Spirit Binder (3 page)

He, like everyone else, looked familiar, but more in a familial line sort of way … he looked a little like the Chancellor of the NorthWest, except for the skin coloring. His son perhaps. Handsome, ruggedly refined.

Ten years.

She’d lost ten years.

Concern etched his chiseled, caramel-skinned face. His dark golden hair fell over his blue-green eyes. He needed to trim it, before it interfered with his sight lines in a fight … though why he’d be in, or even need to be in a sword fight, she didn’t know.

“Are you well?” he asked.

She couldn’t stop staring at him. If she only looked at him, if she only absorbed every detail, she wouldn’t need to disintegrate over the missing ten years of her life. But … it was impolite not to answer. “I’m … I’ve woken up,” she offered, which didn’t even begin to explain any part of the raging loss that undulated through her like bouts of nausea.

“Yes, I believe the entire world felt you wake,” he inexplicably answered. He was dressed for horseback; cloaked with riding boots. His clothes expensive, new, though the boots were broken in, so he actually rode for more than just show. Why that mattered to her, she didn’t know.

“And what are you to me?” she finally asked, finally questioned his obvious right to stride through her mother’s household unimpeded. His right to approach her unguarded and unchaperoned.

He smiled in a way that let her know she wasn’t going to like the answer. “They said you were experiencing memory lag.”

“Memory lag? That’s a nice way of encompassing the terror of missing ten years.”

He tilted his head as if assessing the terror she calmly claimed. He hadn’t answered her question.

“Do we know each other?”

“We’ve never met.”

“But here you are.”

“I came as quickly as I could.”

“Was it a long journey?”

“Yes, non stop. The Beast wasn’t happy with me. I haven’t eaten. Would you join me for dinner?”

“I never dine with people whose names I do not know.”

“Hugh Madoc, forever in your service.”

Lord Hugh Madoc. Indeed, he was the son of Chancellor Madoc, who oversaw the entire NorthWest under her mother’s ever-watchful eye, and — it just so happened — predestined to be her betrothed.

∞

Their parents, or, most likely, her mother specifically, kept them apart for sixteen years. They were born within months of each other. He was first, born under a prophecy that foretold her birth; and, then, she was second, born under a completely different prophecy. It was exceedingly rare for a babe to be born under prophecy, though that might just be the case of not having a prophecy reader present at every birth. Chancellor Madoc was a prophecy reader, the foremost interpreter in the country. Though, since the Chancellor was Hugh’s father, Rhea had her and Hugh’s prophecies reread at various points in their lives, just for verification … not because she disliked being under obligation to the Chancellor or having her daughter’s alliances so predetermined, not at all …

She and Hugh were to have met on the eve of her sixteenth birthday, but that meeting, obviously, never took place.

It seemed, ten years later, the least she could do was dine with him … if she didn’t suddenly find herself chafing at the idea of her life partner being preselected, and abruptly demanding her attention. Funny that it bothered her now when it had just been the accepted plan only twenty-four hours ago … in her mind … ten actual years had passed. If she needed proof of that passage of time, all she had to do was look at the little scars that marred her hands …

He didn’t speak. Didn’t try to offer his opinion or condolences. Didn’t ask her where she’d been; perhaps he knew?

She lifted her eyes from her hands to his face, which was partly obscured in moonlight shadow again, but he was completely unreadable.

All of a sudden, she felt too tired to play political games to get answers. Information was power in her mother’s household. It didn’t occur to her that Hugh might have different allegiances. Why would he? Her mother was the most powerful person in the land, perhaps even in the world.

“Tired,” she spoke without really intending to do so.

“Yes, I gather you weren’t expected to wake so soon. I understand your wounds were extensive. Shall I escort you?” He offered his arm, which gave her pause. He was actually volunteering to touch her … perhaps to enforce a bond between them …

“I already have a loyal follower.” She indicated the carpet, which currently occupied a spot just inside the balcony. “But I guess I have little say in regard to your presence here.”

Hugh’s back stiffened and she almost regretted being so harsh so suddenly.

“You could just disappear for another ten years.”

“Run away? From you? Is that what I did?”

“Kidnapping was the official story.”

“But you believe otherwise.”

“You walked back in on your own.”

“Did I?”

He didn’t seem to have an answer, or perhaps he just didn’t wish to continue the conversation. She could force it, break through whatever shields the son of a noble, the son of one of the only people to whom her mother was at all beholden, must wear. No matter how mighty or expensive those shields were, she knew, without even testing, they wouldn’t keep her out of his mind. The knowledge startled and scared her … that she would suddenly be so powerful …

Instead, she just watched him. Even in this low light she could see he was struggling with something. Perhaps he didn’t want to be here himself. Perhaps only obligation drew him … why else would he be here? She was being silly … a spirit prophecy wasn’t something simply turned on and off, or even ignored. She should know better, did know better …

Still, she was tired and getting cold. Hugh’s presence was an added confusion rather than a comfort.

“You don’t understand,” he began to try to explain, but all she could see was that he was ill at ease, that she’d been unkind, and suddenly she didn’t want to think or talk.

“I understand. Thank you for coming. Your loyalty and faithfulness have been noted and appreciated, but now you must excuse me.” She’d said the wrong thing, phrased it incorrectly, but his look of confused pain was quickly replaced by a neutral, pleasant demeanor. He’d play along. He stopped looking her in the eye and started addressing her left shoulder — a deference she’d forgotten about and certainly hadn’t missed — at least she didn’t think she would have missed it, if she could remember the last ten years.
 

“As you wish, my lady.” He stepped aside to allow her to pass.

She thought about trying to fix it, starting over from the beginning, but she was just so tired and confused. Her shields were beginning to erode and the castle was so very full of so many different spirits; their energy constantly tested her. Tomorrow, she’d figure it all out tomorrow.

“Thank you,” she murmured, before she remembered she wasn’t actually supposed to thank people lower in rank.
 

She stepped by him on to the carpet. He kept his face averted, but, her own eyes downcast, she could see he was clenching his hands into fists at his sides.

The carpet felt warm and comforting, even through her shoes. She paused, and, with her shield so dangerously compromised, she could feel Hugh behind her, his presence so near and suddenly so overwhelming … or maybe it was just the effort she was exerting to keep him at a distance —
 

“Princess!” Hugh sounded alarmed … oh … she’d lost a bit of time, momentarily swept away into the surrounding energy … she was still on her feet … still on the carpet …

She swayed again. Hugh stepped closer, but he didn’t touch her.

“Lord Madoc?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I won’t be able to make it to my rooms unassisted.”

“I see, my lady. Shall I ring for help?”

She swayed again, and, this time, she reached out to find something to steady herself on. She found Hugh’s arm; for all his play at formality, he’d stepped forward to catch her. The instant her hand grasped his forearm she felt a little more grounded. Her thumb lay across the bare skin of his wrist. She could feel his steady pulse. She suddenly knew — if she opened herself up to it — she’d feel the connection between them. But even tired and wounded and confused, she didn’t want to just submit. Prophecy or not, she’d find her own answers, and carve her own path. She wondered, even as she moved her hand up to a more respectable placement on Hugh’s forearm, where all this willpower and determination had come from, or whether she’d had it all along.

“I don’t believe I will faint.”

“That is good, my lady.”

“If you will walk with me?”

“Wherever you wish to go.” A bit of Hugh’s lighter tone seeped back and she almost smiled; it seemed she wouldn’t have to grovel for forgiveness.

They took a few steps together, and really, honestly, she wouldn’t have fainted if Peony, followed by two guards, hadn’t burst into the room. Peony, it seemed, maintained a connection with those she’d recently healed, and through that connection she’d felt her waning. Again, it occurred to her, as Peony cried, “Lady Theodora,” that it didn’t feel right, to be called by that name, title and all.

Trouble was, the sudden influx of energy was too much for her to shield and she had to just shut it all down.

She heard Hugh swear — a series of curses better suited to laborers or tavern owners — and found she liked this unexpected roughness about him.

She felt him reach to catch her, but was out before she knew if he’d caught her or not.

So, that was a fantastic first meeting with her intended. First, be foolish and generally stupid, though, admittedly, her ignorance was not entirely her fault. Second, be snippy and arrogant. Then, third, faint — in his arms — absolutely brilliant.

She’d never noticed how gilded the ballroom was — not that she’d ever spent much time there — but the pillars, the massive crown moldings, and even the hardwood floor all glinted with gold leaf.
 

Even she was woven with gold, from her dance slippers through her full-skirted ball gown, and into the leaves and flowers pinned in her hair. Her fingers and neck were laden with jewels. She felt heavy, compressed, like she couldn’t move any farther into the empty, vast room.

It was then that she recognized she was in a dream. Dreaming of the afternoon — judging by the light streaming into the windows — of her sixteenth birthday party.

She’d snuck away from the dressing room while her mother bickered with the Chancellor over whether or not she’d wear a crown, actually a coronet, and which one was appropriate. It seemed the Chancellor was concerned with the distinction it would place between her and his son … so Hugh had been in the castle that afternoon … she wondered what he’d been doing the moment before … this moment … this was the very last moment she remembered before the bloody tunnel and the Slurper and her mother’s library … she really should ask her mother about the demon in the basement.
 

It was here … here in the ballroom … where the blank began …

She turned, though her heavy skirts hampered her. How she was supposed to dance in them later was certainly a mystery, and perhaps should have been addressed during the hundreds of hours of painfully boring lessons.

The room remained empty.
 

Why was she here? She couldn’t remember why she’d chosen this as her reprieve that afternoon.

Shouldn’t there be servants and decorations? Candles and such …
 
Oh. Candelabra were set up around the perimeter of the room … except she was certain those hadn’t been there before, which only confirmed this was a dream, and one she had some control over … so why was she here?

Something crinkled in her hand. Paper. It was a note. She stared at the lettering but couldn’t read it, though she knew it was a note written to her —
 

Something glimmered off to one side, by the windows, and she turned to see a man slowly materialize while walking toward her. Magic seemed to almost boil around him, clearly marking him as separate from the dream.

A dreamwalker?
 

“We’ve broken through the wards!” a woman crowed, and the man looked to his right and nodded, as if answering the speaker, though she didn’t reveal herself to the dream. “Are you there?” the unseen woman asked, and the man glanced around.

“Ballroom,” he confirmed, and something about him made her smile. He spoke as if the act of speaking was something forced upon him, a societal nicety, and that he’d rather be using the sword he kept a hand on as he surveyed the empty ballroom. His footfalls made little sound, though he was a large man.

“Is she there? You’ve got to hurry; I can feel the wards fighting me.”

“Just a child all dressed up.” His eyes had drifted by her, barely registering her presence. He ran a hand through his dark hair, and his gesture made him seem younger than before. He was perhaps twenty-nine or thirty, a few years older than her. His skin was tanned, as were his large hands. He looked like he could crush her without a second thought, but something about him made her feel like she might not mind being crushed. Yes, he felt dangerous and forbidden … and, oddly, thrilling.

He was staring at her now, his eyes like ice as they raked over her. She lifted her chin and refused to drop his disdainful gaze.

His mouth dropped open, just a little bit, in surprise. “Theo?” he asked, as if afraid of the answer. This name felt right, felt like it claimed her as it rolled off his tongue, and the idea that someone she didn’t even know had that power worried her just a little.

“You’ve got her?” the female, who Theo still couldn’t see, asked.

“There’s a girl who could be her —”

“That’s her then.”

“But she doesn’t look like —”

“That’s how she sees herself, her dream self.”

“Why would she see herself this way?” The man spat, his anger evident, though not directed toward Theo.

“Stop talking to me. You’ll confuse her.”

“I’m not confused,” Theo said. “You’re a dreamwalker.”

“Not me,” he responded, just as the female voice said, “yes.” So the female was the dreamwalker and the man was … what? Her passenger? She had no idea that was even possible.