Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3) (60 page)

He nudged her chin with a knuckle
—Trust me, trust me, this will help—
slipped the chich into her mouth, told her to chew, keep chewing,
keep chewing—

The trembling, sharp urgency faded. She sagged, locked muscles releasing all at once. He staggered as he scooped her up. The weight brought the tickling in his knees to a flare of bright, new pain, finally identifiable: he’d landed on the broken glass earlier. His knees were badly cut.

But pain didn’t matter. It never really had.

There was a soft bed a few steps away, one she attached a sense of
safety
to; he lurched the short distance and let the mattress take her weight from him. Tried to back away, to regain a separation of self, head still spinning:
No, don’t leave me alone,
she said, fiercely commanding.

With no defenses left against her, he gave up and let himself press into the mattress, her warmth solidly tucked up along his torso and legs, her hair in his nose. Her scent was thick with pain-sweat and old blood and
—other—
odors. If he could have moved he would have rolled away and bolted from that alone, but his body simply refused to so much as twitch, every muscle exhausted, every old scar and bruise and brand aching, and her pain writhing through him—

—a knife, sliding under the skin, delicate, twisting, lifting, peeling—

Stop,
he said, summoning everything he had for that command.
Stop. It’s over. No point going back over it. Let it
stop
.

She pulled in a long, shuddering breath; let it out; slid, unstoppable, over the edge into complete black unconsciousness, dragging him along into the relief of oblivion.

Idisio walked in a grey haze, only dimly aware of his surroundings: evening had melted into true night, blurring shadows into solids and solids into uncertainties. Sandsplit seemed a place of ambiguities and mystery; bushes became mystical shapes that spoke of hidden secrets, the chill air bristled with intriguing aromas, and the ground underfoot seemed less a definite surface than a convenient suggestion.

He wondered if he could sink down into the ground, walk through dirt and rock as though they were as permeable as air.

Of course you can,
someone whispered; it sounded almost like the familiar voice of his intuition, but seemed much clearer—and carried an oddly feminine tenor.
But not right now. That’s not important right now. Keep going....

He obeyed the prompting, trusting the voice as he’d always trusted his intuition. A stately cottage with a brick path curving around it seemed familiar: he paused some distance away, studying it with interest.

I’ve been there before,
he thought hazily.
With... with someone else.
A sensation of chill damp, the smell of mud—a ripple of darkness and fear—flittered across his mind, then faded into irrelevance. That didn’t matter either.

He circled the cottage, the intuition-voice steering him in a steadily narrowing spiral; found himself reversing as gradually, until he stood well away from the building once more.

So someone here knows about our presence,
the voice said.
Look closely—right there, and there—

Idisio focused: a thread-thin, shimmering line traced along the ground all the way around the cottage.

That’s a ward-line,
the voice said
. It’s a general one, to turn away all our kind. It’s drawn with foul substances and no real skill; I could break it easily. I should punish this fool for his impertinence—barring us! He has no right to stop us going anywhere we wish to walk. But that can wait. Right now, I have an important lesson to teach
you
. This way....

Idisio moved through night-quiet streets. Humans passed by, oblivious to his presence; guided by the voice, he let them be. Common laborers, shopkeepers, housewives: they weren’t what he was after. They weren’t...
interesting
enough.

This way....

At the edge of Sandsplit, a small cottage stood alone, separated from its nearest neighbor by a wide border of garden rows and hedges. Smoke came from the chimney, firelight and lanternlight limned the shuttered windows: it was a tidy house, a quiet spot, a respectable place.

Here,
the voice said.
Listen. Listen closely....

Idisio put his hand to the whitewashed brick of the wall and closed his eyes, focusing: a swirl of motion, the faint scrape and splat of footsteps, a kettle being stirred, a fire being prodded brighter.

One human. A woman. Young.

Alone.

Listen,
the voice said again.
Listen, more closely yet. Listen to
her.

Idisio blinked and splayed his hand out more widely across the brick, then shut his eyes again.

Satisfaction:
she could take care of the house, as her mother had taught her.
Mother would be proud of me.
As her father would be, when he came home.
When will he be home? It’s been so long. I hope nothing’s happened to him on the way.
She wouldn’t worry over it. Each day brought what each day brought, and there was nothing to be done about it.
Turn the lantern up a bit, there’s mending yet to be done—always something to keep busy with, have to keep busy.

Wistful:
The hope-day dance last night.
I wish I’d gone.
But her father had said to stay away from such things unless she had a chaperone along, and cousin Behe was off to Sandlaen Port for something or another, and Father was off to Bright Bay for his business
—He said he’d be back by hope-day. He promised. I shouldn’t worry. I shouldn’t. But... he’s never been this delayed before.

Lonely:
Nobody to talk to.
I’d so like to go walking out with someone. Even Nenea has that young man from Obein who visits her on occasion. But everyone is too busy... and I’m not so interesting or attractive as to make up for our lack of money or status. Nobody will look my way—certainly not when I’m hardly allowed to go out and meet anyone! If Father’s business does better this trip, perhaps... I wonder where he is. Oh, I shouldn’t worry over him. But it is so very, very quiet here. What I’d give for someone to talk to....

Idisio felt a sigh ghosting through his mind.
Yes,
the intuition-voice whispered.
This is what you’re looking for. This one will do. Knock on the door.

As he approached the door, an odd
shifting
took place inside him, a sensation like a pin being slid from the hinges of a gate. He paused, blinking: the world around him seemed, infinitesimally, different. Sharper. Louder. More ...
real.

Never mind,
the voice told him.
Knock.

The wood trembled under his knuckles; he winced and lightened up on the next few raps.

The door opened. The girl stared out at him, more attractive than she saw herself: long brown hair, neatly plaited back into a heavy braid; hazel eyes; a northern-sharp nose and high forehead. She had just enough by way of curves to show gender but no more, and her plain blue dress made no attempt to draw attention to what was there.

“Good evening,
s’e,”
she said, polite and wary all at once, one foot casually wedged behind the door.

“Good evening,
s’a,”
he said, bowing a little, and found himself caught in a dizzying moment of confusion over what to say next. Then words spilled out: “I have news from your father. He’s been delayed somewhat in Bright Bay, and asked me to stop in and speak to you on my way through Sandsplit.”

She smiled but didn’t move, her gaze still watchful. “That’s kind of you,
s’e,”
she said. Her thoughts came through as clearly as speech:
So he knows I’m alone; but Father would never send a young man to our door while he was away. Not without giving him the pass phrase we’ve arranged.

The pass phrase came to Idisio with the faintest nudge:
chachad bird feathers.
Something about that amused him, but he couldn’t think of why. He said, smiling easily, “He’s doing very well with his business, he’ll be bringing back a fine profit, and he’ll be bringing back some of those chachad bird feathers you asked for.”

She stared a moment, then her smile relaxed.

“Come in,
s’e,”
she said. “I’ve a kettle on for tea.”

“Thank you,
s’a,
that would be a treat,” he said, and followed her in, careful to leave her plenty of space.
Careful now,
intuition-voice warned.
Don’t scare her. You want her trust.

A strange, stifled voice asked
Why? What am I doing here? Why am I lying to her?—
then damped into silence as Idisio settled into a ornate, stiff-backed, and thinly padded chair.

He sat with his eyes half-closed, listening to the girl’s movements as she filled the teapot and brought a tray to the sitting room table in front of him. A vague impulse to study the room passed through him and faded: his surroundings weren’t important at the moment. Only the girl mattered.

She sat on the edge of the couch, a matching piece to his chair that looked just as uncomfortable, and poured tea with a trembling hand; a tiny tremor, but he saw it clearly. She was nervous and excited by the odd situation, trying to act very adult against a surge of adolescent anxiety.

Perfect,
intuition-voice purred.

“You keep a lovely home,
s’a,”
Idisio said, smiling. He leaned forward to take the proffered cup of tea from her hand before she had a chance to set it on the table and slide it toward him. He put his hand palm up a handspan under the cup, then curled his fingers to grip the small vessel from beneath. Flustered and confused by the impropriety, she nearly dropped the cup into his hand. He held still, allowing her to retreat, before leaning back into his chair and taking a measured sip of tea.

She grabbed up her own cup with a rattled lack of grace, managing—just—not to spill the entire thing onto herself in the process of getting it to her mouth.

Idisio sat very still and waited for her to recover her poise, his expression neutral and his gaze aimed at his knees. After a few moments, she cleared her throat and said, “I’m sorry,
s’e,
I’ve been rude. No doubt my father told you my name—” She paused, one eyebrow arching: another test.

“Of course,
s’a
Enia,” Idisio said easily. “And I’m Idisio. I met your father at the Copper Kettle; we breakfasted together, by chance, and when he found out I was headed this way he asked me to carry the message to you that he was delayed. Said it would save him the cost of a News-Rider message.”

The stifled voice nagged at him, asking what the hells he was doing; he shrugged it off. It was simple to pick what he needed from her topical thoughts and a fascinating game to adapt his tone and pacing to the tiny cues she didn’t even know she was sending.

She smiled, relaxing again. “That’s my father,” she agreed. “Always looking to save some money. But they’ve been hard years of late, so it’s hard to blame him for watching the bits.”

“That’s likely to change, from what he told me.” Idisio leaned forward and set his empty cup down on the table; flattened his hand over it when she reached to pour him another. “Tea’s not really my drink of choice,” he said. “This was lovely,
s’a
Enia, but it was enough.”

“Oh—” She glanced at the sideboard. “We’ve wine....” He gave no reaction. “And... well, I don’t know, it’s a bit rough for a gentleman, but my father always keeps some desert lightning to hand....”

Her thoughts ran through Idisio’s mind:
I hope he doesn’t ask for that. I’d have to drink it with him: the host drinks what the guest drinks. But Father never lets me drink anything stronger than wine.... Oh, dear. I wish Father was here. I’m not at all sure I’m getting this right.

“Desert lightning sounds perfect,” Idisio said, then put contrition into his tone: “But surely it’s too strong for you,
s’a?”

Color flushed along her high cheekbones, then faded. “I’ll cut it with a bit of tea, for myself,” she said. “If you’ve no objection,
s’e.”

“Of course, and I’ll do the same,” he said. “And I won’t trouble you past the one cup, at that. I wouldn’t want to outstay my welcome. But let me pour this time, if you would,
s’a.”
He rose, collected her cup and his own, and went to the sideboard. “I’m guessing it’s this white jug, here?”

Narrow-necked and tall, the glazed earthenware vessel hardly deserved to be called a “jug”; but Enia’s thoughts put that as the proper name for any vessel holding hard liquor, no matter the shape.
This bottle is teyanain-crafted,
Idisio thought, and felt momentarily dizzy. The world steadied around him quickly enough that he gave no external sign of his disorientation as he poured the clear liquid into the cups. The fumes made his eyes water.

Good gods what am I thinking
ran through the back of his mind, then dissolved like the vapors rising from the cups.

As he wrapped his hand around her cup, he delicately strengthened the potency of the double spoonful of liquor he’d poured. Not so much as to incapacitate her; just enough to relax her more than such a small amount normally would.

You don’t want her unconscious,
intuition-voice said.
That’s no fun at all.

He set the cups down on the table and retreated to his chair without making eye contact; allowed her to pour the tea, and picked up his own cup properly this time, after she’d sat back away from the table.

They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping their drinks: Idisio could sense Enia’s anxiety returning as she tried to think of something socially appropriate to say to this strange visitor her father had sent as messenger. She didn’t want this handsome young man to think her an unschooled bumpkin, but what passed for manners in Sandsplit might be entirely different from what Bright Bay nobility considered acceptable. And surely this young man, with his considerable poise and courtly mannerisms, must be some sort of noble. It would make sense for her father to trust someone of note as a messenger, after all....