by Shea,Lisa
“Something solitary,” cut out Storm, an intense ache burrowing into her very soul.
Heather handed her a bucket along with a rag and oil. Soon Storm had found a quiet corner and was burnishing the woodwork, rubbing it gently until it shone. She threw herself into each new item with an absolute focus, willing herself to release the loneliness which haunted her. Despite her best efforts, it only seemed that the torment within her expanded, stretching into every corner of her being.
She worked her way down the hall as evening approached, and it was with surprise that she found herself nearing the door to the tower. Judging by the activity around her, it was the only area that had not yet been cleaned.
Storm hesitated for a moment, then gathered up her supplies. The whole keep needed to be clean. By all accounts the visitors would never be in this part of the keep, but if by happenchance they did end up there by accident, Storm did not want them to think ill of the staff for its state.
She took a candle from her woven basket, lit it, and set to work.
Storm first scrubbed the stairs up to the tower, which were dusty but otherwise easy to clean. Then she reached the landing and the door to the tower’s sole room. She hesitantly pushed open the door, gazing within. The room was dense with cobwebs and sparsely furnished. There was only a small wooden bench and an old loom tucked to one side.
She strode across the room in a few long steps and opened the window’s shutters to bring some air into the room. The window was fairly high; the ledge was near the level of her chest. She remembered what Falcon had said about his mother falling out of the window, and she was somber as she leant against the ledge. It certainly did not seem as if it could have been an accident. The poor woman must have been inconsolably desolate at the loss of her husband.
She had taken her own life.
Pain wrapped tight bands about her chest, and she stepped back from the window. Falcon’s mother had just tragically lost her beloved husband. Storm had some small sense of how the woman had felt, to lose the man you loved, you craved, you adored …
She turned away with a sharp shake of her head. She had to get the room clean and return back to her room. She took the rag and began clearing away the layer of dust on the bench.
A low voice sounded behind her, tight with pain. “Storm …”
Storm turned swiftly in surprise, her heart pounding.
Falcon stood in the doorway, a haunted look on his face.
It was all Storm could do to remain in place, to hold herself from running into his arms and wrapping herself around him. She craved him with every drop of blood in her body, with every ounce of air which drew into her lungs. His face shadowed with answering emotion, and she was almost lost.
At last his breathing slowed, and he looked around the room as if seeing it afresh. He gave himself a shake, his eyes going to the bench she had been cleaning. After a long moment, he nodded. “Yes, it is time,” he agreed hoarsely. “The room needs to be cleaned, and life needs to move forward.” His throat closed up, but he pressed on. “Soon the keep will have a new mistress, and the loom will be in use again.”
Storm shuddered at the painful stab which speared her heart. She craved with all her soul to be the woman he spoke of. The one who would loyally stay at his side; the one to weave a new future with him.
She turned away, moving to the window and looking out across the landscape. Tears welled in her eyes. She willed them away.
In a moment he had moved to stand alongside her. His voice was tight when he spoke. “You can see nearly the whole realm from this location,” he murmured. “Every village which depends on this keep for their protection.”
Storm breathed in his warm scent, trembling at his nearness. The pain was almost overwhelming, to think that soon she would be gone from this place forever. She wondered how his mother had felt, in those first days, absorbing the news that her husband was dead, that he would never return.
She glanced up at Falcon, taking in his shadowed face, his tense jaw. He had only been a child, and he had lost both his father and his mother. How had that loss been borne?
Her voice was soft when she spoke. “It seems ironic. You have memories which are painful, which you probably wish to forget. I do not have any memories at all. I wish desperately to remember them, even if they are extremely hard ones.”
Her eyes dropped to the ring on her finger, and she descended into a hollow emptiness, an ebony frustration that even this powerful symbol was a mere shadow in her mind. “I have lost part of myself. I worry that it will never return.”
Falcon shook his head, coming back from whatever distant land his mind had been lost in. “I admit that I would have thought your memories would have returned by now,” he agreed in a rough undertone. He glanced down at her with hooded eyes, then continued. “Maybe they will come back when you are home in North Walsham, back in familiar surroundings. It seems that the things you remember now are all based on actions, and on positions. It seems to be some sort of muscle memory, rather than visual memory.”
Falcon’s eyes sharpened, and he turned. He moved to the bench and dragged it with a sharp tug to sit beneath the window ledge.
“You remember through senses,” he mused. “So maybe the key to unlocking the dam would involve …” He looked between the bench and Storm.
“Earlier you remembered sitting by a window with the vase of reeds. Maybe recreating the scene will help your mind open that door and regain access to your memories.” He nodded at the bench. “Take a seat.”
Storm stepped forward, settling herself on the bench. Without conscious thought she turned sideways and pulled her feet up to rest on the bench. She did not resist, pulling her knees in close and closing her eyes. She could feel the cool breeze on her cheek; the air drifting in through the open window.
Falcon knelt at her side. “Release all conscious thought,” he advised her. “Just relax, and let your mind drift. Let this wall in your mind soften and release.” There was a long pause, and when he spoke again his voice was hoarse. “Imagine that you are the happiest you have ever been.”
Agonizing pain billowed within her at the thought of all she was about to lose. With effort she pushed it away and searched through her mind for something to replace it with. She went back to the day of their horse race, when she lay in the grass, the clouds drifting by above, Falcon’s tender face gazed down at her. Warmth eased through her, and she wrapped the sensation around her, drawing it close. She became lost in the feeling.
Falcon’s voice drifted into her consciousness, a bare whisper. “Where are you?”
Storm was at peace. The breeze easing through the window tickled along her cheek. A scene began to paint itself, at first with hesitant, faint brush strokes. As she relaxed into it the colors were added - the rich blues and the warm browns. She let it come at its own pace. She drew in the strength of the memory, basking in the warm pleasure at regaining a piece of her lost self.
“I am in a high tower of my home,” she whispered, afraid to dispel the image. “My secret hideaway; my private sanctuary.” There was a familiar leather feel in her hands, and she knew at once what it is. “My poetry codex. I practically have it memorized,” she murmured, a gentle smile stealing to her lips. “I would come here to read it, to soak in the golden rays. I could lose myself for hours here.”
Falcon was still, not saying a word, letting her memory unfold at its own pace.
She glanced down at her hands, and found there was no ring, that her fingers were small, fresh with youth. “I must be young,” she mused. “Perhaps eight? It seems I should not be here today. My father insisted I wait downstairs, in the hall. But I could not resist. I could never resist the lure of my tower room. I curled up within the thick draperies and was lost to the world.”
It seemed that there was shouting. She turned her head, staring out the window, her eyes not seeing the landscapes that spread there but a long-lost vision. A woman was streaming toward her on a horse, in full ga
llop.
She rose to her knees, her mouth going round in surprise.
“Mother? Where is her carriage? What is wrong?”
Another movement. Four men in rough leather armor were thundering after the woman, their horses closing.
Storm grabbed a hold of the sill with both hands, her voice rising in panic. “Watch out!” she screamed, her eyes wide, seeing nothing, lost in the past. “Mother! Watch out!”
The bandits engulfed her mother in a flurry of steel, and Storm was screaming, screaming …
Strong arms wrapped tightly around her, drawing her in against a broad chest, and still she screamed, the sound echoing around her. Tears flooded from her eyes, soaking the fabric of Falcon’s tunic. The vision of her mother’s brutal murder burned into her, the memory vivid and powerful and seared into her soul.
Storm roiled in agony. Sobs wracked her body. Falcon held her in a close embrace.
Time lost all meaning.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, her voice lost its strength. Her tears ran dry. She lay quiescent, every ounce of her strength spent.
A gentle hand laid beneath her chin, and she obediently raised her eyes to look at his.
Falcon’s gaze was rich with compassion and sympathy. “I wonder …” he mused. “Perhaps you managed to unlock something that had been hidden even from your adult mind. Something your younger self could not cope with.”
Suddenly he tensed, and his lips pressed together. He drew his eyes to look out the window, and his voice dropped to a faint whisper.
“Still, the timing … and how similar this all is to …”
Storm had no idea what he was referring to and did not care. She was beyond all thought. She lay quietly within his arms.
Another long while passed. At last Falcon gave himself a shake, drawing himself away from Storm and rising to his feet. His face was shadowed, his emotions masked.
“You should probably head to bed to rest,” he suggested evenly. “You have been through a lot. We can talk more in the morning if you feel up to it. After all, we still have a day before the Walkers arrive.”
He offered a hand, and she took it, shakily moving to her feet. His eyes moved to hold hers. “J’espere que cela vous convenient, ma chere?”
Storm nodded, brushing down her dress. She could do with rest; she was completely exhausted. “D’accord,” she agreed.
His eyes flicked, and then he was at her side, guiding her down the long stairs and escorting her to her room. The chamber was bathed in shadows, with only a faint glow coming from the embers in the fireplace.
She climbed beneath the covers, her eyes half closing of their own accord. He stepped away from the bed and began heading out of the room. His feet slowed at the doorway, and he turned to gaze at her. He stood there for a long while, watching her with a furrowed brow, his eyes serious and considering. Then he let out a long breath, turned, and closed the door firmly behind him.
Despite her exhaustion, Storm found it took a long while before she could release herself to sleep.
Chapter 21
Storm sat by the window, gazing at the drifting clouds which slid along the sky as if pulled by invisible strings. Her thumb ran along the ring on her finger, and she drew in a long, deep breath. The memory of the bandit attack on her mother remained solid and firm in her mind. It felt like a keystone, a solid base onto which other memories would begin to cling and form. A kindling of hope swelled within her, that she would finally be able to heal, to reintegrate her old past with her new self.
The process had begun.
Falcon stepped out of the stables and moved past the gathered men to the center of the courtyard. He drew his eyes up to meet hers. A glow of warmth washed through her, and she nodded at him. If there were any more pieces of herself to be found on this final day, she wanted to share them with Falcon. This was it; these were her last hours. She would spend them by his side.
She turned, moved from her room, descended the stairs, and entered the quiet hall. Footsteps sounded from the entryway, and in a moment Falcon had strode in to join her. His eyes were shadowed, his face set.
“I have another experiment I would like to try,” he stated without preamble. “As last night’s efforts were so successful, perhaps we can gain yet more insight into just who you are.”
Storm hesitated. Something was off. His voice was almost sharp; his movements tense. Still, she nodded in agreement, following him back out into the main courtyard.
The guards were milling about on the practice ground, waiting in the crisp autumn air for their session to begin. Falcon strode past them, over to one side where a rack of throwing knives was kept. Storm’s eyes drew over it with curiosity.
“Target practice?” she asked Falcon. “I wonder how I would have known this style of activity?”
“How indeed,” replied Falcon flatly. He led her over to the selection of knives. “Which of these would you like to try?”
Storm looked at the pile and randomly picked up and discarded several. One seemed to feel right to her, and she quickly spun it in her hand with practiced ease. “This one seems quite well balanced,” she mused.
The soldier managing the arms spoke up nervously. “That one? But that is -”
Falcon cut him off with a look. Falcon motioned for her to continue. She chose two other similar blades, then turned to him.
Falcon pointed past her to a pair of wooden targets, some twenty feet away. Knives had landed at a wide scattering of locations around the targets, and a few pierced the outer ring of one of the painted bulls-eyes.
“My guards’ aim could use improvement,” Falcon commented, his shoulders tight. “I am sure if you have had any practice you could at least hit a target. Give it a try.”
The other soldiers had put their gear down to watch, and the courtyard suddenly seemed quiet. Storm looked at the targets. If it were so easy, why hadn’t his own soldiers done better? She glanced at Falcon, at his shadowed eyes, and she pushed away her questions. He was her host, and she would comply with his request.
She tucked two of the knives in her belt, then hefted the remaining one. The craftsmanship seemed impeccable. She gave it a final spin in her hand, then settled into a stance and drew her arm back. She held the blade gently at its balance point, halfway down the blade’s surface.
The world narrowed down to that one target, and she felt as if she moved in slow motion.
The knife seemed to slip through the air, making a clear, soft noise as it rotated through each half turn. With a quiet thunk it sank into the center of the target. She reached for the second, and then the third, launching them with the same easy grace.
One of the dogs barked, and Storm nodded in satisfaction. Apparently this was an area she had skill in as well. Was it part of her nunnery training? She turned to Falcon, and the questions suddenly vanished. He was staring at her with a look she could not decipher, his face grim. Then he turned on his heel and strode into the keep.
Storm watched him go, completely at a loss. She had done as he had asked. Was he upset that she had more talents than just sword fighting? Was there something wrong with her begin able to wield a knife as well? It was simply a spinning blade …
Her mind suddenly flew back to the incident in the stables, when she had caught the scythe. Were they somehow related? Was Falcon once again thinking she was involved with the bandits?
The thought sent a jolt of panic into her heart, and she found she was flying to the keep after him. She raced to explain that she was innocent, that she had no plans to harm him, to harm the staff here.
She skittered to a stop in the empty hall. Falcon was nowhere in sight.
She moved from room to room, asking each servant she came across, but the answer was the same in every case. None had seen Falcon; none knew where he was.
A hollow emptiness opened within her, threatening to swallow her whole. Her remaining minutes were ticking away, precious grains of time vanishing forever, and something
she had done had upset Falcon. She searched the entire keep, even the tidy tower chamber, but he was gone. He must have somehow gotten to the stables and headed out of the keep.
She stumbled to her room and crawled into bed, burying her face in her pillow. Every breath was one moment closer to when she would leave. It was approaching like a billowing thunderstorm, and she was helpless to stop it.
The light tinted crimson, then faded into an inky blackness. Still she lay there, a twisting whirlpool dragging her down into its depths. All hope was lost.
It took her a long while to fall asleep. Her dreams, when they came, were dark and twisted, of a gnarled wood with no escape.
Chapter 22
Her eyes blinked open. She could hear the frantic sounds of activity outside her door, as servants raced to take care of last minute tasks. There were shouted orders, calls for assistance, and the thud of moving furniture.
Mary eased herself into the room, bringing a tray of scrambled eggs with bacon. Storm ate it without much appetite. This was it. Today she would leave forever, putting her friends into the past. And Falcon …
Tears threatened to come, and she turned her head, struggling to maintain her self-control. She would have to say good bye to Falcon. After today he would only exist in her memories.
She would treasure him there. She knew she would never find another man like him. She would never find someone to replace him in her heart.
Mary took away the barely-touched meal, then had a bath brought up. It seemed only the blink of an eye before Storm was dressed in a fresh, dark blue surcoat with her hair brushed out and braided.
Mary gazed fondly at Storm, offering a fond pat on the cheek. “I know partings are sad, but you are heading home,” she murmured with a half-smile. “Think of your friends who wait there for you.”
Storm nodded half-heartedly. “Maybe I will remember them, once I see them,” she mused.
Mary drew her to her feet. “I am sure you will,” she agreed. “I am sure once you see the people from your old life that everything will come flooding back, and you will be as right as rain.”
