The Bone Doll's Twin

by Lynn Flewelling

  The young man smiled shyly. “It’s my only talent, I’m afraid, but Viri does say I’m the best she’s seen. I’ve had the dreams, Arkoniel. That’s what Iya saw in me and she says that Ariani’s son is part of that vision somehow, and that he must be protected. She sent word to me when she learned of the duke’s death. I arrived in Ero just in time to get myself in with Orun’s lot—”

  “Wait.” Arkoniel held up a hand. “How do I know that this is the truth? How do I know that you aren’t clouding my mind now, pulling thoughts from my own mind and telling them back to me?”

  Eyoli took Arkoniel’s hand and placed it against his own brow. “Touch my mind. Read my heart. Iya says you have the gift.”

  “It’s not a gentle magic.”

  “I know that,” he replied, and Arkoniel could tell that he’d been subjected to such tests before. “Go on. I knew you’d need to.”

  Arkoniel did, not a gentle brush of the mind but a deep, direct delving into the core of the man who stood so trustingly under his hand. It was not a pleasant spell, and never suffered between wizards without permission, but Eyoli allowed it, even as he groaned aloud and clutched at Arkoniel’s shoulder to keep his balance.

  Arkoniel pulled the substance of the other man’s life from his mind like juice from a ripe grape. It was a brief life, and a sordid one in its earliest details. Eyoli had been a harbor brat, orphaned early and raised in filth, using his innate skills from an early age to keep himself fed and cared for as best he could. His talent was a meager one, and unpolished until Iya found him, but once tapped, his potential was amazing. He was right in thinking he’d never make a true wizard, but as a spy, he was quite unique.

  Arkoniel released him. “You say this is all you can do?”

  “Yes. I can’t even make fire or light.”

  “Well, what you can do is extremely useful. Are you sworn to watch over Tobin?”

  “By my hands, heart, and eyes, Master Arkoniel. The Harriers haven’t numbered me, so I can come and go in the city. Orun and the others think I’ve been with them for years. They won’t miss me when I’m gone.”

  “Amazing. Where is Iya now?”

  “I don’t know, Master.”

  “Well, I’m glad to have your help. Keep a close eye on him, and Ki, too.” He held out his hand and Eyoli clasped it respectfully, wincing a little at the older wizard’s firm grip.

  When he was gone Arkoniel inspected the corner of his little fingernail. Lhel had taught him how to sharpen it, how to clasp a man’s hand so that it would nick without hurting, and just deep enough to draw a tiny “bitty of the red.”

  He squeezed the blood out and rubbed the tiny smear into the whorls of his thumb. Then, fixing the patterns in his mind’s eye, he spoke the witching words Lhel had taught him. “Into this skin I go, through these eyes I see, into this heart I listen.”

  In Eyoli’s heart he found a burning hatred of the Harriers, and a vision of Virishan’s school and a shining white city in the west filled with wizards who welcomed her orphans. For that vision Eyoli would do whatever was asked of him. Arkoniel also caught a glimpse of Iya as the young man remembered her. She looked older and more tired than Arkoniel recalled.

  All the same, he breathed a sigh of relief, feeling less alone than he had in years. The Third Orëska had already truly begun.

  Tharin’s story about Orun continued to worry Arkoniel, but the troublesome noble went to bed early in a surly humor, settled his nerves with a large pot of Cook’s hippocras, and was soon snoring loudly. The herald did the same on the other side of the hearth. Meanwhile, Tharin saw to it that the men of the King’s Guard were under close watch in their makeshift encampment in the meadow below.

  As silence settled over the house, Arkoniel sat quietly in his darkened workroom, alert for any disturbance in the hall below.

  Intent as he was on this task, he was taken quite by surprise by stealthy footsteps just outside his own door. Sending out another sighting, he saw Tobin stealing past in his rumpled nightshirt. The boy hesitated briefly outside the wizard’s door as if to knock, then turned away and continued on.

  Arkoniel went to the door and opened it a crack, knowing there was only one place Tobin could be going in this part of the keep.

  Arkoniel had almost let himself into the tower several times, wanting to see the place Ariani had called her own, the place she’d chosen to die. But something—honor, fear, respect for the duke’s wishes, perhaps—still held him back.

  Tobin stood near the tower door now, arms wrapped tight around himself in spite of the humid night. As Arkoniel watched, he took another hesitant step, then stopped. Then another. It was painful to watch, and worse to feel like a spy doing it.

  After a moment he leaned out and whispered, “Tobin? What are you doing up here?”

  The boy whirled around, eyes huge. If not for what Arkoniel had already witnessed, he might have thought he’d been sleepwalking.

  Tobin hugged himself tighter as Arkoniel approached.

  “Do you need my help?”

  Another agonized hesitation, a sidelong glance—at Brother, perhaps? Then he sighed and fixed Arkoniel with those earnest blue eyes. “You’re Lhel’s friend, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am. Does this have something to do with her?”

  Again that sidelong glance. “There’s something I have to fetch.”

  “From the tower?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whatever it is, Tobin, I know Lhel would want me to help you. What can I do?” “Come with me.”

  “That sounds easy enough. Do you have the key, or shall I use my magic to open it?”

  As if in answer, the tower door swung open for them. Tobin flinched and stared at the open doorway as if expecting to see something there. Perhaps he did. All the wizard could make out were a few worn stone steps leading up into darkness.

  “Did you tell Brother to do that?”

  “No.” Tobin edged forward and Arkoniel followed.

  The summer night was heavy, but the moment they stepped into the tower a dank chill wrapped itself around them like the air of a tomb. High overhead the moon peered in through narrow slit windows.

  Tobin was clearly frightened to be here, but he took the lead. Halfway up Arkoniel heard a stifled sob, but when Tobin glanced back at him, his face was dry. Another sob raised the hair on the back of the wizard’s neck. It was a woman’s voice.

  A small, square chamber lay at the top of the tower. The windows on each side were tightly shuttered, so Arkoniel summoned a tiny point of light, then let out a gasp of dismay.

  The place was a shambles. The furniture had been smashed to bits and scattered about the room. Mouldering bolts of cloth and tapestries covered the floor.

  “Mother made her dolls here,” Tobin whispered.

  Arkoniel had heard of those later dolls; boys with no mouths.

  The sound of weeping was more distinct here, but it was still faint, as if heard from another room. If Tobin heard it, he said nothing. As he crossed to a far corner, however, Arkoniel noted how he kept his face turned away from the fatal western window.

  What had the child witnessed that final day, when he’d received that crescent scar on his chin? Closing his eyes, Arkoniel whispered a blood-seeking spell. The magic made a few scattered spots of old blood on the floor near the west window shine bright as moonlight on silver. And there was one more trace, a tiny, much-weathered half-moon smudge on the edge of the stone sill.

  The outer edge, beyond the shutters.

  Tobin made his way over the debris to a far corner and was shifting a small pile of refuse there.

  The sobbing grew suddenly louder and Arkoniel could hear the whisper of heavy skirts, as if the weeper was pacing the room.

  Caught between fear and grief, Arkoniel searched his mind for spirit spells, but all that would come was her name.

  “Ariani.”

  It was enough. The shutters of the west window flew open and there she stood, a dark
outline against the moonlight. Brother stood with her, grown as tall as his sibling even in death.

  Arkoniel took a step toward her and held out his hand, face to face with the woman he’d helped wrong.

  She turned to him and the light fell across her face. Black blood covered the left side, but her eyes were bright and alive and fixed on him with a terrible confusion that disturbed him more deeply than any show of anger.

  “Forgive me, Lady.” An echo a decade gone.

  He felt Tobin beside him, clutching at his arm with trembling fingers. “Do you see her?” he whispered.

  “Yes. Oh, yes.” He stretched out his left hand to the pitiful apparition. She tilted her head as if bemused by his gesture, then reached as if they were partnered in a dance. As their hands met he felt a fleeting sensation like the kiss of snow shaken from a branch. Then she was gone, and Brother with her.

  Arkoniel brought his hand to his nose and caught the faint scent of her perfume mingled with blood. Then a deathly chill closed in around him. It felt as if someone was reaching into his chest and squeezing his heart to stop it. Another hand, this one hard and warm, found his and dragged him from the room. Doors slammed shut behind them as he and Tobin fled the tower.

  In his workroom Arkoniel locked the door, latched the shutters, and lit a small lamp, then collapsed trembling on the floor with his face in his hands. “By the Light!”

  “You saw her, didn’t you.”

  “Oh yes. Maker forgive me, I did.”

  “Was she angry?”

  Arkoniel thought of the crushing sensation he’d felt in his chest. Had that been her doing, or Brother’s? “She looked sad, Tobin. And lost.” He looked up and only then noticed what Tobin had brought back with him from the tower. “Is that what you went up for?”

  “Yes.” Tobin clutched an old cloth sack to his chest. “I—I’m glad you caught me tonight. I don’t think I could’ve done it alone again and I’d never have been able to ask anyone to go—”

  “Again? You mean you did that before? All by yourself?”

  “When I put it up there. That night Ki arrived.”

  “You saw your mother then, didn’t you?”

  Tobin knelt beside him and began plucking at the knotted string that held the sack closed. He was shivering. “Yes. She reached out for me, like she was going to throw me out the window again.”

  Arkoniel searched for something to say, but words failed him.

  Tobin was still busy with the sack. “You might as well see. This was my mother’s. She made it.” The string came loose and he pulled out a crude muslin rag doll with a badly drawn face. “She always carried it.”

  “Your father mentioned it in his letters.”

  He thought of the fine dolls she’d made in Ero. All the great ladies of Ero had wanted one, and many of the lords, too. This thing that Tobin cradled so carefully was a grotesque parody, the embodiment of her ruined soul.

  This thought was quickly replaced by another, however, and the hair rose on his neck and arms for the second time that night. The doll wore a necklace of hair wound tightly around its neck. Hair as black as Tobin’s own. Or his mother’s.

  This must be it, he thought with a thrill of triumph. This is the secret.

  He’d known from that first day in the kitchen that the words Tobin spoke were not enough to control Brother. There had to be something more; a talisman of some sort that joined the two. Something that had perhaps been passed from mother to child.

  “Did your mother give this to you?”

  Tobin stared down at the doll. “Lhel helped my mother make this. Then she made it mine.”

  “With your hair?”

  Tobin nodded. “And some blood.”

  Of course. “And this helps you call Brother?”

  “Yes. I wasn’t supposed to show it to anyone, so I hid it in the tower. I think maybe that’s why Brother doesn’t always stay away when I tell him to. When Lord Orun said I must go to Ero I knew I had to get it….”

  “But why not leave it here? Leave him here?”

  “No, I have to take care of him. Lhel said so.”

  “If a wizard put his mind to it, he might be able to smell it out.”

  “You didn’t.”

  Arkoniel let out a rueful chuckle. “I suppose not, but I wasn’t looking. All the same, there are plenty of wizards in Ero. You must be careful of all of them, especially those who wear the white robes of the King’s Harriers.”

  Tobin looked up in alarm. “What about the one with Orun’s men?”

  “A blond young man dressed as a soldier?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “He’s a friend, Tobin. But you mustn’t let on that you know about him. Iya sent him to keep watch over you, that’s all. It’s a secret.”

  “I’m glad he’s not a bad wizard. He has a kind face.”

  “You mustn’t only judge people on their faces—” Arkoniel caught himself, not wanting to scare the boy, or give too much away for a Harrier to find in Tobin’s mind later, should one have cause to look. “There are many kinds of people in the world, Tobin, and as many kinds of wizards. Not all of them mean you well. By the Four, you didn’t trust me and I mean you nothing but good! Don’t go lowering your guard to someone just because they tip you a winning smile.” He looked down at the doll again. “Now, are you certain you must take this with you? Couldn’t you leave it here with me?”

  “No, Lhel says I have to keep it and care for Brother. No one else can do that. He needs me and I need him.”

  Him.

  Oh dear, thought Arkoniel. Here was another plan that had worked too well until now. Thanks to Lhel’s magic, the king had been shown the body of a dead girl child, and so the world had heard the story; Tobin knew the truth. If someone saw Brother or heard Tobin speak of “him,” uncomfortable questions would be raised.

  Tobin was watching him with those eyes that saw too much and Arkoniel felt the terrible fragility of the new bond they’d created in the tower just now.

  He thought of Iya’s bag lying under his worktable; no wizard could see through its magics to the bowl swathed in silk and spells inside. For an instant he seized on the notion of making such a bag for the doll. This, at least, he had the magic for, and the makings: dark silk and silver thread, a crystal wand, needles and razors of iron, censers for burning resins and gums. Everything lay in easy reach. With these he could make a bag that would hold Brother in and keep out the prying eyes of any Harrier.

  But the bag itself would be seen. He or Iya might carry such a thing with impunity, but an ordinary eleven-year-old child of warrior birth could not.

  He sighed and picked up the discarded flour sack.

  Ordinary. As ordinary as an old doll left as a keepsake for an orphaned child.

  “This changes everything, you know,” he mused, an idea already taking form. “That little display we had Brother put on in the hall was all well and good as the antics of a house spirit. At court no one, especially you, can afford any taint of necromancy and there are plenty who might assume just that if they think you can control Brother. You mustn’t speak of him except as the demon twin they know of. It’s an old story there.”

  “I know. Ki told me some people even claim it was a girl child.”

  Arkoniel covered his surprise quickly; he supposed if rumors would come from anyone, it would be Ki. It seemed his work was done for him after all. “Let them go on thinking that. There’s no use arguing. Say nothing at all about it, and never let anyone see him. And you must never let on that you know anyone like Lhel. Her sort of magic isn’t necromancy, but most think it is, and because of that her kind are outlawed from Skala.” He gave Tobin a conspiratorial wink. “That makes us outlaws, you and I.”

  “But why would Father have dealings with her if—”

  “That’s a question best left ’til you’re older, my prince. For now, trust in your father’s honor as you always have and promise me that you’ll keep Lhel and Brother your
own secret.”

  Tobin fidgeted with one of the doll’s mismatched legs. “I will, but sometimes he just does what he wants to.”

  “Well, you must try very, very hard for your sake. And Ki’s, too.”

  “Ki?”

  Arkoniel rested his elbows on his knees. “Here at the keep you and Ki have lived as brothers and friends. Equals, if you like. But once you’re at court, you’ll soon learn that you’re not. Until you’re of age, Ki has no protection but your friendship and your uncle’s whim. If you were accused of necromancy the king might save you, but Ki would be executed very horribly and there’d be no saving him.”

  Tobin went pale. “But Brother’s nothing to do with him!”

  “It wouldn’t matter, Tobin. That’s what I’m trying to make you understand. It has nothing to do with truth. All it would take would be a Harrier wizard’s accusation. It happens often these days. Great wizards who’ve never done harm to anyone have been burnt alive on nothing more than a secondhand tale.”

  “But why?”

  “In their zeal to serve the king, they have taken a different road than the rest of us. I can’t explain it because I don’t understand it myself. For now, promise me you’ll be careful and make Ki be careful, too.”

  Tobin sighed. “I wish I didn’t have to go away. Not like this. I wanted to go with Father and see Ero and Atyion and go to war, but—” He broke off and rubbed at his eyes.

  “I know. But Illior has a way of putting our feet on the right path without shining the Light very far ahead. Put your trust in that, and in the good friends the Lightbearer has sent to walk with you.”

  “Illior?” Tobin gave him a doubtful look.

  “And Sakor, too,” he added quickly. “But look whose mark you wear on your chin.”

  “But what about the doll? What do I do with it?”

  Arkoniel picked up the flour sack. “This should do well enough.”

  The boy gave him an exasperated look. “You don’t understand. What if the prince sees it? Or the Arms Master? Or Ki?”