Finally her eyes return to my face. She blinks once. “You’re fae.”
The familiarity of the accusation brings a ghost of a smile to my lips. “I am not.”
She points a trembling finger. “Your . . . your ears. They’re pointed. Like a fae.”
Even as she speaks, a sound disturbs the air, picked up by my quick hearing: approaching feet, making their way through the outer garden. Her father and guards, just as she warned. Ilsevel’s threat of my imminent skewering upon lance blades was not idle.
I take another step toward her. She retreats three paces, backing up against the lip of the large water basin, which dominates the center of this private courtyard. I stop again, uncertain what to say or try. Why does she not remember me? It would be easier if she saw again the man who let her down, the man who dealt hersuch an unforgiveable wound. Instead she looks at me as though I am a complete stranger.
There’s something afoot here. Magic—I sense it, like the stink of rot lingering in walls or under floorboards. Unseen but unmistakable, a hovering presence in the atmosphere. Dark magic ofnecroliphonworking, unless I miss my guess. But something else as well, some other influence, not so putrid, but powerful in its own right. Just discernable beneath that denser spell.
“Have they ensorcelled you?” I ask, more of myself than of her, though I speak the words out loud. “Have they put a block on your memory?”
Her eyes widen. “Youknowabout that?”
Apparently I’ve struck close to the mark. “I can sense a variety of magics surrounding you, Princess. One of them is a spell to . . .” I hesitate, not liking to speak the truth out loud “. . . to sustain your life against that gut wound.”
She clutches her midriff, as though to keep guts from spilling out then and there, though there is no sign of blood through the white softness of her gown. She stares at me, unspeaking, her breath short and tight.
I extend both hands in a slow, pleading gesture. “They’ve blocked your memories of how you were dealt that blow. Haven’t they? They’ve blocked your memories of . . . of me.”
“You?”She shakes her head. The beading of her veil makes heavy rustling noises as it shifts across her shoulders. “No. No, Idon’t know you. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“But you are no stranger to me, Ilsevel. I know you intimately. Better, perhaps, than you know yourself.”
Something in my words seems to reach her. I can’t quite define it, but the hardness in her gaze softens slightly, even just for a breath. She’s resistant, though; and how can I blame her? In her place, I would see only a madman making bizarre and impossible claims. But my words, my tone, the aura of my being, find infinitesimal chinks in her armor and slip through, calling to the reality she has lived but no longer recalls. It’s still there inside her—everything we once shared, carved deep into her soul.
She narrows her eyes at me. “You say you know me?” Her voice is cold. “All right then. Prove it.”
“What?”
“If you know me so well, prove it. Tell me something about myself. Something a stranger couldn’t know.”
I hesitate. What can I possibly say? The things I know best are things she could not possibly believe. I know the determination with which she took up practice of thevaritarblade, resolved to ride with me into battle, no matter how hopeless the endeavor. I know the look in her eyes when she faces down a foe far beyond her skill and prowess, her refusal to back down, even when utterly overwhelmed. I know the timbre of her laugh when she rides like the wind on the back of a burning licorneir, the brilliance of her soul ignited.
I know the sound of her voice when it blends with my own inthe triumphant harmony of pure ecstasy.
But none of these are memories we share. Not anymore. None will convince her of the truth. I must go further back, back into places which still exist for her, unhidden by the spell-block.
Casting about me, I search for inspiration. My gaze lands on the statue rising from the water basin—an erotic sculpture carved in marble, beautifully crafted. It calls to mind a quiet moment spent with my wife as we lay together under the stars of Cruor.
“You had a friend. Lyria was her name,” I say, catching her eye once more. “When you were nine years of age, you and she went searching for the old dungeons of this very castle, and that search brought you here, to this courtyard. You found a secret stairway behind a wall of ivy, which led down into a strange gallery filled with stone carvings of the gods. You wanted to explore, but thought it best to come back with string to mark your way; otherwise, you feared being lost in the labyrinth. When you returned to this courtyard, however, you never found the entrance again, no matter how hard you searched.”
Her face shifts slowly—a stone-hard mask at first, unwilling to reveal her thoughts. But as I continue speaking, the mask shifts, revealing first shock then confusion. When I pause at last, she lets out a short huff of breath. “How . . . how could you possibly know any of that?” she whispers. “Lyria and I vowed, never to speak of it.” Her eyes flash then, and her lips pull back in a snarl. “You’ve been talking to her. To Lyria.”
I shake my head. “You are the one who told me, Ilsevel, from your own sweet lips. I asked you one night to share with me your favorite childhood memory. This was the story you told me then.”
She turns her head to one side, incredulous. “Some childhood I had, if that’s the best I could come up with.” Then her brow tightens. “Why would you ask me to tell you something so . . . idiotic? Why should you care?”
“Because”—my voice is rough with pain, with the struggle to keep my emotions in check—“because I wanted to know everything about you. Everything, even the smallest detail. Your hopes, your dreams, your best memories and your worst.”
“You’re insane.”
A short laugh rumbles in my throat. “Perhaps. They do say that love and lunacy walk hand-in-hand.”
“Love?” She scoffs. “You do not love me.”
Those words might as well be a dagger, plunged into my heart and twisted.
