to wonder if it was something more. The way he looked at her was warm, his eyelids half closed, smiling widely.

Then he let go of her hand as though she’d burnt him.

Memory turned around to see Waylan, Hayes, and Eloryn heading their way. Eloryn looked stunningly feminine in an A-line, dusty pink gown with her long hair loose and set in neat curls. Memory felt increasingly self-conscious in boy’s clothes.
I really am just one of the boys to Roen, compared to her.

Eloryn blushed and stared at Memory and Roen, but Waylan and Hayes were engaged in an argument and didn’t notice them.

Waylan puffed as he waddled, the effort of debating and walking at the same time clear from his flushed round cheeks and beads of sweat on his bald head.

“I think all this talk of Sir Ewain building an army is drummed-up nonsense,” he said.

“Are you questioning the reliability of my intelligence contacts?” Hayes replied.

“Yes, frankly,” Waylan said with confidence.

Memory smiled. Waylan had been one of the few people to back her up in meetings, and she loved seeing someone stand up to Hayes.

“From what I’ve heard,” he continued after a pause for breath. “He’s just gathering support to get the Wizard’s Council back to their normal role and hasten the reestablishment of proper government.”

“A proper government with himself on the throne. My contacts are reliable, Waylan.”

The trio reached the doorway Roen and Memory stood beside. Hayes barely glanced at Memory, not recognizing who she was enough to care, and instead scrutinized Roen and the look he shared with Eloryn. Memory whispered a goodbye to Roen and ducked into the classroom before Hayes could work out who she was.

“So you say.” Waylan stopped and gave a short bow to Eloryn. “I want to talk to you more on this, but have a class to run now. Your Majesty. Councilor Hayes.”

Waylan followed Memory into the room, and she could see Hayes lead Eloryn away without a word to Roen who left in the other direction.

There were already a dozen students sitting quietly in the classroom. They ranged in age from about thirteen to twenty-five from what Memory could tell and were all finely dressed. Even the youngest of them wore neat suits with stiff-collared shirts, ties, and tailored coats. Everyone sat at attention and seemed keen to be there. She imagined it must be a big deal to be allowed into this level of education after having it unavailable for so long. There was something snooty about their manner, and Memory wondered if she just thought that because she knew they were all from noble families. Some of the boys whispered and stared at her as she entered. She took a seat at the back with a sense of satisfaction.
Even if I’m not fooling anyone, they’re all too chicken to do anything about it.

The room shared the same pale limestone walls seen in most of the university. Waylan had made his way to the front of the classroom where a grand wooden desk was piled in a large collection of weighty books. A few crates were stacked to the side, full to the brim with more age-yellowed texts, but a seamstress dummy still stood in the corner as a reminder of the room’s previous assignment.

Waylan put on some glasses that pressed into the chubby sides of his face, then looked over a note on his desk. “I see we have a new student, Tristan Faerbaird.” He looked up, pulling the glasses down his button nose to inspect the room and nodded briefly when he confirmed his new addition. Memory gave a timid smile back, but he barely glanced at her. The glasses went back up and he started talking, scrawling illegible words on a blackboard as he did.

“We’ll continue on from where we were, Tristan. We can catch you up if needed, but this is all very basic theory thus far. We’re starting simple, considering the last sixteen years, you understand.”

Waylan underlined something on the board that looked like “The Spork of Cowchicken.”

“This Spark of Connection-” Waylan said.

Oh, that makes more sense,
thought Memory.

“-was granted to those in Avall at the time of the Pact and has been passed down ever since, becoming a hereditary trait of humankind so that everyone in Avall can connect to magic.”

A boy in the row in front of Memory whispered to his friend, “Not
everyone
.”

Waylan didn’t seem to notice and continued drawing a rough body shape on the board with a star in the center, then energetically scribbled lines directing out from the person. Memory smiled to herself at the comparison between his artistic merit and his enthusiasm. “The Spark of Connection doesn’t give a person power unto themselves. It simply allows a man – or woman – to become a conduit for magical energy. We all understand behests, that the words of the magical language must be correctly spoken to make requests from a required object or natural force. But the request isn’t always enough. An object can have a will to fulfill your request, but not the power to do so. I can say the words to ask this desk to shatter into a thousand pieces, but it needs something more. The Spark of Connection becomes a channel for pure magic to enable these requests.”

Memory thought over the times she’d seen Eloryn use magic. A body may want to be healed and respond to the request, but of course it would need something more, something to give it the power to do so. Same with clothes shaking themselves clean or objects flying through the air.

“But where does that magic come from?” she muttered to herself.

“Good question!” Waylan barked, surprising her that he heard. He looked overly pleased at having a student interacting with him.

“There is an energy that flows through us all, the energy of life. It moves through the blood of all living things, through the blood of the very earth. It is a powerful force and that is what is channeled to harness the behests we speak. It is also the lifeblood of the fae. It is speculated that this energy does not exist in the fae realm, Tearnahn-Ohg, which is why they require an earthly home.”

Waylan looked at her expectantly like she should respond to his answer. “So magic is from living energy, and it channels through blood, but isn’t blood also full of iron? Wouldn’t that be poisonous to the fae?”

The same boy in front that had talked before spoke up. “Only
forged
iron, pure iron changed by the hand of man, is poison to the fae. Everyone knows that.” He didn’t turn around completely to speak to her, and she figured he had no idea who she was. Some of the other students looked at him shocked, like a battalion of guards was about to appear and arrest him for being sassy to the princess.

“That’s right.” The prospect of a class debate had Waylan grinning ear to ear. “Otherwise we would not be able to call a wisp for our lights, as they are beings of fae energy. They would not come close to forged iron, although that point is purely theoretical since the Purge.”

Yeah, theoretical.
Memory did a mental face palm. So many times she’d tried in vain to cast the light spell, all the while having her iron knife nearby.

“Any more questions before we continue?”

Memory raised her hand hesitantly. She felt like she was taking over the lesson, but had so much she wanted to know, and Waylan nodded for her to speak up so she asked her question.

“Behests are just meant to be requests, right, and requests that can be denied. So how can behests that kill people work?”

Some of the boys at the back who were chatting shut up. Everyone stared at her. Waylan looked at Memory, more with concern than anything else.

“And why would you ask that, young man?”

“I don’t want to know how to do it. I just want to understand how it’s possible. I mean, it’s not like you could use a behest that would
ask
someone to die.”

“Yes, clever of you to realize that.” Waylan didn’t look pleased and answered through thin lips. “No, one could not ask another’s body to simply die. But your body is not all your own, you understand. There is a behest that calls upon disease, bacteria, and life forms on and within the body to attack and kill the host. They rapidly degrade internal organs and shut them down, causing the person to die almost instantly. Such magic exists, but only members of the Wizard’s Council are allowed to learn that behest, and then it’s only to be used in extreme and dire situations.”

Waylan took no more questions, and instead read aloud from one of his books for the rest of the lesson. Dull was an understatement of the quality of the text, but Memory already felt as though she understood magic far more than she had before.

When the class finished and the boys left, Memory hung back to speak with Waylan, another question nagging at her that she hoped Waylan could answer, a question she couldn’t ask as Memory. As Memory she felt like an anomaly to be studied, but as Tristan she was just a normal Avall student, eager to learn. It surprised her just how eager she was. She wandered to the front of the classroom.

“Thanks, that was an awesome lesson,” Memory opened with, wincing at how stupid she sounded.