Stormseer (Storms in Amethir Book 3) Page 8

  "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 dov
e, 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.

  Tish's face melted into an expression he didn't quite understand. Did she feel sorry for him or was she just glad she wouldn't have to spend time with him today? "Well," she said, "you'd better not keep him waiting." She tilted her head. "At least it isn't Rith."

  "I know," he said, making his voice happy, and he turned and left her standing there. He didn't know if she realized Rith beat him. Kesh knew and did nothing most of the time, but Kesh was the only one who really could do anything. Tish would lose her place in the house if she spoke out. Yar chose to believe she didn't know, but he had a feeling he was just lying to himself.

  When Yar reached Kesh's quarters, he let himself in. If he knocked, Kesh might not let him in. This way, his brother would have to at least talk to him. There were others in Kesh's quarters. The room smelled of cloying smoke and tangy drink. Four men were gathered around Kesh's table along with two women. They were playing cards. Yar liked to play cards, especially Queens and Ship's Trades, which were Orya's favorites, but no one ever asked him to play cards anymore.

  He couldn't really blame them. He and Orya had played often, but even with Orya, he would sometimes come back to himself and realize a vision had taken him in the middle of the game. He would be clutching his cards so tightly they had creased his palm, and Orya would be asleep or reading a book or simply gone.

  "It's the freak," someone said. "Kesh, you ought to lock your door."

  Yar felt a shiver down his back, but he was glad the others were there. If he acted out enough, Kesh might answer his question just to calm him down and get rid of him. It was a good plan.

  "Kesh, why did they ask about Orya?" he asked.

  He saw his brother go still, cards lowering to the table. One of the people snickered. "Go away, Yarro."

  The visions could be an advantage. If people thought you were a simpleton, they expected you to act wrong. They were almost disappointed if you held a normal conversation with them. Yar opened his mouth and eyes wide.

  "Why did they ask about Orya?" he repeated.

  "Get him out of here so we can play," said one of the women. "If this is a ploy to keep from paying your debt—"

  "Go on, Yarro." Kesh's voice was stern, but the hint of kindness was still there.

  "Why did they ask about Orya?" Yar said again. "Is Orya coming home? Is Orya coming home? Is Orya coming home?" He let his voice fall into a singsong. "Orya, Orya, Orya, home, home, home."

  Kesh's chair scraped across the tile as he pushed it back. "You need to go home, Yarro." He stood and came towards Yar. He was going to touch him. Yar steeled himself for it.

  "Orya's coming home? Tell me, Kesh! Tell me! Tell!"

  Kesh didn't really want to touch him. He paused, hands hovering close to Yar's shoulders. "There's someone operating who is as good as Orya. People think she must have been pretending to be dead." He gripped Yar's shoulders with both hands and ducked his head until Yar would meet his eyes. "But Orya's dead, Yarro. She's not coming back. Never."

  Yar let his face crumble into disappointment, mouth open, tears leaking from his eyes, even as he turned the new information over in his mind. There were people who thought Orya was alive just because someone killed people as well as she had? It wasn't logical. But not many people needed logic. They believed what they wanted to believe.

  He shook his shoulders until Kesh's hands dropped to his sides.

  "Go on," Kesh said. His voice was soft. "Tell Tish I said you could have a fr
uit ice. She shouldn't have let you out."

  "I told her you wanted me to." Yar spoke with no inflection. He let his thoughts roll on. Logical or no, could there be truth to the idea that Orya had faked her own death? To what end, though? Why would she need to get away from here and stay away?

  Well, to get away from Grandfather. That made sense.

  Why else?

  To get away from their brothers? Probably.

  Why else?

  To get away from Yar?

  He let his brother push him towards the door. He stubbed his toe on the threshold but ignored the pain. As the door closed behind him, he heard someone say, "He didn't even have shoes on. What a freak."

  It didn't bother him. He was a freak. Even though he had lived like this his whole life, he knew it wasn't normal for people to have visions all the time. He knew from Orya that most people didn't hear Voices in their heads. If they did, it wasn't polite to talk about them.

  Yar was fine with not talking about them. But sometimes the Voices weren't fine with it. Sometimes they made him speak. That was usually when he got in trouble.

  The passage back to his room was long. The house was built out of golden stone, and the sun slanted into this passage through the western windows. It felt good on his left cheek, so he turned his head to face the sun. He went to the window and leaned on the ledge, staring out into the sunset. Flat roofs and domed ones mingled along the canals and alley walkways. Meekin was a good city, he thought. They were nestled into the foothills by the Scarim Mountains, with plenty of trade. There was a school for musicians and bards, which he had heard about but never seen.

  And there were fountains everywhere. In every square, every plaza, every courtyard, there were fountains. The foothills were dry, but Meekin had been built in a low, wet spot where two rivers came together. However many hundreds of years ago it was, Meekin's founders had deepened the low spot into a lake and channeled the water right around the buildings to create the canals. Orya had hated the canals, but Yar loved them, and he loved the fountains even more. The fountains seemed to sing at him, and if he were close enough, they sometimes even drowned out the sound of the Voices.