Memory's Wake Omnibus: The Complete Illustrated YA Fantasy Series

by Selina Fenech

  Memory went cold and stiff all over, as though she’d died many hours ago and rigor mortis had suddenly set in.

  Her friends were all bound in heavy webbing that wrapped around them and held them in place, dangling from the branches of the throne tree like living piñatas. Live sport for the amusement of Finvarra and the wider audience.

  Memory knew better than to look at them for too long but she couldn’t look away. Eloryn’s body shuddered with small, sharp breaths, her skin a ghostly gray. Roen had blood crusted along his upper lip and chin, matching the dull red of the Brand on his forehead, and Erec sagged toward the ground, apparently lifeless. All of them had anguish written large in their expressions.

  Is it the Brand torturing them, or has it been Finvarra and his court?

  Memory wasn’t sure, but she could see Finvarra was using them as an amusement, hung there on display. The crooked smirk as he watched her approach built hatred inside her she almost couldn’t contain. Every terrible thing he had done to her, to her friends, to the people of Avall, made the magic inside her burn like a white-hot star. The magic he had put inside her. The scar he, as Providence, had cut into her chest as a baby itched and stung. She felt the pain she could see on her sister’s face.

  The ground trembled beneath her at each step she took. The room fell into total silence and for a moment, the smirk fell from Finvarra’s face. She wanted to run at him, screaming and clawing and slicing with the iron blade she no longer had.

  Will slipped his hand into Memory’s and squeezed tight.

  “Deep breaths. Stay in control.”

  “Thank you,” Memory whispered to Will.

  Side by side, they reached the base of Finvarra’s throne. Nyneve, who had escorted them in, broke off from them and stood on the dais at her father’s feet.

  Memory swallowed, trying to wet her dry mouth, then spoke. “Finvarra, as queen of the humans, I come to seek the release of my people and the removal of their Brands.”

  “Hrm, only a small request then?” he grumbled, half a smile on his lips, baring the sharp teeth behind. A few unseelie fae around the room chuckled along with him. “These humans were a surprise gift to me from my people. They were found wandering uninvited in my lands, and attacked my men with iron.”

  Surprise gift? Your men ambushed us!

  Finvarra continued, his words mixed with a mad chortling sound. “The Brand on their faces is proof of their crimes. I have every right to do with them what I will. Why would I ever release them?”

  Memory fumed, but she also knew they had walked into the fae’s homelands carrying iron. There was too much violence and it was only leading to more. There had to be another way.

  “Because I am pleading with you to do so. I’m pleading with you to show kindness.” Memory held so much hope within her at that moment, hope that there was any kindness within Finvarra that she could reason with, that maybe if he could show kindness in that one moment, she could work with him, help him and his people, maybe even forgive him.

  But the look in his eyes told her it would not be. He hated her, she could see it. He hated all humans, hated the magic that resided within them, that he thought they stole from the fae.

  “Kindness? You ask for kindness?” He spat a huge glob of smoky gray liquid down at Memory’s feet. “I will relish watching the Brand leach the life from these few humans as small compensation for the crimes of all your kind against the unseelie race.”

  “You are not innocent either, Finvarra. I know your crimes.” Memory glared harshly at the unseelie king, telling him with her expression that she knew exactly who he was and what he’d done.

  Finvarra rose to his feet, back hunched from age. “You dare offend me so in my own court? Crimes? I have committed no crimes!”

  The anger Memory had kept contained was seeping out like a poison. “I do dare because I have seen the damage your crimes have done. I’ve seen the pain on children’s faces and the bodies drained of blood. I feel the fire of your crimes inside me every day!”

  Whispers ran through the court. Prickles ran up and down Memory’s spine.

  Finvarra’s black eyes held contempt and he steepled his long fingers together, tapping them on his chin. “I think you have gone insane. If you think I have committed crimes against you, then speak the Branding words. Try to Brand me, and the magic will prove my innocence.”

  “You know I can’t! You know I’m forbidden to speak behests. You’re trying to trick me into breaking my oath.” Rage seized Memory. She was unable to stop seeing the faces of her friends, distorted and distended with agony. Things had spun totally out of control. Finvarra talked her round in circles, confusing her, and getting her no closer to freeing her friends. She didn’t want to have to challenge him, but she was running out of ideas.

  “I just want my friends back,” she sighed, more to herself than as a plea to the monster before her.

  Finvarra took his seat again on the throne. He lowered himself slowly, shakily, like an old man. It was an almost human movement, apart from the mad, scary grin on his face. “That is the problem with you humans. You want and you believe that your wanting entitles you to taking.”

  “Says the king who wanted Avall for the fae and lied to every human there about the rest of the world becoming a hell.”

  “The iron hell is just that,” Finvarra snapped. “It is killing my people as we speak. Are we to just sit around and wait for the people in that world to finish destroying it? We have to protect ourselves!”

  “By sucking the life from people, blood drinker?”

  Finvarra seemed confused. He glanced over at Memory’s three friends, hanging beside him.

  Scowling at Memory he flicked his hand at her. “You disgusting creature, I’ve not touched the filthy blood of your companions. Queen of the humans, if you were not who you are, you would be mounted on my walls right alongside the others! I’ll take no more offense from you. Get out of my court before I change my mind.”

  Memory frowned. There was something wrong. She couldn’t put her finger on it but it was there, right under the surface. If bringing her friends here was Finvarra’s trap for Memory, then why was he telling her to leave?

  Memory looked across at Eloryn, who was watching with dull, hooded eyes. Her blonde hair was a straggly mess across her face and she was gagged, unable to speak or use behests.

  “I won’t leave without my friends. Finvarra, I challenge you to a trial by combat for their freedom.”

  A wave of gasps spread throughout the chamber. Finvarra shifted in his chair, twitching upright and eyeing Memory. Then he laughed, small at first, then building, growing more maniacal and chaotic in its tones. “Little human girl challenges the King Under the Hill to combat? Do you even know what it is you challenge?”

  Memory glanced across at Nyneve, who dipped her head in a small, encouraging nod. That gesture was familiar and more prickles ran along her scalp and skin. “If I win, the Brand will be removed from my friends. I’m also asking that if I win, you release us all from your court.”

  “Sweetening the gamble for yourself? What for me then, if I win?” Finvarra asked, then answered for himself. “Yes, if I win, I keep you all. What a fine trophy a human queen will be! Let the humans see the proof of unseelie dominance in this world. You will be my toy for eternity, or whatever is left of it for us.”

  And there it is. Memory sneered. He did want her after all. This must have been his plan, trying to lure her into this challenge so he could claim her legitimately. But did he really think he could beat her? He was a fae, so she knew he would be faster and stronger than her, but he seemed so fragile and old, and at least partly mad. Memory had her fair share of fights, and could now remember many times she’d taken on more than a few larger bullies at a time. With the extra sword training she’d had from Roen, maybe she could take Finvarra in a fair fight. If that was what this would be.

  “There can be no magic,” Memory said. She had seen the magic Providence possess
ed, using behests as freely and powerfully as Eloryn. She couldn’t allow Finvarra to turn that on her now, while she had no magic of her own she could use.

  “Of course not!” Finvarra growled. “I know the laws of the challenge. Do you?”

  Well, no, actually.

  Nyneve stepped forward then, speaking up before Memory had to embarrass herself. “The trial by combat to prove the innocence of the Branded is a duel to first blood. One on one armed combat with no magic.”

  Will squeezed Memory’s hand. “Let me take your place.”

  Finvarra snarled. “I will only fight the queen. I am being kind to even give her this chance.”

  “It’s all right Will, I can do this.” Memory squeezed his hand again in return then let go, stepping up onto the dais.

  Finvarra bent forward off his throne again, walking to meet Memory at the front of the raised floor. His smile was sinister and her scalp prickled again, a warning that something was still off—things were falling into place a little too neatly. He reached out an arm, and within moments a guard rushed forward, knelt, and presented Finvarra with a grand sword of fairy gold, almost as long as Memory was tall.

  Holy fuuuuuuuuuuuuuu… Whoa, just keep it together. You only have to nick the old goat.

  “You’ve taken away my weapon,” Memory said. “I need something to fight with.”

  “You fight with what you have,” Finvarra scoffed.

  Memory held up her fingers, showing off the blunt, chewed on nails. “I don’t have the same manicurist as you. How am I meant to draw blood?”

  “You were the fool to challenge me without a weapon so that is how you will fight. Unless anyone here would lend you theirs?” Finvarra cast a glance out over the sea of unseelie fae, and Memory knew by the look on their faces that no one would help her. Even Nyneve looked away, unable to risk helping her openly.

  Will came to her side. “It’s not much, but we have this.” He handed her the fairy gold dagger he had taken from Mina. It was barely bigger than her own knife, and she looked from it to the sword Finvarra held.

  “I guess it will have to do,” Memory said, letting her hands close around Will’s as she took the blade, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time she felt his touch.

  “You and your toothpick ready?” Finvarra chuckled, showing rows of gleaming, pointed teeth. He wanted to humiliate her, take away the magic he’d filled her with. He wanted everyone to watch her being beaten and her friends dying. The unfairness, the utter cruelty of it made her stomach churn. Still, she didn’t want to fight him. He was weak, dying from the absence of magic, and it showed. He hated her, and she was disgusted by him and his ways, but did it have to come to this?

  It was too late though, it had come to this. Memory gave him a tight smile. “Bring it, old man.”

  Any confidence in her cocky statement fell apart as Finvarra’s sword swung at her with ferocious speed. A shriek escaped from Memory as she jumped backwards.

  The fairy gold knife felt heavy and slippery in her hand. It was hard to hold onto, and its unfamiliar weight and curve made it difficult for her to concentrate, although it became clear at once that she needed to.

  Finvarra moved like a different creature. No longer crippled and slow, though still with an arched back, he dashed and spun. His hands were a blur as he came after Memory, twisting the sword like a propeller. His laughter hung around the room as she back-stepped, skirting and circling around the dais. She tried to get a grip on her knife and fight back, but could barely regain her footing as she stumbled away from Finvarra’s onslaught.

  Why did I think I could do this? It’s all I can do to stay alive.

  Memory gasped again as the sword slashed the air in front of her face, and she felt the rush of air over her cheeks.

  He wanted to cut her face! That made her angrier. He not only wanted to beat her, he wanted to scar her and give her an eternal reminder of what she had lost. She heard Roen groan in pain and her resolve hardened, wiping away the fear taking over her.

  Think, think.

  Finvarra thrust and feinted. The sharp edge cut through Memory’s jacket but missed her flesh. She slipped to the right, her feet sliding on the cool floor.

  He’s fast, but the sword is still big, and heavy. It’s taking him a while to swing it, and he seems to be tiring.

  The pale gold blade swung to her left, lifted again, swung to her right.

  It’s also fragile. My knife is small, but maybe being more compact will mean it’s stronger.

  Memory stepped toward him, ducking under his arms as they came down so she could get behind him. His elbow clipped her shoulder, crushing hard against her skin and knocking her across to the throne.

  To her side, Memory could see Shonae pleading with Will and trying to hold him in place. Memory knew if Will stepped in, the fight would be over, and she could see in the pain on his face that he knew it to. He stayed where he was, every muscle in his body visibly taut and strained. Memory tightened her grip on her fairy gold dagger.

  Finvarra grunted with anger, turning around and coming after her again.

  As he raised his sword to strike, Memory widened her stance, steadying herself, then met his blade with hers.

  The sound of their weapons meeting clashed through the air, a high pitched jangle of breaking glass, and Memory’s arms ached from wrist to shoulder. Shards of sword rained down around her, barely missing her as they fell. The impact knocked her own knife from her hand and it spun away, out of sight under the throne.

  Finvarra roared and Memory looked up wildly. She’d been only half successful, with the bottom third of Finvarra’s sword still intact and dangerously jagged. And she’d lost her own weapon.

  I’ve lost.

  Finvarra lunged, and Memory moved close, blocking his arm with hers. Memory gritted her teeth and grabbed the throne for support, but as she pushed Finvarra’s arm away her feet went out from under her and she could not prevent the fall.

  Her head hit one of the crystal tree roots with a neck jarring crack. She managed to flip over on her belly and away from his next blow, which would have cut her deeply from shoulder to hip.

  Memory scrambled to her feet, blindly stumbling across the dais and crashing into Nyneve where she had remained, watching the combat.

  Nyneve clutched at her arm, painfully hard, steadying her. “Take it,” she whispered, and held a knife between them, obscured by the sleeve of her dress.

  Memory snatched it instantly, and Nyneve let her go, pushing her back into the fray. A warmth and strength of adrenaline filled Memory. Maybe she still had a chance.

  She spun faster than she ever had before, trying to catch Finvarra off guard before he realized she had her knife back. She swung her arm in a wide arc and the blade in her hand sang through the air.

  She felt it meet his flesh.

  The barest of cuts, but that was all she needed.

  I did it. Memory’s heartbeat pounded through her, ringing in her ears as she finally stilled.

  Finvarra froze in place, arms still lifted, broken sword in the air. A deep howl built in his throat, echoing across the room.

  The line near his neck where Memory had cut him smoked and fizzed. Black blood gushed out from his flesh and his face went the color of dead ashes.

  “What’s wrong?” Memory gasped.

  Finvarra crumpled, his knees cracking onto the floor, face twisted in pain. He screeched and groaned, clawing at the floor as the life poured out of him.

  “What have you done?” Around the room, the unseelie fae cried and wailed.

  The blade felt warm in Memory’s hand, and her heart turned cold. In the midst of combat, she thought it was just the adrenaline, just the ache in her beaten hand, that made it feel warm. She thought the blade she held, the blade Nyneve gave her, was the fairy gold knife she’d dropped on the floor.

  Memory looked at the blade in her hand, feeling dazed.

  It was her own iron flick knife.

  Memory pleaded, �
��I didn’t know…”

  Her words were lost in the furor.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Finvarra began to thrash about, his face growing grayer and his body shriveling. Horror filled Memory. A black cloud rose from the fallen unseelie king, twisting and writhing.

  The fae around the room closed in, jostling against each other as they crowded the dais.

  Where they hung from their webbed bonds, her friends also watched. Roen struggled weakly to free himself, and Memory could see the glint of a small blade working. He spoke to Eloryn, but she only looked at Memory, heartbreak all over her pale face.

  Memory looked to Nyneve for help, hoping she would come to her defense, or do something to save her dying father. Nyneve crouched over the body of the king that now lay still.

  “He is dead!”

  “Murderer!”

  “She used iron on our king!”

  The unseelie turned toward Memory, Will, and Shonae.

  “I did not help her. I was forced,” Shonae bleated, being pulled away from Will and into the crowd. The fae battered at her body with their fists and claws, shoving her further into the enraged mass.

  Memory jumped off the dais, wading into the fray, dodging as many blows as she could and warding fae away with her blade. Will fought his way through too and together they managed to drag Shonae out from under the bodies piling up on her. They bolted back to the throne, keeping their backs to the grand tree structure. Memory looked across to Eloryn again, separated from her by a sea of enraged black-eyed monsters.

  The white faun’s hair had been torn and her lip bloodied. Her eyes were wide with terror and she hobbled, clutching at Will for support. A harsh, gasping sound rasped through her lips and Memory realized she was crying.

  And with good reason. She had brought them there, brought the humans into her kind’s court, and now Finvarra was dead, by iron.

  Memory’s eyes went back to her weapon in her hand. How was this even possible?

  Nyneve…

  Nyneve had handed her the knife, the knife she’d left on the table at the entrance to the castle. Nyneve held it, and hadn’t been burned. How? A slow comprehension began to dawn, tingling in Memory’s bones like frostbite.