Stormseer (Storms in Amethir Book 3) (28 page)

His whole body ached with a yearning for something—but what, he couldn't have said. What could he possibly wish for that would make this situation tenable? What miracle would return his father to vitality? What magic could send Razem back in time to stop the assassin's dagger, to prevent Azmei's ever leaving Tamnen City? Would even that be enough? Or had the gods themselves dreamt up this torture as they slept on?

Someone tapped on the door. Razem looked up, relieved to hear something besides the wet rasp of the king's breath. "Come."

Emran Kho eased into the room, the door opening just wide enough to admit him. "Highness."

Razem nodded and stood creakily. He looked down at his father. Marsede had been unconscious most of the day, rousing once to cough and once to apologize to Razem for failing to place flowers on Queen Izbel's grave before the attack. He would not miss Razem for the few minutes it would take Kho to report. With a sigh, Razem followed Kho out of the room.

Out in the antechamber, the air wasn't as thick and still. Gendo stood nearby with a meat pie and a steaming cup. As soon as Razem appeared, Gendo held them out. Razem took the meat pie and sat down.

"It's too stifling for a hot drink," he said.

"Spiced wine, highness," Gendo said. His voice was soft, his gaze on the cup rather than meeting Razem's. Razem took the cup.

"Report," he told Kho before biting into the meat pie.

Kho waved off Gendo's offer of a drink. "I have only finished reading the first two volumes of the Ranarri's journal. It deals much with the princess. I believe your sister would best you at swords now, highness."

Razem didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He swallowed his food and followed it with a long sip of wine. His father had not wanted him to tell anyone about Azmei, but Razem didn't have the concentration to read through the man's accounts, and Kho would have discovered the fact of the princess' survival anyway. It had been a relief to see the shock and joy that spread across Kho's face when Razem told him. At least the lord-general hadn't known before him.

"Tanvel and Azmei spent long months tracking down those in Ranarr who had been part of Orya Perslyn's plot. The Ranarri Shadow Council rooted out all offshoots of the family on the White Stone. While they did that, Tanvel traveled as part of a contingent to Strid."

"What?"

"He records it as a legitimate assignment, where he was along only as a last resort. But he pursued any trace of Perslyn conspiracy while he was there, and found nothing linking Strid to the attack on the princess. I have gone no further, but I am giving you only the bare sketch. I have made extensive notes from his journal." Kho reached toward his belt as if to draw out his papers.

"Unnecessary. I'll read them later." Razem locked gazes with Kho.
Later
, Kho's dark gaze said,
when your father is dead
. And Razem's golden one, he knew, did not deny it.

"Yes, highness. There is more."

Razem took another gulp of his wine and glanced at the disheveled pile of cushions he had been attempting to sleep on for the past week. He could taste the spices that were intended to help him sleep. Perhaps they would tonight. "Go on."

"A courier has arrived from Meekin. The troops Captain Ysdra sent to arrest the Perslyns were a bit late." Kho shuffled his feet. "Someone had already slain the Perslyn Patriarch, one Karsch Perslyn. He had been slain several weeks before, and was already burned and mourned. He had four grandchildren—Rith, Kesh, Orya, and Yarro."

"Orya!" A jolt of heat blasted through Razem's body. The villainous woman who had tried to kill his sister.

Kho nodded. "Rith was slain the night after Karsch, presumably by the same person. Kesh openly admitted he was the new Patriarch when our troops arrived to arrest them. The last grandchild, Yarro, is missing, but he's said to be a half-wit. Everyone swore the boy was uninvolved in the rest of the family's mess. Our troops have secured the house and are searching the records."

"None of this is important," Razem snapped. Raising his voice drained what energy he had left. He crammed the rest of his meat pie into his mouth and lowered his gaze.

"There was no sign of Princess Azmei."

That was what Razem had dreaded hearing. The words settled on his shoulders like a heavy blanket. He nodded without looking up.

Silence fell over the antechamber. His report exhausted, Kho could have excused himself, but he stood, waiting for Razem to say something. What, Razem had no idea. What could he have to say? His father was dying. His dead sister was returned to life, but missing. The identity of his strongest foe was still a mystery to him. And his country was slowly losing a war that his sister and father had both risked their lives to end.

Razem drained his cup. "Thank you, Emran." His voice sounded as hollow as he felt.

Kho's hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed gently. They froze like that, Razem grateful for the strength Kho lent him. After a moment, Razem drew in a breath and stood. Kho's hand fell away and he withdrew.

Dusk was closing in. Through the open door to the bedchamber, Razem could see Gendo lighting a lamp by the window. Razem pushed away from the wall. When had he leaned against it? He set his empty cup on a side table and went back into the sickroom.

"You should rest, highness," Gendo murmured.

"I'll sit with him until I get sleepy." Razem was crossing the room to his chair when the king began to convulse.

Razem lunged for the bed. "Father!" Behind him, he heard Gendo calling for a healer. "Father!" He cradled Marsede's head, tipping his chin the way the healers had shown to give him more air.

The king's entire body was contorted in torment. His eyes were still closed. A ribbon of drool slipped from one corner of his mouth onto Razem's wrist.

"Father!"

The healers arrived then, easing the king out of Razem's arms, easing Razem away as they tended to their failing ruler. When they withdrew, one remained. Her eyes had a liquid shine to them as she took up a position under the lamp.

"Father?" Razem breathed.

His father's chest moved. Marsede still lived. Razem dropped limply into his chair, which was scooted up as close to the bed as it could go. The king's chin glistened with drool. He opened his eyes.

"Razem," he slurred.

"I'm here, Father," Razem choked. He moved until he was in Marsede's line of vision.

The king's gaze cleared. "Find Azmei," he mumbled. "Tell her...she is...forgiven."

Razem nodded. "I will. I promise. She's already done so much to protect us." He forced the corners of his mouth up in an attempt at a smile. "I forgive you, Father. You know that, don't you?"

Marsede didn't answer. His breathing was faster and shallower than ever. He closed his eyes. Razem leaned closer, holding his breath as if it would lend his father's laboring lungs air.

"I love you, son," Marsede whispered. He exhaled.

He did not inhale.

Razem counted thirty heartbeats, then sixty, before he realized he should cry.

He should weep and wail as the gossip said Hawk had done upon hearing the news of the attack. He should rail against the gods and scream vengeance on those who had killed his father. But instead he felt mostly tired, and just a little relieved. The past week of watching his father lose control of his bladder and bowels, seeing him unable even to lift a hand to scratch his nose, hearing his breath shudder and rasp...

No, this was best. It was a release.

Razem buried his face against his father's too-still chest and howled.

Some time later.

How much later? Razem wasn't sure.

His nose dribbled snot into his week's growth of beard. His eyes felt full of sand. His lungs kept surprising him with sobs.

"My lord. My lord." A soft voice, gentle but firm. Kho. "Majesty."

Razem took in a long breath and looked over at the general. Kho's cheeks glistened with tears.

"King Marsede is dead." Kho's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "May King Razem rule long in his stead."

Razem dragged himself to his feet. His chest felt like it had a chain wrapped around it. "Make the arrangements, Emran," he rasped. "Do...everything." He waved a hand. "Whatever is needed."

Gendo helped him, stumbling, down the passage to his own quarters, where his bed and a glass of hot whiskey awaited him. As the new king reached his bed, he heard the city's mourning bells begin to toll.

Chapter 20

"Ow! Don't poke at it," Yarro whimpered.

Azmei rolled her eyes. "If you'd been paying attention to where you were going, you wouldn't have hurt yourself," she said. "As it is, it has to be cleaned, or the wound will go bad. That will give you a fever and we'll have to stop traveling until you recover." She rocked back on her heels. "Trust me, that's definitely worse than me poking a bit at the cut."

Yarro glowered at his leg, which was still oozing blood from the deep gash in his calf. "Fine."

"Press the cloth against it again." With a nod, Azmei stood and went back to Sandy, where her kit of medical supplies and poisons was stowed in one of the packs behind her saddle. She picked through the ointments and tisanes for the Woundclot and Feverbane. There were squares of soft cloth for cleaning and bandaging. As an afterthought, she grabbed the needle and sinew just in case. The gash didn't look deep, but it was wide. A few stitches would hold it closed and help it heal faster, if Yarro would let her sew it.

His eyes widened when he saw the needle, but Azmei had to adjust her opinion of his courage as he closed his teeth on his lower lip and visibly steeled himself. "Does it need that?" he asked, his voice hushed.

"I don't know. Maybe." Azmei knelt next to him. "Let me see it. I'll be able to say for sure once I see it without the blood."

Yarro took his cloth away. Instead of looking at the gash, he kept his eyes on Azmei's face. "I don't like blood," he muttered.

"Really? Why?" Azmei poured a bit of Feverbane on her cloth and dabbed gently at the gash. The bleeding had stopped, at least, so she could get a good look at the cut. It was wide, but the edges weren't too jagged. She thought a few stitches would be better for it.

"I cut myself once. I was little." He held out his hand, palm up, so she could see the thick scar that ran from the heel of his hand down his forearm. "Orya scolded me for being careless. She said I could have died."

"Goodness." Azmei inspected the scar, then turned her attention back to her work. "You must have been very brave."

He was silent for a moment. "I've never thought of myself as brave."

"Really?" She looked at him with exaggerated surprise. "But you left home, all by yourself. That's brave."

"Is it?" He smiled at her. "I was only brave by accident. I had to leave. I didn't think about it being brave." Then he seemed to realize he was actually looking her in the face. He ducked his head and looked back down at his scar, tracing it with one finger.

"You had to leave? Why is that?" Azmei concentrated on threading the sinew through the needle's eye. Hopefully her off-hand attitude and the distracting stitching would make him forget that she had already asked him this question once. She pinched the edges of the gash together and made the first stitch.

"Ow. Things were bad at my house. My grandfather and brothers aren't good men." He frowned. "It was fine while Orya was alive. She was my favorite person."

He paused, so Azmei said, "I remember you telling me that." She took the next stitch.

"But ever since she died, it's been worse." He sighed. "My brothers are ambitious. Not nice at all." He paused. "Well, one of them is all right. He doesn't call me a freak the way the other brother does."

"Neither of them should call you a freak," Azmei stuck the tip of her tongue between her teeth and pinched the edges closer for the third stitch. "Brothers may tease, but they should never belittle."

"Do you have a brother?"

His question, asked so innocently, made her catch her breath. She froze her needle hand, afraid it would tremble. "Yes," she whispered. She cleared her throat in an effort to speak more naturally. "Yes. And he was my dearest friend. My favorite person," she added, smiling crookedly. "But I haven't seen him in a long time."

"I'm sorry," he blurted. "You don't have to talk about him."

Azmei took a slow breath and shook her head. "I don't mind. He's older than I am, and the last time I saw him, he was going to the war. He has many duties."

"Are we going towards the war, or away from it?"

She glanced up at him in surprise. "Don't you know?" When he shook his head, she looked down and checked to be sure her hand hadn't slipped, then took the next stitch. "The war is for the Kreyden District. Rivarden is one of the cities in the Kreyden. The battle front is further south now, beyond the Salishok River, but we are heading towards the war."

"Oh." He fell silent. Azmei didn't mind, since her thoughts were tugging back towards Razem. She wondered what her brother was doing right now. Had Master Tanvel's fears proven well-founded? Perhaps Tanvel had spoken to Razem since she left Tamnen City. Perhaps he would be able to tell her how her brother was doing, if they ever met again.

If they ever met again. She took another breath and held it. She had been able to push out of her thoughts the idea that Tanvel had stayed in Tamnen City to sacrifice himself for her father. It didn't seem right, even though she knew Tanvel believed his life was worth the most if he spent it in service of someone else. Ranarri Diplomats, whether they were of the Shadow Council or those who served in the daylight, did not fear their deaths if they could serve the purpose of peace in dying.

She finished sewing Yarro's injury and then looked up at him. He was staring blankly at the air near her left shoulder. His lower lip was caught between his teeth and his eyes seemed unfocused. As she watched, his pupils dilated and darted to stare at something to her right without focusing. He didn't move his head. Her flesh crept up in bumps at the absent quality of his gaze.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Her words fell on deaf ears. His gaze flitted up and then back down as his breathing quickened. Azmei glanced over her shoulder, but saw nothing that would have caught his attention. She looked back at Yarro. He had squeezed his eyes shut and was shaking his head.

"Yarro," she said, raising her voice. "Are you all right?"

He jumped, eyes flying open. "No!"

She leaned back, staring at him. "Did I hurt you?"

"What?" He blinked a few times. "What? Oh." He shook his head and began rocking slightly in place, forward and backward. She wasn't sure if he knew he was doing it. "Oh."

"Yarro," she repeated, concerned.

"It's all right," he said. "I'm all right. Did you finish sewing it?" He looked down at his leg and stopped rocking.

"I did." Azmei looked down at it, too. Perhaps it was best to ignore whatever had just happened. "Let me cut the sinew. Then I'll put some Feverbane on it and bandage it. As long as you keep it clean and we keep an eye on it, I think it should heal well."

"Good." Yarro frowned, but he seemed more thoughtful than unhappy. "Aevver, do you know how to fight with all those knives?"

She blinked. All those knives? She only wore two openly, and she didn't think that quite qualified to be called "all those knives." How did he know about the others?

"I do know how to fight," she said, choosing not to comment on the number. "You shouldn't carry a blade if you don't know how to use it. Otherwise you're just asking someone to take it from you."

"Really?" He looked up at her face, startled eyes wide. Then he dropped his gaze again. "I didn't know that."

She could almost see him filing the information away for later reflection. It made her want to smile. He was a strange boy, but she liked him. It made her angry that his brothers called him a freak. She understood why Orya had thought him special, even though she'd lied when she claimed he was all but deaf and dumb. There was something innocent about him, but he was clever, and canny enough in some ways.

"Let me finish this," she repeated, and drew her sharpest knife to neatly slice the sinew.

When she tied the bandage in place, she wiped the blood from her hands and smiled at him. "There now. Let's get some food in you, to build back some of that blood you lost. You were very brave, Yarro."

He smiled at her, and the beauty of his smile made her chest ache. How had this boy grown up in the company of hardened assassins? Orya must have cared for him as she cared for no one else, if he had somehow grown up so innocent. "Thank you, Aevver."

She patted his shoulder, then regretted it as he flinched. "Rest here. I'll get the food." He didn't like being touched, she reminded herself. She'd allowed herself to forget, since he'd let her touch him to treat the wound. But he'd had little choice in that matter. Just because he bore the necessity with dignity didn't give her leave to touch him more familiarly afterwards.

After that lecture you gave him about women's bodies belonging to themselves, you should have given him the same courtesy
, she reminded herself, and decided to spend more time than necessary getting the food out of the packs. It would give him a minute alone.

***

Yarro looked down at the neat stitches on his calf. The gash hurt, but it could have been much worse. If he'd cut himself when he was alone, he probably would have panicked and forgotten that you were supposed to press on the wound to staunch the blood flow. He had hated the sight and stench of blood since the injury he'd told Aevver about.

YOU CAN'T TRUST HER, whispered one of the Voices. He didn't recognize that one.

But I want to trust her,
he thought back.
She's been kind to me, mostly. And she knows a lot.

SHE IS USEFUL, agreed the Wise Uncle Voice. BUT SHE CARRIES SECRETS WITH HER THAT I CANNOT PENETRATE.

What does that even mean?
Yarro wondered.
Doesn't everyone have secrets? Can you penetrate everyone's secrets? Or just mine? I didn't think anyone else could hear you.

MOST CANNOT, THAT IS TRUE. NEARLY ALL ARE DEAF TO US. BUT MOST ARE NOT OPAQUE TO US AS SHE IS. USUALLY WE CAN PERCIEVE MUCH OF A HUMAN'S MIND, EVEN IF THAT MIND IS NOT AWARE OF US. YET SHE KEEPS HER SECRETS CLOSE.

What does it matter?
Yarro rocked back and forth, wishing he could curl up in his blankets and not move while the Voices spoke to him.
Eventually you will figure out her secrets. Until then, she's helping me. She's nice to me.
He paused, hesitant to admit the truth to himself, let alone to the Voices.
I like her.

The Voices rose in a clamor amongst themselves, and Yarro couldn't discern what any individual Voice was saying. He closed his eyes and rocked, taking comfort in the motion, the predictability. It was often an unconscious motion, but not always. Finally the Voices fell silent. Maybe they had reached an agreement. Maybe they had cut him off. They did that sometimes, he thought.

VERY WELL, said the Wise Uncle Voice at last. SHE IS USEFUL TO YOU. BRING HER TO US, BUT WATCH HER. BE CAREFUL OF HER UNTIL YOU KNOW HER SECRETS.

Yarro shrugged. Of course he was watching her. Just because he liked her didn't mean he trusted her. For the most part, he liked Kesh, after all, and he had never fully trusted Kesh. Come to think of it, he had liked Orya—loved Orya—and yet she had gone away from him. He didn't trust Orya anymore, either. Aevver would be just one more person he liked but didn't trust.

"Yarro, are you all right? Does your leg hurt?" Aevver's voice was concerned, and very near.

He opened his eyes. "Not very much, but it does hurt. I was just thinking."

She crouched in front of him, her face turned towards him but her gaze not on his. It occurred to Yarro that she had realized he didn't like making eye contact with people, and she was adapting. She was trying to make him more comfortable. A surge of liking rushed through him and he had to keep from smiling. He didn't care what the Voices said. Sometimes they were wrong. They were wrong about eating Grandfather. They were wrong about other things. Sometimes.

"I hear Voices," he blurted. "I don't know who They are, but They talk to me a lot." He stopped rocking and looked at her knee instead of her face. "They say you have secrets, but that's all right. I have secrets too. I kept the Voices secret from you." He glanced up briefly, just enough to meet her gaze and flick away again. "I keep the Voices secret from everyone."

Aevver was silent for so long Yarro decided she must not believe him. He started rocking in place again, wondering if she would abandon him if she thought he was lying to her. Maybe she thought he was making fun of her. Wouldn't that be the silliest thing—if the boy who had grown up being called a freak made fun of others? But she might think he was.

"Thank you for trusting me," Aevver said finally. Her voice was very soft. "Did your sister Orya know about Them?"

Yarro nodded. He was tired of talking. At least she seemed to believe him. But he didn't want to explain about why he was following the Voices and where They were leading him.

Aevver nodded back and stood. "Now I'll know not to interrupt when They are talking," she said. "Come, let's ride a bit further today, all right? We should be in Rivarden in a couple of days. We'll get rooms at an inn and give your leg time to heal."

Without another word, she went back to her horse and started putting the medical supplies back in her pack. Yarro stood, testing his weight on the leg, and deciding it wasn't too bad. He limped over to Firefoot, who knelt to help him scramble up.