Spirit Binder (2 page)

She hadn’t recognized it until her mother had pointed out that fact, but now she understood. This was where she’d grown up. She’d had friends and teachers here, and her mother …

“Something happened.”

“Yes, darling, someone took you away, but I’ve got you back now. Everything will be fine now.”

She decided now would be a good time to kneel again. The carpet rose up to break her fall.
 

Her mother called out for help, yet she wasn’t distressed. No, even in the haze that coated her eyes, she could see her mother’s satisfied smile. Which was a bit odd, wasn’t it?

Other people soon arrived. Her mother never did touch her, though her hand hovered over her forehead a few times, and she, huddled in the hovering carpet, gave in to the ministrations of hands and magic that felt familiar, yet distant, like tasting something in memory.

“Theodora, spirit-predestined, daughter of my blood, is home,” her mother, rather formally, announced. There were murmured answers, but she couldn’t distinguish the words.

Theodora.
 

That was her name.

Funny, it didn’t sound right. As if it didn’t belong to her.

Only later did she remember she’d been wrong about the Slurper creature. It had been cleaning from the inside out.
 

She also remembered she wasn’t to address her mother as ‘mother’ or ‘mom’, but as Your Majesty or, in private, Rhea, but she noticed her mother hadn’t seemed to mind being addressed incorrectly.

Then, she succumbed to the welcoming darkness.

∞

The room — her room — was exactly the same: stone walls awash in candlelight, canopy bed draped with rose-colored silks, and a craggy mountain view from the west-facing balcony.

The sun had just set, spilling burnt orange over the edges of snow-covered peaks — the Twin Sisters — which was confusing as she remembered it being late spring … though maybe the snow rarely melted even in the summer on the peaks … wasn’t that something she should remember?

A blonde girl was sleeping curled in a chaise next to her bed; her face another discordant memory. She looked strikingly similar to a friend of hers, who should be just out of puberty, but now, with her curls tumbling over a high, regal brow as she pursed full, very pink lips in her sleep, she looked like a woman, young still, but fully formed. Perhaps this was an older sister of her friend?
 

Her head hurt.

Actually, if she stopped to take stock, her entire being ached. She thought about getting up, but it seemed like an impossible task.

The curly blonde shifted in her sleep … Peony! That was her name. It suited her more now as a woman than it had as a dirty-kneed child. Something about Peony’s aged appearance bothered her; some connection her brain was attempting to formulate …

Was that the carpet from the library? Or perhaps it was just an identical copy? If that was the case, she was fairly certain it was new, but it seemed unlikely her mother would ever purchase or commission more than one; uniqueness was a prize in her household.

She swung her legs off the edge of the bed and stood before she even knew she’d decided to move. She wandered over to the bathroom. It was easier than she thought it would be. The pain felt old, and mostly healed. She couldn’t remember being injured …

The bathroom was decadent, not that she had many others to compare it too. It boasted stone floors that warmed underneath her feet, a waterfall tub, and a steam shower. The mirror over the double sinks stretched at least twelve feet wide and eight feet tall. It was through this medium — her reflection — that her brain finally connected the problem of Peony’s age with Peony’s appearance, because, looking at herself in the mirror, it was clear that under no circumstances was she sixteen anymore. Plus, ironically, it did seem that her mother’s dark shade of red hair was natural, as that was what flowed across her shoulders and down to her waist; though hers was sun streaked. Unless someone had dyed it while she was unconscious, which would be odd and exceedingly creepy.
 

She didn’t have as much of a problem with her hair as she did with her face. That wasn’t her in the mirror. It looked like her, and, honestly, nothing like her mother, though everyone always compared them. Her green-flecked hazel eyes were almost too big for her face now, and her cheekbones too bulky. There was nothing soft and sweet about her now. She momentarily considered that the mirror might be spelled, but she didn’t feel any magic emanating from it. She looked hard, almost chiseled, in a way that a noble woman wasn’t supposed to look, and she was older. How much older, she couldn’t tell, but certainly not about to celebrate her sixteenth birthday.

She stopped examining herself. The scars, some minor, some almost hideous, that speckled her arms and legs were disconcerting.

What had she been doing with her body? Or, for that matter, what had happened to her?

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.

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 proximity. 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.