Page 13 of The Prince's Curse

“How about…letting me go?” Benjin croaked, surprised at how dry his mouth was. It had been several days since he’d last spoken.

That elicited a hearty chuckle from the mage. “I wish I could, my boy,” he said, regarding Benjin fondly. “But alas, we all haveour parts to play. Mine is to perform the ritual to restore your memories: yours…and the prince’s.”

The mention of Haldric raised a conflicting storm of emotions in Benjin, concern intermingling with grief and hurt. “He hasn’t come to see me since I was taken,” he found himself saying, his voice dull. “Not once.”

The man gave him a commiserating look. “I imagine his aunt has had something to do with that. You have my word I shall do what I can to secure you an audience, though I can’t make any promises. In the meantime, is there anything you’d like me to convey to him?”

A thousand words died on Benjin’s lips. He shook his head, the motion rattling his chains.

The man nodded. “Very well.”

He turned as if to leave, and sudden fear spiked through Benjin. He didn’t want to be left here alone in the dark again with nothing but his doubts for company.

“Who are you?” he blurted before he could think better of it. “You…you said something about performing a ritual?”

The mage paused. His eyes—a deep, unnatural violet—studied Benjin’s face once more as though searching for something.

“That’s right,” the man eventually said. “I’m the Grand Magus to King Roland. You don’t recognize me?”

The cell was dim, lit only by a single flickering torch near the door. Benjin nevertheless tried to focus on the man’s lined face. With a start, he realized hedidrecognize him. The man was definitely the same mage he’d glimpsed in the corridors at the baron’s keep in Gerald’s Spring, but there was more to it than that—a certain familiarity he couldn’t explain.

That strange prickle caressed the back of his skull. A mental image(a memory?)flashed before his eyes.

They stood together in an ornate workshop lined with shelves full of strange instruments and concoctions. The mage wasteaching Benjin how to brew a potion. It was fairly benign magic—a simple elixir to ease tiredness. Yet, Benjin struggled to get the steps just right.

In a puff of smoke, the bottle burst into green flame. Benjin tried to conjure water to put it out, but in his haste, he ended up spraying the entire table and its contents halfway across the room. He turned to the mage, expecting a harsh scolding, only to find him holding back tears of mirth.

“Not to worry, my boy,” he said, clapping Benjin on the back. “You’ll get it next time.”

Blinking back to the present, Benjin couldn’t help the sudden rush of fondness that filled him. “Dexil…” he said, the name coming to him as if straight from the Goddess’ lips. “Your name is Dexil, and I…I was your apprentice.”

Dexil’s broad smile conjured a familiar flicker of pride. “Excellent! You are precisely correct. I am Grand Magus Dexil, and you were indeed my apprentice for almost three months before…” His smile dimmed. “Well, before the unfortunate incident that brought us all to our current predicament.”

The words tore at Benjin. “This has to be a misunderstanding. A mistake!”

Dexil shook his head. “I’m sorry, my boy, but there is no mistake. Tell me—how did you acquire that little cottage we found you in, hmm?”

Benjin opened his mouth to respond…then slowly shut it, blinking in confusion. “I…I can’t remember.”

Dexil didn’t appear surprised by the admission. Unease coiled in Benjin’s gut.

“And when did you first move there?” Dexil pressed. “What did you do before that? How did you and Haldric meet?”

Each question drove another dagger into Benjin, flaying him open with the irrefutable truth. He couldn’t remember. Nomatter how desperately he strove for an answer, all that came was a vague blur.

In retrospect, the holes in his and Haldric’s perfect little world should have been obvious. What other explanation could there be other than a spell designed to discourage them from delving too deeply in case they uncovered the truth?

Dexil reached past the chains and squeezed Benjin’s shoulder. His grip was surprisingly strong for a mage. “I can only imagine how disconcerting this must seem, Benjin, but I promise it will all make sense soon. We’ll speak again once the ritual is complete and your memories have been restored.”

Benjin fought down the urge to protest his innocence. What was the point when everyone had already made up their minds that he was guilty?

Besides, can I really still claim to be innocent given what I just remembered?

He remained silent while Dexil checked over his bound limbs, applying a poultice to ease the pain where the manacles had rubbed his skin raw. When Dexil offered him a plate of food far better than the dungeon fare he’d been eating, along with a potion to help him sleep, he accepted both gratefully.

Once the mage had finished his ministrations, he turned to depart.

“Wait!” Benjin called after him, desperate for any shred of hope to cling to. “Why are you doing this? If you think I’m guilty, then why are you being so nice to me?”

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