Page 97 of American King (New Camelot Trilogy 3)
At the mention of Penley Luther, my stomach turns a little; my so-called ‘father’ has that effect on me. “You knew what was going to happen between Penley and Imogen?”
“I mean, I didn’t know there would be a child named Maxen Colchester and that he would win a war and become President himself,” Merlin says wryly. “But I knew that it had to happen, even as young as I was. That if it didn’t, everything would shift sideways and off balance.”
“And then there were more things you knew?”
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, there were more. The older I grew, the clearer things became. My grandfather helped me, and I…that other self that was born with me, he remembered things. I know that sounds schizophrenic, and all I can do is assure you that it’s not, that it’s real.”
“I see,” I respond slowly. “So this is the secret? That you were—” for the sake of our friendship and also from years of politics, I find the least insane way to rephrase what he’s said “—able to perceive the future?”
“I know, Maxen, I know. Believe me, if I thought there was a way I could convince you to do what needs to be done without telling you all of this, then this conversation wouldn’t be happening. Alas, I can see no other way.”
“And what needs to be done, Merlin?”
“Always a man of action,” he smiles. “You were last time too. Fascinated by God but disdainful of what you couldn’t see.”
I’m reluctant to ask, but I think he wants me to. “‘Last time.’ What does that mean?”
“Surely, Maxen, you’ve noticed that things about your life are different? Extraordinary and strange? Have you never wondered why?”
“I’ve never thought myself or my life extraordinary,” I say. “It simply is itself. And I simply am myself.”
Merlin presses his fingertip to his mouth, gazing at me. “Being a secret child of a world leader? Winning a war? Having a child with your sister? The love between you, Embry and Greer? All of that seems common and unremarkable to you?”
“Well, anything can sound remarkable if you say it like that.”
“No. Not like that. You’ve never come across anything, any stories that feel strangely familiar? That seem to echo your own life?”
Before I can start to answer in the negative, he follows up with, “You’ve never felt like the air has gone heavy? Like the world is holding its breath? Like something is singing in your bones?”
I don’t respond.
“Like…right now, in fact? Can you feel it right now?”
I can. I can feel it. It feels like gravity, like God, like everything has been crystalized and cut from stained glass into a vivid, magical tableau, something out of a fairy tale book.
“How do you know about that?” I ask quietly. I haven’t ever told anyone about that feeling, ever. Not once, not even Embry or Greer, and not because it wasn’t real the times I felt it, but because those times had been so important to me, so private, so…I don’t even know, because there aren’t words for it. It had always felt like a secret between God and me, and for someone to just know without me telling them…
I look at Merlin with fresh eyes.
“They are the echoes, Maxen. And perhaps they do come from God, as you’ve always privately believed, but if they do, then God has allowed them as such. Anchors to a life you lived long ago.”
“I don’t believe in past lives,” I say, but my voice sounds strange in the thick air, like it lacks conviction in itself now. Maybe it does.
How did he know about the feelings?
“It’s not quite a past life,” Merlin says. “It’s a life. One life. The same.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, my brow pulling together. “The same as what? The same as who?”
“Have you not guessed?” he asks. “Have you never once sifted through Greer’s research and wondered?”
/> I stare at him as something stirs in my mind, like dreams I’ve only just now remembered. Memories that can’t be memories. The low cry of a baby smuggled somewhere secret. A sword flashing in the light.
The sun setting behind an island. A golden circlet set in a wave of flowing hair the color of light.
And all of the faces I’ve ever marked dear to me, all of the faces that I’ve found around me, but in places that I know I’ve never been, in memories that can’t be real.
Greer.
