Heart Readers

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

The King entered the room and closed the door. Tarne tensed. The King hadn’t had a meeting of his top three advisers for a long time. The King grabbed a soft pillow, and brought it over, facing the three men. He used to stand during the meetings. But recently, he began sitting, as if standing had become too much effort.

  Yet he looked fit enough. His color was good and his body trim. In the past few weeks, he had lost the excess weight he had been carrying, and that made him appear even younger. He leaned back, resting one ankle on a knee. “Three days ago,” he said, “my sons arrived with news of the northern conquered lands. Apparently, we have a lot of discontent there. Our people saw signs of a growing, organized rebellion.”

  “Your sons?” Apne said. Tarne stifled an urge to turn. If anyone knew of the twins’ arrival, it should have been Apne.

  “I have asked them to join us,” the King said. He snapped his fingers and a side curtain opened. The twins entered and stood at attention behind their father. This time, the identifying clothing was missing and Tarne had to search for the strands of unruly hair to pick out Ele.

  “I want you to tell them what you saw in the north,” the King said without looking at his sons.

  “We stumbled—” they began in unison and then looked at each other. Vasenu nodded once and Ele continued. “We stumbled into a meeting in a tavern our first day in one of the provinces. We made no attempt to hide who we were, and when they saw our colors, they scattered. We had a few followed. The meetings were held at a different place every night. One of our scouts managed to get close enough to overhear some of the conversation. The group was planning the overthrow of our local provisional government. We warned the government before we left the area and gave them what names we had.”

  “So far there has been no trouble,” Vasenu said. It took Tarne a minute to realize the other twin was speaking. “But we found similar meetings in several other towns. We’re afraid that we would have an uprising on our hands before we even knew it.”

  “We’re always prepared for trouble,” Tarne said. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap. He hadn’t worked in the northern province. Goddé had taken most of those lands. Goddé believed in working with the people instead of smashing rebellion. If he had used Tarne’s methods, the quiet little meetings wouldn’t be happening.

  “All this news could have been sent with a messenger,” Wydhe said. “Why are you here?”

  Neither brother moved. Ele clasped his hands together.

  “I asked them to return,” the King said after too long a silence. “I think it’s time to start another phase of their training.”

  Tarne felt Apne’s gaze on his back. Vasenu smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Father believes that we’ve seen enough of the realm. Now we have to learn how to rule.”

  “It’s a test,” Ele murmured. He hadn’t moved, but his knuckles turned white. Tarne studied Ele’s face. The twin was frightened. Tarne knew what fear looked like, perhaps better than he knew any other emotion.

  “So you still plan to give us one ruler,” Wydhe said.

  “Joint rule doesn’t work.” The King didn’t move. “The experiences of my father and his father before him have shown us that.”

  Tarne squirmed. He had not paid a lot of attention to the history of Leanda, believing instead that he would be better off learning everything he could about the present, and manipulating it to his own benefit.

  Vasenu and Ele stood behind their father, shoulders touching. They looked secure enough, loyal enough. Yet the King’s words meant that one of them had to die. A little tremor ran down Tarne’s back. No one went voluntarily to his death. Perhaps, for the first time, Tarne had a legitimate way to seize some power. If he associated himself with one brother—it didn’t matter which, just as long as the brother accepted Tarne—then he might be able to control the succession.

  Tarne smiled just a little. The King noticed. “A problem, General?”

  “Yes, sire,” he said. “I’m still concerned about the unrest in the north. Perhaps if we learned a little more . . . ?”

  Then he leaned back and let the discussion proceed around him. Control the succession. Finally, he had a war to fight here at the palace. And the war was a covert one, played out in the human mind—his favorite battlefield.

  CHAPTER 4

  Stashie rested her elbows on the rolled-up rug. The sand scratched her legs. Her chalks and slates leaned against her thigh. Twilight gilded everything with cool shadows. She could barely see Dasis, arguing with the innkeeper a few buildings away.

  Stashie shook her head. She could tell from the innkeeper’s stance that no amount of argument would change his mind. He would rent out their room to a paying customer. Dasis’s pretty face and soft voice no longer charmed him. He wanted money or something neither woman would give.

  The town was small, a few mud-brick buildings and a half hundred tents. The town was losing its riches. A small pool, dirt encrusted, its underground spring dying, was its only means of support. The bazaar’s customers had trailed off in the few months that Dasis and Stashie had been there. No one wanted to come to a place that was water poor.

  A hand touched her shoulder. Stashie jumped. Dasis gazed down at her. Dasis’s curly hair framed her face, making her seem rounder, almost matronly. “We have to talk, Stashie.”

  “He wouldn’t help us, will he?”

  “No,” Dasis said. She sat down beside Stashie in the dirt. “He said to go to Leanda. He said there would be no more bazaars this far east for at least two seasons.”

  “We could go north—”

  “There’s unrest.” Dasis took Stashie’s hand. Dasis’s fingers were warm. “They’ll want fortune-tellers, not heart readers.”

  Stashie pulled away. “I can’t go to Leanda.”

  “I don’t see any other choice, Stash. The money here has dried up. No one can afford a heart reader. And the bazaars are gone. We have to go where the clients are, and they’re in Leanda.”

  “Then you go.” Stashie clasped her hands in her lap. Her palms still bore the scars of that day, all those years ago.

  “Don’t be stupid, Stashie. We have to go together.”

  Stashie shook her head. The twilight had grown to darkness. Behind them, someone had lit torches. Shadows danced across the street. “The troops are there. People—” her voice broke “—I can’t see. I couldn’t read up there, Dasis. I couldn’t help them. Please.”

  Dasis put her arm around Stashie’s back, but Dasis’s body remained rigid. She couldn’t understand. She never had, not even after she had found Stashie that first day, beaten beyond recognition, starved and dehydrated from a trek across the desert. Dasis had tended Stashie, saved her life, and had never allowed Stashie to tell her the entire story. Those things are best forgotten, Dasis had said. Stashie had loved her then. Stashie loved her now. But a bitterness had grown between them, a bitterness composed of an untold story and unhealed pain.

  “I think we’re in more danger being hurt here, in a province, than we are in the country proper, Stashie.” Dasis squeezed Stashie’s shoulder, then let go. “Let’s try. The border is only two days away. We’ll go to the first town we find, and leave at the first hint of trouble.”

  “Promise?” Stashie asked.

  Dasis nodded. “I promise. Will you come with me?”

  Stashie got up and wiped the dirt from her skirt. “I’ll think about it,” she said.

  ***

  Buildings shimmered like a mirage during the sun’s peak. Stashie wiped the sweat from her forehead. They hadn’t found a town. They had found a city. Leanda’s flag flew from the gate. Her heart pounded. Inside the gate, she would find soldiers. Too many soldiers.

  Dasis walked slightly ahead, her back bowed with the weight of the rug. Her hair had matted to her head and her skirts were covered with sand and dust. Still, her steps were light and her mood strong.

  Stashie kept her eyes on the flag. Its black-and-brown design flashed gold in the sunligh
t. The colors made her tremble inside and, if she closed her eyes, she saw the flag as she had last seen it, flying from a staff between her mother’s and brother’s heads.

  “This looks big enough,” Dasis said. She was staring at the city’s walls, uncountable numbers of buildings behind them. People thronged around the edges, and if Stashie squinted, she thought she could see uniforms.

  Stashie nodded. Big enough for soldiers, big enough for violence. She had become a heart reader because she thought she could stay away from the wars Leanda made. Heart readers catered to the curious at bazaars. They also performed services for the rich, and sometimes determined lines of power. But by staying in the provinces, Stashie could guarantee that she would never work for the powerful or the rich. She just hadn’t counted on the need to keep traveling. Most people had their hearts read only once. They would wait years before someone read it again.

  The dust from the road blew into her face. Sweat ran down her cheek. She felt grimy. Dasis had decreed that they needed to make money that day or they wouldn’t have a room for the night. Stashie wondered if she would make it into the city at all, let alone work at the bazaar.

  The city’s walls were made of mud-stone. Small, rounded viewspots perched at regular intervals in the brown surface. The gate stood open and, inside, Stashie could see teeming masses of human beings moving in various directions. She could also smell horses and sweat not her own.

  Dasis squeezed her arm. “Wait here,” she said.

  She set the rug down beside Stashie. Stashie reached into her large, oversewn pocket and felt the reassuring slate of her board. In the other pocket, her chalk box balanced the weight of her dress. Dasis carried food and water in her pockets. Stashie drew for them; Dasis read. Somehow that gave Dasis the most power between them.

  Dasis had walked up to the wall and disappeared around its far side. Stashie watched with an added degree of worry, waiting to see her partner’s skirts, swaying with a slight breeze. But she saw nothing. She imagined Dasis talking to one of the guards. He would be in uniform. He would (tie her up—the ropes chafing against her wrists—)

  “Stashie?”

  She started. Dasis was beside her, a smile on her face. She looked small and round and childlike. “The bazaar isn’t far from here. And it’s an open one.”

  Stashie nodded, feeling drained. An open bazaar was good. No one to bribe then, to let them set up their rug. She picked up the rug and settled it on Dasis’s back. Then they walked through the gate, together.

  ***

  They unrolled their rug in the heat of the afternoon sun. Around them, the bazaar was at the height of midday activity. Goats bleated. Pigs squealed. Children laughed and conversation rose like sand in the wind. Stashie took out the poles and the small canopy they kept wrapped inside the rug and, with Dasis’s help, assembled it. The canopy gave them needed shade and allowed them to work the entire day without heatstroke.

  Because they arrived so late, they had had to take a space at the very edge of the bazaar. The bazaar itself was located on a side street which opened into a wide alley. Through the cracks between the buildings, Stashie could see the main thoroughfare —horses, carriages, people on foot, and people in sedans being carried by servants. She had never been in a large city and the sights entranced her more than she had thought possible.

  Dasis tugged on her sleeve. “Stashie, let’s finish setting up.”

  Dasis had placed their change pouch in the center of the rug. She sat at the edge of the shade. Stashie pulled the slates from her pocket, grabbed two rags and set them beside Dasis. Then she took out her chalk box and opened it.

  The journey had damaged two of the chalks, breaking them in half. The colors were mixed, runnier than usual—thanks, probably, to her sweat. But they would do. She sat beside Dasis, legs crossed, palms resting on her knees and waited.

  They didn’t have to wait long. A thin, nervous-looking man with a scar under his chin trampled sand on the rug.

  “Heart readers?” he asked.

  Stashie nodded.

  “One gold piece for a short reading, two for a long, and three for an in-depth look at your heart,” Dasis said.

  The man fished two gold pieces from his pocket. As he reached to place them in the pouch, Stashie touched his hand.

  “Have you ever had your heart read before?”

  “Stashie!” Dasis hissed.

  “It’s part of the procedure,” she said calmly. Dasis knew the rules of the trade. She also tended to ignore them when she was hungry. Stashie had long ago learned the price of breaking rules.

  “No,” the man said. “But I was told that if I were to know myself, I needed my heart read.”

  “A heart reading does not show you the future. It does not give you luck. It only allows you to see through the masks into your own heart. And that can be painful. Do you understand?” Stashie kept her voice soft, even though her words were harsh.

  The man nodded.

  “Then sit,” Dasis said and waved to a place in front of Stashie.

  The man dropped his gold pieces into the pouch and sat cross-legged in front of Stashie, knees touching her knees. Stashie set the slate on her lap and took his left hand, tracing the fingers and the lines until she felt a spark. She traveled through his arm into that spark, deep inside him, feeling his heart—being his heart. Inside him, she felt deep pain, cold, and warmth. If she wasn’t careful, she would get lost inside him. She had to find her way back out. For a moment, she didn’t know how. Then she remembered.

  She willed her own hand to pick up a piece of chalk. She scratched the chalk along the slate, each movement bringing her out of his heart. Gradually she returned to her body, noting that her hand was finishing a sketch.

  Chalk dust filled the air. Blue, gold, and red lines marked the slate. Her fingers hurt. She let go of the man’s hand, and the sounds of the bazaar returned—talk, laughter, the rumble of wheels. Dasis took the slate from her, and Stashie had to lean back so that she didn’t collapse.

  Dasis studied the slate for a moment. Stashie leaned over to listen. What she drew never made sense to her. She only saw lines and squiggles, the same thing that the customer saw. Dasis wasn’t able to reach into the heart and sketch it, but she could interpret the heart that Stashie saw—and would be able to do so as long as she and Stashie remained heart-bound lovers.

  “Your heart is sore,” Dasis said. “It has witnessed so much pain that it is beginning to frost over. There is a small red core in the center—a new love, perhaps, that can melt this frost if you let it. But you must let it and want it. The danger from the red is that it will burn you completely and the small, ancient pile of ash that I see toward the edge of your heart will become a group of live but dying sparks.”

  The man clutched his hands together. “I thought you didn’t tell fortunes.”

  “We don’t,” Dasis said. “I tell you what is there now and where it might go. Any advice I give is a woman’s advice, not a mystic’s.”

  He glanced down at the slate. Stashie could see the disappointment in his face that he could not see what Dasis did.

  “Your heart is at a crisis point. It could become cool or burning hot—filled with passion or leached of love. Your choice.”

  The man reached for his gold pieces, as if he thought of taking them back, and then stopped himself. He stood rather shakily, and nodded his thanks. Then he disappeared into the crowd.

  Dasis wiped off the slate. “I’d forgotten what new ones were like.”

  “At least there’s gold,” Stashie said. “And perhaps a place to sleep tonight.”

  Dasis nodded. She gave the slate back to Stashie.

  “But, Dasis?” Stashie took the slate and set it beside her, then wiped her face with the back of her hand.

  “Mmmm?”

  “Don’t ever start a new customer without the warning. It’s not fair.”

  “It’s fair when we need the money.”

  “No,” Stashie said. “
For if we lie, the money will be tainted. Promise me this, Dasis.”

  Dasis frowned. Stashie could see the anger in her partner’s face. “I promise,” she said. “Although it will probably cost us a good percentage of our day’s earnings.”

  “Thank you.” Stashie watched as a young family approached their rug and then turned away.

  The rest of the afternoon went quickly. They read the spidered heart of a young woman (“cracked and about to shatter,” said Dasis); the small, dried-out raisin-sized heart of an old man (“never loved,” said Dasis); and the diamond-shaped heart of an elderly matron (“warmth lost to cruelty,” said Dasis). As the sun began to set, they had six gold pieces in their pouch, more money than they had ever seen at one time.

  “See?” Dasis said as she wiped off the last slate. “The city will do us good.”

  “The money will do us good,” Stashie said. She closed her chalk box. “I don’t like it here.” She stood up and went for the canopy when she heard shuffling behind her.

  “Heart readers? I thought only the King had heart readers.”

  Stashie whirled. Soldiers. Three of them clustered at the edge of the rug. She gripped the wooden canopy bar and willed herself not to shake. Dasis set her slate down and managed to look serene.

  “Heart readers are common in lands south of here. Would you like us to do a reading?”

  Stashie didn’t move. She couldn’t touch them. To touch one of them would send her screaming away in revulsion.

  The spokesman laughed. “To see if we’re little princelings? No, thanks.”

  He turned on his highly polished boots and walked away. The others followed. They moved with military precision and exactness. Stashie hadn’t seen anything like that in ten years.

  Dasis shook her head and stood up. She froze when she saw Stashie. “Stash?”

  “I won’t read for them.” The words emerged slowly. Stashie wasn’t even sure she spoke. “I don’t care how much they pay us.”

  “Stashie, they’re just clients—”