Eredion appeared to have just come from a hasty tub-bath. He’d changed his clothes, and his black hair was slicked back into a single long, damp braid.
“Hot out there,” he said, settling into a chair. He glanced at the sleepers for a long, thoughtful moment.
Deiq studied Eredion’s face, residual clarity bringing into focus tiny wrinkles around mouth and eyes, the taut line of the man’s shoulders, the tilt of the head. Eredion wasn’t looking at Alyea; he was avoiding looking at Deiq.
He gave it a few moments, then said, flat and cold, “What happened?”
Eredion sighed and sat back in his chair, looking directly at Deiq. “Oruen wants to see you. I don’t think it’s a good idea, but he’s insisting.”
“Huh.” Deiq sorted through what hadn’t been said, and the various small implications of what had; then nodded slowly. “I’ll go. Don’t leave them alone.”
“I won’t. He’s in his casual room. Deiq—” Eredion hesitated, as though wanting to say more; settled for a grimace and head-shake.
Deiq stood, offered a sour grin, and said, “Don’t worry. I won’t.”
As he went through the door, the echo of Eredion’s hard, worried exhalation hung in the air.
Bright Bay had begun as a cluster of mud-walled huts, a stinking display of the worst human architectural and engineering logic. The Aerthraim corrected the stink with their ingenious drainage system, which kept all but the poorest areas of the city from flooding under every storm; the architecture had been more random.
The logical thing to do, in extreme heat, was to build an enclosed city with thick walls to keep heat out and large, low windows to let breezes in; as the Fortresses, by and large, had done. Bright Bay initially tried to copy that model, but had to struggle against flooding, which the Fortresses rarely encountered. In addition, over the centuries, different kaens had decided to make their differences from the southlands clear; and finally, the rise of the Northern Church had pushed building designs into an entirely new direction.
As Deiq walked around to the servants’ entrance, he idly catalogued the spots where the original, thick walls were still visible, and where additions to the palace had changed to thinner, less logical styles. The servants’ side held to the old; centuries of tough ivy carpeted many sections of wall and pathway, resolute against the smothering heat and unaffected by foot traffic. The sprawling, lumpy roots and tendrils rolled lightly under Deiq’s weight; he smiled a little, remembering when this section of path had been clear of any ivy. Ripping it out now would likely destroy the brick underneath; in the relatively short span of Ninnic’s reign, the ivy had been allowed to take over, any gardening around the servants’ areas severely neglected.
He took the servants’ hall entrance, not inclined to walk through kitchen, laundry, or stillroom; moved through the least-used corridors, avoiding guards and servants alike. The heat wavered higher and lower as he went through sections with thin and thick walls. Towards the center of the palace, the walls were much thinner and the heat climbed sharply.
The people who hurried past, not really seeing him, had faces shiny with sweat and dark patches on their clothes. Deiq shook his head, amused by human idiocy. If they had any sense, they’d have Aerthraim engineers in to redesign the entire palace; but humans never had displayed much in the way of sense.
He paused just before entering the hallway that led to Oruen’s casual room, thinking of the several hidden passageways that would take him in without any announcement or alert. Amusing as that would be, however, Deiq could almost see Eredion’s anxious expression at the very thought: it would set Oruen on edge, and this wasn’t the time for games. He snorted and went around the corner.
He allowed the guards to announce him into Oruen’s presence with proper courtesy this time, and even offered a formal bow—then sat down before the king could. Oruen grimaced at that discourtesy but made no open protest.
“Lord Oruen,” Deiq said, again not waiting for the king to take the lead, and laced his fingers together in his lap. “You asked to see me?”
Oruen stared down at him, his expression stony. “You assured me,” he said, “that you were here to protect Alyea. And yet she seems to have done more to take care of you, in the past days, and has seen remarkable little in the way of safety from your presence.”
He paused, watching Deiq’s expression. Deiq stayed still, his teeth set lightly in his tongue, and said nothing. It was a normal human reaction, after all, to seek a target other than the true fault; especially when emotion was involved.
“She was only attacked to get leverage on you,” the king added, his eyes narrowing.
“By men who thought me nothing but a merchant, and Alyea nothing but my whore,” Deiq pointed out. The king’s eyes went nearly to slits. Deiq went on, unhurriedly: “She would have been able to get free on her own if Kippin hadn’t been involved, and I had no reasonable way of knowing about that complication, Lord Oruen. Once I did find out, I moved to take care of the situation.”
“You broke both of a guard captain’s arms, injured several other guards, wrecked three city properties, and almost got Alyea killed.”
Deiq set his teeth together and drew in a long breath through his nose, then said, “And your point, Lord Oruen?”
“Your immunity only goes so far,” the king snapped.
“No,” Deiq said. “My immunity has no limits, Lord Oruen. I suggest you not test that fact.”
Oruen glared. Deiq returned a deliberately bland stare.
“I want you out of this city,” Oruen said. “Now. Tonight. And I don’t want to see you within the borders again.”
“I’ll spare you the embarrassment,” Deiq said, not moving, “and forget you just said that. Care to try again?”
Oruen’s lips pressed together into a hard, thin line for a moment; then he said, “I’m going to see Alyea. And you will not be present. Is that somewhat more acceptable?”
Deiq blinked slowly, considering, then said, “She’s still asleep. I don’t know when she’ll wake up, Lord Oruen.”
“When she does.”
“Of course.” Deiq stood, aiming a bleak grin at the king. “Is there anything else, Lord Oruen?”
Oruen didn’t move; his glare could have etched glass. “Get out.”
Deiq bowed. “Honor to you this Lordsday,” he said with cultured irony, and left without looking back.
After returning to Peysimun Mansion, Deiq sent Eredion off to tend to whatever matters he found necessary—largely, keeping Lady Peysimun from coming into the room, at this point—and resumed his vigil.
Soon afterwards, Tanavin, still fast asleep, gave a low moan. His arms tightened around Alyea and one hand slid from safe to dangerous territory, prompting a low, murmuring sigh from Alyea. Without hesitation, Deiq let out a sharp cough.
The boy twitched, grunted with entirely different emphasis, and rolled away from Alyea, his eyes still sleep-hazed. He scanned the floor as though looking for a chamberpot; then his gaze, clearing, came across Deiq. Color flooded, then drained from, his face—and other areas—in rapid succession.
“Bathroom’s that way,” Deiq said with as much restraint as he could summon. The boy scrambled out of bed and across the room.
Deiq evened his breathing and reached for detachment. If unleashing his temper against the king would have been disastrous, provoking this young mercenary into a fight would have ten times worse consequences.
Now that Tanavin was awake and the room quiet, Deiq could feel the boy’s strength, willpower, and determination. The combination produced an odd tickling against the back of his skull that threatened to loose his leashed instincts. The mad ha’ra’ha, without any sense of imminent danger, had probably leapt on the boy with the dim perception that here was an unusually interesting toy.
Hit hard and ran like all the hells. . . .
Deiq set his teeth hard and shoved hunger back into hiding; looked at Alyea, still fast asleep, and decided to pass on al
l the questions he wanted to ask Tanavin. Far better to simply get the boy out of the area as quickly as possible—for everyone’s sake—then erase any memories Alyea might retain of the boy’s presence.
It didn’t take long, once the boy returned from his ablutions, to subtly steer him out the door with the strong sense that returning would be a bad mistake. He did allow Tanavin—or Tank, as he insisted on being called—to leave behind a few of the strange pieces of jerky he’d used to ease Alyea’s pain. Tanavin called them chich, and claimed Aerthraim Family had developed them as a way of handling dasta withdrawal fits.
What that implied about Aerthraim activities of late apparently didn’t even occur to the boy, and Deiq didn’t point it out. Getting him away from Alyea was more important to Deiq than getting involved in a political discussion.
Once the room was clear of the boy’s dangerously intoxicating energies, Deiq let out all his air in a long exhalalation, clearing his mind with ruthless determination. Alyea was still fragile; he needed all his focus to clean those precious few moments out of her memories. Damned if he’d let her remember that boy and ask awkward questions about where Tanavin had gone.
Hit hard and ran. . . .
No, Tanavin or Tank or whatever he wanted to call himself at this point was best out of her life forever. And Deiq had plenty of practice with smoothing over awkward spots in human memory; even desert lords weren’t really all that difficult.
The challenge, as he knelt beside the bed, came from holding back against the desire to slide a light touch sideways into her deep pool of willpower; he ached to draw, just a tiny bit, from that tempting shimmer. She was so damn strong, even after what they’d put her through—and so was Tanavin. Deiq could feel the boy’s strength swirling, a rougher, darker color, through hers; like two strands of taffy, wound together in beguiling harmony.
He blinked, focusing, and realized that as tightly threaded together as those strands were, he’d never wipe her mind completely clean. He’d have to untangle too much, and it would wake her at the least and set her off into another rage at worst. Instead, he wove loops around the bookend moments, closing off access to the memories between. It wasn’t a perfect fix, and wouldn’t last forever; but it should serve to get Alyea through into full health and on a proper learning path again before she started asking dangerous questions.
It did serve to confirm his decision to send the boy away. He’d never have gotten rid of Tanavin if she’d woken before the boy left. Left alone, and without memory to back them up, the ties would eventually unravel and fall away, returning her attention where it belonged: to her teacher.
Not that I’ve been doing a grand job of teaching, he admitted sourly. Tanavin might have been better for her after all.
He’d rarely second-guessed his decisions before, but worry over whether he’d done right nagged at him over the following hours and days. A vast restlessness drove him away from watching over Alyea and sent him walking the streets at all hours of day and night, indifferent to temperature and weather.
Nobody bothered him; even the whores and pickpockets steered clear after a single glance, and no market vendors aimed their pitches to his ears. Deiq knew Eredion was watching him as closely as they both watched Alyea, and as worriedly; he couldn’t bring himself to care, didn’t have any reassurances to offer.
Alyea just . . . slept; breathing evenly, occasionally tossing with nightmare or rousing in brief panic before slipping under again. He could see her body healing, in tiny increments; what would be left of her mind when she awoke was another question. Had Tanavin been what she needed? Was his own presence superfluous?
At last, uncertainty burning like hot wires laid along every nerve in his body, he went looking for the boy.
The main building of the Copper Kettle, which catered to merchants wealthy enough to travel with horses, guards, and assorted flavors of wagon, sat low to the ground and sprawled over almost a quarter acre of land. A large, well-guarded barn sat at an angle to the inn building, and neatly trimmed hedges, flowerbeds, thick-trunked magnolia and southern white pine trees gave the place an air of genteel nobility.
Deiq stood under one of the magnolias, staring at the inn building, breathing in the thick fragrance of a nearby night-blooming rose and the spent petals of the magnolia that crushed underfoot. Poor mercenaries didn’t stay at places like this; but Tanavin’s trail, barely faded after two days, led here.
Deciding against direct confrontation, Deiq headed for the barn instead. It was divided into sections: one for horses, one for vehicles, and one for resident grooms and caretakers. He slipped into the stable section, easing past the guards without much effort, and moved slowly along the rows of stalls, sorting through lingering emotional resonances. Halfway through the second row, he felt the queasy, shifting sensation that told him he had found what he’d been looking for.
The stalls at the Copper Kettle were double-chambered; one outer section to hold travelers’ tack, the inner stall for the animal. Deiq stepped into the outer section, closing the gate behind him. The horse, a big, black beast with noble lines, lifted its head for a moment, nostrils flaring, then subsided to sleep again without so much as a snort.
Deiq ran a finger lightly over the bridle without removing it from its peg, smiling in wry amusement at what that told him; Idisio and Scratha would recognize this horse immediately, but the king would likely never see it in his stables again. Ha’ra’hain draw coincidences to themselves, he remembered telling Idisio: here he stood, looking at the horse that had taken Idisio on the first leg of his journey away from Bright Bay, and it had been Tanavin who rode it back into Bright Bay.
He wondered if he’d ever know the full story behind that strange loop-around; but that wasn’t important just at the moment. He drew a deep breath and splayed both hands over the seat of the saddle.
Fragments of Tanavin’s memories flickered through his mind, near-past and childhood blurring together in a linked stream:
Damn you, Dasin, how could you . . . A glimpse of tousled black hair, a bruised face downcast in deceptive vulnerability . . . Recalling other, younger faces, with heavier marks of abuse and no deceit in their helplessness . . . Tan, don’t die . . . we need you, Tan, please . . . A thick metal ring, glowing with fire-heat, and the smell of burning flesh tangled into a searing pain . . . and a killing rage—Dasin, how could you, after having gone through it yourself?
Deiq jerked his hands away and stepped back, throat tight and eyes prickling. He had what he’d come for, and more.
Gods, what humans do to one another. . . .
Tanavin wasn’t the best teacher for Alyea. He had far too much to heal from and learn himself, and had only the most marginal notions of his own abilities, despite what he’d already achieved.
But one important recent memory came though clear as daylight: Tanavin had seen Idisio, and the tath-shinn, in Sandsplit Village. Tanavin had even knocked the tath-shinn out, with a blow to the back of the head as hard as the one she’d delivered to Deiq.
He found no satisfaction in that small justice. Tanavin’s memory of Idisio’s wide, haunted grey stare bored into Deiq’s mind.
Tell them I need help, Idisio said. And to hurry.
Deiq stared into the darkness, thinking about that. The younger wasn’t tainted yet. His eyes, in Tanavin’s memory, still held the delicate innocence Deiq had been so loath to break, himself. It wasn’t too late yet. . . .
He thought about kin ties, and about his vows; about Idisio’s desperation and Alyea’s nearly comatose sleep. Eredion would offer up his last breath if Deiq asked it, from duty; but Sandsplit lay too far away: even that wouldn’t be enough. To manage any real speed, he’d have to stop multiple times along the way and take innocent lives—human lives, as no desert lords were likely to be anywhere along the Coast Road.
“I can’t do both,” he whispered at last. Tanavin’s horse twitched and snorted in its sleep, as if mocking him for his weakness. “I can’t, Idisio. I’m s
orry. What I’d have to do to get to you in time—I can’t.”
Long ago, he’d encountered a seer unafraid of telling a ha’ra’ha’s fortune, and the man’s words had stuck with him ever since: On the road to redemption, you’ll kill at least one of your own kin and deny your elders a life they’ve claimed.
Alyea’s life was obviously the latter; was Idisio the former? Was his refusal to take multiple lives going to serve as a death warrant for Idisio?
I won’t know until it’s too late, he thought. But I can’t do it. I won’t.
Deiq let out a long sigh, then left the stall, and the stables, without looking back.
Chapter Sixty-two
Eredion sat, half-drowsing, in a chair beside the bed, slouched over to keep one hand on Alyea’s shoulder; physical contact seemed to allow her to rest easier. The chair was too high, and uncomfortable: he wanted to ask for another one, but suspected Lady Peysimun’s strained nerves wouldn’t tolerate much more in the way of demands from her unwanted guests. He knew she’d tell him to get out altogether if she dared; and that threshold was fast approaching.
He felt more than half-inclined to go if given such an invitation; the room, with its frills and fashionable trappings, depressed him, and keeping vigil at the side of a sickbed had never appealed to him. But with Deiq roaming around in such erratic temper, and Lady Peysimun storming around in her current sour mood, there was nobody else he trusted to take over the job; so he sat, and stayed, as he’d once ordered a trainee to do: and waited for something to change.
A timid knock at the outer suite door brought him to heavy-lidded alertness; he glanced at Alyea, assessing, and decided to risk leaving her side for a moment. If she began to stir, he could be back in a few fast strides to reassure her back to sleep.
He ran his hands through his hair absently as he went to the door; stifled a yawn behind one hand as he opened it, and almost choked.
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