Mother.The word bounced off his mind walls, finding no purchase. She could be anyone.
“Prove it.”
“What?” Her wings flared in shock.
“Prove you’re my mother.” He studied her face, searching for something familiar. “Tell me something only she would know.”
“You were born during a thunderstorm. You tried to fly before you could walk. Your first words were—”
“All things I can’t remember and no one else can verify.” Frustration clawed up his spine. “Give me real proof.”
Ghantal—if that was her name—moved closer. “You have a scar on your left wing, near the third joint. From when you were just a hatchling and tried to capture a raven as a pet. It was nearly your size.”
He twitched his wing forward to look. There it was, a pale line on the third joint. But that proved nothing. She could have seen it and made up a story. He shrugged his wing back into place and stared out at the city once more.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I don’t know what to believe.” The admission scraped out of him. “My mind is choked with walls. I can’t find anything.” He pressed his palms against the base of his horns where pressure was building.
She nodded. “The masons say it’s normal. That you built too many during the war, but they’ll probably crumble naturally, if you give them enough time. They told me to have patience, and my son will come back to me.”
“They say a lot of things, but none of them are whole truths.” His laugh was bitter. “They won’t tell me if we’re winning or losing the war.”
“The war is over.”
“That doesn’t answer the question, does it? They won’t tell me who died. Won’t tell me why I feel like—” He stopped, jaw clenched, hardly able to put it into words.
“Like what?”
Like he was missing something. Something more than just the words for it. He felt like his heart had been carved out and a stone set in its place.
“Tell me about before,” he said instead. “About who I was.”
“You were a guard and then a commander in the Sixth Watch. The youngest ever promoted. You were proud, determined. Loyal.” She sounded wistful. “You were happy.”
“Happy.” The word might have been in the goblins’ tongue for all the meaning it held. “What made me happy?”
She hesitated too long. “Your position. Your achievements.”
Lies.Or at least not the whole truth. He could smell it on her, that particular scent of withheld information that he’d learned to recognize in the masons. His claws scraped against stone as he drew away from her.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing. I’m just trying to help you remember who you are—”
Lies.The pressure in his skull spiked. But he could tell she was being earnest. She thought she was doing him good. Whatever she omitted, it was because she thought she was protecting his delicate mind.
“Stop.”
“Stop what? What did I do?”
“Stophelping. All I need is honesty. How can I put together the broken pieces of my mind if no one will tell me the ones that are missing?”
“You’re not broken.” She reached for him, and he jerked back so violently he nearly fell from the roost.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Brandt, please! I’m your mother.”
