Voice of Crow Page 6

  “I can’t go home and you know it.” When Kiril tried to protest, Filip cut him off. “My wound can’t be hidden, much less healed. If I go back to Leukos, I’ll bring shame on my family and my city, remind everyone of the humiliation of their invincible army.” He glanced at the enlisted men and lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “My own parents will turn away, like these soldiers. I don’t know why you’re even speaking to me.”

  “I speak to you out of brotherhood. Not even death can take that from us.”

  “Death can’t.” Filip angled his chin toward his left leg. “But this can.”

  Kiril glanced down at his own feet, as if to confirm they were both there. “What will you do if not go home?” He glared at their surroundings. “Stay in this godsforsaken hole of a town?”

  “Yes, and you should, too.” Filip beckoned his comrade closer. “Live among them, see and hear everything. When they let down their guard, steal a boat and go home. Take what you’ve learned for the good of Ilios.”

  “I can’t stay any longer. This place is making me—” Kiril hunched his shoulders and threw a furtive glance at the others.

  “Making you what?”

  “Crazy,” he whispered.

  “It’s not like Leukos, that’s for certain.”

  “I don’t mean crazy as in I’m having trouble adjusting. I mean, crazy as in—” He flapped his hand next to his head.

  “Crazy.”

  Kiril nodded, fidgeting with the frayed end of his shirtsleeve.

  Filip didn’t know how to respond. He’d been trained to handle his troop’s battle shock on the field and in the barracks, but never expected to find himself a prisoner of war in a backwater bog like Asermos. “Crazy how?”

  Kiril scratched the side of his jaw and didn’t look at him. “I can do things.”

  “Breakfast!” Zelia appeared from around the side of the building, followed by two food-laden young male apprentices. She seemed at ease as the sole female in the company of ten men. In Leukos a woman would never risk such an insecure situation.

  A yellow cur paced at her side.

  “They let a dog come to the table?” Filip asked Kiril.

  “That’s Sunlight. She picks up things if we drop them, alerts Zelia if one of us falls or has a problem. Plus, she’s good for morale.” He smacked his lips and said the dog’s name in a high-pitched voice. The beast trotted over, sat on its haunches, and lifted a front paw, which Kiril clasped. He flashed a smile at Filip. “I taught her that yesterday.”

  The dog leaned onto one hip and scratched vigorously behind its ear.

  “Outstanding,” Filip said. “It’s got fleas, and soon we will, too.”

  Kiril chuckled. The dog shifted its weight, started to scratch its other ear, then grunted and returned to a sitting position. It looked up at Kiril, eyebrows twitching.

  “Help,” a female voice said. “I can’t reach the top of my head.”

  Filip turned to Zelia to determine what, by the gods, she was talking about.

  She wasn’t there.

  “My back isn’t what it used to be,” the voice chirped. “Please scratch my head.”

  Filip froze. The words were coming from—No, it couldn’t be. He turned back to the dog, which was nudging Kiril’s knee with its nose. The lieutenant ignored it in favor of the platter of eggs and ham in the center of the table.

  Cautiously, knowing it could lead him over the brink of insanity, Filip reached toward the dog. It saw his hand and shifted to let him pet it. He scratched its wide yellow head.

  Its mouth opened in what looked like a smile. “Ooh, that’s good.”

  Filip screamed.

  He looked at the others, eating unperturbed, and thanked his gods that he hadn’t done it out loud.

  The dog tilted its head under his hand. “A little to the left, by the—Now you’ve got it. Harder, please.”

  He obeyed, then realized he was obeying a dog. He jerked his hand away.

  Kiril frowned at him. “Relax. She won’t bite.” The dog slid to its belly next to Filip’s chair and rested its chin on his right foot. “See? She likes you.”

  Filip grabbed Kiril’s arm. “You said you can do things that make you feel crazy. What things?”

  Kiril’s eyes flickered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You just told me.”

  “No, I never said that, sir.” He took a bite of ham. “I heard you have an extra bed in your room. Would you mind if I join you? My room is full of enlisted.”

  Filip’s mind spun. Perhaps he had imagined the dog speaking to him. Perhaps the painkillers had made him hallucinate. Besides the residue of opium in his body, Asermon healing magic might have strange side effects.

  The other men had set upon the food like a pack of feral dogs, and Filip realized he would have to do the same to keep from starving. Fortunately the table was sturdy. He planted his hands on it and lifted himself to stand.

  Pain spiked through his nonexistent leg. He tried to choke back his cry, but only transformed it into a gurgle. The others stopped eating and stared at him with undisguised contempt.

  Kiril grasped his arm and helped him back into the chair. “Sit. I’ll get it for you.” Pity had replaced the respect in his voice.

  Filip uttered his gratitude through gritted teeth. He had lost his appetite, but accepted the food and forced himself to eat. One more show of weakness could cost him his life. He wouldn’t put it past these thugs to slaughter him in his sleep for their own entertainment. He picked up a chunk of ham.

  The dog lifted its head and barked. “Drop it!” In his shock, Filip did. The ham bounced off the table, fell to the ground and disappeared into the greedy maw.

  The others laughed, even Kiril. “Now who’s giving orders?” said one of the infantrymen.

  Filip’s face heated, and he brandished his fork at the dog. “Get away from me!”

  The beast backed away and sat, tongue lolling. “I like you,” it said with a laugh. “You listen better than the others.”

  That night, Filip lay in bed, slowly going mad. It wasn’t the loss of half his leg that propelled him in that direction. It wasn’t his brother’s death. It wasn’t even the knowledge that he would never see his home or his family again.

  It was the birds. The incessant, mindless chatter of birds.

  On one level he heard the mockingbirds chirp and tweet, but only in the background. Overlaying that was, “Bad raccoon I’m a chickadee stay away stay away I’m a robin pick a fight berries berries grass is wet too many redbirds berries mine tree-to-take tree-to-take hee hee hee tell me a song fight on babies don’t fly…”

  Filip was about to search the hospital for a sword to plunge into his skull when a faint white glow came from the room’s other bed. He turned his head to see Kiril lying on his back, staring at the ball of light he held in his hands.

  The lieutenant illuminated the wall to his right. He reached across with his left arm—the one not in a cast—and waved his hand in front of the wall to form a dancing shadow. His breath came hard, as if he were lifting a heavy stone block.

  Filip intended to turn away, wanted to pretend that this, too, was a dream or a side effect of the medicine. But his voice leaped from his throat.

  “Kiril—”

  The man yelped and slapped his palms together, extinguishing the light. “Nothing. It was nothing, sir—Lieutenant, I mean. Nothing at all.”

  “I saw it. It wasn’t nothing.” He turned on his side to face the other bed. “Kiril, what are they doing to us?”

  “Doing?”

  “It must be a spell to make us think we have magic.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “To study us. That’s probably what our people are doing to their captives right now, figuring out where these powers come from.”

  “What power do you have?” Kiril asked.

  “I hear animals.”

  “I hear them, too. Especially those lousy birds at
night.”

  “No, I hear what they’re saying. In human words.”

  Kiril let out a low whistle. “Amazing. Have you told Zelia?”

  “Of course not. I don’t want them to know they’ve succeeded.”

  “You see now why we have to leave?” Kiril’s whisper sharpened. “They’re taking over our minds.”

  “You have to leave. I’ve told you I can’t.” Filip propped himself up on his elbow. “Do that thing again, with the light.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Consider it an order.”

  Kiril sighed, and in a moment his hands were full of light, a perfect white sphere.

  “It’s beautiful,” Filip whispered. “Can you make different colors?”

  “No, but I can make it flash. Watch.” The light flickered on and off in a steady rhythm. Finally it went out, and Filip heard Kiril’s arms thump on the bed. “It makes me tired.”

  Filip stared into the darkness, Kiril’s sphere still dancing in his vision. “I think if I had that power, I wouldn’t want to leave.”

  “I wouldn’t mind being able to hear the dog.”

  Filip released a bitter chuckle. “It figures they’d give us the powers we don’t want. They know us better than we realize.”

  “You’re right,” Kiril said. “But who’s ‘they’? The Asermons, or the Spirits?”

  Filip’s sweat turned clammy, though the night was warm. “The Spirits can’t give us magic. The gods wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Our gods have no power here,” Kiril whispered. “That’s why I’m going back to Ilios.”

  Filip sank back onto his pillow. First his brother, then his leg, then his home. All he had left was his fragile faith, and with nothing to place it in, soon he would lose even that.

  07

  Marek fought to focus in the thanapras fog. Thumping a quick, steady rhythm on the deerskin drum, his hands and wrists had fallen numb and felt detached from the rest of his body. He observed the sensations as if he were watching himself through the window.

  It had been over a year since he last helped Coranna during the listening ritual, in which she would converse with the dead who had yet to cross over to the Other Side. He had forgotten how long it could take. The afternoon crept into evening, but he wouldn’t let himself stop. It had taken over two weeks for Coranna to gain enough strength to do the ritual, and he was determined to see it through even if his arms fell off.

  Once Coranna had stepped over the border between this world and the next, she had remained silent. He kept a close watch on the rhythm of her breath. It stayed deep and even as she lay on the thick brown rug in the center of her home.

  He half expected her to start snoring. The thought made him want to laugh, and then the effort not to laugh seemed funny in itself, and then the fact that it was funny made him want to laugh even more, and—the thanapras was getting to him.

  The Crow opened her eyes, and he stopped drumming. He knew better than to speak.

  Slowly she turned to look straight at him. “Tell me your side of the story.”

  The truth poured out. “When Rhia said Skaris had tried to poison her, I ran to his home. Ladek was the house-arrest guard that day. I convinced him to let me speak to Skaris.”

  Marek closed his eyes, the memories as fresh as this morning’s rain. “We fought. When Ladek tried to stop us, Skaris hit him with a chair and ran. I chased him to the edge of a gorge near Mount Beros. We fought again. He fell.” Marek paused. “Because I pushed him.”

  After a long moment, Coranna spoke. “You were fighting hand to hand with a Bear. If you hadn’t pushed him off that cliff, would he have killed you?”

  “He could have.” He opened his eyes. “Will he let go of Rhia’s soul part?”

  “Not yet.” She sat up and rubbed her forehead with her thumb knuckle. “The only one who passed over this time was Dori.”

  “Without her husband?”

  “Zilus was one of the worst. So bitter. Not that I blame him.” She held out a shaky hand, and Marek helped her to her feet. Coranna was lighter than he’d remembered.

  “What do we do now?”

  “About you? I haven’t decided.” She shuffled to the table and extinguished the thanapras bundle in a bowl of water. “I can’t be your judge, since my testimony is all the evidence against you.”

  “Will you send for another judge?”

  “I said, I haven’t decided.”

  “If my punishment is the only way to convince Skaris to let go—”

  “Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean he’s right. To me it sounds like self-defense.”

  Marek forced his mouth shut. It may have been self-defense at the moment he pushed Skaris, but not when he chased him or when he barged into the Bear’s house, bent on vengeance.

  “Go now,” she said. “Rhia must be waiting to hear how I did, though Skaris has no doubt already filled her in.”

  He returned home to find Rhia stretched out on the bed, looking paler than usual, as if the color had been scrubbed from her skin. Red-brown hair drooped against her high cheekbones and slender jaw, forming careless waves in all directions.

  She glanced up when he approached but didn’t raise her head. “He told me. It didn’t work.”

  “I’m sorry.” He sat beside her and brushed the hair off her cold forehead. “When was the last time you ate?”

  “Breakfast. Food makes me ill.”

  “Because you haven’t eaten. Elora told you to eat several small meals a day.”

  “She also told me my back wouldn’t hurt for at least two more months, so she’s not exactly infallible.”

  “Do the meditations help at all with—” Marek stopped himself. Saying Skaris’s name out loud seemed to goad the Bear into talking.

  “Some. I only hear him now when my defenses are down. When I’m tired.”

  “Which is all the time.”

  She nodded. “Elora said that was normal.”

  Marek went to the cupboard and pulled out a small stack of flatbread. He brought it back to the bed, then tore off a corner of a slice for her. “Food gives strength, or so I hear.”

  She munched a small bite of bread. “You made this?”

  “With the flour from Asermos.”

  She chewed carefully, swallowed and hesitated as if waiting for a reaction. “It doesn’t make me want to vomit.”

  “Why, thank you.” He relished the sight of her brief, tiny smile. “Let’s go home,” he said suddenly.

  She looked around. “We are home.”

  “Your home. Asermos.”

  “Why?”

  “Think about it. Skaris died while you were in Asermos, but it wasn’t until you came here that you started hearing his voice—or any of the others, for that matter.”

  “It doesn’t work that way, Coranna says.”

  “Is Coranna always right?”

  She chewed and swallowed another bite before shaking her head.

  “What will it hurt?” he said. “You can get better care for the baby in Asermos.”

  “Elora’s a good healer.”

  “But she’s an Otter, not a Turtle.”

  She creased her forehead. “I don’t need a Turtle. My pregnancy is normal.”

  “Having a voice in your head isn’t normal.”

  “I can’t leave Kalindos. These people are in mourning. I can’t give up my duties just for—”

  “What? Peace of mind? Just to be able to sleep at night or touch your husband without a dead Bear taunting you? How much misery will it take?”

  “I’m not miserable.” She sat up and crammed the rest of the bread slice in her mouth. “See?”

  “Be careful. Don’t eat too fast.”

  Rhia stood and grabbed the hairbrush off the nightstand.

  “Where are you going?” he asked her.

  “I have people to see.” She shoved the brush through her hair and tried to pull it back far enough to braid. “People to help. I can’t just lie around
feeling tired and sorry for myself.” She gave up and threw the brush on the floor. “Still too short. I hate it!”

  “Rhia, it’s all right. Don’t—”

  He stopped when he saw her gaze shift up and to the left, as if she were looking within. The muscle below her eye twitched.

  “What is it?” Marek said. “What did he say this time?”

  “He said the baby was—” Her hand flew to her mouth, and he heard a gurgling sound from her stomach. She stumbled to the bucket in the other corner. Just in time, as her snack abandoned her in a series of retches that sounded as if her body were turning inside out.

  He brought her a cup of water and a cool towel for her face. She took them with shaky hands. “I feel better now.”

  “Don’t lie.” He helped her stagger to their bed.

  “I should take that down.” She pointed to the bucket.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He pulled the blanket up to her chin and wiped her face dry with a clean towel. “Go to sleep.”

  He lowered the waste bucket to the forest floor using the pulley, then descended and emptied the contents in a nearby latrine. When he returned home, Marek found Rhia sprawled across their tiny bed, arms and legs covering most of the territory. Since he couldn’t join her without waking her up, he formed a pillow out of the spare blanket and stretched out on the tattered rug next to the bed.

  He fell asleep to the rhythm of her snores—another new development with her pregnancy—and hoped she didn’t step on him in the middle of the night if she got sick again.

  In a dream, his mind played back the evening’s events, but this time when he dumped the waste bucket into the deep outhouse hole, it contained more than the remnants of dinner.

  A tiny human form—no bigger than his thumb, yet with distinctive arms, legs and head—slid from the bucket and tumbled into the abyss.

  “No!” Marek flailed for the child, but the more he struggled, the faster the little person fell, as if the earth were pulling it harder to spite its father’s desperation. The hole winked shut, and the darkness was complete.

  Marek woke with a soundless scream. After a long moment of staring into the dark, shivering, he sat up and reached for Rhia. She had stopped snoring, but he could hear her breath if he held his own. There was space beside her now, and he climbed into it. When he pulled her close against his chest, she stirred but didn’t wake.