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

by Leona Wisoker

  The blond man staggered back, gagging. His skin went a pasty white, and his eyes seemed apt to go larger than his face as he stared at Kolan.

  “You’re a witch,” he said. “A witch and a demon.” His hands came up in the sign against evil: crossed at the wrists, fingers splayed out, thumbs curved forward.

  Kolan blinked, surprised: had the light physical contact been enough to show the man his memories? Best he stay away from human company, if he was that open at the moment.

  The watchman crowded between them, hissing at Kolan.

  “You’d best be off,” he snapped. “Merchant Lashnar needs his sleep. You get clear, you hear me, or I’ll see you strung up as a thief and a witch before dawn.”

  Kolan shrugged and began walking.

  “Not that way! Road runs east.”

  Kolan paused and pointed. “There’s a road there.” A silvery trail, little more than a footpath, really, ran ahead of him. It felt more interesting, more peaceful, than the prospect of walking the eastern road through the dark and hostile streets of Kybeach. “Where does that go?”

  “Road runs east,” the old man repeated stubbornly. “That way only goes to the witch’s place. You’ve no business there, priest or thief; she’ll take you apart no matter what you be.”

  Kolan looked at the slender path and smiled. “I doubt she’s a witch, watchman,” he said. “There’s no such thing as witches.”

  There were only ha’ra’hain, and a female ha’ra’ha this close to Bright Bay—it could be Ellemoa. She could have escaped, and be trying to start over. He wanted that to be true. It was worth walking a little way to find out.

  And if it wasn’t Ellemoa, but another ha’ra’ha—well, it couldn’t do anything to him that hadn’t already been done. There was no reason to be afraid. More than likely it was merely a wise-woman who’d been unfairly persecuted by the ignorant villagers, and she’d be glad of some uncritical company, whether middle of the night or center of the day.

  “Shows all you know,” the old man snorted. “Witches all around us.”

  “He’s a witch,” the blond man said with idiot persistence.

  Kolan turned and said, “If it takes me away from your village—”

  “Town!” the old man interrupted, scowling ferociously.

  “Village,” the blond man muttered. “Stinking little pissass—”

  The watchman elbowed him quiet.

  “—what do you care which way I go?” Kolan went on. “I’ll be gone, one path or another.”

  The watchman shook all over with what might have been fury or fear, but neither man had any answer to that; and Kolan, very quietly, very definitely, walked away down the path to the witch’s house.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As the teyanain camp rose and readied themselves for the next leg of their trip across the desert, Deiq’s mood turned sour. He barely glanced at anyone, and when Idisio risked a quiet “Thank you—for last night—for helping me sleep,” he received only a brooding glare. He retreated hastily. The similarities between Deiq and Lord Scratha were uncanny at times, and while Scratha had been apt to knock Idisio into a wall when peeved over something, Deiq would probably do real damage.

  A moment after retreating, Idisio found himself deeply irritated at that reaction. Deiq and Scratha were entirely different, and Idisio himself was no longer a street thief trying to avoid notice. He had status now. He had capabilities he’d never expected: popping open locks and hearing people’s thoughts was apparently the least of it. I need to stop backing down all the damn time. I can stand up—even to Deiq. Fear shivered along his spine at the thought.

  To distract and test himself, Idisio decided he would try to figure out how the teyanain managed the traveling-trick. A heartbeat later, Evkit turned his head and stared directly at him, eyes black as night and expression cold as midnight-chilled stone.

  “You no do,” Evkit said. He blinked once, lizardlike, then looked away again.

  Idisio’s breath caught in his chest. Deiq prodded him ungently in the shoulder and motioned him into the middle of the forming group.

  Deiq said sharply, You don’t even look at the athain for too long, let alone try to figure out what they’re doing or how.

  “How was I supposed to know that?” Idisio muttered.

  “Because you’re supposed to have some godsdamned wits,” Deiq shot back in a low voice, and for all his plans to push back next time Deiq snapped at him, Idisio couldn’t make himself answer that with anything but silence.

  They blurred into that odd other-place before Idisio had fully let go of his annoyance with Deiq’s irritability; but again, the intricacies of the moment caught him out of any other thoughts, and the day seemed to pass in mere breaths. As they slowed and stepped out of the haze, Idisio felt Deiq’s sour mood, which had been a constant pinch against his mind the entire day, click over into something even darker and less controllable.

  Ruins lay all around them, a grand city long since dead. Fantastic arches towered, worn but intact, with remnants of red and white stripes. Idisio could very nearly see what they’d looked like fresh—

  “Idisio.” Deiq glared, blackly ominous. Idisio stopped gawking and tried to think about something else, not sure why Deiq was aggravated but understanding a clear danger sign when he heard it.

  There was a whispering in the air... a dry, long-dead whisper that raised the hair on the back of Idisio’s neck. By Deiq’s expression, he heard it too. The elder ha’ra’ha directed another brief glare and bare head-shake at Idisio, as though warning him not to remark on the sound.

  Idisio nodded, although he hadn’t actually intended to say a word. A few moments later, Deiq stalked away from the group. Alyea stared after him, expression bewildered and a little hurt.

  Keep her away from me, Deiq said bleakly. Keep them all away from me.

  Alyea took a hesitant step. Idisio said hastily, “I’ll go with him.”

  Her expression shifted to one of distinct relief. Idisio excused himself and followed Deiq around to the other side of a crumbled section of wall, out of direct line of sight from the campsite.

  Deiq sat on a chunk of ancient rock and stared out across the ruins. “I don’t want to talk to you, either,” he said.

  “So don’t,” Idisio shot back. Deiq shook his head and made no answer, which was as good as an apology, to Idisio’s way of thinking.

  He perched on another section of wall and looked around. The last wisps of brilliant orange and silver bands stained the lowest edges of the darkening western sky, limning a scattering of thin clouds. Around them stood the ruins of what must have once been a magnificent building. Some of the tall striped arches endured, as did jagged fragments of walls and floor.

  Deiq leaned forward and picked up a hand-sized chunk of black stone, turning it over restlessly as he went back to staring at nothing in particular.

  Idisio let the silence rest. He didn’t really have anything to say. He reflected that given how adamant Deiq was about telling him not to brood, he did rather a lot of it himself.

  Not looking up, Deiq said, tone grating, “That’s because I know how to do it without shouting all over the godsdamn desert. You don’t.”

  “So teach me.”

  Deiq shook his head slowly. “Not now,” he said, tone muted. “Not... not here. Later. I can’t... I can’t concentrate right now.” He raised his head and stared off across the darkening ruins, his expression pained and bleak.

  “Then don’t scold me for doing my best.” Idisio stood, then squatted to pick up a smaller piece of the same black stone Deiq held. Sitting back down on the wall, he studied it curiously, rubbing a thumb over the smooth side.

  Water, cast from the air, flowing over the stone; the harsh chanting of centuries: moondeath ceremonies, birthing rituals, full moon ceremonies, god rites, manhood ceremonies, all soaking into the very air, seeping into the stone, kept alive with water, water, water....

  Idisio blinked hard and dropped the st
one, shuddering. He rubbed his hands together hard, trying to dispel the feeling of ancient memory slicking his fingers. Deiq glanced sideways at him, mouth twitching into a sour grimace, and said, “I’d advise against picking up any more rock.”

  But Deiq kept turning the piece in his hands over, apparently not in the least discomfited.

  Idisio rubbed his hands against his pants legs, trying not to shudder; looked up at the sky, and found himself dreading the arrival of another moonless desert night.

  “Moondeath,” Deiq muttered, as though following Idisio’s thoughts. “There would have been ceremonies....” He fell silent again, staring at the black stone cradled in his palms.

  “What ceremonies?”

  “Depends on the moon. Right now is the Healer’s Moon. Most of the old names carried over after the Split... The death of the Healer’s Moon is a dangerous time. It’s a time when injuries rot without hesitation, and minor ailments turn deadly in hours. It’s a time to stay indoors and stay safe, a time to keep the fire lit all the night long and prayers going dawn to dawn to dawn to dawn....” He sighed and set the piece of rock down slowly. “That’s what they believed then, anyway. And many places in the south still honor that tradition and follow that belief.”

  “Is it true?” Idisio said, and set his jaw against Deiq’s dry stare.

  Deiq looked away, one shoulder lifting briefly. “That wounds rot faster? I doubt it, any more than they heal cleaner under the full Healer’s Moon. But belief and willpower can accomplish strange things, even for tharr. I don’t discount the stories out of hand.”

  He fell back into his brooding silence. After a while, he went on.

  “Be careful what you touch. What you pay attention to. You’re starting to hear and see the world beyond what humans perceive. A lot of it isn’t pleasant. Stay away from people who get angry easily, like Cafad Scratha. Stay away from highly emotional people. They’re dangerous. They’ll overwhelm you. You’re too young. You’ll get swept up in their emotional storms and lose sight of yourself. If you’re lucky.” He paused, frowning at the rock in his hands, then, with a sigh, tossed it to the ground. “If you’re unlucky,” he added, “you’ll lose your own temper and kill them before you know what you’re doing.”

  Idisio gaped. The notion that he might raise a hand in violence, let alone kill someone, was beyond absurd. I’m not like that. I couldn’t hurt anyone! Deiq’s different, he’s older, he was raised differently—

  “We’re not that different,” Deiq said. “Not nearly, Idisio. You’re ha’ra’hain. You’ll start to see what that means soon enough. We have to talk—about a lot of things—but not with teyanain within earshot. And damn well not here.” He stood and stretched. “Go back to camp. I have to go pull Alyea out of another of Evkit’s damn games, and I don’t need you shouting all over the sky, distracting me.”

  He stalked off into the gathering gloom.

  Idisio sat still, annoyance rising fast. Shout all over the sky, did he? I can be quiet. I’m good at being quiet. I bet I can follow Deiq and he’ll never know. He’s not so superior and all-powerful, and I don’t have to be so afraid of him. What’s the worst thing he can do? He’s supposed to be my teacher. That means he can’t really hurt me.

  He slipped from the wall and prowled off into the dark.

  Chapter Twenty

  Chich tasted like stale goat jerky mixed with the fieriest of the southern spices. Tank hated it, but the alternative was far worse. He chewed and spat, chewed and spat, until nothing was left but a stringy pulp, then spat that off to one side and swilled water round his mouth until the painful acidity dimmed to a muddy sourness.

  The tremors gradually left his hands, and he leaned his head against the back wall of the stable, breathing deeply. The chill drizzle had eased again, sun squinting out from behind thinning clouds. Dasin squatted a few feet away, drawing careless patterns in the damp sandy ground.

  “Still that bad,” Dasin said without looking up. “Thought Teilo took care of that.”

  Tank shook his head, wishing Dasin hadn’t been around to see the fit. At least it had been a mild one, and he’d caught it in time; it had only been the shakes and the fear.

  “She said I’d never get rid of it totally,” he said. “They started me too young.” He shut his eyes, then rolled his head in a deep stretch and straightened away from the support of the wall. “Let’s go get that horse.”

  “Think she was telling the truth?” Dasin said as he stood up.

  “Wouldn’t be her first lie,” Tank said sourly.

  “You think she knew how to get you totally clear of the addiction and didn’t?”

  Tank paused, studying Dasin with abrupt wariness. This was edging into areas he didn’t want to talk about, with Dasin or anyone. Dasin met his gaze with guileless ease, pale eyes wide and innocent.

  “She’s just an old witch-healer,” he said finally. “I don’t think she knows more than mixing herb pastes and powders together. She probably didn’t know the first thing about how to handle a dasta addiction.”

  Dasin’s eyebrows went up, then slanted sharply down. “Tank—”

  “Horse,” Tank interrupted, and walked away without looking back.

  Dasin swore and caught up in a few loping strides. “What set it off this time?” he asked as they rounded the corner of the stable. “You said once the fits are like echoes. What happened?”

  Tank shook his head. “Horse,” he said.

  Dasin swatted his shoulder, hard. Tank cocked a fist; Dasin fell back a few paces, hands up defensively.

  “Hammer to a flea, Tank,” he said. “Come on.”

  Tank let his hand drop. “Leave it, then,” he said. “Let’s get the godsdamn horse and get back to the caravan yard before it gets dark.”

  Dasin shrugged and followed him into the stable without further comment.

  The only choices, as it turned out, were a dapple-grey mare and a swaybacked black gelding. Tank looked them over carefully and decided the mare seemed to have more spirit and probably stamina, although he had a feeling she was older than the gelding by some years.

  Harpik, a balding, lanky man with a sunburnt face and arms, nodded fervent approval of the choice.

  “You oughter be able ter handle her,” he said. “She’s trained for carriage, but she’ll hold for saddle fine. On’y come in a day or two ago an’ already bit two of my boys. Damn near kicked my knee out once.” He stared into the stall, brooding. “You tell Venepe I warned you. You tell him I ain’t takin’ this un back. I’ll never get rid of her twice. Never oughter of traded for her in the first place, but I owed the carriage folk a favor, and they couldn’t put up with a biting puller. They’d had enough, and by now, so’ve I. Naa, never mind. Go on—I’ll even throw in a bridle and saddle, just to get her outa here.” He pointed to the hook beside the stall, on which hung the former, and a saddle-tree underneath that, which held the latter.

  “Tack ought to come with it,” Dasin said sharply. “Venepe said—”

  “Tack is coming with her,” Harpik said. “That bridle, an’ that saddle.” He crossed his arms and glared, as though daring them to argue it further.

  The grey mare stared at them, eyes drooping as though half-asleep.

  Tank exchanged a glance with Dasin, who shrugged as though to say: Your decision.

  “All right,” Tank said.

  “I’ll wait out here,” Dasin said, propping himself against a hay bale, “and watch you get chewed up.”

  Harpik leaned beside him, grinning dourly. “Oughter be a good show,” he said, “an’ now you took her, you got the problem of getting her outa my stables. I give you an hour, then I start charging you stabling fees.” He spat to one side.

  Tank lifted the worn bridle from the hook by the stall door, ran hands and gaze over it briefly, then shook his head. “There’s a snarl on the bit,” he said, turning. “Look—” He held out the bridle, pointing at the spot where something had scraped the metal to a raw, curvy po
int near the cheek. “Get a rasp and smooth it down, or get me another bridle. This one’s shit anyway, damn near powder in spots.”

  He fielded Harpik’s amused glare until the man shoved upright, snatched the bridle, and stalked away.

  Dasin sighed noisily. “Manners, Tank,” he said. “Couldn’t you have put that a bit more nicely?”

  “No,” Tank said. “Not really.” He examined the saddle, frowning, and decided it would do; worn, but serviceable, and the blanket beneath retained a fair bit of padding, although it would need to be replaced soon. For free, he couldn’t ask for much more, and he didn’t have but a handful of silver coins left between now and Venepe’s first payoff.

  Harpik returned with a newer bridle and handed it to Tank with exaggerated care, then leaned against the hay bales once more, grinning.

  “Go on, then,” he invited, waving at the stall door. “See how you do.”

  Tank didn’t move. He looked over the bridle, felt across the bit, and glanced at the grey mare, frowning. For all that Allonin hadn’t really explained much about horses other than how not to fall off of one, something felt wrong about the bridle in his hands. He ran his hands over the bit again, measured it with his fingers, looked at the mare’s jaw.

  “No,” he said at last. “No, this isn’t the right one for her. Get me something—something nicer.” He didn’t know the right terms, but there was something too harsh and sharp about the bit in his hand.

  “Nicer? Boy, you’re talking about a horse as bites. You want to be nice to her?” Harpik spat again. “And that’s all I have in the value to give away, besides. Next one’s a silver round.”

  Tank dug out a coin and flipped it and the bridle at Harpik without comment.

  “Nicer,” he said flatly. “And a lead-halter.”

  Harpik caught both bridle and coin, glared without any humor at all this time, and stalked off.

  “Should have taken the black,” Dasin muttered.

  “Done is done,” Tank said, not taking his gaze from the mare. She turned around, majestically slow, and lifted her tail. The hot, grassy stench of fresh manure filled the air.