Gerrard Cowan - The Memory

Harper Voyager

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Copyright © Gerrard Cowan 2018

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

Gerrard Cowan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008121839

Version: 2018-08-29

For Grace

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page The Memory GERRARD COWAN

Copyright Harper Voyager An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018 Copyright © Gerrard Cowan 2018 Cover images © Shutterstock.com Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018 Gerrard Cowan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008121839 Version: 2018-08-29

Dedication For Grace

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

About the Publisher

Turn back.

That was all Ruin said to Brightling, as she walked down the stairs.

Turn back.

She was unsure how long she had been in this place. Her memories felt strange, at times: out of her reach. She forgot why she was here, in this darkness. She had to grasp for it, searching through the muddy waters of her mind. The Machinery, she told herself . I am going to the Machinery.

Ruin is in the Machinery. Ruin will die.

An image rose in her mind, and all her confusion disappeared. It was a picture of a young woman, pale-skinned and black-haired. Katrina. I will destroy the thing inside her, and I will bring her home to me. The mask burned against her skin, when these thoughts came. She had worn it since she had come here; it showed her the way through the darkness, down the never-ending stairs. It had such power, this thing. I have power when I wear it. I will use it to destroy my enemies: the enemies of mankind.

But she did not know how.

Turn back.

Ruin was afraid of her. This creature, feared by the world, Overland and Underland, was frightened. She could sense it, in his voice. She could always sense fear: even the fear of a god.

She caught herself. A god? Is that what we call them now?

Turn back.

Yes. A god. What else were they but gods, and what manner of mask was this, to strike fear into one of them? Jandell had fashioned it from a shard of a defeated enemy, in times long past, and he had given it to her. The Absence. A mask like no other: a mask that could carve someone’s memories into little bits. The Absence was dead, now, but somehow, this little thing still thrummed with a dark power. It loved her. She could feel it. It did not wish to cause her pain. But it still hurt her. It licked its fiery tongue around her memories and longed to burn them away.

Turn back.

Each time Ruin said those words, she heard a noise behind, back from where she had come: a door creaking open. When she continued on her way, the door would close, only to reopen when Ruin spoke again.

Ruin did not speak for a long time. When he did, this time his words were different.

You will not turn back, Brightling.

She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. Her voice sounded so small, here, and she despised herself for all her weaknesses.

There came a great sigh.

You have always been special, Amyllia.

The use of her first name made her stop.

I know you very well. I have watched you for so many years.

Brightling took another step. She knew what Ruin was doing. The doomed tried all sorts of tricks to stave off the inevitable. Don’t ever listen to the dead, went an old Watcher saying. The dead are full of lies.

But she could not ignore Ruin. Not in this place.

I see everything that has been and gone. I remember the first time you appeared as … someone of promise .

Brightling turned another corner of the twisting staircase. The steps were wider, here, the walls further apart. There was a door, to her left. It was slightly ajar, its edge glowing with a thin line of golden light. She reached out a hand, before quickly snapping it back.

‘What is in there?’

What else? A memory.

Brightling heard a voice, muttering beyond the door. It was her voice; the voice she had as a girl. Warmth. Contentment.

I have all your memories before me, Amyllia. Tell me where you would like to go, and what you would like to see again.

Brightling turned away and looked once more down the dark staircase, through the eyes of her terrible mask.

‘No,’ she said.

The mask tightened on Brightling’s face. It wants to swallow me up. She hesitated for a heartbeat, before removing it . She turned it over in her hands, running her fingers along its edges. Each mask was a wonderful thing, fitting its owner perfectly. A second skin. They were all different: some of them reached up over the head, some of them covered it entirely, others were just a thin piece of material. This one, though, was so very different to any other, flitting between man and woman, old and young, anger or happiness, all with that same sense of nothingness. She could not see its expression, now. She wondered what it looked like. She hoped it was wreathed with a terrible fury, and that Ruin saw it, and was afraid.