"Why? How?"
"You loved my daughter. Furthermore, I thought you should not die."
"I loved her even then?" Kesley asked, astonished.
"Yes. She does not remember, nor do you—but you loved each other. When Winslow ordered you killed, I determined to save you. I hypnotized your jailers, slipped into the dungeon, freed you, led you out. It was a gross violation of my oath to Winslow."
Daveen paused, and Kesley stared intently at him, waiting for him to go on. There was something grotesque about this calm, matter-of-fact relation of actions he had been involved in and yet remembered nothing about. Reality seemed to slide yawingly from moment to moment. He had loved Narella five years ago? He had been at Winslow's court, and been sentenced to death?
Possibly. But it was as if those things had happened to someone else.
"Go on," Kesley said hoarsely. "What was I doing at Winslow's court? For God's sake, Daveen, who am I?"
The singer shook his head slowly. "No. Not yet. Let me go on, and you'll learn the rest in proper time."
"Very well," Kesley said, mollified.
"I took you from the prison, as 'Dawnspear' did just recently. I attempted to contact those who would receive you safely, but could not. Failing this, I had to make provision for your safety. I therefore placed you in full hypnosis, wiped out all knowledge of your past background, and substituted a pseudo-biography in which you had been born in—Kansas Province, I believe. It was a slipshod job, but I was in a hurry. Were there inconsistencies?"