The Bone Doll's Twin (15 page)

Rhius took him by the shoulders. “I’m needed at court. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

“So will I, little prince,” Tharin promised, looking sadder than his father did to be leaving.

I need you here!
Tobin wanted to cry out. But words still would not come, and he had to turn away so they wouldn’t see his tears. By nightfall they were gone, leaving him lonelier than ever.

I
ya and Arkoniel spent the late winter months just outside Ilear, guesting with a wizard named Virishan. This woman had no vision except her own, which drove her to seek out and shelter god-touched children among the poor. She had fifteen young students, many of them already severely crippled or battered by the ignorant folk they’d been born to. Most of them would never amount to much as wizards, but what humble powers they’d retained were cherished and coaxed forth under Virishan’s patient tutelage. Iya and Arkoniel gave what help they could in return for shelter, and Iya left Virishan one of her pebbles when they departed.

When the weather cleared they made their way to Sylara, where Iya had arranged passage south. They reached it just before sundown and encountered an unusual number of people on the road, all streaming into the little port.

“What’s going on?” Arkoniel asked a farmer. “Is it a fair?”

The man eyed their silver amulets with distrust. “No, a bonfire stoked with your kind.”

“The Harriers are there?” asked Iya.

The man spat over his shoulder. “Yes, Mistress, and they’ve brought a gang of traitors who dared speak against the king’s rule. You’d do best to steer clear of Sylara today.”

Iya reined her horse to the side of the road and Arkoniel followed. “Perhaps we should take his advice,” he muttered, looking nervously around at the crowd. “We’re strangers here, with no one to vouch for us.”

He was right, of course, but Iya shook her head. “The Lightbearer has put an opportunity in our path. I want to see what they do, while we’re still unknown to them. And that’s something we should make certain of, too. Take off your amulet.”

Leaving the road, she led him to a small oak grove on a nearby hill. Here, protected by a circle of stones and sigils, they left their amulets and every other accouterment that marked them as wizards except the leather bag.

Trusting that their plain traveling garb would excite no suspicion, they rode on to Sylara.

E
ven without his amulet, Arkoniel couldn’t help glancing around nervously as they entered the town. Could these Harriers recognize a wizard merely by his powers? Some of the rumors they’d picked up invested the white-clad wizards with powers beyond the normal range. If so, they’d chosen an odd place to show them off. Sylara was nothing but a rambling, dirty harbor town.

The waterfront was already crowded with spectators. Arkoniel could hear jeers and catcalls echoing across the water as they made their way down the muddy street to the shore.

The crowd was too thick to get through, so Iya paid a taverner to watch from a squalid little upper room that overlooked the waterfront. A broad platform had been set up here, built between two stone jetties. Soldiers wearing dark grey tabards with the outline of a flying hawk stitched in red across the breast stood two deep on the landward side. Arkoniel counted forty in all.

Behind them stood a long gibbet and a knot of wizards by two large wooden frames. These last looked like upended bedframes, but larger.

“White robes,” Iya muttered, looking at the wizards.

“Niryn’s fashion. He had on a white robe the night Tobin was born.”

Six people already dangled from the horizontal pole
of the gibbet. The four men hung limp at the end of their halters; one still wore the robes of a priest of Illior. The remaining two, a woman and a boy, were so small that their weight was not enough to break their necks. Bound hand and foot, they bucked and twisted wildly.

Fighting for life, or death?
Arkoniel wondered, horrified. They reminded him perversely of a butterfly he’d watched emerge from its winter chrysalis—suspended beneath a branch by a bit of silk, it had twitched and jiggled inside the shiny brown casing. These two looked like that, but their struggle would not end in wings and color.

At last some soldiers grabbed their legs and hauled down to snap their necks. A few cheers went up among the crowd, but most of the onlookers had fallen silent.

Arkoniel clutched the window frame, already nauseated, but there was worse to follow.

The wizards had remained motionless near the wooden frames all this time. As soon as the last of the hanged went still, they spread out in a line across the platform, revealing the two naked, kneeling men they’d been shielding with their circle. One was an old man with white hair; the other was young and dark. Both wore thick iron bands around their necks and wrists.

Arkoniel squinted down at the Harrier wizards and let out a gasp of dismay. He couldn’t make out faces at this distance, but he recognized the forked red beard of the man standing closest to the frames.

“That’s Niryn himself!”

“Yes. I didn’t realize there were so many, but I suppose there would have to be…. Those prisoners are wizards. See those iron bands? Very powerful magic, that. They cloud the mind.”

Soldiers pulled the prisoners to their feet and bound them spread-eagled on the frames with silver cables. Now Arkoniel could see the complex spell patterns that covered each man’s chest. Before he could ask Iya what these signified, she let out a groan and clutched his hand.

When the victims were secured, the wizards flanked them in two rows and began their incantations. The old man fixed his gaze stoically on the sky, but his companion panicked, screaming and imploring the crowd and Illior to save him.

“Can’t we do—” Arkoniel staggered as a blinding ache struck him behind the eyes. “What is it? Do you feel it?”

“It’s a warding,” Iya whispered, pressing a hand to her brow. “And a warning to any of us who might be watching.”

The crowd had gone completely silent now. Arkoniel could hear the chanting growing louder and louder. The blur of words was unintelligible, but the throbbing in his head grew stronger and spread to his chest and arms until his heart felt as if it was being squeezed between heavy stones. He slowly slid down to his knees in front of the window but could not look away.

Both prisoners began to shake violently, then shrieked as white flames sprang from their flesh to engulf them. There was no smoke. The white fire burned with such intensity that within a few moments nothing was left on the frames but shriveled black hands and feet dangling from the silver bonds. Iya was whispering hoarsely beside him, and he joined her in the prayer for the dead.

When it was over, Iya slumped down on the narrow bed and wove a spell of silence around them with shaking fingers. Arkoniel remained where he was under the window, unable to move. For a long time neither could speak.

At last Iya whispered, “There was nothing we could have done. Nothing. I see their power now. They’ve banded together and joined their strength. The rest of us are so scattered—”

“That, and the king’s sanction!” Arkoniel spat out. “He’s his mad mother’s son after all.”

“He’s worse. She was insane, where he is ruthless, and intelligent enough to turn wizards against their own kind.”

Fear kept them in the tiny room until nightfall, when the tavern keeper shooed them out to make way for a whore and her cully.

The taverns were open and there were still many people on the street, but none ventured out onto the platform. Torches had been left burning there. Arkoniel could see the bodies on the gibbet swinging in the night breeze. The frames, however, were gone.

“Should we go see if there’s anything to be learned?”

“No.” Iya drew him hastily away. “It’s too dangerous. They might be watching.”

Slipping out of town by the darkest alleys, they rode back to the grove and gathered their tools. But when Arkoniel reached for the amulets, Iya shook her head. They left them where they lay and rode on without speaking until the town was far behind them.

“Eight wizards could do that, Arkoniel, just eight!” Iya burst out at last, voice shaking with fury. “And there was nothing we could do against them. I begin to see more clearly now. The Third Orëska the Oracle revealed to me in my vision—it was a great confederation of wizards in a shining palace of their own at the heart of a great city. If eight are enough to carry out the evil we witnessed here, what could a hundred accomplish for good? And who could stand against us?”

“Like in the Great War,” said Arkoniel.

Iya shook her head. “That union lasted only as long as the war, and in the face of the most horrible conflict and upheaval. Think what we could do with peace and time enough to work! Imagine—the knowledge you and I have collected in our travels combined with that of a hundred other wizards. And think of Virishan’s poor children. Imagine them saved sooner and brought up in such a place, with dozens of teachers instead of one, and whole libraries of wisdom to draw from.”

“But instead, that same power is being used to divide us against ourselves.”

Iya stared into the distance, her face unreadable in the starlight. “Famine. Disease. Raiders. Now this. Sometimes, Arkoniel, I see Skala like a sacrificial bull at Sakor-tide. But instead of a clean stroke of the sword to kill it, it’s being stuck over and over with little knives until it weakens and falls to its knees.” She turned grimly to Arkoniel. “And there’s Plenimar just across the water, scenting blood like a wolf.”

“It’s almost as if Niryn has had the same vision, but turned it on its head,” Arkoniel murmured. “Why would the Lightbearer do that?”

“You saw the priest on the gibbet, my boy. Do you really think it’s Illior who guides him?”

S
pring turned to summer and the meadow below the keep was thick again with daisies and willow bay. Tobin longed to go riding, but Mynir was ailing and there was no one else left to go out with, so he had to be content with walks with Nari.

He was too old now to be content playing in the kitchen under the women’s watchful eyes, but Nari wouldn’t let him go out to the barracks yard to practice unless one of the servants was free to go with him. Cook was the only one in the house who knew anything of shooting or swordplay, and she was too old and fat to do more than advise him.

He still had the parchments and ink his mother had given him, but they brought too many dark memories. He began to spend more time shut up in the third-floor chamber, with only the doll and the demon for company. He sometimes whittled with the sharp little knife Koni had given him, using chunks of soft pine and cedar purloined from the kindling pile. The wood was fragrant under his hands and seemed to hold shapes for his blade to discover. Caught up in puzzling out how to coax out a leg or fin or ear, he forgot for a while how lonely he was.

Often, however, he would sit with the doll on his lap the way his mama had, wondering what to do with it. It wasn’t useful like a sword or bow. Its blank face made him sad. He remembered how his mama used to talk to it, but he couldn’t even do that, for his voice had not come back. Sitting there, squeezing his fingers into the stuffed limbs to find the mysterious lumps and sharp bits inside,
he still couldn’t remember why his mama had given him the strange, misshapen toy. All the same, he clung to the solid reality of it and the notion that she had loved him a little after all, at the last.

S
omeone had replaced the door to the tower with a stout new one and Tobin was glad of this without knowing quite why. Whenever he went upstairs, he always made certain it was tightly locked.

Standing in front of it one day, he suddenly had the oddest sense that his mother was just on the other side, staring at him through the wood. The thought sent a thrill of longing and fear through him, and this fancy grew stronger each day, until he was certain he could hear her inside the tower, walking up and down the stone steps with her skirts swishing behind her, or sliding her hands across the wooden panels of the door in search of the latch. He tried hard to imagine her kind and happy, but more often it seemed to him that she was angry.

This darker vision took root and grew like nightshade in his imagination. One night he dreamt that she reached out under the door and pulled him underneath to her side like a sheet of parchment. The demon was there, too, and they dragged him up the stairs to the open window overlooking the mountains to—

He woke thrashing in Nari’s arms, but couldn’t speak to tell her what the trouble was. But he knew that he didn’t want to go upstairs anymore.

The following afternoon he crept to the third floor one last time, heart hammering in his chest. He didn’t go near the tower door this time. Instead, he snatched the doll from its hiding place and dashed downstairs as fast as he could, certain he could hear his mother’s ghost trying to claw her way under the tower door to catch him.

Never again
, he vowed, making certain the door at the bottom of the stairs was shut tight. Running to the toy
room, he curled up in the corner beside the wardrobe, cradling the doll in his arms.

T
obin spent the next few days fretting over a new hiding place but couldn’t find anywhere that seemed safe. No matter how safely he thought he’d tucked it away, he couldn’t stop worrying about it.

At last, he decided to share his secret with Nari. She loved him more than anyone now and perhaps, being a woman, wouldn’t think so badly of him.

He decided to show the doll to her when she came up to fetch him for supper. He waited until he heard her step in the corridor, then took the doll from its latest hiding spot beneath the toy room wardrobe and turned to the door.

For an instant he thought he saw someone standing in the open doorway. Then the door slammed shut and the demon went into a frenzy.

Tapestries flew from the walls and leaped at him like living things. Dust choked him as layers of heavy fabric knocked him to his knees and shut out the light. He dropped the doll and managed to struggle out from beneath them just in time to see the wardrobe topple forward with a crash, landing just inches from where he lay. The chest upended, spilling toys and inkpots out over the floor. The seal on one of the larger pots broke and a pool of sticky black fluid spread out across the stone floor.