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

by Leona Wisoker

  The pattering of ice turned to a thunderous downpour of rain; the already-dim light inside the stable darkened further. He brushed away the chill her words put along his spine and said, pragmatically, “Nobody’s going anywhere in that.”

  She shut her eyes and cocked her head.

  “It’ll clear by evening,” she said after a moment. “Get a rest, then. I’ll watch your beast for you.”

  “You?” he said, unable to help a snort of laughter. “You’ll watch it right out the door.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him. “I can’t ride,” she said, “an’ I ain’t likely to put all that tack back on the beast of my own self, now, am I? Couldn’t lift that saddle, f’r one thing, an’ I told you—that horse ain’t stupid. It knows who its rider ought to be. It wouldn’t go nowheres with me. It only went with Baylor because he hit it hard enough to make it run.”

  “Did not,” the boy said sullenly as he returned with a bucketful of grain. He set it down, lifted the saddle out of the way and onto the stall-side saddle tree with a grunt of effort, then handed the bucket up to Tank.

  “That ain’t what the horse said,” the girl said.

  Baylor rolled his eyes and said, “Half silver, if you please.”

  “So now you talk to animals?” Tank asked, amused, as he dumped the bucket into the feed trough.

  “Not usually,” she said. “This one’s different. He’s got stories behind him.”

  Tank shook his head, dug out a silver round, and flipped it at Baylor.

  “Go on, then,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Baylor slunk away without answering.

  “The inn here ain’t worth the walk through the rain,” the girl said. “You already know that, I’m guessing. There’s a cot in the box stall two down, though—usedta be a pregnant mare there, an’ they had the stableboys watching her day an’ night.”

  “What happened to the mare?” Tank took out the currying kit and set to work.

  “Witch’s servant took her and the foal,” the girl said. “Probably better off with her, anyhow.”

  “The owner didn’t argue that?”

  “Owner’s dead. Gerho merchant, killed himself.”

  Tank stood still, staring out at her with a vague feeling of disquiet in his stomach.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I knew about that. Saw him dead, my first trip through here. That wasn’t but a few days ago.”

  “She came through the same day as he died,” the girl said with relish. “Some around here are wondering if the man really killed himself or if she witched him into it, to get her own back. Working for a witch, after all, she’s bound to have picked up a few tricks. I heard as she was his wife, and she left to serve the witch; some are saying she came back to get her daughter, and found her daughter had died, and killed her husband as a punishment.”

  Tank shook his head and resumed his work.

  “Not my business,” he said. “Where’s that cot?”

  “Funny thing,” she said, not moving. “The merchant’s daughter was killed, and some think it was another servant—the one as rode in on that same horse you’re brushing down now.”

  Tank straightened and glared through the murky light at her.

  “Stop it,” he said. “Now I know you’re trying to spook me.”

  She laughed and went away. Tank stood still, listening to the rain thundering down, mixed with the occasional patter of ice chips, and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty air of the stables.

  He woke to a scuffling sound and a savage grunt; rolled from the cot to his feet and vaulted over the stall half-door in what seemed, to his sleep-blurred senses, like a single fluid movement.

  Dim afternoon light filtering in through the open doors showed him two figures rolling on the floor, scratching and clawing at one another. He went forward, grabbed the larger form and hoisted, turning, and threw—the way he’d once tossed another skinny blond boy across a training room floor—and this one landed with the same undignified yelp, which brought a grin to Tank’s face even as he turned to the smaller form.

  “You all right?”

  The girl scrambled to her feet, glaring at him.

  “I had it handled!” she said indignantly.

  He laughed, resisting the impulse to reach out and brush chaff from her hair and clothes; turned to survey Baylor, who was climbing to his feet as sullenly as he did everything else.

  “What was that about?” he asked the blond boy.

  “You gotta sleep, witch-brat,” Baylor said, ignoring Tank entirely. “You won’t always win. An’ you won’t be so quick to run if you’re outnumbered, neither. Remember that; I can get a half dozen as would be willing to hold your skinny little arse down for a proper lesson—”

  Tank’s smile faded. He took three fast steps and swung. Baylor shrieked, trying to dodge: wound up sprawled across the floor again, this time with a bleeding mouth.

  “I’m not afraid of him,” the girl said, but her voice shook as she said it.

  Tank knelt over the boy, letting enough of his weight down to keep Baylor pinned, and put a hand round the boy’s skinny throat. “I ever hear word this girl’s been touched,” he said, “by you or another here against her will, whether it’s by a fist or otherwise—I’ll take you to pieces. You hear me? You and anyone else involved in holding her down for a lesson. You’ll look like a godsdamned disjointed chicken by the time I’m done. You hear me?”

  Baylor gurgled, eyes wide. The sharp, sour stench of urine rose into the air. Tank released his hold and stood, grimacing; backed away to give the boy room, and spat on the floor near Baylor’s feet.

  “I’ll be coming through here regular,” Tank said as the blond scrambled to his feet. “And I’ll be wanting to see she’s been left alone.”

  Baylor glared, one hand to his bleeding mouth; spat violently at the floor himself, then ran from the stables.

  Tank drew in a long breath and let it out, calming himself. He turned to face the girl. She was staring at him with an odd mixture of surprise and fear.

  “You move fast when you’re mad, don’t you?” she said. “Didn’t expect you to get all that upset over—well, me.”

  Tank shook his head, the aftermath of anger souring his mouth, and went to collect his saddlebags. Further sleep wasn’t likely to happen now; and the rain had stopped, in any case.

  He emerged into the aisle to find the stableboy nowhere in sight and the girl scratching the gelding’s nose. She grinned, no longer in the least afraid of him, and moved out of his way.

  She hung half over the stall door, watching him work, until he was securing the saddlebags. Then she said, “I’ll give you sommat, in return for—just now. It ain’t stolen.”

  “What?”

  “Your horse. It ain’t stolen. You’re worried about that, but it ain’t. There’s no taint to it, and it’s happy with you; that means you’re rightful.”

  “You said Baylor stole it.”

  “He did. I’m guessing your horse got back round to the right owner somewhere along the way after that, and the right owner gave the horse over to whoever gave it to you.”

  “That’s a wild stretch of coincidence,” he said.

  She shrugged. “I know what I see.”

  “You know what you can spin out of thin air,” Tank retorted, caught between annoyance and amusement, and led his horse out into the aisle.

  She shook her head, blinking. “Remember what I said, ghost-rid. You got to settle those ghosts out, or the demons will always find you, wherever you go. That kind of weight draws them. You won’t get clear of the demons until you’re clear of your ghosts; and that means anyone traveling alongside you is in danger, sooner or late.”

  Tank stared at her, his mouth open; then drew in a sharp, harsh breath and said, “Stay away from me and keep your delusions to yourself. I’m not interested.”

  As he led Sin into the weak, rainwashed sunlight, he could feel her silent, intent stare boring into his back: but whe
n he risked a glance back, she was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter Seventy

  Ellemoa woke in the grey light of dawn and sat up, raking her hands through her hair as she looked around. Idisio shook out of a light doze at the motion and rubbed a hand over his face, then scrambled to his feet as she focused on him.

  “Idisio?” she said. “Son, where are we? What happened?”

  He studied her for a moment, weighing the innocence of her tone and the blank bewilderment of her expression against instinct. Deciding to believe it was genuine, he said, “We’re in Sandsplit. You’ve been ill, so I took a room for a few days.”

  “I’ve been ill? I’m never ill.” She ran her hands over her face and throat, as though checking for swelling, and shook her head. “I’m not ill.”

  “It’s not that sort of illness,” Idisio said. He hesitated, then took a chance and added, “You haven’t been yourself.”

  Her roving hands paused on the back of her head, and her eyebrows lowered into a frown. “There’s a lump here. How odd. Did I hit my head?”

  “Yes,” Idisio said, relieved at that easy of an explanation. “You fell and hit your head. It made you a bit odd, and I thought it best to let you rest for a while.”

  “That was kind of you,” she said. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, then looked around the room vaguely. “Are we close to Arason?”

  “We’re in Sandsplit,” Idisio said. “I’m not sure how far that is from Arason.”

  “Have we crossed the Hackerwood yet?”

  “No.”

  “Then we’re a long ways away yet.” She sighed. “We should go on. But I’m so tired.” One hand went to the back of her head to explore the lump there once more. “I don’t remember falling.”

  “Sleep until you’re not tired anymore,” Idisio said, putting all the persuasion he could summon into the words. “We’ll have the room for days yet. There’s no hurry. This is a good place to rest. It’s a safe place to rest.”

  She blinked at him, frowning a little. Finally, she shrugged and stretched out on the bed once more. “So tired....” she murmured, her voice trailing off into a mumble. Moments later, her breathing evened out.

  Idisio leaned against the wall and steadied his own breathing. Was it really possible that he’d persuaded his mother, as he’d done on occasion with humans? If so, she must have really wanted to; he had no illusions that his strength exceeded hers. Then again, Tank had delivered a solid blow. It had obviously weakened her. Idisio was a bit surprised it hadn’t caved in her skull completely. And, he admitted ruefully, a little disappointed, as dreadful as he knew that thought to be.

  Please, gods, he thought again, let Deiq get here soon. I don’t know if I can handle her once she’s fully rested.

  And I don’t know what she’ll do to me when she remembers Tank.

  His mother stirred and rolled over, whimpering a little.

  “Kolan,” she said. “Kolan, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to, they made me....” The words trailed off into a guttural, growling sound, then to silence.

  Idisio slid to sit on the floor again, leaning against the wall, and watched her as the air brightened with sunshine.

  “I can’t do it,” she whimpered after a time. “I’ve tried. I’ve tried. I only have one child, and I lost him. He’s dead... I’ll never see him again... and I’ll never have another. I can’t. I’m trying, Kolan, but I can’t....”

  Idisio’s breath stuck in his throat for a moment.

  “They’re hurting me, Kolan,” his mother breathed, then rolled over again, her face into the pillow, and muttered a long string of words Idisio couldn’t hear well enough to understand. At last she rolled clear and went back to deep, even breathing.

  Idisio sat very still, barely breathing himself, the hair standing up all along the back of his neck and arms. As the prickling faded, a thought occurred to him: if he was able, by some miracle, to influence his mother—if she really was that weak—he might be able to plant suggestions in her mind to turn her from her casual disregard of human life.

  And whoever Kolan was, that sounded like a name she’d listen to.

  He put a hand to his throat, thinking through what to say and how; again, instinct told him that confidence would be the key. He had to really believe he could do it, because if he tried and failed... She’d already shown raw fury over him simply stepping in her way. If she ever suspected he’d tried to control her the way she’d done him....

  Idisio rubbed his throat gently, cleared it twice, then gathered breath and nerve and said, very softly, “Mother? Are you awake?” Her breathing remained steady and deep. He listened carefully for a few moments; then, reassured, whispered, “Sleep, Ellemoa. Stay asleep.”

  It seemed best, for some reason, to use her name instead of calling her mother again; he trusted intuition and went with that approach. But something felt off, all the same. He didn’t sense anything happening. He tried again, focusing on wanting Ellemoa asleep, deeply, deeply asleep as he spoke, and felt a shivering vibration underlying the words this time.

  She sighed a little and turned her head. It seemed to him that she relaxed even further; a sort of peace came over her narrow face, and a faint smile hovered on her thin lips. He let out a silent breath of relief, then said, as quietly as before, “Kolan wants you to be kind, Ellemoa. Kolan wants you to stop hurting people. Stop hurting humans,” he corrected himself hastily. “He wants you to respect life.”

  His mother rolled her head from one side to the other, frowning slightly; he held his breath until she sighed and relaxed again.

  “He loves you, Ellemoa,” Idisio said, not sure why, intuition leading him once more. “Kolan loves you very much. He wants you to stop hurting humans. He wants you to trust... trust your son, and listen to what your son says. Whatever your son says to do, listen to him. Do as he says. Trust your son. Trust Kolan.”

  She sighed, a more distressed sound this time, and turned on her side to face away from him, curling up into herself. He bit his lip and let her be, afraid of pushing further; not at all sure if his efforts had worked, or that she wouldn’t know, on waking, what he’d tried to do.

  At least, he reflected ruefully, if she did spot his attempt at controlling her, he’d know about it very quickly.

  He sat back again, steadying his own breathing into an aqeyva trance, and waited.

  She woke again later that day and sat up, leaning toward the sunlight visible through the open window.

  “How are you feeling?” Idisio asked after a few moments of quiet.

  She turned her head, blinking at him as though surprised by his presence; stared at him with a frightening lack of recognition for a moment before breaking out into a broad smile. “Idisio,” she said. “My son.”

  “Yeah,” he said, uncomfortable and embarrassed all at once. “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired,” she said. “Sore.” She rolled her shoulders and rubbed her neck, yawning. “Where are we? What happened?”

  “We’re in Sandsplit,” he said. “You’ve been ill. You needed to rest, so we’re staying a few days while you rest.”

  “And you stayed with me?” She smiled. “Thank you, son. It’s good to know you won’t abandon me when I’m ill.” She looked back toward the window, closing her eyes, and purred a little.

  Idisio drew in a long, careful breath. “You’ve been talking in your sleep a bit,” he said casually. “Who’s Kolan?”

  She opened her eyes and stared at him. He froze, his heart tripping into a hammering rhythm at the sharp blackness of her stare. Then she blinked, and the black washed out of her eyes, returning them to a pale, mild grey.

  “Kolan?” she said. “I don’t remember.” She stretched out on the bed again, rolling to put her back to him, and said nothing more.

  He left her alone, too shaken by that brief, ferocious glare to pry further; but when her breathing deepened and evened again, he repeated his attempt at
persuasion. This time he provoked no reaction at all, and wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not.

  As sunlight dimmed toward late afternoon shadows, she stirred and sat up, wrapping her arms around herself; her face looked pale and bruised, her large eyes sunken in her too-thin face.

  “Idisio?” she said. “Son, where are we? What happened?”

  “We’re in Sandsplit,” he said. “You’ve been ill. I booked a room for a few days to let you rest.”

  She stared at him, frowning. “I’m never ill,” she said. “What happened?”

  “You haven’t been yourself,” he said. “I thought some sleep would help you recover.”

  She shivered, looking around the room. “I don’t like it here,” she said. “I want to get back on the road. Why do you say I haven’t been myself? What have I done, to make you say I’m ill?” She looked back at him, her eyes a clear, pale grey, and waited for an answer.

  “You’ve hurt people,” he said steadily.

  “Have I?” She cocked her head to the side and appeared to be thinking about that. “I suppose I have, haven’t I. Why does that make me ill?”

  “They didn’t deserve to be hurt, mother,” he said. “They didn’t do anything to deserve what you did to them.”

  She smiled at him with fond indulgence and said, “You really don’t understand very much, do you, son? Well, I won’t argue with you. You’ll have to learn your own lessons on that.” She sighed and looked out the window again, her expression wistful. “I’d like to watch a sunrise or a sunset with Kolan again,” she murmured. “Just once more.”

  He hesitated, then said, tentatively: “Who’s Kolan?”

  She didn’t look at him. “He’s dead. It doesn’t matter who he was.”

  “Sounds like you cared about him.”

  She shrugged, still staring out the window. “Maybe I did,” she said. “But as he’s dead, what does that matter? Nothing. No more important than those humans you’re so upset over. They’re meaningless. Insects. You’ll outlive the oldest of them without noticing they’re gone.”