17 #3
“When I first saw Simon at Sea Home,” Duncan said, “I had a memory of candles burning, chants, and a knife blade cold between my thighs.”
Duncan turned to look at Simon.
“Did that happen?” Duncan asked. “Did I stand in a church with a woman’s silver shoe in my hand and a knife blade between my thighs?”
Simon looked swiftly at Meg. She nodded.
“Yes,” Simon said. “It was my blade.”
Memory shivered and bright fragments wove together, giving Duncan more of the past.
“It was your shoe,” Duncan said to Meg.
“Yes.”
“John was too ill to take part in the ritual, so I stood in his place,” Duncan said slowly.
“Yes.”
“And I…and I…”
Shades of darkness descended, baffling Duncan’s efforts to recall his lost past.
“I am so close to remembering it all,” he said harshly. “I know it! Yet something holds me back. God, let me remember!”
Amber stirred as though called by Duncan’s anguish. Golden eyes opened. She had no need to ask what was wrong. She sensed the thinning shadows very clearly, the siren lure of memory glittering through the shades of darkness.
Just as clearly she sensed Duncan’s fear of knowing. It was a fear she shared.
Yet there was no choice but to confront that fear. She could no longer leave Duncan torn between past and future, bleeding invisibly, edging relentlessly toward madness.
As I feared, it is destroying him.
And as I feared, it will destroy me.
It is too soon, my dark warrior, my love, heart of my heart…too soon.
And it is too late.
Slowly Amber looked past Duncan to the three warriors watching silently, held in check by no more than the upraised hand of a Glendruid witch.
When Amber saw the silver pin glittering on one man’s mantle, she knew she had lost her gamble. The past had overtaken Duncan.
And the name of the past was Dominic le Sabre.
“Let go of me,” Amber whispered.
It took Duncan a moment to realize that Amber had spoken to him. When he would have answered, her hand lifted, sealing his lips.
“If you would remember the past,” Amber said shakily, “you must first let go of me.”
Why?
The demand was silent, but as clear as a spoken word to Amber.
“Because you can’t have both,” she said simply.
Why?
Amber closed her eyes against the pain coiling more tightly through her with each breath. She had suspected the truth even before she had given herself to Duncan beneath the sacred rowan. Suspected, but not known.
She knew now.
Too late.
“Because you can’t truly love me until the shadows are gone,” Amber whispered, “and when the shadows are gone, you won’t love me at all.”
Her hand dropped from his lips. Knowing she shouldn’t, unable to resist, she brushed her mouth over his.
“You make no sense,” Duncan said, searching Amber’s shadowed eyes. “Your fall addled you.”
“Nay. It made me see clearly how I have wronged you in the name of protecting you.”
“Wronged me? What nonsense. You called me from a terrible darkness.”
Shaking her head slowly, ignoring the slow fall of her own tears, Amber forced herself to give Duncan what no longer could be denied.
“Let go of me, dark warrior. Your past is all around you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let go of me,” she whispered.
Puzzled, Duncan opened his arms, releasing Amber. She sat up and would have stood, but knew her legs would refuse to take her weight.
Like Duncan, she was at war with herself, knowing what must be and rejecting it at one and the same moment.
“Now that we aren’t touching, do you see?” Amber asked starkly.
“I see only your tears.”
“Then hear my words. The Glendruid witch is your childhood friend.”
“I know. Meggie.”
“The fair-haired, black-eyed knight who hates me so—do you know him?”
Duncan glanced at Simon.
“Aye. He is Simon, called…the Loyal!” Duncan finished, triumph clear in his voice. “Aye! I know him!”
“And to whom is he loyal?” Amber asked softly.
“His brother.”
“Who is the brother of Simon the Loyal?”
Abruptly Duncan came to his feet and faced the tall, powerful knight who was watching him with sword half drawn and eyes the color of winter rain.
“Dominic le Sabre,” Duncan said.
The knight nodded.
“And who are you, dark warrior?” Amber whispered raggedly. “What is your true name?”
Duncan closed his eyes and tried to speak. Shadows writhed as they fought against the bright memories flowing together, weaving a tapestry of knowledge fragment by shimmering fragment, until even a thousand shades of darkness could no longer conceal the burning pattern of the truth.
When Duncan’s eyes opened once more, Amber was grateful not to be touching him.
“I am Duncan of Maxwell, the Scots Hammer,” he said savagely.
Again Dominic nodded.
“I am Duncan of Maxwell, steward to Erik the Sorcerer in the very keep that you, my rightful lord, gave me to hold in fief for you.”
Dominic would have spoken, but there was no chance. Duncan’s words were still falling like bitter rain. The pride, humiliation, and rage in him were strong enough to taste.
“I am Duncan of Maxwell, a man brought to ruin by a witch with golden eyes and a lying tongue.
“I am Duncan of Maxwell, the Forsworn.”