Spirit Binder

by Meghan Ciana Doidge

  The scars were faint, older, but still she had no memory of events that would cause such permanent damage.

  She needed clothing. The cotton shift she was currently wearing was fine underneath a down duvet, but exceedingly lightweight for wandering around a castle at night, whether it was spring or summer.

  She crossed into the bedroom and paused to cover Peony with a woven blanket off the foot of the bed. She looked cold as well. She hesitated after pulling the blanket across Peony, thinking of touching her mind, but not wanting to be invasive … maybe just a little peek, just to figure out … Oh! Peony was a healer, which explained her presence, as well as Peony’s obvious exhaustion. Peony had healed her, and possibly even faded the scars she hadn’t wanted to dwell on in the mirror. She remembered the pain in the tunnel, and all the blood. She wondered how much of it had been her own. Either weeks had passed or Peony was a very powerful healer. Though she still felt like she was missing pieces. Perhaps she’d left them in the tunnel?

  She shook off the feeling before it had too much of a hold on her, and focused on the clothing in the wardrobe, which seemed to only consist of dresses. These completely impractical dresses — though why she thought they were impractical she didn’t know — were too tight around her arms and too loose around her waist and hips. This only served to accent the oddly firm musculature of her body. Eventually she found a sweater, beautifully handcrafted in undyed black cashmere, and layered it along with a brown silk dress. She had an inkling that her mother wouldn’t approve of the color match, but didn’t worry about it too much, seeing as she had to rip the seams of the short sleeves open to wear it, and that was certainly a far worse crime in her mother’s eyes. At least her shoe size hadn’t changed.

  She set out to explore the castle.

  ∞

  The carpet was following her … either that or she was slowly going mad, which was always a distinct possibility for a traumatized mind mage. Though, she was probably a little young for her brain to start collapsing.

  As she wandered the quiet halls of the castle, peeking into rooms and avoiding populated areas such as the kitchen, she glanced back to find the carpet always a few feet behind her. She never saw it move; she tried to corner it in the library, but it was wily enough to stay at the one and only entrance. Upon closer inspection, it was still speckled with her blood, which added an unevenness to one area of the ornate woven design, but blended with the overall color palette. It didn’t seem to mind when she stood on it.

  Other than the carpet, nothing had changed in the hallways or common areas of her childhood summer home, but then nothing had changed here for easily a hundred years.

  At some point in her wandering, she became aware that Peony had woken. She felt the energy of the castle shift. Peony was indeed a powerful healer. Once they realized she’d left her bedroom, she could feel a small group of people gather and begin tracking her. She wasn’t ready to be around people just yet. She’d deliberately slipped by the guards outside her bedroom door. It was a mean trick, masking her presence in their minds, and probably wouldn’t have worked if they hadn’t already been tired, but the complexity of conversing with people and all their inherent games was something that had never interested her. She wasn’t actually sure of her ability to communicate at all. She just needed a bit more time. Maybe if she had enough time she could find all the pieces she seemed to be missing. So, she retreated into the west wing of the estate.

  No one followed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Though the west wing was hardly ever used, she remembered it being readied for her sixteenth birthday celebration like it was yesterday. Hundreds of guests were difficult to accommodate even in a castle the size of Hollyburn, so only the dignitaries were invited to stay. The other guests would have stayed in town or with her mother’s nearest vassals. The only other time she remembered such a large gathering of people, and even then it would have been half the size, was for her Rite of Passage when she’d turned eleven. Though her Spirit Reading was completely redundant even then. Supposedly, her mother, who wasn’t even a prophecy reader, had known everything there was to know about her daughter from the moment of her birth. It was a story she got terribly tired of hearing.

  Now, as if much time had passed overnight, and she guessed that it had, given Peony’s and her appearances, the furniture was covered with cloths, even though a simple cleaning spell could make quick work of years of dust accumulation. The sconces were empty of candles, so it was smart she’d thought to bring her own. Though, really, she’d known she was heading this way so she couldn’t praise her resourcefulness too much. She was just desperately grasping at any indicators of sanity and stability.

  Long runners of jasmine coiled, often unchecked by the gardeners, around the carved stone columns of a third-floor balcony. It often felt warmer here at night. The sun had just left the stone bench, and it was still slightly warm to the touch. The vestiges of the sunset tinged the now dark-blue sky. To the northwest, mountains continued up the coastline. She settled and tried to focus on just breathing in the scent of the night-blooming jasmine. She’d unsuccessfully tried to transplant the flowers to her own balcony last year … rather … several years ago now. This had always been a place of comfort, a spot of peace, and she wondered, once again, who had occupied these rooms before, and whether or not it was their residual energy, their spirit, that welcomed and settled her here.

  She tried to not think of all the changes she’d seen in the mirror and how those changes didn’t match the memories in her head. Answers would come, as soon as she knew what questions to ask. Her mother usually demanded well-formulated queries, so as to not be overwhelmed, or, more likely, simply annoyed, by a chaotic mind. She also tried to not wonder at the power she felt within her grasp. She could feel every life force that moved within the castle. She could pinpoint every person she already knew and, if it wasn’t terribly rude, she could probably invade any of their minds and take the answers she sought — unless they were well-shielded — either by a charm or a spell or their own natural magic.

  She should’ve been overwhelmed by it all, all this power, all these bright spots, all the spirit within reach, but she wasn’t. She could turn it on and off at will. She could be almost completely alone, except for the most powerful of spirits, such as her mother, who could never be completely ignored. None of this ability had even remotely been in her understanding when last she remembered …

  Then there was him, who moved steadily toward her as if he could track her presence, even though he wasn’t a mind mage; she could tell that much, though she had no other idea what his gifts might be.

  He’d arrived by horse, abandoned the Beast, as he called it, to a groom, and ignored every caution that stood in his way on his path from the entrance to the west wing.

  Her mother seemed almost amused by his arrival and shooed the helpful servants from hindering his progress further. Though perhaps it wasn’t amusement she picked up on, but an understanding that no one, not even her mother, could control what he chose to do or not do, so it was easier to just let him be. Though she wouldn’t have thought that her mother ever chose a path because it was easy. He had a forceful independence about him. It was stitched into his energy.

  Not that she saw any of this interaction. She just knew it, even felt it, like she could feel the castle surrounding them, protecting them from outside forces and elements … like she could feel the sleepy energy of the herd of cashmere goats in the field just beyond the castle walls … like she could feel the family of mice in the stable and count their newborn, hungry babies —

  He’d found her, but he did not speak.

  She stood from the bench; she’d gathered all the warmth it had to offer, and crossed to look out over the balcony. The scent of jasmine wafted as she disturbed it with her passing. She expected questions from this stranger, who stood silently behind her; his presence more powerful than even her mother’s, though that could be due to pro
ximity. She didn’t know what magic he wielded, but it must be rare.

  Still, he didn’t speak. He just leaned in the doorway and watched her, or perhaps he was enjoying the view of the full moon hovering over the mountains.

  She broke the silence first, her voice husky from lack of use. “Do you know me?”

  “Not how you mean,” he answered, without prolonged thought. His tone was smooth, cultured.

  “Do you know how old I am?” She turned so he could see her face in the moonlight.

  He looked surprised by her question and thought about his answer this time. “Some people … we celebrate your birth … on the summer solstice … next month.”

  “Yes, I remember. And for how many years will these people have been celebrating my birth, next month?”

  He hesitated again, as if he sensed a trap. As if he sensed the panic and terrible loss lapping against the serene surface of her skin. “Twenty-six years,” he finally answered, and chose in the same moment to step forward, closer to the moonlight. So, as the realization of all the years she’d lost threatened to rip through the peaceful cocoon the evening sunset had provided, she also got her first look at him.

  He, like everyone else, looked familiar, but more in a familial line sort of way … he looked a little like the Chancellor of the NorthWest, except for the skin coloring. His son perhaps. Handsome, ruggedly refined.

  Ten years.

  She’d lost ten years.

  Concern etched his chiseled, caramel-skinned face. His dark golden hair fell over his blue-green eyes. He needed to trim it, before it interfered with his sight lines in a fight … though why he’d be in, or even need to be in a sword fight, she didn’t know.

  “Are you well?” he asked.

  She couldn’t stop staring at him. If she only looked at him, if she only absorbed every detail, she wouldn’t need to disintegrate over the missing ten years of her life. But … it was impolite not to answer. “I’m … I’ve woken up,” she offered, which didn’t even begin to explain any part of the raging loss that undulated through her like bouts of nausea.

  “Yes, I believe the entire world felt you wake,” he inexplicably answered. He was dressed for horseback; cloaked with riding boots. His clothes expensive, new, though the boots were broken in, so he actually rode for more than just show. Why that mattered to her, she didn’t know.

  “And what are you to me?” she finally asked, finally questioned his obvious right to stride through her mother’s household unimpeded. His right to approach her unguarded and unchaperoned.

  He smiled in a way that let her know she wasn’t going to like the answer. “They said you were experiencing memory lag.”

  “Memory lag? That’s a nice way of encompassing the terror of missing ten years.”

  He tilted his head as if assessing the terror she calmly claimed. He hadn’t answered her question.

  “Do we know each other?”

  “We’ve never met.”

  “But here you are.”

  “I came as quickly as I could.”

  “Was it a long journey?”

  “Yes, non stop. The Beast wasn’t happy with me. I haven’t eaten. Would you join me for dinner?”

  “I never dine with people whose names I do not know.”

  “Hugh Madoc, forever in your service.”

  Lord Hugh Madoc. Indeed, he was the son of Chancellor Madoc, who oversaw the entire NorthWest under her mother’s ever-watchful eye, and — it just so happened — predestined to be her betrothed.

  ∞

  Their parents, or, most likely, her mother specifically, kept them apart for sixteen years. They were born within months of each other. He was first, born under a prophecy that foretold her birth; and, then, she was second, born under a completely different prophecy. It was exceedingly rare for a babe to be born under prophecy, though that might just be the case of not having a prophecy reader present at every birth. Chancellor Madoc was a prophecy reader, the foremost interpreter in the country. Though, since the Chancellor was Hugh’s father, Rhea had her and Hugh’s prophecies reread at various points in their lives, just for verification … not because she disliked being under obligation to the Chancellor or having her daughter’s alliances so predetermined, not at all …

  She and Hugh were to have met on the eve of her sixteenth birthday, but that meeting, obviously, never took place.

  It seemed, ten years later, the least she could do was dine with him … if she didn’t suddenly find herself chafing at the idea of her life partner being preselected, and abruptly demanding her attention. Funny that it bothered her now when it had just been the accepted plan only twenty-four hours ago … in her mind … ten actual years had passed. If she needed proof of that passage of time, all she had to do was look at the little scars that marred her hands …

  He didn’t speak. Didn’t try to offer his opinion or condolences. Didn’t ask her where she’d been; perhaps he knew?

  She lifted her eyes from her hands to his face, which was partly obscured in moonlight shadow again, but he was completely unreadable.

  All of a sudden, she felt too tired to play political games to get answers. Information was power in her mother’s household. It didn’t occur to her that Hugh might have different allegiances. Why would he? Her mother was the most powerful person in the land, perhaps even in the world.

  “Tired,” she spoke without really intending to do so.

  “Yes, I gather you weren’t expected to wake so soon. I understand your wounds were extensive. Shall I escort you?” He offered his arm, which gave her pause. He was actually volunteering to touch her … perhaps to enforce a bond between them …

  “I already have a loyal follower.” She indicated the carpet, which currently occupied a spot just inside the balcony. “But I guess I have little say in regard to your presence here.”

  Hugh’s back stiffened and she almost regretted being so harsh so suddenly.

  “You could just disappear for another ten years.”

  “Run away? From you? Is that what I did?”

  “Kidnapping was the official story.”

  “But you believe otherwise.”

  “You walked back in on your own.”

  “Did I?”

  He didn’t seem to have an answer, or perhaps he just didn’t wish to continue the conversation. She could force it, break through whatever shields the son of a noble, the son of one of the only people to whom her mother was at all beholden, must wear. No matter how mighty or expensive those shields were, she knew, without even testing, they wouldn’t keep her out of his mind. The knowledge startled and scared her … that she would suddenly be so powerful …

  Instead, she just watched him. Even in this low light she could see he was struggling with something. Perhaps he didn’t want to be here himself. Perhaps only obligation drew him … why else would he be here? She was being silly … a spirit prophecy wasn’t something simply turned on and off, or even ignored. She should know better, did know better …

  Still, she was tired and getting cold. Hugh’s presence was an added confusion rather than a comfort.

  “You don’t understand,” he began to try to explain, but all she could see was that he was ill at ease, that she’d been unkind, and suddenly she didn’t want to think or talk.

  “I understand. Thank you for coming. Your loyalty and faithfulness have been noted and appreciated, but now you must excuse me.” She’d said the wrong thing, phrased it incorrectly, but his look of confused pain was quickly replaced by a neutral, pleasant demeanor. He’d play along. He stopped looking her in the eye and started addressing her left shoulder — a deference she’d forgotten about and certainly hadn’t missed — at least she didn’t think she would have missed it, if she could remember the last ten years.

  “As you wish, my lady.” He stepped aside to allow her to pass.

  She thought about trying to fix it, starting over from the beginning, but she was just
so tired and confused. Her shields were beginning to erode and the castle was so very full of so many different spirits; their energy constantly tested her. Tomorrow, she’d figure it all out tomorrow.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, before she remembered she wasn’t actually supposed to thank people lower in rank.

  She stepped by him on to the carpet. He kept his face averted, but, her own eyes downcast, she could see he was clenching his hands into fists at his sides.

  The carpet felt warm and comforting, even through her shoes. She paused, and, with her shield so dangerously compromised, she could feel Hugh behind her, his presence so near and suddenly so overwhelming … or maybe it was just the effort she was exerting to keep him at a distance —

  “Princess!” Hugh sounded alarmed … oh … she’d lost a bit of time, momentarily swept away into the surrounding energy … she was still on her feet … still on the carpet …

  She swayed again. Hugh stepped closer, but he didn’t touch her.

  “Lord Madoc?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “I won’t be able to make it to my rooms unassisted.”

  “I see, my lady. Shall I ring for help?”

  She swayed again, and, this time, she reached out to find something to steady herself on. She found Hugh’s arm; for all his play at formality, he’d stepped forward to catch her. The instant her hand grasped his forearm she felt a little more grounded. Her thumb lay across the bare skin of his wrist. She could feel his steady pulse. She suddenly knew — if she opened herself up to it — she’d feel the connection between them. But even tired and wounded and confused, she didn’t want to just submit. Prophecy or not, she’d find her own answers, and carve her own path. She wondered, even as she moved her hand up to a more respectable placement on Hugh’s forearm, where all this willpower and determination had come from, or whether she’d had it all along.

  “I don’t believe I will faint.”

  “That is good, my lady.”