“Once there was a woman who went to a storyteller,” the voice said, and the familiar tale covered her with warmth like a blanket in the midst of winter. At the end the voice changed, becoming quieter, but no less insistent for that. “Remember,” the voice said, “you are loved.” And the arms around her gave her a comforting squeeze. “No matter what has happened in your past, no matter who you might have been, this day is yours to start anew. More important than any man or woman or storyteller is this: You are loved and cherished. Not for how you look or what you can do, but simply because you are.”
Pellin let go of the memory, dizzy with its remembered intensity, and looked down. There still wasn’t very much of a river to comprise the girl’s consciousness, hardly more than a newborn’s and most of the memories he did see, didn’t belong to the girl, but to long-dead Cerena.
Perhaps Cerena’s memories were more of an impediment than an aid at this point. He bent, searching through the river for those memories of Cerena that were tied to her physical presence. If he could have sighed in the cavern that comprised her mind, he would have. It was the nature of memory that each recollection was tied to physical being. If he destroyed all of them, the girl would be reduced to nothing. Response would be impossible.
But perhaps there was another way. Thrusting his hands into the river, he removed those memories of Cerena that were connected to speaking. The task required a finer touch than he had ever used before. For the girl to make the quickest recovery, memories of language must not be destroyed. Only those memories that tied Cerena’s expression of language to speech, those very memories of her moving her mouth to make sound, only those could be destroyed. Over and over, he let the river of memories cascade through him until he’d removed every memory that might keep the girl mute.
He broke the delve. Despite the chill of the water, sweat cascaded down his face, and he turned to find Allta next to him, concern on the guard’s face mirrored on Mark’s. He put his hand on the edge of the tub to steady himself. “I’m well.”
“You were in the delve for over an hour, Eldest,” Allta said.
“Ah.” He took a breath, the sensation unfamiliar after so much time in another’s mind. “So long?” They nodded. “Well, it was more than a little difficult at that.” He went on to explain what he’d done and his reasoning behind it.
Cerena still stood in the water, shivering though Mark held her, letting the water wash away her indignity. Sometime during Pellin’s sojourn in her mind, Mark had managed to wash her hair despite the presence of her blindfold, and deep red highlights revealed themselves in the brown color.
Pellin accepted Allta’s hand and stepped away from the tub. “If this works, you’ll have to give her a new name, of course. Cerena will be a thing of the past. It may be that Cerena’s memories are keeping her from reconnecting with her body.” He sighed. “It wouldn’t be the first time my preconceived notions have been wrong.”
Mark guided Cerena from the tub and wrapped her in one of the blankets. He would have let go entirely, but she clutched at his arm, wrapping her own unsteady limbs around it. “Will this work, Eldest?” Mark asked.
Pellin laughed, amused at his own ignorance amid the boy’s assumption of wisdom. “Mark, you’ve done more with that poor broken girl than any of the Vigil were ever able to do with the dwimor we created. Not once were we able to come close to restoring them.” An idea began to form in his mind, a terrible risk. “Let me ask you, is she getting any better?”
Mark shrugged. “I don’t know. I think so, but I might just be trying to convince myself.” He turned to face Cerena, his expression somber. “There was a girl in the urchins a few years younger than me who got a cough one winter. We all took turns caring for her, and I thought she was getting better right up until the morning I went to wake her and she didn’t move.”
Pellin nodded. “What will you call her?” he asked. “She deserves her own name.”
Mark nodded. “I’ve never named anyone before.” Pain filled his light blue eyes. “It seems very important to me somehow. Will you help me?”
“Of course,” Pellin bowed. “I would be honored. You know, our language covers a long, long history.” Cerena’s gilded memory returned to him. “I know a name I think you would like. It hasn’t been used in very long time. Elieve.”
Mark tilted his head and his lips moved, testing the sound. “What does it mean?”
Tears stung Pellin’s eyes and he had to swallow twice before he could muster the strength to answer. “It means loved.”
Mark put his ear by the girl’s head and spoke, but not so quietly that Pellin couldn’t hear him. “Your name is Elieve. You are loved.” He repeated this perhaps a dozen times as his charge stood unmoving at his side.
Quiet hung over the room as they dried themselves. Tomorrow they would board ship and cross the sea to the southern continent, the origin of man.
Mark had knelt to dry Cerena’s feet, and so didn’t see, but Pellin did. The girl’s lips moved, working, and even through the cloth of the blindfold, the acuteness of her effort was plain.
Pellin didn’t breathe or move for fear of disturbing her, but a moment later, Mark must have sensed her struggle. He rose.
“E-el-el-li,” the girl stuttered,
