Calor, p.9
Calor, page 9
“Are you quite sure you should be touching her, my lord?” Bas shifted nervously, switching the lantern to his other hand as he glared at Miss Winter. Her glove trailed from one of his coat pockets like a snake skin.
“She’s unconscious,” Dorian replied, noticing that the mem’s lips were slowly turning blue. “Come. We must get her out of this wind.”
They followed him out of the alley and down the street toward the respectable half of the city. Bear, never ruffled by anything more catastrophic than burned toast first thing in the morning, kept his crossbow loaded but hidden beneath his cloak, while Bas trotted along at a more sober pace. No one was about, thanks to the ghastly weather. Perfect conditions for a kidnapping, though without the drug her captors had used on her, Miss Winter would have been better positioned to defend herself.
The previous night, for one heady moment, he had thought his relief in sight. That she would come with him to find the Reliquary. He’d seen the yearning in her eyes. She had wanted to—or at least, wanted to escape Nulla and her master. And for some reason, even before she’d known he was also an alter, she’d trusted him implicitly. Had she delved so far into his mind? What had she seen there while he’d been distracted? Not enough, it would seem, to discern the nature of his gift. Perhaps his walls were better fortified than he’d thought.
But she’d declined his offer. Perhaps there was a young man tethering her to Nulla, a sweetheart she couldn’t leave behind. Or she truly feared the reach of her master. Dorian didn’t believe the spiel she’d given him about love. She’d probably seen Lida and Emmy’s bodies . . . Dorian himself bleeding out on the ground. He could never keep those images behind his mental walls. After viewing all that, how could she not want to rid him of his torturous recollections?
“Shall I carry her for you, my lord?” Bear asked, coming up beside him.
Dorian shook his head. “She isn’t heavy. And besides, we’re nearly there.” Still, he took the opportunity to redistribute her weight, taking care not to jostle her injured arm. Her head fell limply against his shoulder, the blunted ends of her short hair tickling his bearded chin. As if by unspoken agreement, Bear moved ahead of him as they approached the inn, shielding them from passersby, while Bas produced a cloak and draped it over the lass. Best onlookers not know a former thane of Maera carried an unconscious and powerful mem to his rooms.
But if they wanted to speculate about her presence in his personal chambers, they could do so to their hearts’ content. Rumors in the cities and towns of the no-man’s-land tended to fester between the walls of the seam, but rarely spread to other places. Hence the appeal of this place for many visiting lords with a pressing desire for anonymity.
Thankfully, the innkeeper’s wife was the only one who saw them enter the back stairs, and she made no comment about the young woman slumped in his arms. Dorian carried the mem up two flights of stairs and down the corridor to the door at the end. Bear opened it, and Dorian crossed over the threshold and placed her carefully on the bed. Jewel was nowhere in sight.
Dorian blew into his cold hands and glanced around. They’d obviously prepared this room for a lord of Memosine. There was a large fireplace to keep out the winter chill, lit some hours before, for the room was pleasantly warm. The heavy tapestries and thick rugs were spun from an earthy palette of browns, greens, oranges, and even muted purples, and in the center of the room stood the four-poster bed with curtains that could be pulled shut, topped with a covering of brown fur. There were few windows, since there was little light to be had anyway, and the only ones were no wider than a heavily squinted eye, deeply recessed, and crisscrossed with lead—no use losing precious heat to the elements. As it was, the room was probably too warm for Jewel’s liking.
After depositing Miss Winter’s satchel and cap on the table and leaning Dorian’s quarterstaff against the wall, Bear stationed himself beside the locked door, still holding his loaded crossbow, while Bas moved to stand near the bed.
“How long will she sleep?”
Dorian removed his cloak and sat beside her. “Hopefully long enough for me to do this.” He reached for her bare arm, the one she’d held gingerly to herself, and carefully felt along the length of the limb. She didn’t stir.
“Nothing broken, thankfully. Possibly sprained, though.” Remembering how she’d disliked him touching her, he took the glove Bas handed him and slipped it back on.
Bas flexed his bloodied fingers. “She’s younger than I thought she’d be, based on her reputation.”
“Aye, still a girl, in some respects. But she’s a fair bit stronger than she looks. Plucky, too.”
Her lips still had a bluish tinge to them, possibly because her cloak was damp from when she’d fallen. With Bas’s help, he removed it, pausing when he saw the small knife strapped to her thigh over her leggings.
“My lord,” Bear said from over his shoulder, having approached the bed, “best you divest her of that, too.”
“Nay.” Dorian ignored the concerned glance his guards exchanged, remembering how slight she’d felt in his hands. So long as she didn’t touch him, or any of them, she was no different than an ordinary woman. “Let her keep the blade.”
“You trust her?”
He looked down at the mem. Remembered the compassion in her eyes as they conversed in her master’s tavern. The wistfulness in her voice. Barely out of her girlhood, she was only a tool wielded by powerful men. Unconscious, she looked . . . almost like Emmy.
Dorian shook his head to clear the thought, then glanced up. Seeing his men had taken the gesture as his answer, he quickly said, “Aye, I trust her well enough. But keep your wits about you.”
She stirred, then, though her eyes remained shut.
“Miss Winter?”
“Sephone,” she managed, then added, “Miss Winter sounds like some kind of wicked forest sprite.” She opened her eyes, balking when she saw the three men standing beside the bed. She planted her hands beside her to sit up and winced at the silent protest of her sprained wrist. Drawing the hand to her chest, she eyed her discarded cloak.
“Easy,” Dorian said, with the same tone he would use for a startled horse. “We mean you no harm. This is the safe place I spoke about.”
“Lord Guerin’s manor house?” Her wide eyes sampled the room. With her white-blond hair sticking out in every direction, she looked exactly as he imagined a winter sprite might.
“Nay, an inn. More neutral territory.” Dorian gestured to the guards behind him, clearing his throat so they would step back a pace. They took the hint. “This is Bear and that’s Bas. My two most trusted bodyguards. You have naught to fear from them.”
Her eyes flickered, and he thought he could imagine what she was thinking. Were they recent acquisitions, or had they been hired before his family’s murder? The familiar pain speared his heart. If only the brothers had been present that terrible day instead of away on a futile errand. Though it had been his own command which sent them away, Dorian knew they shared in his guilt.
“How did you know I was in trouble, my lord?”
Dorian leaned back. Something about this girl unstoppered the memories he’d so carefully repressed. “I was on my way to your master’s tavern when I saw you. I followed you, hoping to talk to you again . . . to perhaps persuade you . . . but before I could reach you, you were attacked. My men and I came as quickly as we could.”
He watched her eyes stray to Bear. As frightening as his beastly namesake in ordinary daylight, how must he appear to her now? Still, to her credit, she showed no fear of the tawny-haired giant.
“Why would Traemore want to steal you, Miss Winter?”
Brown eyes flicked back to him and narrowed.
“Sephone.”
“Sephone,” he repeated. So long as she didn’t ask to call him Dorian. If she agreed to help him, there would be familiarity enough between them.
She dampened her lips. “Why do you believe it was Traemore?”
“I recognized the men from Lord Guerin’s household, which, as you are likely aware, is now run entirely by Traemore. And I am familiar with the ambitions of men of his ilk.”
She nodded slowly. “He has spoken to me twice now about securing my . . . services. On a more permanent basis.”
“And you declined?”
“Aye. Cutter would never part with me willingly.”
“So, he thought to kidnap you.” Dorian frowned. “Even a man of Traemore’s station could not hide you forever. Not in this city. Perhaps he was going to take you elsewhere.”
“Perhaps. But you said that not all his men were dead, my lord. He’ll know you helped me.”
Dorian shook his head. “It was dark. And my men and I were disguised. Even so, we will leave at dawn, just in case word reaches Traemore that we are still in the city.”
Her eyes moved to the door. Was she homesick already? Perhaps this was another chance—his final chance.
“Bas.” The man snapped to attention. “Go find Jewel, would you? Tell the lady I require her presence. Bear, would you please wait outside?”
Bas huffed, but both brothers obeyed his bidding. When he returned his gaze to the mem, she was rubbing her forehead. “My thoughts are so strange.”
“Strange?”
She nodded, her eyes a little glazed. “What is your gift?”
“My gift? Perhaps it is the drug that affects you.”
“Nay, it was the same last night. I feel . . . different around you, my lord. Not myself.” She gave her head a shake. “I wouldn’t have said that normally.”
His mouth quirked. “You are not the first woman to stand in awe of the aristocracy.”
She ignored his snark. “I have had more than enough to do with the aristocracy, I assure you. Yet for some reason, I can’t help but speak my mind to you. Why, I wonder? I’m not normally so—”
“—courageous?” he finished for her.
“Bold.” She met his grin with a frown.
“Perhaps it’s because I’m a foreigner. The accent throws you off, makes you less concerned about manners.”
“I have met lords aplenty from your country,” she replied firmly, “and none of them made me feel like I was drunk.”
“Drunk?” He straightened, surprised. Perhaps she was more affected by his gift than most. Because she was a mem? Seeing she was nearly overcome, and not wanting her to say something she later regretted, he retreated toward the hearth and bid the gift to keep out of his words. Even if he unconsciously failed to curtail his power, the effects of it would probably fade in time—it certainly had for Bas and Bear, who contradicted him as often as they obeyed—but in the meantime, he wanted her to think clearly. To decide her future for herself, out from under the influence of his gift.
The easing of her muscles was visible even from his new vantage point across the room. He guessed she was ordinarily a brave woman, for despite the withdrawal of his gift, she continued to speak her mind.
“If you won’t tell me your primary gift, Lord Adamo, might you share your secondary one?”
Dorian planted a hand above the mantlepiece and leaned into it. “Would an honest answer compel you to share yours?”
“I don’t have one.”
“You don’t have a secondary gift?”
“Nay.” Her mouth tipped ruefully. “Perhaps that’s why my primary gift is as strong as it is.” He watched her as she rose to her feet and came toward the fire. She must have had some inkling that physical proximity was involved in his gift, for she was careful to keep her distance from him.
“That is . . . most unusual.”
Instead of a reply, she bobbed a slight curtsey. “I thank you for your assistance, Lord Adamo, but I must be getting home.”
“Home?”
“Back,” she amended.
“At the risk of sounding like Traemore—and this is no kidnapping, I assure you—can I not convince you to stay?”
She hesitated. On an impulse, he held out his bare hand to her. Certainly not a romantic declaration—whatever the historical significance of the gesture—but something almost equally intimate, given her gift. Bas would yelp if he saw him.
“Look into my mind,” he urged. “See the truth of it.”
The mem remained where she was. “You and I have opposite problems, Lord Adamo. You wish to forget your past. I would do anything to know more about mine.”
Was that his opening? Desperation surged through him more strongly than the River Memosine in full flood. Months of looking for a suitable mem, and he had never come across one as powerful as her. Or one so painfully honest. He had known, instinctively, that he could not trust the others, but he could trust her. He was certain of it.
“We can fell both problems with one blow, Miss Winter. Help me find the Reliquary, and you may use its power to look into your past. To see what the veil of human forgetfulness has hidden.”
She stood so still, he feared she’d frozen solid within.
“I swear I’m telling the truth. Even so, look into my mind and see it for yourself, though I warn you not to venture deeper than you must. Shadows lurk in the dark places.”
An unexpected tear hovered at the corner of her eye. He already knew she had too much pride to let it fall.
“The shadows stalk you too, do they not, Miss Win—Sephone?” He stepped closer, trying not to let his gift spill into his words. Clarity of mind aside, it might have the unintended effect of driving her away. “You know what it is to feel pain . . . terrible pain without any hope of a cure, without hope of anything beyond a temporary cessation of agony. For yourself, you might not see the value of forgetting a history. But perhaps you would see the value of setting aside the torments of those whose darkness you needlessly bear.”
Her eyes flickered, and he knew he’d guessed correctly. She was not as serene as she looked.
“Look into my mind,” Dorian repeated, extending his hand again. “Probe everything I know about the Reliquary. Witness the deaths of my wife and daughter—however much of it you can stomach. Know the truth of my intentions.”
Still, she hesitated. “You can feel me in your mind, Lord Adamo.”
“I built a wall deep within my memories long ago. I will know when you are about to breach it, Sephone. Do not fear, I will keep you out of the places you cannot go.”
“It may hurt.”
He didn’t flinch. “It always hurts. But you can’t do any more damage than has already been done.”
One final weapon remained in his arsenal.
“You’ve never stepped out of Nulla, have you, Sephone? At the very least, do you not want to see a little bit of the world?”
Her indecision evaporated. Crossing the distance between them, she slipped the glove from her uninjured arm and curled her cold fingers around his.
I probed gently, only as deep as I had to, anxious not to invite the onslaught of carnage I’d encountered before—the horrific sight of mangled bodies I was sure never strayed far from Lord Adamo’s conscious thought. Though he was still young, his memories were almost as bloody as Lord Guerin’s. I guessed the most troubling ones were hidden behind the walls he’d spoken of previously—the battlements I could now see lurking beyond a thick curtain of mist.
As before, I encountered nothing nefarious in his mind. At least, none of the images I’d come to expect from those who frequented Cutter’s tavern. I was in no danger from him. Even if I hadn’t known for certain that he wasn’t the womanizing sort, Lord Adamo thought me unremarkable, a fact which was clear from the dull luster surrounding his mental image of me and other women he’d known compared to the golden brilliance limning the memory of his beautiful wife. He had long loved her, not straying from the pursuit of the woman even after she became his wife.
He was still in love with her.
Of course, he would likely be unaware he shared such a confidence. Few knew that while mems couldn’t read thoughts, thoughts were often easily deduced. Men were far slower than women to guard their secrets, even once they understood the delicate workings of my gift, and most lords saw me only as a slave.
But there was none of that within Lord Adamo. At one touch of his mind, I felt I knew him. He was a man of honor and chivalry, brought low by circumstance. A lord of uncommon loyalty who inspired the same quality in others, whether they were subject or peer. He would hold me at a distance, but he didn’t see me as less. It was just as I remembered.
I saw, to my disappointment, no hint of his gift. Whatever he had been doing before to affect my emotions, he wasn’t doing it now. It was under his conscious control, then. But likely invisible. And, like the Marianthean stranger’s gift, it wasn’t dependent on physical touch.
I moved on to the Reliquary. A cursory scan through Lord Adamo’s memories confirmed he told the truth: the relic was rumored to be powerful, not only in regards to the deletion of memories, but the manipulation of them. If it was real, it would magnify my powers a hundred-fold, allowing me to erase and edit the past at will. I passed over the fruitful conversation the lord had had with a merchant from Erebus and moved west, to his home city of Maera. I savored lungfuls of the sweet mountain air like it was honey. And the sunlight—
Wasn’t all of Caldera covered by the gray? But nay, Lord Adamo had apparently spent many days from boyhood to manhood in the sun. The actual sun, with a hint of a blue sky overhead, more expansive than I’d imagined. Lord Guerin’s memories of sunlight were nearly sixty years old.
I saw a woman running through a sun-dappled garden. Lady Lida Ashwood—Lord Adamo’s wife, the former thaness of Maera—with hair a lemony gold. She held the hand of a little girl, not older than four or five, with the same color hair and pale, creamy skin. As I watched, the woman dropped to her knees and rolled in the grass, hardly caring that the movement accumulated an array of twigs and leaves in the ruffles and folds of her dress. The little girl gave a delighted squeal and followed suit, plunking herself in the woman’s lap as soon as she was upright again.
