Heart Readers

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  “The King has commanded that the reading take place in the Assembly Room at dawn.”

  Tarne felt a shiver run through him. Had the King learned of his plans? Had someone spoken, revealing the heart reader’s presence in Tarne’s tent? “Did he give a reason for the change of plan?”

  Waene shook his head. “Several servants were commanded into the King’s private suite not long ago. They took linens and a bath. There is talk that he vomited blood.”

  Tarne took a step back and ran his fingers across his chin. The strain of the last few days was taking the King’s strength. And with his strength went his life. Tarne needed to act fast. “Has he sent for the readers?”

  “He wants you to find them,” Waene said.

  Luck. Pure luck. Had he sent someone else, then his evening’s work would have been discovered. “Find the other one, and bring her to me. I will take them to the Assembly Room at dawn.”

  Waene clicked his heels and nodded, then pivoted and left. Tarne went back into the tent.

  The warmth startled him, making him realize he had been cold outside. The soldier he had sent in stood directly in front of the woman, not allowing her any movement.

  “Thank you,” Tarne said.

  The soldier nodded once, and walked around Tarne, returning to the outside. The woman’s expression was even more guarded.

  “Did he touch you?” Tarne asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Could you hear the conversation?”

  “We’re to read at dawn.” Her voice trembled. Something about that disturbed her. Tarne frowned. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps she and Stashie had planned a kind of revenge, after all.

  But he didn’t know what they could do. Kill the King? Kill his sons? Kill Tarne? No matter what they did, the government would fall into chaos, war would begin, and someone else would remember Tarne’s methods of taming the masses.

  “We’re bringing your partner here,” he said. “I want you to tell her what happened this evening.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  He shrugged. “Then I will. And I will be much more graphic than you are. I might even demonstrate some of my threats. We know that my presence in her body doesn’t hurt your reading abilities.”

  “No one”—Dasis’s voice broke—”has touched her like that since I met her. You don’t know any such thing.”

  “Something . . .” he paused, walked over to her and caressed her cheek. She flinched but didn’t turn away. “Something has changed. You seem a bit more wary than you did, a bit more frightened.”

  He spoke to her like a lover would, as if he were truly concerned about those things. She didn’t move, but her eyes widened, not with fear, but with hatred.

  “I am appalled at what I have done.” She spoke softly. “I have, for money, forced my partner into a world that almost killed her once. A world that took her family and her innocence from her. I have also, because I will help the King choose an heir to continue this government, supported a world that breeds people like you, encourages them, and gives them places of power.”

  “And so you are refusing to read?”

  “So that you can terrorize another set of readers?” She smiled. Her cheek moved against his palm and he felt a stirring of true desire. “No. I will read. And I will read fairly. That’s the only way I can live with the choices I’ve already made.”

  “No matter what the cost to yourself and your partner?”

  “We’ve already paid a terrible price. We might as well make it worth our while.”

  He shoved her away. She hit the table and sprawled against the cushions. Tarne caught the candle so that it didn’t tip and start a fire. “You will do as I have told you,” he said, keeping his voice as calm as he could.

  “I will do as I please.”

  He set the candle down, hand trembling, then kicked the table aside. She didn’t flinch. He brought his hand back to strike her and, at the last second, caught her smile. She wanted him to hit her, wanted him to hurt her. She wanted the King to know that Tarne had manipulated things. She had nearly bested him.

  He kicked the table again, snapping its leg. She would work for him. He would use her partner to make her.

  CHAPTER 23

  Radekir rolled onto the warm spot Stashie had left on the pillows. Stashie had been so tender, so affectionate. Radekir had never expected Stashie to leave. She had thought that once Stashie made love with her, had broken her tie to Dasis, that Stashie would stay. Radekir would become Stashie’s protector and they would leave this place. Together.

  The darkness was thick around her. She didn’t know how long she had been lying there, waiting for Stashie’s footsteps, her soft voice saying that she had made a mistake to go to Dasis. Didn’t Stashie see how Dasis hurt her? Radekir had the power—and indeed, did—to cure those hurts. What made Stashie return?

  Perhaps—Radekir brushed a strand of hair from her forehead—perhaps Stashie had gone to Dasis to end it. And just perhaps, Stashie hadn’t told Radekir that because she didn’t want to hurt Dasis any worse. Radekir sat up, feeling the pillows slide beneath her legs. Of course, that was it. And here she lay in the darkness, her body tingling from lovemaking, feeling sorry for herself.

  She got off the pillows and grabbed her clothes. She slipped on the skirt, blouse and sandals, welcoming their warmth. She hadn’t realized she was so cold. She didn’t rewrap her turban—she was going out as a woman, not as a fortune-teller—but instead let her hair flow free. The brush of her dark hair along her shoulders and back made her feel younger. She hummed to herself as she grabbed her cloak and let herself out the door.

  She dashed through the corridor quickly and found herself outside faster than she had expected. The night was clear. She could see dozens of stars overhead. They warmed her, even though the night had the deep desert chill. Stashie stood under the same stars somewhere, probably telling Dasis that their times were over. Radekir wrapped her arms around her waist and smiled to herself. She had taken a chance and made the right choice.

  The torches were half burned—she must have dozed after Stashie left—and the streets were empty. She didn’t like the darkness: it was cold, and concealing. A dozen people could be standing in the shadows, watching her, and she would not know it. The thought made her skin crawl. She walked faster.

  The bazaar loomed up ahead of her. Only a handful of torches lit the flattened earth. She could see the marks of hundreds of footprints and the impressions of tables and rugs. The bazaar was safe in the daytime. Now it felt as if a great emptiness had taken everything away.

  She shook her head, trying to free the thoughts from it. She should be happy. She was about to get what she wanted. The rest of the night would be difficult, with recriminations and loud words, but from then on she and Stashie would face the future together.

  Radekir let herself in the back door of the inn where Stashie and Dasis stayed. The place was very quiet. She had expected to hear loud voices as she came up the street, or at least as she opened the door. But the place felt as if it were full of sleeping people.

  The torches had been snuffed in the hallway, making it so dark that Radekir couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. She trailed one hand along the wall, counting the doors. When she reached the right one, her hand dipped inside. The door was ajar.

  She heard a faint gasping, rapid and touched with sobs. Not the sound of two people making love. More the sound of a frightened woman, all alone.

  “Stashie?” she whispered.

  The gasping stopped. Radekir pushed the door open. A faint light came in through the room’s only window. The light outlined a woman’s silhouette, hunched over, knees drawn to chest, hands covering her face.

  Radekir knelt beside her. “Stashie?”

  “They took her,” she whispered. “They took Dasis.”

  Radekir’s heart stopped beating. She made herself take a breath. “Who did?”

  “The soldiers.” Stashie’s hand gripped
Radekir’s. “The soldiers came and took her away. I always knew they would come back. They’re going to kill everyone I love.”

  Radekir trapped Stashie’s hand between hers. “Be calm, Stash,” she said gently. “Dasis is probably out looking for you. She’ll be back soon.”

  “No!” The word burst out like the anguished wail of a young child. “The soldiers have her. I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  Stashie flung her head back. Radekir could see tears glittering on her cheeks. “He told me. He waited for me at the bazaar and said he saw them.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “One of the merchants. With the patch. You know.”

  Radekir closed her eyes. She had to keep breathing. As long as she took a breath, she was thinking.

  She knew the man Stashie was talking about. Ytsak had been at the bazaar longer than Radekir had. He was a good man, honest enough to return coins to patrons he thought overpaid him. More than once he had helped out others in the bazaar. Like Stashie, he had lost family very young, and considered the bazaar his home.

  “What would make them take Dasis?” Radekir noticed the shift in her tone. She was believing Stashie now.

  Stashie shook her head. “Perhaps we did something wrong at the reading. I don’t know. I sometimes think it has something to do with me—that they’re trying to hurt me again. But that can’t be right, can it? I mean, I’ve done nothing to these people.”

  “Let me think.” Radekir let go of Stashie’s hand and wiped her palms on her skirt. She was trembling. Since she had come to Leanda, she had heard stories of people dragged away in the middle of the night, never to be seen again. If she wanted Stashie beside her, they had to settle this. Otherwise, Stashie would always believe deep down that her love for Radekir had killed her partner.

  Radekir took the hem of her skirt and wiped away Stashie’s tears. “You’re probably right. This probably has to do with the readings. They might have wanted both of you.”

  “Then why not send for us? Why drag her away without me? It makes no sense, Radekir.”

  “There are always reasons,” Radekir said. “We just have to find them.”

  She got up and went to the table, fumbling until she found the lamp. She took flint from her pocket and struck until the sparks lit the wick. With the light, the room gained a warmth, and Radekir felt calmer.

  Stashie’s face was blotched from crying. When she looked at Radekir, it was as if she had left her eyes. “We have to find her,” Stashie said. “They’ll kill her—or worse. I can’t take another killing. I just can’t.”

  Radekir smoothed Stashie’s hair, but Stashie stiffened. Contact seemed to distress her more. Radekir moved away. First she had to calm Stashie, then they had to take action.

  “We need to find her, Stash,” Radekir said. “And that’s going to take some work and clear thinking. I’ll need your help, do you understand me?”

  Stashie nodded. Her gaze was fixed on the window.

  “It’s probably something simple, like the readings, and they’re waiting for you. They won’t do anything to Dasis. They need the two of you.”

  Stashie held up her hand. Radekir stopped. Outside, the low rumble of voices and the sound of many feet.

  “They’re back,” Stashie whispered. In one swift movement, she got to her feet and grabbed one of the cracked slates on the floor.

  The outside door creaked open. Radekir touched Stashie’s arm, but Stashie brushed her away. “No, Stash, not like this. They probably want to talk.”

  Stashie shook her head once. Her mouth had thinned. She gripped the slate so tight that her fingers had turned white.

  The footsteps echoed through the hall. Radekir moved toward the door. Perhaps she could stop things by speaking calmly, by getting to these people before Stashie.

  The door flung back and a young soldier came through, his uniform new, his cap under his arm. With a cry, Stashie ran forward. Radekir grabbed her arm as Stashie tried to bring the slate down against the soldier’s head.

  Other soldiers poured in the room. The slate fell to the floor and shattered. One of the soldiers grabbed Stashie, held her against him. Another grabbed Radekir. A third pushed his way to the front. He was older, his face lined, hair graying. Stashie gasped when she saw him, and Radekir knew they had met before.

  “You’re to come with me,” he said.

  Stashie didn’t move, but her expression was defiant. “Where’s Dasis?”

  “Our lord master Tarne has her. He wanted to talk with her.”

  “Tarne—?” Color flooded Stashie’s cheeks. Radekir could feel the reflection of her fear. “What does he want with her?”

  “He wants us to bring you. Your reading is at dawn.”

  The hands on Radekir’s arms were too tight. Her fingers were tingling. The blood had left them.

  “I want to know what Tarne did with her.” Stashie’s voice had gained strength.

  “He wanted to teach her how to read properly.”

  Stashie screamed and began kicking. She managed to hit her captor’s knee with a good thud before the others grabbed her and held her still.

  “Why is Tarne here? Why is he torturing me?”

  Radekir heard the plaintive note in Stashie’s voice. It added the word she didn’t say. Again. Tarne was the one who had killed her family. Stashie’s fears had been true.

  “He’s the King’s adviser,” the soldier said.

  Stashie thrashed. The impact of the situation hit Radekir. They had to get free and then they had to rescue Dasis. Stashie couldn’t face Tarne again—and if he had hurt Dasis, then Stashie might kill him. If she did that, she would die, and her friends would die with her.

  Radekir brought her knee up and hit her captor in the groin. He released her arms. She grabbed part of the shattered slate and brought the sharp edge down onto the hand holding Stashie’s arm. The soldier howled and let go. Stashie brought her fist back and connected with another soldier’s stomach. Radekir stabbed a third soldier in the arm. They backed away from Stashie. Radekir grabbed Stashie’s hand when something crashed against her head. The pain shimmered along her spinal column, around her shoulders, into her chin and jaw, then back up into her head. The world was going dark, but she fought it, reaching for consciousness, clinging to Stashie’s hand in hers. The hand slipped free—and blackness overwhelmed her.

  CHAPTER 24

  Dasis watched the man in front of her. He had braced himself in front of the tent’s flap, his entire body poised as if to spring. She felt the cushions, soft against her back. If only she could get him to hit her, to leave marks on her sensitive skin. Then she might be able to use his own actions against him, and might be able to protect herself and Stashie.

  Tarne flung the table leg aside. “You’ll be reading at dawn,” he said. “I’ll be back for you.”

  He started to leave, then stopped before raising the flap of the tent. He smiled and Dasis braced herself. “Your partner will be arriving here first. Tell her that I look forward to seeing her again.”

  Dasis didn’t respond. He left the tent, and she watched his shadow move along the outside until it completely disappeared. Then she let out the breath she was holding.

  Her entire body started shaking. She grabbed the light, its flame flickering with her trembling movements. The warmth seeped into her skin, soothing her as much as she could be soothed.

  She had done this. She had caused it. If she hadn’t wanted so badly to earn them a little more money, a chance to quit reading if they wanted to, the opportunity to find a place and live there permanently, then she wouldn’t be here now, waiting for Stashie to come.

  If they found Stashie—and if she survived the soldiers’ touch.

  Dasis didn’t know how fragile Stashie was. If the things Tarne told her were true, Stashie had once had great strength. All Dasis knew was the woman who froze at the sight of a uniform, who spoke in a whisper when she wanted something—as if she had no right to ask—an
d who flinched whenever anyone raised an arm in anger.

  He claimed he liked to break spirits and perhaps he had broken Stashie’s. He certainly knew ways inside Dasis’s.

  The candle was growing too hot against her palms. She set it down, and got up, looking for weapons, any way to save herself and Stashie once Tarne returned.

  The tent was a mess. It smelled of sweat and leather. The pillows hadn’t been changed in what looked like months. They were stained and covered with dirt. The table looked makeshift, and the chair had not been sanded. Clothes hanging in the far corner were not the robes of a king’s adviser, but a uniform, clean and neatly tailored. This was not Tarne’s tent. He had used it to meet her. Burning it would not destroy his possessions, but someone else’s.

  She walked over to the uniform, her legs shaking unsteadily. She had to control herself. If Stashie saw how frightened she was, Stashie might crack. Dasis needed them both in order to save them.

  The uniform was made of a material that Dasis didn’t recognize. She touched it lightly, then felt along the pants, in the cuffs and pockets, for a weapon, anything—a knife, a piece of flint. But she found nothing. The scabbard was missing, and there was no sword. She combed through the filthy pillows, looked under the rugs, and scanned the rest of the place. Nothing. The only weapons she had were the table leg that Tarne had broken for her and the candle. Perhaps if she made a torch and thrust it in the face of the men who were coming to get her . . .

  She pondered that for a moment, then returned to the chair. She needed to talk with Stashie. If her plan didn’t work and they had to do the reading, would she be willing to risk Tarne’s wrath? If she couldn’t report him or stop the reading, would she be harming or helping herself by picking the brother that Tarne wanted? She sat on the chair and rubbed her fingers together. Dawn seemed a long ways away.

  After a while, she moved the table leg over beside the light. She was prepared now. She could act if she had to.