The Forsaken Throne (Kingfountain #6)(17)

Gahalatine’s memories had been stolen from him—like her father.

Like Dragan.

“I am,” she answered. “What is your name?”

He looked at her helplessly. “I . . . I cannot remember.” He walked in a slow circle, gazing at the towering trees. “I remember nothing. I don’t know . . . who I am.” He finished the circle and looked at her pleadingly. “Can you help me? I need to remember. You know me? You recognized me, yes? Who . . . who are you?”

Trynne’s heart shrank with pain. “I am your wife, my lord,” she said forlornly.





CHAPTER SEVEN


Ignominious


Wounded and dead alike were brought to the palace at Ploemeur.

The scale of the disaster was almost incomprehensible. Trynne was devastated by all the injuries and death. There was no doubt at all that it had been a deliberate attack, orchestrated by her enemies, and yet the Wizr Albion had been killed as well. Surely a simple shield spell could have saved him from the ravages of the ice storm.

It felt as if a game of Wizr were in progress, only she was blind to all the moves.

Healers tended to the injured. Reya had revived but had swooned soon afterward from dizziness. The soldiers who had survived were frightened and in a state of shock from the calamity that had befallen them. Gahalatine was befuddled with confusion.

His wounds were treated, although her magic had already started to heal him. Of the survivors, Lord Amrein was in the most perilous condition. He was still unconscious and struggling with each breath.

She checked on him constantly, afraid he too might die under her care.

She remembered the threat Gahalatine had made before leaving Kingfountain. If he did not return in seven days, Sunilik was to return to Chandigarl and declare a state of enmity between the kingdoms. There was already plenty of ill will between them.

She sat on a stool beside Kevan’s sickbed, her hand touching his arm, feeding part of her magic into him. Her reserves were draining steadily, and she had no time to restore them. As she lent him her strength, one of the healers wiped away some of the grime from his face with a warm towel, revealing pale cheeks.

A strong hand gripped her shoulder from behind. She turned and found Gahalatine standing over her, his face pinched with concern.

“My lady,” he said hesitantly. “Can you spare a moment? I’m growing anxious.” He cast a look around the room. “None of this is familiar.”

His touch was like a stranger’s. There was no recognition in his eyes, no fondness or hatred. Just bewilderment.

She looked down at Lord Amrein and released his arm. Shifting her gaze to the healer, she met his eyes and said, “Let me know if the chancellor revives. Let me know at once.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said with concern. “He may not wake for some time . . .”

The words he left unspoken were the loudest: or ever.

She rose from the stool and guided Gahalatine toward the balcony, entwining her fingers and tapping them against her mouth as she walked. The stress of the situation was taking its toll on her.

Before they made it very far, he turned to her with a look of fear.

“I still cannot remember anything. Not a flicker from my childhood.

No memories of my mother or my father. None of you. You say we are husband and wife. Yet should I not at least recall something about you? About this place?” He stared at her with hopelessness.

“It feels like . . . a trick. A deception.”

The sight of his confusion filled her with even more pain. Her father had been like this. According to Rucrius, he was masked and incarcerated in a dungeon under the threat of death. There had been no one to guide him or remind him of who he was.

She looked at Gahalatine firmly and gripped his arm. “I tried to explain this at the grove. I know it will be difficult for you to understand. But your memories have been washed away.”

“But how?” he demanded.

“I do not know,” she confessed. “It has happened before and we do not know the cause of it. I also do not know if it is temporary or not. You may get your memories back.” She shrugged, forcibly reminded of the fact that so far Dragan had shown no signs of recollection whatsoever. For seven months. “You may not. For now, you are safe. I am, as I told you, your wife. We were married seven months ago at Kingfountain.”

He stared at her blankly. “And you say that I am the Overking of Chandigarl, a kingdom across the sea,” he stated without any conviction.

“You are. You attacked our realm, but we arranged a truce between our kingdoms. You needed a wife and I’m of one of the noble families. Your counselors, the Wizrs, have tricked and deceived you at every turn. They may be the ones who blocked your memories.”

“And I chose . . . you,” he said with concern throbbing in his voice. “What happened to your . . . to your face? As you’ve been speaking, I’ve noticed that . . . I see that part of your face doesn’t move like the other.” He raised a finger to point at her, though he was still clearly struggling with a way to make his query polite.

The words were like an arrow through her heart. Gahalatine had fallen in love with her because of how she had overcome adversity.

This handsome man was seeing her flaws without the context. He did not love her. He didn’t even know her. Her head started to spin with despair. She needed to sit down.