by Troy Denning
The sword he grasped by the scabbard.
The magic glow blinked out of the gold and a strange prickling shot up his arm. He screamed and tried to drop the weapon and found he could not. A yellow fog was forming behind his eyes, filling his head as a cloud fills a mountain valley; the smell of ash was yielding to the fragrant tang of salt pine, the parched air was growing moist on his skin, and a voice was speaking to him over the ramble of distant waves.
"One of your fathers left those for you." The figure of a tall, handsome woman appears in the fog; her honey-brown tresses are bound by a princess's circlet, and her sad face stirs the Thrasson in a way that the face of no other woman ever has. "How I have prayed you would not find them;
Hera help me, now I must send you away!"
"To where?" the Thrasson gasps. The woman is all he can see, and it is more than he can do to tell whether she stands within his mind or without. "Who are you?"
Tears well in the woman's eyes. She spreads her palms and embraces the Amnesian Hero. "Is it possible? Can a son forget his mother?"
This cannot be; that woman is no memory of mine. What is she doing in the amphora Poseidon sends to me?
The Amnesian Hero stole her from me, that is what. Periphetes was to be mine, but the Thrasson stole him and killed him, that is what. The memory became his, that is what, and now it is forever lost to me, and might that memory be of the one who paid the bride's price for my heart?
Would I be lost then, or safe?
No bride can long stand fast against he who holds her heart; let him come softly in the night, and surely she will open herself to him, whoever he may be, to be ravished or sacked as he pleases. And afterward, what then? An eternity of drudgery and servitude, if he is wicked; oblivion, sure and quick, if not.
Better to know the beast now, to prepare my defenses before he comes pounding at my gates. There may be time to change what is done; there may be time, if I dare, to steal what has been bought, to shut what has been opened, to save what is lost.
And what of the Thrasson, standing there in his mother's embrace? His strength will tell. He knows what is right and what is wrong; he will choose his own punishment.
"Mother, who am I?" the Thrasson asks. The yellow fog that filled his mind earlier is now swirling about outside his head; it has lost its color and changed into a haze of windblown dross. The ash has coated his body, glued there by the sweat of his fever, and the air has grown parched with heat and acrid bitterness. "Tell me my name; I have been lost and cannot remember."
"I am not your mother, Zoombee." The voice was weak and raspy. "My head, she hurts too much for this."
Still clutching the sword he found beneath the massive stone corpse of Periphetes, the Thrasson pushed the woman back to arm's length. In place of the regal face of his mother, he saw the twilight visage of Jayk the Snake.
"What became of her?" The Amnesian Hero released the tiefling and pivoted in a circle, desperately searching for his mother's silhouette. He saw Silverwind kneeling over Tessali's crooked knee, but no sign of the woman who had told him about the sandals and sword. "Where did she go?"
"Who?" Jayk asked.
"My mother!" The Thrasson shook the golden sword at her. "She came to me when I touched this!"
"You are scaring me, Zoombee." Jayk backed away, her hands pressed to the sides of her head. Her legs were shaky, and she seemed in danger of falling. "I came to you. You awakened me with your scream."
"Forgive me. I don't mean to yell."
Still feeling flushed, the Amnesian Hero opened the wineskin and took a long drink. His hands were quivering, his heart pounding, his thoughts whirling. He knew the woman who had come to him; whether or not she had actually been standing there before him, he recognized the smell of her honey-brown hair, the warmth of her arms enfolding his body, the smack of her lips kissing his cheek. He remembered her.
"Perhaps she wasn't here in the passage," the Thrasson said, "but I did see my mother."
Jayk rolled her eyes up under her brow and, without taking her hands from her aching head, gave the Thrasson a skeptical look. "I thought you could not remember your past, Zoombee."
"It was a vision-or a memory." The Amnesian Hero thrust the golden sword into his belt, then pointed at the amphora, still lying near Silverwind and Tessali. "It came from there, along with the giant."
"How can that be?" demanded the tiefling. "Poseidon would not send your memories to the Lady of Pain. It must be intended for her, yes?"
"No! I remembered the woman. She was my mother."
From up the passage came the shaip crackle of Silverwind straightening Tessali's injured knee. The screech tfiat followed drowned out even the howling wind, prompting the Amnesian Hero to worry that it would reverberate through the conjunction. He clumped over to the bariaur's side.
"We should move on, if it is safe for Tessali."
"I'm feeling… better already." The elf sounded a little stronger, but his face remained pale with anguish. "And moving is safer than waiting here for the monster."
Silverwind gathered Tessali up. "I imagine this one will survive a short move."
The Amnesian Hero nodded, then stooped down to pick up the amphora.
"We need no more… giants," gasped Tessali. "Leave it!"
"That I cannot do. Poseidon charged me deliver this amphora to the Lady of Pain." The Thrasson lifted the jar and slipped the sling over his shoulders. Even that effort seemed to make him hotter and thirstier. "And, just as importantly, I think it has my lost memories."
"Pah! Those memories, they are the Lady's." Jayk tottered over to join them, reeling as though she might fall unconscious any moment "You only think they are yours."
The Amnesian Hero steadied her. "I know my own mother."
"Then you tell us about her, yes?"
"Of course." Still supporting the wobbly tiefling, the Thrasson led the way toward the archway beneath Periphetes's bent knees. "She is a beautiful princess, with olive skin and honey-brown hair."
"And?"
"And what? I only saw her for a moment."
"I fear Jayk… could be right." Tessali, still being carried in Silverwind's arms, was close behind the Amnesian Hero. "If this is truly your own memory, you should recall more. Her name, perhaps."
They reached Periphetes. The wind was squeezing under the giant's bent legs with a chugging roar, blasting ash into their faces and threatening to sweep them from their feet. The Thrasson scooped Jayk into his arms, then pinched his eyes shut against the stinging dross and ducked through the archway. Hard as he tried, he could not drag his mother's name from the depths of his mind. He recalled only what he had learned during his vision.
A few steps later, the gale diminished to a bluster. The Thrasson opened his eyes, blinked away a flood of sweat, and, through the billowing haze ahead, saw the dark mouth of a side passage. He still could not remember his mother's name.
"What of… the name?" asked Tessali.
"If I say I saw my mother, then I saw my mother!" The Amnesian Hero scowled over his shoulder. "And even if I am wrong, I am still bound to deliver this amphora to the Lady of Pain!"
Tessali could only shake his head. "It is no wonder… we are in the mazes."
"I would not wish anguish on anyone, elf, but I liked you better when you were too pained to speak."
Too hot and drained to continue carrying Jayk, the Amnesian Hero returned her to the ground and, still supporting her with an arm, clumped into the side passage. This corridor looked much the same as the one from which they had come, with high, powdery walls and a whirling ash haze that at times reduced visibility to an arm's length. Being careful to stay within Silverwind's sight, the Thrasson worked his way along the wall, taking first two right turns, then shifting to the opposite side of the passage and taking three lefts. At last, they stopped to rest in a short dead-end blind where, with no wind howling down the passage, the ash remained on the ground.
The Thrasson wiped the sweat off his fac
e, only to find fresh runnels pouring down it before he finished. He took a long drink of wine – it tasted cooler than before – then offered the skin to his companions. "Does anyone want some before I go?"
"Go?" Jayk clutched his arm. "Where?"
The Amnesian Hero pointed up the short passage, to where a curtain of blowing ash marked the corridor from which they had just come. "Someone's got to keep watch."
"No wine… for me," said Tessali. "And you shouldn't…"
"I've told him so." Silverwind, already examining one of the elf's wounds, did not look up as he spoke. "But he is a stubborn one. No need to worry, though; I imagine that fever of his will knock him out soon."
"You imagine wrong, Silverwind." The Thrasson turned to clump toward the intersection. "When you finish with Tessali, I will be waiting."
"And I will be with him," said Jayk. "Maybe some wine will take the bite off this headache."
"It would be better to wait until I can imagine some water." Silverwind looked up from Tessali's wound. "With that head injury, I fear wine could undo you."
Jayk whirled on the bariaur. "Life is an illusion, but this pain is not!" She pursed her lips and spewed a plume of damp ash in the general direction of the bariaur's hooves. "I spit on your water!"
The Amnesian Hero passed the wineskin to the tiefling. "Jayk, it is good to have you with us again."
They went to the intersection together. The Thrasson slipped the amphora off his back and leaned it against the ash wall, then sat down amidst the eddies of dross swirling in from the main corridor. He felt more overheated than feverish, and it seemed to him that the weakness in his muscles resulted more from thirst than illness. Nevertheless, when he reached around to touch the scratch on his side, he was surprised to feel how sore it was, and how hot it seemed under his fingertips.
The tiefling settled in beside him, and they sat quietly for a time, passing the wine back and forth, washing the dross down with long sips of sweet ambrosia. When they had both drank their fill, Jayk pushed the stopper into the mouth of the wineskin. She placed the sack between them, then braced her elbows on her knees and held her head between her hands.
After a time, the tiefling said, "Tessali, maybe he is right." She picked up an ash clod and tossed it at the amphora. "You should throw that jar over the wall."
The Thrasson was glad he was not drinking at the moment, for he would have spewed a mouthful of good wine onto the ground. "Jayk, what's wrong with you? Better than anyone, you know why I can never do that."
The tiefling shot the amphora a black look. "You are so simple, Zoombee. Poseidon, he tricked you."
"Nevertheless, I promised to deliver the amphora to the Lady of Pain, not to cast it away in the mazes."
"What does your promise mean here?" Jayk thrust a hand skyward. "The Lady of Pain does not want the jar, and it is only trouble to us."
"It is more than that to me."
"Pah! That vision was meant for the Lady. Why would Poseidon put your memories in a gift to someone else?"
"I don't know-he promised to restore my memories after I delivered the amphora." The Thrasson found himself staring at the jar and, through an act of will, looked back to the main corridor. "Perhaps he wanted them to return to me when the Lady of Pain opened the jar. The gods enjoy spectacles like that, you know."
Jayk rolled her dark eyes, then winced at the pain it caused her. "If Poseidon wishes to impress someone, I think it is the Lady, not you."
Unable to argue with the tiefling's point, the Thrasson snatched the wineskin. "I can't explain why the vision came from the amphora, but I know it was my mother." He swallowed a mouthful of wine, then said, "Maybe what the amphora holds aren't memories, but spells that summon lost memories."
"Or maybe they are spells that make you think you remember what you don't, or maybe they are djinn tricksters, or maybe they are what could be but isn't," Jayk scoffed. "We don't know. You must throw that jar away before another giant gets loose. We have enough trouble."
"I would never think to hear you sound like Tessali." The Amnesian Hero raised his sweaty brow, unleashing a cascade of salty drips that had been gathering above his eyes. "You're scared!"
Jayk began to rub her forehead with the heels of her hands, but not quickly enough to hide the flash in her eyes. "Scared? Of what, Zoombee?"
"You tell me – I know you're not afraid of dying." The Amnesian Hero pointed at the amphora. "It's something in there."
The tiefling pulled her hands away from her face, and, a little too steadily, she locked gazes with the Thrasson.
"What is in the jar makes no difference to me; if you think it has your memories, why don't you open it?" She stood and stepped over to the amphora. "I will do it for you, yes?"
"No!" The Thrasson jumped to his feet. Jayk was scared; he knew that, though not as certainly as he knew she would pull the stopper just to prove him wrong. He grabbed her arms and drew her away. "You mustn't open it!"
"Why not, Zoombee?" Jayk's smirk was just broad enough to betray her relief. "I thought you wanted to know who you are."
"You know why you can't open it," the Thrasson growled. "No matter what the amphora contains, it's not mine to open."
"Too bad." Jayk thrust out her lip in an exaggerated pout, and that gesture was what betrayed her secret fear to the Amnesian Hero. "I know how important it is for you find out who you are."
"And why should that frighten you?" the Thrasson demanded. "Are you afraid that if I remember who I am, I'll forget about you?"
Jayk could not hide the force with which the question struck. Her pupils instantly took the shape of diamonds, and the tips of her fangs dropped into view. Her murky face grew even darker, though it was impossible to say whether in anger or sorrow, and she slumped to the ground.
"Jayk, you have nothing to worry about. I have promised to return you to Sigil." Had the Amnesian Hero not witnessed the deadly effects of her bite, he would have squatted down to embrace her. "By now, you must know I am a man of my word."
"Zoombee, I am not afraid of being forgotten; before we reach the One Death, we must forget all." The tiefling looked up; there were emerald tears welling in her eyes. "I am sad because you are going the wrong way!" Dream Girl
I thought him stronger than to sit ruby-faced with his salt-damp back to the ashen wall, wound fever burning in his eyes and a thief's craving smoldering in his soul. For an hour (or a day or a week or a minute, for all it matters to us or him) he has been sitting there, staring at those crocodile sandals and that golden sword, wondering: do I dare, and do I dare? He has walked the narrow streets and breathed the yellow fog; he has cracked the jar of memories and split the gates of Sigil and dared disturb the multiverse, and now he frets over a giant's booty?
Call him honorable, call him ethical if you like; it makes no difference to me. The Thrasson has taken himself to a place where there is only desire and action and consequence, and now he has gone off into the blinds to search for right and wrong and lost his way. There are no commandments or codes in the mazes; the madman who looks for guidance is more lost than the fool who does not; he imagines reasons to turn one w»y and not the other; he waits upon signs that have no meaning; he does not act for fear of offending deities that cannot see him and would not care if they could.
I call him a coward.
In the end, the Amnesian Hero will lace those sandals on his feet, and he will learn the name of his parent-but first he must agonize over his scruples. He must consider his honor and ask his gods for guidance, he must weigh the killing of the giant against his oath to deliver the amphora, and he must find sanction to claim the plunder. Until then, we are expected to wait while he deliberates, to watch through a mind clouded with fever and wine as he sits and thinks and argues-and I won't abide that kind of drivel.
So I will tell you now what will happen. The Thrasson will put the sandals on the ground, then he will bare one foot and set it upon a rugged sole. He will feel an uncomfortable sizzling in
the arch of his foot. A pair of ashen arms will sprout beside his ankle; they will take up the legging thews and wrap them about his calves, and a wispy voice will come on the wind:
"I offer you this advice, my son: when you reach the palace of King Aegeus, do not tell him at once whose blood flows in your veins. Say instead that you bear greetings and news from his friend in Troezen, King Pittheus. When he sees the sandals you wear and the sword that hangs at your side, he will ask where you came by them; if King Aegeus strikes you as a good and honorable man, you may tell him how you found them. In that manner, he will discover for himself that you are his son and will not doubt your claim to his city. But if King Aegeus seems a jealous and selfish man, you must tell him they are a betrothal gift from a granddaughter of King Pittheus; he will think I bore him a daughter and bear you no malice, and then you will be free to return home without fear of treachery or harm."
Thus will the Thrasson discover the name of one father.
He will cry out in joy. He will shake so hard that when he sets his brick foot upon the second sandal, he will almost lose his balance-but you will have to wait to learn what happens then. Now, the Amnesian Hero still sits against the ashen wall, seeking consent to do what we all know he will surely do; Jayk rests warm against his flank, as idle and silent as a corpse; Tessali is limping up the passage, one swollen knee as red and round as a blood melon.
"Go ahead." The elf has hung his shredded cloak over his shoulders, though the monster did not leave enough of the garment to conceal the stitch lines striping his slender torso. "There's nothing stopping you…"
"Stopping me from what?" The Amnesian Hero's voice had finally returned to normal, and if his tongue sounded a little thick, he felt sure that it had more to do with his fever than with the wine he had drunk. He swung his gaze back toward the adjacent passage and stared into the swirling cloud of ash. "I am only keeping watch."
