Heart Readers

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  One of the guards leaned into the cave and beckoned the soldier. “Shenu.”

  Shenu looked up, obviously reluctant to take his gaze from Ele. “What?”

  “You have to see this.”

  “Don’t try anything,” Shenu said. He got up and walked to the cave’s mouth. “What’s that?” he asked as he emerged.

  The answer was lost outside. Ele shoved more food in his mouth, chewed quickly and swallowed. He kept his eye on the cave opening and carefully untied his left wrist from his belt.

  No one had come back inside. If there were only five men, he could take them, if he had an element of surprise. And if he took them, he could take a horse and ride back to the palace. Somehow he would get past the guards at the gate and see Vasenu. Vasenu would have to listen.

  He got his left hand free, shook it, and sighed as the blood rushed into it. The pain brought tears to his eyes. He took another drink, forcing himself to think of something else. He could hear shouts outside. He paused, keeping his left hand against his waist in case someone came in, but no one did. He waited a moment, then reached down, and untied his feet.

  Still no one came inside. The shouts had diminished. He forced himself to finish eating, and allow the circulation to return to all parts of his body. Then he rose carefully, and made his way around the side of the cave.

  When he reached the mouth, he saw what the men were looking at. A dust cloud had risen on the desert, a cloud that could only have been made by horses carrying a large troop of men. Tarne? If so, why were his men in such a panic? Ele glanced at the city, saw the smoke billowing to the sky. No, the dust cloud hadn’t come from there. It had come from the palace. From Vasenu.

  CHAPTER 54

  Dasis felt battered. She had been pushed, shoved, and attacked with a sword. She had managed to cross the streets despite crowds going the other way. Screaming children clung to her before they realized that they didn’t know her. People grabbed her arm, inquiring after other people. She didn’t answer anyone. She just shrugged them off and kept moving until she reached the inn where Stashie had been staying.

  The roof had caved in. Wisps of smoke rose from the open ceiling and mingled with the cloud that hung in the air. The door stood open. Dasis coughed—she wasn’t breathing well—and walked in the open door.

  Most of the roof had landed on the dirt floor and lay smoldering. A bench toward the back of the tavern glowed red, but she could see no real fire. Most of the room doors stood open—people abandoning them in their haste—and a few torches still burned against the wall. Dasis picked her way across the debris, feeling the heat against her ankles, trying to avoid the hot places with her feet.

  Stashie had had the far room toward the back, one of the handful that innkeepers reserved for women traveling alone. Dasis’s heart was pounding. She half wanted to find Stashie in this empty place, and half didn’t. She didn’t know what she would do if Stashie were unconscious or injured. Drag her into the panicked crowd? Treat her here, where the smoldering ruins could turn into flames at any moment?

  She heard a snap above her and a piece of flaming wood fell from the ceiling. It knocked one of the torches off the wall and they landed together in the dirt, inches from Dasis. She jumped away, a scream tucked in the back of her throat. She glanced up, but could see no more flames. The roof was precarious though. It could finish its collapse at any moment.

  She hurried across the remaining floor. Stashie’s door was closed. Dasis pushed on it, but it didn’t budge. “Stashie?”

  No answer. Dasis rattled the door, wishing that Stashie had chosen to stay at a cheaper place that used curtains instead of wasting rare and precious wood. Dasis pushed with her entire weight. She heard something snap and then the door flew open.

  The ceiling had collapsed on the pillows. They were still smoking, little licks of flame teasing along the edge. Dasis stepped over a beam and into the room. It was hotter than the rest of the building.

  “Stashie?” she called again.

  She didn’t see anyone on the floor, and the debris was too small to hide a body. Dasis pushed at the pillows with her sandaled foot, wincing as a bit of flame nipped her toe. She pulled away, turned, and saw a slate underneath some of the burnt wood. She crouched down and touched it. It felt cool despite the room’s heat. She tugged at it and it came free easier than she suspected.

  Half a slate, broken perfectly. Tears came to her eyes. “Stashie,” she whispered, “where are you?”

  The heat in the room grew. Dasis dropped the slate and backed out. She took the side door out of the corridor.

  The street seemed even more full than it had before. The buildings were traps so people had gone outside, into a place filled with dust and chaos. Dasis crossed her arms in front of her and pushed through the crowd. She had to get away from the inn, had to find Stashie. Maybe she hadn’t combed the bazaar well enough. Or maybe Stashie had left town during the middle of the night, unwilling to face the soldiers one more time.

  Dasis coughed and pushed. She would go back to the bazaar. She would find Stashie, or someone with word of Stashie. And if that failed, she would take the only choice left her.

  She would leave.

  CHAPTER 55

  Blood spurted from Tarne’s leg. Stashie couldn’t get her sword free. Tarne reached forward and grabbed her arm. She fell into the horse, her face next to Tarne’s. He shoved his dagger under her chin.

  “Of course I remember you.” His eyes glittered. She remembered the look. He had it before he had killed Tylee. She struggled, unable to free herself. Her skirt was getting wet with Tarne’s blood. She pushed at his chest with her free hand, but he pushed the point of the dagger tighter against her neck. She felt hands on her back—Ytsak and Pare—but Tarne glared at them.

  “Touch her again, and I’ll kill her.”

  They let her go. The horse shook itself, and tried to rise, unable to move its legs. Tarne was trapped, his face growing pale with the shock of the blood loss. Stashie slammed her knee into his groin.

  His grip loosened for a moment and she pulled free. He grabbed her again, but she hit him with her own head. Pain shot through her skull. She had to get away—

  (Tylee telling her to go inside, his face stuck in a grimace)

  —but she couldn’t. She was here to kill Tarne, not to flee from him. He had loosened his grip and she snatched the dagger from his hand. He tried to grab for her and missed, his hands closing on open air. She couldn’t think. She had to act, had to destroy this man who had destroyed her, make him pay for everything he had done. She reached inside his tunic, his trousers, searching until she found the dagger by his hip. She tossed it to Ytsak.

  Tarne leaned forward, grabbing for Stashie’s hand. She slashed at his face. He dodged and hit his head on the saddle horn. His back probably hurt him, at the odd angle he was at. She brought the knife down again, missed and hit the horse. The horse screamed, and Tarne grabbed Stashie’s arm. She heard an oof of pain behind her and turned to see Ytsak on his back in the crowd, Pare bent over him, the horse’s hooves caked with blood. She couldn’t help them now. She had to get Tarne. She had to help herself.

  Tarne was reaching for the dagger, his hands impossibly strong. She pulled the dagger free of the horse, and brought it down again, this time catching Tarne in the shoulder. He rolled away too late, his right leg still trapped under the horse’s weight. He lay still and Stashie bent over him, about to bring the blade down into his head, when he swung around, clutching his sword. The broad, flat side caught her, and she staggered sideways, falling to her knees.

  The air had left her. She saw visions of her mother, her baby sister, her brother, and all those soldiers above her, hurting her. She was dizzy, her head throbbed. The sword came back, hitting her again, and this time she felt the blade slice into her skin. He would win. He always did. He would—

  No. She looked up, saw the sword coming again, and shoved her dagger forward into the open space under his arm. The blade
dug into his side just above the hip, and he grunted with pain. He was more difficult to kill than she had expected. She thought, somehow, that he would die the moment the blade hit him. But he didn’t. And neither had her family. They had been tortured. She had been tortured—and he needed to be tortured.

  Tarne had dropped the sword and was reaching for it. Stashie stabbed at his shoulders, his arms, making slight contact. He grabbed at her, turning his attention away from the sword. The confidence had left his face.

  He knew now that she meant to kill him. He was combat trained, and fighting for his life.

  He grabbed for her wrist. She dodged, brought the blade back, and then at his face. He moved, but not far enough. The dagger sliced through his eye.

  This time he did scream. He brought his hands up to his face, then held them back, as if he couldn’t believe what she had done. His movements became more frantic, more hurried, but the strength was leaving him. Her skirt was matted with blood. The horse was covered. Tarne was bleeding to death through his leg. And she wasn’t through with him.

  She got on top of him, wrested open his trousers, and pushed his weakening hands away. With a swift movement she grabbed his penis, and shoved the blade into it, as deeply as it would go. He screamed again, sounding like the horse, thrashing and kicking, spraying blood in the air.

  Passing people glanced at them, but did nothing in their haste to escape. Stashie pulled the blade free and brought it down again and again, until the lower half of his body was mush. The blood was covering her, drenching her, and it felt good, it felt right.

  “This is for my brother,” she said, and slashed.

  “My sister,” she said.

  “My mother.”

  His body was covered with blood. He didn’t move much. Only his good eye watched her, and she thought she saw comprehension in it. “I never forgot,” she said. “And I never forgave.”

  She put the tip of the blade against his remaining eye. “And this,” she said, “is for Radekir.”

  Only she didn’t slash yet. She stared at him, while he stared at her. She had hated him all her life and now he would die. “This will be the last time I will touch you,” she said. “And for the first time I’m going to enjoy it.”

  Then she brought the blade down with all her strength.

  CHAPTER 56

  Ele grabbed a rock and eased himself out of the cave. The troop was visible now, over one hundred horses and men in full armor, all carrying the King’s flag. Vasenu’s men. Ele had been right. His brother wasn’t going to play by Tarne’s rules. Vasenu had come after Ele, the man he considered the true traitor.

  Ele’s guards had taken one look at the full troop and were scrambling for their horses. Five men against a hundred didn’t seem to them like fair odds. Ele could see the general ahead, signaling half his troop to follow the men on horseback. Ele limped out of the cave and dropped the rock. He now faced the troop alone.

  He half wished he could go back inside and tie himself up, proving that he had been an unwilling captive. But he couldn’t. So he waited. He climbed on the edge of the rocks outlining the cave and stood there, a single figure, alone.

  The general reined up in front of him, the rest of the troop behind. Dust choked Ele and made his eyes water. The pungent scent of horses filled the air.

  “I want you to take me to my brother,” Ele said.

  “My orders are to kill you.”

  Ele swallowed, but worked at not showing his nervousness. “My brother would never order that. At least give him the honor of killing me himself.”

  The general looked hesitant.

  “This is not a trap,” Ele said. “You can have your men inspect the caves. I’m alone here. Tarne kidnapped me last night and left me here with a handful of guards—the men you saw riding away. If you catch them, they’ll corroborate my story. Also, there are ropes inside, and rope burns on my wrists and ankles. Check if you like. I’m weaponless.”

  The general snapped his fingers. The soldier to his left dismounted and went inside the cave. A moment later, he emerged, carrying rope. He took Ele’s hand and looked at the wrist. The rope burns were red and ugly. He ran his finger across them and Ele winced.

  “He is burned and injured, sir,” the soldier said. “And the ropes bear out the story.”

  A scream echoed across the sand. Ele glanced over, as did the general. Another dust cloud rose not too far away. A horse shrieked, and one bolted, running riderless into the desert.

  “They’d better agree to your story.”

  “They will,” Ele said. “They have nothing to lose.”

  But he did. He had everything to lose. Vasenu could have him killed without even seeing him.

  “Tie him up,” the general said, “and bring him with us. No man touches him until we talk with the King.”

  Ele stood as they bound his hands and feet. The ropes cut into the wounds on his wrists and ankles, but he said nothing. This was his last gamble, a gamble he had to win.

  CHAPTER 57

  A little girl ran screaming by, blood running from a cut on the side of her head. Dasis dodged out of her way, wondering where her own compassion had gone. Once she would have gone after the child, to see if she were all right. But not now.

  Men were pulling torches off building walls and throwing them into the open doorways. The smoke had grown thicker and half the city was on fire. Dasis moved slower than she wanted to. She felt as if she were slogging across deep sand.

  When she reached the edge of the bazaar, she stopped and caught her breath. Breathing was difficult in the thick air and each intake made her want to cough. Even so, she couldn’t stand moving anymore, as if each action made her breathlessness worse. She rubbed her eyes, but that seemed to grind the smoke particles in them instead of dig them out.

  She walked, head down, pushing people away from her. A small crowd had gathered around a fallen horse. She shoved her way into it, hearing moans and encouraging shouts. When she reached the front, she stopped in surprise.

  Stashie straddled a blood-covered man. She clutched a knife in both hands and she was talking, although Dasis couldn’t hear the words. Stashie herself looked as if she had been dipped in blood. Her hair was matted to her head, her skirt was saturated, and her arms were dripping. With a movement that looked practiced, she brought the knife down into the man’s eye.

  He shuddered, then didn’t move. Stashie rolled off him. Dasis grabbed her, ignoring the blood and gore.

  “Stashie!”

  Stashie’s eyes were wild. She brought the knife back up and Dasis caught her wrist. “It’s me. Dasis. Stashie, stop.”

  Stashie froze. She took a slow breath, then shuddered and wrenched her arm free of Dasis’s grasp. “I told you to go away,” she said. “I didn’t want you to see this.”

  Then Dasis understood. That was Tarne down there, trapped, bleeding and dying under his horse. She would have thought that she would take the knife and slash his other eye, but she couldn’t. She felt no more hatred for him, only pity.

  “Finish him, Stash,” Dasis said.

  Stashie shook her head. “I did.”

  Dasis stared at Stashie. She was almost unrecognizable under all the blood. Dasis could still feel the bloodlust humming through Stashie’s fingers.

  The two men who had befriended Stashie were behind her, looking as shocked as Dasis felt. Ytsak slowly got to his feet. Dasis couldn’t stand their scrutiny. They would have done the same, if they had lived like Stashie. Dasis would have.

  Dasis put her arm around Stashie and led her forward to the bazaar, feeling a sadness she didn’t know possible. They were heart readers, a profession, she thought, geared toward healing. But what had they done, really? The readings told people who they were, and allowed the people the opportunity for change. Most people never took the opportunity. The brothers hadn’t. That was clear from the wreck the city had become.

  Stashie was limping. Dasis supported her with more weight. The crowd was t
hinning on this edge of the bazaar. Most of the people must have been like her, circling, searching, caught in the battle, and seeing no escape. Escape was just beyond the ridge. She would take Stashie away from the city, away from soldiers, away from the past. They would live on the money they had and then they would find a new profession, something that was easy and safe. Something that allowed them to build a home and stay together, in silence if they had to.

  “Do you hate me?” Stashie asked.

  Even though she spoke softly, Dasis heard the plaintive note over the crowd noise. “No,” she said. “I could never hate you.”

  Stashie stopped, ripped off part of her ruined skirt and wrapped it around her ankles. Then she wiped her hands on her blouse, but they still didn’t come clean. “I’m just like him now,” she said. “He made me just like him.”

  “No, Stash,” Dasis said. “You chose to do that.”

  “Just like him.” She glanced around, as if she saw the mess for the first time.

  “You were provoked,” Dasis said. “He was never provoked.”

  “Maybe he thought he was. Maybe he thought what he was doing was right.” A man ran into Stashie. She swayed, but didn’t move.

  Dasis wasn’t sure how she felt. She did know that Stashie couldn’t live with herself if she believed that she was just like Tarne. “But you didn’t enjoy it.”

  Stashie brought her head up for the first time. There were deep circles under her eyes. Her cheeks were streaked with blood and soot. “For a moment I did. I should have stopped sooner, but I liked his struggling. I liked that he was frightened of me. I liked his pain, Dasis.”