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

by Leona Wisoker

  Idisio’s jaw dropped. “You’re serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s going to—just—here? In front of—dear gods. I can’t—” Idisio started to stand, then glanced down and hastily sank under the concealing line of soap film once more.

  Anada’s mouth twitched. “I could help with that, ha’inn,” she said. “Idisio. If you wish.”

  Idisio let out a vaguely strangled sound. A woman emerged from a side room, carrying a wooden tray of bathing supplies. Her dark hair was shorn back as tightly as Anada’s, her naked body rather leaner and less rounded. She walked steadily, gaze unwavering, towards the tub Lord Ondio had climbed into.

  Idisio shut his eyes. He couldn’t help wondering if Deiq had known this would happen; it seemed entirely likely. Manipulative bastard.

  “Are my clothes clean yet?” he said through his teeth.

  “That will take some considerable time,” Anada said. He could hear the laughter in her voice. “We can offer you a robe, of course, or a waist-wrap—but neither of those do a very good job of, ah, concealment for certain matters. And they are very undignified garb for a long walk across the fortress.”

  “You’re enjoying this,” he accused, keeping his eyes firmly shut.

  “Idisio,” she said, her tone turning serious, “it is a signal honor to be your kathain, however briefly. I do not wish you any distress; that is no part of my job. I do wish you would relax and trust me.”

  “It’s not you,” he said. Somewhere to his right, a woman cried out softly—he couldn’t tell whether in pain or pleasure.

  She sighed. “I understand,” she said. “Believe me, I understand. But to leave now—I’m truly sorry, ha’inn. Southern status is a very complicated thing. You must not appear to be fleeing something so simple.”

  “Simple?”

  The woman cried out again—definitely pained this time. Idisio ground his teeth together, flickers of silver turning over behind his closed eyelids, a rank smell coating his nostrils; he inhaled deeply, focusing on the smell of apples and ginger, and made himself relax again.

  “Yes. Simple. The kathain you hear is trained to handle such as Lord Ondio. She will not truly be harmed.” Anada paused, sighed, then went on. “I take no joy from your distress over this, ha’inn. I understand you see this differently than we do. When I saw you arrive, I had hoped the gathered lords would wait rather longer before availing themselves of this room after Conclave, and that a gentler one would be first in. F’Heing lords are always a little—energetic. Their tastes and customs differ from Scratha—rather widely.”

  The sharp slap of a hand against wet skin echoed through the thick air. Idisio shivered, his stomach turning over. Deiq’s dry parting comment came to mind: Between you and Alyea... Idisio had a feeling that Deiq wouldn’t have any trouble with this situation at all. But Deiq didn’t know... and had probably better never find out, either.

  “What happened to that sacred bit you mentioned, that equality you told me about?” he demanded, pushing distress into anger to keep unpleasant memories from surfacing. “How does that allow for—this?”

  “Customs differ,” she said, no less serene. “If you will trust me, Idisio—there is already a screen set between; that is from Lord Ondio’s own preference. You will see nothing, which may help, and if you will speak with me, the noises will soon be irrelevant.”

  Idisio swallowed hard and risked a glance; a simple folding screen of wooden panels blocked off the view, as promised. He couldn’t help muttering, “She’s trained?”

  A faint smile flitted over Anada’s face. “Tell me,” she said gravely, “what the great city of Bright Bay is like. I am told you lived there for a time, and I suspect most of what I have heard is rather exaggerated or distorted. Is there truly a gate cast all about with gold and diamonds?”

  “Yeah,” Idisio said. “The gold, anyway. I didn’t ever see any diamonds.” He began to relax.

  “What wastefulness,” Anada said, a little wistfully. “There are more of these gates, is this true? I was told of one used only by the dead, which I do not understand.”

  “Oh, yeah, the Black Gate,” Idisio said readily. “That one’s not really a gate, I don’t think. I mean, it used to always be open... .”

  The sounds beyond the screen eased from pained yelps to more guttural growls of mutual pleasure; Idisio found his breath coming more easily, and Anada’s smile brightened in response. She was very attractive, and her laugh was more — more graceful, somehow, than Riss’s usual coarse guffaw. Idisio blinked hard and told raucous jokes to distract himself from thinking about the differences between Anada and Riss. She promptly matched him, bawdy for bawdy. His chest began to hurt from laughing, and the nearby noises altogether faded from his notice.

  By the time the water cooled and Idisio stepped out for a towel-down, Lord Ondio—and his companions—had long since left.

  Idisio scarcely remembered they’d been there at all.

  Chapter Six

  Rain pounded down as though Ishrai had decided to drown the world. The purpose of Bright Bay’s high sidewalks became apparent as the streets steadily filled with water. Horses slogged through an ankle-deep slurry of liquefied street trash, their riders hidden under thick cloaks and hoods, while pedestrians kept their feet relatively dry on the walkways to either side.

  Tank found himself welcoming the deluge. While thunder and lightning did make him markedly nervous, a simple downpour like this felt deeply cleansing. His childhood in a coastal village hadn’t exactly lent itself to a day spent playing in the rain.

  Coastal village. He considered the words, nodding to himself. That was a safe description. Far better than the only real translation for katha village; and the words were close enough that he could always stutter over to the better term during a careless moment.

  Northerns wouldn’t know the difference, anyway.

  He lifted his face to the rain for a moment, as though that might wash away the grey stain that came across his vision every time he thought about his childhood. Avin. Tan. Damn it, damn you, damn them—but it was over, and didn’t matter now. Mercenary. Mercenary. Ordinary, normal life.

  Water streaked across his face, stinging his eyes and blurring his vision. He blinked his sight back to relatively clear and went on, tugging his hood lower on his forehead.

  The water level in the street dropped as he crossed from the dock section of Bright Bay into the more affluent merchant and residential areas. He paused, squinting through the rain, and discovered a series of long, narrow drain slits along the lower edges of the high sidewalks, and a higher elevation in the center of the street than at the edges.

  Tilting his head to listen more carefully, he could hear that part of the thundering roar around him came from beneath his feet, as water cascaded through the drains down into the catacombs and, presumably, out into the bay.

  The skin on the back of his neck tightened. Someone was watching him.

  He lifted his gaze from the street and saw someone, heavily cloaked and hooded against the rain, standing not far away. Something in the breadth of the shoulders and the stance indicated a man; the sense of intent regard and the man’s stillness implied recognition.

  He couldn’t possibly see my face in this muck, and I’m not wearing anything with a mark on it. So what is he recognizing me by?

  Desert lord. Has to be. Damnit, I didn’t even get to the Hall—

  Tank stood still, gathering every muscle into readiness, keeping his mind ferociously blank, and waited. The figure shifted back a half-step, then paused and came forward with slow, measured steps. He stopped just out of arm’s reach and studied Tank without speaking. Just visible under the hood, southern features came clear, and black eyes; the rain obscured expression, but there probably wasn’t much to begin with.

  “You’re Tanavin Aerthraim,” the man said without any doubt in his voice.

  Tank’s heart thudded up into a higher rhythm for a panicked moment.


  “No,” he said. “I’m Tank, and I’ve never seen you before. Now piss off.”

  The man regarded Tank for another moment, inscrutable; then his head dipped in a faint nod and he turned away without another word.

  Tank stood, breathing hard, his throat thick with things he wished he could have said, questions he dearly wanted to demand answers to: How do you know who I am? Who the hells are you? How much do you know about me?

  Were you here when it happened?

  Better not to ask. Better not to know.

  Mercenary. Ordinary.

  The stranger turned a corner out of sight. Tank looked around to get his bearings: two streets over from the Hall. Unwilling to risk slipping on the low pillars that allowed foot traffic to cross while allowing horses and wagons to pass, he splashed down into the street itself, hoisted himself up to the other sidewalk a few steps later, and ran.

  He went up the fourteen white marble steps with considerably more care than he’d taken on the rougher, muddier streets along the way. Somewhere, there had to be a plainer entrance, but he hadn’t taken the time to find it before and didn’t feel he had the time now: the Freewarrior’s Hall seemed more solid sanctuary than any church or temple might offer.

  What he remembered of Captain Ash suggested the man would stand up even to an enraged desert lord, if the matter involved a Hall hire.

  The massive double doors, at least, weren’t necessary. Two smaller, plainer doors, one to each side of the main entry, were far more suitable for everyday use; especially for a shivering, soaked, and slightly muddy new hire trying to avoid drawing attention.

  Inside, four windows, each one a match in size to the giant formal doors, let in grey streaks of light that barely shifted the edges of the shadows to a lighter hue. Multi-headed candelabra caught and absorbed the grey into a further mottling of silver; the thick white candles filling each holder had never been lit. Great axes, swords, shields, and suits of armor hung along each long wall, and tapestries with various red and gold designs filled in any blank spots available.

  Lit by afternoon sunlight during Tank’s first visit, the main hall had been a welcoming, safe, very nearly sacred space; at the moment, it resembled nothing so much as the anteroom to a torture chamber.

  Tank moved forward a cautious pace, then another, listening for any sound. The hall seemed utterly deserted. Dead. Had Ninnic’s Guard gotten to this place after Tank left? Had the death of that vile, mad creature not been enough, after all?

  “Welcome back,” a dry voice said behind him.

  Tank shrieked like a child, spinning in place so fast he almost fell over his own feet.

  Captain Ash’s dour face creased in a broad smile for a moment, then sobered again. He moved forward from his spot beside the door—Tank had walked right past him and never noticed—and clapped Tank on the shoulder.

  “At least you didn’t piss yourself,” he noted. “Last two new hires I startled like that wound up mopping the floor.”

  Tank gulped for breath, struggling to calm his racing heartbeat.

  “Captain Ash,” he said, and completely failed to find anything to add to that.

  The man’s dark hair looked to be growing out from a recent shearing, and his skin had a sallow hue further darkened by the dim light. His steel-grey eyes held as much warmth as the stone around them.

  “About time you got back,” he said. “I was about to cross you off the books.”

  “I said I’d be back.”

  “People say things. Doesn’t mean they happen.”

  Tank shrugged, not inclined to disagree with that.

  “You still need sworn in properly,” Captain Ash said. “Rules and such. You didn’t sit still long enough to hear them before, and they’re more important than ever—since I can actually count on enforcing them now.” He dug into a belt pouch and produced a thick wooden disc, about the size of a coin. “Here’s your permanent marker. Don’t lose it. Don’t let it get stolen. You stamp anything you send us with this, it’s good as a signature—half the hires couldn’t use a pen right way round if their lives depended on it, anyway. Notice I don’t ask if you can.” He tossed the wooden disc to Tank.

  Tank turned the marker over in his hands, his mouth quirking in a sour grimace. The crossed-swords symbol of the Bright Bay Freewarrior Hall had been burned onto one side, crossed feathers carved in high relief on the other. He hadn’t realized how much the sigil he’d chosen would resemble the typical Aerthraim Family symbol. No help for it now; he shrugged and dropped the marker into his belt pouch.

  “Second room on the right is open,” Captain Ash said, pointing to a door at the end of the main hall that led to hire quarters. “Go take a day to sleep, you look like hell. Take two, if you need it. You look like a half-dead and drowned redling rat; I can’t take you seriously that way. Remember where my office is? Meet me there when you’ve cleaned up and rested.” He paused, sniffing lightly, and wrinkled his nose. “Baths are downstairs. Take one. Take five, if you like. You stink of ship.”

  He stalked away without waiting for a reply.

  “Yes, Captain,” Tank said anyway, more than happy to obey that order, and hurried off.

  Feeling, for the first time in days, safe.

  Chapter Seven

  The darkness seemed like a live thing, creeping into Ellemoa, filling her from toes to crown. Her only respite came when teyhataerth or Rosin visited. Both brought pain, but both also brought light; and she craved light the way she’d once craved love, the way she’d once felt hunger for physical food.

  Pain wasn’t so bad, measured against being alone in the darkness. Being alone was much worse than anything else. She’d had Kolan, for a while, but they’d taken him somewhere else and not brought him back. Maybe she’d killed him.

  Memory hazed.

  How long had she been here? Where was here, beyond somewhere in Bright Bay? When was here? She slapped her hands along cold, dank stone walls and found no answer to any of her questions.

  She couldn’t see the stars. Or the sun. Heard nothing, in the darkness, other than the hoarseness of her own breathing. The sound of bells drifted in, now and again; but human voices, whether screaming or pleading or singing their madness, had long since stopped.

  Stars... She had lain out on the soft cool grass of Arason and counted the constellations with Kolan. She remembered. He had told her stories about Payti’s Torch and Eki’s Dagger. He’d made her laugh with stories about Payti’s Trickster aspect, and awed her with tales of Syrta’s boundless love. He’d treated her as an equal—as human.

  He’d been kind. Not at all like Solian...

  She slapped her hands against the walls until the pain drove all memory of vast speckled skies from her mind, then began walking. She paced in carefully measured circles; lost count at five thousand steps and started over again. When her legs gave out, she slid to the floor. When her legs stopped hurting, she stood and began pacing again. How many times had she done that? Usually it took a hundred iterations of five thousand steps before someone came, but now she’d lost count completely.

  She probably had killed Kolan. He’d been her only friend, the only one who tried to help her, and she’d killed him. It would be just like her, because she liked pain. That’s what both Rosin and teyhataerth said, anyway, and they knew her better than anyone. The screams did feel good... even when it was Kolan writhing. No, she wouldn’t have let him die. He was too much fun. Rosin wouldn’t have allowed it, either.

  This was all Kolan’s fault. The thought felt grey, dull, and worn. She couldn’t even remember where that belief had begun.

  They’d all abandoned her, in the end, as she’d expected. Even teyhataerth had left her. Rosin had left her. They’d found someone more interesting. She knew it. She’d seen him, as he passed within her limited range of other-vision, some time ago: a boy with red hair, bright blue eyes, a handsome rugged body. Rosin wouldn’t let her near this new toy; no, this one had to go straight to teyhataerth for some
reason.

  Had it been because she couldn’t give Rosin and teyhataerth a child? She’d tried. She’d tried; but whether the fault lay in herself or in them, somehow an essential connection hadn’t ever quite been made. They’d abandoned her, and her only child was long gone into the darkness. Rosin said her son was dead. Said she had to give another child, had to, must, needed to—and she couldn’t.

  Kolan said her son was alive. Rosin said her son was dead. She didn’t know who to believe.

  She heard teyhataerth murmuring and singing in the other-darkness, enjoying the new toy.

  No—that was past. That had been a thousand paces ago. Ten thousand sets of paces ago. She couldn’t tell. She’d lost all count.

  Rosin would come for her soon. He would. He had to. He wouldn’t abandon her completely. He liked her too much. He said so. Said she was best, his favorite, his marvel. He never lost faith in her, that she’d provide a child one day, that she could if she really wanted to. He was the only one who could help her do that, he was the only one who truly understood her. He had said that, too, over and over, until she’d really seen the truth of it.

  The boy didn’t want to play with teyhataerth. He yelled and fought; and teyhataerth, instead of overpowering the boy, screamed as though hurt—but surely it was only playing, it wasn’t possible to hurt teyhataerth.

  Teyhataerth sent the boy away, and screamed and screamed and screamed. Something was terribly wrong.

  They would come for her soon. Would come to bring her pain, and to give teyhataerth healing, and to bring her light.

  She heard a scream, a ground-shaking, breath-stopping shriek that doubled and tripled and echoed. A million daggers wrenched through her heart. Everything went silent.

  No—no! That was past, as well. That had happened already. She didn’t know how long ago. A hundred steps, a thousand, a hundred thousand sets of five thousand—she couldn’t tell. Time was only an illusion, something to separate the times of pain from the not-pain. There had been a lot of the not-pain since teyhataerth screamed. It had begun turning into an entirely different sort of pain—recently? She didn’t know if that was the right term.