“Don’t be dense. I knew Eredion long before I ever met you, Tanavin.” Allonin’s face twisted briefly, as though with a painful memory of his own. “You may as well tell me, or I’ll just go see him myself.”
“Then go see him.” Tank flung an arm across his eyes, blocking out light and sight together as a headache crashed down out of nowhere. “Tell him you’re taking over for me, and I’m off after Dasin.”
“Dasin?” Allonin’s voice almost squeaked. “He’s here?”
“Not in Bright Bay,” Tank muttered. Sounds began to acquire a raspy spike of pain. “Off down th’ Coast Road. Gotta catch up... gotta...ehhh.”
The grey haze of pain-escape edged closer.
“Headache?” Allonin said from an unfathomable distance, the word almost too blurred to understand.
“Yehhh.”
Allonin firmly moved Tank’s shielding arm aside, then splayed both hands across his temples, thumbs meeting at the join of nose and eyes. Intense heat seeped into Tank’s skull, easing the pain: it felt like adding slack to a taut internal string.
Tank let out a long exhale of relief as the shattering pain subsided. The sigh turned into a mumbling snore halfway through, and he dropped into dreamless darkness as though falling from a Horn cliff.
Chapter Twenty-two
On her previous trip south, Alyea had listened to the grating shiss-hiss of sand caught between stone and a host of hooves. The sun had blazed down, the air had been dry. Her most serious concern had been keeping Micru and Chac from each other’s throats, and her thoughts had been filled with eager pride over her new status and anticipation of a grand adventure to come: representative of the king! Sent to hold an entire desert Fortress! She’d never dreamed of holding such an exalted position.
Now, her mood considerably bleaker, the weather considerably fouler, and the stakes considerably higher, she rode out of Bright Bay alone, on a sturdy black mare from the king’s stables. He’d long ago given her blanket permission to take any horse she wanted out for a ride; the grooms made no protest on equipping her for a long trip, clearly assuming she had the authority.
One more thing for Oruen to be furious over, when she returned. She didn’t care.
Rain spattered and streamed down her cloak. Occasional gusts of wind flung sprays of water directly into her hood, rendering that semi-protection worthless. The black mare plodded on, head down against the foul weather, uncomplaining but certainly far from enthusiastic.
Deiq hadn’t come this way. Without being entirely sure how she knew that, still she felt positive; and equally positive that he’d been taken south nonetheless. By ship, at her best guess; but a walk through both east and western docksides had failed to trigger any certainty of his passing through those areas. Bound and gagged, unconscious, maybe, but she felt certain she still should have picked up on some resonance of his recent presence.
She almost went back to Eredion, to ask for more information. A stubborn disinclination to be obligated for more help than he’d already provided stopped her. Despite his assurance that this exceptional situation held no price for assistance, she’d grown cynical enough to suspect that promises of that nature weren’t worth a grain of sand in the desert if the advantage lay in reversal.
She’d figure it out herself. And for a person looking for answers, the Horn wasn’t the worst place to start; she suspected the teyanain would be watching for her return, and would have more half-answers to tease her with. The trick would be figuring out what they wanted...or, specifically, what Lord Evkit wanted...and teasing them into revealing more than they intended.
Knowing the what, however, didn’t mean she understood the how. She found herself muttering childhood prayers under her breath, cadenced to the plodding sway of the horse. Amused by that instinctive reaction, she allowed herself to continue, but carefully changed the particulars to reflect the southern, not the northern, pantheon. Attending to that distracted her sour thoughts for a time, leaving her more cheerful with each altered prayer.
Bright Bay lay less than an hour’s ride behind her, and the wind-flung rain had eased to a calmer misty drizzle, when she saw the cloaked and hooded form sitting on a large boulder by the side of the road. A thread of icy caution, feeling like a drop of cold rain going the wrong way, slithered up her spine; the bizarre, in her recent experience, never boded well.
She drew her horse to a halt a cautious distance away and waited without speaking. The stranger stood unhurriedly and pushed the dun-colored hood back, revealing dozens of thin white braids and sharp black eyes in a weathered, ancient face.
Alyea’s breath left her chest all at once, in a shock of bewildered recognition.
The healer advanced two slow steps, her gaze never leaving Alyea’s face. “You appear to have recovered remarkably well,” she said, her thin voice considerably drier than the air.
“Ha’inn,” Alyea said blankly. It was the term of respect others had used to address Deiq, and seemed the most appropriate response at the moment. “What are you—”
“He didn’t come this way.”
Alyea just stared, for a long moment, while her wits caught up. The last time she’d seen the healer had been at the Qisani, after the blood trial of Ishrai; the old woman had saved her life, then departed with nothing more than an admonition to be careful for a few days. No—that was wrong. The last time she’d seen the healer had been at the teyanain fortress. The old woman had been writhing in a tub of bloody water as her own child ripped its way free from her body.
That sight had been horrific enough that Alyea had done her best to forget it, along with the lingering sense of guilt over not finding a way to repay the debt of her own life by saving the healer from that torture. But apparently the woman had survived after all.
She not woman. Not human, not for many years, Lord Evkit had said, and offered names: Teilo. Ha’rai’nin.
Memory, inexorable now, flickered more information: The Jungles really mad now. They want you dead, and want Teilo dead, and want maybe Deiq dead.
“Oh, gods,” Alyea said aloud, putting a hand to her mouth in horror. “Did the Jungles take Deiq? Is that what happened?”
“Maybe,” the old woman—ha’rai’nin—said, folding her arms and scowling up at her. “Maybe not. But he definitely didn’t come this way.”
Alyea drew in a long, deep breath, blinking rapidly. The mare fretted briefly, sidling and tossing her head, as though impatient to continue. Alyea patted the damp neck, murmuring reassurance, then said, “What do you want, ha’inn?”
For the first time, Teilo smiled, her sour demeanor lightening.
“You’ve grown up,” she noted. “Good. I don’t so much regret saving your life now.”
Alyea gasped and leaned back in reflexive protest at that cruel statement. The mare snorted and shimmied; Alyea grabbed for control and spent several frantic moments fighting to stay in the saddle before the mare calmed with a final head-toss and disgusted huff.
Teilo didn’t move, not even when a heavy hoof slammed into the ground within a handspan of her feet. At last Alyea, breathing hard from the struggle, was able to turn the mare around to face the old woman again.
“You regret saving my life?” Alyea said, glaring down at the deceptively frail ha’rai’nin.
“Not as much as I did yesterday,” Teilo said. Her mouth quirked in an almost-smile.
Alyea shook her head, caught between anger and bewilderment. The hard stare of the woman—ha’rai’nin! she reminded herself sharply, not human, not a woman—bore no resemblance to the kindness she recalled from the Qisani, when this—creature—had saved her life.
Teilo’s expression hardened, as though she’d caught that thought. For a moment, Alyea thought she would simply turn and stalk away in high offense.
“I’m sorry—” Alyea blurted.
Teilo shut her eyes and seemed to shiver all over for a moment, then looked up once more with a flat expression. “You have a lot to learn about self-control ye
t, apparently. And some growing up still to do. Nothing’s ever simple, Lord Alyea.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” Alyea said, her throat thick with conflicting desires: ride past the old woman and away from whatever game was being set in motion now—or throw herself on the ground to beg forgiveness from the woman who’d saved her life.
“Tanavin’s been good for you,” Teilo said unexpectedly, her flat expression warming a little. “He’s given you the cynicism you need to survive. Pity he’s off on his own course and won’t stay with you; he’d be a tremendous help.”
Alyea held still with an effort, aware that the mare remained restless and jerking back again would set off a second battle. After a few carefully steady breaths, she said, “His name is Tank.”
Teilo made a dismissive gesture with one thin hand. “I knew him as Tanavin. I trained him as Tanavin. I’ll call him what I please.”
“You trained him?” Alyea stared, fascinated. “What did—”
Teilo made another impatient gesture. “Time isn’t particularly flexible. I suggest we move on to important things.”
“If you’re trying to keep me confused and off-balance,” Alyea said in sudden irritation, “you’re succeeding, ha’inn. How about telling me what’s going on?”
Teilo’s wrinkled face relaxed into a smile. “And there’s the belligerence you’ll need,” she murmured, so softly that Alyea barely made out the words. Then, louder, she said, “I don’t know what’s going on myself, Lord Alyea. All I can tell you is: don’t trust the teyanain. Not when they say hello, not when they say goodbye.”
“Who do I trust?” Alyea demanded, thoroughly ruffled now.
“Nobody,” Teilo said as though the question were a foolish one. “Lord Alyea, you have no idea of the mess you’ve stepped into. There are problems involved that have been coming to a boil for centuries, and I have neither time nor inclination to tell you what they are. If you’d been raised south of the Horn, you’d have a better idea, but you’re dangerously ignorant at the moment. I suggest going back to Bright Bay and sorting out your own family, your own life, before chasing down into the southlands again. You’ll only make things worse by going along this road.”
“I’ve been told that before,” Alyea said tightly. “It didn’t stop me then. It won’t stop me now.”
“But you did make things worse,” Teilo pointed out, tilting her head to one side a little. “Your persisting through the blood trial of Ishrai, even though Acana warned you against it, set off a chain of consequences you’ve barely seen the first link of yet.”
Alyea swallowed and blinked hard. “Done is done,” she snapped.
“Yes. But what isn’t yet done can be avoided,” Teilo replied. “Turn around, Lord Alyea. Stay in Bright Bay, where you know the rules; let the southlands sort out their own battles. You don’t have time to learn a thousand years of history, and you don’t have the experience to tangle with the teyanain and come out unscathed, or even alive.”
“So the teyanain are involved!”
Teilo stared, unblinking, for a long moment, then said, “The teyanain are involved, eventually, in everything. Lord Evkit may be the most dangerous man walking this earth at the moment.”
“Even considering Deiq?” Alyea said before thought stopped her.
Teilo let out a soft snort. “Deiq’s not a man. He’s a First Born ha’ra’ha. The last one surviving above ground.” A strange twitch passed across her face briefly. “Stop thinking of him as human.”
“Are you still human?”
Alyea couldn’t believe she’d actually asked that question aloud, and apparently neither could Teilo: the flat, unblinking stare returned.
“Not any longer,” Teilo said finally. She shut her eyes, that odd shiver racking through her again, then looked up at Alyea, a translucent, golden overlay appearing in her eyes.
“Damn you,” the ha’rai’nin whispered. “Damn you for reminding me.”
“I’m sor—” Alyea began reflexively, then stopped as an abrupt gust of chill wind drove the thin mist into hard prickles against her face. The mare snorted and turned sharply away from the wind, head lowering in protest. The reins nearly pulled from Alyea’s hands, and she leaned forward to hang onto them.
The gust dissipated, leaving only the chill, dreary fog behind. Blinking her eyes clear and bringing the mare back around, Alyea found herself alone.
“Teilo?” she said uncertainly, pulling the mare in a slow circle and scanning her surroundings. “Teilo? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...remind you...I didn’t know...Teilo?”
Silence, broken only by the pattering of condensed mist through the leaves of nearby bushes.
Alyea let out a hard breath. The mare tossed her head, as though agreeing with her rider’s disquiet, and sidled a few restless steps.
“Bloody hells,” Alyea muttered at last, and urged the mare south once more.
As she had months ago, Alyea stood on the edge of a steep drop and stared out at the Goldensea, far to the west. This time, the view was obscured by a persistent, foggy drizzle, and the sense of disorientation only increased the longer she stood there. At last she turned away to wander restlessly through the sprawling settlement, something she hadn’t had the luxury of doing on her previous visit.
Practicality, rather than politics, held her to the same pace she’d followed with Chac at her side; unfamiliar with the terrain, without any accompanying guards, pressing on through the broken paths of the Horn at night was an invitation to suicide. She’d also been experiencing a prickly sensation on the back of her neck ever since entering the Horn proper, which told her that the teyanain were aware of her presence and watching closely.
Impatient as she was to begin finding clues as to Deiq’s whereabouts, she’d learned enough about the southern mindset to know that, paradoxically, sitting still and letting people come to her was the only way to get anywhere.
The homes in the way-stop were small, compared to northern buildings, and sturdily built of stacked chunks of stone, the gaps filled in with mud and straw. Few offered windows, and those that did had heavy shutters set in place against the current weather. Smoke curled from chimneys all along the way, giving the air a rank, bitter taste, and the ground underfoot was a slick, treacherous mixture of mud and large rocks.
Alyea came to a steep set of stairs carved into a sharp rise, which led up into the mist; idly curious, she turned away from the main road and began to climb. At the top she discovered a simple gate in the form of a sideways V connected to an anchoring post on either side: the wide end was hinged; the point swung inwards.
Unwilling to push through, Alyea stood on the ledge before the gate and peered into the mist. A thick form loomed out of the grey at her with startling speed, and she backed up instinctively, her heels catching the edge of the step. Reflex pushed her into a forward lunge to avoid tumbling backwards down the steep stairway; her hands closed around the top bar of the gate for balance, and she found herself face to face with the ugliest sheep she’d ever seen.
Great gold-rimmed black eyes stared at her incuriously from a wide, lumpy face. The nose was a mottled pink-black, one ear had been reduced to shreds at some point in the distant past, and the thick fur was a dirty grey erratically streaked with black and red. It lifted its nose, sniffing the air, then snorted, sending a thick spray of sheep-snot through the air. Alyea ducked, raising an arm defensively, and felt her hair slick down even further with the added moisture.
“Oh, terrific,” she muttered, caught between laughter and annoyance, and straightened to find the sheep plodding away into the mist, a bizarrely long, tufted tail swinging back and forth behind it.
Something about the sight of that swaying tail added the final touch to the absurdity of the situation, and she began hooting with uncontrollable laughter. First casualty of my search, she thought, turns out to be my dignity. How appropriate.
At last she turned back to the steps and began descending, considerably more cheerful
than she had been on the way up.
Chapter Twenty-three
The room held silent for a breath, two, three; then one of the men rose. Broader than Eredion, with a shock of pale hair and a wide face, he glared at the desert lord.
“I know you,” he said. “Lord Eredion Sessin.” The title held only acid contempt. “You don’t remember me, do you? No reason for you to—”
One of the nearby women—barely more than a girl, in truth—stirred, her face going several shades paler, and reached for the man’s sleeve.
“Lenni,” she said. “Lenni, don’t—”
He jerked his arm away, continuing to glare at Eredion.
The shortened name had been enough for Eredion to place the man: Lennimorn, a prominent noble whose family had fallen into severe disgrace during the Purge. The girl beside him must be his new wife. Eredion set his teeth and tried to keep his expression placid. He had been avoiding the man for months; not difficult, as Lennimorn seemed disinclined to appear in court these days.
He’d sent a few letters to Eredion, though. Nasty ones. Eredion hadn’t responded.
“You watched my Aima, my daughter, my only daughter, raped and tortured and murdered, making no effort to stop it,” the man went on, a heavy flush coloring his face now. His grey-green eyes glinted. “No effort at all. You let my Aima die, and rescued our servants instead. Servants!”
The women murmured and blinked anxiously, their gazes flickering from Lady Peysimun to Eredion to Lennimorn, clearly not sure what to do. Two looked shocked and outraged, the rant appparently new to them.
Of course the situation hadn’t been so simple, but none of these people wanted to hear the truth behind that horrible day. I lost good friends and lovers myself during the Purge, Eredion wanted to say. Damnit, I couldn’t save everyone, and I paid outrageously every time I intervened. But again, nobody would hear that as anything but a whiny excuse. He’d chosen servants over nobles: that was the only thing that mattered to them.
Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) Page 16