Parry tucked and sat on his legs, palms on the crisp sheet, eyes closed. It was time to run through his memories, and after so many thousands of reincarnations, it was a ritual.

With every life lived he had more memories to add, and with each next life there was more to remember. Memories were his greatest weapons, more powerful than any spell or artifact. But how much can one mind hold? Half his bodies weren't even human. He'd been every race of elf, dwarf, troll and beyond, every kind of animal, spirit, demon, even some plants. Something got lost each time.

He'd left himself clues, inscribed in his own mind and reflexes, in hunches and obsessions, tiny nagging doubts and fierce phobias. Where possible, he left hints in the world itself, but those had little staying power and were subject to his great enemy's interference. Parry had to keep a clear mind and hold on to all important memories he could without cluttering himself up with trivia. It was more important than staying alive and acquiring power.

After all, memory is the only thing that kept him Parry. If he wasn't himself, somewhere in his thoughts deep down, hadn't he already lost?

So every new life, the moment he felt safe, if he had any time alone, he took a mental catalog of all he could remember.

The real world is out there, somewhere, somehow. America. New York. Your father, your brother, your sister--wait, no, you don't have a sister.

449 W. 146th St. 449 W. 146th Street, Apartment 15A. 146th St., Apartment 15A. Not far from the Starbucks, near the Adventurer's Guild. No! 146th St. Apartment 15A.

Star Trek.

Grade 4 with Mrs. Parrot. Grade 5 with Mrs. Theodora.

Christmas sales. You hate lima beans. Mom put on "Free to Be You and Me" for the millionth time.

The words were more familiar than the memories they were supposed to call. Smell was key, if only he could smell a Christmas tree or a Frappuccino. He ran through every impression, little preserves floating in lucite corners of his overworked mind, a little harder to see each time, a little less relevant to surviving.

Don't panic. Memory comes back. It'll be better after you learn the right spells and find the right items.

That's critical: he had to master enough magic to cast [View from the Clerestory] and, eventually, [Mistress Xoa's Eyes]. Then get his hands on the [Limpid Pool]. Those three alone unlock huge swaths of memory.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

There must be even more spells or artifacts, more places of power or arrangements of stars that might open up his mental archives, give him access to more lives, free clues he'd left himself--there's always more. That's half the reason to risk your neck in dungeons and wastelands, braving old Ruins and enduring agonizing Hours.

Reaching back just a little helps you reach back further: concentrate on the most recent life.

That was bright in his memory. It was yesterday. It was...gone now, completely erased. Overlord Parry, Scourge of Torlain, doesn't exist. The clock wound back, the pieces reset, with some missing and some new ones inserted, and he'd never know exactly where or which. There'd be no growing up a prince this time, no lessons with the old sword master (was he out there, somewhere, teaching someone else? Or did that old hip wound finish him off on the battlefield after all?), no coup against his own father, no council of generals. Was Minna somewhere, young again, just as beautiful, just as fierce, his partner in tyranny?

Parry fought back that wave of frustration and rage, of having all his work undone, counterfeiting all his emotions, leaving him with nothing but mannequins of people who could never be again, not like he remembered them.

But you have to remember, it's vital! There was a Nine Years' War, and it might even be going on now. Then the tragedy of the peace accords, the assassination, the blood. The Traitor's War afterwards, don't mix up the order, remember.

Hold up. What if he was on the other side of the globe from Torlain? The languages all feel like English, but they're not, it was false to think of that as a clue.

You don't even know which continent you're on. The politics here, the history, it might have nothing to do with the Overlord's life. What if this is Filoh, right up against the Mountains of Making, ten thousand leagues north? Or if you're back on the ice of--well, no, it can't be the Icy Lands, not with that meadow outside and these wood and stone walls.

When was his last life in Filoh? The dog. A short life, that one. His pack...family. Firelight and chair legs, licking porridge from the bowl, he was a good girl, such a good girl.

Parry opened his eyes. It was enough. He remembered recent lives and more. All of them? Impossible, not without a lot of magic help. But it was far more easy as a human than as, say, a mouse. There would be plenty of time to zero in on the relevant lifetimes when he learned where he was, who he was.

It's a good start.

He pulled off the night shirt and stepped over to the wardrobe. Everything fit--he even wore the spare second shirt under the first. If he had to get out in a hurry, it wouldn't do to leave it behind. The parchment, quills and inkwell would need some kind of pouch. They hadn't entirely invented pockets here.

What makes you think you own those? Want to start this life off with petty theft?

Absolutely. If anything could give him the slightest advantage, he'd do it...within limits. There were evils he wouldn't permit himself. Parry, the person he knew himself to be, was good.

Overlord Parry indulged in a lot of executions, are you sure you're that good?

He shook his head. That was another life, there were...situations. He always meant good, so he was good.

Right?