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

by Leona Wisoker

  She pursed her lips and looked sidelong at her companion, who was openly grinning. “You don’t show up by sunset,” she said, “we keep it all.”

  “Done.” He handed her the reins, then passed the other guard his sword, harness and all.

  “You registered with the Hall?” she asked, practical, and scratched Sin’s nose fondly. “Nice fellow you got here.”

  “Yes. Name of Tank.”

  “We’ll let the captain know, if you don’t show up.”

  “That’s appreciated,” he said. “But you won’t need to.”

  “Huh,” she said, shaking her head, and “Huh,” again; then called for the other guards to open the gate. “We won’t open it for you from the other side,” was her parting warning. “Only one way through these doors, s’e.”

  “I’ll see you at the East Gate,” was all he said; and didn’t look back as the gates clashed shut behind him.

  He was limping a little when he collected Sin, a solid two hours before sunset; the guard captain at the East Gate, eyebrows raised, handed over a thick, cloth-wrapped bundle along with horse and sword.

  “Bandages and salves and such,” he said. “Kina said you’d likely need ‘em, if you showed. Looks like she was right.”

  Tank touched one corner of his mouth gently; his fingers came away spotted with blood. “Yeah,” he said. “Thanks. Which way to the Copper Kettle from here, s’e?”

  He listened to the directions as he strapped on his sword harness, wincing a little; hoisted himself clumsily into the saddle, nodded farewell, and turned Sin’s nose east and north.

  The only room available at the Copper Kettle was a single-bed; but it was a largish room, with proper chairs and a writing-desk, along with a small in-room dining table and wardrobe. The bed itself was wide and soft enough for three to rest in comfort.

  A servant in immaculate and starched white livery escorted Tank to his room, then insisted on staying to tend the various small injuries.

  “It’s what I get paid for, s’e,” he said when Tank tried to send him away. “Whatever the guest requires. And we’ve merchants and half-nobles here who stay days and weeks at a time; some of them go out for a night of drinking and come back in far worse shape than this.” He grinned, exposing crooked and gapped teeth.

  Too exhausted to argue, Tank sat docile after that, allowing the man to gently strip off the stained and ripped clothes; the servant showed no reaction at all to the old scars, and his tending of the new wounds was brisk and professional.

  “There, now,” he said at last, gathering up the ruined clothes and blood-stained washcloths. “You ought to be safe enough to get some rest, s’e. Blood on the linens always upsets the cleaning maids... Dinner’s served just past nightfall. I’ll come by and advise you when the dining room opens, if you like.”

  Tank nodded slowly, his head and eyes feeling weighted and thick.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled. “Be sure Dasin knows what room. He’ll be in—another day, maybe two. Skinny blond. Merchant.”

  “I’ll be sure of it, s’e,” the servant said.

  Tank hoisted himself to his feet and stumbled to the bed. The soft, flat surface welcomed him. An unmeasured stretch of time later, someone drew a light blanket across.

  “Damn loon,” a voice said some time after that. “What did you get yourself into this time?”

  Tank rolled over, blinking back to awareness, and focused on Dasin with some difficulty. “Whah?” The room was warm and humid and grey with twilight. “You got here fast.”

  “You’ve been asleep over a day straight,” Dasin said tartly. “I’m told you staggered in here yesterday before sunset, looking like all the hells had a pass at you, and went out cold.”

  “Uhhrr.” Tank rubbed a hand over his eyes and sat up slowly. “That’s still a fast bit of riding.” He squinted; Dasin looked as grey as the room around them. “Your horse alive?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Dasin said. “I wake up with you gone and Yuer all but laughing in my face over having drugged me, and I get told I’m to meet you in Bright Bay—What do you think? And Yuer wouldn’t tell me anything other than that we’re to gather supplies for a run back to Sandsplit, and there’s a merc here I’m to meet with and hire, name of Raffin, and you’re waiting for me at the Copper Kettle—If you’re still alive, that is, he says, and won’t tell me why that’s a question at all! And then I hear, as I go through the village, about a girl dead out by the edge of town—raped, by the sound of it—and everyone’s glaring at outsiders as though I’m in Kybeach instead of Sandsplit—Obein was no better, I had to bribe my way through, if you can believe it—some stupid damn barricade over the road, and they got mad when I said that was stupid as aiming to get milk from a snake—”

  Tank laughed and put up a hand to stop Dasin’s rant.

  “Enough,” he said. “Gods, take a breath!”

  Dasin turned away sharply and set about lighting the large oil lamps on the desk and dining table. When the room was bathed in a soft glow, he said, “They’re serving dinner. Roast chicken and greens.”

  Tank ran his hands through his hair and swung his legs to sit on the edge of the bed. “Not really hungry,” he said. “You?”

  Dasin shook his head, not quite meeting Tank’s gaze.

  “Tired,” he said. “Tired and—scared.” His face was pale and weary in the yellow light.

  “Scared?”

  “Didn’t know if you’d be alive. Looks like you nearly weren’t.” Dasin flicked a glance at the array of bandages and sticking-plaster in which the servant had left Tank swathed.

  “Oh—this isn’t—” Tank stopped and drew a breath. Explaining that the cuts had nothing to do with why he’d left Dasin behind would involve explaining too much else afterward. “This isn’t anything,” he said instead. “A few scratches. Nothing important.”

  Dasin snorted. “What you think of as scratches,” he began, then shook his head and fell silent, turning away again.

  Tank sat still, frowning at Dasin’s skinny back, and said, “You were really that worried? Why?”

  Dasin took a restless step toward the door, then went to his pack instead and dug out a pipe and a small leather pouch.

  “Dasin,” Tank said, a little sharply.

  “Shut it,” Dasin said without turning. He filled and lit the pipe; the sweet, earthy aroma of aesa drifted through the air. Dasin took two heavy draws, exhaling clouds of grey smoke, then turned and held the pipe out to Tank.

  “No,” Tank said.

  “Take it,” Dasin said, eyes bright and clear. He walked over to stand before Tank and offered the pipe again. “I know it’s my poison, not yours—but damnit, trust me for once. Just the once. Take it.”

  Tank looked at Dasin’s fierce expression, then shrugged, wrapped his hand around the pipe and drew. Once, then again: his hand shook, and Dasin’s closed round for support. Smoke swirled through him, dragging clarity away with surprising speed. He pushed the pipe back at Dasin and hoisted himself onto the bed. Leaning against the headboard, he shut his eyes and let the world sway in silence for a time.

  “I went looking for a fight,” he said at last, eyes still closed. “Found one. Won it.”

  “Yeah,” Dasin said. “I figured it was something like that.”

  He settled on the bed beside Tank, leaning back in companionable quiet. They passed the pipe back and forth for a time, not speaking.

  Eventually, Dasin set the pipe aside, resting it carefully in a small dish on the bedside table. He said, “I was scared. I get scared easy, Tank. I—count on you being around. Didn’t realize it until I woke up alone in Yuer’s guest room, and had to ride from Sandsplit to Bright Bay not knowing if I’d find you on a burning slab at the end of the road.”

  Tank sighed and ran his hands through his hair. Sorry didn’t seem the right thing to say, somehow.

  “I’m harder to kill than all of that,” he said instead. “You spook too easy, Dasin.”

  “I jus
t said so, didn’t I?” Dasin said, irritated now.

  Tank put out a hand, intending to grip Dasin’s near shoulder; the angle turned out awkward, and he wound up putting his arm across Dasin’s shoulders instead, gripping the far one.

  Dasin sucked in a short, harsh breath and sat very still, head tipped back.

  “Ah, damnit,” Tank said, and began to withdraw his hand. Abrupt tension gathered in Dasin’s skinny body; he bit his lip and left his arm where it was. “Dasin—”

  “Shut it,” Dasin said, scarcely audible. “Just—damnit—shut it.”

  Tank let out a long sigh, wondering if the aesa had anything to do with the heat gathering in his groin; experience told him that was unlikely. While dasta prompted one to act outside normal behavior, aesa... dismissed the masks and blew open the secrets.

  “Dasin,” he said, very quietly. “You never said. I thought you went—the other road.”

  “I walk both,” Dasin said, voice dry and thin. “That’s what I was taught to think normal.” He turned his head, just a little, to glance at Tank sidelong. “I know you don’t,” he added. “So I never said.”

  “You never asked,” Tank said, as dry himself, and felt a shiver run through Dasin’s skinny frame.

  “You told Frenn and Breek—”

  “Well, what else? I wasn’t looking to get in a fight at that point.”

  Dasin hesitated, then said, barely audible, “And I thought, after—” His hand crept, tentatively, to touch one of the scars across Tank’s bare stomach. “I figured the memories were bad enough to turn you away from... any reminders.”

  “That was—then. And different.” And Dasin’s wiry strength had no chance against Tank’s own, but Tank knew better than to say that aloud. “It’s the past. It’s over.”

  Aesa haze forced him to admit to himself that without the moment of crystalline understanding he’d shared with Alyea, he wouldn’t have been nearly as comfortable making that statement, relegating the past to the past and allowing the moment to be enough. Even under an aesa cloud, he wouldn’t have been willing to face his real reaction to Dasin’s presence so close at hand, wouldn’t have allowed his true response to Dasin’s admission. Gods knew he’d refused to see Dasin’s interest for long enough.

  He tightened his grip and drew Dasin against him. A few moments later, he pulled away a handspan and muttered, “Careful, damnit—I bite back.”

  Dasin laughed, color flooding his face; and said, fiercely, “Good.”

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Idisio moved through nightmare. The crisp amber edges of the world had blurred into a bloody halo, and his inner ear rang with screams. He barely felt the ground under his feet as he stumbled back to the inn. Laughter paced his steps, a voice he’d never heard directly before: You haven’t escaped me, you know. This is all a dream... You dream so predictably.

  Escaped who didn’t matter under the rising tide of crimson and white filling his vision. Escape was the important word, the part that made sense; if he ran fast enough, if he got back to the room at the inn—the last place where everything had been normal—quickly enough, he might be able to escape that mocking, smug, twisted voice.

  It didn’t work. If anything, the voice was stronger there, in the small, dilapidated room laced with his mother’s scent. You’ll never really escape me ... You’ll certainly never forget me, sweet. Even if you do get away, I’ve marked you forever. You’ll never really be free. You’re safer with me... I’m the only one who understands you.

  Idisio gagged on black, scabby hatred and flung out a hand. The lone, stubby candle on the nightstand table flared to life. It produced more shadows than light and only disrupted what amber clarity was left to him; he willed the flame out and sat, shivering and bewildered, on the edge of the bed.

  What was happening to him?

  I killed my mother. He was paying the price for matricide. I didn’t have a choice. But that was an answer the new, blood-edged darkness inside himself wouldn’t accept.

  He wondered what Deiq would have done. Probably nothing so very different... except, somehow, hitting Ellemoa very hard with something very sharp would have been more Deiq’s style; he would have left her in several pieces, too small to heal the way a scratch did.

  Could I have done that? It hadn’t even occurred to Idisio to try; a belt knife, however long or well-crafted, still seemed like an absurd weapon against a ha’ra’ha’s strength and speed. And he wasn’t so much an expert with knife-fighting, either; he’d always run away from fights, by choice, or used his fists when a scrap was unavoidable. Perhaps with years of training and a long, sharp sword, he might have been able to—

  Laughter spiraled through his mind again. You like thinking about killing, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes....

  Idisio shut his eyes and put his hand over them, shivering again. I’m losing my mind.

  How would Cafad Scratha look at him if he ever found out what Idisio had done? It wouldn’t be a fake glare at that point. He’d wear the same look as the other desert lords had—and now, now Idisio understood why.

  I’m dangerous. Gods, I can’t believe I was so blind. He realized that he’d always suspected most of the respect Deiq garnered was human foolishness. He’d seen the fear of the desert lords as nothing more serious than fear of the unknown, and he’d seen Deiq as little more than a masterful showman who took advantage of the credulous to build a fearsome reputation.

  But if anything, they didn’t fear Deiq enough.

  Get used to it, Deiq had said, his expression fierce.

  How the hells do I do that? Idisio thought as the room around him slowly streaked with red, the amber dissolving under the flood of detached fury coursing through his body. He liked that rush he’d felt from killing the girl and his own mother, oh yes he did. It was far better than even the best sex he’d ever experienced. How the hells does Deiq keep from slaughtering everyone around him?

  Breathe, Scratha said in memory, his voice severe. Look at your breath. Shut out everything else. And Deiq’s voice chimed in: Will you just drop into a full aqeyva trance already? Block everything out. This isn’t over yet. I’ll pull you out when it’s safe.

  He’s not here to pull me out this time... but I don’t really need him to, either, do I?

  Staying submerged in an aqeyva trance, in that safe grey nothingness, seemed infinitely preferable to being overwhelmed by the hideous hunger rising in him.

  He dropped down into the grey, twisting himself round and round until he’d worked himself into that tiny, private part of his mind where nothing existed but the steady flow of breath and pulse. Even there, tendrils of red and white snaked after his attention; he ignored them. The grey dissolved them, dispersed them, distanced murderous rage into insignificance.

  After what seemed a handful of heartbeats and forever all at once, the tendrils stopped trying to prod him into action. He sensed the flood of fury draining slowly, steadily away: going from a torrential icemelt river to a muddy puddle. Intuition told him it wouldn’t get better than that. He sighed and unwound himself with fragile care, stepping around that slickness as best he could.

  So aqeyva worked as a method of controlling the vast anger he’d somehow absorbed from his mother. That was a good thing to know, as was the new understanding of what happened when he drew—whatever that had been—from another creature.

  He could feel Enia’s memories swirling through his mind too, now, but they were fragile and easily shredded things, scarcely strong enough to see clearly. But his mother’s memories—

  Don’t look at that, he told himself, and retreated into an aqeyva haze until the temptation to see into her agonized darkness, to understand why she’d done the things she’d done, went away. He wasn’t strong enough to look at that. He’d already begun to crumble under the least fringes of it.

  She’d been right. He was a fool and a child, without any real understanding of the world he walked through. But even if he had understood entirely, he
probably wouldn’t have done much differently. Whatever Kolan believed, Ellemoa had been—as Tank put it—stable as a brick balanced on a pin. The risk of her losing all restraint had been too high; and now that he understood how strong the pressure inside her had run, he knew his decision had been the right one.

  Kolan was human. Like the desert lords, he only thought he understood what he’d been dealing with.

  Idisio rubbed his eyes clear and looked at the open window—and into a flood of bright, warm sunlight. His overloaded eyes flooded with tears for a moment, then adjusted and dried out.

  Sunlight, his mother said, desperate, whining, needing—

  He checked to be sure he had belt pouch and knife—the only things he owned, now, as there was no point even trying to go back to Bright Bay—then went out into the warm daylight. The inn stood among a stand of thick featherpalm trees and stone pines, heavily draped with ivy; the side of the inn on which Idisio’s room had been was the only spot receiving direct sun. The front door lay bathed in cool purple-grey shade.

  Idisio shivered and started for the sun-striped road beyond the inn yard, then stopped, staring.

  Kolan stood on the road, watching him without any particular expression. The sunlight caught glimmers of silver from his brown hair, and he had lines on his face that belonged to a man much older than the age at which Ellemoa’s memories placed him.

  For some reason, Idisio thought of Yuer; he put that aside as a distraction and focused on Kolan instead. He took a tentative step forward and said, “Kolan?”

  Kolan only looked at him, gaze steady and clear and grey. Kolan didn’t speak. Kolan—waited, as though to see what Idisio would do now.

  Had his eyes been that color before? Idisio couldn’t remember, and the uncertainty put another chill up his back. But the fastest path to get to the sunlight was to approach Kolan, and the inner pressure was growing—whining, nagging, pleading, demanding that he leave the cooler shadows. The darker shadows.