She looked at Isaak and saw that he wasn’t moving. “Myra, is he—”
The older woman shook her head, running a hand through her hair that had come loose of its usual tight bun in her exertions, “Unconscious, my lady. But still with us, thank the Divines. Though for how long….”
Memory nodded, “I see. And do we know what happened? Did he say anything?”
Myra shared a glance with her assistants who looked more terrified than ever at the question, “You girls go on now, and not a word about what you’ve heard.” For their part, the two girls looked incredibly relieved as they both hurried for the door, “mind me now, not a word,” Myra called after, and they both nodded hurriedly as they left.
Once they were gone, Myra turned back to Memory, “You gotta understand, mistress. The poor boy was raving when I got to ‘em, and a man in that kind of pain … well, might be he sees or says things that aren’t exactly … accurate.”
“I understand.”
The older woman nodded then took a deep slow breath, obviously reluctant to begin. “Well, as I said, he was screaming a lot, and I couldn’t as make out everything he was saying, but I heard a few things clear enough. He said, he and Shem—Divines keep them—saw the blue cloth signaling the all-clear in the window and went in only to find Madam Aferdane, the herbalist, dead. He said they grabbed what they could and left, but that they were waiting on them in the street.”
Memory frowned, “They?”
The older woman—who was completely at home splinting breaks or mending bloody wounds—fidgeted uncomfortably. “Demons, he says. Demons in men’s forms but with skin as gray as ash. Demons who, he claimed, didn’t so much as make a sound as they fought, not even when Shem chopped one of their arms off with that big cleaver he carries.”
Memory’s eyes grew wide and she found herself reciting a verse she’d heard as a child, “Skin of ash and skin of gray, no blade can keep the dead at bay.”
“Oh, come on, Memory, you can’t—” but Harmen’s words cut off as she held up a hand silencing him.
Myra nodded, “Just so, my lady. And there’s … one other thing, though I’m sure it’s just him raving in his pain.”
“Please, Myra. Go on.”
The old woman sighed, “According to Isaak, they don’t bleed.”
Memory felt a chill run up her spine at that, and she turned to Harmen, “Bloodless. He’s talking about the Bloodless.”
“Yes,” Myra said slowly, “or so it seemed to me.”
Harmen grunted, “The Bloodless are nothin’ but bogey men and everybody knows it. Fairy tales mothers tell their kiddies so they’ll eat all their vegetables and stop playing with their diddlies in the bath.”
Memory sighed but didn’t bother arguing. Harmen was stubborn and reluctant to change his opinion—the negative side of the resolve he’d shown on more than one occasion. She reminded herself that it had been this resolve, in fact, this willingness to fight against what he’d thought was wrong that had prompted her to take the risk to save him from the Harvesters over a year ago.
She was just turning back to Myra when the Magister stepped in. “Ah, Divines,” the old man said, his own face going pale as he took in the bloody bandages on the stumps of Isaak’s arms. The Magister had many talents that made him irreplaceable, but he always grew sick at the slightest appearance of blood. Even now, he held a hand to his mouth as if fighting off the urge to vomit, “My lady,” he said, his voice muffled through the hand, “I thought you should know, Nicks and Blinks are back, and they have the other with them. “
Memory nodded, taking a deep breath to calm herself. So much was happening at once. She turned to Myra and the old lady was already nodding, “I’ll look after him as best as I know how, my lady, you have my word. And I’ll be sure to fetch you should he awaken.”
Memory lingered, staring at Isaak. The man was a friend. Kind and generous, and he’d had a face that had made more than one of the young women—and quite a few of the older ones as well—blush if he so much as said hello to them. They wouldn’t blush now. In addition to the wounds on his arms, one of the man’s eyes was missing, and although Myra had bandaged it, it was easy enough to see the gaping socket where it had been. Divines, be kind, she thought, then she took a moment to steady herself. Time for grief later. For now, she must lead. She turned back to the Magister, her face set, “Show me.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Nicks and Blinks had taken the Harvester to the caverns furthest away from the living quarters, as instructed. The caverns, known as the Wails, were damp and dusty at once, the air thick and suffocating. These corridors were rarely if ever traveled by those living within the confines of the caves and that was no real surprise. The air was nearly impossible to breathe, but even that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of the Wails was the sound from which they drew their name—a terrible, piercing sound like that of a thousand different voices crying out in torment. It was something Memory never grew used to despite the fact that the Magister assured her it was caused by natural forces, something about tiny, imperceptible holes in the caverns and constant updrafts of air. The Magister was the smartest man she’d ever met, but as far as she was concerned, there wasn’t anything natural about that sound and the shivers it sent up her spine.
“I still think it’s a damned fool’s idea, bringing one of the bastards here. Like as not, we’ll all be dead by week’s end.”
Memory fought back an angry retort, forcing herself to stay calm. They’d had the argument before, of course, many times since she’d decided on her plan, and it never failed to become a shouting match until the bigger man finally grew silent, remaining angry for days afterward. You’re going to get us all killed, he’d said in their last such argument, and she had asked him to trust her, had told her that she knew what she was doing. But now, with the memory of Isaak’s mauled features and Shem’s death so close, she wondered if that was true.
Bringing the Harvester known as Reaper to the caverns had been a dangerous, desperate move and the more she thought about it, the more she thought that, perhaps, it had been the wrong one. She had let a snake into their midst and whose fault when it chose to bite? It was, after all, what snakes did.
“If he’d meant to cause us trouble, he would not have let himself be taken so easily,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “Besides, my friend assures me that he will listen.”
Harmen grunted in irritation, “This friend again, the one who none of us know anything about. The one whose name you won’t even tell me despite the fact that I’ve been with you since the first.”
The words were spoken low, in a near whisper, but there was anger there, true anger. Her friend—like so many other things—was a constant cause of arguments between her and her second. She knew she should let it go, say something to assuage his anger, but she found she could not. She was angry too. Angry and scared and tired. Yes, that most of all. “No, Harmen. You haven’t been with me since the first, wouldn’t have been with me at all, in fact, had I not saved you. Or don’t you recall that? Have you so easily forgotten the feel of that noose about your neck?”
The big man recoiled as if struck, “You—” he growled, his massive arms and shoulders shaking with anger. He took a step toward her, and Memory let a hand slip to her side where one of her knives was sheathed. Then Harmen abruptly stopped, taking a slow deep breath, his large chest rising and falling. “You’re right, of course. You saved me, you did, and I’ve not forgotten it.” He shook his head, “It’s just … shit. I’m worried, that’s all.”
Memory let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “As am I,” she said, though worried doesn’t cover it, not by half. “But we do what we must.”
They were at the door now, and Harmen grasped her hand before she could open it, “Please, at least let me take the lead. If the man means harm, better he focus on me than you.”
Memory opened her mouth to tell him that it was unnecessary but fought
the urge down. She had wounded him with that last, and badly, she could see it written on his features. It would not hurt to give him this and, besides, he was right. “Very well,” she said, bowing her head in acquiescence.
He nodded, his expression serious, though she thought she detected a look of triumph in his eyes, one she didn’t care for. You’re imagining it, that’s all. He just wants to help. Still, there had been something there, hadn’t there? Before she could think anything more about it, Harmen was walking through the door, and she followed behind him, dismissing the concern. There would be time to think on it later—for now, she had enough problems to worry about.
“Ah, Memory,” Nicks said, rubbing at his chin as he stepped forward. “It’s about bleeding time.”
“Yes, I’m here,” Harmen said, walking into the room with a purpose before Nicks or Blinks could move toward Memory. To his credit, Nicks hesitated only for an instant before reaching out and shaking Harmen’s offered hand, “And a good thing too. I’m fairly certain Blinks was getting ready to beat on the walls for a change of pace. Shit, truth to tell I might’ve joined ‘em.”
Blinks nodded, his shoulders hunched despite the fact that the cavern in which they stood offered plenty of room for someone his size. “The voices talk too much. Don’t like folks that talk too much.”
Harmen waved a dismissive hand and walked further into the room until he stood a few feet in front of the man seated at its center. Despite the fact that the man was blindfolded, his arms tied tightly behind him, what Memory could see of his face held no fear in it. In fact, from the way the stranger seemed so relaxed, she got the impression that not much frightened him at all.
Harmen jerked the Harvester’s blindfold away, and the two men regarded each other in silence. Memory took the moment to study the man known as Reaper, looking for any sign in his expression that might give away his thoughts, but if it was there, she could not see it. She did notice, to her surprise, that the man was handsome, or would have been at least if not for the hardness, the coldness that lay in that strange, burnished gold stare. “So,” Harmen said, “you’re him.”
The man shrugged, the motion coming up short against his bonds, “A safe enough guess. And you are?”
Harmen bared his teeth and turned to Nicks, “You took his weapons?”
Nicks rolled his eyes, “Of course.” He nodded to Blinks who was—at that moment—examining a scabbarded sword with wide, inquisitive eyes. “Though, it’d be more accurate to say he gave ‘em to us.”
“I asked your name, friend,” the seated man said. The words were no more out of his mouth before Harmen let out a growl and backhanded him, rocking him in his chair. Memory opened her mouth to demand for him to stop but realized that what charade there was would vanish should she do so.
“Hey!” Nicks shouted, stepping forward, “I told him we wouldn’t hurt him. He came willingly enough and didn’t give us any trouble, though he could’ve.”
Harmen ignored this, “You’d best remember where you are, friend. I’ll ask the questions here, not you.”
The man grinned then turned his head and spat out a mouthful of blood. “The name’s Cameron, and it’s a pleasure to meet you, princess.”
Harmen raised his hand again, but this time Nicks stepped in front of him.
“Nicks,” Blinks asked, glancing up from the sword, “is somethin’ wrong?”
“No problem, Blinks,” Nicks said, holding Harmen’s gaze despite the fact that the larger man was at least a head and a half taller than him. “Everything’s fine. Ain’t that right, Memory?”
Harmen growled, and he pushed Nicks aside, the smaller man letting him. “Cameron, you say? Oh, pleasure’s all mine, I’m sure. As for my name, probably best you don’t know that. You can call me Memory.”
The man, Cameron, studied Harmen for several moments before finally shaking his head, “No. You’re not him.”
Harmen barked a laugh, “Well, guess that’s good then. I reckon it’s just an imagination that’s been kicking your Harvester asses all this time, eh? Why I suppose since that’s settled, we can just all go home. Have a nap, maybe.”
Cameron shrugged, “Do whatever suits you. As for me, I came to speak to Memory, and I don’t intend to leave until I do.”
“I am Memory, you damned fool!” Harmen roared, his fists clenched at his sides.
The bound man sighed, “Listen, whatever your name is. Memory has outmaneuvered the agents of the Church for over a year, much longer than any before him. He’s clever, and he is obviously a man who people follow, a leader. As for you, I wouldn’t trust you to lead yourself to the privy and doubt you’d be clever enough to pull your britches down before you took a shit even if you made it that far. Now bring out the real Memory and stop wasting my time—I’ve not got all night.”
Harmen took a step toward the bound man, his fists clenching. Nicks and Blinks moved to interpose themselves between the two of them, frowns on their faces. Deciding she couldn’t wait any longer, Memory hurried forward out of the cavern’s shadows, “I’m the one you’ve come to talk to.”
Harmen spun to look at her, a betrayed expression on his face, then he cursed and stepped to the side.
The man known as Reaper stared at her, his dim golden eyes assessing, “Ah,” he said, “and what a memory you’ll make.”
Memory felt herself blushing, felt her heart speed up in her chest despite the danger of the situation, “Surely,” she said, struggling to find her voice, “you came for more than to tease me.”
Suddenly, the Harvester started laughing. It was a low rumble at first, but it steadily grew louder until he was rocking in his chair, tears coming from his eyes. Blinks tried a laugh too, apparently decided he liked it, and in another moment they were both laughing, the combined sound echoing in the chamber, drowning out, for a moment, the unearthly cries that seemed to rise from the earth.
“Blinks,” Nicks snapped.
The big man cut off immediately, “What?” He asked, then he cocked a thumb at Cameron, “He’s laughing.”
Nicks pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger, but it was Memory who spoke, “I didn’t realize that you’d went through all of this just to laugh at me.”
The Harvester waved a hand, “No, I’m sorry it’s not that. It’s just that, for all this time, everyone assumed Memory was a man. Nobody ever thought that he—that you- were a woman and certainly not a woman so ….” He shrugged, a smile still on his face, and Memory felt her own face heat in response.
She found that she was scared of this man. No surprise really—anyone with half a brain was scared of Harvesters, and the Reaper was considered dangerous even among his own kind. It wasn’t her fear that surprised her, no, but what else she felt. The man was handsome enough, she supposed, though in a hard, wild sort of way, but it wasn’t his face that she found so arresting—it was his boldness. He sat bound to a chair in a camp full of his enemies, yet he laughed and joked as if he was relaxing with close friends. It was disarming, frightening, and more than a little attractive. “Maybe we should try this again,” she said, forcing calm into her voice, “I’m Memory. This is Harmen,” she said, nodding at the scowling man, “You’ve already met Blinks and Nicks.”
He nodded, “My name’s Cameron. Cameron Shale.”
Harmen sucked in a sharp breath and turned to her, “This is Cameron Shale? The one they call the Reaper? Blood and ash are you out of your fucking mind? Why even the other Harvesters are afraid of this one! We’d be smarter to cut his throat and be do—”
“Relax, big fella,” Cameron said, a cold smile on his lips, “I came here for answers not blood. Now, why don’t you relax and let the grown folks talk?”
Harmen let out a growl and started toward the bound man. Cameron watched him come, his expression unreadable. When Harmen was within a few feet Cameron spoke, “I didn’t come here to cause trouble,” he said, turning to Memory, “but if your man here touches me again, I’ll kill him.”
Harmen hesitated at that, then let out another growl and withdrew a knife from inside his tunic.
“Harmen, that’s enough,” Memory said, but the big man kept going. “Harmen, enough!”
He spun, a wild fear dancing in his eyes like an animal that’s been backed into a corner, “You’re going to get us all killed,” he hissed then slowly, reluctantly, he sheathed the blade.
“Now then,” Cameron said, his voice calm as if he hadn’t nearly been stabbed to death, “Why did you bring me here? And how do you know the priest?”
“He is … a friend,” Memory said, doing her best to mimic the man’s preternatural calm despite the intense beating of her heart, “as for why I brought you here, our mutual friend thought that you deserved to know the truth.”
“The truth about what?”
She forced herself to meet his gaze, to stare into those hard, unforgiving eyes, “Your mother and father. About how they died.”
Something flashed in the Harvester’s gaze, and his eyes narrowed, the most show of emotion he’d shown, but when he spoke his voice was dry, lifeless, “I know how they died. My father was a traitor who formed a rebellion against the king. When he was discovered, he killed my mother and tried to kill me.”
Memory sighed, “Lies, Cameron, all of it.”
“Of course you’d say as much,” he said, but she thought she detected a hint of doubt in his voice. He shook his head, “They’d have no reason to lie to me.”
“They have all the reason they need, but you are right about one thing. There was a rebellion, and your father was the leader of it. Twenty five years ago, your father stumbled upon the Church’s most closely guarded secret. Specifically, he learned that the Church didn’t need the essences anymore, that whatever risks the Fulmination once presented have long since been averted and that the Ether—as the Church calls it—hasn’t shown any sign of agitation for years. It was clear, Cameron. Clean.”
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