Gentle with the precious cargo! I can’t afford any mistakes!
A laugh. Trinkets clanked together and an orange glow came from somewhere.
Of all people, you dare to lecture me on mistakes? After the carnage you left behind? You’re beyond fortunate that Osmen didn’t add you to the body count.
He furrowed his brow and moaned. The voices raked jagged claws across his throbbing head. Fevers wracked his body and tied him to disjointed dreams that fractured further from the voices floating around him.
It wasn’t my fault! Someone said. Gruff, assertive, yet shaken.
Charging after the entirety of the rebellion without a plan ‘wasn’t your fault’? another responded in deep, resonant tones that dripped with contempt.
The sword it…it told me everything would be all right. That I could win if I acted quickly.
Silence. The orange glow faded for a moment.
Perhaps I should relieve you of that sword. It does terrible things to an untrained mind.
NO. If my ancestors were good enough to wield it, then so am I.
And now you are the first in your family to be banished to a useless fort in the King’s Army. I’m sure they are all very pleased.
Blessed silence took over. Animosity spread like fog through the quiet, but he didn’t care. The throbbing in his head grew numb. Sleep brushed the edges of his mind.
How long will whatever you’re doing take? Gruff asked Contempt.
Tell me what happened to the ambushers at the Dragon Scales instead of asking stupid questions, Contempt responded.
Phantom branches whipped past him, shattered and bent against the moonless sky. Waves crashed in terrible cacophony. Lakes scattered across a barren valley, surging against their shores like a shattered ocean. The stars glittered across their waves.
Screams. So many screams. A sliver of the night sky swinging in long, beautiful arcs. A white blade meeting it. Sparks shrieking into the night. A head of dark curls. Pain splitting his skull. The ground—his eyes—stained scarlet.
…thought we had them, but their leader was…unearthly.
They escaped? Contempt asked, sounding as if he already knew the answer.
No. All dead, at too great a cost.
His heart clenched. He moaned and fought his sheets. They tightened around him. Long, bony fingers pressed against his forehead. He couldn’t force his eyes open.
This ring will help. Contempt again. Be sure he keeps it close. For all your failings, you are regrettably in the best position to keep him safe. For now.
Your faith astounds me, Sedick.
Consciousness—sound—faded away. Only memories remained, swirling into nothingness. Glimpses of a smile and green eyes faded too fast for him to catch. A woman wreathed in golden flames, humming to him.
All will be well.
All will be well.
His head throbbed. The pressure nearly drove his eyes from their sockets. The musky candles on the dining table and dusty hearth fire only exacerbated the pounding in his head. He shifted on his makeshift bed and twisted the two rings strung around his neck to distract himself.
The only relief was a cool whisper of a breeze between the warped wooden slats of the nearby window. It brushed the bandages pulled tight around his head and cooled the sweat beneath them. He itched to uncover the window entirely—let the air soothe every bit of him, from the top of his head to the burn scars across his torso—but he refrained. The frosty air might make Linae sick.
As if on cue, a wail sounded from the hallway. Hasty footsteps went to Linae’s aid.
“Hush, my love,” a woman said. “What is all this fuss about?”
Lady Vinea crept past the dining room, her tiny daughter cradled against her chest. She bounced Linae as she wove between the myriad of trunks, sacks, and other belongings scattered across the floor. Her well-worn silk skirts brushed the dust from the floor in swirling clouds. She hummed softly as she tucked blankets more tightly around the infant.
He had developed a deep respect toward the lady of the house over the few days he had regained consciousness. She had a warmth and a sort of…familial comfort about her.
The humming stopped when she looked up and saw him. She peered at him for a few moments before she drew back. “Oh! I didn’t realize you were awake! Your bandages make it hard to…” She stopped herself and shook her head. “I’m sorry. Did Linae wake you?” She should have been more worried about her own sleep rather than his, judging by the dark circles beneath her eyes. But she wasn’t. She cared more for a stranger than she did herself.
He shook his head at her question and immediately regretted it. Arcs of pain crackled through his spine and behind his eyes. He blinked them back as best he could. “Don’t worry about me.” He winced at his voice; it sounded like he had eaten glass.
Lady Vinea watched him with a small smile on her face. “You’ve come into my care on the verge of death and with no memories. I can’t help but worry.”
His stomach twisted at the reminder.
She gestured with an elbow to the rings around his neck. “Does that help?”
A smile pulled too tight on his cheeks. “Not yet,” he said. He touched the larger ring, thick and gold and gaudy, centered around an ugly black stone. Lady Vinea’s husband, General Laire, had told him one of the king’s warlocks had made it; a man named Sedick that specialized in memory magic, whatever that meant. It was supposed to help recover his memories so long as he kept it around his neck. Skepticism and a hint of unease lingered with him at the prospect, though. Nightmares of whispered words and shattered visions still plagued him. And new monsters haunted him in the night, leaving him breathless and petrified. Surely a magic ring meant to help would not leave him so utterly terrified. But he was desperate enough to try anything, no matter the nightmares. A lifetime’s worth of memories was too precious to sacrifice to fear.
He absently toyed with the leather strap around his neck until the smaller ring fell into his palm, a silver band with simple filigree across it and curling words on the inner rim. He couldn’t read the language, though. According to Lady Vinea, Laire had found him with it. Touching it calmed the night terrors.
Lady Vinea tapped his foot with hers. “Don’t fret. Lord Sedick is an odious man by nature, but Laire and I can both attest to his magic’s effectiveness.” She brushed the side of her palm around Linae’s face, her eyes warm with adoration.
“I have to agree, much to my chagrin.” General Laire Baison entered the room.
He got to his feet and nodded, blinking back the spots that swam in his eyes. Uneasy trepidation laced his veins, but he fought it back. This man had saved him. Lady Vinea tried to get him to sit again, worried about his injuries, but he assured her he was fine. He greeted General Laire with a small bow.
Laire stood a good head and shoulder above his wife and stooped to kiss her. He then cooed at his daughter. Linae squealed in delight and pulled on his short, silver-flecked beard. Laire chuckled. Linae curled her fist around his finger. “I’m happy to see you up and about, my boy,” Laire said to his guest. “Mace wounds are serious business and have killed more men than I can count. You’re lucky to be alive. How do you feel?”
He shuffled his feet and touched the bandages on his head, trying to pull a smile. Why couldn’t he look him in the eyes? “Sore, sir.”
Laire straightened and looked at him fully. “Is that all?”
He glanced between Laire and Vinea, not sure how to respond. They had both been so kind. How could he say it? Did he want to say it? He stretched a smile in his aching cheeks. “I’m not sure I know what else there could be. A man with no name can’t ask for much.” He chuckled, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears.
“What about Tristan?”
Both men looked at Lady Vinea with surprise. Laire’s shock mingled with…something else. He put a hand on her arm in a silent signal, but she ignored him. She shifted Linae and smiled. “What if we call you Tristan? It’s what we would have named our son if we had one.”
His mouth fell open. A thousand emotions clamored for space all at once. He glanced to Laire for guidance on how he should answer, but Laire’s expression was unreadable. “Why—What have I done to deserve such an honor?”
Lady Vinea took his hand and squeezed it. “No one deserves to be alone. We may not be the most well-to-do family, but we can be yours if you’ll have us.”
He didn’t know how to respond. His gut squirmed with discomfort, even as tears of gratitude filled his eyes. A new family? He hadn’t grieved the loss of his old one, if he even had one. Deep down, he wanted to believe he still did; that they were doing everything they could to find him. But belief was a shadow of reality. Kind, generous people wanted to be part of his life. Now. In the real world. Did he dare push that aside for only a sliver of hope?
He brushed the moisture from his eyes. “I’m…honored. But I couldn’t possibly take the name. If you have a son, then what—”
“We won’t.” Lady Vinea curled Linae closer to her. She stroked the infant’s fine hairs. “One was miracle enough.”
He didn’t know what else to say. He was quickly running out of polite excuses. Why did he need excuses? He couldn’t say. Something filled him with unease as if he were treading places he didn’t belong. But did someone with no memory belong anywhere?
General Laire must have sensed his hesitation and cleared his throat. “Take the name.” He clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll need one if you plan to become a soldier here.”
He recoiled. “A soldier?”
Linae fussed in her blankets. Lady Vinea bounced her and excused herself to their back rooms, casting her husband a parting, questioning glance.
He—Tristan, he supposed he should start calling himself, since they were so insistent—looked at General Laire in consternation, trying not to let his unease win out. More indiscernible emotions swept through him. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong with Laire. Something not quite right swirled about the general—he couldn’t place what—but it made him want to get out. He shoved the feelings aside. His battered mind had already played too many games with him. “You want me to be a soldier?” Tristan asked. “When I don’t even know who I am? Or what you fight for?”
“That part’s easy.” Laire waved his hand dismissively. “We fight for freedom from the monsters that walk among us. We will rid Loralan of the Ancient Races’ evils and their foul magic.” Laire looked at him with somber kindness. “And what better way to find out who you are than in fulfilling a purpose?”
Tristan rubbed his thumb over the silver ring, trying to ignore the rushing in his ears. Too fast. This was all too much, too fast. “I’m sure there could be other ways—”
“What else did you plan to do?”
“I…well…” An excellent question that he should have had a response to. Vague snippets of something floated through his mind. “I was hoping to find out who I was. See if those memories are still out there somewhere. Maybe.”
Laire leaned against a wall, arms folded and face unreadable again. “Where would you start?”
“Maybe you could tell me about the Dragon Scales?” Tristan couldn’t say why that name had stuck with him, but it floated ever present in the back of his mind. Someone had mentioned it. And he could have sworn it had been Laire.
A shadow crossed Laire’s face, and his brow furrowed. “The Dragon Scales? As in the fairy tale?”
All the breath fled from Tristan’s lungs. No. It couldn’t be a fairy tale. “The what?” He kept his voice light, but inside his stomach churned.
“The Dragon Scales is a place of lore that doesn’t exist. Said to be the safest, fastest path between the Ancient Lands and Loralan’s capital. It’s a wide valley littered with pockets of the sea, scattered about like so many fallen dragon scales.”
Something leaped in Tristan. Voices and images that he couldn’t quite see or hear. A deeper ache settled on his bandaged head, and orange-tinged dread settled in with his hope. He fumbled with his rings. They were both hot to the touch. The Dragon Scales had to be what he was looking for.
“Only problem with the place is the unholy storm that shields it from outsiders all but one week out of the year. Manifestation of some goddess’ wrath or some nonsense like that.” He picked at his teeth. “All too convenient an excuse for why nobody’s found it if you ask me.”
Tristan rubbed his forearm, trying to play off the desperation building in his stomach. “So it’s not real?”
“No more real than an elf’s love.” Laire spat at the floor and ground it out with his boot. “And I know all too well that that is nothing but fantasy.” He pushed himself away from the wall. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help on that front. But my offer still stands. You are welcome to stay here at Lorate.”
Tristan curled his rings in his fingers, his head spinning, and said nothing. He couldn’t articulate the emotions swirling through him like a building storm.
Laire placed a warm hand on his shoulder and grounded him from his panic. At least for a moment. “Let me reword it this way; family is hard to find. When you have it, never let go.” His focus slipped to somewhere far beyond the fort, lost in a world Tristan couldn’t see.
Tristan knew he was trying to help, and he was grateful for it, but Laire’s words drilled deep into his chest, carving more wounds on his heart.
Laire blinked and returned to the moment. “Vinea and I only transferred a few days ago. It’s a temporary placement, but it will be home to us for a while.” A yawn leeched itself from his throat. “I can’t attest to the men yet, but I can attest to myself. I will give you a home and a purpose and a family here.” He stood in the doorway, the picture of strength and benevolence. “Besides, where else could you go?”
Those words shot Tristan in the chest as true as any arrow. He staggered from their force. A lump formed in his throat. He looked at the dusty floors, at the footprints and scuff marks and swirls from the wind blowing through doors and windows. Even the floor knew its past better than he did. He couldn’t bring himself to respond to General Laire’s question, even though he knew there could only be one answer. What good was choice when he had only one option, anyway?
General Laire nodded once as if taking his silence for consent. “Come on.” He glanced through the window slat gaps. “It’s late, but I’m sure men will be in the mess hall. Let’s have you meet the rest of your new family.”
Laire strode into the night. Tristan followed, wishing he could go back to an hour ago when he still had power over his life. He winced at how ungrateful those thoughts sounded.
The breeze that had teased him through the dining window slats washed over him the moment he stepped outside, ruffling his dark hair not pinned down by bandages and plucking his tunic. He imagined being somewhere—anywhere—else. A place he felt at home; where he knew himself and could make his own choices.
General Laire crossed the fort yard to a squat, ramshackle building. Lantern light glowed through the rough-hewn wooden wall’s gaps. Tristan followed, unsure if the light seemed inviting or like the glint of an ancient, many-eyed monster ready to swallow him.
The room inside was sparse but clean. Rows of simple wooden benches and tables lined the wall. A small fireplace crackled in the back. Ten men huddled around it while another lounged in the corner. They nursed drinks and chatted amongst themselves. Quiet chuckles rumbled through the room. The one in the corner—a narrow-waisted, broad-shouldered man who even sitting towered over the other men—seemed content to watch from beneath his mane of sandy hair. The warmth and calm enveloped Tristan. Could this become home?
His hope fizzled the moment the men caught sight of him and Laire in the doorway. The temperature dropped as all conversations stopped. They only stared. Cold. Unfeeling. Barely veiled hostility. Tristan’s mouth ran dry. His gut shrunk. He wanted nothing more than to disappear.
Laire straightened to his full height and met their stares. “I have not officially introduced myself yet. I am General Laire Baison. As I’m sure you’re aware, King Osmen has transferred me to replace General Tal Hasson.”
They said nothing.
General Laire seemed unfazed. “I trust we’ll know each other better in time. I must return to help get my family settled, so I can’t join you tonight, but this man will.” He dropped his hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “He is a fighter. Please take good care of him.” He leaned closer to Tristan and spoke only to him. “You’ll be all right. You can’t survive what you have without the grit to survive more.” With that, he left.
Tristan nodded to the room with a tight smile and tripped into a seat, wishing he could vanish. He hadn’t been prepared to be thrown to the wolves all on his own.
The murmuring began.
“The invader has a pet, does he?”
“General Tal would never pick favorites.”
“Bet the bandages are so he can spy on us better. I can’t hardly see his eyes.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. That’s not how spying works.”
“You tell me who he is, then!”
“Bet you he’s one of those monsters in disguise.”
“An Ancient One wouldn’t want us!”
“How do you know? They’re monsters! They do what they want!”
Tristan tried to ignore them. Sister Earth, he tried. But their words pounded on his head like the mace that nearly killed him. Who was he? Who was he? He didn’t know. He could be anything. That was the terror of nothingness. The images of his dreams marched through his mind like a parade of horror. An empty wasteland. Howls and shrieks. Black, soulless eyes as wide as his face. Rows upon rows of teeth. Spindle-like fingers reaching for his throat.
Who are you? They hissed in time with the surrounding murmurs. Who are you?
He didn’t know. He didn’t know!
Tristan put his head in his hands, trying not to shake. He tugged feverishly at the gaudy gold ring. It had to show him something. It had to.
Nothing.
The rush of hissing inner voices grew with the surrounding chatter. Spy. Assassin. Murderer. Enemy. Monster. The words swirled in his mind until he heard nothing else.
Someone clattered into the seat across from him. It jolted the table and broke him from his spiral.
He looked up. The loner from earlier—the sandy-haired young man with shoulders nearly as wide as the bench—had sat across from him. He munched slowly on a piece of toasted bread and studied Tristan.
Tristan fidgeted in his seat. What did the newcomer want? What did anyone want from him? He had nothing to offer himself, much less anyone else. Couldn’t they let him wallow in peace?
“So, who are you?” the man asked.
Tristan broke.
“I don’t know!” He slammed his hands on the table. “Why don’t you ask everyone else since they’re so keen to pass judgment?” The room fell silent. His mind did not. He glared at the watching men as their lingering whispers plowed wounds in his thoughts. They averted their gazes, shoulders hunched. He gained no small satisfaction from their discomfort. “My memory’s gone. Taken. I don’t know anything.” The barbs in his voice didn’t mask the brokenness. He studied his palms, where he had calluses at the base of each finger. He didn’t know where he’d gotten them. Such a small, stupid thing he wished he knew.
The man across from him kicked his feet up. “If you don’t know anything about yourself,” he ate another bite, crumbs spewing like sparks, “what makes you think these idiots do?”
Tristan gaped at him. He opened and closed his mouth like some demented fish as his halted thoughts tried to form words with no success. “What?”
The man smiled. “You are the only person who knows you the best. Don’t let them choose who you are. You’re capable enough to do that yourself.”
Tristan could only sit there with his jaw dangled open. The silence stretched on as his thoughts collided to process the man’s words.
A deranged laugh spilled from his mouth. He couldn’t help himself. The stranger’s notion had been so unexpected. So needed. All his pent-up emotions and uncertainty tumbled out in an instant. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. Rolling, choking from his throat, the laughter washed away the dark thoughts swirling in his mind. Tears pricked his eyes. From relief or mirth, he couldn’t tell. “You…you sound like an eighty-year-old man,” he wheezed. He couldn’t say anything else. Could not express the other emotions fizzing through his body.
“And you sound like a lunatic.” The man grinned. “Just my kind of person.” He brushed the crumbs off his tunic and extended his hand. “I’m Styrax Glanson. Traveling sage. Resident water enthusiast. Collector of lost souls.” He raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”
“I’m…not a sage. Or a lunatic. Maybe.” Tristan flicked the moisture from his eyes. “Still trying to figure the rest out.” He shook Styrax’s hand with a wan smile. “They call me Tristan.”