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

by Leona Wisoker

  She paused, as though expecting a response. He shrugged, not sure how to steer her away from the maudlin speech he could sense coming, particularly as he suspected it wouldn’t be entirely genuine.

  “I’ve been thinking it over,” she said, crossing her arms and not, to Tank’s relief, in the least soppy. “And it wasn’t only that you were decent. It was—like you knew me, knew all about the worst of me, and you accepted it. Like it didn’t matter to you. And I thought about the nightmare, and how you listened to me tell it, and I remembered you said something. I got stuck on a word, and you said it for me. But you couldn’t have known.”

  “It was an easy guess,” Tank said, glancing away.

  “No,” she said. “See—I know how to spot a lie, myself. You didn’t guess. You knew. As though you’d—seen—the dream. And it seemed to me that I’d—felt—someone beside me, during that nightmare, that night; someone watching alongside me. And I think it was you.”

  Tank glanced along the hallway, suddenly anxious—and not only because her tone had begun to waver from matter-of-fact to emotion-laden. “Not so loud—”

  “There—see?” Wian said. “It was you!”

  “Was or wasn’t, doesn’t matter,” Tank said. “Talk like that and you’ll get me hung as a witch.”

  She laughed. “Not so much, these days,” she said, her tone steadying back to dry cynicism. “Not in King Oruen’s court, and with all the desert lords parading about Bright Bay these days.”

  “It’s not all that safe out on the Coast Road yet,” he said, “and gossip flies faster than a horse gallops. So if you don’t mind, drop that talk. I don’t see where it matters, anyway.”

  “It matters because it changed me,” she said. “It made me realize that you were right. I can change my part in the world. I can change my life. You did.” She paused again, her dark eyes searching his face for reaction: he gave her his best blank stare in return.

  He wasn’t about to explain how he’d done it. He had no intention of telling her that Allonin had bought him out of a katha village and invested considerable time and effort in breaking him from that mindset. Had no interest in pointing out that it had taken a team of ketarch healers and the teachings of an old woman who wasn’t, in Tank’s retrospective opinion, nearly as simple as she’d seemed at the time—in short, if not for the hard work of a number of dedicated people over the course of months and years—he wouldn’t have changed one bit.

  Except in the strictly physical sense: because by now, he’d have been dead. So it wasn’t at his feet that the change ought to be laid, but to Aerthraim efforts, much as he hated to admit it—and he wouldn’t, to her. It wasn’t any of her concern, and her efforts to change herself weren’t any of his.

  She went on in spite of his lack of reaction: “I begged sanctuary from the king. He granted it. And now—well, Seavorn’s dead, and Kippin’s on the run, and I have a chance at starting over. Because of you. Because you listened.”

  Tank shrugged, deeply uncomfortable. The only thing he could think of to say was So what do you want from me now, then?; which seemed tactless at best and an invitation to emotional ranting at worst.

  In the distance, something smashed. Wian jerked, her attention focusing on that noise, then grabbed Tank’s wrist and cried, “This way!”

  He let her drag him into a dead run; managed to jerk his wrist free after the second turn, but by then he was so hopelessly lost that following her seemed the safest course.

  Gaudy, intricate decorations caught Tank’s eye as they ran: a spray of long, crimson feathers, their quills dipped in fine silver, arced along one wall. A mosaic of moon-silk shell pieces, each smaller and thinner than Tank’s littlest fingernail, glittered along another. He slowed to take a second, astonished glance at that as he went by, unable to believe not only the intense amount of craft that had gone into that decoration, but that someone had spent so much time building something so useless.

  “Come on,” Wian called. She’d stopped at the last door in a long hallway and was waving him forward.

  “This isn’t the kitchens, is it?” he said, knowing it for a stupid comment. She ignored him and pushed through the door. Moments later, someone screamed from within: a woman, tortured and fierce.

  “She’s awake!” Wian cried.

  Something else crashed. Someone swore. Wian yelped.

  Tank went through the outer room, compelled, impelled by something he had no words for. Not Wian—no. There was a smell in the air, tantalizing, vague, demanding—

  The door to the inner room of the suite hung half-open. Tank saw glimpses of movement through it, and heard another heartrending scream. Sense said Walk away and Not my business; something more reckless and primal drove him to peer through the doorway.

  A tall, dark-haired woman marked by a horrifying array of bruises, cuts, and weals stood, naked, in the middle of the room. Lord Eredion and a strange dark-skinned man, both fully dressed, stood against the walls to either side of her. Glass fragments were scattered across the floor by their feet.

  Wian knelt before the woman, dazed, hand to her head; surrounded by more broken glass and shards of pottery. Blood trickled down her neck.

  “Gods damn it, Alyea!” Lord Eredion said. “We’re not going to hurt you! Deiq, can’t you—”

  “She’s too fragile,” the other man said. “There’s nothing for me to grab hold of. She’s still raving with dasta.”

  Dasta—the word set off an unexpected cascade of connections and memories. Tank’s vision went hazy, tremors rippling through his muscles; he fisted his hands, fighting the all-too-familiar feeling: the beginning of a fit.

  He couldn’t move. Couldn’t even reach for the belt pouch with the all-important chich sticks. A sharp whine began to build in the back of his head, emerged as a broken whimper: somewhere distant, someone cried, “Get out of here, you idiot!”

  Another voice said something about helping and Tank.

  He tried to shake his head, not understanding: Tank meant nothing to him, helping was a word without a meaning—all that existed was the pain, the fear, the anger—

  The dark-haired woman turned and looked at him, looked through him, looked into him.

  I see you, she said.

  Her mouth didn’t move. The words unrolled directly into his mind, a series of language-images that wove through the mist, pushing it aside, locking his attention wholly onto her.

  I see you. I can’t see anything else—where am I? What’s happening to me? Why am I so angry? Why are you so angry?

  He opened his mouth to say I don’t know to at least one of the questions. Before he could form the first breath of sound, he felt her shove aside the mist for a better look at his anger—

  Glass crunched under his knees. A howl ripped from his throat. His childhood rose behind his eyes in a flurry of images he’d worked for years to forget. Defiance and rage shoved her back with feral strength:

  GodsdamnitIdonotwanttolookatthat—and you have no right—no! Enough. Stop. Get out!

  She sucked in a shattered-sounding breath and cried out without words: images unrolled into his mind, a series of crystalline moments from her own memories—

  —her head snapped to one side so hard she saw stars... He’d almost broken her neck with the blow—

  —Cabe, kill them... A sharp blade, a gout of blood... Thick perfume, sweet-sick, the world going black... Waking to blue and white curtains and a familiar stare—

  He didn’t know the man she showed him, but he knew that stare, oh gods yes, he knew that look: the look of someone who was curious, gods help him, curious as to what would happen if he bent a boy’s pinky finger just so or laid a hot iron just there—

  Ohholygodsno—Idon’twanttoseethis—no—please—

  The images rolled on, unstoppable as a sandstorm, eroding the boundaries he’d built between past and present, destroying his self and turning him into an amalgamation of alyea/tank/littlered—

  —her defiance: Just ki
ll me... dryly amused answer: Oh, no, no... That’s silly. And no fun at all... her temper, blazing back: Go fuck yourself!... a sentiment littlered/tank empathized with completely—

  —branded... I’ve got my own scars... so what? Only it wasn’t so what, not now, not with her pain ripping open the closed doors he’d long ago, with Allonin and Teilo’s help, locked tight and sealed, so he’d thought, forever—forever safe, forever normal, forever notthatpersonanymore—

  Pressure. Warmth. She was in his arms now, weeping uncontrollably; he’d come to his feet at some point. Something tickled his knees with a feathery touch. Ignoring that, he wrapped his arms around her, even as his own pain/rage screamed Throw her across the room, get her away, get clear, run, run, run—

  —then his rage was subsumed in her own, and the pain-memories kept unrolling—

  —she tried to punch out... to spring, to claw, anything—

  —littlered, limp, helpless against that different face wearing the same detached, amused stare... You don’t have to take the dasta every time, Tan said. Palm it. Dump it on the floor and kick dirt over it... But then what they do will hurt more, littlered said... So? Tan said. You’ll be awake. You’ll be yourself ... Pain isn’t that important. Being awake, being alive, is.

  —hold her, Tevin—

  —a thick miasma of rosemary and garlic—Tank gagged on the memory of that smell, staggering back to a dizzying awareness of the room around him: from the boots on his feet to the dawn light frosting the drapes to the severe glares of two men nearby, at least one of whom raw instinct demanded he run from immediately—

  —and back into the swirling maelstrom of shared/tangled memories once more—

  One thread of the agony, at least, he understood, could do something about, could grasp: dasta. He worked a trembling hand free and pawed into his belt pouch until his fingers wrapped around a thick stick of chich; pulled it out, heedless of spilling anything else from the pouch, simply not caring about anything but getting some fraction of their shared pain to stop.

  He nudged her chin with a knuckle—Trust me, trust me, this will help—slipped the chich into her mouth, told her to chew, keep chewing, keep chewing—

  The trembling, sharp urgency faded. She sagged, locked muscles releasing all at once. He staggered as he scooped her up. The weight brought the tickling in his knees to a flare of bright, new pain, finally identifiable: he’d landed on the broken glass earlier. His knees were badly cut.

  But pain didn’t matter. It never really had.

  There was a soft bed a few steps away, one she attached a sense of safety to; he lurched the short distance and let the mattress take her weight from him. Tried to back away, to regain a separation of self, head still spinning: No, don’t leave me alone, she said, fiercely commanding.

  With no defenses left against her, he gave up and let himself press into the mattress, her warmth solidly tucked up along his torso and legs, her hair in his nose. Her scent was thick with pain-sweat and old blood and—other—odors. If he could have moved he would have rolled away and bolted from that alone, but his body simply refused to so much as twitch, every muscle exhausted, every old scar and bruise and brand aching, and her pain writhing through him—

  —a knife, sliding under the skin, delicate, twisting, lifting, peeling—

  Stop, he said, summoning everything he had for that command. Stop. It’s over. No point going back over it. Let it stop.

  She pulled in a long, shuddering breath; let it out; slid, unstoppable, over the edge into complete black unconsciousness, dragging him along into the relief of oblivion.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Idisio walked in a grey haze, only dimly aware of his surroundings: evening had melted into true night, blurring shadows into solids and solids into uncertainties. Sandsplit seemed a place of ambiguities and mystery; bushes became mystical shapes that spoke of hidden secrets, the chill air bristled with intriguing aromas, and the ground underfoot seemed less a definite surface than a convenient suggestion.

  He wondered if he could sink down into the ground, walk through dirt and rock as though they were as permeable as air.

  Of course you can, someone whispered; it sounded almost like the familiar voice of his intuition, but seemed much clearer—and carried an oddly feminine tenor. But not right now. That’s not important right now. Keep going....

  He obeyed the prompting, trusting the voice as he’d always trusted his intuition. A stately cottage with a brick path curving around it seemed familiar: he paused some distance away, studying it with interest.

  I’ve been there before, he thought hazily. With... with someone else. A sensation of chill damp, the smell of mud—a ripple of darkness and fear—flittered across his mind, then faded into irrelevance. That didn’t matter either.

  He circled the cottage, the intuition-voice steering him in a steadily narrowing spiral; found himself reversing as gradually, until he stood well away from the building once more.

  So someone here knows about our presence, the voice said. Look closely—right there, and there—

  Idisio focused: a thread-thin, shimmering line traced along the ground all the way around the cottage.

  That’s a ward-line, the voice said. It’s a general one, to turn away all our kind. It’s drawn with foul substances and no real skill; I could break it easily. I should punish this fool for his impertinence—barring us! He has no right to stop us going anywhere we wish to walk. But that can wait. Right now, I have an important lesson to teach you. This way....

  Idisio moved through night-quiet streets. Humans passed by, oblivious to his presence; guided by the voice, he let them be. Common laborers, shopkeepers, housewives: they weren’t what he was after. They weren’t... interesting enough.

  This way....

  At the edge of Sandsplit, a small cottage stood alone, separated from its nearest neighbor by a wide border of garden rows and hedges. Smoke came from the chimney, firelight and lanternlight limned the shuttered windows: it was a tidy house, a quiet spot, a respectable place.

  Here, the voice said. Listen. Listen closely....

  Idisio put his hand to the whitewashed brick of the wall and closed his eyes, focusing: a swirl of motion, the faint scrape and splat of footsteps, a kettle being stirred, a fire being prodded brighter.

  One human. A woman. Young.

  Alone.

  Listen, the voice said again. Listen, more closely yet. Listen to her.

  Idisio blinked and splayed his hand out more widely across the brick, then shut his eyes again.

  Satisfaction: she could take care of the house, as her mother had taught her. Mother would be proud of me. As her father would be, when he came home. When will he be home? It’s been so long. I hope nothing’s happened to him on the way. She wouldn’t worry over it. Each day brought what each day brought, and there was nothing to be done about it. Turn the lantern up a bit, there’s mending yet to be done—always something to keep busy with, have to keep busy.

  Wistful: The hope-day dance last night. I wish I’d gone. But her father had said to stay away from such things unless she had a chaperone along, and cousin Behe was off to Sandlaen Port for something or another, and Father was off to Bright Bay for his business—He said he’d be back by hope-day. He promised. I shouldn’t worry. I shouldn’t. But... he’s never been this delayed before.

  Lonely: Nobody to talk to. I’d so like to go walking out with someone. Even Nenea has that young man from Obein who visits her on occasion. But everyone is too busy... and I’m not so interesting or attractive as to make up for our lack of money or status. Nobody will look my way—certainly not when I’m hardly allowed to go out and meet anyone! If Father’s business does better this trip, perhaps... I wonder where he is. Oh, I shouldn’t worry over him. But it is so very, very quiet here. What I’d give for someone to talk to....

  Idisio felt a sigh ghosting through his mind. Yes, the intuition-voice whispered. This is what you’re looking for. This one will do. Knock
on the door.

  As he approached the door, an odd shifting took place inside him, a sensation like a pin being slid from the hinges of a gate. He paused, blinking: the world around him seemed, infinitesimally, different. Sharper. Louder. More ... real.

  Never mind, the voice told him. Knock.

  The wood trembled under his knuckles; he winced and lightened up on the next few raps.

  The door opened. The girl stared out at him, more attractive than she saw herself: long brown hair, neatly plaited back into a heavy braid; hazel eyes; a northern-sharp nose and high forehead. She had just enough by way of curves to show gender but no more, and her plain blue dress made no attempt to draw attention to what was there.

  “Good evening, s’e,” she said, polite and wary all at once, one foot casually wedged behind the door.

  “Good evening, s’a,” he said, bowing a little, and found himself caught in a dizzying moment of confusion over what to say next. Then words spilled out: “I have news from your father. He’s been delayed somewhat in Bright Bay, and asked me to stop in and speak to you on my way through Sandsplit.”

  She smiled but didn’t move, her gaze still watchful. “That’s kind of you, s’e,” she said. Her thoughts came through as clearly as speech: So he knows I’m alone; but Father would never send a young man to our door while he was away. Not without giving him the pass phrase we’ve arranged.

  The pass phrase came to Idisio with the faintest nudge: chachad bird feathers. Something about that amused him, but he couldn’t think of why. He said, smiling easily, “He’s doing very well with his business, he’ll be bringing back a fine profit, and he’ll be bringing back some of those chachad bird feathers you asked for.”

  She stared a moment, then her smile relaxed.

  “Come in, s’e,” she said. “I’ve a kettle on for tea.”

  “Thank you, s’a, that would be a treat,” he said, and followed her in, careful to leave her plenty of space. Careful now, intuition-voice warned. Don’t scare her. You want her trust.