Hettie shook her head. “You mistook me.”
“No, girl. I did not. You think like a Romani still. You sniff out the weakness. The Druidecht is weak. The Shaliah is weak. The Dryad-born is weak. Even your Bhikhu is weak. Only the strong will survive the Scourgelands. Only the most ruthless. That is how Tyrus survived last time. It is how I intend to survive.”
Hettie snorted. “You will abandon him already?”
He shook his head. “The dice are cast but they are still rolling. They will settle soon. Very soon. When they do, we must be prepared to flee. Do you know how to work his magic? The one that makes him come and go? I want you to steal it from him.”
She stared at him. “You think he might not notice it missing?”
“Don’t be a fool, Hettie. When his plan crumbles to dust, you will steal it. And we will flee together. Just the two of us. Remember that. The Sword of Winds you carry…it will help us to escape. So will my blade.”
She bit her lip. “But if we succeed?”
A crooked smile twisted on his mouth. “Then the Arch-Rike of Kenatos is a dead man.”
Trasen plodded up the road listlessly, seeing the home at the end of the rise amidst the grape trellises and the fluttering green leaves. His journey was now at an end. As he saw the trellises, there was a nagging, empty feeling in his mind. A memory about greeting someone amidst them, yet he could not recall when it had happened or who he had seen. There was something just beyond his reach, a recollection that teased and hinted. The sandy dirt was familiar. The looming barn was familiar. Just seeing the vineyard brought back a flood of pleasant memories that warmed his heart, but something was missing. He stared at it, feeling some jagged, gaping hole in his soul.
It was dark and only a thin bit of light came from the home. The barn looked abandoned. He shook his head, feeling uncomfortable and a little nauseous. As he reached the porch, he knocked firmly. He would have expected to hear laughter ringing out from the house. Why was it so silent? It was too early for the family to go up to the cabin, for the grapes had not been harvested yet. No one could leave until after the harvest and the trampling of the grapes. He could not wait to tell them all about his adventures, how he had gotten lost in the woods in Silvandom and finally directed back to Stonehollow by some fellow travelers.
Trasen massaged his cheeks and felt the rough, bristling whiskers. He needed a bath and a shave. His clothes were fit to be burned. So many empty pockets in his memory. So many things he could not recall. He must have hit his head while lost. That must be it.
“Is that you, Trasen?”
Trasen whirled and saw Uncle Carlsruhe come from around the house, axe in one hand as if expecting an enemy. The man was strong and rugged, with streaks of silver in his mustache and hair. He was Dame Winemiller’s younger brother.
“Uncle?” Trasen asked, perplexed. “Where is everyone? Why are you here?”
Carlsruhe approached him warily, his face beginning to grimace. “Where is she, lad? Devin and Tate said you’d gone after her.”
“Who?” Trasen asked, his mind turning into gnats that flittered every direction at once.
“Where is Phae?” Carlsruhe demanded. “You said you wouldn’t come back without her.”
Trasen stared at him, completely befuddled. There was a panicky feeling in his stomach, as if he should know the name. But he did not. “Who are you talking about, Uncle?” He could not explain it, but that nervous feeling felt as if it were covering a painful, sleeping wound.
He had never heard that name in his life.
Phae sat right at the edge of the fire, rubbing the warmth into her arms. She watched Annon play with the flames and her heart grieved for him. His face was sunken, bereft, his eyes haunted.
“I know a little of how you feel,” she said tenderly, almost shyly.
Annon glanced up at her, blinking as though he had awoken from a dream. “Do you?” he replied but not unkindly.
“Not long ago, I was staying at the Winemillers in Stonehollow. It’s an orphanage, you see. It was my home. My best friend was a young man named Trasen.”
“The one the Arch-Rike threatened you with,” Annon said softly.
She nodded. “Trasen doesn’t remember me anymore. I stole his memories.” She gazed down at the fire, her heart aching with the loss. “It was grown so subtly, I did not understand how I truly felt about him until after I stole his memories away. It was on a night, not long ago, that I wept as you did. Shion comforted me, strangely.” She glanced over at him, watching him conferring in low tones with Tyrus and Prince Aran, the three men standing nearby.