“And Sasha was left alone, with no memory of who she was,” Lark said, supplying the culminating piece.
“Yes,” Padrig said, his expression tragic. “When Lady Firi went to Jeru City, the dungeons were emptied. I was released. But Saoirse was gone. I thought Lady Firi had her killed. But maybe she supposed she was of little threat—or consequence— without her memories.”
“I want them back,” Sasha demanded abruptly, her voice shaking, her eyes shimmering. She had listened in stunned silence, and her sudden demand drew the attention of the gathering. The Spinner stepped toward her, apology etched in every line of his face.
“And I will give them to you,” Padrig said, bowing slightly before her.
“I want to see your gift,” Tiras commanded, his voice still awestruck at the Spinner’s revelations. “I want you to show us what you showed Ariel of Firi. And then you will return what you have taken from Lady Saoirse.”
Padrig swallowed and nodded. “Yes, Majesty. But I will need to see the sky, and we will want to be unobserved.” His eyes shifted briefly to Kjell, perhaps because he sensed Kjell’s animosity and distrust, perhaps because he simply feared his size and his blade, but Kjell took note. And his apprehension grew.
King Tiras led them from the great hall and into the gardens, fragrant and quiet in the deepening night. Sasha moved as if she were walking to her own execution. Kjell escorted her like he wielded the axe. Queen Lark pressed soothing thoughts upon them, telling a rhyme that was more a blessing than a cure. Dismissing the guard to stand at each entrance to discourage someone happening upon the royal party, Tiras commanded Kjell and the women to stand back. Then he bade the Spinner to proceed.
Without warning, much the way Tiras changed or Kjell healed, Padrig simply exerted his will, calling on something inside of himself. Throwing back his head to better see his canvas, he lifted his hands toward the sky and, with the tips of his fingers, he began moving the stars.
“There she is,” Padrig breathed, and he paused, pointing at a winking light. As if he drew water from a well, he began pulling the star toward him, hand over hand, until it began to fall on its own, gaining momentum. The light grew closer and closer, brighter and brighter, making the group wince and step back.
With hands outstretched to catch it, he drew the star to him without ever touching it at all. It hovered above his palms, a tiny universe of light, an irresistible globe of forbidden fruit.
“This is yours, Lady Saoirse,” he said humbly, and his audience stared, awestruck. Such power and light would have been irresistible to a woman like Ariel of Firi. The Star Maker had condemned himself, and Sasha, the moment he had raised his hands to the heavens.
“Show us what Lady Firi saw,” Kjell demanded.
“I can’t. When I withdraw a strand of light, a memory, I don’t know what it is. And once the memory is shared this way, unlike in our thoughts, it disappears. I cannot call it back.”
“Then show us something else,” Sasha urged. Kjell sensed her awe but also her trepidation. The orb belonged to her, but she had no way of knowing what it contained.
“As you wish.”
Padrig turned his palm, cupping the glowing orb above his left hand. With his right, he pinched the surface of the light between his finger and his thumb and withdrew a tendril from the whole, pulling it free. With a little flick of his wrist, he released it into the air. The tendril shimmered and stretched, flattening out into a sheen so thin, the air rippled with it.
“Watch,” Padrig breathed.
A woman appeared on the glassy surface, staring back at them as though she saw them too. Her hair was as scarlet as Sasha’s, her skin as freckled and pale, but her eyes were blue and her mouth was pinched in worry.
“Lady Kilmorda,” Queen Lark cried.
“My mother?” Sasha asked.
“Yes,” Padrig verified, and then he was silent as the memory unfolded before them.
“They are just dreams, Saoirse,” the woman said. “Just stories. You love stories. You can tell me, but you can’t tell anyone else, do you understand? The servants will talk. They will say you are Gifted. That you see things. And I won’t be able to keep you safe.”
“Like Lady Meshara?” a childish voice—disembodied and echoing like it came from inside a huge iron pot—inquired.
The woman nodded, her eyes terrified, and she reached out and smoothed the hair of the little girl whose eyes they saw through.
“I can almost feel her hand,” Sasha whispered, touching a lock of her hair.
“The memory is gone, but the feeling remains in your heart.” Padrig affirmed, and the memory winked away, finished.
“She knew what happened to my mother.” Lark’s mouth trembled, and she reached for the king’s hand.
“Yes. That is why Lord Kilmorda sent Saoirse to Dendar, beyond the reaches of King Zoltev and his zealots,” Padrig explained.
“They sent me away?” Sasha cried.
“You were a child when you came to Dendar. When Dendar became too dangerous, you were sent back to your family in Kilmorda. I went with you. We didn’t know that eventually, Kilmorda, across the Jeruvian Sea would also be overrun. All I could do was get you out. I saved you in Kilmorda, but I failed in Firi.”
“Please . . . show me more.” Sasha’s eyes were glued to the orb, hypnotized by its light, hungry for answers.
“You won’t be able to keep these memories we watch. I need to put them back in your mind,” Padrig warned.
“Just one more,” Sasha begged. “Seeing them is its own memory.”
Again Padrig extracted the thinnest thread of light and let it go. Instead of a mother’s face and words of distress, the image they saw was of endless green grass in a field speckled with yellow blooms. In the distance, a strip of deep blue sat above the green and above that, an endless sky. Harmony limned the image, as if the memory was one of contentment. A tall man with shoulders so wide and hips so slim he resembled a cross, stood a ways off, his hands on a staff, his greying head tilted to the breeze.
“That is not Kilmorda,” the queen said softly, her eyes riveted to the scene.
“No . . . it is the Valley of Caarn.” Padrig exhaled, staring with great longing at the image that was already dissipating.
“Was that my father?” Sasha asked, her voice soft, her eyes troubled.
“No. That was King Aren of Dendar.”
“I don’t understand,” Sasha said, shaking her head in confusion. Kjell didn’t understand either, and the pulsing, impossible light in the Spinner’s hands was beginning to blind him.
“What aren’t you telling us?” Kjell’s anger erupted, cauterizing his fear.
“I can tell you the story, everything that I know, every jot and tittle. Or Sasha can remember it for herself,” Padrig urged quietly.
“She needs to know, Kjell,” Tiras said gently. “Those memories belong to her. She deserves to have them back.”
“It is up to you,” Padrig said to Sasha, moving so he stood directly in front of her, hands outstretched, the ball of light between them.