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James" memory starts abruptly at four years old, with none of the half-memories from other people"s stories about him as a toddler, nor the uncertain first forays of a brain starting to hold the concept of past and future. It is difficult to tell, because he knows so few people his own age, and those he does know tend to be frightened and obsequious, but from a book he finds, a memoir, he thinks his recollection of those times are about as sharp as most boys’ of a year previous.
There is something ironic there. That his memory is so good, when he has two lives to remember, and yet he doesn’t even know Anharion’s real name, long lost to history. All he has of the Betrayer is a shivery, pleasant feeling something like vertigo when he sees something that should have provoked one of his own memories.
His first memory, perhaps inevitably, consists of three core parts:
Marcus"s hand in his, too-tight, apologetic and terrified and giddy. His feet hit the rungs of his chair as they swung; looking back, it must have been appropriated from a janissary aide and dragged over, because the infirmary beds have never had chairs at their heads. Had never had chairs.
One of James’ pant legs was cut away to reveal a deep, bloodless cut. From the lecture they both recieved later, James knew Marcus was the one to cut his leg, the metal sword much, much too heavy for a six year old to control; he shouldn"t have even been able to lift it. Shouldn"t even have been able to touch a sword. At four and six years old, James and Marcus were still years away from being allowed to use even a wooden training sword.
He still doesn’t know whether trying to train like the oldest novitiates was his idea or Marcus’. He doesn"t remember where they found the swords. He does remember the extra chores he had, and he remembers his father telling them it was lucky they hadn"t hurt each other more seriously. If they were actually lucky, Marcus would have killed him then and there. Now all of them were dead, even Marcus and his shadow, and James wasn"t.
His father, still alive then, in the infirmary. His steady, firm hands, holding a cloth to James’ outer thigh. Back then, even he had needed the waters of Oridhes to heal something like the deep cut along his leg with any speed. It was a part of him that had grown over time. In ten years, a blade or a bullet might not even touch his skin before his body, his lover’s gift, had healed, but even now, this mark was the only scar he had.
His father’s hands were warm through the cloth, his voice clear and steady. A janissary, her blue robe still crisp and new, stood at his side, watching Jannick’s every move, listening to every word he said.
“How do you tell when it’s better to apply the water with the cloth and not the cup?” she asked, and his father lifted the cloth to better show her the ragged layers of James’ split skin.
“The wound is deep, but not bleeding much,” said his father. “See? Too much blood will dilute the water’s powers and prevent it from reaching the place it is needed. But it is deep enough that the water will reach faster this way, which is unusual. It also places less strain on the Cup this way. Mixing just a drop into—”
“Father,” says James. “It hurts.”
And that was the third part of his first memory, that longest-lasting companion. Pain
“You"re handling it so well, Jamie.”
It had outlived the golden boy, the novitiate, the exiled monster, the dog with a thorn in its paw. It would outlasted the bright lieutenant and Simon"s prize and the beautiful witch.
“Hold steady just a little longer.”
At eleven, he learned Anharion had had a scar on the outside of his left thigh. From a battle with the Dark King. Then, it had been one more reason for his father to drive him out: eleven years old and already bearing the marks of the Betrayer.
A younger but not-as-young James had treasured the warped flesh. It was a sign Sarcean loved him past death, had reached his pale hands through ten thousand years to plant his flag on Anharion"s second body.
James is seventeen now, an adult grown. He is not young anymore. He does not trust the collar in his bag and he does not trust that ugly line on his leg. He does not trust his skin, which bears no marks, which has never borne any sign of who James is besides the lover of a man he has never met. He knows better than to treasure it now.
He was thirteen when he learned about the collar. His new father told him it is time to commit to the return of the Dark King shortly after.
The first brand did not take.
James’ healing powers had not had to contend with anything worse than the scrapes and bruises of a preadolescent boy, had not needed to be anything more than an unnaturally quick recovery. Perhaps Sinclair was hoping to bind him before Anharion"s powers asserted themselves fully. Perhaps he was hoping there might be a little room between James and the new Sarcean to wriggle himself into. Maybe he really had just been proud to induct James into the new family business.
The next two brands, done privately a week after the disastrous show in Simon"s dining room, did not take either. James never sees the man who did them again. A week after that, Sinclair pressed the ruby red brand into James’ wrist himself, James’ chest, the back of his neck, one thigh and then another. James had passed out at some point during the process and still does not know where else Sinclair tried. When he woke, the sheets in his bed had been changed. Simon was there, at his bedside, reading aloud.
Even now, his left pinky no longer lies neatly alongside its fellows. The tip sticks up. Just a tiny bit. It does not look unnatural. It would not be obvious to anyone but James, who knew how perfect the body Sarcean chose for him had been.
Simon read on steadily, kindly, as James snuffled and tried not to cry. He"d been told he cried prettily and had vowed never to do it until Sarcean was there to see it, but Simon was the blood of Sarcean, and he was attentively ignoring James’ tears in favor of reading out a history book until James fell asleep.
Sinclair sent him on his first solo mission the third week after his first brand, when the aches under his skin had faded to a dull roar. It felt like a second chance. Word had spread about the witch, the boy so fully devoted to Simon his very body rejected the brand, like his entire body is a healed burn. There were other rumors, too, that James will not hear for another year at least, whispers about the other ways his body is devoted to Simon.
He had to succeed. Sarcean had to see Sinclair loves James, loves the Dark King, only ever wanted to honor James and tell the world where he belongs. Sinclair had to be the one to bring Sarcean back, and James had to help him. Only then would James have a chance of convincing Sarcean to forgive Sinclair the bend in James" pinky.
Instead of just bringing back the fleeing traitor for execution, he brought back the man"s head.
When he was sixteen, Simon brought him a gift from one of the digs.
“These were yours,” he said, the man to the boy, and handed James a box.
“How do you know?” James asked, tracing the golden ram engraved and set into the dark wood of the lid. There were rubies set into its eyes and around its neck, with two empty holes where some of them had been lost to time.
“Open it,” said Simon with a smile, tucking a curl of James" hair behind his ear.
The rings and studs filled him with the same overwhelming thrill of using his magic, of Sinclair cupping his face and saying James did well, of resting his hand against his thigh, of making a kind circle of fingers around his throat alone at night.
“These were mine,” said James as he traced his finger along a loop.
He looked up abruptly. “You did well to find these for me,” he said in his Anharion voice. “My master will be pleased when he returns.”
Simon and Sinclair both were confident the Dark King would reward them for their loyalties. As of late, James has begun to wonder if their kindness will be seen as taking too many liberties with what Sarcean will think is his. He is no longer as worried about Simon taking James’ nickname—Simon"s pet— too seriously. He worries about Will now, what the Dark King will try to do to him.
“It was fashionable for everyone to wear earrings. Even men.”
James touched the sharp points of the earrings. They were designed to puncture flesh over and over and over. “Even the ever-healing consort of the Dark King.”
“Father and I theorized that they were made by the same craftsman who made the collar, with the same metal.” With a chill and a swoop in his chest, James realized he was probably right. He"d seen the same filigree and workmanship before, in sketches of black and white. He"s seen them now, too, on the real thing, and they"re the same. Undeniably. “Though we could find no record of them having the same effect.”
One of the dock workers glanced over at the words. Simon was talking too loudly, in far too public a place, about something that should only belong to James and Sarcean. (Now that Will has given it to him, it belongs only to James. He still can"t seem to accept that. It was always meant to belong to two people.) He didn’t dare touch Simon, who was kind to him, his new father"s oldest son, who would bring back James’ purpose, so he caught the worker"s eyes and lifted his hand. The man blanched and almost dropped the crate he held, scurrying off before the witch could hex him. As if James couldn"t snap his neck from a mile away.
“I could show you how to put them in.” Simon finally lowered his voice, stepping in closer.
James touched a heavy golden ring with teardrop-shaped rubies in golden cages hanging from it. “This looks rather large for an earrings,” he said instead of responding.
“We believe some of them may have gone through Anharion’s”—he gestured to James’ chest—“ah, nipples.”
“Why?” James" voice was too sharp. “I mean, what would lead you to that conclusion?”
“There were accompanying sketches,” said Simon. He waited just a beat, until James looked in his eyes. “They crumbled, unfortunately, as we were attempting to retrieve them.”
He reached out to take James’ shoulder. “I would be happy to show you, Jamie, it wouldn"t be an imposition at all—”
James stopped Simons"s hand with a flick of his hand. “My name is James.” He could hear his heart pounding. He felt hot, and it took all his concentration to keep his hands from shaking like there is something, some one else inside him.
The liberties Simon had a habit of taking were more than any man living, including Sinclair, had presumed.
He"s going to get himself killed when the Dark King returns, he remembers thinking, along with a feeling that is something like dread but somehow more pleasant.
He flicked his fingers again and pushed Simon’s hand away with a gentleness he gave no one else. Feigning calm, feigning disinterest, he snapped the lid shut and handed it off to a boy. “Put these in my things. For every one missing, I"ll have one of your”—a smooth beat, the witch considering—“teeth.” To Simon, already ignoring the boy, he said, “Tell me what else you found.”
It had been surprisingly difficult to get the earrings to sit right in his ears that first night. There was dried blood in his hair and his cheek and behind his ears, staining them like rubies in gold, by the time he was satisfied.
He didn"t figure out the magic in the earrings until he"d pierced his ears with each set, just to make sure, and then bought a new pair to try. His body rejected them as quickly as a bullet, healing rapidly until they fell with a heady punk to the surface of his vanity.
James carries the earrings, which have known the blood of both his bodies, and the—other piercings with him at all times, just in case. They clack against the collar in the bottom of his bag now, all wrapped tightly in cloth.
He tries not to think about Will and the collar and the piercings all in one thought or he feels that terrible giddy vertigo. The blood of the Lady shines through him like a beautiful fire and James wants to adorn himself with shiny things like a bright bird and run his hands through Will"s hair. He wants to show them to Will, wants to give over everything he is and ever has been.