Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4)

by Leona Wisoker

  Thin, white lattice on each side formed a narrow corridor that ended, several steps along, in a small white picket gate. Eredion stood where he was, and waited quietly. At last a faint scuff came from his right, and a voice said, “Lord Eredion.”

  “I’d like to see Aima,” he said, keeping his gaze straight ahead. “If this is a good day for it.”

  “It is,” the voice said. “Did her father send you another of those letters?”

  “No. I ran into him direct, this time.”

  A faint sigh. “Lord Eredion, you hold no responsibility for Aima. Your generosity is more than your soul’s due already; why do you torture yourself this way?”

  Eredion shut his eyes and breathed through his nose, then said, “Let me in or send me away, sionno.”

  “Come ahead,” the priest said, reluctance clear in his voice.

  The picket gate yielded to Eredion’s hand. He stepped through, drawing it closed behind him as carefully as he had the outer gate. In front of him lay a wide, sun-drenched courtyard edged with fragrant herb and flower plantings, punctuated with wide stone benches and wooden sun-chairs. A walkway beyond the plantings connected an arc of a dozen small cottages, each with large windows on every side and a door with no lock.

  Two larger cottages stood at each end of the arc, near the inner fence line; these had a much sturdier construction, smaller windows, and lockable doors. Eredion surveyed the setup with his usual moment of satisfaction that his suggestions had worked out to be both practical and attractive; then, reluctantly, he turned his attention to the people in the courtyard.

  On one stone bench sat an older man with grizzled black hair and a thick beard; he turned a simple children’s puzzle square over in his hands, frowning at it as though trying to remember how it worked, and ignored all else around him. Another bench held a younger man, this one with brown hair that shone like brass under the flood of sunshine; he had stretched out onto his back and looked for all the world to be simply enjoying a sunbath, except that his mouth moved in a ceaseless series of whispers.

  Eredion knew what he was saying; he’d listened to that man’s whisperings before, and the memory of it still put chills up his back. This wasn’t one who’d be released any time soon, and he lay far beyond any healing Eredion or the priests could offer. Eredion had actually recommended that the priests slip something into his drink and free the bed up for someone more deserving, but they had fixed him with uncompromising stares and told him that all their guests were deserving.

  Not the first time he’d disagreed with them.

  The guests wore simple grey tunics, caught at the waist with a bit of rough cord, and leggings if they so desired. Most of them refused anything more than the tunic, and often stripped that off completely, wandering about in sun and in rain naked as newborns—and usually as witless. The priests watched to prevent them from causing harm to themselves or the other guests, fed them, cleaned up after them, and tried to guide them into prayer and therapeutic activities whenever possible.

  A young woman in tunic and leggings sat sideways on one of the stone benches, cross-legged, her back to Eredion; slightly bent forward, studying something before her. Eredion walked slowly towards her, careful as he always was, here, not to make any sudden moves or noises that might upset the guests. When he was still a dozen steps away, she lifted her head to sit up straight and said, without turning, “Lord Eredion.”

  He crossed the remaining distance, circling round to give her plenty of room before he faced her. “Good morning, Aima.”

  Her blond hair had been shorn back nearly to stubble: her choice, as she’d claimed the weight of her once-long hair gave her headaches. Her grey-brown eyes blinked, unfocused, staring through him at something invisible; she blinked again, more rapidly, and her vision seemed to clear. She looked up at him, squinted, then said, “You’ve seen my father.”

  “Yes. May I sit?” He kept his gaze on her, politely not looking to see what she’d been working on.

  “You may,” she said gravely. “See? I’ve been painting.”

  He glanced down at that tacit permission, and smiled; the small canvas held a reasonable likeness of a large white flower.

  “Lovely,” he said, and meant it: her previous paintings had featured dark monsters, nightmares come to life. It seemed highly encouraging that she had begun painting lighter items.

  With care, she leaned over and set the still-damp painting aside on the cobbles to her right; closed up and did the same with the paint jars and brushes.

  “He still hates you,” she said, not quite looking at him.

  “Of course he does. He thinks you’re dead.”

  “And that bothers you.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  She darted a quick glance at him, her eyes more grey than brown. “If he knew I was alive, he’d spare no effort to get me out of here and back where he thinks I belong. And that would be a bad idea, wouldn’t it?”

  Eredion sighed. “Yes.”

  “Do you think I’d kill him, Lord Eredion?”

  He raised an eyebrow and met her gaze until she looked away.

  “There was a woman,” he said then, “brought in within a year after Rosin took over the Church. A servant woman, southern by heritage.”

  “There were a lot of those,” she said, mouth twisting.

  “I know. This one would have been turned in as some sort of traitor by a noblewoman named Hama Peysimun.”

  She shut her eyes and exhaled, frowning in deep concentration. “Haaaay-maaaaaah,” she murmured. “Familiar. Familiar.” She hummed to herself tunelessly for a few moments, then opened her eyes and stared at Eredion. “Yes. I remember her name being mentioned a few times over the years. I remember Peysimun, at least. But the servant, nothing. There were too many. I can’t pick any one out, not from that long ago.”

  Eredion sighed. He hadn’t really expected an answer.

  A shadow passed by; the bronze-haired youth snatched up Aima’s small painting, danced several paces away, then stood still, staring at the painting with a puzzled frown.

  Eredion sat quiet, aware that three priests had appeared from various spots and were watching intently. Aima sat as quietly, watching without apparent alarm as the young man turned her painting around in his hands.

  Abruptly, the youth flung the painting to the ground and began stamping on it. Aima gave no reaction, but Eredion half-rose, a hand out in protest; the young man turned towards the motion, laughing. The priests began to move in, at a careful pace designed to keep everyone calm. The young man flickered a fast glance around, noting their positions. A sly smile crossed his thin face.

  A moment later, he bounded forward with astounding speed, slamming Aima from the bench. Landing on top of her, he reared back, fist cocked. Eredion reached to grab his wrist, to stop the blow, and just missed. The priests converged as the fist began its downward arc: Aima sat up just before the blow connected, her hands coming together before her and shoving upwards, something between them. Then the side of the youth’s arm, still moving in the punch she’d moved inside the arc of, caught her head. She went over sideways, her hands still clamped around whatever she’d been holding. The youth sprawled with her.

  He gave a creaking moan and rolled away, thrashing, clawing at his chest; the bristle end of a paintbrush protruded from between his ribs. Two of the priests bent over him a moment later; one helped Aima to her feet.

  Eredion stood still, ignored for the moment, and studied the angle and location of the paintbrush. Right into the heart, put there by a sure and practiced hand. He let out a quiet breath and glanced at Aima. Her dark eyes gleamed with wicked amusement, then slowly lightened to a more normal grey-brown.

  The youth writhed, emitting bubbling gasps of agony. Aima, her face expressionless, settled back onto the bench and ignored the spectacle as the priests tried to save their guest’s life.

  Eredion sat back down slowly.

  “Poison?” he inquired in a low voice.


  “Just paint,” she said mildly. Her eyes began to take on a black stain; then they paled back to grey. “I don’t have access to anything really interesting these days.”

  “You knew he’d attack you.”

  “It seemed likely to happen eventually.” She paused, her gaze vague, then focused on him again and said, “You liked that painting. You think it’s a good sign that I’m painting cheerful things instead of monsters now.”

  He pursed his lips, then, guardedly, said, “Yes. I do.”

  “Do you think I’m getting better, Lord Eredion? Do you think they’re finding a way to heal me, this idealistic group of priests?” Her tone was matter-of-fact, mildly curious, but her eyes gleamed dark with mischief.

  The youth gave a last sigh; the odor of feces and urine hung rank in the air a moment later. Eredion grimaced and tried not to look at the priests carrying the boy’s body away.

  “No,” he said, “I don’t think you’re ill in a way they can fix.”

  She laughed at him, her eyes more brown than grey now. “So direct, so honest, Lord Eredion. You’re refreshing. I’ll return the honesty: the cheerful paintings bore me. I did them to see if it would change anything inside me, but I hate them and they did nothing to help. Take them all. I have a dozen sitting just inside my cottage. I’ve been thinking how to destroy them, but I think knowing that you have them, knowing that you’ll hang them somewhere, will amuse me more than that. My father might even see them at some point and not know it was my hand created them. I think I’d like that. So take them.”

  Eredion nodded and stood. “Thank you, Aima.”

  “Don’t thank me,” she said. “I was going to try stabbing you, if that stupid prick hadn’t interrupted us. I’ve been sharpening that brush end on the sly for days, hoping you’d come by again.” She smiled, sunny and guileless.

  He grinned back. “I wouldn’t have let you kill me, Aima,” he said gently.

  “Oh, I know that,” she said. “It would have been fun to try, though.”

  Every visit, in place of goodbye, she told him she’d been planning to kill him, and always had a reason why she hadn’t actually done it. This time, though, he suspected she might be telling the truth.

  Still smiling, he went over to her cottage—mindful, as always, of every move she and the other guests made—and pulled the dozen paintings she’d mentioned out into the sun. As he looked them over, a priest approached, expression grim and set.

  “I’ll have to ask you to leave, Lord Eredion,” he said. “Inlin’s death is going to set off a bit of a ruckus.” He glanced at the paintings, his frown deepening.

  “Aima told me to take these,” Eredion said, gathering them together into a bundle under one arm. Mostly on panels of wood, they made a heavy bundle; he’d need both hands once he got out the gates.

  “Take them, then,” the priest said with a shrug and a glance towards Aima. “But go. Please.”

  Eredion nodded. “Tell Beller that I’m working to set up a new place for meetings,” he said. “Might be a help if one of yours volunteered to handle gravekeeping duties for a bit.”

  “We can’t be seen in public,” the priest said, shaking his head. “But I’ll pass it along. For now—go. Hurry. Please. A death gets them all crazed in short order.”

  Eredion nodded. He cast a last glance at Aima, who had closed her eyes and begun rocking back and forth, humming quietly to herself; then he went to the gates and let himself out. As he closed the outer gate behind him, he heard a heavy bar sliding into place; moments later, a wild scream warbled from within the compound.

  Eredion sighed and headed back to the palace.

  Wian was cleaning the outer room of his suite when he stepped in, and the lingering aroma of oranges and coffee reminded Eredion of his earlier thoughts. He set the paintings just inside the door, then stood quietly for a few moments, watching her. She went about her work with only brief glances to check whether he wanted her attention.

  “Wian,” he said at last. She promptly dropped the cleaning cloth into the bucket of soapy water and turned to face him, wiping her hands dry on her thick skirts.

  “My lord?”

  “Thank you,” he said, “for breakfast this morning. And for...well, all you do around here.” He hesitated, feeling as though there were something else he’d meant to say, or something he should say; but words deserted him. “Thank you,” he finished, rather uncomfortably.

  “You’re welcome, my lord,” she said, quirking an eyebrow in a manner that could have meant anything. She waited a moment, as though expecting or hoping for more.

  “Ehh,” Eredion said, looking around helplessly. He pointed to a tall vase containing a spray of long-stemmed yellow flowers. “Um, did you...did you bring those flowers in just now? They’re, uhm, nice.”

  Wian stared at him a moment, then said, “Yes. I thought they might brighten your mood a bit.”

  “Thank you, that’s very thoughtful. They do cheer the room up a bit.” Eredion tried to think of what else to say. This sort of conversation had never made sense to him.

  “My lord,” Wian said coolly, “I do have work to hand, unless there’s something you directly require of me at the moment.”

  He opened his mouth to answer, then stopped and looked at her expression more closely. “Are you in a hurry for some reason?”

  Her eyes tightened. “I’ve taken on cleaning for a few other nobles within the palace,” she said. “Is that against our agreement, my lord?”

  “Cleaning?” he said before he could stop the word, or the dry inflection to it, from emerging.

  Her face tinted slightly. “Yes, my lord,” she said, voice thin. “Cleaning. Nothing more. Not that I expect you to believe that, which is why I hadn’t said anything before.”

  Eredion bit his lip, not sure how to react. She looked sincere, but that didn’t mean anything with Wian. She knew how to lie, even to desert lords; Kippin had made sure of that.

  She stared at him for another moment, her lips tight, then shook her head and turned away, dredging the cloth out of the cleaning water. She wrung it out with unusual force, then turned to begin wiping down the occasional table holding the vase of flowers he’d just commented upon.

  Eredion watched her without moving, thinking over whether apologizing would be useful or foolish. He’d lost her anyway—her interest in him had been as fleeting as he’d expected. Perhaps it would be best to just let her work her way elsewhere. He’d given her what she was after: access to the palace. She’d find her way without his help from here, and he could always find another cleaning servant—and one more trustworthy, no doubt. With Wian, he was never entirely sure he wouldn’t wake to find his entire suite stripped of valuables and her long gone down the road with their sale price.

  Still...she hadn’t done so, yet, and hadn’t done anything particularly worthy of rebuke, either. She deserved at least some consideration for her efforts.

  “Wian,” he said, coming forward a few steps.

  She replaced the vase on the table, her shoulders stiff. She didn’t look at him.

  “I don’t mind you cleaning for others, and thank you for telling me,” Eredion said, once again not quite sure how to explain. “Should I...if you’d rather not do that extra work, and you need the money, I can pay you more—”

  Wian turned to glare at him. “I’m earning my money. With real work,” she snapped. “Just like everyone else does. I don’t need you to pay me a whore’s wages, thank you very much.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  She snatched up the bucket of water and headed for the door, her face set. “I’m done with that,” she said on her way by. “I told you. If you don’t want to believe me, that’s your business.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  The door slammed behind her.

  Eredion stared, open-mouthed and speechless.

  “What the hells?” he said aloud at last.

  The silent room offered no answer.
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  He shook his head and looked around for clues, in case Wian had left some other sign behind that would explain her temper. He even walked over and studied the vase of flowers more closely, to see if he’d missed something important there. Finding nothing remarkable, and with his day of rest fairly well ruined anyway, he decided to take some time for the looming pile of letters on his desk. It would at least get something useful accomplished, and his mood didn’t matter in the end; there was always something to be done, and no point dreaming otherwise.

  A letter from Lord Antouin lay on the top of the stack, the seal broken. He sighed, reflecting that at least Wian made no real effort to hide when she’d been going through his mail. She’d probably picked up the habit from her time under Kippin’s thumb, and Eredion never bothered reprimanding her. It only would have made her conceal the fact, not stop altogether; she didn’t do it often; and he’d long been accustomed to having other eyes reading his mail.

  As he’d told Alyea, desert lords never really did have any privacy, even within their own Family Fortresses. Especially within their own Fortresses, in some cases. Small wonder so many chose to travel rather than stay close to home.

  He sat down heavily in the worn desk chair. It was about time to order new padding for the seat. His mind half on running over a list of names he’d been meaning to give favor for some such project, he picked up the letter and began reading.

  Within three lines, all thought of chairs and padding and business dropped from his mind.

  To Lord Eredion Sessin—

  This note is to inform you that as Pieas Sessin is dead and his sister Nissa given to Scratha Fortress as a peace-offering between our Families, you are recalled to Sessin to serve as an advisor to Dorsil Sessin as he grows into his responsibilities. In addition, only one of your tine children have survived through the various illnesses of childhood, and with Tashaye’s line being stricken from all rulership possibility and Dorsil as yet not having provided for succession considerations, a duty is required of you in that matter as well. There is no need to bring along any northern tine you may have sired or servants you may have acquired; we have an appropriate selection of companions available and waiting on your return. Advise your servants and Lord Oruen that Lord Fimre will be arriving within the next two tendays, and ready a selection of kathain for Lord Fimre’s convenience. He has shown a preference for lighter skins and well-endowed figures, and a sturdy temperament that will hold up against his moods. Northern-bred kathain are acceptable, but ones familiar with the unique needs of desert lords, if such a combination exists.