Rafe followed Jeremy up the stairs, his fingers finding handholds worn into the wall by ancient fingers.
Up they went, up and up forever, around and around endlessly. They finally reached the top and Jeremy led Rafe out a knothole and onto a branch, a branch as thick and wide as a small car. They sat and caught their breath. The forest floor was so far down, Rafe couldn’t see it in the dark.
“Look,” Jeremy said. “Here they come. Showtime.”
Rafe peered through the branches and saw nothing. Darkness. A few stars. More darkness. Then a sudden burst of bright orange light in the distance.
At first, the orange light popped once every minute or two, then every thirty seconds or so, until every five seconds or less, that same strange orange light flashed and disappeared, then flashed again.
Firemoths. Dozens, then hundreds of them danced in the high branches.
One flew close. Yellow light came from the enormous wings, even bigger than a grown man’s two hands. The yellow light plus the red leaves of the giant trees combined to make orange, filling the trees with the eyes of a thousand glowing jack-o’-lanterns.
“Wow,” Rafe said. He spared a glance at Jeremy, saw the lights flash in his eyes. “I painted these on my bedroom walls.”
“I noticed.”
Rafe reached into his pack and took out his book.
“Hope I don’t remember I’m afraid of heights.”
Jeremy reached out and pulled Rafe back against his chest, holding him tight as a seatbelt.
“You remember the combination?” Jeremy asked.
“No, but I can guess it.”
It was a three-number lock and Rafe put in the first three numbers that came to mind.
436 for 436 Park Street. Jeremy’s old house.
The book opened for him right away. Magic.
“It’s all right. You’re all right,” Jeremy said, and Rafe held on to those words like a lifeline even as he sank beneath the surface of an ocean of memories.
—
Are you sure you want to do this, my prince? You can stay. You can stay forever.
I can’t let Jeremy go alone.
The magic won’t let you both remember. Not as long as the door is open. It’s too dangerous for the kingdom.
I know.
And you won’t be able to help Jeremy.
I know that too.
Then why go?
Because I…
—
The book was black with a silver combination lock on it. Skya set it before him, her beautiful face grim with unshed tears.
How does it work?
Set the combination and open it. Don’t tell anyone the combination. Make it something you remember from your old life.
436. Easy enough. Jeremy’s house number.
Done.
Now draw in it or write. Whatever you put in the book, when you lock it, it will be locked away in your mind.
So it’s still there?
Yes, but you won’t remember it. It’ll be as if it’s behind a door you can’t open.
So I just…draw things that happened, and I won’t remember them?
Not until you open the book again. The witch warned you may dream of them, and when you wake you’ll try to remember your dream, but it’ll fall through your fingers like water and sand.
Easy enough to sketch the Sweet Spring Forest and the Castle Mountains, the Moonstone Palace, the Painted Sea, and the Bluestone River. But that wasn’t all. He would have to draw Skya, the Valkyries, the unicorns and silver tigers, the baby he’d saved and named Kaylee, and hardest of all…he’d have to draw Jeremy. No, not Jeremy. He would always remember Jeremy Andrew Cox, his best friend from back home. He had to draw Sir Jeremy, the Red Knight. His knight. It was him he had to forget. His knight and their nights.
I’m sorry, my prince. I didn’t want this either. But the rules are written into the world.
