Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3) (28 page)

Idisio shivered. He didn’t much like herons. They had a nasty smell, like the mud-dwelling lizards and frogs they fed upon, and their harsh, croaking cry always gave him a headache—like the one fast forming. He worked his jaw in a vain attempt to relieve the building pressure.

“Deiq,” Alyea said, turning and beckoning them forward. “Idisio.” She hesitated a moment, biting her lip, then shook her head a little and said, “Lady Peysimun, allow me to present Deiq of Stass and Idisio of Bright Bay, my traveling companions.”

Beside her, a plump woman with sallow northern features and limp brown hair glared with no pretense of welcome; quite possibly infuriated by Alyea’s near-slip of introducing
her
to
them.
Idisio had a feeling that two ha’ra’hain outranked a minor northern noblewoman, but also suspected that particular etiquette explanation would set the woman into a frothing sulk on the spot. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Deiq’s slight nod, as though the elder were agreeing with that reasoning.

Lady Peysimun wore a ridiculously conservative dress: the hem reached to the floor, the sleeves covered her wrists, and a light ruff concealed her neck. A king’s ransom of jewelry glittered and clicked at every available spot.

Idisio stared back, bemused. Who dressed this formally in their own home as a matter of course? But perhaps they’d interrupted an important meeting or dinner.

No,
Deiq said, sounding amused.
I believe this is her normal manner.

He bowed gravely over Lady Peysimun’s hand. She allowed it for the briefest moment, then turned her glare to Idisio. He swallowed and instinctively tried to look harmless if not entirely witless.

Normally I’d tell you to stand up straight,
Deiq said,
but in this case, allowing her misconception to stand is the best course to gaining a reasonable night’s sleep. Just don’t overdo it, please. Watching you shrink like that turns my stomach.

Lady Peysimun’s lip curled. She looked back to Alyea without bothering to offer Idisio any greeting, as though she’d decided he simply wasn’t worth the effort. Alyea’s eyebrows drew sharply down.

“Deiq and Idisio are my
guests,”
she said, voice icy enough to stop a blazing fire. “And will be staying for a time.”

Lady Peysimun stiffened, first impulse visibly outrage that her daughter had dared correct her in front of outsiders. She turned her ire on a nearby maid instead. “Make a room ready for
s’e
Deiq and his servant,” she snapped.

Alyea glanced at Idisio. He shrugged, too tired to fight over silly matters of status. After all, being a guest in a noble house was more than he understood ... deserved... What was he doing here? A haze of dizziness swept over him, and he blinked hard, fighting not to sway like a tanked fool. Lady Peysimun was saying something; the words blurred into nonsense drawls.

You need some rest,
Deiq observed, setting a hand on Idisio’s shoulder. The world steadied at the touch, words clearing:

“ A tray for our visitors, please. Bring it to their room. I’m sure they’d prefer to retire for the evening. And do bring them a bathing tub and water.”

Lady Peysimun’s acerbic tone and stare made it clear that she found their road-grimed, sweaty appearances less than pleasing. Well, Idisio didn’t much care for his own stink at the moment. He’d take a bath, with thanks, and never mind her attitude.

He found himself dimly regretful that Peysimun Family wasn’t likely to offer kathain.

I’m sure one of the servants would be willing to share your bath,
Deiq said dryly.

It wouldn’t be the same,
Idisio said, vaguely surprised at his own lack of embarrassment.

No. I suppose not.

“Breakfast is an hour past dawn,
s’e,”
Lady Peysimun said, sounding as though it pained her to admit as much. “If you’d grace us with your presence.”

“I would be honored,” Deiq said with a deep bow.

Taking the cue, a servant stepped forward, motioning for them to follow. Deiq nodded to Idisio, and they left Alyea to deal with her mother on her own.

They dropped their packs in the assigned room and went to the kitchens in search of food, both unwilling to wait for a servant to assemble a tray and return. Idisio found himself stealing surreptitious glances at the furnishings and decorations as they walked, assessing resale value.

A ceramic vase had real silver edging, but the one beside it was worth more: unflawed glass, colored a rich purple with white swirls throughout, and a distinctive Sessin Family stamp visible along the bottom edge. A hanging tapestry caught his eye: he’d seen the pattern before, but the threads weren’t fine enough for it to be a real Stone Islands weave. It was a fake, intended to impress the ignorant.

The Palace bells struck the hour; the resonant sound, far closer to hand and considerably louder than he was accustomed to, startled him out of his appraisal and into a flush of shame. What was he
thinking?
He was here as a guest, not a thief. If he wasn’t careful, he’d find his pockets filled with small valuables like that tiny glass dove on a low shelf over there—he stuck his hands firmly under his armpits as they passed it by—there would be all hells to pay if someone caught him doing
that.

He glanced up to find Deiq watching him with a dark amusement. “We’re not in the southlands anymore,” the elder ha’ra’ha said quietly. “These people would raise a fuss over us taking the least stick of wood, and explaining our right would only make matters worse.”

“Our
right?”
Idisio said, startled.

“Doesn’t change based on where we are,” Deiq said. “But the northlands have forgotten, over the years; and now there’s so much superstition and fear woven through what they do remember that it’s more dangerous than it’s worth to tell the truth.”

His eyebrows dipped into a faint frown, and he stopped walking.

“For example, I shouldn’t know my way around so well,” he murmured, holding out a hand to stop a passing servant, a young man with buck teeth and a scattering of acne dotting his face. “Excuse me. Where are the kitchens? We’re hungry.”

The servant pointed back the way he’d come. “Second right,” he said, “and on to the end to the door straight ahead.”

“Thank you.” Deiq smiled at the servant, who flushed a bright red. Astonished, Idisio watched the young man’s grin turn foolish and adoring in a heartbeat. He half expected the boy to bend over on the spot.

Idisio’s breath turned sour in his throat.

Deiq blinked. A grey chill settled over his features. The servant shivered as though struck with a bucket of ice water, stared at both ha’ra’hain with dawning horror, then practically bolted.

Idisio couldn’t believe what he’d just seen. Deiq had been
showing off;
demonstrating how malleable humans were for ha’ra’hain. He regarded the older ha’ra’ha with a thick feeling of disgust churning in his gut.

Deiq sighed. “I hate the north,” he muttered.

“Because he didn’t drop them for you?” Idisio said, knowing it for a petty comment even as he spoke; but that adoring glaze in the servant’s eyes had stirred uncomfortable memories that weren’t at all safe to think about just now.

“No. I didn’t want that. But I hate that he felt ashamed for wanting to.”

Unable to think of anything else to say, Idisio settled for: “You have an opinion of yourself, don’t you?”

Deiq shook his head, face going blank, as though repressing his own memories. “Not really,” he said. “Right now I’m of the opinion that I’m hungry, nothing more.”

Idisio opened his mouth to say something; Deiq’s abruptly far-from-blank expression stopped him. Once again his resemblance to Scratha in a dangerous mood came to mind and never mind his protestations that Idisio was
kin
and thus, apparently, untouchable. That moment of near-violence in the desert ruins had put a hollow ring to that declaration, as did moments like this.

He dropped his gaze to one side, shrugged, and followed Deiq to the kitchens in a mutually sour silence.

Ellemoa breathed in the scent of fennel, calming herself, then stepped out of concealing shadow and said, “How did you know I was here?”

“Living in a graveyard, one picks up a few tricks.” The gravekeeper’s voice was amused, but kindly. “Come on in, then,
s’a,
in your own time. Door’s open.” She retreated around the corner.

Ellemoa stroked the fennel, thinking it over. This woman seemed completely unafraid of a stranger lurking round the back of her cottage. That was... interesting. And how had the woman known Ellemoa was there?

Curiosity drew her to the front door. Beyond, a merry fire gave heat and light to the small living room. Several comfortable chairs crowded each other, with little space to slip between or around. Ellemoa sidled a step inside the door, then paused.

The gravekeeper, sitting in one of the chairs across the room, rose and smiled at her. “Sorry about the mess. It’s just been a meeting day. Let me make some space—”

She tugged two of the chairs through a flower-curtained doorway with rapid efficiency, then began rearranging the remaining chairs. Ellemoa eased another step into the room and said, “Meeting?”

“Yes. Once a month, people come here and talk about the loved ones they’ve lost and the pain they’ve been through. It’s been such a rough time of late, you know; people are still recovering from the shock of it all.”

“I’m surprised anyone would want to come to a graveyard to talk about death,” Ellemoa observed.

“Oh, folks have stronger stomachs than that. And Lord Eredion’s the sponsor of the group, as well; he’s got a way, that one, of charming folks into doing what they never expected. He attends most of the meetings. Missed this time, but then, he’s a busy man these days.”

“Lord Eredion?” The name put an uneasy chill down her back. Why did it seem so familiar?

“Yes, that’s right. He’s from Sessin Family. Proper nice, for a southerner. Not nearly the arrogance most of ‘em carry about.” The woman straightened, wiping strands of fine brown hair from her face. “How about that tea, now? And then you can tell me what’s on your mind.”

“No tea,” Ellemoa said. She sat down, very cautiously, in one of the chairs.

“All right,” the woman said, unruffled, and sat down across from Ellemoa. “So, what brings you to my cottage?”

“The fennel,” Ellemoa said. “I could smell it. I’ve always loved fennel.”

“That’s a new answer,” the gravekeeper murmured. Then, more loudly: “Would you like some clippings, or perhaps seedlings?”

“No,” Ellemoa said, slightly puzzled. “I like the smell.”

The silence grew and thickened; Ellemoa realized the gravekeeper was waiting for her to speak first. That annoyed her. She didn’t want to say anything. She stood up and turned for the door. It had been a very bad idea to come inside; the door remained open, allowing in a draft of cool night air, but the cottage still felt like a trap. If that door shut—

She hurried outside, panting a little, and stood well clear of the cottage.
Not again. I won’t be shut away from the light ever again.

“S’a,”
the gravekeeper said from the doorway of the cottage, “I’ve seen that reflex before. You’ve been hurt, and badly. Who was it? Rosin himself, or one of his thugs?”

Ellemoa took a restless step forward, then sideways.
Rosin.
She wished the woman hadn’t said that name. The fennel had made it better for a little while, but now the memories were flooding back. All because the stupid human woman didn’t know when to shut up. She had to keep talking: typical human. Always talking.

Rosin had talked, endlessly.

“I’m guessing Rosin Weatherweaver,” the human woman said. “I’m sorry,
s’a.
Please, tell me about it. Let me listen. I’ll send for Lord Eredion himself, if you like; he’s proven better than I at handling Rosin’s direct victims.”

Ellemoa wanted to rage at the woman:
Stop saying his name!
Memories seemed to thicken her breath and darken her vision every time she heard it.

“Come inside and have some tea,” the woman coaxed. “Let me hear your troubles.”

Nobody will ever appreciate you the way I do,
Rosin’s voice ghosted out of memory.
You’re so precious to me, darling, and all those petty little humans would turn and run from you if you told them the truth.

Ellemoa shook her head and turned in slow, hesitant arcs, back and forth, back and forth.
No,
she thought.
No—the humans who went through the pain he brought, they’ll understand. They’ll see that I didn’t have a choice. They’ll help me.

Rosin’s laughter echoed in her mind.
Try it,
he suggested.
Tell her what you are, and see what she does. Go ahead, sweet, let’s see who’s right.

She took two steps forward, focusing her vision to see the woman’s face clearly. “I don’t think you truly want to help me,” she said bluntly. “I’m not like you. I’m not human. I’m ha’ra’ha. You don’t really want to help me—do you?”

The last words came out far more plaintive than she had intended.

The gravekeeper stood very still for a few breaths. “Ha’ra’ha,” she said at last. “Like that—that creature who caused all the—the problems? Ninnic’s child? You’re—one of them?”

Ellemoa could smell the rank stench of fear drifting in the air. “Yes,” she said. “I lived in the darkness with
teyhataerth
for a long time.”

The woman’s face went bone-white and her voice shook as she said, “I’ve heard stories of a—a woman, from the survivors. I thought they were only seeing an aspect of Ninnic’s child. Lord Eredion was sure of it—but—was that
you?”

“Yes.”

The woman stepped back, then back again, nearly tripping over the doorsill. “I can’t help you,” she said. “I can’t. You’re—no. What they’ve said you—no. That’s too much. Please—go away. Do one kind thing and leave me in peace. Please.”

The door slammed behind her a moment later.

Rosin’s laughter built, cascaded, overflowed.
And what are you going to do now?
he taunted.
Confirm her decision that you’re a monster by ripping her apart? I can tell you want to, sweet. Go on, it’s what you were born to do, isn’t it? It’s what you love to do....