He wrote it all down, penning yards of scrolls with every detail he could recall, terrified that it would slip away as easily as it had returned. He’d review it each night, spending longer and longer reading through the rapidly growing document to cement the memories. That’s how he realized something was wrong.
“I remember meeting Rikard,” he told Ghantal as they sat together after returning from the masons’ hall. “Every detail. His pride. His terrible attitude. But yesterday I wrote down that he attacked a human. A female. Now that memory is gone.” He pushed the scroll into her hands. “Look. It’s right there. But it’s not in my head anymore.”
His mother’s wings rustled. “Memory is strange. The mind-masons warned us your recovery might not be linear. Memories might fade in and out as your mind walls shift.”
“No.” He stood and paced around the table, agitation building. “It’s not fading. It’s being walled up. Every time I make progress on my own and start remembering something important, it disappears after a session with the masons.”
She sighed heavily. “They’re trying to help you.”
“Are they?” He stopped pacing to fix her with a stare. “The memories I keep are all benign. Military exercises. Public appearances. Childhood. But anything about the war. About mymate.” He gestured toward his nest. “Those walls aren’t staying down. They’re being rebuilt and reinforced.”
Ghantal’s expression was careful. “I’m sure the masons know what they’re doing. The moths say—”
“Spare me your moths! I have no doubt that whatever the masons are doing is with intent. I just don’t trust that they truly wish me to recover all my memories.” A horrible thought occurred. “Does she not want me to remember? My mate…did she request to be hidden from me?”
“No! She wants you whole, Brandt. More than anything. Did I tell you that she is the one who makes the tonic for you?”
His mind spun. “She’s a mason?”
“No. Not exactly. The medicine helps, doesn’t it?”
He nodded. It made everything softer somehow, like viewing the world through honey-colored glass. It might not make his mind walls crumble, but it muted his frustration and helped him keep his temper. It made his wings hurt less. And it tasted good. The little shot of sweetness twice a day was welcome when he had to recall so many bitter truths.
Now that he knew his mate was responsible for the one treatment that seemed to work, he held even more suspicion that the masons were conspiring against him. “It’s the only thing that does.”
“Keep taking it, then. Make some excuse to skip the other treatments and see if it makes a difference.”
He could tell she thought it wouldn’t, but her plan was sensible. If he was right and the masons were making things worse, he’d have his answer. And if he was wrong and his progress stalled even more, he’d resume chipping at walls that wouldn’t budge. Anything to have a hope of finding the elusive golden thread and the mate at the other end of it. The one whose name he didn’t know. The one who could work miracles.
Whoever she was, he would do it for her.
Chapter 20
Brandt
The mason’s tools gleamed like weapons in the lantern light. Brandt watched Aalis approach, armed with them, and felt his jaw clench as she lined them neatly on a tray beside his perch on the eastern balcony.
“Not tonight.”
She paused, frowning. “You agreed to endure nightly treatments.”
“I agreed to visit nightly. I’m here.” He folded his wings tight against his back. “I’ll take my tonic. But no picking at my skull. I need a break.”
“You will stymie your progress,” she warned.
He snorted. “I fought for years to get here. What are a few more days?”
The mason’s tail lashed irritably. “I’ll have to report this to the Zenith. I could remand you to our custody and compel the procedure. Without continuous treatment, you risk—”
“Riskier for me to lose control,” he interrupted. “Riskier foryou, I mean. But by all means, you are welcome to try it and find out.”
He could see her weighing her options. She could have argued. Could have called for guards, had him restrained. But she seemed to accept that his partial compliance was a concession, so she made one of her own. Sighing deeply, she produced a bottle of the golden tonic from a cloak pocket, measuring it carefully before offering him the spoon.
“Half measures are unwise,” she chided as he swallowed it.
“So is war.” The medicine spread through him like candlelight, easing the dark pressure in his skull. “Yet here we are. Put that in your report.” He dove from the roost before she could respond.
In his eyrie, he found Ghantal anxiously stripping leaves from a sheaf of birch and walnut branches to replenish the terrarium where her moths bred and laid their eggs. She looked up from her task when he entered. “How was it?”
