When You Believe

by Jessica Barksdale Inclan

  Miranda shook her head, thinking about her dream of clinging, pulling, holding on.

  “I made a mistake. But if I hadn’t, we would never have learned about your skill. We wouldn’t be able to have an edge over Kallisto,” Sariel said.

  Stunned, Miranda looked at each of the people at the table. These magic people, sorciers and sorcieres, managed to screw up just as thoroughly as the Moyenne they liked to look down on. Who gave any of them the right to go into people’s heads and take away what meant most? And then, how come she had the magic to keep her memories hers? How could this Adalbert possibly restore the words and feelings and sounds she and Sariel had exchanged? How could stolen memories contain the color and vibrancy of what remained behind after they loved?

  Miranda closed her eyes and stopped thinking, knowing that they were all listening in, silenced by her anger and despair. She pulled away from Sayblee’s touch, stood up from the bench, and stared at them all. Tired and tentative, these people didn’t look like the salvation of the planet. They may have concocted the greatest plan in the world, but if they needed her help, the destruction of the world as they all knew it was a forgone conclusion.

  “I’m going to bed,” she said. “And in the morning, I’m going home.”

  “Miranda,” he said, and for an instant, Miranda thought she was back in San Francisco, awakened in her own bed from one of Sariel’s late night visitations. But then she felt the strange pillow under her head, the soft blanket on her arm. Sitting up, she saw Sariel’s silhouette against the window.

  “What?” she asked, pulling the blanket up to her neck. “What do you want?”

  “I need to talk with you.”

  Miranda leaned against the wall, her eyes adjusting to the bright moonlight casting its blue sheen into the room. Sariel walked over to the chair by the bed, and she saw that he was wearing a T-shirt and some soft-looking pants, his hair down and falling behind his shoulders. He looked exactly like a man whom she would walk through matter for, invoking all those principles of physics she’d never understand, even if she ever managed to travel where she wanted to. He was a man she’d sail around the world for, even if he handed over all his thoughts, feelings, and desires for her. He leaned toward her, his eyes so open, so wide, so needful. No matter his gaze, she knew he didn’t have one memory of her. Not one.

  “I do have one,” he said. “Flying.”

  “Flying?”

  “You in your backyard. Hovering in the afternoon.”

  “From my poem. The terrible poem.”

  Sariel leaned forward. “It wasn’t terrible.”

  Miranda pulled the blanket up higher, feeling the cold wall beneath her back. “What do you want, Sariel?”

  He paused, running a hand through his hair. In the dark, she couldn’t see him well, but she could smell him, orange and musk and soap. She wanted to weep from the memory of his skin so close to hers that his smell became her only air, but she’d cried more in the past couple of days than she had in all the months since Jack left.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked again, harshly.

  “Tell me,” he said, “what happened with Kallisto.”

  Miranda watched him, his firm dark form against the moonlight. “I already told you everything.”

  “No. What did she show you?”

  “Oh,” Miranda said, wondering how to get her tongue around those horrible images in his house, his body dangling, bloodied, limp, his face as Kallisto left him. “That.”

  “That,” he said, his voice quiet and sad.

  She sighed. Why was loss such a compelling story that everyone needed to hear it over and over again, grief a poem Miranda wrote constantly, the subject changing but not the song. This was Sariel’s story, the one he couldn’t let go of, probably not until Kallisto was gone, dead, or his again.

  “No,” he said. “Not that. Never again.”

  “But it was awful,” Miranda said. “I didn’t want to watch, but she forced me to.”

  “I want to see how she saw it. How I looked. I need to remember again.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Completely.”

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll tell you.”

  So Miranda told him what Kallisto had revealed to her, described his body hanging in the room, explained the evil look on Kallisto’s face as she taunted him. She slowed, letting him see his expression of love and pain as Kallisto prepared to leave him for Quain.

  After she was done speaking, the room was silent except for the ping and hiss of the radiator. Then he breathed out and leaned back heavily in the chair, his hair falling forward over his shoulders.

  “She enchanted me.”

  “I can see why. She’s very beautiful,” Miranda said quietly. In her mind, she saw Kallisto’s dark hair wild around her as she hovered over them, casting out her black energy.

  “No, I mean she really enchanted me. With magic,” Sariel said. “It had been going on for months, maybe a year. When I finally was no longer of use to her and had given her all the information I could, she left me. That scene you saw wasn’t even the worst. She began to torture me for one last piece of information.”

  “Did she get it?”

  Sariel nodded. “Yes, she did, and then Rufus came and saved me, at great cost to himself. Kallisto wasn’t as strong then. But she’d gotten what she needed.”

  “What was the information?” she asked.

  He sighed and leaned his head on the back of the chair. “She waited just long enough. I’d just come back from capturing a sorcier named Duman in Cairo. He’d been working with Quain, and had come across the location of the first plaque. As I brought him back to Rabley Heath, he began to babble, throwing out names and places, one of them the Castle of Gaerwen. The Castle of Gaerwen was the location of the first plaque. And Kallisto dug it out of my mind. She got what she wanted.”

  “Why is she like this?” Miranda asked. “What made her go to Quain?”

  Sariel rubbed his forehead. “She wasn’t always so greedy. When we first met—she wanted to bring the Croyant and Moyenne worlds together. She thought the world would be more integrated, more whole. Safer, happier, healthier. There’s a whole group of people working toward this goal. Rufus and his wife Fabia. Fabia’s parents and brother. Adalbert, our armiger. Cadeyrn Macara. Lots of us. Kallisto was one of them. But somewhere along the line, Quain got to her. Convinced her, turned her against us. Used her as she later used me. Made her do what he wanted until she thought she wanted it herself. Until she became someone I didn’t understand or even know. Until she took from me what would hurt us all the most.”

  Miranda listened and then sat forward, bringing her knees to her chest. It was no wonder he wanted to be here. It was his information that started the whole plot in motion. It was no wonder that he gave up his memories of Miranda to fight this fight. He had no choice.

  “That’s right,” Sariel said. “And I know, Miranda, if I had a woman like you in front of me, it would have been a hard choice to leave. I wouldn’t have given up memories of you for nothing. It would have had to be important, crucial. The only way out.”

  She felt a wave of sadness in him, his mind full of confusion. Shaking her head and breathing in, she said, “What are these plaques, anyway? What do they do?”

  “You know those colors you saw? The gold and red and purple in your thoughts? Well, the plaques are full of the spectrum of energy of those colors. The first plaque is purple, the second red, the last gold. They were made by ancient sorciers and sorcieres to contain an infinity of thought and energy. They represent earth, air, water. They exist as repositories for all of our abilities, but they have always been kept apart.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Together, they are too strong. That flume of energy you saw? Once the plaques are put together in a triangle, that energy, that ultimate power, can transfer to the person who arranged them. And then that person has the power—has the ability—t
o change everything.”

  “Quain wants that power.”

  Sariel nodded. “And when he gets it, he will harness all the power, all the energy, all our collective thoughts from hundreds and thousands of years and make the world the way he wants it.”

  The moon was full in the window now, Sariel’s hair shining, his eyes intense. The blanket was suddenly too hot, and she shrugged it off her shoulders.

  “So what’s the plan?” she asked. “I mean, besides me distracting Kallisto?”

  “We have to get to him before he gets to the plaque. Without Kallisto, he won’t be as powerful, and maybe all our combined forces can stop him. We plan to attack him where he is staying now, at the Fortress Kendall, according to the information that you gave us, which was later verified.”

  “He’s there now with Kallisto?”

  “And others. We’re not sure if the plaques are there with him, but I’m sure they aren’t. He would have hidden them elsewhere.”

  “Where’s the third plaque?”

  “It’s being guarded now by Adalbert Baird himself and all our most powerful magic. But with two plaques, who knows what Quain will be able to do? We do have some time, now. He’s been put off by our arrival and by the new forces surrounding the third plaque. There’s time to teach you some things.”

  “What things?”

  “Magic. Ways of getting farther into Kallisto’s mind.”

  His voice was tired now, and he let his hands fall into his lap. Miranda stared at his fingers, remembering the heat from them on her ankle, the way he could make her blood move under her skin.

  Neither of them said anything for a while, the moon arcing into the top windowpane, the room warm with radiator heat. Finally, Sariel cleared his throat.

  “I can’t make you stay for me. I know I don’t have that right. You must think I threw you away, betrayed you, gave you up for something greater. I can understand how you must feel about me. I can understand why you want to leave. But for some reason, you can do what we can’t. I was only able to get random words from Kallisto’s mind, images flung out that I was able to pick up periodically. That was more than most who tried, so I was thought to be our way in. But you,” he said, “you are special. And we all need you here, with us.”

  The blanket clutched in her hands, Miranda stared at him, breathing in his smell, tasting his skin even from here. “How can I?” she asked finally. “Why am I suddenly able to read Kallisto’s mind—everyone’s mind—and travel through matter?”

  She waited for his answer, seeing his eyes on her, still and constant.

  “It’s not suddenly, Miranda,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about your poetry. In a way, all the empathy and thought and energy you put into words is the same as concentrating on matter. It’s the same as listening to someone’s thoughts. Of course, most Moyenne poets don’t make magic other than on paper, but it’s really the same process.”

  “But why now?” she asked.

  Sariel shrugged. “Sayblee said something to me after you left the table about your parents and the adoption, so it could be you were born Croyant. Maybe meeting me brought out something that you already had. Maybe my leaving made you find something in yourself that was always there just waiting. Your real life has been waiting for you all along.”

  He leaned forward abruptly, taking her wrists in his hands. “Please,” he began, his eyes intent on her and full of regret and longing. “Forgive me for what I’ve forgotten. I wouldn’t have let it happen unless I knew it was absolutely necessary. I might not remember the details, but somehow, I remember this, you, your skin.”

  As he had done the night he healed her ankle, he let the heat from his touch penetrate into her skin, her flesh, her bones. She felt her sore, aching wrists and hands heal, the skin knitting together, the muscles relaxing. Miranda closed her eyes, tears behind her lids now, knowing that he wasn’t lying or pretending. Letting herself slip into his mind, she saw his amazement earlier at her cries of recognition, his bewilderment, and later, his appreciative gaze on her hair, her body, her face. She saw how he enjoyed her words, her anger, her humor, her questions.

  She held his laughter in her mind, and then she felt him let her in further, past dinner, past the fight with Kallisto, back through the past three days. Circling his memory, she saw the places she should have been, a patch ripped out of a quilt, the strands repaired but the tear clear.

  Miranda circled and circled around the tear in his thoughts, testing it like she would a sore tooth with her tongue. There was the meeting where she’d first met him, Brennus and the others at the bar, but she never flew in, falling to the floor, causing uproar and anger. There was no argument. No ankle. No healing. No late night visits to Miranda’s apartment.

  The next days were ordinary until he received first one message and then another, but in this memory, he received one at home and another at a meeting, Brennus standing close beside him. In all of Sariel’s memories of the past weeks, there was nothing of her at all, but she felt where she had been, a lingering hope and happiness, a shadow of joy, an image of flight. And something else she herself couldn’t remember, an older memory, something dark and safe and comforting. He felt her when she was somewhere dark and fluid, and she stayed there for a moment, wondering what this memory was. Probably a dream he’d had when they held each other in her bed, the room dark, their bodies warm.

  Miranda began to pull away from his thoughts. Sariel hadn’t been lying, not at all, and she let herself relax in his thoughts, in his kind, warm self. Miranda had never been this close to anyone.

  Slowly, Miranda left his memories and felt the heat of his hand, his heart beating all the way to the tips of his fingers. He moved from the chair onto the bed, slipping a hand behind her neck and bringing her face to his.

  “Miranda means miracle,” he said, his voice near her ear.

  She tried to smile, but her lip was trembling. “I know.”

  “That you wouldn’t let your memories of me be taken is a miracle. That you needed to find me is a miracle. That you moved through matter alone to do so is a miracle. You, Miranda. You are a miracle, and I’m so sorry.” He kissed her once, twice, again, his lips soft and warm.

  Without knowing if she should—what if he disappeared again? What if he decided to pull her ideas from her mind? What if he forgot tonight? This minute? Now?—she pulled her hand from his and wrapped her arms around his neck, relieved and frightened at the same time. Here’s what she traveled through matter for. Here’s what she’d wanted. His tongue was on hers, his mouth warm and slightly sweet with toothpaste. Just like always, she thought. But be forgot always.

  I’ll remember later, I promise. Show me how it was, he thought.

  It was good, she thought back. It was wonderful. Except for how you liked to disappear and threaten me with mind vacuuming.

  I’m not going anywhere, he thought, and pulled her down on the bed, his hands on the sides of her face as he kissed her mouth, her cheeks, her neck.

  Miranda kissed him back, pressing her body against his, letting the tears fall, but not stopping, moving her hands under his shirt. He was so lean, so tight, and she wanted their skins together without clothes. Hearing her, he sat up and took off his shirt and pants and then pulled the nightgown that Sayblee had lent her up and off. The clothes on the floor, Sariel lay next to her, pulling the blanket over them.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said. “I know I already know that. But you should hear it again.”

  “Don’t forget it this time,” she said, kissing his chest, running her fingers over his tiny taut nipples. And then she let her hand travel down his smooth stomach to his erection, so hard and ready for her, all his warmth concentrated in that one wonderful part. She squeezed him tightly in her hand. “Or else.”

  She slowly moved her hand up and down, watching him react. Memory isn’t only in the mind, she thought. The body remembers, too.

  He breathed in, swallowed hard, and looked at her, his e
yes deep flicks of fire in the darkness.

  “I know that. But I won’t forget you again. I promise.” Sariel moved on top of her, his body between her legs. He entered her easily, and he moaned, dipping his head to her shoulder, thinking, I do remember this. I do.

  Closing her eyes, wrapping her arms around him, she moved with him, letting herself forget her anger, her fear, her confusion. Miranda heard his thoughts, his gratitude for her forgiveness, his need to know more of what they’d had together. And then she was riding his passion, his desire. Both of them moved together in thought and body. All that mattered in this room, in this house, in this city was their two bodies, the way the heat built up between them, his breath, her breath, the most magic thing in the world the way they moved together.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Miranda stood in front of Sariel, her eyes closed, her hands pressed to her sides. The two of them were in the backyard of the house, the afternoon air chill and full of mist. The rest of the group had trained in the morning, and now Nala, Lutalo, Baris, Mazi, and Sayblee were following up on the information Phaedrus had passed to them the night before. Without a doubt, Rufus and Felix weren’t studying the schematics of the Fortress Kendall but watching Sariel and Miranda from an upstairs window instead. Sariel couldn’t see them, but he could feel them lurking just on the fringes of his thoughts. If he weren’t busy trying to teach Miranda, he’d think up something that would scare them away. Or he’d just go inside and shame them into leaving him alone. But he had to focus on Miranda. As it was, he wasn’t making much headway with her.

  “You’re not in,” Sariel said, feeling her mind trying to find an entrance into his, tendrils of her irritated thought poking around the barrier he’d put up.

  She opened her eyes and frowned. “Well, it’s not like I’ve taken classes on this before. I didn’t have the advantage of learning all this stuff at school. I was busy dissecting frogs and correcting dangling modifiers.”

  “What?” Sariel said, loving how she looked when she was angry, her eyes full of fire. “What are you talking about?”