The Memory
GERRARD COWAN
HarperVoyager
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Gerrard Cowan 2018
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Gerrard Cowan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008121839
Version: 2018-08-29
For Grace
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1
Turn back.
That was all Ruin said to Brightling, as she walked down the stairs.
Turn back.
She was unsure how long she had been in this place. Her memories felt strange, at times: out of her reach. She forgot why she was here, in this darkness. She had to grasp for it, searching through the muddy waters of her mind. The Machinery, she told herself. I am going to the Machinery.
Ruin is in the Machinery. Ruin will die.
An image rose in her mind, and all her confusion disappeared. It was a picture of a young woman, pale-skinned and black-haired. Katrina. I will destroy the thing inside her, and I will bring her home to me. The mask burned against her skin, when these thoughts came. She had worn it since she had come here; it showed her the way through the darkness, down the never-ending stairs. It had such power, this thing. I have power when I wear it. I will use it to destroy my enemies: the enemies of mankind.
But she did not know how.
Turn back.
Ruin was afraid of her. This creature, feared by the world, Overland and Underland, was frightened. She could sense it, in his voice. She could always sense fear: even the fear of a god.
She caught herself. A god? Is that what we call them now?
Turn back.
Yes. A god. What else were they but gods, and what manner of mask was this, to strike fear into one of them? Jandell had fashioned it from a shard of a defeated enemy, in times long past, and he had given it to her. The Absence. A mask like no other: a mask that could carve someone’s memories into little bits. The Absence was dead, now, but somehow, this little thing still thrummed with a dark power. It loved her. She could feel it. It did not wish to cause her pain. But it still hurt her. It licked its fiery tongue around her memories and longed to burn them away.
Turn back.
Each time Ruin said those words, she heard a noise behind, back from where she had come: a door creaking open. When she continued on her way, the door would close, only to reopen when Ruin spoke again.
Ruin did not speak for a long time. When he did, this time his words were different.
You will not turn back, Brightling.
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. Her voice sounded so small, here, and she despised herself for all her weaknesses.
There came a great sigh.
You have always been special, Amyllia.
The use of her first name made her stop.
I know you very well. I have watched you for so many years.
Brightling took another step. She knew what Ruin was doing. The doomed tried all sorts of tricks to stave off the inevitable. Don’t ever listen to the dead, went an old Watcher saying. The dead are full of lies.
But she could not ignore Ruin. Not in this place.
I see everything that has been and gone. I remember the first time you appeared as … someone of promise.
Brightling turned another corner of the twisting staircase. The steps were wider, here, the walls further apart. There was a door, to her left. It was slightly ajar, its edge glowing with a thin line of golden light. She reached out a hand, before quickly snapping it back.
‘What is in there?’
What else? A memory.
Brightling heard a voice, muttering beyond the door. It was her voice; the voice she had as a girl. Warmth. Contentment.
I have all your memories before me, Amyllia. Tell me where you would like to go, and what you would like to see again.
Brightling turned away and looked once more down the dark staircase, through the eyes of her terrible mask.
‘No,’ she said.
The mask tightened on Brightling’s face. It wants to swallow me up. She hesitated for a heartbeat, before removing it. She turned it over in her hands, running her fingers along its edges. Each mask was a wonderful thing, fitting its owner perfectly. A second skin. They were all different: some of them reached up over the head, some of them covered it entirely, others were just a thin piece of material. This one, though, was so very different to any other, flitting between man and woman, old and young, anger or happiness, all with that same sense of nothingness. She could not see its expression, now. She wondered what it looked like. She hoped it was wreathed with a terrible fury, and that Ruin saw it, and was afraid.
You are a strange mixture.
She put the mask on. The world around her was once again visible, glowing with a strange, green light.
‘What do you mean?’ Perhaps she could steer this thing, this Ruin, in a useful direction.
You are cold. You are focused. You once thought of nothing but the Machinery. Now it is gone, and I have taken its place in your mind. You are devoted to my destruction.
‘I will destroy you.’
There have been others, over the millennia, who were just as focused as you – many of them. No, it is not your focus that makes you curious. Nor is it your coldness.
‘Go on then. Let me have it.’
You have another quality. It is unusual in one like you, so most people do not see it. You are nurturing. There have been people throughout your life who you tur
ned into your children. Aran Fal was one.
Brightling leaned against the wall, as the image of a blond-haired boy rose before her mind’s eye.
You changed him. I saw it happening. You took him, and when you were done, he was something else. Changed so subtly, yet with terrible finality. Aran Fal into Aranfal. A boy become a torturer. The torturer. A dark creature, yet he still has a little sparkle. I can see it in him.
‘So he is alive, then, wherever he is,’ Brightling said.
Perhaps, perhaps. Everyone is alive to me, Brightling, because all memories are here. All of them, from the beginning of everything. I have seen them all. I have touched them all.
‘You must have seen a lot, then.’
Ruin laughed.
A nurturer to Aranfal, but also to others. To one above all. A girl, whose family was destroyed. I set that all in motion.
Brightling winced.
The Paprissis were destroyed. The girl was abandoned, and ended up where she belonged: with you, the cold nurturer.
Brightling steeled herself. It is testing me. It is only a voice: it has no power. ‘She was going to join you, no matter what happened,’ she whispered. ‘I feel no shame in that. That thing was always going to take her over.’
Always? Always is a powerful word.
A door opened to Brightling’s right. There was no escaping it, this time, no walking away. Something in the room beyond called to her, pulled her towards it. She resisted, perhaps longer than Ruin expected; she thought she heard him muttering darkly. She was not one to give in to temptation. Not her.
But there was no refusing the draw of the room. It was the light that did it. As she stared at her feet, it gathered across the stones: the purple of the Strategists, spilling into the darkness, driving it away.
She began to tremble, and she cursed herself for it. She could resist no longer. She turned her head towards the light and saw her: the girl who changed everything. Her foster daughter. Mother. The Strategist.
Katrina stood alone in a small, confined space, more like a cell than a room. No. This is not Katrina. This was the creature, at its zenith: taller than the girl Brightling had known, stretched into unusual proportions. Her white rags had turned purple, as had her eyes. The same colour of light hung around her in a strange haze. She was standing completely still.
‘It is not really her,’ Brightling said. She felt a wave of relief. She did not want to face that thing, the parasite that had seized control of an abandoned, orphaned girl. But she perhaps feared meeting the real Katrina even more. She had failed that child. If she had been wiser, or more observant, she would have seen what was inside her. She could have gone to the Operator, and he would have done something. She was sure of it. But she had failed. The greatest Watcher of them all, a Tactician of the Overland, and I let my girl be devoured from the inside out.
Isn’t she wonderful?
Brightling silently agreed. There was something incandescent about this girl. Something luminous.
You did this, Brightling.
Anger flared within the Watcher. ‘I failed her,’ she said. ‘But your people put the demon inside her. Not me.’
But what are we, Brightling? What are my people? We came from you. All of you. The memories of humanity. They gave birth to us. They feed us. We are your creations. You are the parents, and we are nothing but children.
‘Children don’t live forever. They don’t have powers that could break the world. They aren’t called fucking Ruin, either.’
There was a laugh in the darkness. I am a child, Brightling.
There was a movement behind the image of Katrina. An old woman appeared, her face just visible under a dark hood. She threaded her arm through the Strategist’s, and smiled at Brightling. Something crawled from her mouth, and flew away.
We are powerful beings, it is true. But all power has constraints. We are born of humanity; we cannot live to our true potential until we are at one with humanity. When we join a host, we become something more. An immortal, still, but one with greater scope. A truer being.
‘And the mortal dies.’
The man that you see, when you look at Jandell – that is not Jandell. He is the host for Jandell. He was meant for Jandell.
The old woman turned and embraced the girl, before vanishing. Katrina breathed in deeply.
The host and the Operator must be just right, before the combination reaches its full potential. You made Katrina the perfect host for Mother. You gave her a certain strength: the mentality of a Watcher. Yet you weakened her as well. You filled her with self-doubt. Mother waited, and watched, and smiled, while you worked your dark influence.
Katrina disappeared, replaced with a flickering procession of images: Brightling and Katrina, Katrina and Brightling, over and over, as the girl grew up under the wing of the Watchers.
I did this.
The host was ready when the world changed. She was ready when the Machinery broke, and I sent such powers to her.
The mask throbbed against her. ‘Say what you want: I am coming for you, with my mask.’
See what I have wrought, from my prison. See what I did to your world. See what powers I gave the One. You think I am weak?
‘I think my mask is stronger.’
Ruin laughed, and the door to the cell slammed shut.
CHAPTER 2
‘The Machinery destroyed my family,’ said Jaco Paprissi. ‘The Machinery destroyed us all.’
The old man stared hard at Jandell. When he had first appeared before Drayn and the Operator, rising out of the grass like an animal, his features had been obscured by thick, green paint, the same colour as his robes. Now the paint was gone, but the wildness remained. His skin was raw, his grey hair matted with dirt. His face was deeply lined, but there was a certain spark in his dark eyes. A drive. It reminded Drayn of her mother.
He had taken them into this settlement, him and his men, through clusters of low, stone buildings, until they had come to this cold, dark hall, a damp space of wood and animals and smouldering flame. The other people had peeled off as they went, until they were alone, just Drayn and Jandell and this strange old man.
The wind howled outside the building. The wind always seemed to howl in this place.
Jandell took his son away. That’s what he’d said, when they first met this man. Drayn had met a boy, deep in the Old Place, one who had stood at her side on her journey through her worst memories. That was him. Drayn knew it. She saw some of Alexander in Jaco. She wondered if she should tell him. I met your boy, my lord. I met him in the land of memory.
‘No,’ Jandell said.
Drayn was unsure, at first, if he was speaking to Jaco or to her. He was sitting to her side at the rough-edged table, hunched over, his strange cloak gathered around him, the faces staring wanly at the world outside their prison. ‘I destroyed your family. I cannot hide from that.’
Jaco ran a hand through his nest of hair. ‘Yes. But you’re as much a victim as the rest of us. You may have built it and operated it, but the Machinery was its own thing. It spoke to Alexander. It told him such … things. And it made you take him away.’
A new brightness seemed to enter Jaco’s eyes. He was directly opposite Jandell, and he leaned in towards him. ‘Is he alive down there?’ But the light flickered out as quickly as it had come. ‘No. He can’t be. It’s not a place for little boys.’
A little boy. I met him. I knew him well …
Jandell shook his head. ‘There is a boy in the Underland, but he is just a shadow. He is a dream. When I took him away …’ He bowed his head.
‘He’s just a memory, now,’ Jaco whispered.
Jandell frowned. ‘Just a memory? How do you know that?’
Jaco waved a hand. ‘I’ve learned a lot, out here.’ He took his gaze from Jandell, and looked again at the table. ‘Did you hurt him, Operator?’ he asked in a quiet voice.
An image came before Drayn: Alexander, chained to a chair, exhausted. Jandell was inches from hi
s face, his mouth twisted into a sneer. He held something in his hand – a whip, perhaps.
‘The boy was gone at the beginning. But the memories … I fought that creature of memory, for his knowledge,’ Jandell whispered. ‘Yet even when he told me the One had returned, I would not believe him.’
‘But he didn’t tell you everything, did he, Operator? He didn’t tell you who the One was. He wouldn’t have wanted you to hurt her. His sister.’
A new image appeared in Drayn’s mind: a girl with black hair, a girl in white rags, slowly turning to purple …
Jandell rubbed his temples with thin fingers.
‘Alexander did well to keep it from me,’ he whispered.
‘No,’ Jaco said. ‘Not Alexander. The thing that lives down there: a memory of a boy.’
‘Perhaps that is Alexander. Why shouldn’t memories be real?’
It was the first time Drayn had spoken. The others turned to her, and Jandell smiled.
‘I was a dark thing, in recent years,’ Jandell said. ‘I was mad, and paranoid, and weak. Do you know what saved me, Paprissi?’
Jaco shook his head.
Jandell pointed at Drayn. ‘This girl,’ he whispered. ‘This Fallen Girl, and her powerful memories. More than that, though: her memories are powerful indeed, but so is she.’
Drayn turned her head away. Part of her wondered if she should thank the Operator. But why? How can I thank him for his praise, when I did nothing to earn it?
‘Operator,’ Jaco said.
‘My name is Jandell.’ He sighed. ‘A bleak name. The Bleak Jandell.’
Jaco nodded. ‘Jandell. I want you to know …’ He looked at the moss-covered ceiling, as if searching for answers. ‘I do not forgive you, for what you did.’
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