The Bone Doll's Twin (20 page)

“My mama is dead.” He turned to Arkoniel at last, and the wizard found himself staring down into eyes as black and deep as night.

Arkoniel’s voice died in his throat as he realized what he’d been conversing with.

“I know the taste of your tears,” the demon said.

Before he could make any warding sign against it, it leaped up and flung the dead shrew in his horse’s face. The gelding reared, throwing Arkoniel into the tall grass. He came down awkwardly on his left hand and felt a sickening snap just above his wrist. Pain and the fall knocked the wind out of him, and he lay in a tight ball, fighting back nausea and fear.

The demon.
He’d never heard of one appearing so clearly or speaking. Arkoniel managed to lift his head, expecting to find it squatting beside him, watching him with its dead black eyes. Instead, he saw his gelding tossing its head and kicking in the meadow across the river.

He sat up slowly, cradling his injured arm. His left hand hung at a bad angle and felt cold to the touch. Another wave of nausea burned his throat and he eased himself back down in the grass. The sun beat down on his upturned cheek, and insects investigated his ears. He watched the green rye and timothy dancing against the sky and tried to imagine himself walking the rest of the way up the steep road to the keep.

Failing that, he returned to the demon. Only now did its words really register.

My mama is dead.

I know the taste of your tears.

This was not the racketing poltergeist he’d expected. It had matured like a living child and come to some sort of awareness. He’d never heard of such a thing.

“Lhel, you damned necromancer, what did you do?” he groaned.

What did we do?

He must have drifted off for a time, because when he
opened his eyes again he found a man’s head and shoulders blocking the sun.

“I’m not a peddler,” he mumbled.

“Arkoniel?” Strong hands reached under his shoulders and helped him to his feet. “What are you doing here all by yourself?”

He knew that voice, and the weathered, bearded face that went with it, although it had been more than a decade since he’d last laid eyes on the man. “Tharin? By the Four, I’m glad to see you.”

Arkoniel swayed and the captain got an arm around his waist, holding him upright.

Blinking, he tried to focus on the too-close face. Tharin’s fair hair and beard had faded with age, and the lines around his eyes and mouth were deeper, but the man’s quiet, easy manner was just the same and Arkoniel was grateful for it. “Is Rhius here? I must—”

“Yes, he’s here, though you’re lucky to catch us. We’re leaving for Ero tomorrow. Why didn’t you send word?”

Arkoniel’s legs buckled and he staggered.

Tharin hoisted him upright again. “Never mind, then. Let’s get you up to the house.”

Helping him over to a tall grey, Tharin got him up into the saddle. “What happened? I saw you sitting down here looking at the river, then your horse just threw you off. Looked like it went crazy. Sefus is having a hell of a time over there trying to catch him for you.”

Out in the meadow, Arkoniel could see a man trying to calm his runaway gelding, but it shied and kicked every time he reached for the bridle. He shook his head, not yet ready to speak of what he’d seen. Clearly Tharin hadn’t seen the demon. “Skittish beast.”

“Apparently. So, how shall we get you up to the house? Slow and painful or fast and painful?”

Arkoniel managed a wretched grin. “Fast.”

Tharin mounted behind him and reached around
Arkoniel for the reins, then kicked the horse into a canter. Every pounding hoofbeat sent a hot stab up Arkoniel’s arm. He fixed his eyes on their destination and held on as best he could with his good hand.

At the top of the hill they rode across a wide wooden bridge and on through a gate into a paved yard. Mynir and Nari were there, with a large-boned woman in the stained apron of a cook.

Nari had aged, too. She was still plump and ruddy, but there were streaks of grey in her thick brown hair.

They helped him down and Tharin supported him through a dim, echoing hall to the kitchen.

“Whatever are you doing here?” Nari asked as Tharin eased him down onto a bench beside a scrubbed oak table.

“The child,” he croaked, resting his spinning head on his good hand. “Come to see the child. Is he well?” Tharin gently took his swelling wrist in both hands. Arkoniel gasped as the man felt for damage.

Nari raised an eyebrow at him. “Of course he’s well. What makes you think he isn’t?”

“I just—” He caught his breath again as Tharin probed deeper.

“That’s lucky,” he told Arkoniel. “It’s just the outer bone, and a clean break. Once it’s set and bound it shouldn’t trouble you too badly.”

Mynir fetched a slat and some strips of cloth.

“Best have this first,” the cook said, giving him a clay cup.

Arkoniel downed the contents gratefully and felt a numbing heat spread quickly through his belly and limbs. “What is this?”

“Vinegar, brandywine, with a little poppy and henbane,” she told him, patting his shoulder.

It still hurt like hell when Tharin set the bone, but Arkoniel was able to bear it without complaint.

Tharin bound the slat in place with the cloth and a leather thong. When he was done he sat back and grinned at Arkoniel.

“You’re tougher than you look, boy.”

Arkoniel groaned and took another gulp from the cup. He was beginning to feel quite sleepy.

“Did Iya send you?” Nari asked.

“No. I thought I should come pay my—”

“So one of you could finally spare us a visit, could you?” a harsh voice snapped.

Jarred back to alertness, Arkoniel found Rhius scowling at him from the kitchen doorway.

Tharin rose and stepped toward the duke as if he expected violence. “Rhius, he’s hurt.”

The duke ignored him as he crossed the kitchen to glare down at Arkoniel. “So you’ve finally come back to us, have you? Where’s your mistress?”

“She’s still in the south, my lord. I came to pay our respects. We were both so sorry to hear of your lady’s death.”

“So sorry that it took a year for you to come?” Rhius sat down across from him and glanced at the wizard’s bound wrist. “But I see you won’t be leaving us anytime soon. I leave for Ero tomorrow, but you may stay until you’re fit to ride.”

It was a far cry from the welcome they used to enjoy under Rhius’ roof, but Arkoniel suspected that he was lucky the duke didn’t toss him into the river.

“How is the king?” he asked.

Curdled anger curled Rhius’ lip. “Very well, thank you. The Plenimaran raids have ceased for the harvest season. The crops are ripening. The sun continues to shine. It seems the Four smile on his reign.” Rhius spoke quietly, his voice devoid of inflection, but Arkoniel read betrayal in those hard, tired eyes. Iya would have talked of patience and visions, but Arkoniel didn’t know where to begin.

Just then an eerily familiar face peered in around the corridor doorway. “Who’s that, Father?”

All the harshness left Rhius’ face as he held out his hand to the boy, who came and pressed close to his father’s side, looking at Arkoniel with shy blue eyes.

Tobin.

There was nothing of the hidden girl child in this plain, skinny lad. Lhel had done her work too well. But Tobin’s eyes were the same striking blue as his mother’s and, unlike his demon twin, Tobin looked well cared for except for the fading pink scar that marred his pointed chin. Arkoniel stole a quick glance at the triangle of smooth pale skin that showed at the unlaced neck of the child’s tunic, wondering what Lhel’s stitching looked like after all these years.

The child’s long black hair was shiny and, though no one would have taken him for the son of a princess in such garb, his simple tunic was clean and well made. Looking around at the others in the room, Arkoniel recognized a love for this solemn child that made his heart ache with a strange burst of compassion for the demon, an abandoned child shut out from the warmth of hearth and family while its double grew up in comfort and warmth. It was aware. It must know.

Tobin didn’t smile or come forward to greet him; he just stared at Arkoniel. Something in his stillness made him seem as strange as his ghostly twin.

“This is Arkoniel,” Rhius explained. “He’s a—friend I haven’t seen in a very long time. Come now, introduce yourself properly.”

The boy made Arkoniel a stiff formal bow, left hand on his belt where a sword would someday hang. There was the wine-colored faver mark on the outside of his forearm, like the print of a rosebud cut in half. Arkoniel had forgotten about that, the only outward sign left of the girl’s true form.

“I am Prince Tobin Erius Akandor, son of Ariani and Rhius.” The way he moved reinforced Arkoniel’s initial impression. There was nothing of a normal child in his manner. He had his father’s dignity, but not the stature or years to carry it off properly.

Arkoniel returned the bow as best he could seated. The cook’s draught seemed to work more strongly the longer it was in him, making him dizzy. “I am most honored to make your acquaintance, my prince. I am Arkoniel, son of Sir Coran and Lady Mekia of Rhemair, fostered to the wizard Iya. Please accept my humble service to you and all your house.”

Tobin’s eyes widened. “You’re a wizard?”

“Yes, my prince.” Arkoniel held up his bandaged wrist. “Perhaps when this feels a bit better, I can show you some of the tricks I’ve learned.”

Most children greeted such an offer with exclamations of delight, or at least a smile, but Tobin seemed to retreat without moving a muscle.

I was right
, Arkoniel thought, looking into those dark eyes.
Something is very wrong here.

He attempted to rise and found that his legs and head would not cooperate in the effort.

“That draught of Cook’s isn’t done with you,” Nari said, pressing him back onto the bench. “My lord, he must lie down somewhere, but none of the guest chambers are fit to sleep in.”

“A pallet here by the fire is all I need,” Arkoniel mumbled, nauseated again. Despite the brandy burning his belly and the warmth of the day, he felt chilled all over.

“We could set up a bed in Tobin’s second room,” Mynir suggested, ignoring Arkoniel’s much simpler solution. “It wouldn’t be such a climb for him.”

“Very well,” Rhius replied. “Have some of the men fetch whatever you think necessary.”

Arkoniel sagged against the table, wishing they’d just let him curl up here by the hearth so he could get warm.
The women went to fetch linens. Tobin went out with Tharin and the steward, leaving the wizard alone with Rhius.

For a moment neither man said anything.

“The demon frightened my horse,” Arkoniel told him. “I saw it clearly in the road at the bottom of the meadow.”

Rhius shrugged. “It’s here with us now. I see the gooseflesh on your arms. You feel it, too.”

Arkoniel shivered. “Yes, I feel it, but I
saw
it in the meadow, as clearly as I see you now. Tobin looks just like it.”

Rhius shook his head. “No one has ever seen it, except perhaps for—” “Tobin?”

“By the Four, no!” Rhius made a sign against bad luck. “He’s been spared that much, at least. But I think Ariani did. She made a doll to replace the dead child, and sometimes spoke to it as if it were real. But I often had the feeling that it wasn’t the doll she was seeing. Illior knows, she paid little enough attention to her living child, except at the end.”

Arkoniel’s throat tightened again. “My lord, words cannot express how sorry—”

Rhius slammed a hand down on the table, then leaned forward and snarled, “Don’t you
dare
weep for her! You have no right, no more than I!” Lurching to his feet, he strode from the room, leaving the startled wizard alone in the demon-haunted kitchen.

The chill pressed in around him and Arkoniel was certain he felt a child’s cold hands on the back of his neck. Thinking of the dead shrew, he whispered, “By the Four—Maker, Traveler, Flame, and Lightbearer—I command you! Lie down, Spirit, until Bilairy guides you to the Gate.”

The cold intensified around him and the bright room darkened as if a thunderhead had covered the sun. A large clay pot flew from a shelf and shattered against the opposite
wall, narrowly missing his shoulder. A basket of onions followed, then a wooden bowl of dough and a platter. Arkoniel slid hastily under the table, broken bones forgotten for the moment.

Scant yards away, an iron poker scraped across the stone hearth in his direction. He tried to dive away toward the door, but came down on his bad wrist and collapsed with a strangled scream, eyes screwed shut in agony.

“No!” A boy’s high clear voice.

The poker clattered to the floor.

Arkoniel heard whispering and footsteps. Opening his eyes, he found Tobin kneeling beside him. The room was warm again.

“It doesn’t like you,” Tobin said.

“No—I don’t think it does,” Arkoniel panted, content for the moment to stay where he was. “Is it gone?”

Tobin nodded.

“Did you send it away?”

Tobin gave him a startled look, but said nothing. He was a few months shy of his tenth birthday, but looking into that face now, Arkoniel could not have put an age to it. Tobin looked at once too old and too young.

“It listens to you, doesn’t it?” he asked. “I heard you speaking to it.”

“Don’t tell Father, please!”

“Why?”

Now Tobin looked like any frightened little boy. “I—it would make him sad. Please, don’t tell him what you saw!”

Arkoniel hesitated, recalling the duke’s violent outburst. Crawling out from beneath the table, he sat on the floor next to Tobin and rested his hand in his lap. “I take it all this—” He looked around at the broken crockery. “It isn’t going to surprise anyone?”

Tobin shook his head.

“Very well, then, my prince, I’ll keep your secret. But I’d very much like to know why the demon obeys you.”

Tobin said nothing.

“Did you tell it to throw the dishes at me?”

“No! I’d never do that, on my honor.”

Arkoniel studied that strained, earnest little face and knew Tobin spoke the truth, and yet there was some great secret behind those eyes.
Another house of closed doors
, he thought, but here at least he sensed the chance of finding the keys.