Nightingale

by David Farland

  Bron didn't know what to say to that. The situation sounded more and more insane, but she went on. "Bron, among my people, I'm what you would call an at-tujjaarah a'zakira, a memory merchant. I can borrow memories from others, or steal them completely, but I can also give you memories. Would you like to see how it works?"

  Bron nodded slightly, yet shrank away. He didn't really want to see how it worked. The very notion that it could work terrified him, but he didn't want her to know how frightened he was.

  "Come closer," she said. "I need to touch you, on the head."

  Bron drew closer, and Olivia leaned forward and grasped him by the forehead, her sizraels locking onto him. She placed her thumbs on his supra-orbital ridges, just above each eye. Then her fingers splayed out, her forefingers on his brow, and her little fingers resting on the very back of his skull. Her fingers felt cool, and suddenly there was a tingling sensation as electricity arced between them.

  Olivia held him for a moment, but nothing had changed. The cab of the Corolla was just as bright as it had been. The air carried that slightly new car scent.

  "So what is my name?" she asked.

  "Olivia. Olivia Hernandez."

  "And what is your name?"

  Bron opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He felt as if it was just on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't quite get it. "I... I can't—"

  "I'm sure you can remember your own name," Olivia said. "You've heard it a hundred times per day, for your whole life. What was it again? Carl? Sanjay? Bron? Miguel?"

  He shook his head. None of those names sounded familiar to him, or at least none sounded right. His mouth opened in astonishment, and he peered about, as if he might find a clue just floating in the air. "Give me a minute," he said. "I'll remember."

  "A minute?" Olivia said. "A minute wouldn't help. A year wouldn't help. You see, it's not up there anymore. I have it now. I own your name. I'm storing it right here." Olivia grasped his hands and raised them up, put them on her skull, way back up about four inches past her jaw.

  "Can you feel this bump here, on the back of my skull?" She held his hands there. "Those are called the secondary lobes," she said. "Humans have only two lobes to their brains, masaaks have four. Ages ago, when humans first evolved, that new brain of theirs, with its two lobes, was a huge evolutionary leap. It doubled their capacity to learn. Our brains, with their four lobes, are the next step.

  "You must never let a doctor give you a brain scan. They'd be baffled by what they'd find."

  He touched her lobes gingerly, but there wasn't much to feel. He had the same odd bumps, he knew. He might have thought that Olivia only imagined a physical difference, but he couldn't remember his own name, and he felt bewildered by that, shocked and confused.

  "Is this... some hypnotist's trick?" he wondered.

  He squinted and struggled to remember. Nothing would come.

  "Now," Olivia said, "I'm going to remind you of your name."

  She touched his head again in her way, and held him for an instant. Though her mouth did not move, she whispered his name into his mind, so that it exploded as if spoken by ten thousand voices. His name roared in his ears, and even his bones shivered.

  "Bron!" he shouted.

  Olivia smiled.

  A moment ago, he'd been struggling. Now the memory burst upon him so clearly, so naturally and profoundly that Bron felt elation. Tears came to his eyes. He sat blinking stupidly, mouth open, at the revelation of his own name.

  "You see," Olivia said. "I can take your memories from you, and I can return them. Or I can just sit and sort through them if I like, looking for information—even your deepest, darkest secrets. That's how I know what is happening to you. I know how your sizraels unsheathed yesterday, when you were talking to Galadriel. Anything that you know, any skill that you have, I can take it away from you. Anything that I know, I can share with you—within some limits."

  Bron's mouth had gone dry, and he licked his lips, took a deep breath. "What limits?"

  "Those lobes that you felt, they're very small. I can't hold all of the memories of even one person. So I have to specialize, pick and choose. I try to take only certain kinds of information, the kind that I love best."

  "I don't follow," Bron said. Outside, a hawk shrieked as it floated just above the field, trying to startle mice from hiding. Bron shivered.

  "The memories that I love best," she said, "are all about music. I've learned all that I can. I've borrowed knowledge from so many great minds.... I've even traded for it. There are others like me, you see, other memory merchants around the world. We form something of a 'living library' of knowledge and experiences. Would you like to know what Beethoven knew? Or Caruso? Or Michael Jackson? I can share that with you. Let me know a favorite composer, and I might be able to call a friend, get some of the memories that you're after."

  Nothing in his life had prepared Bron for this. "You, you said something about mythology," Bron said. "What are you really?"

  "Can't you guess?"

  Bron shook his head.

  "In the Mediterranean, we were called the 'Ael,' the speakers for the gods. We have been called many things—and most of the names have been lost in time—the shazaal, the massa, m'kithra—but you'll recognize some of the more-familiar names—'witches,' 'demons,' 'angels.'"

  "How can you be both angels and demons?" Bron asked.

  "Some of us are evil," Olivia replied. "Some of us feel nothing for humans, and use them mercilessly."

  "Like those guys that chased us?"

  "Yes," Olivia said. "Like them. Bron, the information that my people hold is very precious. There are tens of thousands of us hiding around the world. We're like ... a vast storehouse of information that you can't even imagine—math, history, philosophy. There are secrets we know, hidden from mankind for thousands of years. We're trying to save the world, make it a better place. But our enemies would destroy much of that, take what we know, and throw it away."

  "Why would they do that?" Bron asked.

  Olivia grew quiet. "That's not for me to answer, not now. You'll find out soon enough."

  She fell silent for a moment, then said, "In ancient Greece, they would have called me a muse, a goddess who comes to bestow the gift of music and inspiration."

  "Oh," Bron said. He felt dumbfounded, as if he might explode with this revelation. She knew what was going on in his mind. He remembered his training sessions in his dreams, and now he understood why he was suddenly... talented.

  "So," he wondered, "what do you want with me? Why are you telling me all of this? I mean, I could have lived here for years, and I never would have imagined something like this."

  "You're wondering why a muse would give her gifts to you?" Bron nodded. "I'm a teacher. That's what I do—spread knowledge, and hopefully help bring a little light, and joy, and beauty into the world."

  A white sedan pulled into the empty development and sat for a moment, blocking the exit. Olivia put her hand on the key, peered at the sedan through the rearview mirror.

  Bron feared that they'd been found. He studied the driver, a middle-aged woman with bad hair and pale skin. She peered about, as if lost, then backed out and drove away.

  Olivia let out a breath. Bron decided that there was nothing to worry about.

  Bron asked, "Does Mike know what we are?"

  Olivia shook her head. "No, and you must never tell him. He knows that he and I can't bear children, but he hasn't guessed at the reason, and I won't tell him. He ... did find out a couple of times. Before we got married, I made the mistake of trying to tell him. He became very frightened and upset, every time, and so I had to sneak into his room as he slept and take the knowledge."

  Now Olivia reached out, took Bron's hand gently, and gazed into his eyes.

  "That's another gift that I can bring you, if you want: forgetfulness. Are there any memories that trouble you, any dreams that wake you in the night?"

  "No," he said. Bron had more than his shar
e of painful memories, but he wouldn't want Olivia fooling around in his head.

  She smiled benevolently. "If you understood my powers, you might think better of that. The offer will always be open. If dark thoughts trouble you, I can offer relief."

  "I don't want anything from you," he said. "I don't need anything."

  Olivia recoiled just a bit, as if offended, and Bron regretted his words. "There's something that you need," she said. "You need to understand who you are, what you are."

  "How did you know that I was one of you?" Bron asked. "I mean, even I didn't know!"

  "There are signs. There aren't many of us, but I spot others from time to time. You've got an odd shape to your skull, rather boxlike. That was the first clue. But then I smelled you, and I knew. Male masaaks your age give off... a scent, pheromones that draw women. When you go into musth, it will attract every female who is ready to breed within miles."

  Bron had no idea what to think about that. "What do you mean, when I go into musth?"

  "In a year or so you'll be old enough for your first musth," she said. "Your scent right now, it's very ... uneven. But when it comes, it will be powerful... and dangerous. We call it flourishing. Just as a flower puts out its scent, so will you. I won't be able to be near you then.

  When I smell it beginning, I'll leave."

  "I don't understand," Bron said, though he suspected that he understood her all too well. "What will happen?"

  "You will begin to flourish, and any of our kind who taste your scent, any women who are fertile, will come to you. They'll smell it from miles and miles away. Do I need to make it any clearer?"

  "What if I go away, into the mountains or something?"

  "Then no one will find you. But the musth will come upon you again, and again, every six years or so. You mustn't fight it. If we're to survive as a species, you mustn't fight it."

  Bron grew thoughtful, and for a long time he didn't say anything. "If I'm a masaak," he asked, "then why haven't my sizraels ever come out before this? I mean, until a couple of days ago...."

  "Isn't that obvious?" Olivia said. "Someone erased some of your memories, the ones that let you know how to extend them. I suspect that it was your mother. She didn't have to take much, since you were only a child. Someone wanted you to live among the humans, learn to pass yourself off as one of them. We're different from them, you and me. If you had grown up with a masaak, it would only accentuate the difference in your mind. Some of our children learn to see themselves as superior to others. They grow up cold and cunning, without compassion. They see humans as animals to be herded and used."

  Bron felt confused, betrayed. "I can't believe that a mother would abandon her own child that way. I mean, I don't know how different a masaak is from a human, but even a crocodile loves her young."

  Olivia shook her head. "I can't guarantee that your mother loved you. Those people we saw Friday, they are masaaks, too. They're more than just a cult. They're more evil than you can imagine. The/re bred to be cold, dispassionate. The old man, he was training the young. Very often, their women mate in a frenzy, and then don't want to keep their young. So they give them to humans to raise.

  "It's called 'brood parasitism.' Just as some birds lay their eggs in other's nests, so do some masaaks. That boy that you saw at the store, Riley? He was one of them, a child left to be raised by humans. But such children are still precious to our enemies, and in time they will be gathered up by their masters."

  Bron wondered at this. He was cold and dispassionate, he knew. Or at least he could be that way. He'd learned to turn off any affection that he felt for most of the adults in his life. He'd loved the Stillman children, but in the end, he was able to turn even that off.

  "So," Bron said. "I come from some kind of a breeding program?"

  "Probably," Olivia said. "For thousands of years, your people have selectively bred for strength, speed, intelligence, and beauty. How well did you do in wrestling?"

  Bron shrugged. He didn't want to brag. "Fourth in state, for my weight division."

  "That's a relief," Olivia said. "If you were a purebred, there's no way that you would have placed only fourth."

  "Why is that a relief?"

  "Because it means that you're not completely evil. The evil masaaks ... think of their bodies as being like the hardware to a computer. They're bred to be cold, cunning, indifferent. If you were one of them, you would be... easily corrupted."

  Bron worried about that. He sometimes felt so distant from others, so ... broken. Now Olivia was suggesting that someone might have made him that way, left him broken on purpose.

  "But what about training," Bron said. "Some people say that nurture is more important than nature."

  "Imagine that I could take out your memories, your 'software,' and put in new ideas and attitudes—anything that I want. If I inserted the right propaganda, the right mix of hatred and cynicism and superiority, I could create something... completely evil, both on the genetic level, and on the nurturing side. Your friend Riley had that happen to him. That's what our enemies do."

  "So you think they'll come for me?" Bron asked. He was frightened by the thought, but Olivia was pale and shaking, and he wondered if he should be even more scared.

  "I think they should have come a year or so ago. You're growing quickly, and just as your body matures, so do your powers...."

  Bron felt intrigued by the possibilities. "I read a story about changelings once," Bron said. "The fey, the dark elves, put their beautiful babies in human cribs, and let the humans raise them."

  "Some fairytales come close to the truth," Olivia said. "That is but one name that we have been called, 'the fey.'"

  Bron had to ponder that. The word 'fey,' had so many undertones—powerful, dangerous, beautiful, and deadly.

  "The changeling grew up," Bron said, "and went to war with the fey."

  Olivia didn't say anything, but there was a hopeful look in her eyes. That's what she wants me to do, he thought, go to war with her enemies.

  "Bron," Olivia said. "That boy Riley came to school today, hunting for you. The secretary caught him in a lie, and told him that there was no one at Tuacahn with your name. Maybe she threw them off our trail, but you need to know, our enemies are looking for us now. We'll need to keep a low profile. Don't go into town. Try not to attract any more attention."

  "Okay."

  "And you need to know that the boy who was killed, it wasn't our fault. They hunted us. I threw the caltrops out of the car hoping only to disable their vehicle. If they hadn't been speeding, no one would have gotten hurt. If they had caught us, you can't imagine what they would have done."

  Bron considered that for a moment, nodded. But a thousand questions warred in his head. "So, do you think I can take people's memories, too?" It seemed like a tremendous power, greater than anything that he had ever conceived.

  It also seemed absurd. Everything that Olivia had said was warring in Bron's mind. He couldn't process it fast enough, and yet, he had to believe her.

  "Not all of us can take memories, or grant new ones," Olivia replied. "We will have to perform some tests with you, begin training. But I think that you're not a memory merchant, like me. I think you're something far rarer. Mrs. Stillman said that you sucked the energy from her at your last home. Your social worker was quite amused by that accusation. It could be madness talking, or she could be right, in a way. Yesterday, you rejected Galadriel, and she just curled up in a ball and quit breathing and all but died. And Mr. Lewis, back when you were a child, he curled up and died, too."

  "I've never heard that," Bron said.

  Olivia paused. "It's in the state's records. I think that you're a danger to those that threaten you. You're what we call an asufaak arru'yah, a dream assassin."

  "A what?" Bron demanded.

  "A dream assassin. It's a rare kind of masaak, the very rarest. With my powers, I can access many parts of the brain, but not all. I pull memories out of the cerebral cortex. I can even t
rain neural pathways. But a dream assassin can go into a place that I never see, deep into the amygdala. He can draw out... hopes, desires, and ambitions from those around him. He can use them as fuel to shape his own goals."

  "I couldn't have done that," Bron said. "I never touched any of those people!"

  "A very powerful dream assassin wouldn't need to touch them," Olivia said. "Your will alone could have sapped them, even from a distance. Among every breed of masaak, there are some who can sap others from afar. We call them leeches. I think that you're not only a dream assassin, you're a powerful leech."

  "Wow," Bron said sarcastically, "an assassin and a leech. Can you think of anything else to call me?"

  Olivia smiled through tight lips. "We've been using these appellations for thousands of years. Among our people, they don't have negative connotations. Far from it. Leeches are revered, and dream assassins ..." She changed the subject. "Think about this, Bron: each one of these people gave you reason to fear or dislike them. You saw Mr. Lewis as a threat to your mother, and how did he die? He lost the will to live. He simply curled up in a ball and quit breathing—just as Galadriel will, unless you learn how to control your powers!"

  Bron took a deep breath in surprise. "I wasn't trying to hurt her! I never wanted to hurt anyone!"

  "I know," Olivia said. "Don't blame yourself. It's a natural defense mechanism, like an adder striking by instinct when surprised. We're going to have to go to Galadriel. You'll need to return what you took—by accident. You're going to have to give her the will to live."

  Bron considered. "What if I give Galadriel too much ... ambition? I might end up like her, without the desire to do anything at all."

  "No, you wouldn't," Olivia said. "You would simply save yourself. You'd leech the will from others around you."

  He considered this for a long moment, then said, "Why should we bother with her? Why not let her die?"