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

by Leona Wisoker

  He woke to warm dry air, soft cushions beneath him, a thick blanket over him, and the smell of rosemary and apples. Out of long habit, he lay still, eyes shut, while he sorted out where he was and what was going to happen next.

  Someone was moving around; a woman. Memory seeped back: he’d fainted. She’d apparently taken mercy on him and dragged him in here—by herself? She must be stronger than he’d thought. Then again, he’d heard the priests remark that he weighed remarkably little for his size.

  She made little noise as she padded around the room. He could hear her only because he was listening carefully. After a few moments, her soft tread faded as though she’d gone into another room.

  He turned his head to examine the room. Nearby, a cook-stove radiated warmth and good aromas. A pie—probably apple—sat on a wide stone shelf beside the stove, cooling. Other shelves, further from the stove, held small glass jars of what looked to be jams, chutneys, and pickles.

  He propped himself up on his elbows, wincing at the accumulated aches that announced themselves with movement. The kitchen turned out to be a long room, with two wide benches set near the cook-stove, one of which he was occupying. Three tall, glazed earthenware vases stood empty and somehow forlorn along one side of the room.

  His clothes hung on a drying-rack beside the stove. All of his clothes.

  “So you’re awake,” the woman said, coming back in through a curtained entrance at the far end of the room. “Good. Are you clear-headed enough to answer some questions?”

  Her tone held no more sympathy than it had before, for all that she’d brought him close to the fire and undressed him. Kolan pondered for a moment, then pushed the blanket aside and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bench to put his bare feet flat on the floor.

  She regarded him without any reaction at all, so he said, with matching bluntness, “What do you want to know?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Kolan. From Arason.”

  Her gaze moved to the scars webbed across his body, and her mouth tightened. “I can see you were hurt,” she said. “Is anyone after you?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you here? Why did you come all the way out to this place, instead of following the proper road east to Arason? The truth, this time.”

  He hesitated a moment, then said, with care, “I had hoped to find—an old friend here. But I was wrong.”

  “Who’s this old friend?” The woman pointed at his chest. “The one who did that to you?”

  He put a hand to the ropy scar that ran from his left shoulder across his chest to his lower right hip, tracing it absently. “Not this one,” he said. “But some of the others. Yes.”

  “So you’re looking to kill her?”

  “No,” Kolan said, and smiled at her evident surprise. “No, there’s no point to that. I’m hoping she’s alive, but that’s probably foolish.”

  “What’s this old friend’s name?” the woman demanded, still emanating prickly suspicion.

  He checked intuition to be sure it was safe, then answered honestly. “Ellemoa.”

  Some of the tension left the woman’s slender frame. “Ellemoa,” she repeated. “And you truly don’t know whose house this is?”

  “Just that it belongs to a supposed witch,” he said.

  “So your Ellemoa is a witch, then?”

  “She’s been called that,” he admitted. “But she’s no more a witch than ... than I am.” He looked down at his hands and frowned a little. “She’s not a witch,” he added, not looking up.

  “Why don’t you want to kill her?” The question held a barbed anger. “After those scars—why don’t you want to kill her? Never mind. Not my concern. Don’t answer that.” She shook her head and hurried past him to check on the stove.

  A cloud of damp, rosemary-laden air rushed out as she opened the oven and withdrew a large clay casserole pan. Setting it on top of the cook-stove, she put the heavy potholders aside, closed the oven door, then glanced over her shoulder at Kolan. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  He stood, went to the drying-rack, and checked his clothes: warm and dry. He dressed without haste, then sat back down on the bench he’d woken upon and watched her fill bowls with a vegetable-noodle mixture of some sort.

  “Arason noodles,” she said as she handed him a bowl. “Ought to be a nice taste of—”

  He sat still, his eyes abruptly flooding with tears.

  “—Kolan?”

  He sucked in a shuddering breath, rubbing a sleeve across his eyes, and offered her a wan smile. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s been a while since I’ve—been home. Eaten food from home. I miss it.”

  She sat beside him, her own bowl cradled carelessly in one hand, and tried for a little smile herself. “Sometimes I miss home as well, horrible as I know Kybeach must seem to an outsider,” she said. “I had to leave my daughter behind. She thinks I ran off with a southerner, or that I’m dead, or some such. But if I’d taken her, my husband never would have stopped hunting, and he would have killed me when he caught us. She meant far more to him than I ever did. This was the only safe place I could think of, close enough to watch—”

  She stopped and looked down at her bowl, prodding her spoon through it, then shrugged and began eating.

  He followed suit, content with the silence and her slowly thawing temper.

  “It’s none of your concern,” she said at last. “No more than your woman is of mine.”

  He looked at her sidelong, considering; then said, “What’s your name?”

  “Rodira,” she said. Then, a little defiantly: “Rodira Lashnar.”

  “Rodira,” Kolan repeated slowly. “Lashnar.” He lowered his bowl to his lap and frowned down at it. “I think I met your husband when I passed through Kybeach.”

  She started up, her face shaded with fresh alarm, and retreated three long steps before he had a chance to say anything else.

  “He sent you!” she said, a bit shrilly. “I knew it!”

  Kolan shook his head and stayed seated. “No,” he said. “He was very drunk. He came along while the night watchman was trying to herd me out of town.”

  She frowned, her head tilting forward a little. “Drunk? He doesn’t drink that much. I don’t think that was my husband.”

  “The watchman called him Lashnar,” Kolan said. “Are there others in Kybeach?”

  “No.” Rodira hesitated, then came to sit beside Kolan again. “Only the one. He was blond? About as tall as me?”

  “Yes. He was....” Kolan paused, thinking back, then said, very softly, “Oh. Oh, no.”

  “What?”

  “He was saying... something about his daughter being dead.”

  She went very still, staring at him with eyes that suddenly resembled chips of ice. “No,” she said. “No, Kera was here—not long ago. Not long. I’m sure of that. She didn’t see me, of course, I was hiding, I can’t let her know I’m this close, but I saw her, she was bringing in supplies for Lady—” She stopped, her lips thinning. “She’s not dead. She’s not.”

  Kolan didn’t say anything.

  “Did he say what happened?” Rodira demanded. She moved as though to grab one of Kolan’s arms. Remembering her husband’s reaction to physical contact, Kolan hastily rose and skipped backwards a few steps, his bowl crashing to the floor. Noodles spilled, slick with oil and butter, across the polished wooden floor.

  “No,” Kolan said a little breathlessly. “He didn’t say. He said it was all his fault because he didn’t listen to her. That’s all I know.”

  She stared at him incredulously. “My daughter is not dead,” she said. “I won’t believe a raving lunatic like you! It’s a trap to get me to go back to Kybeach. He’ll catch me when I go back, I’m not protected if I leave this house. You’ve been lying all along. This is all a lie.”

  Kolan shook his head, not sure what to say, and backed up some more as she stood, glowering at him.

&nbs
p; “Get out,” she said, pointing toward the curtained doorway she’d come in through. “Get out. Take your pack—” she pointed again, and he realized it had been laying alongside the bench the whole time— “and get out. Right now.”

  This time, Kolan didn’t argue.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Obein sprawled over considerably more ground than Kybeach’s arc of dilapidated buildings covered, and with much more cheer. The buildings here were mainly painted in shades of white and yellow; a few boasted doors of a bright orange, green, or blue. Businesses had flower- and herb-boxes laid out in precise patterns around their shops; homes had front-yard gardens laden with herbs, trellised beans, late-season peas, and squash.

  Tank had never seen anything like it. After the muddled chaos of Bright Bay and the depressing stink of Kybeach, Obein came as a shock and a relief all at once.

  “Hey,” he said to Rat, riding to his left; the first word of conversation he’d offered since Frenn had moved up to join Breek in front of the wagon some time ago. “How long we staying here?”

  “One day,” Rat said, glancing over. Dirt and sweat accented the weary lines of his face. “Today being Earthday, that puts us as leaving on Fireday morning.”

  At least those day names were the same, north to south. Tank hesitated, measuring the older man’s temper, then decided against commenting on that. Instead, he ventured, “Nice place here.”

  Rat nodded and went back to watching the road ahead. After a few moments, he said, “One of the better along the way. I always like this stop.” He tilted his head a little, glancing at Tank again. “Don’t go thinking of staying,” he added. “It’s nice to pass through these places, but you stop and you’ll find out real fast, they’re all the same underneath.”

  Tank blinked, surprised; he’d never heard Rat say so much at one time, and certainly not without swearing profusely.

  “I do know how to talk straight,” Rat said, catching Tank’s expression. “When there’s a point to doing so.”

  Tank looked at the mare’s ears, feeling the tips of his own heating.

  “Lost a few hires in the past that way,” Rat went on. “Especially the ones as come from bad backgrounds. They see this and think it’s heaven. By the time they find out they’re wrong, half of ‘em wind up dead and most of the rest have lost the taste for fighting.” He spat to his right, away from Tank. “You’re not half bad, for all that you’ve got an attitude needs broke down. Be a waste for you to stay here, is all I’m sayin’.”

  “Thanks,” Tank said, his chest loosening with sudden relief. He’d won Rat’s semi-approval, at least; and given that Rat was more or less the leader of the mercenaries, that would make life significantly easier down the road.

  “Mind that attitude,” Rat said. “You come off all Hall-hot and moral-the-most, you’ll get yourself thrashed good one of these nights.”

  Before Tank could say anything else, Dasin turned in his saddle and waved them forward. “Venepe wants a word,” he called.

  “‘Course he does,” Rat muttered. “Man’s famous for telling his hires how to piss—and getting it wrong half the damn time, at that.”

  Tank laughed; Rat’s mouth creaked into a reluctant smile.

  “Come on, then,” Rat said, urging his horse forward. “Let’s see which hand we’re supposed to use this time.”

  Venepe pulled the wagon to a halt as the mercenaries gathered around the driver’s seat.

  “Black-moon market starts tonight,” he said. “We’ll be here one day of it, then move on. I don’t like dealing during the dark of a moon—everyone’s expected to lower their prices, for some fool reason—but that’s how the schedule falls this time around. The market’s over there—”

  He pointed to a wide, grassy field not far away; a dozen people were moving about in it, setting up sturdy wooden tables and tents, laying out ropes to mark paths, and performing various other preparatory tasks.

  “Riding horses go to the main stable; wagon and cart horses go to the merchant’s stable, other side of town. You three—” He pointed at Rat, Breek, and Frenn. “You go take care of your horses and lodging, have your evening of fun, and sort out your schedule for the morning. I’ll be setting up at dawn; don’t be late. Tank, you stay with me.”

  Dasin, apparently, didn’t need instructions. He stayed beside the wagon as they rumbled on through town. Tank pulled his horse around to the other side and slightly ahead, watching for trouble at first; then Venepe snorted and said, “Don’t worry. Nobody will bother us here.”

  Tank dropped back level with the driver’s seat and shot Venepe a puzzled glance. “Then—pardon, s’e, but why have me follow along to the merchant stables?”

  The plump merchant looked over to Dasin, then back to Tank.

  “Appearances,” he said, “in part. And mainly—” He glanced at the blond again. Dasin’s back had gone rigid, his jaw tight; he stared straight ahead. “He didn’t tell you, then?”

  “Tell me what?” Tank said through his teeth.

  “You weren’t hired to guard me, you damned fool,” Venepe said curtly. “You were hired to guard him.” He jerked a thumb at Dasin.

  Sometime later, his hands wrapped around a mug of hot wind wine—as predicted, the temperature had begun to drop sharply over the course of the day’s ride—Tank glared across a wobbly wooden table at Dasin and said one word: “Explain.”

  “I tried to tell you,” Dasin said.

  Tank bit his tongue against The hells you did.

  “I’m listening now,” he said instead, “so talk.”

  Dasin turned his own mug round and round, not looking at Tank. “I’m the only Aerthraim merchant north of the Horn. That’s not such a small thing, Tank. Something happens to me, Venepe gets the blame. He’s twitchy over it.”

  “So why’d he take you on, then, if he’s so piss-scared?”

  Dasin slanted a sardonic glare at Tank. “Come on!” he said. “Alliance with the Aerthraim? He’s not stupid. I figure he almost wet himself with excitement.” He paused. “Then he saw me... and got less happy.”

  “Thought you’d be older?”

  Dasin nodded and sipped at his wine without enthusiasm. “Gah. Yeah. And I don’t look southern, or... well, particularly impressive.” He grimaced. “Venepe was expecting someone like Allonin and Stai all rolled into one, I suppose.”

  “A handsome barbarian warrior-merchant,” Tank said, and snorted laughter.

  Dasin grinned ruefully. “Something like that, I think. So I made a suggestion, and went looking for you, and got lucky. He waited an extra two days to see if I could find you; otherwise, he would’ve had to pull one of his mercs over to the job, and we both knew that would be a bad idea for all sorts of reasons.”

  “So having you traveling along means he has an alliance with Aerthraim Family? Nice deal for—” Tank watched the small changes in Dasin’s expression and stopped smiling. “Dasin.”

  Dasin went back to looking at his mug.

  “It’s not my fault,” he said, reverting to a sullen tone. “Stai wrote the letter. He misunderstood a couple lines.”

  “And you didn’t correct him.” Tank leaned back; then, remembering he was on a bench, not a chair, leaned forward again, planting his elbows on the table. “Damnit, Dasin.”

  “It’s not a lie,” Dasin said. “Just not... entirely accurate.”

  “So what is the truth?”

  Dasin glanced up and around the small room, as though checking for listeners; a bit late, in Tank’s opinion, but the dingy alehouse was as empty as it had been when they entered. “He’s allowed to carry a few trade items, if I ask for them specific, long as I’m traveling along. He wants to try a route south of the Horn, I can go along and ease the path with my own status. And, well, I am the only Aerthraim trader past Bright Bay. There’s the chance they’ll offer him favored trade status, if he impresses me into recommending him.” Dasin paused and took a sip of wine. “So far... he hasn’t, particularly.” H
e shrugged and sipped more wine.

  Tank said, “Don’t you think you ought to tell him he’s supposed to be kissing your ass?”

  Dasin shook his head slowly, his smile resurfacing.

  “No,” he said. “Not really.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The sky had nearly darkened to true night, the barest wisp of a beginning moon tilting against the horizon, as Idisio, Alyea, and Deiq entered the Seventeen Gates. The guards here, at least, offered no real challenge once they saw Alyea’s face, and she called two of them by name.

  Alyea led them east and south past several estates, each ringed by its own heavy fence. She paused at the first set of open, unguarded gates, looking across the courtyard to the stately mansion beyond. Idisio noticed that the fencing, while expensive metal, showed heavy rust and obviously hadn’t been as well maintained as the other gates they’d passed.

  Inside the courtyard, ordinary torches in long-stemmed holders burned in wide-set rows leading to the door, and chunky stone planters offered weary-looking bushes whose leaves seemed desperate to drop to the ground. The simple colors and geometric pattern of the courtyard bricks was reflected in the austere lines of the mansion beyond, and a single pair of guards flanked the large double doors of the front entrance.

  Alyea stood still for a moment, staring at the mansion. At last she let out a deep sigh and muttered something under her breath. It might have been a prayer.

  “Keep your tempers,” she said then, at a more normal volume. She started forward, leading the pony as though she’d forgotten it even existed.

  “Alyea.” Deiq eased his hand under hers, taking the lead-rein. “Let us go handle the stabling and unloading packs, while you go tell your mother you’ve returned. We’ll meet you inside.”

  She loosed her grip without protest.