Memory's Wake (17 page)

Perceval’s mouth hung open at Memory’s request. “I’m not sure I can…”

“Oh please?” Memory pouted, rolling her shoulders back, allowing the corset to squeeze up what little cleavage she had. “You said you would help me. Maybe you can just walk me to him?” Memory wasn’t sure if casually meeting the King was a done thing, but it was worth a try.

Perceval grinned as though sharing a secret and extended an arm to her. He hooked his elbow around hers and walked her away from the marquee, pulling her close beside him. Perceval continued his inane small talk and boasting and she tried to hide how uncomfortable she felt on his arm.

He led her around hedges formed like a maze, through smaller gardens, past larger trees to another part of the grounds, getting her thoroughly lost in the process. They emerged into a stone paved courtyard where a group of men in a range of armor and uniforms stood about in serious discussion. Perceval placed her against a hedge, winking at one of his friends who looked their way. Memory tried not to feel like a groupie.

“Which one is he?” She hoped she sounded innocently naïve. Her nerves jangled. She tried to calm them, but an odd sensation grew within her.

Perceval leant in and whispered into her ear, “Dark hair and dark purple coat.”

Memory found him quickly. His hair was indeed dark, a tumbling shoulder length mass contrasted with a small and well trimmed beard. He wasn’t as old as Memory expected, maybe thirty-five years, and she was shocked again to find he was actually gorgeous. All except for his eyes, which were dark and tired.

More surprising still, Memory felt as though she recognized him from somewhere.

The uneasy feeling within her swelled.
But I don’t know anyone.
She took in his features, trying to trace the fragments of familiarity within her barren brain. He seemed to share her discomfort. He shook his shoulders in an abrupt shiver, and reached up a gloved hand, stretching and clenching it before his face.

Memory’s legs turned to chalk, ready to crumble. He was the man; the man with the hand. The glowing hand from her dream. She turned her face away from him.

“We should go. I don’t want to interrupt him.” Her voice wavered.
How could it be him? It was just a dream, wasn’t it?

“I’m sure I can make your introduction to King Thayl, Lady Mem. You no longer wish it?”

Right.
Now
you’re sure.
Memory shook her head, urgency panicking her. “No, let’s go. Now. Let’s go somewhere else. Private,” she said, with a small smile and wink. A wide grin from Perceval told her she’d succeeded in speeding him up.

They turned to go.

“Do I know you?” A deep, smooth voice interrupted them. It had the tone of someone not interested in formalities, and not having need of them.

Thayl stood by her side, looking down at her. Memory reached up to touch her mask, comforting herself with its presence. “No, Your Highness.” Was that even the correct way to address a king? Memory didn’t know. She tried to force a blush to her chilled skin, tried to curtsey in the way she’d seen Eloryn do, low and formally. She wobbled, inelegantly righting herself. “No, I don’t believe so.”

“Remove your mask, girl,” Thayl said.

Perceval’s look told her to take this request seriously. She untied it with shaking fingers. The bow caught and pulled loose strands of hair, bringing tears to her eyes. With the mask off her face, Thayl’s expression didn’t change, showing indifferent confusion only.

“Your name, where are you from?” Thayl asked. “There is something about you...”

“This is Lady Mem, Your Majesty.” Perceval took over for her when she hesitated too long. “I met her just moments afore. She requested to see you.”

“You did? And why would you…” Thayl’s face twisted with discomfort again. He tugged the glove off his right hand. Memory gaped at the mass of scars it held. Shapes and lines covered it to the wrist, carved into the skin long ago and turned to puckered flesh by time. A faint glow built around it.

Thayl looked from his hand to her. His expression was still confused, but no longer indifferent. It was fierce, frightened. “You? How can it be? You’ve not even aged. Devil, how did you get here from that Hell?”

Thayl grabbed Memory with both hands. His fingers dug into her, wrapping fully around her slight arms with bruising strength.

Memory’s heart stopped. His grasp made panic burn inside her. A blinding light burst around them, joining the glow from Thayl’s hand. Her heart started again, thunder against the weakness of her body. Her vision back-flipped.

She stood in an alley. She looked down upon herself, mesmerized by the glow of light.

The life escaped from the other her, no longer wanting to be trapped within. It flowed into her outstretched hand, making her stronger.

She watched herself scream.

She blinked, back in the green castle grounds. She stumbled backwards in shock, free to stumble, with Thayl’s hands no longer holding her. He stepped back too. She tripped on her own foot, her slipper left behind.

“Your Majesty.” A booming voice broke through. “My apologies that I couldn’t attend you sooner. Your presence tonight wasn’t anticipated.”

Thayl turned around in a stupor. Duke Lanval marched toward them with an entourage. Memory stood still, shell shocked. Rough hands grabbed her from behind. One forceful tug pulled her back into the scratching leaves of the hedge.

She tried to wriggle free, but strong arms pinned her against a body of firm muscles and furs. Dragged through the dense foliage, she closed her eyes to the twigs that rushed by. In a burst of leaves, she and her abductor emerged from the hedge. She looked up into blue eyes. Blue like the sea, they even made her feel sea-sick looking into them. Eyes she remembered from the forest.

She must have looked as though she would scream, because the young man put a finger across his lips. He grabbed her arm and pulled her forward. She drew a rough breath, unable to get enough air into her corseted chest. She wheezed and floundered. The savage man lifted her, threw her not too gently over a shoulder, and ran.

The savage’s pace did not slow as he carried her through hedges and corners of the gardens shadowed by the coming night. The delicate fabric of her sleeves tore and the fine work of the handmaidens on her hair was lost to passing branches.

The mad dash ended before she could decide whether to cling on or try to get free and he pushed her out onto an open pathway. She fell to her knees.
It’s like he knew I needed saving even before I did, as if he knew Thayl would hurt me. Me, a king, a savage; how could we all know each other?
When she spun around, nothing but the rustle of hedge leaves remained of the man. She saw a familiar archway in the distance, and two familiar figures emerging from it. One ran to her.

“Memory, by the fae, what’s happened?” Roen knelt beside her.

Memory couldn’t force words out, her lungs still out of shape from being knocked against the beast man’s shoulder. She coughed out a leaf.

“Was it that man from the ball? What did he do?” Roen’s voice was slow and intense.

Memory shook her head. “Ran through bushes. Had to tell you. Have to go.”

“Mem, are you all right?” Eloryn caught up to them, looking no less concerned.

Memory frowned. “Thayl. He’s here.”

“We know. We came to find you so we could leave,” Roen said, helping her up.

Came to find me? If they knew Thayl was here, why didn’t they just leave without me?
They thought she was a demon, but here they were, looking at her with all the sympathy of someone on her deathbed. Memory’s heart jittered.

A group of men led by Perceval, clutching the slipper she’d left behind, rounded the other end of the pathway. Perceval pointed, and the men ran for them.

Roen took both girls by a hand and ran back toward the palace. Gowns too long, corsets too tight, neither could move fast, but they had a head start against Thayl’s men down the long garden pathway.

“We’ll lose them in the secret passageways once we’re in the castle.” Roen sounded confident, but Memory felt his anxiety in the way his arm strained to pull her faster.

They passed through the archway. Across the pathway that bridged the pools of water, a tall man with lion’s hair and a scarred face stopped in his tracks. He glared with wide eyed intensity.

Eloryn gasped a scream, stopping so suddenly she tore from Roen’s grasp. “He is the one who captured Alward.”

Roen turned from the imposing man to the approaching group. They stood in the middle of the pathway bridge, blocked at both ends. Water rushed in deep channels to either side.

Memory looked to Eloryn. “Can you cast something? Help us get away?”

Eloryn rushed out words in the magical tongue, hesitated, shook her head, started again. Memory had no idea what she asked of what. The wizard hunter drew his crossbow and shot a tiny dart. It hit Eloryn’s neck, and she fell, tumbling over the low wall. Roen reached an arm for her, this time too slowly. With a splash she disappeared beneath the churning water. One final glimpse of gold like a fish in the depths and she was gone.

“Princess?” he whispered. She did not resurface. “Eloryn!”

Roen dived into the deep channel without a second breath.

Left alone on the bridge, Memory looked from the dark water to the approaching men, terrified of both.

“Capture the demon,” Perceval called out.

Memory took as deep a breath as her clothing allowed. She stepped over the wall and plunged into the water.

Chapter Fourteen

The ice of the water’s touch burned Memory’s skin. She could feel no bottom, no sides, just a rush of water pulling her down. The channel ran deep and fast. The fabric of her skirts tangled and lifted about, tying her limbs. She sank, breathless, reached the distant bottom then pushed up. Her cheek scraped against the rocky ceiling. She gasped air in the smallest pocket of space before being pulled under again. The channel narrowed around her, knocking her against rocks, finally expelling her into a great expanse of water.

Her chest ached and her mind lost focus. Ribbons of reeds twisted up from the ground, and she floated, still and suspended in the blue-green night. In the distance, Eloryn and Roen danced in the air. More figures joined them, lifting them into the sky; small, slender women with white skin and ridiculously long hair. Some flew around her, keeping their distance. She reached for them, wanting to touch these beautiful, flying angels. They scowled with large black eyes. The surreal moment ended and she realized they didn’t fly. She was still underwater. They swam, and she could not breathe. Her lungs exploded and the last of her air burst out in bubbles around her. Her vision darkened at the edges.

Large hands pulled at her. Reaching the surface she filled her cracking lungs. The savage broke through the water next to her, droplets forming in his dark tangle of hair. Supporting her fabric-weighted mass with one arm, he made a slow journey across to the edge of the lake, dragging her with him. They were alone on the bank where the savage crawled out of the water. She lay at its edge, unable to lift the waterlogged skirts any farther. He collapsed face down, gulping breaths.

Memory coughed out a stream of water, aching as though she’d been wrung out and wishing she was at least that dry. She wiped clinging hair from her eyes, trying to get a clear view of the strange man, wanting to be sure he was real. He still looked more like an animal than a man. He had a lean build with wide shoulders, every inch of bare skin muscled. She could just see the profile of his face, showing high cheekbones and long dark lashes that dripped water. He wasn’t familiar to her in the slightest.