Shards of Memory
by Stephanie Allen

I. Suitors of a Different Sort

The hot, humid summer air in the lecture hall was threatening to put Calanthe Mallea to sleep. Clearly, she was not the only one – the man next to her had his head in his hand, leaning at an awkward angle across the desk with his eyes half shut, while the woman in front of her had long since fallen asleep. The professor appeared not to notice, or at least not to care, as he continued to lecture on the First Numerian War.

The young woman let out an unceremonious yawn as she looked down at her notes. She had written down approximately ten words; the rest of the time had been spent trying to evade the spell of the uncomfortably sticky air.

It took a moment for her to register that the professor had stopped speaking. She blinked stupidly, staring at the clock on the podium at the front of the hall. There were still five minutes of lecture left. “I suppose it is a lost cause,” the professor said. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

Students stirred slowly as they realized their professor had ended class early, but were still out of the lecture hall in surprisingly quick fashion. Calanthe was one of the last people out of the room, stifling a yawn as she stumbled along in a drowsy haze. She had no more classes for the day and minimal reading, so she decided to proceed toward home.

The streets were empty as she walked. Evidently, no one wanted to be out and about on such a hot day. There wasn’t even the usual mountain breeze to cool things off; the leaves didn’t stir at all. It felt as though a blanket had settled over everything, more so because of her heavy skirts.

She entered her house through the side door in the alley between her abode and the next. The hallway was dark and windowless, cooler thanks to the thick walls that kept the majority of the heat out. It was a relief after being outdoors. Up the stairs, however, it grew warmer, and as soon as she was in her bedroom she stripped off her heavy university uniform and put on a lighter dress. The yellow fabric floated in comparison, the feel of it much cooler on her skin as she walked down the hall to the library. Just as she reached for the door, however, a maid stopped her. “Miss? There’s a couple of men here to see you.”

Calanthe frowned. She very rarely had suitors come to visit anymore, as she had made it known that she was not interested in marriage – all she wanted was to live the academic lifestyle. Evidently her latest visitor was unaware of this, or else very determined.

“Kindly inform our visitors that I am not seeing any suitors at present,” she told the maid airily as she put her hand on the doorknob.

“I don’t think they’re suitors, miss. They’re strangers. Not from around here.”

Calanthe frowned again. “From where?”

“I don’t know, Miss. I think you’re going to have to ask them yourself.”

“Inform them that I shall be with them momentarily,” she told the maid with a sigh. “The parlor, I presume?”

The maid nodded, then curtseyed and was off.

With another sigh, Calanthe went back down the hallway to her bedroom, where she made certain she looked presentable before going downstairs to meet her visitors in the parlor. She wasn’t looking forward to this meeting. She didn’t care if the two men were strangers; they were still men and were therefore to be avoided. There was only one reason she ever received male visitors. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing she wasn’t of a marriageable age. That, or at least horribly disfigured.

She opened the door to the parlor. One of the men stood before the fireplace, back to her with his arms crossed over his chest. The other stood in front of the window opposite the door, staring out at the mountains surrounding them. The young woman cleared her throat, causing both men to turn. Despite her discomfiture at being stared at so, she managed to keep her voice steady as she gestured at the chairs and settee situated in the room. “Please, sit.”

Both men did as she bid, taking seats on the settee. Meanwhile, Calanthe sat in one of the chairs opposite them so that there was a table between them, albeit a small one. The group sat in awkward silence. She wondered if the two men were related – a father and son, perhaps? If so, they were probably from the south, where the fathers played an active role in the marriage proceedings. If this was so, where was her father? He was still at work and would not be home for a few hours yet.

Both men were Eltrive, evident by their incredibly pale skin. The older of the two had a chestnut mane while the younger, taller one was raven haired. Both of them had brown eyes and both were clad in the same deep green attire. Somehow, both were able to wear brown cloaks over all, though she wasn’t sure how. She was currently preoccupied with the sweat dripping between her breasts.

The maid entered the room bearing a tray of bread and wine, which she set on the table before curtseying and exiting the room. Calanthe nodded at the tray. “You may help yourselves.” When neither man made a move toward the refreshments, she said, “Surely you must be tired after your journey from – where are you from, may I ask?”

“Numeria,” the older of the two men answered.

She blinked. Numeria was the sole region of the south where Eltrive were to be found – most of them lived in the north, as Calanthe and her family did. “You came up here all the way from Numeria? Why would you make such a long journey – to see me, of all people?”

“Because we have a very great interest in you, Calanthe.”

Standing abruptly, she said, “I suppose no one has told you?” She paced the room, arms crossed in front of her chest. “My prowess at frightening away suitors is legendary. I realize the custom in the south is to negotiate with the father, but my father will tell you the same thing I am telling you right now. I’m not interested.”

“We are not here to negotiate a marriage contract,” the younger man spoke up. Calanthe stopped in her tracks just in time to see his gaze sweep over her. “Not that that would be problematic, however.”

She flushed, the heat emanating from her cheeks enough to light a log in the fireplace behind her. “Then why, pray tell, are you here to see me? Better yet, who are you? As you have yet to formally introduce yourselves, I have every right to walk out of this room. I believe that is a custom that the two of you will be familiar with.”

“Ah, forgive us, Miss Mallea,” the older man said. “I am Amdorius Sorenson, a member of the Numerian ruling council, and this is Vantandal Orion, a member of the Numerian Royal Guard.” He indicated the younger man.

Calanthe raised a brow at this. Why would two men so closely tied to the Numerian rulers be so interested in the daughter of a merchant and a university professor?

“We have more reason to be interested in you than you would guess, Miss Mallea,” Mr. Sorenson – or was he a lord of some sort? Calanthe couldn’t remember – said when she posed this question aloud. “If you would please sit down, we will tell you. It is quite a long story, you will find.”

Intrigued despite herself, she complied, taking her seat in the chair across from the two men.

“Wre Orion? Would you like to begin?”

Master Orion jumped at being addressed by his companion. His gaze had been focused, Calanthe noticed irritably, on her. The younger man blinked once, then muttered, “Of course.” Calanthe sighed. She sincerely hoped that Master Orion was not as dimwitted as he seemed to be. If he was, this was going to be a long visit.

“Are you familiar with the old legends at all, Miss Mallea?” Master Orion asked.

“Most of them,” she answered shortly.

“How about the legend of Cassarah Ataraha and her lover, Aric?”

“I have a passing familiarity, yes. It is the first story mentioned in any introductory level university history class.”

“Then you are aware that most legends have some basis in fact.”

“Yes,” she replied, “but they are to be taken with a grain of salt. One cannot base an entire argument on legend alone. One must supplement legend with reputable historical sources, but even then these must be examined for flaws – “

“Yes, I have studied history, as well, Miss Mallea, thank you,” Master Orion interrupted. Scowling, Calanthe sat back in her chair, glaring at him to tell him to get on with it already.

Master Orion cleared his throat before beginning. “You will probably know, Miss Mallea, that Cassarah was the first Princess of Numeria. She ruled alongside her consort, Aric. Such a love was never known. You will find that their story is prominent in literature, Eltrive in particular.”

“Either make your point or leave, Master Orion,” Calanthe said. “I do have things to be getting on with.”

Master Orion glanced at her once, then went back to speaking. “All in good time, Miss Mallea.”

“Then I am leaving. Have a good day, sirs. I am sorry you had to make this journey for nothing.”

She stood and made to leave the room but Mr. Sorenson stopped her. “I would not recommend leaving, Miss Mallea. You are going to want to hear this.”

Calanthe stopped, glaring at the man, but something in his gaze made her stop and return to her chair. She glared at Master Orion. “Fine. Talk.”

“The short version of the story is that Aric murdered Cassarah. Aric took control of Numeria and died some time after that. What neither of them took into account, however, was the fact that both would be reincarnated. Which they were, in time, many times over. And each time, they managed to find each other once again.”

“And what does this have to do with me?” she asked when Master Orion paused.

“You are Cassarah Ataraha.”

There was silence for a minute before Calanthe said, “You are mad.”

“I speak the truth.”

She stood again. “You are mad. Both of you.”

“I have it on good authority that we are perfectly sane,” Master Orion said with a slight smirk, “and that we are, in fact, correct in our assumptions.” His smirk grew more pronounced. “We would not be taking you back to Numeria with us if we were not certain.”

Calanthe swept from the room, turning just long enough to say, once again, “I am sorry that your journey has been for naught, but you are both mistaken. I believe you can show yourselves out?” With that, she walked out and went up the stairs to the library.

…

Vantandal turned to Lerae Amdorius once Miss Mallea had quitted the room. “That could have gone better, I suppose,” he said.

His companion said nothing at first, instead taking up the decanter of wine and pouring some into a glass. After taking a sip, he answered.

“Indeed,” was his verdict. “You could have been less antagonistic, you realize. You were most unhelpful in that respect.”

“As was she,” Vantandal pointed out. “What a most irritating creature. I wish that I were wrong.”

“If she were not so – spirited – I would have to doubt the correctness of your belief.”

“I am never wrong. You know that.”

“Of course,” Lerae Amdorius allowed. “But now that I have met the young lady myself, I have no doubt that she could hold the throne of Numeria. She will do well, I am certain.”

“If we can convince her to come with us,” Vantandal pointed out.

Lerae Amdorius stood and started pacing the room. Vantandal scowled. He was sick of watching people pace. Additionally, Lerae Amdorius wasn’t as enjoyable to watch as certain other people of his acquaintance.

For all that she was stubborn, Miss Mallea was pretty, he admitted. He wasn’t certain how she would stand up in comparison to many of the other Eltrive ladies he knew, but she was at least pleasing to the eye. And intelligent, too. He would not have minded arguing history with her some more, given the chance.

“Did you not hear me, Wre?” Lerae Amdorius asked.

“I’m sorry…I’m afraid I was…reflecting,” Vantandal replied, glancing over at his companion.

“I was asking if you think she could be persuaded to join us.”

“Perhaps. We may have aroused her curiosity enough that she may investigate and consider it, at the very least.”

“Well, then,” Lerae Amdorius said. “I suppose we will need to remain here in Melineh a little while, then. I shall leave the maid our address, and then we shall be off to our lodgings.”

Soon enough, the two were wandering the streets of Taylor, Melineh’s capital and the site of its Royal University. The streets were emptier now than they had been when the two men had traversed them earlier that afternoon to get to the Mallea house. It was almost time for the evening meal so people were closing up shops and venturing home. Potential customers were now all at home, for the most part, aside from some last-minute stragglers hoping to haggle before every shop was closed.

“So I am to understand that our Miss Mallea is an academic?” Lerae Amdorius asked at length.

Vantandal smirked. “Yes. History. History and politics.”

The older man glanced sideways at him. “I can see why you are so smug. I understand history is a particular interest of yours as well.”

“Yes,” Vantandal affirmed. “Once my obligatory service is over, I intend to take a leave of absence to study it at the Royal University at Melkele.” He paused. “Or here, perhaps. Apparently they have the best history department on the continent.”

“Or perhaps you hope to come across the fair Miss Mallea again,” Lerae Amdorius said slyly.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“I saw how – entranced – you seem to be with her.”

Vantandal shrugged. “She’s pretty, and she possesses a brain. I’m hard put to find a woman with both.”

“That is not so, Wre. There are plenty of attractive, intelligent women,” Lerae Amdorius argued.

“Not like that one,” Vantandal muttered.

Lerae Amdorius chuckled then said, “If you insist.”

…

It was with great irritation that Calanthe wandered the streets around her house later. She had been uncharacteristically quiet during the evening meal, during which she usually argued politics with her father. When pressed, she wouldn’t tell her parents what was wrong, and it was with a glare in Calanthe’s direction that her older sister kept up a conversation with her parents.

Once the meal was over, Calanthe escaped, chancing the summer heat to calm herself down. By this point, her dress and hair both stuck to her most unbecomingly due to the rain and the resulting humidity, but she was beyond caring. She was more preoccupied with her strange visitors, both of whom insisted she was a reincarnation of some long-dead princess. Calanthe had to laugh bitterly at this.

“I am not Cassarah Ataraha,” she yelled up at the sky before closing her eyes and letting the rain stream over her face.

It was ridiculous, really. There was no way that she could possibly be someone else; people were not simply reborn into others’ bodies. How was that even possible?

Yet another visit from suitors would have been preferable to this.

Just a couple of notes on titles:
-Lerae (leh-RAY): equivalent to a lord
-Wre (RAY): warrior

This is my baby. I have been working on this in various incarnations the past six or so years and I finally decided it was time to try to put this together into something coherent instead of just a big pile of stuff. If you steal it, I swear to God I will hunt you down.

Have a great day, everyone. :)

-Steph