Heart Readers

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  “Next,” Dasis said.

  “No.” Stashie sounded harder than she expected. The room, which already held an abnormal silence, seemed to grow quieter. “These people are not willing to be read and we’re doing a disservice to our profession by exposing them in front of their peers. We read volunteers. If there is a real and true volunteer, a man who wants his heart read, we will gladly help him. Otherwise, we have shown you what we can do. We will not inflict pain upon any others.”

  Dasis grabbed her hand. “Stashie.”

  Stashie looked at her. Dasis’s eyes were wide. It was as if Stashie’s fear had left her and rooted in Dasis. Stashie felt strong, stronger than she had all day. “We made vows when we became readers,” she said. “We promised that we would never misuse our power, never inflict it upon the unwilling. And we’re breaking that vow here.”

  Denlu’s flush had faded. Stashie’s words seemed to have startled him and calmed him. The boy wiped a tear from his eye. The soldier who had shushed Denlu nodded once. “You are free to go. But do not leave the city in case we need to contact you.”

  Stashie didn’t need to hear anymore. She stuffed her chalks into her pocket and pushed the slates at Dasis. Her hands were shaking more than they ever had, and she was filled with a curious elation. She had stood up to soldiers and there had been no consequences.

  At least, not yet.

  CHAPTER 16

  Stashie. Tarne frowned and leaned away from the curtain. Stashie. The name brought images of his last campaign. He stared at the woman as she packed the chalk into her skirt. Her movements were agitated, frightened, but her voice had been strong. He had to squint to see her eyes. Her eyes had the look of the ancients in them. He had known her once. He was sure of that.

  The small observation room had grown hot. He knew that the princelings were in their rooms also, and that Pardu was looking on. He wished the King would trust him on this, would listen completely to Tarne’s advice. But Pardu had his own ideas about this succession. He was trying to remake the past, trying to undo the death of his own brother.

  The fact that he had murdered his brother.

  Strange the things that dying caused a person to do. Tarne had seen that hundreds of times. The fear of death, the threat of death, and the act of dying all brought out the depth of character in each person. And Stashie . . .

  Stashie had fought him.

  He let out a breath of air. He remembered now. She had been a wisp of a girl, angry that he had killed her brother. He had had to teach her respect, and when she didn’t learn it, he had had to punish her. The punishment had broken other women, left them gibbering in the streets. Some had never recovered. Stashie had passed out, near death, so bruised and bloody that the sight of her excited Tarne all over again. He had taken her again, all broken, thinking that that was how it felt to fuck the dead.

  Only she hadn’t died. He had thought she had crawled off into the desert to die, but somehow she lived, and sat in front of him, in the position to decide the very thing the King had denied him.

  And she had been frightened. Very frightened. Tarne saw it in her shaking hands, in the stilled expression as she held Denlu’s fingers. Tarne could smell fear, and Stashie had never lost hers.

  He could use that.

  He smiled a little as the next pair of heart readers entered. That fear would allow him to manipulate the proceedings in the very way the King didn’t want, but in the way that would benefit Tarne the most. The secret was to pick them in a way that didn’t make the King suspicious. Or Vasenu.

  And he needed to completely terrorize Stashie. To bring back that fear and loathing that he had engendered so many years ago. If he did that, and threatened her again, she would cooperate. Her spirit wasn’t completely broken, but it was damaged enough. He could use her. He knew he could.

  CHAPTER 17

  Pardu rubbed his eyes. His throat tickled from an afternoon of suppressing coughs and hiding his presence. Even now, in the spaciousness of his resting room, he felt the silence that had bound him through all the readings. Vasenu, sprawled on the divan, looked as tired as Pardu felt. Ele was half asleep on a pile of pillows, and Tarne—Tarne looked as if he had just discovered a state secret.

  The resting room had been designed for afternoon naps. It was half underground, to retain the day’s coolness, but windows faced the east and north, to catch a breeze. Servants with large plumed fans waited in the corners for Pardu’s waved orders to start the air moving. He did nothing.

  Pardu placed a pillow against his back and willed himself to be strong. The decision to use a heart reader had seemed so easy once. Now it felt as muddled as anything else. All of the readers had given the same interpretations of the guards’ hearts. Moreover, the readings were consistent with the personalities of the men. Yet Pardu knew his sons, knew their personalities. He was using the readers to save himself a decision, just as his father had tried to do.

  “I see no difference between the readers,” Vasenu said. Ele opened one eye, and Tarne didn’t even look over at him. “We could pick any of them and get the same result.”

  “No,” Tarne said. “They think we’re convinced now. They could come in and lie to make things go the way they want.”

  “So bring in all of them,” Ele said. “That makes the most sense anyway.”

  Tarne shook his head. “They could plot together.”

  “You see conspiracies everywhere,” Ele said, closing his eyes and leaning back.

  “That’s because he creates them.” Vasenu’s voice was flat.

  Tarne gazed at Vasenu over Ele’s head. Pardu could feel the hatred crackling in the room. “My job is to protect the King. I’m supposed to foresee problems.”

  “And he foresees them well,” Pardu said. The tickle in his throat grew stronger and he coughed, just a little. He kept his breathing shallow so that he wouldn’t have to cough again. He beckoned for water, and a servant left the room to get some for him.

  The others said nothing. They were waiting for him to make the decision. He had put them on this path. He could, he supposed, take them off it. He could command his sons to work together or he could choose one. He could banish Tarne and pray that the kingdom survived his death. Or he could work with superstition and command, and see if the power of tradition would save all that he had worked for.

  “Heart readers are not supposed to be biased,” Pardu said.

  “Heart readers are human,” Ele said, hands clasped in his lap. He was pretending disinterest, but his responses gave him away.

  “What of the girl who interrupted her reading because she felt as if she were compromising her principles?” Pardu asked. “She would give us an unbiased reading.”

  “No, she wouldn’t,” Tarne said. “Her family died in the wars. She hates us.”

  Vasenu nodded. “I heard her partner’s interview. The girl is terrified of soldiers and of the house here.”

  “Then what has she to gain no matter who comes to power?” Ele asked. “Unless, of course, she conspires with good old Tarne here.”

  Pardu stood up, swayed for a moment, then caught his balance. The room seemed hotter than before. The girl hated them, and yet she had read and stood up for her principles. She had risked the soldiers’ wrath to stand up for herself. Her family had died in the wars, so of all of the readers, she had the most understanding of war, and the most reason to prevent it happening again.

  The servant came back into the room, carrying a pitcher and a hand-designed glass, part of a gift set from a neighboring country. Pardu took the water, grimacing at its warmth, and drank. It seeped down his aching throat, made the tickle momentarily stronger, then he felt it melt away. So little time, and such a major decision, one he would never see the results of. He wanted to keep living and here he had to plan for dying.

  “We will go with the girl and her partner,” he said, handing the glass back to the servant. “Their reading will determine which of my sons has the pure heart.”


  “And what if we both do?” The softness of Ele’s tone belied the seriousness behind it. Pardu could hear his son’s fear.

  Pardu took a deep breath, then turned slowly. Ele had opened his eyes and he was leaning forward. Vasenu hadn’t moved. Tarne’s secret smile was back and it sent a shiver of unease down Pardu’s back. “In all the history of our family,” he said, “when twins are read, only one is pure.”

  “Things can change,” Ele said.

  “Not that much.” Pardu sat back down, but a trickle of fear danced across his back. He remembered his brother’s eyes, wide and frightened as the sword pierced him the final time. If the reading didn’t work, his sons would face the same dilemma. Pardu hadn’t had the courage to spare them that on the day they were born. And he didn’t have the courage now.

  Tarne was watching him as if he were trying to decipher Pardu’s thoughts. Pardu would have to do something about Tarne as well. The man had served faithfully, but he wanted too much power. Somehow, Pardu had to prevent that.

  “I want the girl and her partner,” Pardu said. “And I want the reading to take place as soon as possible, so that the decision will be made, and we can prepare for it.”

  “I still don’t see why we can’t decide it for ourselves,” Ele mumbled.

  Pardu sighed and looked away. Because otherwise, he thought, one of you will decide in a moment of passion, a moment you will regret for the rest of your overlong life.

  CHAPTER 18

  Stashie walked as fast as she could. The streets were narrower, more oppressive. As they got farther into town, the number of people grew. Stashie twisted so that she didn’t have to touch them and half ran to avoid soldiers. Dasis had to struggle to keep up, but Stashie didn’t care.

  “You said you wanted to do this,” Dasis said, her voice a whine. “You said you were willing to give it a try.”

  Stashie continued moving, pushing past people on their way to their own business. The heat made it hard to breathe, and when she did, she smelled sweat and fear. She tried to walk without brushing people, but she couldn’t. Each touch made her flinch. Dasis kept reaching for her and she kept ducking away.

  “You said—”

  “I know what I said,” Stashie snapped. She kept pushing, wanting nothing more than to return to the bazaar, pack up their rug, and leave this place. “I was wrong.”

  She barely had the strength to confront soldiers she had never seen before. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to stand in front of Tarne. She would probably freeze and he would have his way with her again. He would take her by the arms, throw her against the ground, push up her skirts . . .

  “What happens if they choose us?” Dasis asked.

  “Say no.” The crowd kept getting thicker. Stashie felt as if she had already walked for miles. She needed something to drink. She needed to get away from people.

  “Stash, they might get angry. They might try something.”

  Stashie stopped and took a deep breath. The air felt hot within her lungs. She clenched her fists and turned, keeping her entire body rigid. “And you don’t think they’ll get angry if, in the middle of the reading, I declare that I can’t do it? Or if I go crazy and attack one of the guards? What would have happened today if that angry soldier had tried something? I would have run screaming from that place or—”

  She stopped herself. Dasis had turned white, as if Stashie were hitting her. The crowd gave them a wide berth, two crazy women fighting in the middle of the street on a hot afternoon.

  “Or?” Dasis prompted.

  Stashie stared at her. Dasis really didn’t understand. She couldn’t see the pain that being in this city among these soldiers brought for Stashie. “Or,” she said softly, “I might have killed him.”

  “Stash.” Dasis used the same tone she would use talking with a small, hysterical child. “You’re an adult woman. That happened a long time ago. You would act reasonably.”

  “Would I?” The street noises had disappeared. Stashie could no longer hear the hum of other conversations, the padding of feet on the dirt. She could hear her heart, though, pounding inside her chest. “I wish I could be as certain of that as you are.”

  Dasis bowed her head. Stashie pushed her way past the silent people and kept walking, not caring that Dasis hadn’t moved. The crowd noises gradually eased back into her consciousness. Snippets of conversation, crying children, barking dogs all added a feeling of unreality. She glanced down at her hands, seeing the scars that had never properly healed. She had destroyed the skin on her fingers digging a grave for Tylee, a grave that Tarne and his soldiers had raped her on. Dasis said such things were a long time ago, as if they were a childhood illness, easily forgotten. Yet Stashie could close her eyes and see Tylee as if he were still alive, laughing with her, struggling, once he came home from the fighting, to exist with only one good leg. She had loved him like she had never loved anyone else, not even Dasis. She had tried to save him, and in doing so, had gotten him and her entire family killed.

  She was a grown woman, but she would never act reasonably, not about this.

  Finally, she could see the bazaar through the crowd. She shoved a woman aside, pushed past an elderly man. The rug still marked their spot, the place they had planned to return to finish the afternoon’s readings. A few feet beyond, Radekir played with her dice. Stashie didn’t glance back. She didn’t care if Dasis saw her or not. She half walked, half ran the rest of the way to Radekir’s table.

  Radekir saw her, smiled, and got off the table. She reached out her hand. Stashie ran the rest of the way, wanting to take that hand, wanting someone to understand her. But when she reached Radekir, she ignored her hand entirely and slid into a hug, needing to feel a warm body against hers, a safe body, someone who wouldn’t hurt her.

  Radekir’s hand caressed her hair. Tears rose in Stashie’s eyes.

  “It didn’t go well,” Radekir said, her tone making the question into a statement.

  Stashie shook her head. She stepped out of the embrace, took a deep breath to explain, and the air hitched in her throat. She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

  Radekir grabbed her hand. “Come on,” she said. “This isn’t the place for this kind of talk. It wouldn’t be good for business.”

  She grabbed her money pouch and led Stashie along. Stashie stumbled behind her like an obedient child. They walked to an inn, and Radekir led her up the dark, damp backstairs into a small room filled with pillows and dominated by one grimy window.

  Radekir closed the door and shrugged. “Not much, but right now it’s home.”

  Stashie felt wrapped in a cocoon of silence. She stood by the door, unable to move. Radekir came to her and placed a hand on her cheek. “Did they hurt you?” she asked.

  Stashie shook her head, then leaned into Radekir’s palm. With her free hand, Radekir smoothed Stashie’s hair away from her eyes. Stashie let herself ease into the touch, a soft touch, with no harsh memories of that awful afternoon, of those hands ripping her flesh, digging into her most private parts. She started to pull away, but Radekir held her.

  “Shh,” Radekir murmured, her lips against Stashie’s ear. “It’s okay now.”

  She kissed Stashie’s ear ever so lightly and Stashie moaned. Radekir’s lips moved down Stashie’s neck, soothing the panic and awakening a warmth that Stashie hadn’t felt in a long time.

  “Relax,” Radekir whispered. “I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”

  Radekir’s hands stroked Stashie’s body, opening her blouse, releasing her skirt and letting it fall to the floor. Stashie felt the tension leave the places that Radekir touched, felt a kind of calm grow in her, a calm mixed with a passion that was building from the center of her stomach.

  Radekir stepped back, her gaze very serious, as if she were waiting for Stashie to say no. Stashie said nothing, but waited in her silence, waited for Radekir to touch her again. When Radekir didn’t move, Stashie reached forward and untied Radekir’s blouse. It
fell open, revealing her small, slightly upturned breasts. Stashie’s finger caressed a nipple, and Radekir watched, her mouth open. Then she leaned forward and placed her lips on Stashie’s. Stashie brought her hand up and pulled Radekir in tighter, and the kiss built. Their hands roamed all over each other, their clothing fell to the floor, and then Radekir again pulled away.

  “You’re free to go,” she said. “In fact, you probably should.”

  Stashie gazed at Radekir’s body, rosy with passion, and forced herself to listen. She should return to Dasis, to the rug and the baking heat. But she didn’t want to. She wanted to feel loved and understood for the first time ever. She wanted Radekir.

  “Let me love you,” Stashie said.

  Radekir smiled and stepped back into the embrace, her body warm and comforting.

  Stashie kissed her, letting the passion build, feeling as if the silence had been broken, forever.

  CHAPTER 19

  Dasis stood at the edge of the crowd. She was breathing hard and she was bruised from shoving her way after Stashie. Dasis felt as if she had made some kind of terrible mistake, as if in talking with Stashie she had hurt them worse than she had ever done before. And now she watched, from the safety of her rug, as Stashie let another woman hold her and soothe her.

  Dasis wanted to run over to Radekir’s table and pull her away, but she couldn’t. Stashie would turn and see Dasis waiting there. Stashie would know that Dasis loved her, that Dasis was her partner, and that Dasis would help her.

  But Stashie didn’t turn. Stashie didn’t even acknowledge Dasis’s presence. Stashie let Radekir touch her, caress her, and she didn’t even pull away.

  Radekir’s gaze met Dasis’s over Stashie’s shoulder. Dasis started to move forward, but the hatred in Radekir’s eyes stopped her. If she stepped in at this moment, Stashie would be even angrier with her, and Radekir would back Stashie up. Dasis didn’t move; she barely even breathed. She just watched as Radekir stepped back, took Stashie’s hand and led her away.