Sensing his discomfort, Maeve changed the subject.
“You told Tiernan you’re here to help us fight a war.” There was a tingling in the back of her mind, like this was something she should already know and understand. It should be important to her, significant. “Do you think we’ll win?”
Rowan squeezed her hand. “I hope so.”
He stopped in front of a shop with battered shutters and windows that were covered in grime. A wooden sign hung loosein the breeze, creaking with each slight gust. The faded lettering read the name Recollections.
“I feel like I’ve been here before,” Maeve murmured, but Rowan said nothing.
He simply opened the door and led her inside.
Instantly, Maeve was assaulted by the musty scent of old books and weathered papers. On the far wall, a small fire was stoked to life, filling the shop with carved shadows and shreds of light. There was a shelf full of odd baubles—paintings within wooden frames that shifted and blurred so the image was never quite clear, hourglasses with sand floating upward instead of pouring down, interesting trinkets, and jars filled with questionable contents.
A fae ambled forward from the back of the shop, the clicking of his cane the only sound in the silence between them. His eyes were bright but his face was weary. Heavy lines sank deep across his forehead, disappearing beneath his long, graying hair. When he smiled, Maeve almost caught the dimming remnants of his youth.
He propped his cane in front of him, grasping it with both hands. “I was wondering when I’d see the two of you together again.”
Rowan dropped Maeve’s hand. “Hello, Cormac.”
“Nightweaver.” Cormac inclined his head. “Dawnbringer.”
Maeve inched closer, curiosity drawing her in to the elder fae male. “How is it you age?”
Cormac stared at her, then laughed. Full and crackling. “My sort of magic takes a toll on the soul, Dawnbringer. Every memory, every recollection I take, is years off of my own life. And for each one I give, time works in reverse, restoring me.”
Maeve gaped at him. “You’re a memory keeper.”
“Indeed I am.” He bowed slowly, and Maeve thought for certain she could hear his bones groan in protest.
She made to step back, to put distance between herself and the fae who collected the past the way others accumulated books or treasures. But Rowan’s palm moved to the small of her back, grounding her in place.
“Maeve needs her memory restored.” The pads of his fingers casually tapped along her spine. “She was in the Ether with me, but everything from her life before her time there is gone.”
Cormac eyed them speculatively, the lines forming shallow crevices along his forehead deepened with every passing second. He gestured to the round table placed in the center of four chairs, and a worn leather book appeared. The thin parchment pages flipped of their own accord, skimming through scribbles and notes. A feathered pen hovered above the book, ink already dripping from its pointed tip, splattering onto the blank page below.
“She needs your help.” There was an urgency in Rowan’s voice, and Maeve wondered if perhaps the situation of her memory loss was more dire than she realized. “For Faeven.”
Cormac sighed. He ran his thumb beneath his dry lips, back and forth over the coarse gray hairs sprouting from his chin. “The price will be high.”
Rowan’s hand stilled on her back. “I’ll pay it.”
“Rowan, no.” Maeve whirled on him, grabbing his shirt, fisting it with both of her hands. There was no telling what the memory keeper would demand of him, of either of them, and she couldn’t allow Rowan to carry a debt meant for her. “I can’t let you do that, not for me.”
But he glanced down at her, the corner of his mouth curving into a smirk.
“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Princess.” Rowan’s smile vanished. He smoothed some of the fallen strands of her hair back from her face, curing them behind her ear. “I thought you would have realized that by now.”
“Rowan…” Maeve searched his face. Shadows of heartache haunted his lavender eyes. Everything he did for her, he did out of love. A sentiment she couldn’t return, at least not in the way he wished. She faced Cormac. Bitterness swept through her. She understood nothing was ever given freely, but she would be damned if Rowan was dragged into some grievous arrangement at her expense. “What’s the cost?”
“A single memory belonging to the Nightweaver.” Cormac hobbled over to one of the chairs and lowered himself with painstaking slowness. He tapped his cane once, and the floating pen lowered itself to the pages of the book. “One of my choosing.”
“No.” Maeve shook her head, refusing to agree to such terms. Cormac would gain access to the whole of Rowan’s mind, allowing him to pick through Rowan’s past like he was browsing a market full of valuable wares. “This is madness. There has to be another way.”
“This is the only way.” Rowan clasped her hand again and tugged her toward the chairs. She dropped into one, feeling as though she was about to make a terrible mistake. Rowan seated himself next to her, his thumb tracing idle shapes on the back of her hand.
“Don’t worry, Princess. Cormac won’t hurt you. Because if he does…” Rowan paused. Shadows crept out from around him, slinking like veins of destruction. “I’ll end him on the spot.”
Maeve wasn’t worried about herself.
