Love in the Time of Dragons (4 page)

“Doubtful. I have this policy about not wasting time on people who are big pains in the ass, and he sounds like a major one. Oh!” I grimaced. “He’s not . . . er . . . a friend of yours, is he? If that major pain in the ass comment was out of line, I apologize.”

May choked on the sip of coffee she was taking. Gabriel helpfully pounded her on her back while saying, “No, he is no friend to silver dragons.”

“Gotcha,” I said lightly as I got to my feet. “This has been a really . . . special . . . experience, but I should be on my way. Thank you for the coffee, and for taking care of me while I was out of things. I appreciate it, but my son has been left alone far too long, and I really need to get him from the neighbor who’s been taking care of him.”

“I don’t think it’s a very good idea for you to leave just yet,” May said slowly as she and Gabriel exchanged yet another of those knowing glances.

“Look, you seem nice and all, but I’m getting tired of saying that I’m not this person you think I am—” I started to say.

“No, I meant that given your physical state, it would be best for you to stay here for a few days,” she interrupted.

“My physical state? You mean the fugue?” I asked.

“Is that what you call it?”

“That’s how the psychiatrist I saw referred to it. I assure you that although the fugues are inconvenient for everyone, once they are over, I’m fine. A little headachy, but nothing serious.”

“You saw a psychiatrist about these . . . fugues?” Kaawa asked, her dark eyes watching me carefully.

“Well . . . yes. Once. I didn’t know what happened to me, and thought . . .” I sat down again, biting my lip, hesitant to tell them I had thought I was going crazy. “Let’s just say I was concerned about what was causing me to have them.”

“What was the judgment of the psychiatrist?” Gabriel asked, also making me uncomfortable with his unwavering gaze.

I shrugged. “I only saw him once. Gareth didn’t like me going to him.”

“Gareth is your husband?” May asked.

“Yes.” I tried to make a light little laugh, growing more and more uncomfortable in the situation. “Why do I feel like I’m playing twenty questions?”

“I’m sorry if it appears we’re grilling you,” May said with a tight little smile of her own. “It’s just that you took us all by surprise, and now even more so.”

“If you can tolerate another question . . . ,” Kaawa said, moving over to sit next to me. I shifted on the couch to give her room, the hairs on my arms pricking at her nearness. There was something about her, some aura that led me to believe she was not a woman who tolerated either fools or lies. “When did you see the psychiatrist?”

I stared at her in surprise. “Er . . . when?”

She nodded, watching me with that same intent gaze.

“Well, let me think . . . it was . . . um . . .” I stared at my fingers, trying to sort through my memories to find the one I wanted, but it wasn’t there. “I don’t seem to recall.”

“A month ago? Two months ago? A year? Five years?” she asked.

“I don’t . . . I’m not sure,” I said, feeling as lame as I sounded.

“Let me ask you this, then—what is your earliest memory?”

I really stared at her now. “Huh? Why would you want to know something unimportant like that?”

She smiled, and I felt suddenly bathed in a warm, golden glow of caring. “Do my questions disturb you, child?”

“No, not disturb, I just don’t see what this has to do with anything. I really have to go. My son—”

“—will be all right for another few minutes.” She waited, and I glanced around the room. The other three dragons sat watching me silently, evidently quite happy to let Kaawa conduct this strange interview. I gave a mental sigh. “Let’s see . . . earliest memory. I assume you mean as a child.”

“Yes. What is the first thing you remember? Your mother’s voice, perhaps? A favorite toy? Something that frightened you?”

Supposing it wouldn’t hurt to humor her, I poked again at the black mass that was my memory. Nothing was forthcoming. “I’m afraid I have a really crappy memory. I can’t remember anything as a child.”

She nodded again, just as if she expected that. “Your son is only nine, you said. You must remember the day you gave birth to him.”

“Of course I do—” I stopped when, to my horror, I realized I didn’t. I could see his face in my mind’s eye, but it was his face now, not his face as an infant. Panic swamped me. “By the rood! I don’t remember it!”

“By the rood?” May asked.

I stared at her in confusion, my skin crawling with the realization that something was seriously wrong with me. “What?”

“You said ‘by the rood.’ That’s an archaic term, isn’t it?”

“How the hell do I know?” I said, my voice rising. “I’m having a mental breakdown, and you’re worried about some silly phrase? Don’t you understand?” I leaped to my feet, grabbing the collar of May’s shirt and shaking it. “I don’t remember Brom’s first word. I don’t remember the first time he walked, or even what he looked like as a baby. I don’t remember any of it!”

“Do you remember marrying your husband?” Kaawa asked as May gently pried my hands from her shirt.

Goose bumps prickled up my arms. I prodded, I poked, I mentally grabbed my memory with both hands and shook it like it was a brainy piñata, but nothing came out. “No,” I said, the word a whisper as fear replaced the panic. “What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I remember anything?”

“It is as I thought,” Kaawa said, taking my chin between the tips of her fingers so she could search my eyes. “Your memory has been expunged.”

“Why would someone do that?” I asked, the words a near wail as I fought the desire to race out of the house and onto the first plane to Spain. “Did you do this to me?”

“No, child,” she said solemnly, releasing my chin. “I suspect you have been conditioned to forget.”

“Conditioned to forget my own son? That doesn’t make any sense! Who would want me to forget him?”

“It’s all right, Ysolde. Er . . . Tully,” May said in a soothing voice, gently guiding me back to the couch. “I know you’re scared by all this, but you talked to your son earlier, remember? You said he was all right.”

I clung to that, fighting the rising fear that threatened to overwhelm me. “Yes, he was all right, although I really need to go home. I’m sorry, but I can’t stay here any longer.”

I made it all the way to the door before Kaawa’s voice reached me.

“And what will you do if you have another fugue while your son is with you?”

I froze at that, turning slowly to face the room of people. “I only have them once a year. I believe I mentioned that.”

“You told your son that you didn’t know why you had it now. That was what you were referring to, wasn’t it?”

I nodded, my shoulders slumping. “I shouldn’t have had it until the end of October.”

“And yet you had it now.”

“But, Kaawa, that was—” May started to say.

The older woman raised her hand, and May stopped.

“I’ve only ever had them once a year,” I told them all. “This was an anomaly. I don’t know why it came early, but I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

“How can you be sure? You can’t, not really. There is nothing to stop you from having another one right now, or an hour from now, or a week from now, is there?” Kaawa insisted.

I gritted my teeth in acknowledgment.

“What if you were driving a car with your son and you were suddenly sent into a fugue?”

“That would be very unlikely—”

“But it could happen,” she pressed. “Would you risk his life?”

“It’s never happened like this before,” I said, but the horrible ideas she was presenting couldn’t be denied. The fugue shouldn’t have happened now, but it did. What if it came again, while I was with Brom? My gut tightened at all the terrifying possibilities of disaster.

“I think what Kaawa is trying to say is that until you know why you’re having these . . . er . . . events, you should probably stay with us,” May suggested.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ve left Brom alone long enough. I must go home.”

“What if—” She slid a glance toward Gabriel, who nodded. “What if your son joined you here?”

“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “I think it would probably be better to be with my family. Gareth may not be any great shakes as a husband, but he has looked after me this long.”

“How long would that be?” Kaawa said, pouncing on my words.

“A long time,” I said finally, not finding any answers in my brain.

“Would he have any reason for wanting you to be without your memory?” Gabriel asked.

I opened my mouth to deny such a thing, but remembered the manifestations. “He might. There is . . . when I have a normal fugue, I manifest . . . that’s not the right word, really, but it’s how I think of it . . . I make . . .” They all watched me with an avidity that made my skin itch. I took a deep breath and said the word. “Gold.”

The two male dragons sat up straighter.

“You
make
gold?” May asked, her expression puzzled.

“Ahh,” Kaawa said, sitting back, as if that explained everything.

“Yes. Gareth—my husband—says that I’m a natural alchemist. That’s someone who can transmute base metals without a need for apparatus or any special elixirs or potions. Every year, when I have the fugues, he brings me lead. Lots and lots of lead, great huge wads of it, and leaves it in the room with me. When the fugue has passed, the lead has been changed into gold. I don’t know how it’s done, but he assures me that it’s some process that happens when I’m asleep.”

“That must be very handy,” May said, somewhat skeptically, I felt.

I made a face. Whether or not she believed me wasn’t the problem at hand. I was more concerned about this sudden loss of memory. Maybe it was me who was going insane, not them, as I’d first thought. “To be honest, I’d much rather do without the fugues. Especially if they’re doing something to my brain.”

“I imagine you would.”

“I admit that’s a curious talent to be given, and one that leaves me wishing I had some lead to place in your room,” Gabriel said with a rueful smile, “but I don’t follow the reasoning between that and why your memory would be wiped.”

I made a noncommittal gesture, and for a second, a scene flashed in my mind’s eye—Ruth, lying on a cot in a dimly lit hut, covered in boils, sweating and trembling with an illness while Gareth shook her, telling her I was awake, and demanding that she rise and take care of me. I tried to push the fragment of a memory, tried to see more, but there was nothing there, just a black abyss.

“I don’t know,” I said finally, sadly aware that I couldn’t trust the images my brain suggested. There was no way to know if it was an actual memory, or a fabrication of a mind that more and more I was beginning to fear was not normal.

“I can think of any number of reasons why her husband might prefer her without memories,” Kaawa said calmly. “For one, he might not wish for her to know what sept he’s from.”

“Sept?” I shook my head. “Gareth isn’t a dragon. I would know if he was.”

“Just as you would know if you were one?” Gabriel asked lightly.

“Yes, exactly.” He raised his eyebrow and I hurried on. “Besides, Gareth is an oracle, and I’ve never heard of a dragon being an oracle.”

“Just because no dragon has ever sought the position of oracle does not preclude the possibility of doing so,” he pointed out.

“He’s not a dragon,” I insisted. “I would know. I’ve been married to him for . . .” I slid a quick glance at Kaawa. “However long it’s been, I would know.”

“I agree,” she said, taking me by surprise again.

“You do?” I asked.

“Yes, child. You would know if your Gareth was a dragon.” She laid her hand on mine, the gesture one that would normally leave me recoiling—as a rule, I do not like to be touched other than by Brom—but the gesture was a kind one, and offered an odd sort of comfort. “But there are other reasons he might like you to be without memories of what you do during these fugues of yours.”

“What do you mean, what I do? I sleep,” I told her.

She raised her eyebrows just as Gabriel did, giving her the same disbelieving expression. “How do you know?”

“I know. I mean, I must sleep. Otherwise, I would not have dreamed—” I stopped, not wanting to go into the oddly vivid dream I was having when I woke up.

The look she gave me was shrewd, but she said nothing about the dream, merely commented, “You wake without a memory. You may think you sleep, but what if you don’t? What if your husband has you performing acts that he knows would be repugnant to you? Would he not want your memory wiped of them to protect himself? What if your son knows what he does—”

I bolted for the door, alarmed by the pictures she painted in my mind. “I have to go.
Now
!”

“Calm yourself, Ysolde,” Kaawa said soothingly. Tipene had somehow gotten in front of the door before me and stood blocking the exit, his arms crossed over his chest.

“My
name
is Tully,” I said through clenched teeth.

“I do not say that your husband is doing anything heinous,” she continued. “I merely offered that as a possible reason why he might want you in a perpetual state of unawareness.”

“Please let me leave,” I said, turning to May. Of all the people in the room, she seemed the most sympathetic, the most familiar. “I must go back to my family.”

She looked uncomfortable as Gabriel said, “We are your family, Ysolde. You were born a silver dragon. You need our help. You will stay here while we give you that help.”

“I don’t want your damned help!” I said, losing my temper, while at the same time I wanted to sob in frustration.

“You need assistance recovering your memory,” Kaawa pointed out. “Even if you are not who we believe you to be, you cannot wish to live your life without any memories.”