Heart Readers

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  If she hadn’t come up here, she would have been sharing a hostile meal with Dasis. They would sit on their bench in the inn and not speak to each other, concentrating on the stew and the other’s silence.

  Dasis. Darkness. Stashie felt the tension return.

  “Radekir?” she said.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Dasis is waiting for me.”

  “Let her wait.”

  Stashie took a slow breath. Dasis had hurt her, but Stashie couldn’t stay away an entire night. Dasis would panic, think that something had happened. Stashie couldn’t cause that.

  “I have to go,” Stashie said. She sat up. Goose bumps rose on her flesh as the chill air replaced Radekir’s warmth.

  “She’ll know what happened,” Radekir said. “If not tonight, then tomorrow when you try to read. You’re not going to change this, are you?”

  Stashie didn’t move. She couldn’t do that—go from one woman’s bed to another. She had to talk to Dasis.

  Stashie owed her that much. A discussion for all those years they’d been together. They would decide what was going to happen from there.

  “I want you to stay with me,” Radekir said.

  Stashie rolled off the pillows, her feet touching the cool floor. She couldn’t do that. She and Dasis had been together too long. And yet, she wasn’t happy anymore. She didn’t want to read in this city, and Dasis never listened to her. Perhaps it would be better if she left.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “We could leave Leanda, travel someplace without soldiers, someplace quiet. Do some readings . . .”

  “No.” Stashie grabbed her skirt. She couldn’t read with anyone but Dasis. “There are no places without soldiers anymore.”

  “I’m sure we could find something.” Radekir rose and leaned on one elbow. “Stashie, Dasis doesn’t understand you. I do.”

  “If you did,” Stashie said, slipping on her blouse and tucking it into her skirt, “then you wouldn’t push me like this.”

  Radekir didn’t move, but Stashie could sense a sudden chill in the room. “I thought you wanted me,” Radekir said.

  “I do.”

  “And I thought you wanted to be with me.”

  “I like you,” Stashie said. The darkness seemed to be growing. She had to find Dasis, before Dasis panicked.

  “Then stay,” Radekir said.

  Stashie didn’t feel even a pull. She smoothed back her hair with one hand and opened the door. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said and closed the door behind her.

  A single torch burned in the corridor. The faint smell of smoke filled the air. The dim light made Stashie squint. She adjusted her clothing. Her body throbbed. She felt as if anyone who saw her would know what she had just done.

  No one stood in the main hall. It was later than she thought. As she stepped outside, the midnight chill hit her full force. Goose bumps rose on her bare arms. She rubbed them, willing the chill away. The torches burned low and the streets were empty. Dasis had probably panicked a long time ago.

  Stashie let out a small sigh. Radekir had been so warm, so sympathetic, so different. But a moment ago, Stashie wanted Dasis. She wanted the comfort of their familiar relationship; the soft kisses before they dressed, the unspoken understandings that came from so many years together.

  She headed down the street toward their inn. She was trembling, and not just with the cold. What if Radekir were wrong? What if Stashie would not be able to read again? Dasis would never forgive her. Stashie would have injured their love and taken away their livelihood with the same act.

  Stashie shook her head. She had been stupid. She had allowed a difficult day, old memories, and fears to jeopardize everything she had.

  Something white caught her attention. The torchlight was too dim and she wasn’t able to see clearly. She was near the area of the bazaar. She recognized the open space, the lack of nearby buildings. It looked alien in its emptiness. When she and Dasis arrived in the mornings, just as the sun rose, people had already set up their rugs and their booths.

  The white thing shimmered, like the heat visions she had seen when she crossed the desert so many years ago. She squinted, then frowned. It was a rug. Someone had left a rug.

  Odd. People who worked the bazaar treasured the few possessions that they had. No one would willingly leave a rug, and the others would go out of their way to retrieve a lost possession. Bazaar people watched out for each other.

  She swallowed, then made herself move forward. The rug’s shimmer stopped; a trick of the strange light. She had to walk farther than she had planned, almost to the bazaar’s outer edge, where she and Dasis sat every day.

  Stashie’s entire throat had gone dry. She ran the last few feet, then stopped at the rug’s edge, eyes closed. The darkness was playing tricks on her. Dasis would never leave the rug. They had woven it together, the year they had started to read. Stashie slowly sank to her knees. If she opened her eyes and looked, the weave would be unfamiliar. Someone else had left the rug. They had to have.

  She opened her eyes, hand poised above the rug’s fringe. The weave bore a thin plait of blue. Dasis had added it as a touch of whimsy. Whimsy. That had left their relationship too.

  Stashie touched the fringe. It felt soft, almost foreign. Dasis had left the rug. Had she left the slates in the room? Would Stashie find pieces of chalk scattered across the road? Was this Dasis’s way of saying everything had ended?

  Stashie bowed her head. She had wanted to talk first, before anyone had decided anything. She hadn’t realized that Dasis would be so hurt.

  “Mistress?”

  Stashie started. The voice had come from behind her. She had thought she was alone. She rocked on her heels and rose, breathing slowly so that she remained calm.

  The man who stood in front of her had a patch over one eye. His silver-gray hair curled around his forehead. She had spoken to him twice before; he vended fresh fruits on the other side of the bazaar.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “I was beginning to think you were gone too.”

  “Too?” Stashie’s voice broke. She had been too self-absorbed to think that something else might have happened to Dasis. Something that had nothing to do with Stashie.

  “Your partner returned shortly after you left,” he said. She thought she could hear faint disapproval in his tone. She forced herself to keep breathing slowly. “She waited for you for hours here.”

  Stashie’s shoulders tightened. Dasis had panicked a long time ago, then. While Stashie rolled in Radekir’s arms.

  “The sun started to set, and some approached her to get her to pack up, take care of herself. But she didn’t even acknowledge them.”

  The chill seemed to grow. Stashie wrapped her arms around her waist to keep herself warm.

  “My partner was bargaining for the last of our produce when I happened to look over here. Your partner was surrounded by soldiers and—”

  “Soldiers?” Stashie’s voice emerged in a half-whisper.

  He nodded. “They took her with them some time ago.”

  Soldiers. Stashie remembered the sun shining on their armor, the stink of sweat and horses. She remembered the rough, calloused hands stroking her skin, and the braying, mirthless laughter. “Did they hurt her?”

  “Not while I was watching,” he said. “They surrounded her, talked to her, and then took her with them. There were seven of them. There was nothing I could do.”

  Stashie extended a trembling hand to him. “You waited for me. That was enough.”

  He took her hand and squeezed it. His fingers were soft and warm. “I would hope someone would do that for me if something happened to my partner. I’m going to have to go now,” he said.

  “I know.” Her entire body felt empty. She bent down and began rolling the rug, thankful to have something to keep her hands busy. “Thank you for waiting for me.”

  He nodded, then disappeared into the darkness. Stashie rolled the rug, creepi
ng behind it on her knees in the dirt.

  Dasis was gone. Taken by soldiers. They would take her into a small room, beat her and rape her, then take her outside and—

  No. Stashie shook her head a little. They couldn’t. This was Leanda. The people here didn’t fear the soldiers, not like she had. She and Dasis had just read for the King. Perhaps he wanted a new reading. Perhaps they needed more information.

  Perhaps they had taken her to the room, abused her, and left her for dead. Stashie had to see. She had to know.

  Even if she didn’t want to.

  CHAPTER 21

  Pardu couldn’t breathe. The air stalled in his lungs—and it was hot, too hot, even though he was surrounded by darkness. The pillows stuck to his back and he could feel the sweat pooling around his legs. Finally, he forced himself to exhale, and the coughs followed: deep, racking, painful, starting at the bottom of his chest and burning their way up.

  “Sire?”

  A man’s voice. One he should recognize. The curtains had been pulled back and a silhouette stood in the doorway. A silhouette holding a lamp.

  “Sire?”

  Pardu couldn’t stop coughing. He felt as if he couldn’t get enough air, but he couldn’t breathe in. Inhaling made the coughing worse. He was growing dizzy—and the pillows, the damn pillows—were stuck to his skin. He had to get them off. He had to breathe. He had to—

  Cool hands on his shoulders easing him back. A cup at his lips.

  “Drink, sire.”

  He pushed the cup away, felt liquid splash on his chest. Immediately he got cold, too cold for the indoors, even in darkness.

  “Sire, please.”

  The coughing finally stopped. He took a shallow breath, hesitant, afraid that the pain would start again. By the gods, he was cold. He reached for a covering, wondering why the pillows moved with him. Perhaps he wasn’t as far upright as he had thought. And he was thirsty.

  “Sire?”

  He jumped. Someone was there with him. Someone he knew. He squinted. A light sat on the floor, at the edge of a spray of blood. His personal servant, Aene, knelt on the pillows beside Pardu. Aene had blood on his knees, his thighs.

  “What happened?” Pardu whispered, feeling the tickle in the back of his throat, fearing it. His mouth tasted coppery and he was so thirsty.

  “You were ill, sire.” Aene held out a cup. “I brought you some wine.”

  So that was what had spilled. The wine. Pardu took the cup, amazed at how badly his hands were shaking. He was breathing easier now, but the threat of another cough hung in the back of his throat.

  He sipped once, felt the liquid go down and soothe the itch. Then he breathed—in and out—deeply and slowly. Better. He was feeling better.

  “Did I spill the wine?” he asked.

  “A little, sire. I’ll clean off your chest in a moment.”

  Chest? Pardu touched himself, feeling the ribs poke through, the sticky wine on his too soft, too old skin. “You need to get the floor too,” he said. “And yourself. I’m sorry for the mess, Aene.”

  “It’s not wine, sire.” Aene’s voice was soft. Pardu wasn’t sure he heard correctly.

  “Not—?”

  “No, sire. It’s blood. I came in and you were coughing blood. Great gobs of it. Let me send for the physicians. They’ll—”

  “No.” Pardu made himself breathe again. The taste in his mouth wasn’t copper. It was blood. He remembered from his youth, all the war injuries, the lost teeth. Blood. His father had coughed blood—great gobs of it, as Aene said—just before he died. “The physicians will give me something to make me sleep. I don’t want to sleep. Let’s clean this up, and have someone bring water. I want to bathe.”

  “But, sire, you’re ill and the water spirits—”

  “Are superstition. And I’m dying, Aene. Even if I’m wrong and they exist, they can’t do much to me now.”

  Aene lowered his head. “Yes, sire,” he said, then rocked back on his heels and stood up. He scurried into the hall, always efficient, always moving.

  Pardu leaned back on the pillows. He was exhausted. He ran a finger through the stuff on the floor. Felt like blood. He sniffed. Smelled like blood. He had less time than he thought. Days, maybe hours. His father had become delirious, childlike in his last few days, his mind gone. Pardu didn’t remember Aene’s arrival, hadn’t realized that he had coughed blood, didn’t remember spilling the wine. All that was clear to him was the pain, and the feeling of burning, deep within his chest.

  He drew up a coverlet, not caring that he stained it with the wine and blood. So little time left. So much to do. Neither son was ready to rule. They didn’t understand all the little secrets, all the things that Pardu had kept to himself, never thinking that he would have to share them. If his mind were going, he would have to train them quickly. He would have to use as much time as he had left working with his successor.

  Aene came back in, carrying another lamp. The room grew brighter. Darkness still hovered at the edges. Two other servants arrived, carrying a tub, followed by others with steaming water buckets. They poured the water into the tub, then Aene helped Pardu stand.

  The dizziness had returned. Pardu swayed, afraid that he would fall in front of these people. But he didn’t. Aene half carried him to the tub and eased him inside. The water felt good and soothing. Pardu hadn’t realized how much his body ached until he sat down.

  One of the servants took a bucket and began scrubbing the blood from the floor. Another took the pillows and coverlet, and cleared out the wine glass, getting rid of the mess from Pardu’s bad night.

  They would return with more pillows, more coverlets, and then the entire palace would know of Pardu’s growing illness. The physicians would want to keep him sedated, the advisers would no longer trust his opinions, and Tarne would take control instead of one of Pardu’s sons.

  The heart readers. He had planned for them to come in several days. But they were the key to Leanda’s future. Their reading would determine which brother would rule. He needed to know sooner. He couldn’t work with them both and then cast the other away. And he had to be clearheaded, in case something went wrong with the reading itself.

  Aene took a sponge and rubbed it down Pardu’s back. The touch felt good. Pardu wasn’t sure he was strong enough to do it himself.

  “Aene,” he said.

  “Yes, sire?”

  Pardu thought he heard caution in his servant’s voice, the tone a person used with an elderly man, a fool, or a child. “Get my advisers and my sons. Bring them to the Assembly Room just after dawn. We’ll do the reading then.”

  “The heart readers?” Aene was so tactful. He was reminding Pardu as cautiously as he could that he had forgotten to give orders about the readers.

  Pardu smiled just a little. He hadn’t forgotten. “Tarne knows which readers we’re going to use. Have him bring them.”

  “Yes, sire.” Aene snapped his fingers. Another servant rose. Aene handed him the cloth and instructed him on how to finish the King’s bath.

  Pardu sank into the water, letting it warm him. For the first time, he felt old. He would be glad when everything was finished.

  CHAPTER 22

  She stared at him from across the tent. The candlelight gave her face a haunted quality. She stood, her feet digging into the rug. Tarne smiled. She was breaking, even though she didn’t know it yet. He knew the signs. This woman would cry or plead. One moment she would fight him, the next her mind would snap like fine glass.

  He didn’t want to snap her, at least not yet. He wanted to make her fear him—and he had done that.

  She was pretty enough, and delicate in a robust sort of way. Her movements, despite her weight, were dainty and refined. The kind of woman built for bearing children—and the kind of woman who never would.

  Unless she was forced.

  He adjusted the pillows on the side of the room and untied his shirt. Her words had made him cautious. If he did take her, he might interfere w
ith the reading, and that was the last thing he wanted. No, he would take her later, after it had ended, when she began to think of ways to get even with him. If she persisted, he would snap her so easily that her partner would never know what happened.

  “Are you done with me?” she asked.

  He smiled and toyed with the ties on his pants. She grew pale. It was enough to let her think he was going to use her. “You haven’t made any agreements with me,” he said.

  “I don’t bargain under threat.” Her voice was calm, but her eyes were wide—the eyes of a trapped animal.

  It was a sight he loved, and one he saw too rarely since he had become the King’s adviser.

  “You’re in no position to bargain.”

  She shook her head and crossed her arms. “If what you say is true, if the King truly has chosen us, then you cannot harm me, for he would know. And you cannot harm Stashie for the same reason.”

  “Not before.” He made sure his expression remained pleasant and his tone agreeable. “But I can hurt you afterward. Judging from who you are and why we picked you in the first place, you’re not willing to sacrifice your happiness or your life to maintain the correct succession.”

  To her credit, she didn’t look away. She continued to stare at him. But she said nothing.

  Voices echoed outside the tent, and shadows moved. Tarne froze. Something unusual was going on. He had left orders for complete silence.

  He got up and pushed back the flap. The soldiers had gathered in front of the door. Toward the back, more men stood with torches. He had a momentary recollection of a midnight attack more than twenty years previous, but knew that was not what he was facing.

  He snapped his fingers and nodded a man inside the tent. He wanted the woman watched. She was cunning enough to make a weapon while he was gone and to use it against him.

  “What’s the disturbance?” He gave his voice a ring that brought all of the men to attention. They parted to allow the men in the back through. The leader, a good soldier named Waene, bowed in front of Tarne. Tarne touched Waene’s shoulder, and he stood.