Flame in the Palace

14. Memories

Everything is dark and numb. And that nothingness obliterates her memory and awareness while stealing the breath from her lungs with sharp relief. She reaches out through this thick darkness, searching for respite, and an odd thought occurs in her mind.

Even a spring river in Dawnmourne is cold as ice.

Then the memories return in a rushing flood.

In perhaps a foolish moment of misplaced pride, she had agreed to Cressida's challenge for a race on a spring river. The disapproval from those around her had been tangible, but Myria had been steadfast in ignoring their concerned or critical faces as she waited through the agonizing minutes for their race while other members of the court performed their best on the safety of the winter river. Knowing she would not be dissuaded from such a path, Olympe had pulled her to a secluded clearing in the forest with Merek and, surprisingly, a Nocturnus horse groom to teach her the rudimentary skills for steering the sleigh on ice.

Others came to visit during that time. Geoffrey with his incessant pacing, Eulalia with her concerned eyes. Prince Leor did not come, but Geoffrey assured Myria that she was on the prince's mind and that he wished her well on the upcoming race.

At first, Emiri did not come. She wondered if he knew what singular motivation drove her to this action, if he recognized the inexplicable hunger she felt to see Cressida's magic stones in action. She tries to forget the unease she had so clearly seen on his face, but that memory burns into her eyes, seemingly etched into her mind.

It is the same distress that follows her to this moment, floating in a soundless abyss. Utter bewilderment floods through her as she imagines the recklessness that had pursued her here. When the moment of their race arrived, all of Myria's rudimentary training had been forgotten once Cressida procured a second stone from the revered cedar chest. This one had been a soft pink, the color of spring blossoms. When the duchess's fingers had tightened around the relic, warmth flooded the clearing, patches of bright green grass shooting through the thinning layer of snow. The river lost its frosty appearance, thawing into transparency. The movement of rippling currents had been visible beneath the glassy ice. Myria had known in the back of her mind that this was an unnatural spring, especially for Dawnmourne, when thick blankets of snow were typical for the summer landscape.

But even this information had not discouraged Myria from her path, oblivious to the sleighs brought to them. Her gaze had been solely trained on the magical stone in Cressida's hands. She had thought nothing of the duchess's smug expression or of the danger that lay ahead. There had been only an insatiable desire to hold the stone, to keep it for herself. This singular urge had eclipsed every other effort and motion she went through. There had been no awareness of anything else, not the biting wind that had whipped her hair about her face or the dangerous, reverberating cracks below. Only the sudden icy plunge into freezing sharpness and subsequent numbness had dulled her senses, returning her to a moment of clarity.

She is Myria Hawthorne, and if she does not do something soon, she will either drown or freeze to death.

The sound of her heartbeat thrums in her ears. It is a dull, crawling tempo that signals the precious moments slipping from her grasp. Turning her face to the surface, the rippling promise of sunlight greets her in those dark depths. She focuses her sluggish mind on that source of light, willing it to energize her limbs as the current buffets tirelessly against her.

The warmth pools at her fingertips, seemingly eager for use. Her mind conjures the image of a lifeline, the end of which secured somewhere on land, perhaps around a tree trunk. As if on command, she senses rather than sees the sun's energy materialize into a tangible object, a rope, stitching together from the power that fades from her fingers. The anchor around the tree forms before the end of the rope descends to her at a crawling pace.