Chapter 22 Debts No Honest Man Could Pay
Debts No Honest Man Could Pay
Lucian
C
ynthia greets me, gesturing toward the chair across from her desk—not the couch I typically take. “A pleasure to see you here. Please, take a seat.”
I sit in the chair that has never been mine, sighing.
I could ask Yuki to search for my missing memories of the silver—he’s a trained Drae, the only magic-wielder capable of stealing mental magics; he can channel the Folks’ power.
But he doesn’t know a fraction of what Cynthia knows. I can’t pull him into this.
Cynthia’s command of the subconscious is unlike anything I’ve witnessed. If something is missing, she might find it.
“Someone’s stolen my memories,” I tell her. “I need you to locate what’s missing.” There’s a tinge of defeat in my tone.
“Of course, dear.”
“Only the missing memory, Cynthia. You can do nothing else in my subconscious, do you understand?”
Her smile fades. She tugs on the collar of her coat, shifting in her chair as she straightens her spine. “I once thought you had more faith in me.”
“My apologies,” I mutter, hardly meaning the words.
Cynthia smooths her hands over the desk’s surface, taking her time to speak. “I’ve been on your side for nearly a decade now,” she says. “By your side I will continue to stand.”
I doubt her intentions. She’s been involved in several illegal activities that I’m aware of—starting with the tomes on the shelves behind her desk. I recall her shallow words when Azaire died.
My condolences.
The prices we pay.
Is that all standing by my side entails?
I glance to the side, running a hand along my jaw.
Cynthia clears her throat. “I will do nothing but look for your stolen memories. You have my word.”
Even with it, I struggle to believe her. If there was something in my mind she wanted, she would take it. And yet, there is something I need.
With a sigh, I ask, “Are my wards up?”
Cynthia’s irises flare bright blue, the light sharpening the crimson of her lips. She doesn’t blink as the silence stretches. At last, she says, simply, “No.”
Before I can reply, she slips into my mind.
My conviction collapses like velvet curtains torn from their rod, Desdemona flooding my thoughts—moving through them as though they belong to her.
A smile in passing. The delicate crease of her nose when she laughs.
Other things I have never witnessed yet somehow feel as though I have: the brush of warm skin, the curve of a knowing smirk, eyes that do not merely look at me—but see me entirely.
Her hands on me in places only a lover could reach.
Yuki said my wards have been dropping—that something is missing exponentially in my mind. She’s what’s missing. It must be why I feel this pull toward Desdemona. Perhaps that means I can stop it.
Cynthia can’t see memories as the Folk can, though she can find the pockets where they are held. Is she noticing the repetition of Desdemona in every corner of my mind?
It’s as if she is rifling through drawers in a vast archive, each memory a folder beneath her fingers. One is opened, empty. Then another. And another. The violation continues until at last Cynthia withdraws from my mind.
“My apologies, Lucian.” Her tone is much more formal than we’ve spoken in a long while. “There are too many missing for me to pinpoint one.”
A long exhalation, more akin to a sigh, escapes me. Too many are missing, and I fear I know what it means: Desdemona, Desdemona, Desdemona.
“How many?” I ask.
Cynthia nods faintly. “Thousands.”
“Who?”
A shrug. “I cannot say for certain.”
Thousands of memories with the girl. It irks me to know, with near certainty, that she was important in my life.
Especially because I can feel her growing important again.
As if there is no way for me to walk past her and not recognize her—not her face or her clothes, nor her body or her hair.
But her. I recognize her. As if there is no world, time, or life where she wouldn’t be important to me.
What happened before is happening again, and I’m of so little consequence amidst it. History repeats, and I’m simply along for the ride, as if she is the constant of the cosmos—the thing that controls my tide.
“How is the search for the Weapon coming along?” Cynthia asks.
“You know exactly where my priorities are at the moment.” I look up. “You planted them.” She gave Wendy Amun’s tome, in which he spoke of Eira and bringing a human back to life. “Should I be asking why?”
Cynthia leans closer to me, a lilt to her tone. “You plan to do it?”
I’m not used to seeing her from this angle. Normally, I’m a little farther away, on my couch. From here, I can see the desperation in her eyes. I should be asking why.
“I would do anything for Azaire,” I say.
“Including the impossible?”
“Anything,” I repeat. “Why do you want him back?”
Cynthia looks down at her desk, hiding that desperation. “I only wish to push people along the paths they wish to go down.”
Beneath my breath, I laugh.
“It’s all I’ve done for you,” she says.
I adjust my coat cuffs hastily and draw a slow breath through my nose. “Don’t belittle me, Cynthia. I’m your soldier.”
Cynthia shakes her head, her eyes softening. “You are my son. And despite my ways, I love you within them.”
Once again, I nearly laugh. What an odd thing it is to be loved by Cynthia Constance.
“The worlds are shifting,” she warns. “I’m certain you see it. Our systems will not remain steady underfoot. All I do is to help you. I implore you to prepare for destruction.”
“Destruction?” I ask. “Not change?”
“Destruction comes first,” she says, her voice heavy. “There comes a time when your only choice is to usher in the new worlds or die with the old.”
“Why are you saying this?”
“I might not be around—”
“Where will you be?” I ask.
“Powerful people have become aware of my past.” She tries to shrug, as if to say she doesn’t care, though I struggle to believe her. “But fret not, little prince,” she smiles, “if I am to go, you are well set to survive without me.”
?
I step out of Cynthia’s office, planning to meet Wendy and Desdemona, though my steps falter.
Up ahead, a body is sprawled on the floor, lying still, their skin ashen.
A cold dread grips me as I rush forward, fearing this is yet again the work of Arcanes—perhaps Desdemona.
When I reach the fallen, I drop to my knees and roll the body over.
It’s Edward, the Eunoia who healed me after my fight with Alec. He’s dead, yet I feel for a pulse. His neck is still, and his lips are gray, as if death has claimed him so entirely that nothing is left but an empty vessel.
I run once more toward Wendy’s suite, pounding on the door.
Desdemona opens it, looking me up and down, perhaps taking in my breathless and sweaty composure.
I freeze a moment, watching her in return.
Thousands of memories. That smile, the faint wrinkle of her nose that filled my vision, were not inventions of the present.
They were remnants of what we had been—of a history determined to repeat itself.
What memories does she see when she looks at me?
She collides with the brief image of our past. In the present, she stares at me, confused, yet I can nearly see a twinkle in her eyes, followed by a knowing grin. Now, her eyes are crinkled, narrowed, and searching. But in memory… she stares like she knows me, wants me, believes in me.
In a past life, I must have looked at her the same way.
“Are you okay?” she whispers.
“Someone died.” I breathe heavily, averting my gaze.
Wendy sits at her desk, three reanimated animals perched atop it—rodents and a bird. Her hands dangle above them, and they move as if their limbs are connected to her fingers. The bird juts out a wing, and when her hands slow, her dead puppets do as well.
Wendy walks to me as she puts on her academy coat. “Preserve the body.”
Desdemona shakes her head, piecing together our intentions. “You’re kidding—”
I cut her off, eyes on Wendy. “I’ll collect it.”
“We can’t do that,” Desdemona says.
“They probably didn’t want to die.” Wendy turns to Desdemona. “It’s a favor.”
“At least figure out the animals first.” Desdemona’s eyebrows knit together, a steep frown shaping her lips.
“You could try,” I reply. Desdemona pales, though she doesn’t reply. “You brought back Wendy.”
“And now we’re both suffering for it.” She lowers her voice. “We don’t know what will happen—more hallucinations, or worse.”
“You don’t want your Soul Ruby?” I ask, my tone edged with menace. We need her, and this is the most effective way to bend her will. Part of me wants to punish her—for daring to matter to me, for destroying me. My wards, my missing memories, it all points back to her.
Desdemona’s eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“The Soul Ruby is contingent on bringing Azaire back.”
“What have you done to find the ruby?” She scoffs. “I’ve hunted animals, followed you to Ilyria, and fought the queen. We have a deal.”
I shrug. “Rules can reverse.”
Desdemona lowers her head as if struck, though her eyes remain steady on mine. “You’d do that?”
“To an Arcane?” I mutter. “Yes.”
I have to mean that.
Desdemona steps forward, regarding me as though I’m a challenge.
I move closer, just inches from her, as her gaze traces a line across my throat.
My breath hitches, my knees threaten to buckle, and instinctively, I reach for my throat.
It’s wet and warm beneath my hand—my fingers come away slick with blood.
Desdemona is cutting me open from across the room.
If she continues, she’ll slit my throat.
“Althenia,” I say, my voice shaking.
Desdemona’s eyes soften, crinkling at the sides as she glances away. The pressure in my neck fades.
“Threaten me again, Aibek, and I won’t stop next time.” Desdemona’s voice is low and lethal. Then she steps past me, exiting the room and slamming the door shut.
The silence is deafening.
“We’re the ones who need the Soul Ruby,” Wendy reminds me, as if I could forget. She crosses the room to her closet, retrieves a bandage, and wraps my wound.
I stare ahead absently, unsure if what I feel is anger—or something more complicated. An Arcane can’t possibly have a Soul Stone. The thought of what she’d do with that power sends pure fear through my heart.
“Then we find it first,” I say.