by C. E. Murphy
“Then the ritual of request will suffice to allow us access to her memories?” Eldred’s rich voice held a mix of fascination and dismay.
Alban shrugged. “It’s entirely possible her memories will be cut off from us entirely. We haven’t tried.”
Margrit said, “Um,” and her voice cracked on the syllable. Another blush rose as the gathered Old Races turned to her again. “There was that one dream…”
Alban blinked at her slowly, and then to her delight, color flushed his pale face, the first time she’d ever seen him blush. “I assume that contact was initiated by my thoughts of you,” he said quite formally.
Suddenly cheerful with camaraderie, Margrit flashed him a bright smile that helped beat down the heat in her face, then turned to the gargoyle council with open hands. “So let’s try your request ritual. What do I do?”
“You may wish to sit comfortably.” Eldred gestured to the chess-table chair, and Margrit, relieved she’d dried off and changed clothes, set her towel aside and sat.
“Who’ll be in my head?”
Eldred’s hesitation was barely perceptible. “I will. But in such cases it’s traditional for the entire tribunal to follow, so we can all experience the events as clearly as possible.”
Goose bumps shot over Margrit’s arms as she looked from stranger to stranger, finally bringing her eyes to Alban’s. He inclined his head, small movement of reassurance. She dragged a deep breath and nodded, looking back at Eldred. “What about—” She tilted her head at the gathered selkies and djinn. “Will everyone be watching, or just the gargoyles?”
“Only the gargoyles. Sharing thoughts with the others requires repeating the welcoming ritual with each of them. I see no need to risk a greater link, particularly when we’ve never shared with a human before.”
“Did you have to say risk?” Margrit made a face, then brushed concern away: she’d ridden Alban’s memories with no ill effects. “How do I guide you?”
“By focusing on the events in question. We will not sift your memories, searching for things you don’t wish to share, but you should know that this is not a…” Humor curled the corner of the elder gargoyle’s mouth. “Not a surgical procedure. I can’t promise you your privacy.”
Janx, just within Margrit’s peripheral vision, shifted enough to be seen, making himself a deliberate reminder of things that should remain hidden. As though she could forget. Margrit quelled the urge to scowl at him and only nodded to Eldred. “I understand. You said there’s a ritual?”
Eldred sat across from her, moving chess pieces out of the way so he could place his elbows on the table and put his hands palms up, like an offering. “Your hands over mine, please, but not touching. And, perhaps, the name you go by.”
Margrit put her hands above the gargoyle’s, laughing softly at their comparative dark daintiness. With her fingertips above the heels of his hands, his fingers extended well past her wrists, talons making a thick and dangerous-looking cage. “My full name is Margrit Elizabeth Knight. My friends call me Grit.”
Another smile curved Eldred’s mouth. “Very well. Margrit Elizabeth, called Grit, the gargoyles ask to share memory with you, so that it might be recorded in the history of our peoples for all time.” His voice deepened, becoming more sonorous as he spoke. Prickles waved over Margrit’s nape, then soothed again as she relaxed into his words. “I am Eldred of Casmir. If you grant us this sharing, I will be your conduit into our memories, my eyes to yours, my hands to yours, my heart to yours, your eyes to us, your hands to us, your heart to us. Do you consent?”
Margrit, too aware of another ceremony, answered with the same words, heard herself say, “I do.”
Eldred closed his hands around hers.
Impossible noise took off the top of Margrit’s skull.
EIGHTEEN
AT EIGHT, A stick of a thing with corkscrew curls lightened by the summer sun, she could outrun her best friend, a boy of the same age, with laughing ease. By eleven, he’d outgrown her by several inches, his legs seeming to go on forever while hers were stubby and short by comparison.
She could still outrun him.
She could at fourteen, too, though by then she was resigned to a diminutive height and beginning to grow into curves that most professional female athletes never saw. It didn’t matter: she ran as fast as she could, losing herself in the rhythms and challenges of speed.
One day she ran so fast she began to fly.
Winter nights slammed into her as she spread her hands and soared through the city sky. She was made of wind, or maybe ice, and then of glass, thin and fragile in the sky, but full of vibrancy and color. Her vision bent and telescoped, glass shaping to show her all the moments of her life.
A fraction of her that stood outside the colored glass whispered concern: there were connotations to your life flashing before your eyes, and with the pounding white static filling her mind, the idea that she was dying felt too close to possibility.
Luka Johnson folded as the jury declared her guilty of murder. Margrit caught her, prepared for the possibility of both the verdict and the fall. Her youngest daughter, a babe in arms, darted through Margrit’s memory like an old hand-cranked film, flickering and jumping from one age to another until she was three years old and her mother, finally granted clemency by the state governor, swept the little girl into her arms.
Glass fragmented, shards of stained color shattering out. One twisted as it fell, showing a dark-haired woman whose hand curled over her belly protectively. When the piece hit the floor, it broke in three, splitting apart a trio of men whose colors were those of life and death and blood: white and black and red.
Panic surged through Margrit, so raw it barely felt like her own. She kicked the shards aside, knocking them under a brightly woven tapestry that lay crumpled on the floor. The tapestry exploded with the sound of glass raining, and in each colored droplet lay a memory. Like came to like, bundling school together in a blur of youthful dreams and heartfelt promises; in hours of heavy-headed studying and searing moments of freedom found in long runs. Beyond school, Tony Pulcella, gloriously cast in warm, rich color, sent daggers through her heart for chances lost and promises broken.
She flew again, high and free, with someone else’s warmth cupping her body. Heat surged in her as she reached for that memory, eager for a strong touch and loving hands to encompass her and take away thoughts of the world with sensual, exciting exploration. She arched beneath the gargoyle’s body, and then, unwelcome in the midst of growing need, she heard his voice.
Concentrate, Margrit. Focus your thoughts. He sounded strained, as though he spoke from a great distance and through a barrier of immense proportions. Think of Ausra.
Fear and anger razed any memory of desire. Ausra, petite and loamy and beautiful, raged through Margrit’s memories. Every moment of her brief encounter with the half-gargoyle woman played through her at once, sparking pathetic whimpers of pain that reverberated as harsh, black streaks through stained-glass color. Terror bled orange and red, like fire, and then glassy flame consumed her, the blaze reflected and refracted everywhere she turned.
As in her nightmares, Malik died in the flames. Images fragmented again, the ridiculous first-person view of a neon-green watergun being fired; a wounded dragon in profile, roaring, frozen in time. A pale streak within the flame, crushing weight collapsing a djinn bound to his physical form. The bits of memory melded together, rewound, replayed, with acrid heat and the scent of hot steel filling Margrit’s senses. It was more inescapable than her dreams, a waking horror she couldn’t run from.
She scrambled backward, trying to hide within the white noise generating inside her own head. Flame was doused by static, the rush and color of hissing snow reminding her again that her focus was the gargoyle; was Ausra. Memories of the woman formed in the whiteness, stalking toward Margrit as she felt her left arm snap again, pain howling through her body. Memory flashed forward to the hospital: Daisani rolled up his sleeve in tidy motions, a
nd the sugar-sweet coppery taste of his blood clogged Margrit’s throat. She would never be quite human again.
And back, reminded of Ausra once more by not quite human. The memories that barraged her this time were the gargoyle’s own, histories of a broken mind. So many human women dead at Ausra’s hands, so many women whom Alban had dared to watch over, dead for a vengeance that was never Alban’s to pay. Pain crackled through Margrit’s body as she remembered, experienced, the first morning Ausra had stood against the sunrise and seen gold fire glimmer over the horizon before she succumbed.
That image caught in glass, so gorgeous and deep Margrit gasped with it. Pity surged in her for the first time and she reached toward the frozen memory. But the glass began to crack, thin lines of strain a too-clear representation of Ausra’s mental state. Perhaps it hadn’t been her fault; Hajnal had died birthing her, and a family’s worth of memories had cascaded into an unformed, unready mind. Madness had been the only path open to her; revenge against the gargoyle she believed must be her father, who had abandoned her and her mother, the only choice she could see that she had. So many flavors of despair, all prismed in glass so they could reflect and shine on roads taken and decisions made.
One bright shard lit Biali, who stood at Ausra’s side and did not stop her from becoming what she was. Perhaps he had helped shape her; perhaps he couldn’t have saved her. The memories Margrit held of the gargoyle woman ran too shallow to answer that question. For the first time, she felt pity for the creature who’d tried to kill her, but as she touched the glass, it fell into slivers, cutting deep into her fingers.
Drops of blood scattered, carrying with them moments of her life. Afraid she would give herself away, Margrit scampered after them, trying to collect droplet-shaped bits of crimson glass. They fell through her hands instead: a first Communion and the turning of her tassel as she earned her law degree; her first kiss and her most recent, twining together so one became the other. Frantic, she tried harder to pick them up, losing bits of her life in the process.
Ausra reared up above her, a promise that those precious seconds would never be regained. One blow; that was all it would take to end Margrit’s life. She would watch it fall, not out of bravery, but because she couldn’t make her eyelids close, and when a roar cut through the static, her only thought was, so that’s what dying sounds like.
And then her life was spared and Ausra’s ended, a reversal of fortune against every law the Old Races held dear. A human life over an ancient one; human awareness of their people allowed to persevere where immortal hope ended; a child of two worlds destroyed because there was no other choice.
Sarah Hopkins, dark-haired, pregnant, afraid, alone, became a cutting edge of color, wedging her way through memories Margrit was only too glad to let go of. That same triumvirate of men surrounded her: Alban, tall and calm and dressed in quiet colors complementary to his paleness; Janx, gaudy and bright and gorgeous as he always was, a peacock in supersaturated shades; Daisani, small and lithe and exquisitely outfitted in sober tones, and all of them in the fashion of Sarah’s century, nearly four hundred years gone.
Then heat shattered the glass, breaking away Sarah’s image. Beautiful colors blurred together and turned to brown in the wake of the fire that burned London down and down and down. She was gone from them, lost to fire, lost to flame, and each day it burned higher, fueled by rage and grief, as she was nowhere to be found. Janx and Daisani stalked the city together by day and by night, never followed by a pale shadow, too united in their sorrow to trouble themselves with the absence of their third.
And so all unknown that third slipped away so easily, a human woman borne in his arms, her belly cradled in her hands as London burned beneath them.
Margrit, steady and ready as she always was, touched her palms to Eldred’s, and chaos erupted in Alban’s mind.
Gargoyle memory stretched back inconceivable years, touching the minds and hearts of the Old Races. Their discipline retained histories that no other recording method could so faithfully keep. Often it was by stories shared, but the ritual invoked by Eldred was one well known to all their peoples, and it let breath and bone and body become one with the memories.
Not in all the history of five races and more now lost to time had opening a path from one heart to another torn the roofs off all the minds in contact with the story-giver.
Not in all the history of five races and more now lost to time had a gargoyle ever tried to join minds with a human.
He should have known. Beneath the screaming blur of emotion and memory that poured from Margrit, Alban’s self-directed recrimination bit hard, then lost its teeth. He couldn’t have known; there was no way to know a human mind didn’t hold information in the same structured, stylized way the Old Races had learned to retain their own memories. Humans had so little time to learn, so little time to remember; it made sense that they had less need of the formalities of recollection that allowed the oldest of the immortals to remember their own lives without resorting to gargoyle tales. It made sense, but Margrit’s easy ability to ride gargoyle memory had made the possibility of the reverse seem easy, too.
Details of her life washed over him, intimate and sweet, a gift he wanted to savor. An early memory, child’s irrefutable logic wearing down her mother, who in her youth had been luminous, and who in maturity was, to Margrit’s adult mind, mixed with the childhood memories, intimidating. Her father’s rich laugh mingled with it all, warm voice promising, “She’ll grow up to be a lawyer if we’re not careful.” The memory’s soft edges told Alban that Margrit didn’t consciously remember the comment, but the way it hooked and pulled and weighted other memories, becoming an epicenter, said that it had affected the choices she’d made in her life.
Alban flexed his shoulders, feeling wings stretch and fold, reminding him of who he was. Helping him to break out of the phenomenal static rush that Margrit’s life, pictured in moments, made up. Only just then aware his eyes were closed, he forced them open, and let go a rough, low sound of astonishment.
The gargoyle tribunal had joined with Eldred before he’d completed the ritual to enter Margrit’s thoughts. That they should be enthralled was to be expected.
That Janx and Daisani, that the gathered selkies and djinn, that even Grace O’Malley, should all stand slack-jawed and silent, was not expected. Mutable expression slid over vacant faces: fear and anger, dismay, outrage, hope, delight, all tangled with the endless rush of memory pouring from the dark beauty at the room’s center. A shard of panic sparked powerfully, not from Margrit at all, but, if Alban read its flavor correctly, from Janx or Daisani. Of the two Janx was the more likely to revel in such raw emotion, strong enough to alter the path of recollection Margrit followed.
Keeping his own thoughts unclouded was difficult. Margrit’s memories were as forceful and brisk as her personality, and the new thoughts she lingered on were deliciously seductive.
And hardly to be shared with others. Concentrate, Margrit. Focus your thoughts. Think of Ausra. He formed the thoughts with caution, uncertain if she would hear him in the chaos. Her mind was alight with fire, leaping easily from one scene to another, as quick and light as flame jumping a river. There was too much to take in, too much to hold on to in the quicksilver way her human mind processed images and discarded them.
Flame went still for a few long seconds, as if caught in ice. Caught in glass, he realized, seeing Margrit’s metaphor more clearly for an instant. The brief moments he and Ausra had encountered one another encompassed him, entangling Alban’s own memory with Margrit’s so thoroughly he staggered, uncertain whose life he was experiencing. Margrit poured detail into the gestalt, moments seen from two places at once and none the easier to bear for having been shared. They ended with the hideous firecracker noise of Ausra’s neck breaking, a sound that sickened Alban even in memory, and one which would never let him go.
But Margrit’s thoughts whirled again, dragging down through time and promises to unearth other moments of
shared truth. Noise rushed up around him again, though whether it was his own attempt at protecting old secrets or simply the chaos of human memory trying to pull him down with everything else, he could no longer tell. He gave up trying to process her thoughts or guide her memories and instead worked his way forward step by slow step, reminding himself with each movement that he was a gargoyle, a creature of stone. Gargoyles did not lose themselves to mercurial passions so easily.
At last, at long, long last, he reached her and dropped to his knees beside the table. Cupped her face and turned it toward him, whispered her name to eyes gone white with the weight of memory, and then offered a kiss, soft and simple and sweet, to break the spell.
Margrit came awake with an indrawn breath bordering on a shriek and yanked her hands from Eldred’s before she even knew Alban was at her side, holding her, protecting her. Her skull raged with pain, as if someone’d poured glass shards into her brain and stirred vigorously. She stared at Alban, wide-eyed, then heard a high-pitched giggle that went with wondering whether Daisani’s gift of healing blood could cope with a brain razored to bits. Only when the sound repeated, piercing her headache and sending it to a new height, did she realize it was herself making it. With a cry half of embarrassment and half of pain, she tumbled out of her chair and collapsed against Alban, fingers curled in his shirt as she struggled not to whimper.
Even the beating Ausra had given her hadn’t hurt as badly as her head did. Needles of ice slid in her ears and under her nape, stabbing inward and creating more too-loud static that lifted hairs all over her body and made them feel pain, too. Margrit folded her arms over her head, trying to protect herself from herself. “What happened?”
The silence that followed was filled with shrieking static. “It seems human memory is not meant to be read by gargoyles,” Eldred finally said, so dryly Margrit let another too-high giggle of pain escape. If she could only hold her head hard enough, she thought she might squeeze the ache away.
