Stormseer (Storms in Amethir Book 3) (9 page)

Kho didn't like it. Razem could tell by the way the large man shuffled his feet and gave only a curt nod in response. But at least the general didn't protest again.

Razem turned to face Hawk. The commander was staring into his wine glass, but Razem couldn't tell if his head was bowed in acquiescence or merely in the hope that Razem would leave him alone. Unfortunately, neither of them had the luxury of being left alone. Razem drew in a long breath. He was about to speak when a tap on the door heralded the arrival of servants bearing two trays of bland food, followed by a healer in blue.

Razem corrected his posture so he would seem languid and relaxed rather than tense and impatient. Then he waved a hand to the servants.

"Bring the tray over here to the commander. He will tell you what to fill his plate with." Razem turned his attention to the healer, a walnut-skinned woman with cropped white hair who wore loose trousers and a thigh-length, wraparound tunic. He beckoned her over, smiling.

The bow she gave him was exact and polite. "Your highness," she murmured.

"Commander Hawk is concerned about his reintroduction to our cuisine," Razem told her. "As well, I am concerned about his physical condition and if there is anything we should provide to ease his transition home."

The healer looked startled, but the cool gray eyes that met his were appraising. "Very good, your highness. Have you any specific concerns? Torture? Starvation?" From the corner of his eye, Razem saw Hawk's head snap up, but the prince ignored it.

"No, no, nothing like that, I hope," he said briskly. "But you might look at that leg of his, see if there's anything that can be done. And take a look at what he eats. Stop him if anything is too rich or spicy for him." He paused and lowered his voice. "And you might check him--discreetly--for lice."

He hadn't spoken quietly enough. He saw Hawk flinch, though Kho and the servants didn't seem to have heard. The healer frowned at him, but nodded and moved away to begin her inspection.

Thinking to give them some privacy, Razem ambled to where Kho stood by the table again, staring down at the selection of food. Kho tensed as Razem approached, though he didn't look up. Razem had planned to ask what problem Kho had with Hawk, but when he saw Kho tense, he thought better of the idea. Instead he selected a glazed berry and popped it in his mouth.

"I understand you are displeased with me, Emran," he said softly. "But I do feel it my duty to obey my father."

"A fine time for that, your highness," Kho muttered, but he looked over at him, one side of his mouth curling up.

Razem gave him a matching half-smile in return. "You may be right, Kho. But that's as may be. We go to Rivarden."

"Your highness." Kho bowed his head.

Part Two - Voices

Chapter 7

The air smelled of sweet coffee, cherry blossoms, and blood.

Yar's stomach quivered, but he didn't respond to the question his eldest brother had just asked him. It wouldn't do any good to answer, even if he wanted to. Rith never understood the words Yar said, or the way he said them.

"Answer me, boy!" A sharp cuff to the back of the head interrupted Yar's rocking, but he kept his gaze lowered and unfocused. He didn't know the answer, anyway. His sister's friends meant well, but they didn't speak to him, except to give him directions in a tone of voice reserved for simpletons.

The scent of cherry blossoms tickled his nose, and he couldn't suppress the sneeze that burst out of him. Who had opened the window to the courtyard?

A chortle in the back of his head made him shake it violently, attempting to dislodge the sound. Rith's open hand came down on his shoulder, throwing Yar to the ground.

"Don't bother," said a tired voice. "He probably doesn't know." Yar didn't allow himself to feel relieved, but he did venture to push himself up on one elbow. It was his middle brother. Kesh had given up on him years ago, but it was a relief compared to the way Rith still tried to beat the weirdness out of Yar.

"You know what they're saying," Rith snarled. Yar didn't look up at either of his brothers. He sat up and resumed his rocking even as that same Voice in the back of his head made singsong mockery of Rith's anger. Yar didn't smile. Yar had never smiled easily, and his smiles had grown even rarer in the years since his sister's disappearance.

"And they've been saying it for three years now." Kesh pulled Yar to his feet and let go before Yar was quite steady. Even so, it left Yar's skin creeping and prickling. He shivered.

"Ungrateful cur," Rith snapped, and cuffed Yar again.

Yar hunched his shoulders and tapped his fingers against his thumb, one-two-three-four-three-two-one, one-two-three-four-three-two-one.
Let me alone
, he thought. He didn't speak. He tried never to speak to Rith. He hoped Rith had forgotten what his voice sounded like. Rith's ears made Yar's voice feel scratchy like uncarded wool.

"Stop being such an idiot. It isn't as if Yarro would have understood, even if she had told him anything. You know what he's like. It's like you're beating a cat. It's not only pointless, but makes you look a fool."

And cruel
, Yar added. The Voice at the very back cackled in his head again. Yar's lips twitched, but he let his mouth fall slack. Did that one want to talk to him today? It didn't always, but it seemed to hate Rith.

"Fine." Rith stomped away. Yar didn't look up. He could sense Kesh still hovering nearby. He tapped his finger sequence against his thumb again.

Kesh sighed. "You could show a bit of gratitude. Thankfulness." He fell silent. Maybe he was waiting for Yar to answer, but Yar's vision was graying out. He ignored Kesh.

Was it foggy or was it just growing dark? Yar couldn't tell through the haze of smoke.
Why show me this?
he wondered. None of the Voices answered, though he heard Kesh mutter, "I don't know why I bother," just before he, too, stomped away.

Smoke. The sound of rushing wind. Rumbling, crackling laughter that vibrated his bones. Yar stared slack-jawed at a dark shape swooping and circling through the smoke clouds. He couldn't tell what it was. His eyes followed the patterns of its flight but the smoke was too thick.

SEE US. FIND US.

"How do you see a Voice?" he asked.

"I don't know, boy. How do you?"

Yar's heart leapt and fluttered like a rabbit caught in a basket. He had forgotten about his grandfather's presence. The Patriarch made Rith look kind, except he did it so quietly maybe people didn't notice.

Yar was startled into making eye contact with his grandfather, mouth gaping open to catch air and sunshine.

"I have always thought voices were things you heard, not things you saw. But seeing a voice would be useful, especially in our line of work, wouldn't it?" Grandfather's tone was cheery and kind. It turned Yar's stomach. His gaze dropped to focus on the corner of his grandfather's mouth. Looking straight into someone burned his eyes after only a few seconds. Looking straight into his grandfather might kill him.

"Ah, I see you have no answers for me. It was, perhaps, a purely hypothetical question?" The false sympathy in his grandfather's voice made Yar pull himself inward. "Your sister was very good at dealing in hypotheticals. Let's see if you have any aptitude for it."

EAT HIM, said one of the Voices in Yar's head. He exhaled a tiny breath that could pass for a laugh. He was rarely surprised by anything the Voices said, but what kind of creatures were these Voices, that they thought a human man would be tasty? Especially one as skinny as the Patriarch.

"If your sister left here, having decided to fake her own death, what would she have done? Would she have abandoned you as she has?" The old man clicked his tongue in sadness. "Such a shame. She always pretended to care for you. It is certainly what I thought."

She
had
cared for him. It was no pretense. "You said she was dead," Yar said, flicking a glance up at his grandfather. He wouldn't be able to tell if the old man were lying, but he had to see his eyes again, for just a moment.

As Yar's gaze dropped again, he saw the thin, wrinkled lips curl in a smile. "I did say that, didn't I? But it is not what others are saying."

"Did you lie to me?" Yar blurted. As if he couldn't imagine it. As if he trusted his grandfather with all his being. But then, his grandfather didn't realize how much Yar really understood. None of them did. They thought him a simpleton. That was fine, since it meant he didn't have to learn to kill. But it was just the Voices that made him seem unaware of the world.

"I didn't lie, Yarro, I merely told you the information we had at the time." The old man sighed and patted Yar's head. "I wonder now if I was wrong to do so."

Yar scratched his scalp.
Don't touch me
, he wanted to say.
Don't infect me.
But he just stared into the middle distance, wishing the Voices would send something to help him understand this. What were people saying, then? Why wouldn't Orya have come back for him if she was still alive?

"What are you thinking inside that locked up head of yours, I wonder," his grandfather said. "I think your brothers underestimate you. Your sister never did." Suddenly the old man's face was very close to his, iron fingers seizing his chin in a vise-like grip. "What do you know of Orya's plans, Yarro? Tell me! I am your Patriarch!" A fleck of spit hit Yarro's lips.

EAT HIM. BLIND HIM. LICK HIS EYEBALLS. Yar shuddered. He didn't really like that one. That Voice was always hungry, and if Rith brought out that Voice's temper, Yar's grandfather brought out its cruelty.

"Tell me!" His grandfather shook him so hard Yar's neck ached. "What did she tell you before she left?"

LIE TO HIM, whispered another Voice. It was sly, more subtle than the first. THE PATRIARCH WILL USE YOU IF HE KNOWS THE TRUTH. Yar blinked up at his grandfather. His lips were mushed together by the old man's grip, but he still said, "Goodbye."

Evidently his grandfather understood, for he shoved Yar away, letting go of his chin and making Yar stumble backwards.

BE INNOCENT. BE FOOLISH, said the second Voice, and Yar let himself fall down.

Underestimate me
, he thought at his grandfather. An image of a dove fighting a serpent flashed before his eyes. His jaw went slack as he stared, rapt, at it. That was what he wished to be. A dove.

"Fool. Worthless fool." The old man's voice dripped contempt. Yar didn't care. He stared at the dove as it flapped its wings. Its beak was closed on the serpent's head. Yar wondered if it would win. How could it? Doves were peaceful birds. But if they were attacked, they would fight back. Anything would fight back when it was attacked.

He stared at the struggle in his mind's eye until he heard his grandfather stride away. The boot heels were loud on their tiled floor. He ought to get up, scamper away, hide. But the vision was taking root. Yar stared and stared, wishing the dove's beak were strong enough to bite down and crush the serpent's head. Why did the dove not fly away?

Then he saw the dove was on its nest. Of course. It couldn't fly away because it had eggs there. The serpent wanted the eggs and the dove refused to leave them.

Orya would never have left him. Never. Yar rocked back and forth, eyes unblinking, seeing not the lavishly appointed room around him but the serpent twining around the dove, trying to secure its grip. Orya was no dove, though. Orya was a serpent that nestled right against the breast. You knew she might bite you, might poison you, but you loved her anyway.

The dove beat its wings furiously, lifting itself off the ground with the serpent still attached. As Yar watched, the dove flew from its nest and crashed into a stone wall. The serpent, stunned, dropped from around the dove. But the dove, hindered by the extra weight it had carried, crashed into the stone again. It, too, fell dazed to the ground.

"Why?" Yar whispered. "Why whywhywhy?"

The dove rose first. It went to the dazed serpent and pecked out its eyes. Then she returned to her nest. Did Orya stay away from him because she was pecking out the dangers to him? But that made no sense. Yar had never been in danger. Not from anything or anyone except Rith and their grandfather. So if she had left to protect him, she would have taken him with her.

Why would Orya leave and not come back?

She wouldn't. She was dead.

***

Yar remembered the curl of his sister's dark hair, the cruel edge of her laughter that softened only for him, the shoes she discarded the moment she walked into his room. He remembered how she read aloud to him, making different voices for each of the characters. No one would ever have believed she did that.

But Yar was different. Their grandfather used him as leverage to manipulate Orya. Their eldest brother tried to beat it out of him. Their middle brother washed his hands of him. Only Orya had seen Yar for how he truly was. Only Orya had allowed him to be that way without placing demands on him. Perhaps it was why she had been so hard with others.

Orya spent so much compassion on Yar, she had none left for anyone else.

But she left me
, he thought.
She promised to come back and said goodbye and never came back. She broke her promise.

Yet if that were the end of it, why would his grandfather and brothers be trying to find out...whatever they had been trying to find out? They had never really said. Grandfather had hinted that perhaps Orya was only pretending to be dead. Yar wasn't sure why she would do that. More than that, he wondered why Grandfather thought she was.

It was something to figure out. Yar was good at figuring things out, if he wasn't interrupted by one of the Voices. Sometimes they helped him, but just as often, their whispers had nothing to do with anything going on around him.

SUN HEAT. He felt a flash of contentment, then realized it was not his own feeling. Frowning at the window, where he saw the lowering sun and a cooling world, Yar wondered for the thousandth, millionth, time what the Voices were.

He turned his thoughts back to Orya and all those questions Rith had asked about her. He wondered if he could ask Kesh. Kesh knew, that was obvious. But would he tell Yar? That was harder. He didn't think Yar understood things, so Yar would have to be careful about how he asked. And if Kesh even answered, it might not be an answer Yar could use.

But it was all he could do.

He wandered down the hall. He was still barefoot, and the tile floor was warm under his feet. His toes were grubby. Before Orya left, she had told him he wasn't a little boy any more. He ought to wear shoes. Yar's lips twisted and pursed. He meant to wear shoes. He just forgot. Sometimes one of the visions would take him and make him forget what he had been doing before it. Not always, but often enough.

His gaze wandered to the next window. Where had the in between hours gone? He had spent some time remembering Orya. He had drawn a picture, trying to capture the dove and serpent that had been in his visions more often. He had listened to the Voices talking about a war that was happening somewhere. He didn't think the Voices were part of the war. He thought they were just bored.

"What are you doing out of your quarters?" asked a kind female voice. Yar looked over to see one of Orya's friends watching him. He didn't meet her gaze, but he smiled. Tish was nice to him, even if she didn't understand him the way Orya did.

"Kesh wants me to come see him," he confided. Tish wasn't all that much older than he was, only a few years, but she still treated him like he was a little boy instead of seventeen. When Orya was seventeen, she'd already killed time and time again. Tish wasn't an assassin. She was a scribe for the family. When word came that Orya was dead, Tish had been the one who let him hug her when he needed, but didn't hold on to him so he could pull away when he had to.

Yar had fallen in love with Tish three years ago, but two years ago he'd realized she saw him as a child. It still stung to be around her, but he didn't like being away from her, either.