Echoes of Memory, page 30
So he ran.
Zebulon ran and hid.
He would keep the young child safe as long as he could. The red-headed girl had become his symbol of redemption. She was a representation of his atonement.
The last time he had checked on her, she had nearly recovered from her near-fatal injuries.
She was walking —Kestrel’s stomach turned with an impossible mixture of anxiety and relief at those memories— and had recovered enough to eat solid foods, but the poor thing had a faraway look in her eyes. It was as if her soul too had leaked from her skull with that brutal hit she had taken.
He’d yet to hear the child utter a single word.
Kestrel turned away. He wasn’t ready to face that quite yet.
Kestrel’s vision jumped back to the tortures. Zebulon’s hands had been flayed open, but the Inquisitor hadn’t stopped there. He’d assaulted the coroner with visions of tortures as he was abusing the man’s body. Doubling horror upon horror.
Kestrel had to credit the pale doctor for his bravery. He had lasted longer than Kestrel imagined he could. He had weathered the storms of brutal memories that the Inquisitor had dug into his brain like worms eating the dead flesh of a corpse.
It wasn’t until his hands had been peeled open and the Inquisitor had started working his way upward, flaying each tendon that he’d broken beneath the pain.
Tears streamed from Kestrel’s eyes as he saw the dying man’s memories play out in front of his eyes as if he were watching through milky water.
He wanted to hate Zebulon for betraying the young girl’s location, but he couldn’t. He pitied the man.
“You are going to die. You’ll become a corpse, just like the ones you’ve made a life defiling. How does it feel joining them?” the Inquisitor had a poisonous chuckle. The monster actually enjoyed what he was doing.
Were all of them like him? Had the one that’d nearly killed him and Sephira just been a fluke?
Until that moment Kestrel realized that he held a subconscious belief that his Inquisitor was the norm. That he wasn’t a fluke. He had wished they would break when faced with the truth, but the creature he saw so clearly in Zebulon’s memory showed him that some truly enjoyed murder.
This monster had pleasured in brutality.
He was beyond saving. He needed to be put down like a rabid dog.
Kestrel broke his grip on the dying man and vomited. He had seen too much. The Inquisitor’s actions demanded death.
Chapter 46
“GOODBYE FRIEND,” ARIS said, and in a blur, he drew the dagger he kept sheathed next to his metalvine and drove it into Zebulon’s chest.
The Dirk pierced the coroner’s heart and his death was immediate. Aris saw a hint of thankfulness twinkle in Zebulon’s eyes before life fled from them. He’d done the man a service by driving the dagger through his chest.
Kestrel threw up a second time.
“What did you see?” Aris asked when Kestrel finished wiping flecks of puke from the sides of his mouth.
Kestrel shook his head. The memories of torture still echoed in his memory.
How does he do it? How does he keep his cool seeing nightmares that would make even the strongest man want to whimper at their sight? Kestrel wondered when he looked into Aris’ steely eyes.
“I saw her,” Kestrel finally said, gathering his wits, trying to reflect the strength that ebbed from Aris’ resolute frame.
“Where is she?” Aris asked.
“I don’t know,” Kestrel’s voice dropped with disappointment.
He desperately wanted to find Cillia, who’d been like a daughter to him, but when the coroner had broken under the Inquisitors torture, both mental and physical, the memories of his speaking had been wiped clean.
Kestrel knew the coroner had spoken, but what he had said was gone. Kestrel had remembered the shame that Zebulon had felt when he had revealed Cillia’s location, but where the memory should’ve been, all that had been left was a black hole.
“I suspected that,” Aris said, then let out a loud curse. “Hells! We were so close! Although they knew he would soon die, the mongrels still thought ahead. They brought a Taker with them to make sure that no one else could find the child. Emperor’s balls!” venom laced his words.
Why? Why had they taken his memories of the girl? Why had they felt the need to cover their tracks so thoroughly?
Kestrel’s heart sank at the General’s words. He’d hoped that Aris had seen something that he hadn’t. That he’d found some clue hidden in the dying man’s memory that Kestrel wouldn’t have known to look for.
He hadn’t.
Kestrel’s heart sank. Equal parts disappointment and rage warred within him.
Kestrel had thought Cillia dead, but having his hopes restored only to be dashed again wearied him. He felt deflated. He didn’t think that he could find the strength to regain his footing. He didn’t know if he wanted to.
He would only fail her again.
“Get up,” Aris commanded Kestrel. He’d seen the young man deflate, and his tone was diamond-sharp.
If they were to retrieve Cillia, Kestrel must steel himself. He needed to become the man he was slowly being being forged into, except there was no time left to wait. He had to change now.
The storm brewing on the horizon, the fighting on the borders, the growing unrest in the outer cities, the water boiling underneath the surface of Fiell, Vealand’s capital city, demanded growth. There was no time left to wait. Time forced all forward, and though Aris hated making demands of someone so broken as Kestrel, it was what he must do.
Kestrel looked up at the General. There was a hopelessness in his eyes that Aris had seen in the Mountain Campaigns. He’d seen it in the eyes of his comrades after battles with the Wendig Tribe. It was the feeling where pure brutality insured you would never look at life the same way again and overwhelmed the senses to the point of inaction. It was easier to give up, to just stop thinking, to stop feeling, than to act.
Aris’ demeanor steeled as he looked into the younger man’s hazel eyes. He saw strength hidden underneath the hopelessness. It just had to be hammered out of Kestrel.
“I said get up!” He barked.
If the harshness in Aris’ voice affected Kestrel, he didn’t show it, but still, the younger man dragged himself to his feet and turned his attention to the General.
“Is your young Cillia dead?”
Kestrel shook his head. “I don’t know. There’s no way to know.”
“So you think that now, when she may need you the most, is the time to give up? Would you fail her again? Would you choose now, the time when she needs you the most to abandon her?”
Kestrel’s head whipped up, “I would never abandon her!” his voice filled with indignation. His eyes blazed with anger at Aris’ words.
“Good,” Aris smiled.
Kestrel needed that anger. Aris’ words had hit their mark.
“Now take the indignation you’re feeling against me right now, and take all that anger you have for the Inquisitors and use it. Make it fuel for finding Cillia!”
That mindset was poisonous if held onto for too long, but it was effective.
It was effective and that’s what they needed right now. There was no time to take things slowly. Not anymore. Not when, with each passing day, Aris felt a nebulous disaster brewing on the horizon.
Aris still bore scars on his body from his father’s latent anger, and he himself felt as if he was going to be consumed with the fury that had boiled in him after the loss of his brother Van before he had found Corrine.
She had been his salvation.
He hadn’t been an easy person to live with for the first two years after the death of his brother. He had questioned his purpose, cursed Van, and had raged against the world. Still, Corrine had been there at his side, her quiet strength imparting the calm and love that had finally quelled the wildfires in Aris’ soul.
Aris hated the vengeful mindset he was feeding the young man, but Kestrel had needed a push, and sometimes anger was the best sustenance for action.
Aris looked into Kestrel’s eyes one more time. He saw his words taking root in the young man. He saw Kestrel’s features harden as the former street rat reached a tipping point and he made a decision.
“I will tear down the world to save her. I failed her once, and I’m not going to do it again.”
“Good. But first, we need to talk about your Memories of Dren.”
Chapter 47
THEY ARRIVED BACK AT Aris’ estate as the sun sank beneath the horizon. The heavy late winter clouds nearly blotted out the sinking sun and were, for a brief moment, a stunning array of pinks and reds. Any other day the sunset would have been dazzling, but today it was sickening. The pinks were of the same hue as the flayed open hands of Zebulon and the red that dyed the skies was a fresh reminder of the blood that had puddled and mixed with Zebulon’s urine and feces.
Kestrel had nearly thrown up again when the sky had brought such vivid pictures of the coroner’s maimed form back to his mind. He would talk more about this to Aris, but they would wait until they were in the safety of his own home. Away from any hidden ears. Wrapped in the late winter embrace of night. Only then would they speak. To do so now would do dishonor to Zebulon’s sacrifice. Now they walked in a silence they felt honored the fallen man who had lost his life after saving Cillia’s.
Kestrel’s stomach churned in a mixture of hatred and reverence for the pale fallen coroner. He’d found signs of life in Cillia, and where any else would have let her die and be done with it, he had nursed her back to health at his own expense. He had taken her in and nurtured her broken body back to a semblance of health. He couldn’t despise Zebulon for that.
But still, he had broken. Zebulon had broken under the weight of the Inquisitor’s torture. He’d given Cillia to the monsters.
Kestrel never would have broken, he lied to himself.
How could both love and loathe someone so much? Kestrel didn’t know. He didn’t care to know. He just wanted to find Cillia. He wanted to rescue her. He wanted to redeem himself. He needed to prove to himself he wasn’t a failure. If he could just save her, he would be restored.
He would be whole again.
Wouldn’t he?
“No,” a tiny voice inside told him.
He quieted the voice. He killed it.
Saving Cillia would save him. It had to.
Before Kestrel realized it. They arrived at Aris’ estate. The sun had fallen and the shadows of the Kearn Mountains had morphed into night. They hadn’t taken horses and had walked back. Kestrel had been glad for that. He would never admit it, but he was still terrified of the animals. They were gigantic creatures. It was pure arrogance to believe that one could truly tame such a beast. They were certain to kill him if they ever got the chance, no matter what Wallace or anyone else said to the contrary.
Kestrel, upon making it through the gates, turned to make his way to the barracks. All he wished for was a hot bath to wash away the lingering feel of blood that surrounded him and cleanse himself of the pungent smells that seemed to soak through his clothes and into his very bones.
He needed to be near the other recruits. He wanted to hear their ribald jokes and cleanse his mind from the memory of Zebulon’s maimed and disfigured body. Nothing could ever truly banish that memory, and Kestrel knew he would later latch onto it and use it as a defense against other memory mages, but for now, he just wanted to forget, if only for a moment.
Aris, though, had other plans. He needed to know what memories Kestrel held. He grabbed Kestrel by the arm and led him to the stables.
Great. He had avoided horses all day and now he was following the General to the stables. He grimaced but padded along after Aris. What was he going to say? After seeing such brutality, such horror at the hands of an Inquisitor that he was terrified of something as trivial as a horse?
His pride would never let him do that.
“Are you still afraid of horses?” Aris asked out of nowhere.
Kestrel’s head whipped towards the man. “How’d you know!?” he asked in shock.
“You really think it’s a secret? All of the recruits laugh about it. You may try to hide it, but we can all see the terror in your eyes when you’re around the creatures.”
Kestrel hung his head.
So much for his pride.
“So can we go somewhere else?” he asked.
Aris looked like he was going to say ‘no’ but changed his mind right before the word came out. “That might be a good idea. I don’t want any stable boy overhearing what we’re going to talk about,” he said. “Follow me.”
The General led him to the northwestern edge of the twelve-foot tall wall enclosing his estate. They walked up a small staircase embedded in the wall to a small alcove where a guard would take watch for the night. Kestrel himself had recently joined in the rotation. He was almost a city guard now.
When had that happened? Would they truly take one such as him? It seems they already had.
“Sir!” a young blonde guard saluted when Aris arrived with Kestrel in tow behind him.
Aris nodded at the young man. “You are relieved for now,” he told him. “I will send Kestrel to you once we are finished and upon his call, you are to return to your post. Do you understand?”
The thin blonde man saluted and looked from Aris to Kestrel before turning crisply and departing for the barracks. Was that wonder Kestrel saw in his eyes? Why did the guard look at him like that?
Aris looked out over Fiell’s glistening star-field of lanterns lighting the night until the soft crunch of boots on the rough ground faded away. “Good. Now that we’re alone. Tell me everything. Tell me any and all of the visions you can recall of Dren,” he said.
Kestrel saluted. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt right.
He launched into the story.
“I recall his childhood. He was older than he looked. Near as old as Wallace. He was born just after the great disaster that destroyed the coast. His mother bore him during their sojourn to the new capital of Fiell here,” Kestrel said. “There’s no clear memory of that, but his mother told him the story so many times and how it was only due to his father’s quick thinking that he had been revived after his being choked with the umbilical cord during his difficult birth.”
Aris nodded. He remembered vague pieces of the story. Just what had happened? Why had they received the rebel leader’s memories? How had they received them? Could they trust the visions?
Yes, they could, Aris decided, surprising himself. When had he come to believe the same as the now-dead rebels? When had he decided to turn on the man who had given him this estate? The man who had raised him to be one of the most powerful men in the Empire?
Aris was stunned to realize that there had always been that doubt in his mind. He’d just never known it. It had been suppressed.
Why?
Kestrel reached Dren’s early childhood. Aris listened, stopping him when he needed clarification, or interjecting with information Kestrel lacked.
“Wait, stop. Say that again,” Aris said. “Tell me one more time.”
“I said, Dren first learned he was a Giver as a youth. He was barely eleven when he learned of his ability. A friend of his, whom he hadn’t seen for a week, perfectly recalled a vivid memory of Dren’s that he couldn’t possibly have seen,” Kestrel explained. “I don’t know what happened next though.”
“I can fill you in there,” Aris said. The memory was very dim, but it was there. “His parents must have known of the existence of Memory Mages because they found him a mentor and developed his skill, and by the next year, they commissioned him to a local Lord and he came into service as one of the man’s three Memory Mages,” Aris explained.
Kestrel nodded. It seemed as if Aris’ words cleared the clouds hovering over the memory. He could see it now, like a half-forgotten dream.
“His skill in manipulating Memory Magic was truly great. Like Wallace has said, it’s easier to tell when you receive the memories of others than anything else. They feel different. Alien. But Dren, such was his skill that one could barely feel the touch of his magic. He’d form ideas in his mind and then share the memory of those ideas with those whom his Lord wished. They never knew his manipulating touch,” Aris said.
Even now, having been trained in the magic arts, the idea of someone being able to place a memory in one's mind was terrifying. An idea, of foreign origination, even worse. How much more terrifying was the idea that someone could place themselves into the memories of others?
“Wait. Placing yourself in the memories of others...” Aris thought. “Oh Hell!!!”
Was that it? It had to be.
How had he not seen it before?
It had been right in front of his face the whole time. Why hadn’t he seen it? Emperor Evrain was a Memory Mage. One of great power. That had to be it. That was what connected everything! He was a cursed fool for not seeing it earlier. He had been blinded by looking too closely. He had assumed Evrain’s corruption ever since he had found out about the Inquisitors and their connection to the kidnappings that plagued the city every few years, but he’d never thought to question if the Emperor himself was a Memory Mage.
Why hadn’t he thought of that? Why hadn’t he asked Wallace? Why hadn’t he dived deeper into Dren’s memories of Evrain? The dead rebel leader had always referred to him as The Imposter, but he had only assumed Dren thought the Emperor’s reign illicit. He never thought that the rebel leader was referring to Evrain being a Manipulator.
“I’m a monumental idiot,” Aris said with a long sigh.
Kestrel quirked his eyebrows questioningly in response.
“Emperor Evrain is a Memory Mage. He’s one of the Manipulators. That’s why Dren always referred to him as The Imposter. That’s what he was fighting for. To dethrone the man who gained our nation by invading the minds of our people.”
“Manipulators really is a terrible name. We need to call them something else,” Kestrel responded. “Maybe something like ‘Invaders.’ That sounds way better.”
