Idisio shook his head, pushing the memories away, and went on, more slowly, to his rooms. He needed more time to think this through. That had been Alyea’s cousin. He’d always known the boy came from somewhere inside the Seventeen Gates, just from the accent and posture. But—Alyea’s cousin?
He couldn’t go after his long-dreamed of revenge. Not without drawing Alyea into the fight, and Deiq. He didn’t want them involved, because....
A faint haze crossed his vision, an almost-dizziness. He put a hand out to the wall, steadying himself.
What was he thinking? Revenge? Against a noble? Absurd. He didn’t have the right. He was... just... a... street thief.
He looked down at his sweat- and dirt-stained shirt and leggings and felt a dreadful disorientation. He didn’t belong here. No wonder Lady Peysimun had looked at him with contempt, and that boy had seconded the appraisal. He was filthy. He’d always been filthy unless it rained. No—no, he’d bathed recently. These clothes had been reasonably clean, at a recent point. He didn’t live on the streets any longer—but the intervening days, abruptly, lay as blank as a new moon in the sky. How in the world had he gone from a ragged street-thief to—wherever and whatever this was?
Memory rose and tumbled like randomly tossed pebbles: that silver coin, turning over and over in his hands; wiping away tears with the back of one hand... Hand—a strong hand, clamping over his wrist, a desert-eagle glare bearing down on him. Lord Scratha. Black-hilted throwing knives. Rosemary, roses... flowers... daffodils, someone said wistfully, and sighed with longing.
Idisio gagged and staggered sideways and forward, feeling for the wall, grasping after tangible reminder of reality.
I should have stayed on the streets... I should have left you there... Swaying, seasick, vomiting; There is a lake, a ghosty lake... In the town, they said... said. Red. Red was looking for his son....
My son, someone said, in the tones a starving man might have used to say my steak.
Idisio patted at the wall frantically, trying to force himself out of memory. He found himself implacably dragged through flashes of the long, weary walk up the Wall, through half-lit tunnels, and into the moment they stepped in front of the Scratha ha’rethe to cement Lord Scratha’s binding. Memory focused on a vivid glimpse of the vision he’d been trying to forget ever since:
“Demon-spawn!” a male voice shouted, heavy with anger. “Burn it! Drown it!” ... a horrible wrenching sensation, an echoing scream—
A burst of pain shook him from the waking nightmare. He’d fallen, shoulder first, scraping along the wall. The arm of his light shirt was shredded, and his arm burned, invisible fire connecting the scraped-raw spots in a blazing net of pain.
Hauling himself to his feet, he looked around to see if anyone had been there to see. The hallway stood empty at the moment. Praying he wouldn’t meet anyone else unexpected, he broke into a dead run.
As soon as the door to his room shut behind him, the disorientation returned. He fought it, staggering to the washbasin, roughly sponging off his scraped skin, using pain to keep focused on the moment. Scant moments after he managed to change out his ruined shirt for a relatively clean one, the strangeness roared in, unstoppable as the tide: he felt a strong need for a cleansing walk through the torrential downpour outside. The fresh—the clean—the safe—he shook his head, blinking, then accepted the simplicity of it. He was a street thief. He didn’t live indoors. He lived outside. He needed room to walk, to wander. The walls here were too close, the air too warm and stifling and dead.
Dead....
The word sent a shudder down his spine.
I should yell for Deiq, he thought. A heartbeat later, even that dim alarm lofted away in a scramble to get back outside to the streets, where he belonged.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Kolan had grown up with the Hackerwood on his doorstep—or so he’d thought. As he wandered east through the rough farmlands far from the Coast Road, he came to realize that the looming mass of trees always to his left was a far darker thing than the softly wooded hills of Arason had ever dreamed of being.
He’d always felt safe walking among the outer belt of the Arason Hackerwood. The trees had been spaced apart, thick with leaf-litter, cheerful with squirrels and birds. Sunlight shone through in wide swatches, bringing a dappled peace to every step.
These trees huddled close together, thick with thorny bushes and broad-leafed southern ivies fighting for space; sunlight wouldn’t reach past the upper branches at best, and the only sounds Kolan heard were the small, slithery noises of snakes and rats.
He didn’t try to enter the woods, which turned out to be a wise instinct. He spent a day here and an evening there, helping farmers and housewives with some small task in exchange for a meal and a dry corner of shed or barn to curl up in for as long as it took to finish the work they had to offer. It served as a reminder of how to live as a human; he watched the people around him, mindful never to get caught at it, as he picked late-season produce, stripped bark from logs being readied for winter, tilled fields under for their end-of-season rest, cleaned out chicken coops, or performed a dozen other tasks found for him.
Nobody asked him prying questions or troubled him with the weight of over-kindness; he did the work and took a bit of food for the road by way of payment, and moved on. Sometimes he left without payment: in the middle of the night, if it suited him. Darkness had been familiar for so long that it was... comforting, in a strange way. As good as sunlight felt, he felt an atavistic craving for darkness at times.
Until he heard the voices: until his walk on the night the Healer’s Moon first died to full dark.
Beautiful... look... look... Look over here, over here, over here....
Kolan stood still, very still, and drew in one breath after another, thinking only of the air moving through his nose and throat and lungs.
You know us. You found us. You love us. Come, come, over here, over here....
Kolan kept his eyes shut and counted his fingers and his toes six times over.
We love you. We need you. We cherish you. Let us help you, here, here, over here....
“One and one is two,” Kolan said aloud. “Two and three is five. Four and three is seven. Eight minus two is six. Eight minus one is seven. Seven plus six is thirteen.”
A sense of perplexity drowned the voices into silence. Kolan kept reciting random simple mathematics until utter silence returned to the night.
He sighed in deep relief and stopped counting. That had been one of the few tricks to work on teyhataerth, on the rare occasions when Kolan was clear-headed enough to use it; the ha’ra’ha had always tried to find a pattern in the numbers, and had gotten distracted into a series of its own esoteric calculations very quickly.
That had granted Kolan and Ellemoa precious days of peace, as teyhataerth ignored everything until it came to the conclusion of whatever puzzle it had posed itself.
The temporary loss of his ally’s attention and support enraged Rosin, who inevitably arrived in short order to inflict a punishment himself... But a human-directed torture was simple to endure, compared to what teyhataerth could do.
By the slickness in those voices, these ha’ra’hain were very nearly as twisted as teyhataerth. Not quite as dangerous, though: if they’d had teyhataerth’s strength, they would have pulled him in, instead of calling and coaxing.
He blinked, then blinked again, and looked at the line of the Forest more closely. A series of faint, squarish shimmers ran along the edge of the wood. He wasn’t inclined to go closer to find out more; it was enough to know that someone or something had laid a line of protection along the Hackerwood. Those dangerous voices could only coax. They couldn’t emerge into the fields and villages of the coastal southlands to take their victims directly.
That line of warding also meant that Kolan couldn’t cut through the Forest to reach Arason. If he tried the Forest Road, some distance away, he would be trusting that it was as well protected; and if tha
t protection turned out broken at any point along the way—No. It was too high a risk.
For all his bravery in approaching the witch’s house, for all his willingness to confront Ellemoa, he couldn’t make himself walk into the agony-laced darkness these twisted creatures would surely deliver. He couldn’t go through that again.
I won’t let anyone hurt me again. Not again. Never again.
He would have to travel farther east, through the swamps and hills. That wasn’t such a bad idea, really; it meant he could stop and see his brethren in the holy salt mines, a pilgrimage many priests in Arason longed to make. Perhaps the gods would speak to him again there.
He turned his steps south, away from the looming darkness.
“You always walk around counting out loud to yourself?” someone said from his left.
Kolan stopped, squinting a little, and saw only shadows among shadows. “When it amuses me,” he said warily. “Who are you?”
“Odd way to amuse yourself.” The voice drew nearer. Kolan’s vision cleared as though a full moon had dawned overhead: movement sorted out into a short, slender form. “Then again, this is an odd area to pass through in the middle of the night, all by yourself, so perhaps that suits the moment.”
“You’re alone,” Kolan pointed out.
“Am I?”
Kolan stood still and shut his eyes, listening intently. After a moment he said, “Yes. You are.” He opened his eyes. The short figure stood two steps out of arm’s reach now; a boy—no, Kolan decided, studying the barely visible line of stubbly beard and thinning hair: an adult man.
“Interesting that you say that so quickly,” the stranger said. “Are you a witch?”
“No,” Kolan said. “Not really. I just have good hearing.”
“Extraordinary hearing,” the stranger commented. “You can call me Fen.”
“Kolan. Of Arason. And you have good sight.”
“Yes. Ah. You’re far from home.” Fen stepped a little closer, tilting his head to look up at Kolan. “And out late, far from the path to either Bright Bay or home, at that. What are you doing out here, besides counting to yourself?”
“Just... walking,” Kolan said. “Just walking. I didn’t want to be around people, so I took to the fields.” He glanced around. “Is this your land?”
Fen laughed. “My land? No. I don’t own any land. I barely own the clothes on my back. I’m a wandering thief and a beggar, my friend, and a brigand when fortune turns to my favor. What do you have by way of money?”
“Very little,” Kolan said.
“Give it over,” Fen said pleasantly. A knife glinted in his hand.
“No,” Kolan said, surprised at himself. “Not for a threat, not for a thief.” The shadows thickened around him. A faint whining began in the back of his mind.
Fen advanced another step. “You’re probably not worth the trouble,” he said, “but it’s never safe to assume, is it? Come on. Hand over the coins and I’ll leave you your clothes. It’s a cold night.”
Kolan walked straight toward him; Fen, his own vision apparently as sharp as Kolan’s own, held his ground for a heartbeat, then yielded, scrambling sideways and back.
“Are you mad?” he demanded. “I’ve a knife, you damn fool!”
Kolan kept advancing, not saying a word.
“You keep on,” Fen panted, trying to turn their path to a giant circle. Kolan aimed a little to one side or the other, forcing the thief to retreat in more or less a straight line. “I’ll cut you!”
“Go ahead,” Kolan said, and lunged.
Before the startled thief could do more than yelp, Kolan had knocked Fen’s knife hand aside. He reached out and closed his hand firmly around the thief’s throat.
“If you want to threaten me, tell me you can do something worse than this,” he said, bringing his face close to Fen’s, and let the screaming roll to the front of his mind. It sank into Fen’s awareness like water filling a sponge; Kolan blinked, a little surprised at his sense of instant recognition: He has some of the blood himself. Just a touch. He probably has no idea—
Fen made a thick, gagging sound. A moment later, his thoughts slid into Kolan’s mind: Oh gods, I should have run, I knew I should have run, I’m a fool, I can’t even use the damn knife, thing doesn’t even have an edge, what was I thinking? His eyes rolled, showing white in the pale moonlight. Raw horror shrieked through his mind as Kolan’s memories hit him full force. He sagged, knees folding under him. Kolan let go. Fen sprawled on the ground. The rank stench of urine thickened the air.
Kolan drew a deep breath, struggling against rage, his vision hazing. The knife lay on the ground beside the thief. He could so easily pick it up... so easily turn it point down, so easily draw lines, swirls, patterns... and if Fen had enough ha’ra’hain or desert lord heritage to see clearly at night and absorb shared memories so readily, he might have that precious ability to heal. Which meant that the pain could be drawn out... for a long time... and perhaps leave Kolan completely free. It was possible—or seemed so, in that intoxicating, seductive moment.
Kolan’s fingers brushed the hilt of the knife. Moonlight disappeared from around him, and the world went dark, so dark, so dark....
Harm none, a voice out of memory said, stern and disapproving, laced with the echo of prayers, hymns, and recitations gone by. Harm none.
Kolan sucked in a noisy breath and stumbled a few steps away, then sank to his knees, shivering all over. The feel of the worn-slick leather wrapped around the hilt lingered on his fingers, burning like Payti’s own kiss.
It would be so easy... He could still take a step and pick up the knife, infect someone else with the screaming, maybe pass a portion of the burden on to another, lessening his own pain in the process.
Is this what it was like for Ellemoa? Is this that first step into being lost?
Would it even work? Would it be worth the price?
His fingers sank into the cold ground, fisting up handfuls of grassy, sandy dirt. He dry-heaved, spitting a thin trail of drool. His stomach wrenched as though trying to turn itself inside out.
I have the right—I had to defend myself—and if he gets up he’ll attack me again—
But Fen’s thoughts had been clear: he was a coward at heart, only good at bluffing. His knife wasn’t even sharp. Kolan couldn’t use it to cut butter, let alone inflict pain on the hapless thief.
Gods, what will I do if someone actually attacks me? And I heard his thoughts—what’s happening to me?
Kolan wrapped his arms around himself and shuddered, breathing hard, fighting the red-laced hatred that flared through his entire body: inviting, inciting violence. Finally, his vision clearing, he staggered to his feet. A moment’s rummaging through his belt pouch produced a single marble, a lumpy blue globe swirled with strands of green. It had been the most flawed, the only one not quite perfectly round.
He clenched it tightly, rolled it between his palms; focused on the bumpy, pitted texture until the last of the red faded from his mind.
I need to stay away from people. I’m not nearly as sane as I thought. He wondered if he should go back to Bright Bay and submit himself to the care of the priests once more. But that would put him into the company of the others: the ones who, like Ellemoa, had chosen to walk the paths outlined by the screaming. Surrounded by that pressure, he would lose his already tenuous hold completely.
Water. The cure for fire: water. I’ll douse Payti’s hatred in Wae’s love until I see truth clearly again.
He replaced the blue marble in his belt pouch with a quick murmur of gratitude to the Four for their cooperation in producing such a marvel; then staggered to his feet, cast a last glance at the unconscious would-be thief, and hurried away into the strangely not-dark night.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
As Venepe’s caravan left Obein, Rat and Frenn moved to the point position, Breek falling in beside Tank at the rear. Dasin rode beside the caravan, his shoulders stiff, ostentatiously not looking back.
Tank sighed a little and rubbed a hand over his face.
“I hear the Vultures decided they liked the taste of redling better than baby merchant,” Breek said, grinning.
“They went hungry,” Tank said shortly.
Breek laughed, loud enough to jerk Dasin’s head around for a ferocious glare. Tank tried not to visibly wince. He knew Dasin would never believe Tank hadn’t started in with salacious jokes at his expense.
“Ah, he’s jealous,” Breek observed as Dasin turned his back on them again. “Always tricky, having it on with merchants. They’re sensitive types.” He laughed again, the sound carrying forward clearly in the still air.
Tank watched Dasin’s shoulders go taut and sighed; then, belatedly, thought about what Breek had said.
“I’m not sleeping with him, godsdamnit,” he said.
Breek grinned, displaying gapped and chipped teeth. “Right,” he said. “And my mother’s a black goose with crabs. Heh.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Tank shot back. “Crabs and worse, I’d guess, and passed it all on to you.”
Breek’s grin disappeared. “Don’t you start with me, boy,” he said. “I don’t take that kind of shit from Rat, let alone a wet little ta-neka like you.”
“I hand out what I’m given,” Tank said.
Breek snorted. “You’re barely old enough to piss without help, boy. Don’t try going up against me.”
“I’m smart enough not to hit my shoes,” Tank returned. “Yours look a little damp to me.”
“Gods damn, boy, you looking for a burial, you keep on with that mouth,” Breek nearly growled. “I’ll take you to pieces and leave it to your lover to put ‘em back together.”
“I doubt it,” Tank said, unable to stop the words from emerging even as sense shrieked at him to back down. To his horror, his mouth kept on moving: “If you were good enough for that, you’d have a Hall coin in your pocket.”
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