Bloodsongs (12 page)

“I know.” She smiled. “I married one of them.”

Telric raised an eyebrow.

“Kimon is dead, now,” she explained. “But how did you manage to find me after so long? Why did you bother?”

He squirmed, then picked up Scafloc's goblet and sipped from it. “Although I turned down the governorship, I'm still a blooded nobleman, and I spend a lot of time at the imperial court.” He sipped again. “A story came to Rholaroth that the lover of the Keled king had been slain by a woman.”

“Lover?” she said.

Telric shrugged and set the cup aside. “His name was Yorul. According to the story, the woman was a real demoness with a sword.”

She smiled at the exaggeration. The truth, of course, had been lost as the story passed from mouth to mouth. Or perhaps the Keleds themselves had altered it to make Yorul's death more glorious. She remembered a piece of advice her father once had given her. “Never let truth stand in the way of a good story.”

“I left immediately for Dashrani,” he went on, “and asked a few questions, enough to determine that it was indeed you.” He reached once more for the wine cup, then paused. “I couldn't believe my luck after so many years.” He reached out then, as if expecting she would put her hand in his. “I heard about your husband and son, and I'm sorry for you. I made a crazy guess you might decide to go home to Esgaria.”

She looked down at the unfinished reading. Telric showed no interest in continuing it. Slowly, she picked up the cards and began to shuffle absently. “Kyr isn't on the way to Esgaria,” she pointed out.

“It's on the way to Shazad, though,” he answered. “My hometown, where you first appeared when you crossed the Esgarian border. I had some idea that maybe I could trace you back from there.”

She swallowed, eyeing the wine. “I can't go back to Esgaria,” she confessed.

“Then it was purest luck that I chose this tavern to quench my thirst. I rode all day. I was thirstier than a desert weed.”

She broke down and sipped from the goblet. The liquor burned a warm, welcome trail all the way down her gullet.

She had chosen to work the Broken Sword because it was the closest inn to the city's main gate. Most travelers found it before any other tavern, and they all had stories to tell.

“I couldn't believe it when I saw you sitting here.” His eyes burned into hers, gleaming with the candle's steady light. “You haven't aged a day!”

She laughed at that. “Flattery will get you many things in this world, Rholarothan.” She wagged a finger under his nose. “But an outright lie only gets you trouble.” She leaned back on her stool until her back rested against the wall and regarded him for a long moment. “Why?” she asked finally. “If you've forgotten the feud, why did you bother to search for me?”

Telric took the deck of cards from her, thumbed through them, examining the faces. Then he shuffled and executed a slick one-handed cut. He set the deck back on the table. A look of sad longing filled his eyes as he looked across at her. His palm covered the deck. When he lifted it, the top card clung as if by magic; it was impressive trickery.

He turned his hand, showing the card.

The Lovers.

A warm pain knifed through her heart. She blinked and stared at the man across from her. His face was guileless, his heart open. There was no lie, no pretense, no deception. She saw in his eyes what he felt, and a terrible sorrow overwhelmed her.

“For twenty years?” she whispered.

“More,” he answered. “I've counted the years, every season, every month and day, hoping to find you. When hope finally stopped—and it did stop—I counted those days.”

Frost bit her lip. Slowly, she reached out and touched the back of his hand. “I don't know what to say, Telric.”

She had killed two of his brothers in a tavern brawl in a sleazy border city called Shazad. That had been a long time ago, right after she'd fled from Esgaria. She hadn't known then they were the sons of Lord Rholf, Shazad's governor. A hard, vindictive man, he'd chased her over the breadth of Rholaroth to slake his thirst for vengeance, and his two remaining sons had ridden with him.

She'd eluded them, but shortly after that she'd saved young Telric from a tribe of diminutive cannibals that dwelled in the high peaks of the Creel Mountain chain. She'd set him afoot along the main caravan route as soon as they were safe. He'd been arrogant and bold, but a certain mocking charm had graced his speech.

She remembered now that he had promised they would meet again someday. She had paid him no more attention than she paid the whispering of the wind, but he had proved himself a prophet.

Had he loved her at that moment when they'd parted? Had he
known
he loved her?

She pulled her hand away, took the goblet of wine, and drained it. Then she set the empty vessel aside, picked up the card Telric had shown her, returned it to the deck, and placed the pile neatly between them.

Telric bore an odd resemblance to Kimon. They were of a similar age, both tall and thin, dark of hair. They spoke with the same Rholarothan accent, shared an earnest intensity that reflected in their bearing. Only the eyes were different. Kimon's had been full of the sky, blue as the day. Telric's eyes were black as the longest, deepest night that ever cloaked the world.

But there was more, something that both surprised and shamed her. Telric stirred her in the same way Kimon had. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks from a fire she thought had gone cold long, lonely months ago.

She picked up the deck of cards, tucked it in her purse with her coins, and started to rise. “I have to meet someone . . . . “

His hand caught her wrist. “Don't go,” he said. His voice even sounded like Kimon's as he pleaded with her. “Twenty years and more,” he continued. “Can't you give me a little time, now?”

She shook her head, fighting the fear and confusion that swelled inside her. He had no right to look so much like her husband, to make her feel things a widow should not, no right to sit there and say he loved her. She jerked her hand free, but he quickly caught it again. His grip was more urgent.

“Please!” he persisted. “Will you rip out my heart and walk away?”

“Stop it?” she hissed. “Let me go, Telric, before you regret this chance meeting.” She pulled free once more, but this time he rose and grabbed her by the shoulders.

His face clouded with anger and hurt. “Is your heart so full of ice? Is that why they named you Frost? What kind of bitch must have spawned you, woman?”

A huge fist crashed into Telric's jaw, sending him sprawling backward over the table and to the scum-covered floor.

“Orm!” Frost called desperately, catching the giant's arm. Once or twice before, he'd come to her aid when a dissatisfied customer complained too loudly or tried to take back payment for an inglorious fortune. “That's enough!”

But Telric found his feet and leaped for his attacker. Orm only grinned and swatted him aside effortlessly as he might a bothersome fly. Telric tumbled helplessly into a group of soldiers, jostling their drinks.

She watched it happen with a surreal awareness, as if she were reliving an episode from an earlier life. Fists began to fly, then cups and platters, chairs, benches, stools. She watched it all, unable to move or call out, terrified.

Then a fist crossed the edge of her vision. Her arm came up of its own will, deflecting the blow. She stepped in close, lashed out with the heel of her hand. Someone stumbled back, clutching a ruined nose.

It had been so easy; she'd just let it happen.

A blade scraped from a sheath, a sound immediately echoed as others cleared steel. The brawl turned deadly now. Blood began to spill.

She lifted the hems of the many descroiyo skirts she wore. Strapped to her ankle was a small, sheathed dagger. It would be of little use against swords; still, it was better than nothing at all.

A loud roar caught her attention. To her right, Orm heaved two men up by their tunics and smashed them together until their foreheads ran bright with blood. He cast them aside. Frost caught her breath and let it go, relieved that neither of them was Telric.

A soldier grabbed her around the waist and tried to force her backward. His breath was stale with beer as his mouth came down savagely on hers. With one hand he gripped the material of her blouse, but it refused to tear. She considered plunging her dagger into his belly. Instead, she brought up her knee with all the strength she could muster. From the expression he wore as he stumbled back, he would have preferred the dagger.

She looked around for Telric. The Rholarothan hadn't drawn steel yet, but he was making effective use of a short wooden bench. As she worked her way to him one of the town's fat merchants slashed at his throat with a slender, glinting knife. Telric caught the point in the bench's broad seat, twisted, snapping the metal, then jabbed the rough end into the merchant's face.

Scafloc blocked her way momentarily. His cherubic face turned up toward her, wearing a wide smile. “Great fun, isn't it!” He laughed, then disappeared again, quickly lost in the turmoil.

Ducking and dodging blows, dealing a few of her own, Frost made her way to Telric's side. “Let's get out!” she shouted over the din, tugging at his sleeve.

“Too far to the door!” He planted his foot against some stranger's backside and shoved. The man propelled into another, and both bounced off the wall.

“Over the bar,” she suggested.

He followed as she slid along the edge of the fighting. A piece of crockery shattered above their heads, accompanied by a high-pitched giggle that could only have been Scafloc's. A soldier crashed to the floor at her feet. She paused long enough to pick him up and push him back into the brawl. “Give ‘em one for me,” she mumbled.

Then she was rolling over the counter, running through the kitchen at the rear of the tavern.

Bela leaned her huge bulk against the larder, chewing a chicken breast. Grease stained her mouth, her heavy jowls. “You folks having a good time?” she called jovially.

“The best,” Frost answered, flashing a smile, ushering Telric through the rear door. A three-legged stool flew back into the kitchen and splintered on the cooking hearth. Bela made a face and chewed another bite of bird.

Frost pulled the door behind them, drawing a long breath. The night air was cool and refreshing, a welcome change from the tavern's smoky atmosphere. “This way,” she said, taking the Rholarothan by the elbow, leading him up the gloom-filled alley to the street.

As they turned into the broader lane, a beggar rattled his cup. She ignored him as she did all who walked the nighted streets. Kyr never slept; the avenues and alleys were never deserted.

“Stay to the middle of the way,” she instructed her companion. She indicated the high apartments on either side. “They dump their slops at all hours.”

“Where are we going?” he asked as they turned into yet another street. Tavern signs hung at every corner, illuminated by suspended oil lamps. Other businesses, too, remained open to catch the late shopper, to suck in the last coin. “Where?” he repeated when she didn't answer.

“The Rathole,” she answered shortly. “Now shut up and stay close. And better keep a hand on your purse.”

The streets grew narrower, the people fewer. The ones they did encounter had a seedy look and darting eyes that watched everything. Soon, even those were gone, and the only footsteps that sounded were their own.

Frost made a series of turns into lanes that were little more than muddy alleys. Garbage and filth lent an awful perfume to the air. A dog growled in the shadows. She knew this route by heart and had never before found trouble along the way. Still, she carried her dagger unsheathed in her fist. More than one kind of dog could hide in shadows as thick as these.

“This is the oldest part of Kyr,” she whispered to her companion. “Only the very poor live here, or criminals seeking to avoid capture. Even by daylight few soldiers come here.”

Telric leaned close; his breath tingled warm on the side of her neck. “Then what are we doing here?”

Her lips drew back in a tight grin. “I live here,” she answered. “We can't all wallow in Rholarothan luxury.”

She made another turn. The alley was completely black. No light penetrated from any apartment window. Not even the faint starlight relieved the gloom. The street was not paved, and the slime and sewage seeped over the toes of their boots.

“It stinks,” Telric muttered, holding his nose.

“The smell of poverty,” Frost said, slapping his hand, forcing him to breathe the full, sour aroma. “A flavor you've never known, I'll wager.”

He grunted, inhaled once, then pinched his nose again. She chuckled mirthlessly.

They came to a crossroad of alleyways, and she hesitated.

“Lost?” His tone was mocking.

She ignored him. Each night the Rathole moved. One night it was down the alley to her right. Another night, to her left. Some nights it was straight ahead.

“Wait here,” she ordered, and chose the alley on her right. After ten paces she stopped and waved her hand cautiously up and down before her. The way was clear. She went a little farther, waved again, then backtracked. She said nothing to Telric but took the alley straight ahead. Again, after ten paces or so, she stopped, waved her arm slowly, and encountered nothing.
It's always the last one!
she thought indignantly.

“This way,” she said to the Rholarothan, taking his arm. “But slowly until I tell you otherwise.”

They moved down the remaining alley. At eight paces she pushed Telric behind her. She took the ninth step, started to take the tenth.

A jolt rushed through her, some instinctive warning. She brought her band up and found the wire she knew would be there. It was a bare finger's width from her eyes. She backed a step and called Telric.