Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3) (21 page)

In the southeastern quarter of Bright Bay, the air hung thick with the smell of trash and rotten dead things. Still-living things moved in the darkness. Ellemoa stood still, listening, nostrils flaring: her son had been here. Had lived here.
Here,
in this filthy place—

One of the living things in the shadows came too close, knife in hand. She spun and hissed like an angry goose. The would-be mugger swore and backed away so fast he tripped over himself and fell.

She watched him crawl back to his feet, watched him sprint away, without feeling any real interest. He was insignificant.

This small, dank overhang, where an abandoned building had fallen in on itself: this mattered. She stooped and looked inside the various caves created by destroyed masonry until she found the lingering
presence
she sought.

He had slept here.

She went to her knees and crawled inside, into the darkness; turned to face the opening and sat in a huddled crouch, staring out as her son must have stared, night after night. It was a good place, a defensible place. But needing a defense meant one had enemies.

Her son had people who had tried to hurt him.

The rage came up again, and the dark place was now far too small, too confined. She could be trapped here, imprisoned by someone simply sliding a heavy rock over the entrance. This was a
stupid
den, a deathtrap.

She began to crawl out, and dislodged a small pile of stones. Under the stones lay a pair of battered sandals and a small bag. The bag held a few small coins: copper, one silver round, and one gold bit. She brought it all out into the moonlight to examine, noting that the gold bit was heavily nicked, as though scrapings had been taken off it at some point. The silver round bore similar markings.

One of the copper coins bore a strange feel; she turned it over in her hands for a few moments, frowning in concentration. It felt
—familiar.
As though someone she knew had handled it, someone strong enough to leave an imprint on something as simple as a coin.

She let her eyes slide half-shut and gripped the coin in a fist,
listening,
and saw—

—red hair, skinny body sturdy frame, shivering, half-mad, hearing voices, whispers, calling him, calling him—

Ellemoa dropped the coin, panting a little with shock and anxiety. What was her son doing with a coin that
he
had touched? Could it be coincidence, in this large a city? She took another coin from the bag with a trembling hand and focused once more.

Thieving.
Her son had become a thief; the coin resonated with a sense of wrongness. Her son had been forced to
steal
to survive, rather than taking what was due him, openly and fearlessly.
I must find him. I must save him. I cannot allow him to have such a life.

She dropped that coin, too, and reached for another, an uncut silver, intent on every clue that might lead her to her son. The tracery of memory on this one was dim, ghostly, nearly evaporated with time; it had happened a long time ago, but been powerful enough to linger, all the same. She pushed harder, raking up every last fragment she could find, and saw—

Dirty wall in front, harsh panting behind, hands clenched, eyes shut, trying not to think about the pain—the smell of urine, harsh and sharp, and the laughter—

She screamed, high and shrill, and threw the coin and bag from her as hard as she could.
They dared to touch my son! They dared to use him so!

She had to find her son. She had to take him away from the humans who had hurt him, twisted him so badly, turned him into something beyond obscene; had to return him to his proper place as ruler, not servant, before it was too late.

Before he began to see this horror as
normal.

Hands trembling, she held the sandals up to her nose.
My son. These were my son’s. Where is he now?

After a moment’s careful sniffing, she dropped the sandals. She had his scent now. She would find him. This den had been abandoned; he hadn’t been here in days. That strange human man had taken him away somewhere, possibly even out of the city.

But her son would return. She knew it. She could
feel
it, with the true-sight that every member of her line had always held. And when he did, she would find him and save him from the humans before they destroyed everything beautiful about her precious grey-eyed baby.

Rain pattered down, sliding through Kolan’s hair, soaking through his clothes, chilling his flesh. He barely noticed the discomfort. Rain was a blessing, a cleansing, a beautiful dance of translucent droplets along a jagged green beech-tree leaf and a gentle song through the air. So what if his body shivered and stumbled a bit now and again? The weather felt like a gift from all the gods working in rare concert, welcoming him back into the world.

The path curved around a thick stand of trees and undergrowth. Impishly deciding to continue in a straight line, he left the muddy road and stepped in among the trees. Brambles and branches seemed to part around him; as he picked his way through the chaotic undergrowth, not a single thorn or broken branch snagged at his clothes or skin.

A doe raised her head, watching him with wary care, as he passed by. Snuggled up against her belly and back, two speckled fawns slept on.

The rain drifted into mist and back into rain, the soft staccato punctuated by frog
chirrks
and sleepy birdcalls. A squirrel hissed warning. Kolan looked up in time to see a fluffy brown-grey tail whisk away around the side of a tree, and smiled.

I won’t hurt you,
he thought; waited a moment, then shrugged at the silence.

Out of the slight wind, his body had begun to warm again, enough to stop the trembling. He examined his hands, intrigued by how quickly his chill had vanished into a perfectly normal temperature. Surely the forest air couldn’t be so very much warmer than the open areas?

The squirrel reappeared on a higher branch, its tail still fluffed out in agitation. Kolan moved on to avoid causing the small creature unnecessary upset.

The stand of trees wasn’t very wide, a matter of a half mile at most. No path existed, but somehow every step he took found a spot of clear ground and the only branches to either side were light and easily pushed aside.

He didn’t think about that very hard, too entranced by the sound of the rain and the birds and his own footsteps. This miniature forest was a world all its own. He wanted to stay and explore every leaf, every branch, every insect and frog and bird, forever; but the squirrel had given clear warning. He didn’t belong here.

When he stepped out from under the dripping green shelter, he paused and turned to look back, a pang of sadness thickening his chest for a moment. The squirrel
—a
squirrel, he corrected himself—perched on a low branch a stone’s throw away, watching him intently, its tail fluffed out larger than seemed possible.

Kolan bowed gravely and said aloud, “Thank you, and may the gods bless your lives.”

The squirrel didn’t answer. Kolan turned away and plodded along the muddy path once more. Not far ahead lay a low-slung, tidy house. Kolan had expected something akin to a tiny cabin, but this was very nearly a noble estate.

Trees formed a dense belt all around the property. Within that ring stood another ring: a low stone wall, hardly hip-height, more symbolic than actual barrier. Within that wall lay the house, small stable, a well, and a garden—mostly raised beds, covered over with thick layers of straw and weighted oilcloth.

A large rosemary bush held up its proud-needled branches to the grey sky, rain dripping from it like liquid diamonds. A scattering of flat white petunias served as a border along the pebbly garden path. Weeds had begun to spring up through the pebbles.

Kolan stood outside the stone wall and looked at the garden for a while; waiting, patiently, for the thought stirring in the back of his mind to surface. At last, it came through:
Whoever lives here is gone, and expects to be gone for a long time.
Another connection, belatedly, formed.
The weather is wrong. It’s only Suanth. It should be hot right now, not cold and damp. Something is very wrong.

... fawns? In Suanth?

The thought faded away like the forest-lent warmth leaching from his skin. His hands began to tremble again. Reluctantly, he faced the fact that he needed to get under shelter.

He went around to the gap in the wall, where the road passed through to a large carriage-yard. He paused a stone’s throw before the opening and squinted a little. Ha’ra’hain, present or not, could do extraordinarily nasty things to those who invaded their territory without permission.

Kolan shut his eyes and listened with every sense he had. The semi-silence writhed a little behind his eyelids, and cold air dug tiny barbs into his wet skin. He sensed nothing. No wards. No traps. No trace of
other-
ness; no sense of
presence.

He sighed a little, disappointed, and took a step forward, eyes still closed; paused again, and cocked his head to one side. No wards, but he’d been hasty in assuming no traps. He opened his eyes and studied the path where it intersected the wall. A slight darkening of the wall, an irregularity in the dirt; he traced patterns with his eyes and began to work his way slowly sideways, step by step. At last he nodded, took a step forward, and vaulted lightly over the wall, immediately ducking low in case he’d missed something.

Nothing happened. He rose and moved towards the house, thinking about that trap. Surprisingly complex in its simplicity, it was probably a double line of hooked spikes meant to tangle and snap a set of wagon-wheels after the horses had passed. So the “witch” worried about trespassers stealing wholesale from her home while she was away; that confirmed humanity. Ha’ra’hain wouldn’t even think about thieves.

The path turned to muddy red brick not far inside the wall, widening into an impressively patterned carriage-yard. The stable and the house sat against each other in a wide “V”, no doubt allowing passage directly from the house to the horses in bad weather.

Everywhere he looked, hungry weeds had begun to devour the tidy landscaping.

Kolan crossed the courtyard slowly, studying the house, avoiding two more traps along the way. It was built on a typical southern model, with wide, low windows taking up much of the front of the house. The windows were heavily shuttered. The neatly laid tiles of the roof had a steep slope; rain gurgled through wide guttering and down into chunky wooden rain barrels. Water rimmed their top edges, ready to spill over within the hour.

I should be more nervous,
Kolan thought distantly.
I should be thinking of... ghosts, and demons, and all the creatures that lurk around abandoned places.

But this place didn’t feel haunted, or abandoned, or witched. It merely felt... quiet. Like a guest room neatly tidied and only waiting for a few touches to bring it back to life for the next visitor. Like a bell waiting for a hand on the rope.

Kolan put a hand to the front door, blinking rain out of his eyes. He ran his fingers over the damp wood, enjoying the delicate tickle of sensation. Sensing no traps on the door, he dropped his hand to the doorknob. It hitched, then turned freely.

He pulled his hand back, studying the knob thoughtfully. Had it been locked? It seemed unlikely that someone so careful about intruders would leave their front door open. He pushed the door open with care and stood just outside, staring in and waiting.

When nothing happened, he shrugged and went in—and realized, three steps later, that he’d made a very bad mistake.

Learn to lose.

Tank rubbed the dice between his palms, looking around at the dark stares of the others around the table, then tossed the bone cubes.

“Two and three,” Rat said with satisfaction. Wisps of dark brown hair straggled along his broad face. He scooped the small pile of coin in the center of the table towards him. “Three silver bits for the next round.” He glanced at Tank. “Had enough yet, boy?”

Tank sorted out three silver bits and pushed them to the center of the table without answering. Rat laughed and added three more. The other two men around the table put in their stake without comment.

Rat wiped the back of one hand along his stubbled chin, tilting his head.

“Tell you what,” he said, “you go broke, I’ll give you ways to earn some of it back. If you’re
good.”
He grinned, flicking a deliberately insolent glance down Tank’s torso and back up.

“Aw, nah,” a muscular, scraggle-toothed man named Breek said. “Venepe’s a northern four-by, Rat, he’ll go spare over that.”

Beside him, Frenn, the final member of Venepe’s crew, laughed. “Who says he has to know?” he said.

“He don’t,” Rat said. “Unless redling here wants to go licking his arse about it.”

“Are you going to throw the dice anytime soon?” Tank said, never taking his gaze from Rat’s. “Or are you more interested in your own wind? It’s getting thick in here.”

Rat’s grin turned to a leering snarl. He tossed the dice; when they clattered to a stop, he said, “Five and six! Heh.” Breek and Frenn groaned and muttered, and came up with nothing better themselves.

Tank picked up the dice and held them for a moment, debating; then rolled.

Six and six.

Silence. Rat’s eyes narrowed. Tank met his glare without flinching.

“Lucky bastard,” one of the other men muttered, and made a shoving motion with both hands. “Get on with it already.”

Rat’s head dipped minutely. Tank ducked his own head in answer and scooped all but four silver bits towards him. The others tossed their coins down.

Tank glanced around the tavern, mainly to avoid Rat’s still-hot gaze. The buxom, dark-haired barmaid drooped as she shambled from table to table. Kybeach locals sat in groups, staring into their murky ales and shooting hostile glares at the mercenaries. The room, ill-lit and musty, had sent a crawling unease up Tank’s back from the moment he’d stepped inside; but in the company of Venepe’s other three mercenaries there was no backing out.