Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3)

by Leona Wisoker

  Dasin coughed and put an arm across his mouth and nose, then sneezed violently. “Just take the next bridle and let’s get out of here,” he said. “Please.”

  “Long as it’s a good one,” Tank said, crossing his arms.

  It was, or at least felt more right than the last two, and the halter was nearly new. Tank handed the bridle to Dasin.

  “No need for this right now,” he said, ignoring Harpik’s exasperated snort. “I’m not riding her back. This can wait.”

  “What are you going to do about the saddle?” Dasin demanded. “You don’t think I’m carrying the damn thing, do you?”

  Tank paused, considering, then said, “I’ll put that on next.”

  “So why not the bridle too, and ride her?”

  Tank shrugged, not sure how to answer. Holding the halter, he slipped into the stall, careful to latch it behind himself. The mare turned, ponderous and unhurried, and stared at him.

  “Hey,” he said, then paused, uncertain again. Allonin had made sure he understood the basics of tack, but it had been a while, and the horse hadn’t been a biter.

  The mare was awfully tall, this close. Tall, and broad-shouldered; Tank could well believe her strong enough to pull a fully loaded carriage.

  Harpik snorted. “You’re going to talk to her first? Gods. Try to bleed on the sawdust, not the boards.”

  Tank ignored him. Taking a deep breath, he put out a hand, moving slowly and watching the mare’s eyes for warning signs; rested his palm against her warm, scratchy shoulder.

  “Hey,” he said again. “How about I get you out of here? You don’t bite me, I don’t bite you. How’s that sound?”

  Harpik laughed. Dasin let out a low, derisive snort.

  Tank dropped his voice to a low murmur. “Let’s make them out to be fools, hey?” he said. “Right, come on then.”

  He took his hand away and lifted the halter, fumbling a little as he eased it over her nose. After a moment, the mare dipped her head, allowing the crownpiece over her ears. He adjusted the fit, making sure it didn’t pinch anywhere but wouldn’t come off either, then looped the lead line through the jaw ring and tied it off.

  She didn’t bite him until he’d finished securing the saddle; and looked thoroughly surprised when, as promised, he hauled her ear down and bit her right back.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dawn flushed the sky to increasingly vibrant shades of blue and pink; Deiq’s mood, by contrast, seemed not to have left the night behind just yet. His ostentatious refusal to meet Idisio’s gaze spoke loudly of his continuing displeasure over being followed the night before. Idisio’s satisfaction in having eavesdropped on the elder ha’ra’ha without being detected began to fade into a gnawing uneasiness: how long was Deiq going to sulk over it? Alyea was visibly unhappy over the tension, and just as visibly determined not to get in the middle.

  He carefully didn’t let himself think about that frozen moment when Deiq had seemed about to lose his temper completely... His assumption that Deiq wouldn’t actually hurt him had been badly shaken in that instant, and he still wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done to set Deiq off.

  Evkit, on the other hand, seemed more cheerful than ever, as though pleased by the conflict between the ha’ra’hain. His grin widened every time he looked Idisio’s way, and he strutted like a firetail bird as he declared, “Teyanain guard this city. This ours. We not like looters.”

  Idisio, looking at the ruined buildings around them, thought that the teyanain were doing a damn poor job of housekeeping. Which is something Deiq might say, he admitted to himself, and didn’t like the recognition one bit.

  Was Deiq’s dark sarcasm aimed to cover the same sense of fear Idisio was feeling at the moment? Idisio had trouble believing that Deiq ever felt fear about anything.

  Deiq shot him an odd, sideways stare; Idisio heard dark laughter swirl through his mind. You’re starting to understand, Deiq said. The face you present to the humans isn’t the one you see when you close your eyes.

  “This was temple of city,” Evkit said with a sweeping gesture. “The place for all to worship. Old gods, these. Before Three, before Four. Strong gods. Not nice gods.” He smirked at Deiq. “Liked sacrifices.”

  A shiver ran down Idisio’s back at that. Sacrifices... Yes, that felt right, somehow. And the victims hadn’t all been animals....

  Idisio. Deiq’s voice was nearly a slap. Stop being so aware of everything. You’re going to drive yourself crazy.

  Idisio grimaced and looked through the archway at the ruined floor; studied the holes in the ceiling and the empty spaces between the ribbed, arched stone walls. He saw no trace of an altar, or even an offering-ledge. The entire temple was one enormous, empty room.

  He tried to imagine people moving around in this dead place: laughing, singing, playing, bringing their children to worship. He couldn’t: even the visions were silent, here. The quiet was a heavy weight, squashing all coherent thought. Even the insidious, haunting whispering had stopped, but that only made the crawling anxiety worse, not better.

  Why hadn’t they stepped inside the temple? Everyone stood outside, staring in and talking. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. If he’d known anywhere safe to run to, he’d have been churning sand long since.

  He drew a deep breath and quieted his roiling thoughts before Deiq could reprimand him again: more grateful than ever that Scratha had taught him aqeyva. Deiq nodded once, semi-approving, his mouth still tight and his attention on the temple.

  The three athain knelt, each in a different archway, forming a perfect triangle. They spread their hands on the ground, bowing their heads, and as one murmured an identical chant in a language Idisio had never heard before.

  So much to learn, Idisio thought, and abruptly wondered if learning a language was another ha’ra’hain trick, like lighting a lamp, that could just come in a moment’s proper focus.

  No, Deiq said. Human languages are far too complicated for instant understanding. At most you’ll be able to pick up a scattering of the most common words, but knowing “a”, “the”, “it”, “he”, and “she” doesn’t really do you much good, does it? Never mind—they’re ready.

  Before Idisio could ask “ready for what?”, the athain stood, eyes shut. In perfect unison, right down to each step taken, they walked into the temple. Idisio watched, incredulous. The athain were headed right into each other,;they would collide in another step—

  —and then they weren’t there any longer.

  Alyea yipped, startled. Idisio bit his tongue hard to stop himself from doing the same.

  “I go now,” Evkit said. “See, you safe. You come next, ha’ra’ha—” he nodded to Deiq. “Then you, younger, then the Lord Alyea.”

  Idisio didn’t hear the rest of what the man said, too shaken by that order to hear anything else. I have to do that, too? Oh, hells no. Not again! The trip through the passage to Scratha Fortress had been unpleasant enough. He had no interest in repeating the experience.

  Lord Evkit walked out into the center of the temple before Idisio could come up with a good reason to refuse, vanishing as abruptly as the athain.

  You can’t refuse, Deiq said. They’ll throw you through if you hesitate.

  So much for ha’ra’ha status being supreme, Idisio said sourly.

  The teyanain are a special case. Come on—

  Deiq squeezed Alyea’s shoulder and walked into the invisible portal. Idisio glanced around at the teyanain and felt icy fear dribble down his spine at the restrained violence in their expressions. He went, praying the whole way that somehow this thing wouldn’t work for him, and he could say, Hey, sorry, guess I have to hoof it back—

  The floor fell out from under him. He tumbled through black cold. A spray of distorted color streaked across his vision; he saw—

  —a dark, regal face, glaring with utter hatred at someone or something Idisio couldn’t quite see—

  —a fear of madness, of un-control, of a depthless anger and
a bestiality that simmered, always simmered, just below the surface, and an irritable voice: Why do you fight what you are?—

  —a hand lifting a jeweled dagger coated with some strange white powder, and slashing it into a hazy cloud of green and gold as though it had substance—

  —a bottomless grief, a terrible, terrible fear—

  —the cloud twisting, whirling, diminishing—

  —No! not again, not again, I don’t want to do that again, don’t want to be that again, not the madness, please, not the madness—which sounded weirdly like a distorted cry from Deiq—

  —a spray of blood that dwarfed anything Idisio had ever seen, and a scream—

  Cold flared into dry heat. Solid ground slammed into his feet. He staggered one wide step, then felt Deiq catch his arm to keep him upright. His head still filled with the memory of that ear-wrenching scream and the distorted memories surrounding it, Idisio yanked free, afraid of conveying the bizarre images to the elder ha’ra’ha.

  If Deiq saw anything, he didn’t have time to comment on it. Alyea appeared, and Deiq grabbed her arm and pulled her close, as though to protect her from something.

  Idisio barely had time to realize that Deiq was tensed in anticipation of an attack before a choking grit was flung directly into his face. The world turned the wrong color; sounds cut off into a thick buzz. His knees went out from under him, and everything dropped into black silence.

  From black to nightmare: Dirty walls, the smell of old sweat, rot, feces—flash of red, flash of black, flash of flash of flash of—white roses and blood—the laughter of a rich boy who thought hurting a poor boy would make him a man—laughter—laughter: You thought I wanted a whore? I could get better than you for that—and then pain—the simmering rage began to build—

  —Only now I can do something about it, now I can kill them, now I can—but no, no, that’s not right, I don’t want to do that, to be that, to—not the madness, not the madness, please—

  Idisio rolled, tumbling through a mixture of memory his/not his, screaming without a sound. He smelled the tang of salt air, not the swampy touch of Bright Bay’s eastern streets but a deeper, rock-laced brine—coastal village, someone said, and northerns wouldn’t know different anyway.

  Someone slapped him. Someone cursed.

  Red hair and black—a skinny, trembling, wild-eyed fugitive, violence lacing his every twitch—and a not-his-own fear: The voices, what are they? Why am I hearing the city whispering to me—mixing with Idisio’s fear: Am I going mad? Have I always been mad? What do I do now? Where am I? How did I get here?

  Idisio rolled from haze into the sting of the slap and emerged into semi-awareness: a moment later, water poured into his eyes and nose, sending sparkling agony all through his body. He rolled again, pulling free, blinking vision clear, and found himself in a round stone cylinder of a room. The obvious solution for escape was to climb: but the wall defeated his attempts at purchase, and a thick grate blocked the opening far overhead.

  Unprecedented claustrophobia sent him wildly searching for an exit. Deiq sat quietly, watching with bizarre calm, answering Idisio’s frantic questions as though they were discussing nothing more important than a walk through town. Idisio scarcely heard the answers, but slowly the tone of Deiq’s voice eased the panic.

  The vision-memories of the red-haired boy faded from his mind. A moment later, a more familiar surety arose: We won’t die here. There’s something else going on, something we ought to know, something Deiq ought to sense and doesn’t for some reason. Just as Scratha couldn’t tell when those people in Kybeach were lying to us, Deiq’s missing something important—and I don’t know enough to know what to look for, myself.

  The thought seemed as bizarre as his surety that Scratha wouldn’t actually kill him, long ago in Bright Bay; but once more, Idisio went with it.

  He drew a deep breath and sat down, leaning against the wall. He found the courage to cheek Deiq a bit by way of distracting himself, then fell into a fitful doze.

  I am sorry, something said in the half-light of his almost-sleep. I cannot help you. I cannot hold to the Law. You have to fight for yourself. You have to free yourself of this place. I am even more trapped than you are.

  Wishful dreaming, Idisio decided drowsily. Wouldn’t it be nice if there was a friendly ha’rethe about, one that wanted to help? But it wasn’t possible. Deiq would have known, and the ha’rethe certainly would have reached out to the elder first, not to a relatively insignificant youngster.

  Significance is not the same from my perspective, the voice commented. Your youth and your human upbringing allow you to hear me, where the elder is deaf. What he sees as your flaws are your critical strengths. Use those, honor those, respect those. Be careful of the trap of vanity and pride.

  Now, that all sounded like a soapy’s lecture. Definitely a dream. Idisio let himself slide further into silence and calm, and the voice stopped talking. Some unknown time later, a spike of tension from Deiq brought Idisio scrambling upright before his eyes fully opened.

  A previously hidden door opened, and Evkit stepped through. His bitter, sour-almond smell wafted into the room.

  This time, Idisio welcomed it as the scent of freedom.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  In the southeastern quarter of Bright Bay, the air hung thick with the smell of trash and rotten dead things. Still-living things moved in the darkness. Ellemoa stood still, listening, nostrils flaring: her son had been here. Had lived here. Here, in this filthy place—

  One of the living things in the shadows came too close, knife in hand. She spun and hissed like an angry goose. The would-be mugger swore and backed away so fast he tripped over himself and fell.

  She watched him crawl back to his feet, watched him sprint away, without feeling any real interest. He was insignificant.

  This small, dank overhang, where an abandoned building had fallen in on itself: this mattered. She stooped and looked inside the various caves created by destroyed masonry until she found the lingering presence she sought.

  He had slept here.

  She went to her knees and crawled inside, into the darkness; turned to face the opening and sat in a huddled crouch, staring out as her son must have stared, night after night. It was a good place, a defensible place. But needing a defense meant one had enemies.

  Her son had people who had tried to hurt him.

  The rage came up again, and the dark place was now far too small, too confined. She could be trapped here, imprisoned by someone simply sliding a heavy rock over the entrance. This was a stupid den, a deathtrap.

  She began to crawl out, and dislodged a small pile of stones. Under the stones lay a pair of battered sandals and a small bag. The bag held a few small coins: copper, one silver round, and one gold bit. She brought it all out into the moonlight to examine, noting that the gold bit was heavily nicked, as though scrapings had been taken off it at some point. The silver round bore similar markings.

  One of the copper coins bore a strange feel; she turned it over in her hands for a few moments, frowning in concentration. It felt—familiar. As though someone she knew had handled it, someone strong enough to leave an imprint on something as simple as a coin.

  She let her eyes slide half-shut and gripped the coin in a fist, listening, and saw—

  —red hair, skinny body sturdy frame, shivering, half-mad, hearing voices, whispers, calling him, calling him—

  Ellemoa dropped the coin, panting a little with shock and anxiety. What was her son doing with a coin that he had touched? Could it be coincidence, in this large a city? She took another coin from the bag with a trembling hand and focused once more.

  Thieving. Her son had become a thief; the coin resonated with a sense of wrongness. Her son had been forced to steal to survive, rather than taking what was due him, openly and fearlessly. I must find him. I must save him. I cannot allow him to have such a life.

  She dropped that coin, too, and reached for another, an uncut silver, inte
nt on every clue that might lead her to her son. The tracery of memory on this one was dim, ghostly, nearly evaporated with time; it had happened a long time ago, but been powerful enough to linger, all the same. She pushed harder, raking up every last fragment she could find, and saw—

  Dirty wall in front, harsh panting behind, hands clenched, eyes shut, trying not to think about the pain—the smell of urine, harsh and sharp, and the laughter—

  She screamed, high and shrill, and threw the coin and bag from her as hard as she could. They dared to touch my son! They dared to use him so!

  She had to find her son. She had to take him away from the humans who had hurt him, twisted him so badly, turned him into something beyond obscene; had to return him to his proper place as ruler, not servant, before it was too late.

  Before he began to see this horror as normal.

  Hands trembling, she held the sandals up to her nose. My son. These were my son’s. Where is he now?

  After a moment’s careful sniffing, she dropped the sandals. She had his scent now. She would find him. This den had been abandoned; he hadn’t been here in days. That strange human man had taken him away somewhere, possibly even out of the city.

  But her son would return. She knew it. She could feel it, with the true-sight that every member of her line had always held. And when he did, she would find him and save him from the humans before they destroyed everything beautiful about her precious grey-eyed baby.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Rain pattered down, sliding through Kolan’s hair, soaking through his clothes, chilling his flesh. He barely noticed the discomfort. Rain was a blessing, a cleansing, a beautiful dance of translucent droplets along a jagged green beech-tree leaf and a gentle song through the air. So what if his body shivered and stumbled a bit now and again? The weather felt like a gift from all the gods working in rare concert, welcoming him back into the world.

  The path curved around a thick stand of trees and undergrowth. Impishly deciding to continue in a straight line, he left the muddy road and stepped in among the trees. Brambles and branches seemed to part around him; as he picked his way through the chaotic undergrowth, not a single thorn or broken branch snagged at his clothes or skin.