Rising Darkness (Game of Shadows #1)(15)

Ephemeral fingers seemed to brush her cheek. Tears spilled down Mary’s face as a brief, desperately needed wave of calm washed over her. Brave traveler, the woman said. You cannot go home again.

Mary scrubbed at her eyes with a fist, greedy for every moment she saw the woman. I don’t understand. Why can’t I go home?

You must work hard to remember. The lines of the cave and floor were visible through the woman’s body. Remember who you are, and take great care. You are in danger. You have a powerful enemy, and you must not try to go home. You must work hard to find me.

Mary shook her head as her eyes blurred again. Blinking furiously, she said in that mental voice, I’m sorry. I still don’t understand. How do I find you?

You must travel north.

The last few words came at her as if from across a massive divide. Then her vision came clear and for a moment all thought, all movement, was suspended.

The woman was gone, the maelstrom silent and quiet as if it had never existed. The sun shone outside on a bright serene spring afternoon.

Mary stood alone in the Grotto.

Chapter Six

AS MICHAEL LEARNED meditation, the first memory that he recovered was the strongest, and also the strangest to him.

It wasn’t strange because it was of that first, alien life. That ancient memory was patchy and indistinct, and it came to him much later.

No, the first memory he uncovered was strange because he was happy in it.

Happy.

What a bizarre concept, happiness. As soon as he connected to the emotion in the memory, he realized he had never felt happiness, not in this lifetime or in many others.

In this lifetime, he had never given much thought to happiness before, but when he had, the concept had seemed pastel, an insipid, shallow thing that others claimed to either desire or feel.

Happiness led to other pastel emotions like contentment. It also seemed to be connected to things he had no interest in, things like steady jobs, marriage, children and community. Or it was connected to myths that people believed. Wealth would make them happy, or popularity would, or social standing.

But when the memory surfaced, and Michael touched the actual experience of happiness, even though it was only a shadow of the real thing, the feeling was so passionate, so golden and complete it shone a light on all the rest of his life. By comparison every other emotion he had felt was fractured, dirty and gray.

The details of that former life came to him piecemeal.

He had been a Norman lord under William the Conqueror. After the Battle of Hastings, he had been given a castle in York to live in and defend on behalf of the king, and she had been there. The other half of himself.

They fit together. Such simple words and yet so profound. They fit. Interlocking pieces, contrast and confluence.

And remembering that was, completely and utterly, the most devastating thing he had ever experienced.

Over the years, he returned to that past life again and again in meditation, painstakingly recovering shards of lost treasure.

The look in her eyes when she smiled at him. She was luminous. (If only he could see the details of her face more clearly, even though he knew that what she looked like did not matter in the slightest.)

How they talked late at night, discussing everything from the latest harvest to their great enemy. (For the danger was with them always, a thundercloud of war that shrouded their entire existence.)

Flashes of a mysterious and powerful intimacy. Her arms around his neck, his face in her perfumed hair. Their bodies entwined, and his spirit expansive and vibrant. (Not this thin, sharp sword that he had become.)

Laughter. Her laughter, and his. (He never laughed anymore. He had not laughed in so long, he had forgotten that he had forgotten how.)

The person he had been in this former life: this was who he was supposed to be. He took the memory and made it the cornerstone of his soul, and he built everything else around it, until he became a fortress.

* * *

IN THE GRAY light of predawn, Michael pulled his car into the small parking lot at the bottom of a lookout point. He took advantage of the early solitude and remote location to give his body some much needed rest, dozing for an hour or so behind the wheel.

Then something made him open his eyes, turn his head.

The shimmer of a transparent figure stood by his car. It was a strong quiet, steady presence. Recognition kicked him in the teeth. He straightened, staring.

The figure was that of a tall man. In that faint shimmer he caught a glimpse of short black hair, distinguished aquiline features, copper skin.

The figure was a ghost.

Michael, it said. I have fallen.

Heaviness plummeted onto his shoulders. Maybe it was grief. He didn’t know. It was certainly disappointment. They had not been friends, not quite. More like comrades-in-arms. Michael had met him when he had traveled north to spend summers with his mentor. Each year the boys would meet again, having grown taller and stronger, and they would assess each other as possible adversaries all over again. For a brief time, many years ago, they had been sparring partners, until Michael grew too dangerous to train with other children.

Michael slowly opened his car door and stepped out. He was the same height and stood shoulder to shoulder with the tall ghost. He said, Damn, Nicholas. I’m sorry.

There was a faint gleam in the dark, intelligent eyes that regarded him with a grave expression, without self-pity. I will not leave, Nicholas told him. I will do what I can to protect him.