Chapter 42 #2
"Well," Symond said after a moment's consideration, "he could always go to the Institute.
That's where orphans go, isn't it? For a better life, or so they say.
For a chance to be someone important." Something bitter crept into his voice, though he wasn't entirely sure why.
"That's what my parents told me when they gave me up to the recruiters. A great opportunity, they called it."
Violette stared at him, the color draining from her face. "The Institute? You're suggesting sending him to the Institute? After everything that happened to you there?"
Symond frowned, puzzled by the horror in her voice.
"What do you mean, everything that happened?
They taught me enchanting. And combat, I suppose.
" He scratched the side of his head, trying to recall details that should have been there.
"I don't remember much else, actually. Just a.
.. a sort of void where memories should be. "
"Symond," Violette said slowly, as if speaking to someone very young or very old, "you told me the Institute was where they broke you.
" She glanced at the boy, who was watching them with the wary alertness of a child who has learned that adult conversations can determine fate. "You said they hurt you, Symond."
"Did I?" He searched his memory and found nothing. Just blank spaces, comfortably empty. "That doesn't sound right. I think I'd remember something like that."
"You wake up screaming," Violette said, her voice softer now but no less intense. "You thrash and fight anyone who tries to touch you. You once broke Dorn's nose when he tried to shake you awake."
Symond laughed, the sound strangely hollow even to his own ears. "Well, I sleep like the dead now."
"What happened, Symond? What did you do?" Violette asked, studying his face like she was seeing him for the first time.
He shrugged, uncomfortable under her scrutiny. "Nothing much. Just visited an alchemist. For something to help me sleep better. Must have worked."
"An alchemist," she repeated, horror dawning on her face. "What kind of alchemist? What did they give you?"
"The kind of potion that takes memories you don't want and puts them somewhere else," he replied, suddenly fascinated by a crack in the stone floor. "Nothing important. Just... things that kept getting in the way. Bad dreams. Waking up screaming, apparently, though I don't recall that either."
"You erased your memories?" Violette's voice cracked on the last word. "Symond, those memories were part of you. They made you who you are—who you were."
"Well, they weren't very pleasant memories, from the sound of it," he replied reasonably. "So good riddance, I say."
The child had gone very still. His small hand rested on his father's chest, but his eyes were fixed on Symond now, wide and wary.
"The Institute," the boy said suddenly. "Is that where the people in black suits take children?"
Symond nodded, oddly pleased by the question. "That's the one. Black suits, big promises. They come through the towns every few seasons, looking for special children." He tilted his head, studying the boy. "They might like you. You've got that look about you."
"Enough," Violette snapped. "Don't listen to him, kid. The Institute is not somewhere you want to go. It's a terrible place that does terrible things to children."
"Is it?" Symond asked, genuinely curious. "I don't remember it being particularly terrible. Just... there. A place with walls and people and lessons. But then, there's quite a lot I don't remember these days."
Violette stared at him for a long moment, something like grief passing over her features. Then she turned back to the boy, kneeling once more to bring herself to his level.
"I can't bring your father back. And I can't make this better. But I promise you, I will find you somewhere safe to go. Somewhere far away from the Institute. Will you trust me? Just enough to leave this place?"
The boy looked at his father's face one last time, reaching out to touch his cheek with trembling fingers. Then he nodded, a tiny movement almost lost in the shadows.
"There's my gran," he whispered. "In the river district. Papa said to go there if something happened."
"We'll find your gran together," Violette said, offering her hand.
He hesitated, then placed his small hand in hers, allowing her to help him to his feet. He stopped to pick up the fallen wooden bird, tucking it carefully into his pocket before giving his father one last, lingering look.
Whatever Violette thought she knew about his past, about the Institute, clearly didn't match with what little he recalled. Funny how memories worked—or didn't work, in his case. Like trying to read a book with most of the pages torn out, just fragments of a story that didn't connect to anything.
The void where his childhood should have been felt comfortable, in its way. A blank space where nothing mattered. Much better than screaming in his sleep, certainly.
"Ready?" Violette asked him, her voice cool as she led the boy toward the passage they'd entered through. Her eyes held a wariness that hadn't been there before, like she was looking at a stranger wearing her friend's face.
"Always," Symond replied cheerfully, pushing himself away from the wall. "Though I still think this is an unnecessary complication."
"I'm sure you do," Violette said, her voice tight. "We'll discuss your... memories... later."
Symond shrugged, following them toward the passage. Behind them, Rylok's body lay cooling on the cellar floor, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, seeing nothing at all. Somehow fitting, Symond thought. The void staring into the void.