The Magehound

"I started in the bilboa tree over by the harbor park," she went on, not waiting for an answer. She lifted one arm out of the water to brush aside a fleck of soap that dripped onto her face. "It's amazing how far you can travel in this city without once touching the ground."

His gaze shifted to his open window, which was at least six stories off the street, and marveled. Whatever else this girl might be, she had a powerful sense of honor if she would go to so much trouble to fulfill her perceived responsibilities.

Or was there another reason for her presence here?

"Is there still a debt between us?" he asked tentatively.

She shrugged, a movement that had Matteo averting his eyes again quickly. "That depends. How are things working out at the palace?"

"Strangely," Matteo said honestly. "I have yet to find a way to truly serve the queen."

"Hmm." Tzigone took this in. "Well, what can you do?"

This drew his attention back to her. "Excuse me?"

"What kinds of services are you trained for? Besides battle, of course. I've seen what you can do with a blade."

"Many things-history, battle strategy, etiquette, protocol, languages, customs, heraldry. It is difficult to give counsel without knowledge of such things. We must also study magic and learn its strengths and weaknesses."

She nodded, her eyes huge and bright. "How do you remember half of that? This is no idle question. I really want to know."

"I can see that," he murmured, puzzled by her intensity. "The memory is both a talent and a skill. Some have more capacity than others, just as some men are born with better singing voices than others. But there are ways to develop the memory. From a very early age, jordaini work to build a palace of the mind, one room at a time, with corridors between them. It is all very deliberate and meticulous. Each fact and idea is affixed to a particular place." He tapped his forehead and closed his eyes. "I can almost literally envision the pathways I must take to get to a needed room."

"What's in the root cellars?" she demanded. "And how about the dungeons?"

His eyes popped open. "Excuse me?"

"How far back can you go?"

He considered this. "I have some memories that go back to the age of two or so. There are also a few earlier memories, mere impressions-vague and warm but unformed by words." He paused and met her incredulous stare. "It is often so with the jordaini. My friend Andris claimed he could remember things that he must have heard while in his mother's womb, but perhaps he was jesting."

"Show me how," she demanded.

Matteo tossed her a towel. "Meet me in the sitting room and we will do what we can."

She padded in a few moments later, clad in green leggings and tunic and looking rather fetchingly like a dew-soaked dryad.

"Tell me," she said, and plunked down cross-legged on the floor.

Matteo instructed her to close her eyes and bring to mind the earliest memory she could grasp. "Tell me what it is."

"Sprite," she said in a soft and faintly childlike voice. "That's what I called him. It was also what he was-a sprite. I suppose he had another name, but I don't remember hearing it."

"You were how old at the time?" She shrugged. "Five, maybe six. But before Sprite, there's nothing."

"That's not so unusual. Many people retain few memories from their early years. Is it so important?"

"Yes."

She spoke the word with such finality and depth of emotion that Matteo didn't think to question her. "Then we will try another way. Envision in your mind-literally in your mind, in the physical paths that your thoughts take-where this memory of Sprite resides. Can you picture it?"

Her brow furrowed, but after a moment she nodded. "I think so."

"Move deeper and slightly to the left," he instructed softly.

She envisioned sliding back into her mind. For a moment there was nothing but blackness, and then she caught a glimmer of silver and felt a rhythmic, reassuring touch. "Someone is brushing my hair," she murmured. "My mother?"

"Stay where you are. Quiet your mind and imagine that you have just entered a dark room and are waiting for your eyes to adjust."

Tzigone nodded and sat still for a moment, her face a mask of concentration. Finally she shook her head. "Nothing," she said sadly.

"We will try again later," Matteo said, placing a consoling hand on her shoulder. "The memory is a palace constructed with patience. It cannot be built quickly, nor quickly explored."

"Not later," Tzigone said grimly. "Now." She closed her eyes and fiercely banished thought. When her mind was finally calm and still, she found the place where memories of Sprite dwelled, and then she slid farther down the dark pathways.

The gentle rhythm of the hairbrush pulled her back into the memory. But for some reason, the motion was not soothing. Tzigone felt her mother's tension as surely as if it were her own.