Heart Readers

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  “He always made it clear that he favored you.”

  Vasenu stood. “Let’s go outside.”

  Ele shook his head. He sat on one of the pillows. “We’re going to stay right here.”

  “I don’t want him to hear this fight. He doesn’t need it.”

  “His brain died a long time ago.” Ele leaned back, but didn’t look relaxed. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “And if it didn’t, he needs to know how I feel.”

  Vasenu crouched beside Ele’s pillow. “He did not always favor me. He treated both of us equally. You’re not thinking clearly.”

  “He favored you,” Ele repeated. “And when it was clear that the reading wasn’t going the way he wanted, he pulled the heart readers aside and told them what to say. He didn’t have the guts to make his choice in public. He had to hide behind two women and some fake superstitious nonsense.”

  Vasenu rocked back on his heels. His stomach felt hollow. “Who told you that? Tarne?”

  “It didn’t take anyone’s help to make that clear to me. I believe in your right to rule, Vasenu, as much as I believe that he loved me.” Ele extended a hand toward his father and froze. Vasenu followed his gaze. The King’s body was shaking twice as badly as it had before. His lips were working, as if he were trying to speak.

  “Stop this,” Aene said. “You’re upsetting him.”

  “We’ll finish this conversation some other time,” Vasenu said. He hurried to his father’s side, and took one of the twitching hands. “Father, it’s okay. We’re okay. We’ll settle everything.”

  The King shook his head from left to right. Vasenu couldn’t tell if the action was a voluntary movement or not. Ele got up and stood over them, looking down. “I upset him, huh?”

  “I hope not,” Vasenu said. “Quick. Take his other hand. Let him know you care.”

  “What, and lie? I can’t love, remember?” Ele made a half-laugh.

  “Ele, let it go. He’s dying.”

  Ele clasped his hands behind his back. “We’re talking about my future here. The future he destroyed. I’m not going to let it go. And I’m not going to tell him I love him when at the moment I hate everything he stands for. And I’m not going to do what you tell me to, not ever.”

  He walked out of the room, back straight, hands clasped so tightly Vasenu could see the knuckles turning white. The King’s shaking had grown even worse.

  “This is not good for your father,” Aene said. “Brothers fighting at his deathbed. His soul will not rest.”

  “It’s all right, Father,” Vasenu said, running his hand along his father’s brow. The King kept moving his head from side to side. “You must trust that we’ll settle it, Ele and I. We will. I promise.”

  “No!” The word exploded from the King’s mouth in a spray of spittle and blood. He shook so hard it seemed as if he were going to fall out of his skin. His lips moved again, but Vasenu could hear nothing.

  “We will.” Vasenu felt his own hands shaking. He took one of the handkerchiefs from the cushion beside the bed and wiped the King’s mouth. “I promise. I’ll rule this land as you did, Father, and I’ll make sure that there is no strife. I’ll get Ele—”

  “No.” This time the word was fainter.

  Vasenu looked at Aene. The other man shrugged and kept patting the pillows around the King, as if those would hold him in place.

  “Father, please, believe me,” Vasenu said, feeling all of three years old and very frightened. “I will do everything I can—”

  The King let out a huge sigh. His body jerked once and stopped moving. His eyes half opened, showing the whites, and his teeth clamped down on his tongue.

  Aene placed a hand on the King’s chest, then brought it under the King’s nose. “He’s not breathing,” Aene said. “And I can’t find his heartbeat.”

  Vasenu stopped breathing himself for a moment. The lack of oxygen filled the hollow area in his stomach with a tightness that almost felt good. He wanted to shake the old man, bring the life back into him, have his father sit up and yell at him for not controlling Ele. He wanted his father to take back his job, to take his power and handle the world around them. He reached out and touched his father’s face. The skin was still warm, but the touch felt empty.

  He took a deep breath, then got up slowly. “Prepare the banners,” he said. “And have someone say chants over my father’s body so that his soul rests properly. We need to make the final transition of power smooth and easy.”

  “Yes.” Aene wasn’t looking at him. He had cupped the King’s face and was holding it as if he wanted to pull it forward and clutch it against his breast.

  “I will notify my brother,” Vasenu said. He turned his back on the corpse and its servant, and left the room. As he stepped into the corridor, he felt as if the stench of sickness clung to him. He wiped his hands and brushed off his sleeves. He was trembling and barely breathing. He couldn’t close his eyes for fear of seeing his father’s twitching body, hearing that final no! resound again. Was his father saying no to death? Or was he saying no to Vasenu’s words? Either way, it unnerved him.

  He leaned against the wall for a moment, feeling the coolness of the mud brick soothe him. He hadn’t expected to fight with Ele. He had thought everything was settled. Ele was bitter, but Vasenu would have been bitter too. But to fight, to doubt what they had been raised for? Vasenu shook his head. He stood and squared his shoulders. He was King now. He didn’t have time to mourn. He had to keep the kingdom running smoothly, and he had to settle this trouble with his brother.

  His father had demanded peace between them. Vasenu needed that peace. The family had been changed by his father’s illness and death, but Vasenu wouldn’t let it be destroyed. He couldn’t. He and Ele were brothers. Their love would remain constant forever.

  CHAPTER 37

  The sun had reached its height. No shade appeared on the side of the buildings. Stashie wished she had put a canvas over her table. The turban made her head sweat, and her table had grown warm. She sat cross-legged on top of it, trickles running down her cheeks. No one visited the bazaar. They were all at home sleeping, or carrying on business in the cool, dark confines of the mud-brick buildings.

  Her dice were hot. She wondered if she dared crawl under the table to sleep. The shade would ease some of the pressure on her arms and legs.

  She unwrapped herself from her swami-like position and eased under the table. Her skin tingled with the memory of heat, but she could already feel the relief. Just a short nap. She checked her pouch, attached to her side, and lay down on the rug, ignoring the little grains of sand that had rolled on it with the morning’s wind.

  She hadn’t expected to be so lonely. When she sent Dasis away, she had thought she wanted to be by herself. But the nights lasted forever and when she closed her eyes, she still saw Radekir’s face holding the shock of her death. She hadn’t loved Radekir. She loved Dasis, but Dasis couldn’t be part of her revenge against Tarne. Stashie couldn’t bear to lose the only person she loved.

  Dasis hadn’t understood. She had cried and begged, promising to hide and to not get in the way. But Stashie had stayed firm. She had finally walked away from Dasis, and stayed away, even when Dasis tried to approach her. That had been almost four months ago, and she hadn’t seen Dasis since.

  She also hadn’t taken any action. She felt dead inside, more dead than she had felt after crossing that desert the year Tarne murdered her family. All she wanted was revenge. And she couldn’t think up a plan.

  “Stashie, soldiers.”

  She must have dozed. The shade had moved from under the table, leaving half of her body exposed to the sunlight. She squinted, and covered her eyes with her hand. Ytsak crouched near the table’s edge, his patch reflecting the sun.

  She pushed herself up on one elbow. “Soldiers?”

  “Near my booth. Come on, get up. You’ll need your strength.”

  Stashie ignored his outstretched hand and brushed the sand off her cheek.
She felt even hotter than she had when she crawled under the table. She adjusted her turban and rolled out from underneath into the sunlight. The tabletop was searing, but she sat on it anyway. Ytsak smiled at her.

  “This is your chance,” he said.

  She shrugged. He handed her a few dates and wandered back to his booth. He had kept watch over her since she sent Dasis away, and he knew about her desire to get Tarne. Ytsak seemed to have his own reasons for wanting revenge, although he never spoke of them outright. He just managed to be there every time she needed something, or could use support.

  Five soldiers clustered around his booth. His partner was haggling with them over some bit of fruit. Stashie ate the dates. They were cool against her throat. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was.

  One of the soldiers laughed and left the group. He was more weatherworn than the others, older, perhaps, and more seasoned. Wrinkles creased his sun-darkened face, but his eyes had the freshness of youth. Stashie watched him weave in and out of the booths, touching cloth samples, lingering over the food tables, flirting with some of the young girls. She clutched her ankles and was amazed at her lack of fear. The fear had left her with her decision to get Tarne. She probably knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that he could not hurt her worse than he already had.

  Unless he got Dasis.

  The fear rose, and Stashie pushed it down. He wouldn’t get Dasis. Dasis was gone, far away. Somewhere not even Stashie knew.

  The soldier had worked his way to the magic side of the bazaar. He glanced at the tarot reader, ignored the new heart readers off in the corner, and came toward Stashie.

  “Dice reading, huh?” His voice was soft, with more flirtation than sarcasm in it. “Do you do palms, too?”

  “My friend two rugs over reads palms,” Stashie said.

  His smile faded a little with her coolness. “How much for a reading?”

  “The simpler the reading, the cheaper the price.” Stashie wiped the sweat off her face. The sun hadn’t eased during the time she slept.

  “How about letting me know if I can get one of these pretty ladies around here to spend time with me?”

  Stashie smiled. “I can do that without reading. The answer is no. No one here sells her body. You have to go to the taverns for that.”

  “What if I’m merely looking for companionship?”

  “Why would a man want companionship from a woman?”

  He shrugged. “Because the man isn’t from Leanda and doesn’t believe in this land’s artificial boundaries.”

  Stashie pushed at her dice. The surface was hot, almost too hot. “Most of us already have companions.”

  His gaze seemed to miss nothing. “You sit alone.”

  For a moment, Stashie thought he could see her loneliness, her aching for Dasis, and her regret over Radekir. Then she realized that he was merely searching for someone to fill his lonely time with. “My companion vends fruit.”

  “The young gentleman?”

  “The one with the patch.”

  The soldier squinted, as if he could tell she was lying. He flicked a gold coin at her. “For your time,” he said.

  The coin clattered on the table. Stashie didn’t touch it. “I don’t take coins unless I perform work.”

  “You gave information.”

  “Freely. And it was of no help.”

  His smile half faded. “It confirmed that I have to adapt to the culture here. It won’t adapt to me. That’s helpful, although not in the way I wanted.”

  Stashie picked up the gold piece and held it out to him. “I don’t want your money,” she said. “I would rather trade information for information.”

  He did not take the gold piece. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest. She would have to tread lightly.

  “What do you want to know?” he asked.

  “Does Tarne still act as your lord and commander?”

  The soldier’s mouth tightened. With his posture change, she suddenly realized that he could be difficult. “He hasn’t commanded us since the King took away his title weeks ago.”

  “Oh.” Stashie looked down and shook her head. She felt a flush rise into her cheeks. “Then you don’t know how to find him.”

  “What business have you, miss?”

  She had thought of the story before, but she had never planned to use it. “I was his woman once, when he campaigned through the southern lands.”

  “And you seek him out?” The soldier’s surprise registered in both his face and voice. He knew then, about Tarne’s practices with women.

  “There is a child, a son,” Stashie whispered. The lie practically choked her. The idea of bearing Tarne’s child filled her with horror.

  “Leandan women.” The soldier spit onto the sand next to the rug. “Honor and duty before pleasure. Have you ever had a man give you pleasure? Men and women can talk, can spend time together. They don’t need this artificial barrier between them. In my land—”

  “I talk to Ytsak,” Stashie said. The truth came easier than the lie had.

  The soldier stopped, let out a sigh. “And he told you to tell Tarne about his son.”

  “No. He says I need to keep the boy away from here.”

  The soldier nodded. “Tarne is not the kindest of men. He will bend your boy into his own image.”

  “His son is already the image of his father.”

  The soldier laughed, but the laugh was bitter. “No wonder you want to rid yourself of him. The Lord Tarne tours the barracks daily, just after dawn. He advises the men and constantly assures us that he will regain his old position. All we must do is remain loyal, a task some of us will achieve easier than others. Should you want to see him, you could probably find him there, if you want to brave the soldiers.”

  “I’ve braved soldiers before,” Stashie said.

  “Then I wish you only the best of luck.” He bowed his head and turned away.

  “Wait!” Stashie cried. “Your gold piece.”

  He shook his head. “You need it more than I do.” He walked away, head down, the laughter gone from him. Stashie wondered what about the conversation had dulled his mood. Then she sighed and tucked the gold piece in her pouch. She hadn’t earned much more than that all day. Dice reading had very little profit—just enough to keep her in room and board. She had hoarded the money she made from the King. She figured she would use that—Radekir’s blood money—to get revenge.

  Stashie smiled and stretched. Suddenly revenge seemed like an option again. Tarne at the barracks at dawn. Perhaps she could meet him there, or have Ytsak do so. Tell him the same lie she had told the soldier and let Tarne come to meet his son. He would meet a blade instead.

  She didn’t want him to die right away, though. She wanted him to suffer like she had. And she didn’t have a plan for that. If she let him live too long, his soldiers would come after her and all who helped her. She wouldn’t condemn any more of her friends to death. She needed to kill Tarne, but slowly and painfully. He needed to use his last breaths to plead for a mercy he would never receive.

  Stashie grabbed her ankles and rocked a little. The other soldiers made their way through the bazaar, eating dates and laughing. Their leader would die. She would kill him. And if she survived, she would find Dasis and live free of fear for the first time in her entire life.

  CHAPTER 38

  Ele sank into the baths, the tepid water caressing his skin. He shook inside. He half imagined his body to look as his father’s had, trembling on all levels, nothing to stop the shaking until his eyes rolled up and his tongue lolled out.

  The old man had deserved his fate. He had hated Ele from the start.

  Ele leaned against the bath’s marble edge. The smell of incense made his nose tickle. Vasenu didn’t understand. And yet, he would have felt the same way if he had been the one who lost. Raised together, groomed to be kings, only to have the dream yanked from him. Ele knew how to rule as well or better than his brother. Love had nothing to do with it. Pure he
arts had nothing to do with it. Men who could make decisions without worrying about the consequences were the best leaders of all. Ele should have been chosen, and his father had destroyed that.

  The bathhouse door creaked open. “This is private!” Ele shouted.

  The door closed. He sighed and moved a little, feeling the water lap around his neck. Behind him he heard clothing rustle.

  “I said this—”

  “This is private, I know.” Vasenu’s voice. It sounded curiously flat.

  Ele turned. His brother had taken off his clothes and was striding, naked, toward the water. Their bodies had once been identical, but years of living had separated them. Vasenu had a scar running along his stomach from the time he had tried to save another man in a knife fight. A number of white crescents marred his left leg from the folly of an afternoon when he had fought for a horse’s life, only to be stomped near to death himself by the horse.

  Vasenu slipped into the water. He was trembling visibly. The sight made Ele’s trembling return.

  “What do you want?”

  “Father’s dead.” Again the flat tone. Vasenu sank under the water, and came up, spraying water in the air like a geyser.

  “He’s been dead for weeks now.”

  “No.” Vasenu pushed the wet hair off his face and found a seat at the corner of the bath. “He stopped breathing. He’s not alive anymore.”

  Ele stopped moving. He felt something curious flicker and die within his breast. Hope. He had actually hoped for his father’s improvement, and that this nightmare would end. He had wanted his father to get well and make it all right again—reunite him with Vasenu, and take the power from both of them.

  Vasenu was King now.

  “So?” Ele said, hoping that he kept his voice cool and disinterested.

  “I thought you would want to know.”

  Ele lowered himself a little more, so that the water touched the bottom of his chin. “I don’t really care,” he said. “Nothing has changed.”

  Vasenu slapped water on his face, as if he were trying to make sure he was awake. “Everything’s changed. He heard us fighting. He yelled ‘no,’ and then he died.”