The soldier looked straight ahead. Dasis waited, even though she had not been told to. After a few moments, the door opened again and two women emerged. Their skin was withered and burnt brown, and their slates, hidden in their robes, made them look heavier than they were. Dasis did not recognize them, but before she had a chance to say anything, the soldier shoved her inside.
The room was dark and smelled of incense. Somehow they had trapped the morning coolness inside. Dasis felt the sweat on her arms turn to goose bumps. Someone took her elbow. She started. Another soldier.
“This way,” he said.
He led her through a small corridor into a room lit by two dozen candles. Three men sat inside; the two at the table looked the same. Dasis squinted for a moment before she saw differences—a line beneath one man’s eye that didn’t appear beneath the other, a quirk of the lips, a different hairstyle. Then she saw their robes and her heart nearly stopped. The King’s sons.
The other man came forward. He was small and dark and wore the robes of a government official. “Where’s your partner?”
“In the city,” Dasis said. “She will only come for readings.”
The man glanced over his shoulder at the sons. They watched without saying a word. “And why such a restriction?”
“She’s afraid of soldiers.” Dasis kept her voice level. “Soldiers murdered her family in front of her eyes when she was just a girl.”
“And she wants to read for the King?” One of the brothers spoke. He had stepped forward, his polished boots making a scuffed sound against the dirt. She could see his clothing a bit more clearly now. A “V” had been embroidered on his shirt collar. Then she could name him.
“She doesn’t want to read for the King, sire,” Dasis said with a small courtesy. “She believes that we will be paid enough that we will not have to work again.”
“And you believe this too?”
Dasis met his gaze. She hadn’t seen such strength come from a man’s eyes before. “I hope that we will earn enough.”
“How would you feel if my brother were to inherit because of your reading?”
Dasis looked from one to the other. Her mouth had gone dry. She forced herself to swallow. She had promised herself that she would answer everything truthfully. Shadows flickered across the men’s faces. One of the candles near the far wall guttered. “I doubt things would change much for my partner and me, no matter who inherited,” she said, her voice soft.
Vasenu smiled. Ele leaned his head against the wall, his expression hidden in darkness. The other man glanced at the brothers, visibly distressed. “Your name, mistress?” he asked.
“I’m Dasis,” she said. “My partner is Stashie. You can find us at the bazaar.”
She felt the dismissal and turned to go.
“Wait.” The voice sounded almost like Vasenu’s, but without the deep control. Ele. “We’re not done with this woman.”
She stopped and waited.
“Turn around, mistress.” The other man sounded exasperated.
Slowly Dasis faced them. The tension in the room made her queasy. She glanced from one man to the other. They had powers she never even dreamed of. They could take her and make her disappear, and not even Stashie would know where to find her.
“Don’t be afraid.” Vasenu had come closer. He pulled over a chair and rested his foot on it. “We just want to know where you’re from and how long you’ve been reading.”
Dasis nodded. She swallowed again, and nearly choked on the dryness in her throat. “I come from Eother, one of the border towns. Stashie joined me shortly after her family died. Together we had a gift for seeing things more clearly than most people, so when some heart readers came to town, my mother took us to them. The readers didn’t even do a reading of us. They pulled us aside and asked us if we wanted to train. We did. We have been traveling now for ten rainy seasons.”
“Have you ever read for the King before?” Ele again, his mouth hidden by shadows. He looked almost like a ghost man, a reflection of his brother. He made Dasis nervous.
“No,” she said. “We’ve never even been here before. Until now, we have avoided places with soldiers.”
“What changed?” the other man asked.
Dasis looked at him, unable to believe he had asked the question. “There aren’t many soldier-less places left.”
Her words hung in the room. Vasenu cleared his throat. He looked as if he were having trouble suppressing a smile. “Would your partner be able to read in front of soldiers?”
Dasis nodded. “She read a soldier a day or so ago. She found it difficult, but possible.”
Vasenu studied her for a moment. Dasis willed herself not to squirm. She forced herself to breathe regularly. Finally, he nodded.
“We will do trial readings tomorrow. Bring your partner.”
The soldier who had escorted her in took her elbow again. This time the dismissal was an actual one. Dasis was about to promise that she would bring Stashie, but the men were no longer looking at her. They were engaged in a conversation, the words too soft for her to hear. They were discussing her. She didn’t want to know what they were saying.
She let the soldier lead her back to the door. When she stepped into the burning sunshine, she took a deep breath. The goose bumps stayed on her arms and she rubbed them to let the warmth seep in. She had been nervous in the dark with those powerful men. Perhaps Stashie wouldn’t be able to read.
Perhaps Dasis had made the wrong choice, after all.
CHAPTER 14
Ele dipped his feet into the cool waters of the salt baths. The bath chamber was wide and dark, lit only by a few candles. The splashing echoed in the large room, and when he stopped moving, he could hear water dripping.
These baths always calmed him. They took the tension from his body and eased his tired muscles. Vasenu preferred the warm baths, but Ele thought the cool more appropriate to the climate—pulling the sweat from his body, easing the heat. Sometimes all it took was to get his feet wet and he would relax.
This time, however, it would take more.
He slipped into the water, felt it buoy him up and cradle him as if he were a baby. Only he had never been cradled as a child, never been held by someone who loved him. He didn’t know who his mother was and his father had never held him, not once in thirty years. He and Vasenu used to huddle together for warmth and affection.
The kindest thing his father had ever done was to spare both brothers. The kindest and the cruelest.
The saltwater caressed Ele’s skin, making him tingle. Still, he could feel the tension run like shivers through his body. For his entire life, he had felt the competition with Vasenu. He had striven to work harder, to perform better, to fight better, while Vasenu had done the same. They were equals in everything. And that had frustrated Ele, although not as much as watching the heart readers that morning.
He closed his eyes and mouth, rolled over and tried to submerge himself in the water’s coolness. He couldn’t go under very deep. His lungs expanded, feeling as if they might burst. Still he held himself down, wanting to test his limits, to know that he had pushed as far as he could.
Heart readers. Ignorant peasant women with a gift for flaming superstition. He and Vasenu had lived the same life. How could one have a pure heart when the other didn’t?
Finally Ele came up for air. His expulsion of breath resounded around the room. Droplets flew, landing on the parquet floor. The candlelight seemed brighter now. He wiped the water from his eyes and rolled over onto his back.
The heart readers would find nothing, and his father would die. The country would be torn apart. He and Vasenu would fight each other, and everything he loved would disappear. No wonder tension shook him. No wonder he felt as if he were losing control. He was. His choices had narrowed.
He stood and shook the water out of his hair, then wandered to the side of the bath. He could, he supposed, renounce his claim to the throne, deny everything he had worked toward since he
was a tiny boy. But would his father be proud of him then? Or would he think Ele a coward, striving only to save his own life?
Ele pulled himself out of the water and allowed the hot air to pull the drops off his skin. He buried his face against his damp knees. All of his choices required that he lose something: his throne, his brother, and his father. But Ele had been raised for this. He didn’t know why he was having so much trouble.
Vasenu wasn’t having any trouble. He knew his choices and he seemed comfortable with them. He had never once said to Ele that they should both rule, that they should continue to work together, just as they had always done.
Ele shook his head. He and Vasenu were probably equals in this too, in how much they wanted the power, in how much they wanted to compromise, and in how much they were willing to let someone else determine their fate.
CHAPTER 15
Stashie sat in the dirt, her skirts pulled over her legs and her knees against her chest. She leaned against the mud-brick wall of the building. Half a dozen women sat near her, and soldiers stood at the door. The brick was cool but the air baked. A trickle of sweat ran down her face, stinging as it traveled. She felt old. Her skin had pulled tight against her bones and her entire body ached.
She knew what caused the feeling. Fear. Too long buried fear. Dasis told her that nothing would happen during the readings, and Stashie supposed she was right. But that didn’t stop her from trembling as she thought about sitting inside that small room, surrounded by soldiers, being forced to touch them.
A tremor ran down her back and she hugged herself tighter. They had been sitting in this line for nearly two hours. Dasis had tried to make conversation, but had given up a long time ago. She too leaned against the building, her eyes closed as if she were sleeping. But Stashie knew that she was listening. Dasis’s body was too still for sleep, her breathing too uneven.
Other heart readers waited as well. Dasis had recognized one couple, the pair inside the building now. She said they had worked her village during Dasis’s childhood. The others varied in age and size. A pair of old crones sat in the back, so enfeebled by age that they needed help to stand. Sometimes Stashie wished that the others would get the position. Other times, she hoped that she and Dasis would be able to read. She would make Dasis happy and get revenge at the same time.
Another bead of sweat ran down her cheek, feeling almost like a tear. She didn’t wipe the bead away, preferring to let the sweat and dirt mar her features. She didn’t need to look good for these soldiers, only to read well.
As if reading well mattered. All of the heart readers, if they were truly heart readers, would give the same reading of the same heart on the same day. It was a fixed magic—one based on truth instead of on lies like Radekir’s. Stashie and Dasis had a gift, a gift of sight. The only thing these readings would show the King was which of the heart readers were frauds.
A hand clamped on Stashie’s shoulder. She started, a scream trapped in her throat. She made herself look up very slowly.
A soldier looked down at her, his dark eyes dispassionate in his dust-covered face. “Wake your partner. You’re next.”
Stashie nodded, not trusting her voice. She shrugged her way out of his grasp and turned to Dasis. Dasis was already rubbing her eyes. She grabbed Stashie’s hand and squeezed it, as if in reassurance. Stashie couldn’t be reassured. Not now. And not by Dasis, who wanted them here.
Dasis stood and pulled Stashie up. Hand in hand, they followed the soldier into the cool building.
It took a moment for Stashie’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. A table sat in the middle of the room, with two stools behind it. A dozen men lined up against the wall, leaving open areas shielded by sheer curtains. If she squinted, Stashie could see shapes moving behind the curtains and knew that she was being observed. A shiver ran through her. Perhaps the King was there. Perhaps Tarne was. The thought made her hands turn cold. Dasis must have felt it, for she squeezed hard.
The soldier pointed toward the table. Stashie gazed at it, her entire body motionless. They couldn’t read behind a table. Dasis dropped her hand and grabbed the table’s edge as if to move it aside. But there wasn’t room. She let the table go and climbed on top of it, sitting cross-legged on her usual side.
“Stashie,” she said, her whisper half a command.
Stashie forced herself to swallow, then came forward, placing her palms on the table. The rough wooden surface dug into her skin. She would rather have been on the ground, feeling the cool earth against her legs. But she had no choice. She hoisted herself on the table and sat beside Dasis, trying to ignore it as her entire body shook.
Dasis set out the slates and Stashie put her chalks in her lap. “We’re ready,” Dasis said.
Stashie took a deep breath. A soldier came forward, an older man, lines creasing his sun-darkened face. His eyes held no warmth and his expression showed his disdain for the entire procedure.
“Give my partner your left hand,” Dasis said. They had planned that Stashie would not speak. She knew that she couldn’t trust her voice.
He held out his left hand and Stashie took it. His fingers were calloused and hard (digging into her already battered flesh with a strength she thought no man could have). She made herself take a deep breath, then she plunged into him.
He struggled like no subject ever had. She had to fight her way into his heart, fight past the barriers into his very soul. (The calluses scraped her like knives as his fingers moved across her skin, tweaked a breast, held her shoulder firmly while another soldier towered above her, sunlight glinting off his armor. She wished she had no feeling from the legs down. She wished she had no feeling at all. . . .)
Her memories, not his. She pushed, pushed again, and was suddenly inside. The pain rocked her, as did the need for affection. The need was so deep, she sank into it, wanting to fill it, then remembering (the armor, the way they used her—).
She yanked herself out, felt her hand grab chalk. The hand was moving. She had to concentrate on the movement. Gradually, she became aware of her eyes, her entire body, the chill in the damp room.
Then she looked down. Brown marks. Yellow chalk. A touch of red. A small line of white. Stashie released his finger and shoved the slate at Dasis. She took three deep breaths to calm the nausea and resisted the urge to wipe her hand on her skirt.
“You’ve fought many years long and hard,” Dasis said, “and saw things that your heart can’t accept. Your heart is hidden beneath calluses as thick as those on your hand. Only a line of color here and there indicates the open passages into your soul. Soon your entire heart will be covered, protected, guarded. No love will get in and no love will get out.”
A flush rose in the soldier’s face. Stashie could see his building anger. Her trembling grew.
“Witch magic and lies,” he hissed. “You planned this with the others. They told you what to say.”
Stashie backed away toward the edge of the table. If he touched her, she would scream. She would grab a slate and bash it over his head, then she would take Dasis and run. Her hands reached the edge of the table and she nearly lost her balance.
He leaned against the table, his hands only inches away from Stashie’s legs. “I don’t know why we give women this power. I don’t understand what true witchcraft they practice—”
“Quiet, Denlu,” another soldier snapped with the voice of command.
Denlu froze and stood upright. Dasis caught Stashie’s arm and held her in place.
“You are here because your King commands it. And you will listen, no matter how much it pains you.”
“Yes, sir,” Denlu said softly. He backed away from the edge of the table and returned to his post against the wall. Dasis put her hand against Stashie’s spine and pushed her forward. Stashie’s heart pounded against her chest. The pain in her joints grew.
“The next,” Dasis said, her voice calm as if nothing had happened.
A young boy soldier stepped forward. His eyes were red rimmed
, as if the last reading had touched him. Stashie glanced at Denlu before taking the boy’s hand. The older soldier leaned against the wall, hands clasped behind his back, eyes staring straight ahead. Only the flush in his cheeks showed his continued anger.
Stashie took the boy’s hand and felt the nausea rise again. She swallowed to suppress it, and followed the path up his arm.
He was easier than the other soldier. She found hope inside him, warmth. It felt so good to be warm. But beneath the hope, need. And the need trapped her. She let him hold her for a moment. Then she realized where she was. A soldier.
Her consciousness skittered backward even before her fingers began to move. She raced out of him, landing in her own body before her hand had completed the drawing. She felt the colors flow, felt relief when they stopped.
Blue. (His hands were smooth, like Tylee’s before the war, before battle had taken his leg, his head.)
Pale pink, suggesting a softness.
Green.
Black. (The color of dried blood around Tylee’s neck. The fear and anger in his wide-open eyes. . . .)
Dasis yanked the slate from her. Stashie dropped the boy’s finger, caught Dasis’s worried glance. Stashie bowed her head and gripped her knees hard to control herself. The memories hadn’t been this strong in years. But then, she hadn’t been around so many soldiers in years.
“... a lot of fantasy,” Dasis was saying. “Wishing that you could be loved, when in fact you are not. For to love, you must give in return. And the blackness covering your heart suggests that you are giving not love, but anger.”
The tears lined the boy’s eyes, and in spite of herself, Stashie felt compassion. Why had she chosen this profession? Why had she chosen to show people their insides and cause them such pain? Because she had had so much pain inflicted upon her?
She wiped her hands on her skirt and glanced at Denlu. He was staring at her, hatred so deep in his eyes that she recoiled from it. Dasis set the slate down and the boy returned to his post against the wall.
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