My fingers brushed soft cloth in one pocket, warm metal in the other. A memory of gray eyes and hot wind shook loose from the dark, and another of losing my grip and falling—
I jerked my trembling hands out of my pockets. Maybe there was a reason I’d forgotten. I stared down at my palms. They were crossed with faint half-moon scars.
In the distance, I heard wings beat the air. A huge black raven flew out of the tunnel and into the room, wings outstretched. A half dozen small black-capped birds—arctic terns—followed in its wake.
I scrambled to my feet. The raven swooped up onto one of the ledges, perched there, and looked down at me through bright black eyes. Dizziness washed over me. Somehow I knew those eyes remembered all I’d forgotten. The smaller birds arrayed themselves on lower shelves while the fox tapped my ankle once—a friendly gesture—then curled up on the floor, wrapping his bushy tail around his paws.
The raven flapped its wings—slowly, rhythmically—and somehow those wingbeats shaped themselves into words. “So. You have chosen to wake.” He flexed his black claws. His glossy wings shone in the lamplight.
“Who are you?” Speaking—thinking—took too much work while staring into those eyes. I looked down. My sneakers were gray with gravelly dust. “Why did you bring me here? What do you want?”
The raven’s wings kept beating the air. I swayed in time to that beat. “I saved your life.”
Even without looking at the bird, speaking took effort. “Why did my life need saving?”
“It didn’t,” the raven said matter-of-factly. “But the other one, by whose spell you were caught—the fire she called on could tear the land asunder, should it be set free. Perhaps your dying while bound to her magic would not be enough to release that fire. Perhaps it would. I prefer not to take chances. The other one was young when she cast her spell. She thought it a game, a matter of her own human life, yet the earth still trembles with the memory of how she called upon the realm of fire.”
I had no idea what the raven was talking about, and my murky memories yielded nothing. “What other one?”
“I’ll not name her, lest I give her more power—for though she died a thousand years before you were born, time is a fragile human thing and can be altered to bring the land’s ending. All things must end, as my master foretold long ago. Even so I would hold off their end awhile longer. I would remember for a small time more.”
“Wait, you’re saying the world could end if I die?” Yeah right, the earth really does revolve around me. I laughed uneasily. I didn’t need my memories to know how unlikely that was.
The raven didn’t laugh. He just kept flapping his wings. A chill breeze blew through the room. “This island, certainly, which is all of the world I can see. You are not as strongly tied to the spell as the other one. You have only touched the fire—you have not offered gifts to the giants who wield it, and they have not left their power burning within you in turn. If they had, you would be as far beyond my reach as the other one. As it is, the danger is smaller, but still real. Just ask the first victim of the spell.”
“What first victim?” My throat caught on the words. There was pain in that question’s answer, pain sharp as shattered bone.
“Ah.” The raven’s wingbeats slowed to a whisper. “Even were I willing to return that memory to you, you would not want it.”
Yet now that I knew the memory—the pain—was there, I couldn’t help searching my thoughts for it, like digging at an old scab.
The memory remained out of reach. I looked up again. It was easier now than before. I focused on the glossy wings and avoided the bright eyes. “Who are you?” My words echoed in the stone chamber.
“I have many names. Most of them humans have forgotten. Muninn is one a few yet remember. Memory is another. Not human memory—human memories are short. That is no matter. All any mortal beings once knew, I remember for them. Once I held those memories for my master, but he walks less and less often in this world. Yet though the old gods retreat to their own places, Memory remains in this land to the end of days.”
I kept scratching at that scab. Pain shot behind my eyes, but I didn’t cry out. I remembered how I’d woken, swallowing screams. Apparently I was someone who could handle pain. “I can hold my own memories,” I said.
Muninn threw back his head and krawked—it sounded like a warning. “Your memories were small enough payment for the life I saved. What gift can you offer me to have them back again?”
I barely knew my name. What could I possibly have to give? Why should it take a gift just to get my own memories back? “You had no right to take them.”
“Nor did I have any right to save your life. Yet save it I did, and that life is the one thing I’ll not take back again.” Muninn ducked his head and began grooming his sleek feathers.
The fox opened his tiny brown eyes. “It is easier to forget.” The small terns bobbed their heads in agreement.
I shoved my hands into my pockets and felt warm metal once more. I pulled out a small silver coin, engraved with circles and lines. I heard—or maybe remembered—a woman’s voice calling my name.
Muninn’s head jerked up. His wings moved. “What is that? I remember that.”
I held the coin out. “Would you like it?”
The raven blinked, his eyes flashing gray. “Now that is an interesting offer. Destroying the coin might make the earth safe from the spell—or it could release the spell’s power into the world. Best, perhaps, if I simply keep watch over it to prevent you from drawing on its power.”
“Take it, then.” Even as I spoke, I knew I’d be glad to be rid of the thing. “Take it and give me my memories.”
“I must think on this. I will return when I reach a decision.” Muninn launched himself from his perch, circled me once, and flew from the chamber. The little black-capped birds flew after him. Only the white fox remained. He uncurled himself and stretched his front legs.
I sighed and sat down on the bed. “Do you have a name, too?”
The fox climbed up beside me. “You may call me Freki, if you like.”
“I’m Haley.”
“I know,” the fox said, which seemed an unfair advantage. Why did everyone know who I was but me? Freki rested a paw on my leg and looked up. “Are you hungry?”
“Yeah.” Starving, actually, though I hadn’t realized it until then.
“I’ll get food.” The fox walked over to the drinking horn. “Are you going to finish this?”
I shook my head, though my throat was dry. “It’s drugged, isn’t it?”
Freki’s ears flicked back. “It is not drugged.” He sounded offended. “But it is, perhaps, stronger than mortals are accustomed to—strong enough to mend broken bones and torn flesh. My master sustained himself on such mead. Will you finish it?”
I shook my head. I was glad to be mended, but I didn’t want to sleep again. “No. You can have it, if you want.”
The fox looked at up me, small brown eyes bright in the lamplight. “Are you certain? Even my master never allowed me a sip of his sacred mead.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Enjoy.”
Freki lowered his nose into the horn, making quiet lapping sounds as he drank. He was surprisingly tidy. He didn’t spill a single drop. He licked the last bits out with his long pink tongue, and I laughed.
Freki didn’t seem to mind. He nudged my hands with his warm nose. His breath smelled faintly of alcohol. “A most excellent gift. I will not forget it.” He turned and walked from the room, the tip of his bushy tail brushing the floor behind him. He didn’t seem sleepy, just a bit more careful in his steps than before.