“True. He’ll be void of all of his memories except the ones we want to remain.”
“The ones you want?” Emeric’s face has gone sickly pale in spite of the orange glow of Cyril’s lantern.
“Unlike fendoirs, who can only pull from the general well of elixir, gravoirs have the ability to remove elixir tied to specific memories. We’ll have Isda extract all of your memories, save for the ones you need to be able to do the show.” Cyril’s sharp eyes flick to me. “You’ll leave vocal experience, specific training, recollections of the show’s rehearsals—things like that, but only the barest minimum. Don’t even leave the whole memories of him learning these things—I want just the knowledge and skill acquired in them left. Everything else must be gone. I’ll have a fendoir check his elixir levels once you are finished. If there is any more than twenty vials’ worth left in his mind, we’ll know.”
I spit at his feet.
Eyes flashing, he rams me against the wall by my throat, jamming his elbow into my windpipe as he holds the lantern in his other hand so close to my cheek it almost burns. I squirm in the guards’ grip as Cyril’s breath gropes wet fingers across my face. “This is mercy, Isda,” he growls. “You would do well to thank me for my generosity.”
My arms quiver. “You can’t do this.”
“I’m the Head of the King’s Council of Channe. I can do whatever I want.” He pulls back, and my knees buckle, but the guards who hold both my arms keep me from toppling to the ground. Cyril whistles as he hangs his lantern on a hook by the door, and several young men enter carrying massive crates full of empty glass vials.
The clank of glass on glass echoes louder and louder until it’s all I hear. All I know. The bottles shimmer in the orange firelight, warping as my eyes glaze. My hands curl into fists, and my fingernails cut deep into my palms.
Cyril is serious. He’s going to force me to ruin the only friend I’ve ever had.
I stare at the man in front of me, searching his storm-blue eyes, wilted wrinkles, and smug smile for the Cyril I knew. The one I pretended was my father. The one who protected, provided for, and loved me.
But that Cyril is gone.
He never existed.
The family I thought I had with him, the life he built for me...it wasn’t real.
I force myself to breathe.
None of it was real.
“Even a gravoir cannot remove my elixir if I’m not singing. You can’t make me do that,” Emeric says.
“Can’t I?” Cyril grins, then nods at the guard holding my left arm, who shoves my hand against the wall.
“What—” I begin, but Cyril moves quickly, detaching a small hammer from his belt and swinging it with such force it whistles through the air. It slams into my hand with the soul-curdling sound of crunching bone. Pain jolts through me. I see nothing but stars and agony. My scream scrapes my throat raw. Blood spatters the floor.
The guard releases my wrist, and I collapse. The other guard still holding my right hand yanks me up and wrenches both arms behind me.
I buck away from him, pain shooting bullets through my body, but his grip on me is solid. Immovable.
Emeric roars, diving for me, but the guards on either side of him drag him back, too.
The world tips, spins, dances in sparks. Tears stream down my cheeks.
My left hand...
The one that commands the lower notes in my music.
The one that drives the bassline.
The one that builds the foundations of my songs.
How dare Cyril take that from me?
I whip around, tears scalding tracks down my cheeks. He’s watching me, a pleased smile tugging at the corners of his lips like he finds this all wildly entertaining.
The beast in my chest rears its ugly head and bares its fangs.
I tear out of the guard’s grasp and launch myself at Cyril, knocking him into the stone floor and going for his eyes with the fingernails of my remaining hand. I manage to gouge red marks into his cheeks before the guards haul me off him.
Cyril gets to his feet, straightens his vest and cravat, and gives me that cold smile. “Oh, you are going to make this fun, aren’t you, chérie?”
I make an inhuman noise somewhere between a snarl and a hiss. The guards squeeze my arms, and my injured hand sends a jolt of pain through me that makes my eyes sting.
I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from crying out. All I can see is the broken, crumpled remains of what were once long, slender fingers perfect for spanning octaves.
Fury bubbles hotter than the tears on my face.
The clink of the vials in their crates clangs high and hard in my head as the servants stack more and more inside my cell. Emeric stares at them, his expression unreadable.
“The gravoir’s execution is set for tomorrow.” Cyril’s voice is quiet as he speaks to Emeric, but each word is iron. “She can either spend her last day whole or in pieces. It’s up to you.”
Emeric’s brow shines with sweat. He looks at me, the veins in his neck bulging as he strains against the guards who hold him. I know what he sees: blood, vomit, trembling legs, shaky breaths, tears streaking to the floor. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I’ll sing,” he grinds out through his teeth. “You filthy son of a—”
Cyril’s nostrils flare. “We could cut the whole hand off...”
Emeric’s jaw twitches, but he snaps it shut.
“I won’t do it.” I heave, choking on the stench of vomit and blood. “I don’t care what you do to me. I don’t care if you take every finger, every toe, both eyes, my tongue...”
“All very good ideas.” Cyril’s hand drops to his belt and strokes the handle of his weapon. “I suppose I could use this on Emeric instead. He doesn’t need fingers to sing. Would that be enough motivation for you to cooperate?”
I swallow, trying desperately to mask the flinch of panic that surges through my body at his words.
He smirks. “That’s what I thought.”
Firelight dances across the slick surface of the vials, which are crammed in crates stacked nearly to the ceiling and trailing out into the hallway. The sheer amount of elixir it will take to fill them... I shudder.
If I do this, they will allow Emeric to walk free. He won’t be Emeric anymore—I’ve seen enough of the Memoryless to know that a man without memories is not much of a man at all—but he’ll be alive. If I can find a way to escape, I might have a chance to get him some elixir to restore everything. As long as I can do it in the twenty-six hours before his memory loss becomes permanent.
If I can get myself out of this prison in time, I might be able to save us both.
“Fine.” My whisper is so quiet even I can barely hear it, but Cyril grins so wide it looks as though his teeth might devour his own face.
“That’s a good girl.”
“What have you done with Arlette?” The words burst from Emeric. “Where is she?”
“Arlette?” Cyril furrows his brow. “Who in Memory’s name is that?”
“As if you don’t know.” Emeric’s voice rises in pitch, cracks like he’s coming undone from the inside out. “She’s the gravoir you captured in the town square of Marvault nearly three years ago.”
Cyril considers him for several moments before his lips purse. “The one who tried to drain the whole village of its elixir?”
Emeric’s jaw clenches.
“She’s dead.” Cyril shrugs. “Killed her myself.” But his mouth twitches when he says it.
“Liar.” Spittle flies from Emeric’s lips. “What have you done with her?”
Cyril merely motions with a finger to the young men with the crates to bring one closer, impatience tugging at the wrinkles around his mouth.
Emeric struggles against the guards. With each grunt and shout, I shudder. Though the pain radiating from my hand streaks
up my arm in white hot waves, I cannot tear my eyes from Emeric’s face, from the brokenness, the rage, the disbelief, the fear. His expression contorts into a mask of madness.
Cyril slams a hand across Emeric’s cheek, and I buck against my captors. “Stop your sniveling, boy. Her fate can’t be that much of a surprise. She was dangerous.”
Emeric deflates, collapsing so that the only thing holding him up are the gloved hands wrapped around his arms and torso. His head droops, and his shoulders shake with sobs.
Cyril whirls on me. He draws a knife from his belt and crosses the cell.
“If you’re planning to carve the Extraction Mark, save yourself the effort,” I say, tugging the hem of my dress upward to bare the scar on my thigh.
Cyril’s mouth thins into a white line. “It looks like you should already know what you’re doing then. And I was worried you’d be too stupid to figure it out. What luck.” He jams the knife back into its sheath. He’s all elbows and harsh movements and jagged corners. “Drain him.”
I glare at Cyril, wishing with every piece of my trembling body that I could become the phantom I’ve created in so many minds, that I could swoop at him and snap his head from his body in a flash of teeth and a rush of shadow.
“Isda,” Cyril barks, lifting his hammer and angling it toward Emeric. “Don’t make me ask you again. I don’t want to have to hurt the boy, considering how much money he’s worth, but I will if you force me to.”
Emeric lifts his head to meet my gaze. Tears glimmer on his cheeks, but his jaw is set. He nods once. “It’s all right, Is.”
Anger and pain battle through me so hard I can barely stand. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t be. With Arlette and you both gone, there will be nothing left in this world for me anyway.”
We hold each other’s gaze for one long moment. With every second that passes, the fibers of my heart stretch and snap one by one.
The memories that brought me to life, the music that gave me hope, the rainbow of emotions and light... I’m going to have to take it all from him.
Of all people, Emeric deserves this the least.
I blink back tears.
He gives me a broken smile.
This time when he sings, his voice is thick and hoarse. It breaks over the notes, clinging for life at their edges.
The memories take me slowly, sweeping me in beautiful, heart-rending arcs of color and joy. Tears of rage burn trails into my skin as I dip into the tide, sift through the flow to the place where it glows at the bottom, and draw the elixir out of his ears. It shimmers, gold and glowing, innocent and beautiful, as it ribbons into the vials.
I watch each memory as it goes with tears streaming down my cheeks.
His mother’s fierce smile. Arlette’s laugh. A squat little cottage nestled against an apple orchard.
The smell of chocolate in his uncle’s candy shop. Bubbling caramel syrup over a blazing hearth.
Star-strewn skies. Rain-spattered streets.
My hand in his, my name on his tongue. Our bodies entwined. Our lips crashing and breaking over one another.
As each memory disappears one by one, the splash of Emeric’s elixir echoes against the cell walls. Louder and louder it roars, an ocean of golden memories come to slam over me and rip me out to sea.
Emeric sinks to his knees, clutching his head between his shackled hands. His arms quiver. Sweat pours down his arms, but if he is in pain, he does not cry out.
His parents, his sister, his life drains from him in one steady amber stream, snaking out into the air and twirling into the vials.
I try to leave glimpses of his family, of his home, of me, but Cyril’s warning that he’ll have a fendoir check to make sure there are only twenty vials of elixir left clashes with the tide of Emeric’s music in my mind.
Twenty vials will be barely enough for the instinct for music, the rote memory of how to sing, and the ability to function. Nothing more.
Cyril watches the elixir, his eyes shining and hungry.
My body quivers with an anger and hatred I have never known. It threads through me, sharp and fast as the pain in my hand even as my body weakens with the expense of so much power.
When everything that made Emeric who he was has been extracted, I collapse, shivering. The servant boys who have been corking and uncorking the vials as I worked settle the last few glass jars in their places. The crates stand full, glowing like hot suns, bright as the caramels Emeric once made.
Caramels that, if I fail to replenish his elixir in the next twenty-six hours, he will never make again.
“Very good.” Cyril approaches Emeric and unlocks his shackles. “Come,” he says. “The evening performance begins in an hour and a half.”
Emeric allows the guards to hoist him to his feet. His face is drawn, his hair wet with sweat. He looks at the elixir vials stacked all over the room and cocks his head.
Cyril gestures to the door as he retrieves his lantern. “Shall we?”
Emeric shuffles past the crates.
“Emeric,” I call weakly after him.
He stops and glances over his shoulder with empty eyes. His gaze settles on me, and he pauses. Surely he recognizes me. The memories of our vocal lessons may be gone, but I left the technical ability he learned from them there. Surely there’s a trace of me somewhere in it all.
But he turns and exits without a word.
The servants and guards stoop to lift the crates and carry them out after him.
And then they are gone, and I am alone. Weakened, bleeding, and filthy, but still standing.
My whole life I’ve hidden underground, a monster fearing the day someone would glimpse my face and discover what I was. I found refuge in music, in darkness, and in solitude. The people who would have killed me at birth were never able to break me.
But now they have taken the only thing that truly meant something to me in this world.
I rise to my feet.
Blood drips from my hand.
My body turns to ice.
I throw back my head and scream.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The scream fills every part of me, as though the crevices of my soul are roaring with it. It rams against the prison walls, pounds against the stone, wraps claws around the iron bars of my door. It reverberates down the hall, snaps teeth at the sputtering lanterns in the stairwells, climbs its way to the ceiling.
I imagine my scream ripping the foundation of the building from the earth. Cracking the stone. Toppling it all and crushing everyone within.
“Stop!” a guard shouts from somewhere far up the corridor.
I do not stop.
Until my heart stops beating, I will not stop. I will not bow to them. I will not surrender.
“I said shut it!” The voice is closer, and the pounding of boots on stone marks a hungering beat to my scream.
Tomorrow, I may die. But tonight, the world will hear me, finally hear me, and it will know what it has done.
“Gravoir!” The man’s bark grows angrier. He’ll reach my door soon. “Quiet!”
His shouts make the beast inside of me purr, sniff the air for his scent. My mind swims back to when, through people’s shrieks at the masquerade, I was able to force my will upon their memories, flooding them with images of ghouls and creatures made of night.
Perhaps there is more than one way to sing.
I stoop and heft the loose rock I found earlier into my good hand. Facing the doorway, I slide it behind my skirt and wait.
The guard’s face appears. I glower at him and scream louder than ever, wishing the sound of my fury could lash his face to bits. There are tales of Les Trois using music to do things like that to people. And worse.
Perhaps one day soon, I will learn how to do it, and the whole world will see what it has forced me to beco
me.
He grips the bars with both hands to spit at me, and I charge forward, slamming the rock against his knuckles. Bone crunches. The man howls.
My beast pounces onto the beautiful sound of his pain, blazes straight through to the river of elixir in his mind, and wrenches the liquid out of his ears.
The cell walls glisten amber as the elixir floods toward me. I greet it hungrily, pulling it straight into my mouth. Its honey taste flows across my tongue and down my throat.
He tries to cut off his cries, but I suck harder on his elixir, pulling the sound from him against his will. It’s like all I had to do was undam the flow, and now I own it. I control the sounds of his agony far more than I ever controlled anyone’s singing.
I drink in that scream with relish, savoring every last drop.
It is a serenade. A sonata. A song.
I let it fill me with gold. As the elixir slides into my veins, my vision sharpens. The exhaustion in my limbs fades. The gnawing in my stomach subsides. The pain in my hand and my head dulls.
The sinews in my muscles, the pumping of my heart, and the breath of life in my chest compound as though I’ve been turned into the God of Memory himself.
I laugh.
Ecstasy and hatred dance a Vaureillean valse through me, and I revel in the exquisite way they complement each other.
I imagine myself at the top of the world, surrounded by the golden elixir of a million souls. I am as fearsome as Rose, as all three of Les Trois.
Elixir spatters my cheeks as I slurp more and more of it down.
The guard’s eyes grow emptier and emptier.
His face pales. His jaw slackens. His skin sags.
Still I drink.
More. More. More.
His beautiful scream chokes off into a gurgle, and his body slumps, skull clanging against the bars of my cell door before he hits the ground with a sickening crunch.
I gulp down the last shining droplets in the air and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand.
Sliding my arms between the bars, I tug the ring of keys from his belt.
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