“My boy,” Adalbert said, putting a hand on Sariel’s shoulder, looking him in the eye. “This mission will be arduous. And painful. But you won’t be alone. We have gathered a group of the best. Some of whom are on the Council. All over the world, gearing up for the worst, working on spells to keep Quain at bay if he should be able to harness the power of the three Croyant areplaques. And from what our sources tell us, Quain followers have been ‘disappearing,’ either of their own volition or due to ‘disciplinary’ problems. But, well, more of that tomorrow when we discuss what we must do.”
Sariel nodded, and Adalbert leaned back into his chair. They were sitting in Adalbert’s comfortable living room by a fire, the room dark behind them. By Adalbert’s feet, Zeno, his elderly Hungarian Kuvasz, slept, his thick white hair long and so shaggy, the dog looked like a rough-cut sheep. When Sariel had first entered the room, Zeno had gotten slowly to his feet and padded forward, his ears pressed back. But instead of a growl, he’d simply sniffed Sariel’s hand and then given up any pretense of being the guardian he’d been bred to be, turning to walk back to the fire and falling into a still, silent sleep.
“There’s no other way,” Sariel said. “Kallisto has wound herself so tightly around Quain that if we peeled her away, he might crumble this time. It’s a good plan. The only plan. I just wish—”
“You didn’t have to be the one to do it. I know.” Adalbert waved a hand. “It’s a terrible thing to ask you to do, given your past history with Quain and Kallisto. But you’re our best. You know her better than anyone.”
They sipped the brandy Adalbert had poured, the liquid reflecting yellow, orange, amber, crimson in the firelight. Sariel thought of the first night he’d met Miranda, the way the candlelight flickered in her red hair as she slept, the way she tasted like the honey-flavored potion when he kissed her.
“Now that you bring her up, Sariel,” Adalbert said, “I have to ask. Did you take her memories of you and all that you imparted about our world? At this point, we don’t want Kallisto to have more to use against you.”
Sariel nodded. “Before I left, I took all of them. Like that.”
He snapped his fingers, the sound a dull flick in the dark room. How easy it had been to snuff out the relationship. At first he’d felt some resistance from her, as if she were trying to cling on, hold tight, not let him go. But then her mind was pliant under his fingertips, and he plucked every single thought of himself out of the narrative of her memory. Gone. He was entirely gone. Of course, it was a relationship he shouldn’t have been in at all, even in the best of times, and this was certainly not the best of times.
Sighing, Sariel shook his head. “It was foolish of me to get involved with Miranda. I didn’t pay attention to Brennus’s warnings. I know. But she’s different. It was as if—as if she wasn’t really Moyenne. She could sense me at times. There was something… Anyway, she’s amazing. In a way, I felt like I’d known her for a long time.”
Adalbert held up a hand. “You don’t need to explain to me, my boy. I don’t begrudge you love. And at first I also thought Brennus was overly cautious, and, at that point, Quain had not stolen the first plaque. But it seems Brennus was correct about our need for caution after all. However, my boy, I have come to the conclusion that it is her memories that might put the mission in danger.”
Sariel put down his drink and looked at Adalbert, finding meaning in the old man’s mind.
“No. Not that.”
“How would it be different than what you want to do with Kallisto?” Adalbert asked. “We want you to use your experiences with Kallisto in the past to lead us to her in the present. What you know of her and her character and her desires is what will hurt her. Then we are going to take what she knows and use it against Quain. If you are the one attacking her, why wouldn’t Kallisto find a way to use whatever would hurt you the most?” Adalbert’s voice was soft and kind, but it felt to Sariel as though he were yelling.
“But Miranda doesn’t know anything now. I made sure of it,” he said, thinking back to the moments as he leaned over on her bed, his hand on her forehead, the past slipping into his own body and then evaporating in the room. He’d taken them all, each and every one. Of course, he’d been nervous, sad, hurried, confused. There was that feeling he had on having to fight her. Maybe he’d left something behind. Had he?
“It’s quite possible,” Adalbert said. “And if Kallisto were to get ahold of her, she could use Miranda to bring you closer, to keep you from getting to Quain, to trap you. But more realistically, she and Quain might get to you first and find out about Miranda that way. And when she was done with you, she would move on to Miranda—”
Sariel held up a hand, shaking his head. He couldn’t bear to think of anything happening to Miranda. He hadn’t liked seeing her on the floor of the bar or on his couch with her painful, swollen ankle. Worse was the look on her face as he tried to contain himself at the hospital, keeping everything inside. All he’d wanted to do was pull her toward him and kiss her. Instead, he’d hurt her. He’d seen it in her eyes, in the way her lips quivered, in the sudden flare of anger in her face.
“Stop. I know.” Sariel looked into the fire, watching the flames hiss along the underside of the logs. Zeno growled in his sleep, ran after imaginary rabbits. Adalbert nudged the dog with his foot.
“Yes, but I need to say this,” Adalbert spoke slowly. “You understand Kallisto, Sariel. She wouldn’t mind killing, especially a Moyenne woman you loved. You who betrayed her.”
“I didn’t betray Kallisto,” Sariel said, his face hot, knowing that if he’d betrayed anyone it was Miranda. “She betrayed me in the worst way. She used me, my family, everyone to get what she wanted. She hurt us all. She left me for him. For power.”
“Yes, of course, though that’s not how Kallisto sees it,” Adalbert said sadly. “But now that’s the power you have over her. She has deep, long-lasting feelings for you that will lead you directly to her.”
Standing, Sariel paced in front of the fireplace, picking up the poker and moving two hot embers with the tip. “There’s got to be another way, Adalbert.”
The old man put down his drink and folded his hands. “I’ve thought of nothing else since the Council began talking of this plan. If you want to protect Miranda, and if I want to protect you, the choice is clear. Even now, though, it might be too late. Kallisto may already know about Miranda, but we have to try.”
Sariel poked at the embers again, splitting the white-hot chunks with the iron. Of all the memories in his head, these were the ones he had to willingly give up? There were so many he wished he could give up instead, times he could barely think about without a searing jab of pain in his ribs. His father’s death; the sound of Zosime crying in her room at night; the day he realized Kallisto had betrayed him. The afternoon he woke up at the healer’s and realized that Kallisto had erased Rufus’s memory and thrown him to the far corners half dead. But until now, Sariel had never let anyone take anything from him, even though Rufus, Felix, and Zosime had offered to do so many times. All that pain was his; he’d earned it, and he used it. It made him who he was.
And there were people who took advantage of such mind magic, walking around as clear and happy as a new bell, empty and full of only the present. Whenever something odd or different or irritating happened, within minutes, they had it sucked out. Some Croyant made a business of this, professionals at prying pain from weak minds. But Sariel wanted his pain even as he wished it were gone. All his pain made him who he was right now.
But this decision was intolerable. Finally, from the vastness of this huge world, he’d found a woman, a Moyenne, he couldn’t stand to be away from. He loved her thoughts, her voice, her body, her smells. And now his memory of all of that was what he was left with. And what Adalbert was suggesting… what he wanted…
“I have to take them, my boy,” Adalbert said softly. “All your memories of Miranda. I’ll take Rufus’s and Felix’s, too. Anyone who has any idea abo
ut how much she means to you. Brennus and everyone at the meeting she managed to get into. And I have to do it tonight.”
“What about Miranda?” Sariel asked. “Will you have to check to see if I took all her memories? And her mother. I met her mother. What will happen…” He couldn’t go on. He put the poker in its stand and sat down in his chair heavily, shaking his head. There, in his mind, in his memories, he saw Miranda in her bed tonight, leaning over him, worried, her light eyes full of concern. Right in front of him was her lovely face, her red curls, her smooth hand on his forehead. In a moment, he wouldn’t even remember to be sad about forgetting her. Adalbert would take even his regret.
“I won’t bother Miranda or her mother. I have faith that you did your job tonight. If there is a residual feeling, a glimpse into a memory, it will feel like no more than deja vu. Moyenne so rarely think twice about their glimpses into magic.” Adalbert took a deep breath and rubbed his beard. “And if you and your family forget her, she as well as you will be protected from Kallisto.”
The fire flicked and licked orange tongues against the wood, which spit and cracked into the silence. After being stupid enough to fall for Kallisto, Sariel had probably earned this as a just punishment. For a tiny drop of time, he’d been given Miranda, been able to hold her, take her places, listen to her voice in the night, be a part of her world, if only for a short time. But because he’d fueled Kallisto’s slip into darkness, he deserved to be alone and without a woman, any woman, especially one he knew he loved.
No, thought Adalbert. No.
“Can you leave me with something, then?” Sariel asked. “Something small. Something so innocuous Kallisto won’t know what to make of it. If I survive this mission and somehow these memories are lost, I can use what you leave to recognize Miranda and find her again.”
Adalbert watched him, his brown eyes steady. Very softly, Sariel could feel the older man search his mind, turning over memories for something to leave behind, even though it was dangerous to leave any trace. Even though Kallisto could pick the clue from his thoughts and toss it up, letting it fall and smash and ruin everything.
Zeno barked in his sleep, running on his side for two small strides, and then rolled over. Outside, the wind whipped poplar branches against the thick windows. A quick hard rain began to fall, tapping out sound against the glass. In only hours, it would be morning, and Sariel would be on his way to find Kallisto and then Quain before they could find the third plaque.
Adalbert blinked, rubbed his eyes, and then nodded. “I can leave something. It might not be what you expect. But if you find need of it later, it will be there.”
Pushing himself up off the chair, Adalbert stood slowly. “Let’s start, Sariel. I have a few other people to work on, as you know. And you need to ready yourself for your journey.”
Sariel stood up and moved close to Adalbert, letting the armiger touch his head.
Adalbert looked into Sariel’s eyes, his gaze steady. “If you’ve known someone in the deepest ways, as you have Miranda, you won’t forget. You can’t. Memory is in your mind and body.”
Confused, Sariel wanted to ask Adalbert what he meant. But then he forgot what he wanted to ask him. He couldn’t find his last thought or remember why he was confused. Adalbert stared at him, his blue eyes slightly watery, and Sariel relaxed, his shoulders dropping a bit.
Close your eyes, Adalbert thought, and Sariel did. His thoughts began to swirl on the edge of his mind. Focusing on the warmth of the old man’s fingers on his scalp, and before she was gone entirely, Sariel thought, Miranda. I’m sorry. Miranda! And then everything was heat.
An hour later, Sariel sat on the bed in Adalbert’s guest bedroom, trying to figure out what he was doing. He felt slightly dizzy, numb from something, maybe the trip here or the incredibly long Council meeting. Usually he felt fine speeding through gray, but tonight’s journey had been bumpy, the time and space full of rolls and waves, as if Quain’s theft of the second plaque had caused a distortion in the field, a rare flume or eddy that sometimes pulled people out of not only space but time. Sariel looked at the clock, counting backward to California time. No, he was in the right time and the right place. So why did he feel loopy, as if he and Rufus had left the meeting and tipped back a few?
Sariel unbuttoned his robe, shaking his head. He felt as though there were something he had forgotten, needed to do, needed to remember, but even when he closed his eyes and pressed hard into his own thoughts, all he could find were Kallisto and Quain and the mission he was to embark on tomorrow.
Sighing, he shook his head and then stood up, walking to the closet to hang up his robe, when someone knocked on the door.
“Sariel,” said his mother. “Are you awake?”
Walking to the door and opening it, Sariel realized he’d keenly wanted to see his mother, like long ago when she would comfort him about a fight with his brothers or when she would find him crying in his bed about his father, Hadrian. After his father died, Sariel would sneak a photo of him into his room at night, stare at his father’s face. It wasn’t that his father had the kindest of faces, either, soft and comforting. In fact, he was rather a scary sorcier with his stern look, black eyes, and firmly set lips. But Sariel and his two brothers knew better. They knew that they could throw themselves on him when Hadrian thought himself home after a long day, that he would play with them for hours, teaching them tiny magic before bedtime: how to levitate a circle of pennies and make it spin, how to fluff the pillows with a thought, how to turn off the lights with a nod.
After Hadrian died, Sariel would talk to the photo, thinking that maybe there was some magic left, enough to give his father’s image words. And what was Sariel hoping to hear? Something like, “It’s all right. I’ll be back soon. I love you.” But Hadrian hadn’t left that kind of surprise. Zosime would hear Sariel and sweep into the room, open her arms and pull him close, her thoughts in his mind, promising him that things would be all right. Just fine.
Now, of course, he knew that things were often not fine, but he still needed her arms, even if he didn’t like to admit that to himself or even think it enough so that Rufus or Felix would hear.
“Mom,” he said, smiling, looking at his tiny mother in front of him, swathed in her deep blue robes, her face ruddy from travel. She smiled, her light brown eyes bright.
She walked into the room and hugged him, her arms open, as if she were going to fly—Fly? Flying? For a second, Sariel saw an image in his mind, a girl. A little girl flying? Sariel stopped up short and breathed in.
Zosime pulled back, looking at Sariel with her serious eyes. “What is it? A message from someone?”
“I don’t know,” he said, laughing. “Something I thought. Anyway.” He hugged her again, tightly. “What are you doing here?”
“How could I not come and see two of my boys off on this fools’ mission?” Zosime unbuttoned the top of her robe and sat down in a chair by the small fire in the grate. “I don’t know what Adalbert is thinking, sending you two into that lion’s den. That twisted lion and his she-beast.”
Sitting in the chair opposite her, Sariel held her hand, patting it, trying to move her thoughts away from fear and Quain and, even worse, Hadrian. “It’s the only way. I’ll be able to find her. You know I can still pick up some of her thoughts, even from the Bay Area. They are only words or random images, but they come in loud and clear. If I’m in London, where they think she and Quain are, I won’t have any trouble.”
“You won’t have any trouble? What about what happened last time with Rufus? She sure gave us trouble that time.”
“I was being healed for most of that,” Sariel said. “And Rufus and Felix did okay. They captured Cadeyrn Macara. Look how well that turned out.”
“Maybe so,” Zosime said, snorting. “Maybe you can sniff her out. Maybe you will be able to capture her. But then what? Quain has two plaques. I say we should put all our powers into protecting the third. We know he’ll come for it sometime soon, so
why not attack him there?”
Zosime, as usual, had a point. She hadn’t sat on the Council since Sariel’s father had been killed, but she knew their arguments, their points, their discussion, as if she’d never left.
“I don’t even know where the third plaque is,” he said. “Adalbert is keeping that from everyone at this point. But Quain would assume that’s our plan. We need to catch him unaware. We need to find the other plaques, Mom. If we wait until he comes to us, we might not get them back. We might not get Kallisto.” Sariel held her hand, squeezing tightly, and then let go, watching her think. She never seemed to age, her round face smooth, but now her long dark hair—so much like his and his brothers’—was gray, pulled back in a long thick braid.
“But Rufus. Must he go, too?” Zosime said. “He’s barely recovered from what happened with Kallisto before. And this time, what if Fabia can’t save him? What if both of you…”
Sariel took his mother’s warm hands. “Mom, it’s because of what happened before that he’s here now,” he said. “He knows how she works. And he’s been recovered for two years.”
Zosime shook her head. “Well, yes, of course. But it wasn’t easy for him, losing his memories.” Her voice was kind, holding off the blame Sariel knew she must direct toward him for what happened to Rufus. “But he and Fabia have important work in Edinburgh.”
Sariel shrugged. “We need him here. He is so strong. And Fabia can take care of the work in Edinburgh. Her brother Niall’s there with her, and—”
When You Believe Page 11