Bloodsongs (20 page)

She almost laughed. Maybe in his disappointment, Riothamus would do what she should have done and put an end to Illstar's miserable existence.

That single thought made her feel better than she had all day.

 

Approaching evening found her on a narrow road that wound among the fields of Dakariar. A small band of workers leaned on their hoes and gazed at her as she passed, but none hailed her, and she did not want to stop.

Dakariar was larger than Soushane, but too small to warrant a defensive wall. The road led straight into the town. She passed shops that were beginning to close for the night, yet the merchants hesitated in the hope she might see something to buy. They smiled warmly at her and indicated their wares. She smiled back but rode on.

Potters cleaned their wheels; tanners folded hides; a blacksmith continued to hammer a piece of glowing metal. They looked up from their tasks as she went by, curiosity lighting their faces.

Frost turned a corner and knew at once that this was not the street she wanted. A young woman with heavily kohled eyes and rouged cheeks stood in a doorway with a red lantern in hand. Plump breasts strained against the tight material of a scarlet gown as the whore reached up to hang the light on a peg beside the entrance.

“Looking for work?” the woman asked with a wink.

Frost started to ride by, then changed her mind.

“You're older than I first thought,” the whore said when Frost stopped and looked down at her. She thrust out a hip and leaned lewdly against the doorjamb. “Still, I could clean you up a bit—“

Frost interrupted. “I need to talk with your elders.”

The whore grinned. “I'm not so young, either, dearie. Never knew my father, and Mama's long dead of the pox.”

Frost allowed a thin smile. “The town elders,” she corrected. “Your governor, or whoever is the authority around here.”

The whore let go a sharp laugh and slapped her thigh. “A governor, now? As if that boy-lover king in his fine palace would bother to look our way and say, ‘Here's a fine noble or one of my favorite relatives come to watch over you.' A dirty little pig-town like this?” She chuckled boldly, staring Frost right in the eye. “I won't hire you as a whore, but as a fool to entertain us with your fancies!”

Frost forced another smile and clung to her patience. “Who do the merchants go to for settlement of disputes?”

Kohled lashes batted, painted lips pursed thoughtfully. “Sure you don't want a job? Can you dance?”

“Not a step,” Frost lied.

A loud sigh. “Lost our dancer last week. Some crazy farmer cut her up.” Another sigh, then the whore pointed down the street. “Look for the priests at the Temple of the Well.” She turned to go back inside. “Come see me if you need that job,” she added before closing the door. “I'll make a woman of you.”

Frost shook her head, amused, and rode on. She turned another corner and found herself on a broad lane, Dakariar's principal thoroughfare, she guessed. Only the taverns were still open this late, and she licked her lips, suddenly thirsty.

But she had business. The Temple of the Well was her first duty. She looked up and down the street, wondering which way to go.

A pedestrian came her way, a clerk to judge from his inkpots, and she begged direction. The temple, he told her, was at the very heart of the city. The avenue would take her to it. She thanked him and nudged Ashur onward. “A beautiful horse,” he called after her. She grinned, stroked Ashur's neck, and nodded.

She had seen many temples to many gods in her time, and this one was plain by comparison. A single story of white cut stone, it gave no clue as to the god it honored. Yet, as the clerk had said, it stood at the very center of Dakariar, and the road made a circle around it, a hub that all lesser roads joined.

A series of slender pink columns made a half circle before the temple's unornamented entrance. Beyond those stood the low rock wall of a well.

She dropped gingerly from Ashur's back, expecting the pain that shot through her knees. She gritted her teeth, then drew herself erect and walked past the columnar ring to the door. The wood, though plain, was polished smooth and without scratch or nick. She knocked and waited.

Moments later, the door eased open and a pleasant face peered out. The man regarded her blankly, then his expression lit up. “A stranger!” he shouted back into the temple. “The gods have sent us a stranger!”

Four more men joined the first in the doorway. As one, they spilled out, forcing her back to the well. She leaned against the rock wall in stunned silence. Strangers couldn't be all
that
uncommon in these parts.

“She's thirsty,” one of them exclaimed. “Give her a drink from the well.” Another hurried to obey. A crank turned and a bucket rose on a rope. She could smell the water's cool sweetness.

Yes, she was thirsty! A clay goblet appeared from somewhere, was filled from the bucket, and passed into her hand. They waited eagerly while she drained the vessel. The last drop oozed down her throat. She wiped her lips with one hand and gave the goblet back.

“Another?” asked the one who had answered the door. “I can tell by the dust on your clothes that you've come a long way.”

She nodded and gratefully accepted the cup when it was refilled. She drank it more slowly as she studied the five men.

They were priests, obviously. They wore similar robes of ordinary white linen, and their feet were bare. Their heads were not shaved, but the hair was cut to little more than a blunt stubble. None wore facial hair. The ages of the five varied, but the youngest had met her at the door and urged the second drink upon her.

He had a nice look, she noticed, and soft blue eyes.

“Thank you.” She handed the empty goblet to him. “I'm told you're the authority in Dakariar.”

One of the oldest grinned. “What fool told you that?”

She nearly told him, then thought better of it. Perhaps the whore had lied to her. “You're the priests of the temple?” she asked warily.

“I am Lycho,” the youngest said. “These are Cleomen, Pericant, Jemane, and Oric.” Each bowed in turn. “We are the priests of the well, but we're no kind of authority.”

“I'm told you settle disputes and that sort of thing.”

Lycho shrugged.

“We help some of the townspeople solve their problems,” Cleomen said. “They usually abide by our judgments, but we have no power to command them.”

“They come to us for water from the well,” Jemane said. “Maybe they think we would not give it to them if they didn't heed our advice.”

“But we would never do that,” Pericant added. “The water is for everyone.”

“To deny water would be to lose the blessing of the gods,” Oric explained.

“What gods?” Frost asked, noting again the plainness of the temple. “Who do you worship here?”

“All the gods of goodness,” Lycho answered, “those who made the water that eases pain and ends suffering . . .”

“The water that heals sickness . . .” Cleomen said.

“And restores vitality . . .” Jemane said.

She waited for Pericant and Oric to add something to the litany and was mildly amused when they folded their hands and regarded her silently. Apparently, they believed the water in their well had some properties. If so, two cups had done nothing for her. She could still feel the ache in her bones.

“I must talk with someone,” she said finally. “Dakariar is in danger.”

“Danger?” Pericant raised an eyebrow. It seemed to be his turn to speak. They were a chorus, these five, each waiting graciously to give his line.

“The rebel Kel na'Akian is on his way here with an army.” Five faces stared back impassively. “Surely you've heard of him,” she persisted. “Dakariar is not that secluded.”

Oric nodded. “The townspeople have more dealings with strangers than we do. Not many outsiders are interested in local temples. But we hear tales, and we know of Kel na'Akian.”

“Perhaps you should come inside,” Lycho offered. “A little food and rest would do you good while you tell your news. There is more water, of course. It will ease your fatigue.”

“And I'll see that your mount is stabled and curried,” Cleomen said. “I once fancied myself a judge of horseflesh, but I've never seen his match.”

Frost would never stop wondering at the power that disguised her unicorn. It surprised her every time someone called Ashur a horse, and she pitied them for their blindness. What beauty they missed. Yet it often made her think. What other beauties in the world might be hidden from
her
eyes?

“Approach him slowly and stroke his nose a few times,” she instructed. “He's a sucker for a pat on the nose. Then he'll follow you.”

She watched as the old priest obeyed. A few moments later, Cleomen started down the street with Ashur close behind. Lycho touched her shoulder, and she and the remaining priests went into the temple.

It was as plain inside as out. There was a fair-sized hall, but it contained only a long table with benches on either side. The walls were unadorned. No paintings decorated the ceiling. Two suited windows in the east and west walls let in light, though there were also sconces with candles and oil lamps on two short pedestals. A door on the right presumably led to other chambers.

“I don't understand,” she remarked casually. “A temple without an altar? Where is your idol? Who do you worship?”

“We do not know the god or goddess we serve,” Jemane answered. “But a divine presence blesses our well. That is all the altar we need.”

“We do not need the deity's name to do homage,” Pericant said.

Oric caught her gaze. “To any who ask we give water from the well, and whatever their affliction they are made better.” He gestured to the table and the mysterious door in the opposite wall. “A few of the very ill must stay with us for a time and drink regularly. Those we feed and house until they are healthy.” He made a short bow. “I myself was such a one, but I elected to stay and join my brothers in service.”

“As I did,” Lycho confessed.

“I see no women among you,” Frost observed. “Are they not welcome?”

The priests grinned. “Very welcome indeed,” Jemane said. “We are not a celibate order. But they go home to their fathers and husbands eventually. There aren't many like you who dare to travel without a man.”

Lycho led them to the table. Frost unstrapped her sword and leaned it close at hand against the bench as they all sat down. Only Pericant disappeared through the doorway. He quickly returned with a tray. On it was a pitcher of water, vessels for everyone, and cool slices of pork.

“Is this all you drink?” she asked as Pericant poured for her.

They nodded in unison, each lifting a cup to his lips. She did the same, silently toasting whatever strange god they served. Water, after all, was better than nothing, and she could still taste the dust of the road in her mouth.

“You've got to warn the citizens,” she said when her cup was half-empty and a piece of meat had softened the grumbling in her belly. “Tomorrow night Kel na'Akian intends to burn Dakariar.” She watched their eyes, trying to gauge their reactions. “Your people can fight him, or they can run away while they've time.”

A deep furrow creased Lycho's brow. He leaned forward on one elbow. “Why Dakariar? What could we have that he possibly wants? This is a poor city.”

Jemane also leaned forward, yet outwardly he was calm as he asked, “How is it that you come bearing this message? I might have expected a herald from Kel na'Akian, come to strike some bargain, perhaps. Or a messenger from the king.” He fixed her with a steady gaze. “But you are neither.”

She didn't look away, nor did she hesitate to answer. “Kel na'Akian is my son.”

Jemane arched an eyebrow and spoke out of turn. “Then you must have some idea what he wants from us.”

She shrugged and gazed down into her cup. “I wish that were true.” She swallowed hard and looked at each of them. “But I haven't the slightest guess what he's up to. I don't even know where he's at at this moment.”

“Can you stop him?” Pericant asked.

“I don't know,” she answered truthfully.

“You're going to try, though,” Oric observed.

“I don't know that, either.” She shook her head, reached for another strip of pork, and then changed her mind. Her hunger was not really so pressing, after all. “I don't know what Kel is planning,” she told them. “I'm not even sure what I'm planning.”

A quiet fell over the table. The rest of the platter went untouched. The last light dimmed beyond the windows as the sun outside faded.

Finally, Lycho got up. He drained his vessel, then spoke to the others. “Jemane, would you please light the candles?” Jemane rose with a nod. To Pericant and Oric he said, “Will you warn the citizens? Go door to door, to the taverns, any place where there are people. Our guest has provided the only options; tell them they must prepare to fight or to run away. But tell them to make their plans quickly. Cleomen will join you when he returns from the stables.”

Pericant and Oric finished their drink and left silently. More than Lycho and Jemane, her news seemed to have affected them most grimly.

“Pericant, Oric, and Cleomen were born in this town,” Lycho explained as if he had read her thoughts. “That's why I thought it best to send them.”

She looked up at him curiously. He was obviously the youngest of the priests, yet he had given instructions and the others had obeyed. “Are you the first priest?” she asked.

“First priest?” He tilted his head quizzically. “Oh, I see.” He shook his head. “We have no leader or any kind of hierarchy. This time, I saw what had to be done. Next time, it could be Cleomen or Jemane.” He folded his hands and put on a weary smile. “Let me show you a place to rest. You look like you could use a decent sleep.”