Page 16 of Bound By Darkness

“Why?”

I shrug, thinking the answer obvious. “He didn’t want anyone learning there were beings more formidable than him. The Mortal and Shadow Realms are mostly godless now. You’ll find the odd believer here and there, but no one would dare speak the gods’ names outside the safety of their own homes.”

“And in the Fae Realm?” she asks.

I nod. “The Fae view them a bit differently. There are a number of Silvanite clerics who still actively preach, though they don’t reference the deities directly. Instead, the gods simply function as druids and rangers, ensuring the proliferation of thenatural world and protesting civilization’s expansion into the woodland.” I pause for a moment and then frown. “They’re all a bunch of quacks if you ask me. If there are or ever were gods, I know one thing… they don’t care about us.”

“Why do you think that?”

I shake my head. “Look at what’s become of this world!”

She nods, growing quiet for another few moments. Then she looks up at me again. “Once Baron is finished with the stone, will it be my turn?” she asks, hope in her expression.

I shake my head. “The stone will need to be cleansed of Baron’s memories and re-energized with my own fae magic before it can hope to return your memories to you.”

She nods but appears disappointed. “How long will that take?”

“Perhaps a few hours to cleanse and another two or so hours to re-energize.” I give her a parental expression. “Patience is a virtue.”

But then I wonder what the bloody hell I’m going on about. Why even attempt to return her memories to her when she’s a spy? Perhaps this was all an act on her part and she’s had her memories all this time?

No, it’s important to subject her to the stone, in case there is some truth to her claims,I tell myself.

We reach the border of camp to see an exhausted Baron seated beside a small fire. Nearby, Dragan crouches over the fire, his posture open and non-intimidating. He’s in the process of cooking something, proof in the fact that there appears an iron pot floating above the flames, courtesy of Dragan’s shadow magic.

Baron’s shoulders are slumped forward; he looks exhausted.

Eilish’s pace quickens until she’s nearly jogging to reach Baron. When she meets him by the fire, he looks up at her and her eyes are wide with worry.

“Are you okay?” she asks as she extends a hand to his shoulder. He simply nods. Dragan, meanwhile, watches the exchange with an obvious frown and narrowed, angry eyes.

He might not trust the girl, but it’s clear he still has feelings for her.

“Whatever that is, it smells terrible,” says Baron, gesturing to the misshapen black pot spluttering and coughing over Dragan’s small fire. I bite back the condescending remark that rises up and into my mouth regarding Dragan’s Transmutation abilities as applies to his cooking.

Instead, I save my attentions for Baron. His voice is low and tired, his face sickly. His comment regarding the stew wasn’t exactly the revelation we all were hoping for, but at least he still possesses his language faculties.

“Didn’t need no fancy stone to tell you that much,” points out the disgruntled sprite as he stares dejectedly into the cup of stew that rests in his lap, untouched (impressive for the portly creature).

The steam rising from its surface smells acrid, and I decline to help myself to the remaining stew. The liquid inside looks to be hardly more than water, a few errant roots and questionable meat float inside. Rabbit? I’ve seen a few near camp, though all were skinnier than food grade.

Dragan grunts.

We all settle in once more, no one wanting to be the first to break the silence.

Baron’s somber mood is understandable. Our collective history isn’t a pretty one. If I had a choice between knowing and not knowing, I’d choose the latter. I wonder if Baron regrets his decision to witness the suffering we’ve all endured. He isn’t the only member of the walking dead—none of us is the same man we were when crowned all those years ago.

The mood around the fire is dark while we wait for Baron to speak. I would assume Dragan’s thoughts aren’t far from mine. We both know what Baron has most likely seen in the stone—his own death at the hand of a man he once called brother. It’s an image neither Dragan nor I have been able to carve out of our memories, no matter how hard we’ve tried. But the memories extend beyond just Baron’s murder to include visions of the war, the loss of our soldiers, the betrayals.

“It’s bleak, isn’t it?” Dragan says finally as he faces the vampire.

Baron doesn’t look at the gargoyle. Instead, his eyes find Eilish and his eyebrows knit together as though he’s remembering who she is. He appears to be wholly confused and out of sorts. No matter—it’s to be expected. The stone just returns memories to you—it doesn’t bother to put them into context or chronological order. And there’s no guarantee the memories it does return are complete.

Baron nods. “It’s difficult to explain, everything still blends together and makes little sense.” He raises his hands to his head to rub his temples. Eilish looks first to Dragan, then to me.

I offer a shrug.

“I need to speak with Eilish alone,” Baron announcess after a protracted pause.

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