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

by Leona Wisoker

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Ellemoa almost purred with satisfaction as she heard the crunch of her son’s feet following her out of the tavern. Another of those tedious conversations, perhaps two more, and he’d stop questioning her. She could start teaching him about proper ha’ra’hain ways then, and arrange a safe place for him to learn about feeding; she would guide him through the final changes, keep him from going mad, just as her mother had done for her.

  She began turning over possible situations in her head, ways to provoke his human-trained morals to balk so that she could demolish his misunderstandings. Perhaps arranging a show of human violence toward them would do the trick: that was never a difficult maneuver.

  The tall torches bracketing the front door had been lit. Even combined, the light didn’t reach far against the blackness of full night; Ellemoa felt an uneasy shiver work down her back. Maybe we should stay the night at a human inn, she thought. She found herself loathing the idea of traveling in darkness. Perhaps it would be better to stay still, to rest, to gather her strength and allow her son that much more complacency and trust.

  She opened her mouth to tell her son that she’d changed her mind, after all, that they would stay at the nearby inn.

  A tall young man stepped into the light between the farthest torches. His attention clearly on his own thoughts, he took two businesslike strides closer before raising his head and noticing their presence. He slowed, then stopped, staring.

  Torchlight caught in glimmers along his red hair.

  A jolt of recognition slammed through Ellemoa’s stomach: this was the human who had attacked teyhataerth. This was the human who had been trained to kill ha’ra’hain.

  Violence built a scant heartbeat later. As she took the first step forward, her son said: “Tank?”

  She froze, watching their gazes connect: watching a bond neither was aware of flare into argent life.

  “Lifty?” the redhead said, as incredulous as Idisio; then his attention shifted sideways, locking onto Ellemoa, and his side of the argent sizzled into a dangerous shade of red. “Who’s this?”

  You know who I am, Ellemoa told him.

  “My mother,” Idisio said at the same time.

  The redhead stared at her blankly. Either he hadn’t heard or refused to understand: but that searing color wrapped throughout his spirit warned her against taking another step forward.

  He’ll kill me. But he doesn’t want to kill my son. I don’t understand! It doesn’t make sense.

  She eased back a careful step, her stare never leaving his face.

  “Go away,” she said aloud, scarcely audible to human hearing. His eyes narrowed: he’d heard that clearly enough.

  “Mother,” Idisio said, abruptly wrapped in the murky blue-orange of alarmed bewilderment as he made the connections. “Mother, don’t—he’s not a danger.”

  The redhead’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not looking for a fight,” he said, which told her that he understood the situation just fine, himself.

  “Neither are we,” Idisio said, too fast and too loud; the redhead clearly registered that as a lie, and backed up a step, his hand falling to the hilt of his belt knife.

  “Go away,” Ellemoa said again, unable to resist a prowling step forward in the face of that retreat. “Go away.”

  He squared his stance, shoulders rounding, and his stare changed to something less amicable. “You don’t get to order me around,” he said, flat and cold.

  Fire rose in her, tinting her vision: her muscles bunched, gathering—

  Her son grabbed her arm, hauling her back a step. “No, mother!”

  She whipped round, rage driving her for a terrifying, blurred moment that ended with her son sprawled on the ground, gasping for breath. Regret set in immediately, but there was no time to offer apologies: she spun back to the redhead and found him two steps closer.

  She snarled, driving him back a pace, and said, “He doesn’t want you harmed. That’s the only thing keeping you alive in this moment, tharr. I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. You’re dangerous. So go away.”

  He stood balanced on the balls of his feet for a moment, his gaze flickering to her son. The red turned to a muddied, mottled mixture of white and crimson. “I don’t much want him harmed, neither,” he said at last. “And you seem ready to hand out some hurt yourself.”

  “He’s my son,” she said. “I won’t harm him. I will hurt you if you don’t leave us alone.”

  Behind her, Idisio staggered to his feet. “Mother,” he said, a stifled gasp. “Don’t.”

  This was, on reflection, an absolutely perfect opportunity to teach her son one more critical lesson about forming attachments to humans. This human was trouble—if not now, then in the future. Being trained to kill meant that he would attack, as soon as he felt threatened; and given what she knew about him, given what she knew about teyhataerth, made placing a threat that he would see and her son wouldn’t a childishly simple matter.

  She narrowed her eyes and sent tendrils of green and gold snaking out to surround him—false tendrils, illusions, of course: that had been teyhataerth’s family line-gift, where hers lay in visions. The human didn’t know that, couldn’t sense the difference between illusion and reality; but also didn’t react as he should have, by driving forward into a fierce attack. Instead he withdrew without moving, retreating behind a solid, impenetrable wall of No!

  She snarled frustration: had he sensed the hollowness of her illusion? Impossible—and yet—

  Her son, ignorant and more easily panicked than the tharr before them, grabbed her again, his scent thick with fear, howling protests right into her sensitive ears. Nerves already strung taut, reflex took it for an attack: she flung him away again, then pounced on him, screaming into his face as the only alternative to ripping his throat out—

  —and a bare heatbeat later something slammed into the back of her head, driven by more than muscle could bring to bear: driven by the same combination she herself had used to bring Deiq down, back in Bright Bay—a flaring of incandescent, needle-focused rage, rock-solid certainty, and physical force.

  She wavered, fighting desperately to stay conscious; a second blow, as hard as the first, sent her spinning into depthless blackness.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Tank stared down at Idisio’s mother as though expecting her to spring up and attack again—or as though debating whether to kill her while she lay defenseless. Idisio stayed on the ground, gasping for breath, trembling too badly to even think about standing up.

  Is he going to attack me now? There was no doubt that Tank knew. No doubt that he could have killed Ellemoa rather than knocking her unconscious. And he can kill me. I don’t think I could even get up in time to stop him. His mother’s wild screeching had completely paralyzed Idisio’s muscles; at least he hadn’t voided himself. There was that miniscule mercy.

  As Idisio’s breath began to steady in his chest, Tank blinked and looked at him, torchlight catching glimmers of gold into his bright blue eyes.

  “You all right?” he said. “Want a hand up?” He held a long, thick chunk of firewood in one hand with careless ease.

  “Ah—no,” Idisio said. “I’ll be—just a moment.” He drew in a deep breath, feeling his muscles finally release, and scrambled to his feet. He couldn’t help glancing over at the nearby pile of firewood: at the axe still leaning against the chopping block. He sucked in a deep, shaky breath of relief.

  “You all right?” Tank repeated.

  “Yes,” Idisio said, his shoulders relaxing. “I’m all right. Thank you.”

  Tank tossed the chunk of wood underhand; it landed in the dirt near the axe. “What a complete fucking moon-case,” he said, nodding down at Ellemoa. “She really your mother?”

  “Yes. She really is.”

  “Huh.” Tank studied Idisio’s face, frowning a little. “Want help getting her inside?”

  “Not a good idea,” Idisio said a bit sharply. “She wakes up, we’re sta
rting this all over again. You had the right idea: You go on your way, we go on ours.”

  Tank glanced at the unconscious woman again. “She’s about as stable as a brick balanced on a pin,” he said. “Be careful.”

  “She won’t hurt me.” Idisio squatted and gathered his mother into his arms. Blood seeped from two spots on her head, matting her hair into a flat, tangled mess. She proved to weigh surprisingly little. He staggered as he came back to his feet, briefly lightheaded.

  Tank didn’t move. “Lifty,” he said. “This is a strange chance of a meeting, and there’s no saying I’ll see you again this side of the Black Gates—so—I’m sorry. For Blackie, and—all of it. I wasn’t myself at the time.”

  “You were there to kill a ha’ra’ha,” Idisio said flatly.

  “Well—yes,” Tank said, scratching the back of his neck and looking away. “But I didn’t know that. Look, it gets—really complicated. Someone had been feeding me sedatives without my knowing, and I was all muddled up from that when I met you—and I just wasn’t myself. So I’m sorry.”

  “Are you following us? Are you here to kill us?”

  “No!” His protest, shocked, seemed genuine enough. “Gods, I had no idea you were here. I thought you were back in Bright Bay yet. I wouldn’t even have whacked her if she hadn’t been about to tear you apart.”

  “She won’t hurt me,” Idisio said reflexively. Tank’s eyebrows arched in clear disbelief.

  “Sure looked like it from where I stood,” he said.

  Idisio shook his head, glancing down at the limp form in his arms. “You headed east?”

  “No. West. Back to Bright Bay.”

  Idisio let out a breath of relief. “Could you carry a message?”

  Tank nodded soberly, his gaze on Idisio’s mother. “She’s more dangerous than you think,” he said. “The way she tossed you aside and came after you—she’ll kill you next time you cross her, if not when she wakes up.”

  “I’m her only son,” Idisio said stubbornly. “She won’t hurt me.”

  Tank shook his head, openly skeptical, then said, “What’s the message? Urgent, I’m guessing?”

  “Yes.” Idisio drew in a short, sharp breath, then said, “Go find Lord Alyea of Peysimun. Her family mansion is inside the Seventeen Gates. Deiq of Stass will be near her, wherever she is, and he’s the one I need right now. If you can’t find them, find Lord Eredion of Sessin. He’ll know where Deiq is. Probably. You might meet them on the road. I hope you meet them on the road.” He made himself stop babbling.

  Tank regarded him with a cool, appraising stare and said, “Picked up some high company, haven’t you, Lifty? I take it you’re not on the streets any longer?”

  “No,” Idisio said. “Times I wish I was. Oh—they know me as Idisio. I’ve ... left Lifty’s life behind.”

  That brought a smile to Tank’s face for some reason, but all he said was: “What’s the message?”

  Idisio glanced down at his mother again, then met Tank’s intent stare. He drew in another sharp breath and said, “Help. And hurry.”

  Tank’s weight shifted as though to step back; then he went still and said, “I can help right now.” His hand went back to the hilt of his belt knife.

  Idisio froze, panic washing through him in a white flood. “No,” he said, scarcely audible even to himself.

  “I got a good look at her eyes,” Tank said. “She’s killed before. Doesn’t regret it a bit. And she’ll kill again—might well be you next time.”

  “No. She’s my mother. She’s kin. She won’t hurt me. All she wants is to get to Arason, and she wants me to go to Arason with her; she won’t hurt me.” Idisio shook his head fiercely. “You can’t understand. Deiq will. He’ll know what to do. Find him. He can help. I’ll stall her, or get her back on the road if she looks to be turning dangerous. Just go.”

  Tank lifted his hand free of the knife with ostentatious care and turned it palm-up, fingers spread wide. “I’ll go run the message, then,” he said.

  “The faster the better,” Idisio said huskily, and headed for the inn without looking back.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Ellemoa wandered slowly through a grey haze, listening to the quiet, relishing the stillness. It had been a long time since she was surrounded by peaceful silence: longer since the emptiness had looked grey instead of black.

  Ellemoa, someone said.

  She shook her head and turned away, recognizing the distorted echo underlying the voice: this was a memory, not a real contact. She didn’t want to remember that voice right now, nor ever again. She wanted this to be... a fresh start. A new way, a new life. She’d escaped. She didn’t have to remember that any longer.

  Ellemoa... darling. Laughter spiraled through her head. Mother. How lovely. You’re a mother....

  She shuddered, birth pangs wracking through her, drawing her helplessly into the memories she’d been resisting. My son... I’ll never leave you alone again. Never. I’ll always be there, to protect you... always.

  You can’t protect him, because you haven’t escaped, Ellemoa, the voice taunted. You’ll never leave me. I’ll always be here for you, darling, and you’ll come to like that. Oh, yes, you’ll beg me to come for a visit, before long. I’m the only thing that’s real in your life now, Ellemoa, I’m your only source of light.

  No. She’d escaped. She had to believe that. Her son, her only son, was near—she could feel him, could sense him, could see the shape of his mind—

  His fear spiked through her: She’s killed before, someone said. Might be you next time. And even as her son shook his head, refusing to accept that, tendrils of doubt coiled through his mind.

  He’s afraid of me? How could he believe I would hurt him? I would never hurt him. He’s my SON....

  She tried to reach out, tried to tell him without words how much she loved him: a blank wall of revulsion barred her from contact, a repetitive whisper of She’s killed before... doesn’t regret it a bit.

  Of course I don’t regret it. I did what I had to in order to survive. But my son sees me as a monster for it. I don’t deserve that. All I did was take him away from those who would harm him. I took him away from the places where Rosin was. Nothing good can ever live where Rosin stood. Doesn’t he understand? Doesn’t he see?

  She saw a flash of red hair, an intense blue stare, a crackling ache that engulfed her entire skull; thrashed in the grey haze, swamped with sudden terror. Somewhere in the darkness that lay coiled in the back of her mind, bells rang, marking off the endless, infinite, dreadful passage of human-kept time.

  Nothing is real except me, Rosin said. Nothing will ever be real except me. I am all you have now, Ellemoa, and I am all you will ever have again. You have no son. You have no friends. You have no family. You have nobody and nothing except me.

  He said that over and over, in the darkness and in the light—

  Skin stripped from her bones and rebuilt itself, flayed away by a thousand tiny, painstaking knife cuts. She screamed and ran from the feeling, racing away into the safety of grey silence. The pain kept pace, circling around her, forcing her back into her body, back into awareness of agony near at hand.

  You can’t run away from this, Ellemoa, Rosin laughed. I know how to make you stay here and endure it all. But I’ll stop it right now, if you like. You know what to do, to make this stop. You know what to do... You know what I want. Give me a child ... or give teyhataerth a child.

  She tried, again and again, wrenching hopelessly at the structure of her body, twisting and wringing every pinprick of her being to produce the desired connection—and failed. Failed. Again and again, failed....

  Deep in the mourning darkness, teyhataerth whispered: He has no children. There is no life in his seed. He will not hear me on this. He will not hear that the failure is not ours. I am sorry, Ellemoa, I cannot stop him, I cannot make him hear me.

  Then give me a child yourself, she demanded. Make him stop hurting me!

  That was met wit
h a deep sadness.

  I cannot, the other said. I have no more to give than Rosin himself. He does not understand: most of the second and third generations cannot produce children; and when we do, they are simply human, not the Elder-born he wishes to have under his control. It is the one fatal flaw in his understanding of our kind. You are rare, to have produced a son, Ellemoa. You are rare. He is rare. If you ever find him again, if he is alive, treasure him for simply being your son.

  Had teyhataerth ever actually said that, or was it a compilation of her own frenzied, nightmare-born thoughts? She couldn’t tell. She whimpered as the agony of uncertainty wracked her.

  Somewhere else in the darkness, Kolan whispered: You’ll find him, Ellemoa. You will. I know it. I can feel it in my soul. He’s alive. You’ll see him again. And you’ll be proud of what he’s grown into, over the years.

  That was real. That had really happened. Kolan had never stopped urging her to believe that she would find her son, even as Rosin insisted her only hope for a child was to produce another one for him.

  I have my son back... I can be proud of him. Kolan was right.

  Then the smell of sweetened ginger, the sight of ample cleavage and a whorish smile arose in memory. He’d meant to run; if she hadn’t planted the suggestion to delay for a pretty girl, he’d have taken to his heels. He’d argued with her, refused her, rejected her, interfered with her: what was there to be proud of in any of that?

  But he’s mine. He’ll learn. He’ll understand soon. And once we get to Arason, I’ll find him a good girl to keep him company.

  You’ll never see Arason again, Rosin said. You always dream so predictably. You’re dreaming now. You’re not free, you know. You’re still here, with me. Here’s proof—

  A burst of sharp pain from her stomach; fingers pinching a tiny fold of skin cruelly hard. Was it a vivid memory, or a moment of reality?

  Nobody loves you, Ellemoa, Rosin said. Nobody but me. Look: even your son hates you. Look at him. He wants to kill you. Everyone wants to kill you or enslave you. I’m your only salvation, Ellemoa. Do what I say and the pain will stop. Do what I say....