by AnonYMous
Had the rebel leader come to save her? Or had someone who knew she wouldn’t recognize the real Driss come to play a trick on her? The guards enjoyed a good prank.
“You don’t know me?” he asked.
“I erased my memory.”
He flicked a quick glance at her chest, poorly covered by a threadbare linen shift, and then away. A blush stained his cheeks. “Not just your memory.”
Alma glanced down. No, not just her memory. She’d only seen herself in the mirror a few times since her capture, but except for being sallow, gaunt, and unhappy, she’d looked normal enough. She’d seen what she expected to see.
The surprise came when she peeked at the official transcript of one of her interrogations. The whole nightmarish ordeal boiled down to a bloodless exchange, every word neatly printed, signed at the bottom by the interrogator and the warden, dated at the top. The date had shocked her to the core.
“I lost seven years. The memories and . . .” She waved vaguely at her own figure. She’d lived to thirty. Then she’d cast a spell and returned herself, in mind and body, to the age of twenty-three. “It’s like I never lived them.”
“Word and wish,” Driss swore.
Hoph reached the top of the stairs just as the tumblers in the lock clicked. The silent giant guarding Driss seized Hoph, spun him into a chokehold, and squeezed until the guard went limp.
Driss yanked the cell door open and Alma darted out. Driss plucked the keys from Hoph’s belt as the giant tossed the guard inside, to land in a sprawl on the braided silk carpet. Then Driss re-locked the cell door. The whole encounter took less than a minute; Alma had never seen anything like it.
Driss twirled the keys around one finger. “Where’d the other guard go?”
The silent giant wiggled his fingers in response.
“All right.” Driss nodded, as though he’d gotten an answer and was satisfied by it. He jerked his thumb at the ceiling. “Up.”
Alma followed Driss through the hatch to the roof. The scent of the perfume trees was strong enough to give her a headache, but she breathed deep anyhow. The air tasted wetter, fresher, saltier.
Two of Ozias’s guards lay on their sides, trussed hand and foot, tightly gagged. Driss and the giant must have handled them on their way in—this was seeming more like a rescue, less like an elaborate trick.
She knew the view toward the beach like the back of her hand by now. The garden with its paths winding among the perfume trees lay dark, but lit lanterns framed the doors to the barracks clustered along the shore, glowed from the guard posts, and lined the footbridge to the mainland.
She’d never seen the view opposite, where a tall lighthouse overlooked a ridge of cliffs. It was a beautiful building, wide at the base and narrow at the peak, throwing a beam of eye-searing blue phosphorescence over the cliffs into the endless dark.
“Climb on my back,” said Driss.
“What?” Alma yelped.
“I mean . . .” He blushed again. “Unless you can climb down on your own?”
“I can’t.” She’d been trapped in a cage for a year. She hardly had enough muscle tone to lift a bowl of porridge, let alone her own body weight.
Driss dropped to one knee. “We thought you might need help.” He touched a leather strap hanging by his neck to draw her attention. He’d attached some sort of harness to his back. “We didn’t know what Ozias did to you . . .”
“Enough.” Alma slid her arms through the straps and locked them around his neck.
Driss stood quickly and Alma scrambled to hook her legs around his waist. He was wet—they must have swum here from the mainland—and warm from exertion.
Pretty awkward.
The giant, grinning broadly, made several suggestive hand gestures.
Driss snapped, “Oh, shut up,” before lowering himself over the side of the roof, clambering down via the iron bars bolted over the large picture windows.
Driss had a nice, narrow waist. Broad shoulders. And the soaking cotton of his shirt perfectly outlined the bunch and strain of lean muscles.
The giant followed behind, nimble for a man of his size.
Driss dropped into a crouch and let her slide onto the soft grass. The giant made more of his gestures, which won yet another scathing look from his companion.
“Why doesn’t he talk?” Alma asked.
The giant opened his mouth wide and leaned forward, showing her the stump of his tongue.
Alma clapped both hands over her mouth to stifle a startled squeak.
“That’s Ben,” said Driss. “Ignore him while you can.”
Ben moved his hands insistently.
Driss sighed. “He’s saying that you used to be friends.”
Alma blinked. “Oh.”
“Keep moving.” Driss hustled her across the grass to the cliffs, where they’d staked a rope into the ground. It trailed over the ledge, a lifeline to freedom she could never have descended on her own.
“Use the harness again,” Driss offered. “I can carry you.”
Alma considered. It wasn’t a long drop, but it would kill her just as dead as one twice the size. “I think I’ll take you up on that offer. Thanks.”
Ben wagged his eyebrows.
Alma rolled her eyes as she re-attached herself to Driss. “Funny guy, huh?”
Ben grinned.
Driss swung them over the edge of the cliff, swiveling to face the rock. He dropped them down in stomach-lurching jumps, feeding the rope through the thick leather of his gloves before swinging to a halt inches over the heaving sea.
“Ladies first,” he said, all gallantry.
The man had to be crazy.
Alma untangled herself from the harness. Her stomach flipped as she let go, but she hit the water with a gentle splash. The ocean in these southern climes ran hot, a salty broth not much cooler than the night air. She dunked her head to slick back her hair, momentarily weightless, buoyant, enclosed in a deep, peaceful silence.
Then she crested the surface, sucked in a deep breath, and began paddling in the direction of Driss’s outflung arm, his finger pointed toward the coast.
Lanterns bobbed up to the cliffs, the soldiers lifting them dark silhouettes against the night sky.
“Get to the top of that lighthouse,” shouted one. “Turn the light to sweep the shore. I want dogs over here. Now!”
Salt stung Alma’s eyes and she gulped down saltwater every time she gasped for air, but she swept her arms through the chop, paddled her legs doggedly. Her muscles shook, threatening to quit on her.
A musket boomed, flashing red in the darkness.
“Almost there,” Driss promised. “Just a little farther.”
Alma forced herself to keep swimming. She had no sense of progress, just increasing exhaustion. Another musket blast sounded, impossibly close. Alma flailed in terror and raked her toes through a bed of sand.
Land.
She’d escaped the Safe House.
They’d arrived at a small, half-moon shaped beach, ringed by cliffs on all sides. Alma stumbled onto shore and wrung her shift dry, looking for—and finding—another rope ladder.
“You guys really came prepared.” She scratched at her throat. She’d gotten far enough away from the perfume trees to escape their dampening effect, and her magic itched as it returned.
Driss shot her a frustrated look. “We’ve done nothing but plan this escape for months.”
They climbed the ladder one at a time and sandwiched her in the middle. Alma managed it, though her arms were noodles by the time Driss clasped her wrists and pulled her up.
From her new vantage point, she could see the whole coast. A range of low mountains shouldered into the sea, stretching to the horizon in either direction. Guardhouses perched atop the rounded peaks glowed gold, though their lights couldn’t penetrate into the shadowy valleys between.
Without the magical influence that kept the Safe House lush and green year-round, the landscape was dry, sun-baked, and harsh.
A scouting party crossed the footbridge that connected the Safe House to the mainland carrying lanterns. Two soldiers and a scent hound, and there’d be more soon.
“Now what?” Alma asked.
“We run,” said Driss.
“That’s it?” Alma’s heart sank. “The dogs will find us.”
“We thought we’d have more time before they started their pursuit,” said Driss. “Ben? Any ideas?”
The giant signed, gestures curt.
“We’re not splitting up,” snapped Driss. “That’s how we got into this mess.”
It was?
Ben’s gestures grew increasingly agitated. Driss tightened his mouth, obviously unwilling to reply in front of her—unwilling to let her know what the giant might be saying.
“I’m not going back there,” said Alma. “Not alive, anyhow.”
Driss started. “Alma—”
Alma interrupted. “Enough talking. Which way?”
Chapter 2
Driss broke into a run, towing her behind him. They plunged into the dip between two rounded hills. Driss and Ben tackled the rough terrain like a pair of gazelles, quick and sure-footed.
Alma, on the other hand, stumbled and panted, bloodied her bare feet on sharp rocks, and scratched her shins on the thorned bushes that thrived in the harsh climate.
Driss and Ben slowed their pace to match hers. They gained altitude steadily as they pressed deeper into the mountains, keeping well clear of the exposed summits. Soon they were only catching brief glimpses of the ocean.
One of Ozias’s soldiers sprinted into view, pulling hard on the leash of a great black hound. The animal, nose to the ground, strained to lunge ahead.
“He found us!” cried Alma, loud enough for the soldier to hear.
The soldier halted, searching the landscape ahead and raising his musket as he spotted Alma and her rescuers.
“You’ve come hunting with your hound!” she shouted, threading power through her words. The secret to spelling a living creature—and magic only worked on living creatures, so, really, the whole secret in a nutshell—was working with, rather than against, their desires. Target a strong emotion and they were powerless to twist the spell or deflect it. “You hunt as one!”
The soldier dropped onto his knees, groaning.
“Hunt as a hound!” Alma insisted. “Become a hound!”
The soldier fell forward onto hands that transformed before their eyes into paws, releasing the leash. He shrank inside his clothes, face elongating into a wet-nosed muzzle coated in downy fur.
Exhaustion nearly knocked Alma flat. She would have swooned if Driss hadn’t slung an arm around her waist, propping her up against his own steady strength.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured.
The trained scent-hound, unrestrained, charged at them. Ben snatched up a rock and threw it, hitting the animal hard on the flank. It whimpered and retreated to its former master, who struggled to free himself from his uniform.
Ben gestured angrily. Alma couldn’t understand his precise meaning, but he obviously didn’t think her spell had significantly improved their situation. Then he scooped up another rock and positioned himself between them and the hounds.
Driss, still supporting her, urged her to keep walking. She obliged, but they were moving at a near crawl now. She hadn’t always been so weak, laid low by a single spell. Fucking prison.
A second soldier caught up to them, hound pacing alertly at his side. Alma groaned.
“They’ll form up soon.” Driss let her go and pulled a knife from a sheath at his hip. “There were twenty-four soldiers stationed at the Safe House.”
The soldier took in the scene—giant Ben armed with rocks, two snarling hounds, one with its leash dangling loose. Alma in her soaked smock, too weak to hold herself upright.
The soldier began to back away.
“Go on, run!” Alma yelled at him. “Run, you coward!”
The soldier continued his retreat, but the hound at his side fell into a defensive crouch. The two animals who’d dogged Alma and her rescuers turned their graceful muzzles to the new arrival, noses lifted. They could scent his fear.
“Go on!” Alma taunted, throwing the last of her energy into the spell. “You are prey! Act like prey!”
The transformation began as the human soldier spun on his heel. He fell, kicking and twisting. Horns tore the armor of his uniform from the inside. Cloven hooves attached to spindly legs ripped the rest away, and soon the soldier had risen in the form of a gazelle.
The hound with its leash trailing on the ground, an animal at heart and freed from the influence of its human master, let out a low warning growl.
The gazelle took a single wobbly step; the soldier couldn’t balance himself in his new body. The hound at his side yelped, high and plaintive, while the other two began a slow advance. Spurred on by fear, the gazelle tried an unstable trot and then, recklessly, it broke into a run.
All three hounds gave chase. In seconds, they’d disappeared into the mountains.
Ben dropped his rock, his expression a mix of astonishment and glee.
“Did you plan that?” Driss threw his arm back around her waist. He sounded shaken.
“Not really,” said Alma. “A rigid plan—”
“Breaks under pressure,” Driss finished.
Alma gaped.
“You said it almost every day for years.”
Ben signed to them.
“He says we’re wasting the distraction,” Driss said. “And he’s right.”
They trudged on into the night. Alma tried not to complain, pressing the heel of her palm into her side in a futile attempt to ease the growing cramp. She’d never felt so pathetic in her life.
Ben circled behind her, crouched low, and then ran at her. She squealed as he butted his head between her legs, shoulders colliding with the backs of her knees, and then rose to his full height, his huge meaty hands braceleting her ankles.
Alma, perched on his shoulders, laughed nervously.
Driss turned to jog backwards. “How are you feeling?”
Alma shrugged.
“That trick with the gazelle will buy us time, but we can’t afford to stop yet.” He grinned, teeth flashing white in the darkness. “Thanks for saving the day.”
“Thanks for the rescue,” she said.
“I’m sorry it took us so long.”
“I can’t complain about your timing.” Alma chuckled. “I wasn’t expecting anyone at all.”
“Well, you’re safe now.” His grin widened. “And you’ll be back to your old self in no time.”
Chapter 3
They crested the pass a few hours later. Soon after they reached a stream, a bare trickle of water flowing inland instead of seaward. A sure sign that they’d crossed the coastal watershed.
The discovery pleased Driss and Ben. They followed the meandering waterway all the way to a small, clear pool where four horses drowsed and several bulging saddlebags leaned against a low boulder.
“Time to make camp,” said Driss. “Though we should move away from the spring. It’ll draw any soldiers in the area.”
Alma helped carry the saddlebags to a sheltered clearing a few minutes’ walk away from the pool. They collected the horses on a second trip and Driss trailed behind the animals, whisking away signs of their passage with a makeshift rake.
Ben extracted three bedrolls from the saddlebags. He handed one to Alma and one to Driss. Since no tents appeared to be forthcoming, Alma unrolled hers on the ground. It had a thick wool exterior and down cushioning on the inside, double stitching on all the seams. Awfully luxurious for something that saw most of its use outdoors, exposed to the elements.
Driss unwrapped a loaf of bread and began hacking at it with his knife, cutting rough, uneven slices. He set these aside and attacked a large hunk of cheese, with neater results, then layered a slice of cheese between two pieces of bread and handed one to her.
“So.” He returned t
o the loaf of bread. “How far back does the memory loss go, exactly?”
“About seven years.” Alma took a bite. The cheese was good, rich and sharp, but the bread had gone hard. She was hungry enough not to care. “As best as I can tell.”
Driss paused, the blood draining from his cheeks. “So the whole time you knew me?”
Alma shrugged. “When did I meet you?”
“Seven years ago.”
Alma shivered. “Yeah, that’s probably where it starts.”
“You look . . . a lot like you did when we first met,” Driss admitted. “Do you remember casting the spell?”
Alma tensed. She didn’t. She had been wondering, for a year now, what she’d been thinking. What she’d intended and, more importantly, what had gone wrong.
Alma shot back, “Do you?”
“I didn’t see it happen.” Driss returned to his sandwiches. “It was the night of the coup—”
“What coup are you talking about?”
“Oh.” Driss took a deep breath. “I guess I should start at the beginning. You remember your time in the capital?”
“I told you about that?”
Driss nodded.
“Really?”
“Really.”
Alma thought about that for a minute. “Maybe I lied.”
“About what? Living on the streets? Being taken in by a magician who taught you to run rigged carnival games? Watching him die?”
Oh. Alma finished her sandwich. “I guess not.”
Driss handed the cheese sandwich to Ben, who’d just finished settling the horses for the night, and started on a third. “So you remember enough that I don’t need to explain why you’d want to overthrow Ozias.”
“That part’s easy to believe.”
“That’s what the rebellion was about. We worked on the coup for more than a year. We obtained architectural sketches of a villa where he would overnight during a tour of the provinces, we spied on his party as it arrived, we had more backup plans than we could count . . . but we were betrayed. He knew we were coming and he was ready for us. He would have had you, me . . . a half dozen of our top people, and they—we—could have given him everything. All of our informants, all of our supporters, all of our strongholds and camps. A rebellion it took us years to build squashed in a night. That’s when you offered to lead Ozias’s troops away. Distract them for long enough that the rest of us could make an escape.”