She’d lost this moment, this memory.
She wept with the joy of having it returned to her, but even as she did, she felt something dark threatening to break through. Perhaps it was in the forest? She looked, but couldn’t see because suddenly everything was murky and unfocused. She turned back for the comfort of her mother, but she was now many feet away, carrying a picnic basket and holding the hand of a young girl, whose wet hair almost matched her own. The child was her … she couldn’t stay here any longer … there was darkness to come, but first there was the ballroom.
∞
She was almost sixteen … within a few hours of the hour of her birth … she could feel the thrill and anticipation of the party to come. She looked beautiful; everyone’s stares told her so.
It had taken some effort to not take a peek into the Chancellor’s thoughts earlier, to try to snatch an image of the boy, Hugh, her betrothed. He was somewhere in the castle, perhaps in the west wing, and when she’d snuck down into the ballroom to see the decorations, she’d secretly been hoping to happen on him along the way. She was disappointed to find that the ballroom seemed unchanged; maybe the servants hadn’t put up the decorations yet?
A piece of paper was crumpled in her hand, but she didn’t have to look at it to know it held a scrawled note that read: Do you want to know a secret? She wasn’t completely sure who had written the note, which she’d found underneath her door this morning, but she sort of hoped it was Hugh. Nothing further was written on the paper, but it did hold a slight suggestion to visit the ballroom, or, at least that’s what she thought about when she touched it. But the room was empty.
She turned to exit the way she’d entered, and saw a dark shadow by one of the tall windows. She shielded her eyes to the sunlight, and the shadow resolved itself into her uncle, who’d she’d only met the evening before. Some rift between him and her mother kept them apart. Honestly, she’d tried to eavesdrop, but both her mother and uncle were excellently shielded. In fact, she could barely feel his presence in the ballroom at all.
He was carrying a sword that looked too small in his hand to be his own, but almost deadly once in hers. She was unsure of how or why that transfer took place, as if there was a missing section in the memory. Like right now, her uncle was talking, but the memory didn’t seem to come with sound. In fact, all she heard was a rushing, not like wind, but like a multitude of voices, too many to hear any specific word or tone.
Her uncle reached down and adjusted her grip on the sword, though why she was holding it in her left hand was a mystery. He wore a large ruby on his hand, similar to the one her mother wore around her neck. The same ruby was imbedded in the hilt of the sword, and she understood this had some significance. She stared at the ruby, suddenly unable to pull her eyes away from its brilliant depths. It glowed so brightly it felt as if it seared her. She looked away. She looked up at her uncle as he towered over her. He was asking her a question while twisting his ring on his finger and shooting glances toward the entrance of the ballroom. His tenseness put her on edge, and she also glanced warily over her shoulder.
Do you want to know a secret?
She couldn’t feel anything … anything at all.
Sure, she could feel the heaviness of her gown, the pins in her hair, and the cool weight of the sword in her hand. But she couldn’t feel anything outside of herself, and shouldn’t she be able to do so? Wasn’t that her gift?
Her uncle touched her shoulder, asked his question again, and this time she heard him:
“What is your name?”
This seemed like an odd thing to be asking her, and it didn’t interest her as much as the sword.
“Whose sword is this?” she asked.
“It’s yours, Theodora. Don’t you remember?”
Yes. This was her sword, she remembered, because it felt like it was hers. The stone in the hilt flared again, and then settled into its standard shine.
“Why are we here, Uncle?”
“We were just leaving … if you will take my hand?”
“Yes.”
Her uncle walked away … walked away with her younger self. She watched them walk away, aware there were hundreds of memories to reclaim, but wanting to see this one through to the end.
Her uncle thrust a hand toward the glass window, as if to punch through it but, instead, with a blast of ruby light from his ring, the glass shuddered and rippled.
Then he pulled her younger and suddenly petrified self through the watery glass.
They disappeared.
She remained, and knew all the things her younger self could no longer feel in that moment before being pulled through the glass doorway. She’d felt the foreign and terribly powerful magic embedded in the stone of the sword and in the stone of her uncle’s ring; for memory spells and travel through mirrors or glass were beyond his gifts. She also knew that her mother screamed — a terrified scream — the moment her uncle pulled her younger self through the glass. It was a silent, mind-rending scream of sudden unbearable loss: loss of a child, loss of a future. The castle trembled with it. The memory was forever tinged with it, even though the mind of the memory hadn’t known it at the time.
She’d never known.
She turned back to the darkness, but this time, she pushed away all the other images. She wanted to see with her own eyes. She wanted the present, not this painful past.
She looked for a path or a doorway from the darkness and the images clamoring for her attention, but she could see none.
There had to be a way through … there! A bright spot in the furthest corner of her mind. So bright, like spirit manifested … though wasn’t she supposed to be spirit manifested? She moved toward the brightness, but she had no body … where was her body? She couldn’t pull the light closer unless she had arms. Couldn’t walk without legs. Couldn’t see without …
∞
… Eyes.
Her eyes were open.
She was staring at a painting … a painting on a ceiling?
She was in a bed.
She moved her arms, and felt the thick weave of a tapestry underneath her fingers.
Why was she covered in a carpet?
Oh.
This was her carpet.
But not her bedroom.
She sat up. It took no effort at all, which led her to believe she wasn’t completely in the present yet, that some part of her still battled the memories … but she didn’t want to think about that now.
Steel struck steel, and she looked toward the sound: a door that opened on to a balcony.
She gathered the carpet around her — she was barefoot and only wearing a shift — and crossed, floated perhaps, to the balcony. She briefly thought the carpet might be carrying her, but was instantly more interested in the sword fight that seemed to be taking place in the yard below her balcony.
She was high up, three storeys at least, in what appeared to be a castle. But this wasn’t her mother’s castle or keep. Guards were exercising in the yard, but they were not her mother’s, nor was that eagle insignia her mother’s standard. She stared at the awesome sheer rock dome that rose up behind the castle, a granite monolith that looked like the weathered but proud face of a man staring down at the massive fjord that cut through the valley below. They were in the mountains, then, further northwest than her mother’s castle. Her memory informed her she’d never been here before … but she had heard of the granite monolith that had been called the Chief even during the Before. It was more impressive in person than in etchings. So this must be the Aerie, where the Chancellor of the NorthWest, Hugh’s father, made his home outside of the city.
But none of that really held her attention, as steel clashing against steel drew her eyes back to the guards. They were training, fiercely. Swords sung and brows sweated. They were magnificent to watch.
So she watched for a while.
It grew dark.
To her disappointment the training session
ended.
She turned back to the room, to the bed.
There were people here … one of them was so bright he was difficult to look at.
There was food, but her body … her body didn’t exist even as it climbed, carpet and all, back into the bed.
∞
She dreamt.
She remembered.
Ren.
Oh, Ren.
She’d loved to watch him as he moved through his drills. His sword flashed whenever the sun hit it, but there was nothing extraneous about the way he wielded it. He struck hard and fast. He filled the space with great weight, but then danced lightly away from his opponent’s blows.
She’d been watching him for weeks, maybe even months, if she admitted it to herself.
Not you, a voice, obviously her own, warned in her head. She understood she wasn’t the memory and the memory wasn’t her; it wasn’t even the whole her at the time.
Ren turned from the field, and, as was his custom, walked over to the water barrel. She’d chosen, as she had every day that week, to sit on the fence beside the barrel. She’d tidied her braid, which was how she kept her hair when she was on the field. It slapped her face painfully and was too easy for her opponent to grab in a close fight, but her uncle refused to let her cut it. She didn’t wear it down — not even now — for it marked her as her uncle’s niece, and today she just wanted to be a Warrior of Spirit, the same as Ren.
Except Ren was a much better warrior than she was, but then Ren was better than anyone was, so she didn’t let being outmatched even remotely bother her.
Ren poured a mug full of water from the barrel over his head and shoulders, as he did after every training session, and when he flipped his head backward, sparkling droplets of water flew everywhere. One landed on Theo’s lower lip and she licked it off, wondering if it at all tasted like him, even given the brief contact it had with his skin.
He was watching her.
While she was attempting to taste him in a water droplet.
She felt the mortification flood her face and then her body. Her face was now probably as red as her hair, but she didn’t drop her eyes from his now that she held them.
Then he smiled. A rare occurrence, and the first time he’d ever done so in her direction.
She felt her face stretching to smile in response, as a different kind of heat — both exciting and comforting — flooded her body.
“You looked good today in practice. In fine form.” Ren spoke as he stepped away from the barrel, so that others lined behind could drink.
Theo widened her grin, which she wouldn’t have thought possible for her face, but didn’t repay the compliment. He knew how good he was, and had, in fact, recently been meeting with her uncle regularly, perhaps for extra training, though previously she had thought her uncle trained no one, not even her.
Ren was now close enough that Theo could see where a droplet of water still clung to one of his eyelashes. Before she could stop herself, she reached up and touched the droplet with the tip of her finger. The surface tension broke and the water absorbed into her skin.
There was a terrible intimacy in this; touching someone without permission was so … so … incorrect.
Except Ren hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even blinked his eye.
Her hand still hovered between them, and, quashing the impulse to taste this drop of water, she placed her hand back down and around the rail of the fence where she was perched.
“There is a celebration tomorrow night,” he said.
“Yes. The Welcoming of Light.”
Your birthday, a voice, her own again, redundantly informed her. Except this version of herself, the one she was currently inhabiting the memory of, didn’t know that. Didn’t know that the bonfires and treats were to celebrate the evening of her birth.
“I’d like you to go with me.” Ren didn’t bother to lower his voice, and it rang out through the yard where everyone was already pretending they weren’t watching.
“I’d be delighted to join you,” she answered, and he caught up her hand and kissed it. His skin was still hot from exercise, but his lips were soft.
“Wear your hair down,” he requested in a whisper, and she nodded her assent. She found she could not trust herself to speak over the shivers that ran up her arm as the breath of his whisper had hit her skin.
Claiming you, the voice informed the memory. And maybe he had been, but then, she’d wanted to be claimed.
She’d known it when she’d felt the soft heat of his lips on the back of her hand, his calluses rubbing against her own.
She’d known it when he’d pressed his body, ever so briefly, against hers as they swirled in the steps of a dance.
And she’d known it the moment before she accepted his mark and marked him herself.
She’d wanted to be claimed.
She’d wanted to belong to someone. Someone with whom to share each grueling day. Someone she could touch, she could feel … except she couldn’t actually feel him; other than tactilely, not the way she subconsciously must have craved, because she was missing that part of herself. Her childhood memories and her mind mage powers.
Nevertheless, he was an anchor, even though she hadn’t been aware why she was so, so lost.
∞
She woke. This time she needed no fancy mind maneuvers to do so. The clang of steel on steel brought her back.
Another person was in the room, but her spirit was quiet, peaceful, so she might have been sleeping. Natalie. The peaceful one was called Natalie.
However, it was the training in the yard that, once again, drew her.
This time she felt more solid on her feet. The whispers of her brain were calmer, so the trip to the balcony, while successfully navigated, was ultimately unfulfilling. She wasn’t close enough. She couldn’t see the nuances of the warriors’ movements.
She turned back into the room, sought out the wardrobe, and was momentarily disappointed to find it only held men’s clothing.
She traded the carpet, which she’d been wearing as a blanket, for the smallest pair of pants she could find, though she still had to belt them and roll up the cuffs. She pulled a heavy linen shirt over her shift, ignoring that it looked like she was wearing a skirt over her pants. As long as her movements weren’t hampered, she was content.
Shouts came from below. The Commanding Officer calling drills made her anxious and frustrated that none of the shoes fit her, so she went barefoot.
She rushed to the balcony and considered jumping the three storeys, but wasn’t sure her supposed strength and agility would save her from the landing. But she didn’t want to wander the castle looking for a way out; what an utter waste of time.
The carpet was hovering next to her. She smiled as she gave it a pat. It was good to have an ally, even if it was just a carpet.
The carpet dipped and she climbed on it. It rose, but she felt no need to sit. The carpet wasn’t going to drop her, not even as it slid up and over the edge of the balcony and the wind swept through the valley to buffet it. From this height, she could see the river snaking through the mountains.
More shouts from below drew her attention, and she realized she was interrupting the drills by hovering over the yard.
The carpet dipped and, after showing her off with a swoop, settled low enough for her to step off. The drill area was covered with a layer of fine sand that felt pleasantly warm under her feet, and she took a moment to spread her toes. The wind caught her hair and she disliked — mildly — the gaping stares that came her way.
The Commander took a few steps toward her, but then hesitated when the carpet rippled, rather aggressively, between them.
Theo suddenly wasn’t sure why she was there, but then the sun glinted off the weapons racked to one side of the practice area.
She crossed to survey the swords, but didn’t like any of them … they weren’t hers —
Rowen’s sword suddenly appeared in
her hand. A murmur rippled through the gathering crowd. It was indeed an impressive spell of finding, one she’d forgotten she anointed into the sword with her own blood, along with a spell that stopped anyone from using the sword against her. She wondered how Dougal had come by the sword. Had she not had it during the disastrous raid on Hollyburn Castle? Or had he made her carry another weapon for the ‘training exercise’.
A shout from behind drew her attention.
She knew this voice, this energy; Hugh, but he wasn’t shouting at her. He’d shouted to the Commander. He knew what she wanted even if she was slightly delayed in figuring it out herself.
She turned to smile at him.
He stood, actually leaned, in the doorway that led to the kitchens, surrounded by the kitchen staff.
Hugh returned her grin with a dip of his head toward the center of the yard.
Theo turned and crossed to where he had gestured, circling the sword her in left hand to feel its weight. Once she reached the middle, she stood, and, again, spread her toes through the sand and over the small rocks beneath her feet.
The Commander looked her over and then barked a few orders to his gathered troops. She wondered if he was speaking a different language, or whether she just wasn’t interested in what he was saying, for she distinguished no words. She enjoyed watching the way he seemed lightly encased in spirit, and understood that she was seeing his magic, a personal shield, which wasn’t something she could see before … at least not that she remembered …
The troops parted and a woman stepped through the gap. She was magnificent; at least a head taller than Theo, with a much longer reach. Her black hair was pulled back in a series of braids that looked to be permanent. Her ebony skin glistened from the morning’s drills.
The woman strode forward until she was ten feet away, and then she stopped to sweep an assessing gaze over Theo. This study lingered on Theo’s sword, but ultimately returned to her face slightly disappointed and confused.
Theo smiled in return, which only darkened the woman’s look. She didn’t have to read minds to understand that the warrior was displeased to be called to face a sickly waif, who looked to be powerless and unskilled despite the identifying red hair.
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