Stormseer (Storms in Amethir Book 3) (12 page)

The middle drawer of the desk was too short. Azmei removed it entirely and set it aside, then ducked under the desk. There, looking secure, was the second, secret drawer the desk had been hiding. Azmei smiled grimly and tugged it open. There. Folded packets, encased in parchment and tied with black string. She started to open it, then jerked. Were those footsteps?

She settled the secret drawer carefully back and replaced the middle drawer. Tucking the packets into her shirt, she eased away from the desk, straining her ears. He would miss the papers, she knew that. But whatever information was in these packets, she needed it.

Rith Perslyn had a party scheduled tomorrow. There would be plenty of comings and goings in the house, and presumably the Patriarch would make an appearance. There would be enough alcohol consumed that no one would notice her slipping into the house and doing away with the Patriarch, hopefully before the man had a chance to miss his stolen papers. If that went smoothly, she could take out Rith as well.

Azmei listened at the door for a moment, then let herself out of the Patriarch's study. Tomorrow would end it.

Chapter 9

The hot sun felt good on Yar's shoulders. The Voices had been arguing amongst themselves today, barely sparing him any notice. It was a nice change. He had wandered out to the bigger courtyard, where Rith and Kesh usually hosted their parties. The warm stones were pleasantly rough under his feet. The courtyard was filled with the fragrance of honeysuckle and jasmine mixed with the slightly fishy smell of the fountain.

Yar scratched his jaw and wondered when he'd last remembered to shave. Shaving always made him feel fond of Kesh. Maybe he ought to do it more often. Yar sat on the edge of the shallow pool filled with golden fish, enjoying the tinkle and splash of the fountain. He paddled his fingers in the water and remembered Kesh teaching him how to shave.

"You'll have to be careful not to cut yourself." Kesh's hand grasped Yar's, both of them wrapped around the razor's handle. "You don't want the smell to make you sick."

Yar would have nodded, but the razor was pressed to his cheek as Kesh showed him how to stroke it up his skin. He liked the scraping noise of the blade. It made him think of the lizards that lived in the courtyard, their scales rasping against the stone. A flash of light from the razor blade caught his eye and Yar blinked and stared.

A big, golden eye stared back at him, the scrape of the razor becoming the rasps of scales. Yar jerked.

"Careful, Yar!" Kesh tightened his grip on the razor and held it away from his skin. He turned to face Yar, ducking his head until Yar couldn't avoid his gaze. To Yar's surprise, Kesh's gaze didn't burn him or make his skin prickle. It was warm and worried.

Kesh licked his own thumb and pressed it against Yar's jaw, and only then did Yar smell the blood. "I know you don't like being touched," Kesh murmured, "but once you learn to do this yourself, I won't have to help you. Won't that be better?"

Yar lowered his gaze. He didn't know what to say to make Kesh stay like this. His brother seemed gentle when they were alone, but Yar knew that gentleness could change to impatience if he said the wrong thing. Or if he didn't say anything soon enough.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'll learn soon."

Kesh sighed. "I don't mind, Yar. It isn't like Orya could have taught you this, anyway. Girls don't have to do this."

A hand tugged at Yar's sleeve, jolting him from his memories. He didn't have to look to know it was Tish. She was good about not touching his skin unless she had to.

"Yarro! I've been looking all over for you. Your brother doesn't want you wandering around today."

Yar kept patting the water, but he lifted his head to look at Tish. "He just doesn't like me having a good day."

"Be charitable. He is looking out for you in his way. It is hard for him to stand between you and the others. Your sister did it better."

"I miss Orya," Yar said. "Do you miss Orya?"

"Of course I do. I miss her every day." Tish's voice caught. Yar felt bad for asking. He knew she missed Orya. Yar had never seen Orya hug anyone except him and Tish.

"Do you think she will come back?"

Tish sat down facing him on the edge of the pool. "Yar, we talked about this. Orya is dead. She was killed three years ago." She lifted a hand as if she would touch him, but hesitated and pulled away at the last moment. "Don't you remember?"

He straightened up and glared at her. "I'm not stupid, Tish. I remember. You were the one who told me. But Rith and Grandfather said—"

"You shouldn't talk about this to me," she interrupted hastily.

He ignored her. "Someone is hurting people in our family." His smile felt vicious. He wondered if that was because the Hungry Voice had heard him say that.

"And they think it's Orya?" Tish leaned in, her gaze intent on Yar's, but he couldn't meet her gaze long. What if she could tell how pretty he thought her? He shrugged and turned away from her.

SHE WANTS IT TO BE ORYA, said the Hungry Voice. SHE WANTS ORYA BACK.

So she doesn't have to take care of me anymore,
Yar thought bitterly.

SHE'S LONELY.

Yar began rocking in place. Finally Tish sighed and took him by both hands. She tugged him to his feet and led him inside. Yar didn't bother struggling. He didn't want to leave the sunlight, but if Kesh said not to wander, he might have a party planned. He didn't like showing Yar to his friends, but Yar didn't care. He didn't like seeing Kesh's friends. He just wanted Tish and Orya. He wanted to go back in time.

I'm lonely too.

***

Usually Yar's sleep was peaceful, the only time he could be free of the Voices and their visions. He dreamed so much in his waking life that he never dreamed when asleep. At least he never remembered them. But that night, he woke repeatedly with the echoes of the word FOLLOW in his mind.

Finally he threw aside his blankets and rolled out of bed. It was dark in his room, but here on the western side of the house, he had no way of knowing if there were any edge of dawn to the eastern sky. It could be anywhere from midnight to dawn without his knowing it.

Yar fumbled a candle alight and padded barefoot to the door of his quarters. When he peered out at the main residence hall, he saw no one. It must be very early still. He had slept for at least a few hours, he thought, unless the Voices were waking him after shorter intervals than he thought. But it must still be closer to midnight than dawn, or the corridors would be awake with servants preparing for breakfast.

He eased the door shut again and considered. If tonight was anything to judge by, the Voices had decided they wanted him. He would go truly insane if they began waking him every hour of every night with that command booming in his ears.

What had he to lose if he obeyed? Orya had been the only one here who loved him. While Tish was kind, she would never think of him as a man. The rest of his family was reason to go, not reason to stay. Especially after Grandfather heard him talking to the Voices. What if he remembered what Yar said about seeing Voices and tried to learn how to use it for his killing business?

Yar went back to his bed and knelt in the middle of it. "All right," he said aloud. "I'll follow. I'll come." He took a deep breath.
I will follow.

At once his mind was filled with images. They flew at him in a blur, faster than he could process them. He whimpered and clutched his head with both hands. The images didn't slow, but they did begin repeating themselves. He focused on each as it came at him.

A desert land with sweeping sand dunes and harsh cliffs; a hidden valley with sweet water and rich soil; a red horse looking straight at him; a copper-skinned woman with short hair and a sword on her hip; a beautiful magic-user with green eyes and long brown hair streaked prematurely with white.

The next time they cycled through, he noticed the desert cliffs seemed to have homes carved into them, the red horse had a black mane and tail, and the swordswoman also wore at least half a dozen daggers. Then there were more, a dove and serpent, a hawk, clouds of sand...

Yar whimpered again, feeling his bed tilt under him. They were too much. He couldn't process them all. The images would fill his mind, taking it over until there was nothing left of him. They would overwhelm him. They would erase him.

ENOUGH. The mental onslaught lessened immediately. HE HAS SAID HE WILL FOLLOW.

"Yes, and I'm only mortal," Yar whispered aloud. "Give me time to get about it."

There was the reverberation of laughter in his head, and then the Voices were gone.

For the first time in months, perhaps years, Yar felt alone inside his head. He thought about his grandfather, but there was no answer urging Yar to eat him. Greatly daring, he imagined Tish in her bath, water streaming from naked shoulders as she lifted up, showing him perfectly rounded breasts. No admiring Voice, nor even the Voice that mocked him for feeling desire.

With a gasp, Yar loosed the rein on his imagination. He thought of himself climbing naked into the bath with Tish, placing his hands on her breasts, pressing his lips against hers. He imagined the way she would feel against him, how their wet skin would slide together. He pictured himself slipping a hand beneath the water. No Voice commented on his fantasies or mocked him for wishing for them. Yar stuck a hand inside his sleeping pants and gripped himself, falling back onto the bed and losing himself entirely in fantasy.

When he'd finished, he wiped his hand on the bedclothes and sat up, feeling vaguely ashamed. The first time he felt alone in his head, and what did he do? He pleasured himself. Shoving aside the disgust, he got out of bed and went to the washbasin. When he was washed and dressed, he sat down to think.

Who knew how long the Voices would leave him alone? He needed to concentrate for as long as he possibly could.

He had agreed to follow. He was committed. Where was he going? The desert, apparently. How was he going? Perhaps that red horse would guide him? He wasn't sure where the desert was, except that it was south, towards Strid somewhere. He would have to pack for a long journey. He didn't know how far he would be able to travel every day. And if the visions came back along the way...

He shook himself.
Don't get discouraged. For now, you can think properly. Take advantage of that.
How much did he eat in a day? He wasn't sure, but he thought it was about half a loaf of bread a day, plus meat and fruits and vegetables. And he would need to carry water with him, especially since he was going to the desert. What else? Blankets to sleep. A cloak or robe. Good shoes. He wouldn't be able to forget to put shoes on if he was walking around outside.

What else? Think, what else?

Weapons. He shook his head. He hated violence. The smell of blood made him gag. But he would need weapons. Something to hunt with, something to defend himself with. There was a war going on somewhere out there, after all, and the Voices talked about it sometimes. It might cause him problems. Best to be prepared to defend himself.

Oh, of course. Money. He would need money. Yar frowned. He had been to the market with Orya sometimes. There had been a period of perhaps six months when she thought getting him outside their house and visiting places that were new to him would keep his attention better. Her theory had been that he might not get caught by the visions if there were enough things to catch and keep his visual attention.

It hadn't worked. Nothing had, until tonight. But he had loved her for trying, even as he resented the attempts.

Still, it served a purpose now. He could remember how money worked, with the copper bits and silver sovs. He thought about Orya haggling with merchants, insulting the quality of their wares to bring the price down. He wasn't sure if he could do it as well as she had, but he thought he could do it.

The money was the easy part. Orya had not given him any secret messages or told him any secret plans, but she
had
saved a large purse for him. He had never spent any of it. Orya's friends had taken care of him since she left.

Very well. He had a mental list of what he would need. He ran through the list again, deciding an extra pair of clothes, or perhaps even two, would be good to have. Then he got up and began collecting all the supplies he had deemed necessary.

When he was finished packing, Yar was still alone inside his head. It was amazing. He stared around his rooms, feeling as if his soul were uncurling and stretching its arms. Wings. Whatever souls had. He took several long breaths, holding them before releasing.

Then he sat down and pulled on his boots. They would make more noise on the stone floor than bare feet, but he thought it was more important to put them on now, while he knew he could remember them, than to wait until he had sneaked out. What if a vision came on him after he left the house, and he forgot to put them on at all? He would end up with bloody feet, and that would do him no good.

When he was ready, daggers on his belt and pack slung over his shoulder, he drew up the hood of his robe and slipped out of his rooms. He was alone in the first corridor. When he turned into the next one, a white-robed servant was walking towards him. Yar held his breath, but the servant merely bowed as he passed. How conveniently servants had been trained, Yar thought. They didn't meet one's eyes. Of course, Yar didn't usually meet one's eyes either, but he had never realized before how it limited him.

He reached one of the house's side gates without being stopped. He paused there in the guttering torchlight, looking down at the water just two feet below the gate. Would he have to steal a boat? But no, there was a stone walkway outside. Yar hitched his pack up over his shoulder and set off as briskly as he could. He would get well away from here and wait for the sun to come up. After dawn, he could find his way to the trade market, and there he would decide what he should do.