Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) (26 page)

Warm sunlight flooding through the open windows told Eredion he’d slept in. A few moments later, the sonorous
braummm
of the Palace Bells marking the third hour past sunrise confirmed that. He stretched and yawned, content and refreshed.

The aroma of coffee and oranges drifted from the other room. Eredion sat up, pleased at Wian’s thoughtfulness. She seemed to enjoy offering small kindnesses like this, and he certainly appreciated the gesture. Had he thanked her for it? He couldn’t remember. He’d have to do so today, at the least.

He found himself humming as he pulled on fresh clothes, and noticed that the clothes he’d dropped on the floor had been taken away already. Before Wian’s arrival, he would have simply have kicked the dirty laundry into a pile and thrust the whole stinking mass out the door for the palace servants to handle when it grew large enough to annoy even him. He had been taking her for granted, a bit, even though he paid her for cleaning; a kind word never hurt, after all.

Emerging into the outer room, he saw the small dining-table set: a thick-walled stone carafe of coffee, one of the small teyanain-style cups he favored, and a plate of freshly sliced oranges and star-fruit. A brown napkin had been given a simple, tidy fold and set beside the plate.

He looked around for Wian, then listened more closely to the sounds around him: he was alone in the suite. No laundry basket in sight, so she’d probably gone out to the palace wash-house. Eredion had only a hazy idea of how long laundry took, but he was fairly sure the word
hours
figured into the estimate.

He sat at the table and laid a hand against the carafe. The stone surface almost scorched his palm, so it hadn’t been sitting too long. He’d have a morning to sit and enjoy the sunlight in peace for once. No doubt
something
would need his attention, but he decided that this time, he’d tell them all to go to the nearest hell while he took a day to lounge around like a lazy lizard. He’d earned the right to rest. For that matter, he’d earned the right to bow out of this posting and go home. He’d had enough of the northern games and politics. Time to let someone else take over. It had to happen eventually. He’d send the request for a replacement as soon as he finished eating.

Light-hearted and smiling, he poured a cup of coffee—good and strong, almost but not quite teyanain-strength; Wian knew just how to prepare it—and picked up a piece of orange.

Lord Eredion,
someone said. The `voice’ held a familiar timbre, and after a moment Eredion recognized it as belonging to someone who always brought trouble in his wake.

“Oh, godsdamnit,” Eredion groused aloud, setting the fruit down and sighing.
Allonin? What the hells are you doing in Bright Bay?

May I come see you?

Of course.

You’re still at the palace?

Yes. Here—
a map flashed from mind to mind in the space of a heartbeat.

I see it. Thank you.

Eredion sat back in his chair and regarded the now unappetizing breakfast with bleak annoyance. “So much for lounging,” he sighed. “Bloody damn Aerthraim.”

His first thought, when the tall Aerthraim man showed up at his door some time later, was that Allonin somehow looked dreadful and serene at the same time. He’d lost weight; there were grey strain-lines and dark hollows mapping his once-proud face. But the deep-set, gnawing anguish he’d carried last time Eredion had seen him seemed to have lifted at last. It lent him a younger appearance than he probably deserved.

“Coffee?” he said, sniffing the air, as soon as the door had closed behind him. Eredion pointed him to the table without a word and fetched another of the small cups from the sideboard. The two men settled down and sipped coffee without speaking for a few moments, each studying the other without any attempt to hide it.

“You look like shit,” Eredion said at last.

Allonin laughed and raised his cup in mocking salute, then leaned forward and refilled it as he said, “I was about to say the same about you, Lord Eredion.”

“Knock it off, Allo.”

“Yes.” Allonin set his cup on the table, his amused expression deepening, then fading to sobriety again. “All right. Eredion. What’s going on?”

Eredion tilted his head and squinted one eye almost shut. “Why?”

“I ran into Tanavin last night.”

“Tank,” Eredion said reflexively, then blinked, realizing he’d actually forgotten the boy was supposed to have shown up this morning to help look for Alyea’s family. Not that it was necessary any longer, but Tanavin wouldn’t know that. “Where is he?”

“Recovering,” Allonin said. “When he saw me, he ran.”

Eredion couldn’t help smiling. “He’s still faster than you?”

“Oh, yes. I wouldn’t have caught him if his legs hadn’t given out this time. Ripped the shin muscles half to hells. Thank the gods he’s gained some weight over the past year; that probably helped. I think he’s in the middle of another growth spurt, too.”

“You think he’ll get
bigger?”

“Probably another hand-span in height and some muscle bulk, yes.”

“Good gods.”

They refilled their cups and sipped in silence for a few moments. “So Tank told you we have troubles here?” Eredion finally said.

“He said you’d dragged him into some mess or other, and asked me to come instead.”

Eredion squinted again. Allonin caught the look and laughed, raising a hand.

“He wasn’t so much
asking,”
the Aerthraim man admitted. “Never mind that, I’m here now. What’s going on?”

“It’s been resolved,” Eredion said, looking down at the small cup nesting between his hands. “I’ll have to go to the king about it later, but there’s nothing you can do to help at the moment.”

“Tell me and let me decide,” Allonin suggested.

Eredion gave him a cynical look. “It’s not really your concern, Allo.”

Allonin looked away, studied the room for a long moment in silence, then said, “Why are you still here? I’d expected you to return to Sessin by now.”

Eredion grunted. “Too much to do here.” Allonin’s gaze returned to his face, intent, searching; dangerously perceptive. “Don’t want to take time to train a replacement.”

“Do the other Families have representatives here yet?”

“Not officially. There are a few unofficial people, but nothing formalized yet.”

“Disposables,” Allonin said. His mouth pulled to one side in a sour expression. “In case Oruen proves problematic.”

“Probably. Won’t be long now, though. I’m already seeing a sharp rise in traffic coming into the city through the ports and the Horn.”

Allonin sat back in his chair, his cup cradled loosely in his hands, and frowned at nothing in particular.

“I’ve been on the coast,” he said with apparent irrelevance.

“Dangerous place to be of late,” Eredion said dryly. The faint smile that twitched across Allonin’s face confirmed Eredion’s suspicions on that matter. “I’ve heard rumors. You’ve been busy, haven’t you?”

“There’s a kathain collective set up now,” Allonin said, his expression softening. “I left good people in charge, but I’ll have to go back. I just felt the need to come north and find Tanavin, tell him that I’d taken him seriously at last. I’d hoped he would come help.”

Eredion snorted, unable to help himself.

“No,” Allonin said, his lips thinning. “I know. I saw. He’s not ready yet.” He paused. “But I’m also here to find my sister. I owe her an apology too.”

“But she’s not here!” Eredion said, startled. “Didn’t you hear about the Conclave?”

“I’ve been busy,” Allonin reminded him, sitting forward with a gathering frown. “Where was the Conclave?”

“Scratha Fortress.”

“What?” Allonin’s hand closed convulsively around the cup. Eredion heard a sharp crack, and coffee dripped from the man’s fist. Allonin opened his hand, brushing the dripping shards of ceramic from his palm impatiently as he rose, and glared down at Eredion. “Azni went
there?
Why would she do something that godsdamned stupid?”

After a brief glance at the scattered pieces of coffee-drenched cup on his carpet, Eredion blinked up at the furious Aerthraim, reflecting that he’d have to have the carpets cleaned or replaced soon, at this rate.

“I imagine Scratha asked her to attend,” Eredion said. “Why is it stupid for her to attend a Conclave? Is there still trouble over whether she’s sworn to Aerthraim or Darden?”

“No,” Allonin said, his fists clenching again. “Worse than that.”

“Then what—”

“It’s not your concern, Eredion.” Allonin’s mouth thinned. “I’ll handle it. I have to go. Tanavin’s at an inn just outside the East Gate; I think it’s called Basil’s Inn. He’ll be asleep for hours yet, I think. I did what I could for his legs, but you’re the better healer—don’t let him go far on what little I managed to repair or he’ll rip it all open again. “

“Basil’s? Don’t you mean Fern’s?”

“No, there’s a great pot of basil just outside the door, you can’t miss it,” Allonin said. “Give my apologies to Tanavin when he wakes, and tell him I said to let you work on his legs. Hit him over the head and do it while he’s unconscious if you have to.” He yanked the outer door open, delivering the last few words over his shoulder.

“Call him Tank!” Eredion yelled after him.

The door thudded shut without reply. Allonin’s booted feet galloped down the stone-tiled hallway beyond, fading rapidly. Tank might have outrun him, but Allonin was no slow mover himself when he was intent on a chase.

Shaking his head, still bewildered, Eredion returned to his coffee and his interrupted meal with a sigh.

Tank awoke to find himself alone in a room stripped of any trace of Allonin—save for a note left on the bare wooden table. Late afternoon sunlight striped through the shuttered window, and the laughter of men telling each other bawdy jokes came from a nearby room.

He rose and crossed to the table, moving with caution. Only a faint stippling of pain marked his steps. The rest, the salve, and whatever previously unsuspected healing ability Allonin had invoked had compressed days of healing into a matter of hours. Tank could feel the fragility of the restored muscle. He’d need to be damn careful for a few days.

Sitting down in the simple wooden chair, he read the note slowly. It was in Aerthraim dialect, unlikely to be readable by anyone local.

Tanavin—

I have to go south. There’s a chance I won’t return to finish our talk, and there’s not time to write all I wish I could say. Briefly: I’m sorry. My Family used you even as they healed you, and I was a part of that. Believe me when I say I was as trapped as you were, with worse options.

The katha village I found you in has been razed to the ground. The kathain from that and four other villages—including Dasin’s—have gathered in a small place within the Jagged Mountains. They are building their own home there, and taking in refugees from the other katha villages. My hope was to convince you to help them, but after seeing you, I know you’re not ready for that just yet. Maybe you never will be.

In the meanwhile, I have recruited allies to continue the work I began. You said to finish it without excuses—I can’t. Not now. This matter in the south is too important. But I have done my best to fill that part of my apology to you, and I hope that it suffices.

As final reparation, I betray my own kin and tell you this: stay away from the south. Especially stay away from Aerthraim Fortress. Mahadrae Kallaisin has plans for you, and they are no kinder than her first ones. Be an ordinary mercenary if you must, but
stay north
—above the line of the Horn, no matter what the inducement.

May the gods hold you lightly, if they exist at all; and always make your choices by your beliefs, not for supposed advantages. The former will endure; the latter will always destroy you.

P.S.: Your room at Basil’s Inn is paid for and then some. The innkeeper is instructed to let you stay as long as you require, any time you so desire. You should never have to pay for a room here, under normal usage. Consider this the last of my apologies.

The note was signed with a single, flourishing “A”.

Tank sat still for a while, as the warm afternoon light faded around him. He reread the note twice, looking for code words or hidden meaning, and found nothing. The entire missive was a more intimate look into Allonin’s thoughts and emotions than Tank had seen in two years of training under the man.

After a while, he slowly, thoughtfully, shredded the note into feather-fine pieces and dropped the fluffy pile into the chamberpot; soaked them down thoroughly, put the lid back on the pot, then sprawled back onto the bed and into sleep once again.