Heart Readers Read online

  Heart Readers

  Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Copyright Information

  Heart Readers

  Copyright © 2012 Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  First published in 1993 by Roc Publishing

  Published by WMG Publishing

  Cover and Layout copyright © 2012 by WMG Publishing

  Cover design by Allyson Longueira/WMG Publishing

  Cover art copyright © Antaratma Microstock Images_Elena Ray/Dreamstime

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Dedication

  Back in the days when I thought everything had to be a short story, I tried to cram this novel into twenty pages of text. When Algis Budrys saw those twenty pages at a workshop, he told me I had to look into myself and find the real story. Patrick L. Price, then editor at Amazing, told me to tell the entire tale. Dean Wesley Smith, who has been with me from almost the beginning of this, told me to make the story into the novel it deserves to be. I have finally taken all of their advice.

  So, this book is for AJ, Pat, and Dean. Thanks, guys.

  It’s also for Paul Higginbotham and Steve Braungin, my favorite pair of twins.

  PROLOGUE

  Pardu stopped at the open door and wiped the sweat from his face. The desert’s heat shimmered in here, making the room feel tight and close. Pardu stopped as the smell hit him. Rank and fetid, the smell almost overpowered him before he recognized it. Blood and fear and something raw, something his long-dead brother once called invigorating. The smell of the battlefield. The smell of death.

  The low murmur of women’s voices drifted from the room. A girl cried out, and someone shushed her. Pardu smiled. No one should scream at the birth of a king. He pushed the silken curtain back and stepped inside.

  Four women surrounded the naked girl. Her distended breasts rested against her overlarge belly. She leaned against the birthing couch, her legs spread, a large, blood-drenched pillow beneath them to catch the little king. Her eyes were wide, her hair matted to her face. For a brief, breathless moment, she looked as she had in passion: cheeks flushed, eyes glazed and too bright, lips soft and rounded. Then she began to pant, and the pain spasmed through her body and into her face. She didn’t know he was there, but the midwives did. They nodded once and returned to their task.

  The smell had faded, although the heat was more intense. He walked across the parquet floor and crouched next to the midwife by the girl’s feet. The edge of the child’s skull pushed against her pubic hair.

  “Pardu.” The girl’s surprised whisper echoed against the curtains. She thought he had forgotten her—and he had, for the most part, since the child had begun to ruin her slender figure. He had other lovers, better lovers, although none had ever borne him a child. And he thought of this child daily, planning great things for the life of his son.

  “Push, Lanie,” one of the midwives said.

  The girl half groaned, half sighed, and the child’s head appeared, covered with a milky fluid and bits of blood.

  “Again,” said the midwife next to Pardu.

  “I can’t,” the girl whispered.

  Pardu pushed the midwife aside, and cradled his son’s soft, sticky head in his hand. “You will,” he said and glanced up. The girl’s eyes were frightened. “Push.”

  She gritted her teeth, and her face grew red with straining. He cupped his son’s head and watched as the shoulders appeared, then the entire child, trailing a cord, fell into his hands with a bloody, sucking sound. Pardu glanced for a penis, saw it small and shiny with fluid, then held the child up in triumph.

  “My son!” he said.

  The midwife snatched the child from him and dabbed the baby’s eyes and wiped the slime from its nose. The baby choked, then coughed and wheezed. No cries from this little one. He would be strong, like his father.

  Pardu was about to stand when the girl moaned. The moan rose into a scream as one of the midwives pushed on her belly. Another head pushed its way out of her opening, followed quickly by shoulders. Pardu had to move quickly to grab the child before it fell to the pillow below.

  Another son, still attached to its mother by the long, kinked cord. Pardu stared at the child, remembering the series of fortune-tellers, the long, pitched battles, the nights he had lain awake agonizing. All he had to do was take the cord, wrap it around the child’s neck and squeeze. He had killed enough men in his time. What was one son’s life to protect another son’s legacy?

  The midwife took the child from Pardu, cleaned its eyes and nose and, when it didn’t breathe, slapped it. The child wailed, revealing good, healthy lungs.

  Pardu closed his eyes. For the first time since he had entered the birth room, he felt ill. Two sons. Twins. The elder would have to rule.

  He opened his eyes. The twins rested on pillows, squirming as the midwives swabbed the blood off their skin. Pardu couldn’t tell which was which, and soon the midwives wouldn’t be able to either. The elder would have no claim, no legitimate claim, because no one would know for sure which child appeared first.

  Pardu walked to the door, pushed the curtain back, and motioned for one of his men. “Send the heart readers,” he said.

  The man nodded and walked across the sunbaked sand to the main palace. Pardu returned to the stifling room. The girl cradled his sons, one against each breast. The smaller baby nuzzled, while the larger suckled heartily. The midwives had clipped the cords and were taking them and the afterbirth outside to dry for the womb casters. One of the midwives remained, wiping up the blood.

  The girl smiled at him. A strand of hair curled against her flushed cheek. “We have sons.”

  He did not smile back. “One of them will have to die.”

  The other child began to suckle. The girl glanced at both of them and a tear ran out of the corner of her eye. She shook her head, slowly.

  “Heart readers,” a male voice said. The curtain swished open and two elderly women hurried into the room. They bowed before Pardu and he noted that their white hair was thinning against their skulls. Dust covered their robes.

  “Welcome,” he said, fulfilling custom.

  The women stood. One opened the side of her robe and pulled a slate from a sewn-in pouch. The other said, “Who do we read?”

  Their eyes were shiny raisins against their leathery skin. For a moment, Pardu wondered at trusting the lives of his sons, of his own future, to these women. Then he remembered his sixteenth birthday, when the heart readers had pointed at him, and his first command, when the heart readers had shown him the treachery in Ilande. Heart readers had never failed him.

  “You read my sons.” He pointed to the babies. The girl clutched them tighter and turned away slightly, as if she could protect them with her body.

  The heart reader without the slate smiled. “Beg pardon, sire, but we cannot read newborns.”

  Pardu clenched his fists together. “I need them read to determine succession.”

  “Newborns have had no chance to love or to hate,” the heart reader said. “They have not cried except in physical pain.”

  “Newborns have no heart to read.” The other heart reader slipped her slate back into her pouch. “To determine succession now, you must see a womb caster or a fortuneteller.”

  “But they won’t tell me who has a pure heart,” Pardu said.

  “And neither can we,” said the first heart reader. “For that we must wait until they have had a chance to live and to love. We’re sorry, Highness.”

 
; They bowed again and scurried from the room. The girl smiled at him, but her eyes glittered with rage. “Perhaps you should let the babies grow,” she said. “I’m sure they’ll both have hearts purer than yours.”

  “I’m sure,” Pardu said. He looked at his sons. One had a ridge around his skull, an indentation caused by the birth. The other clutched his mother’s breast with one tiny hand. Perhaps if he raised them equally, one would show an affinity for leadership, while the other did not. Perhaps he wouldn’t need spellcasters, sorcerers, or heart readers.

  He clapped his hands and the remaining midwife started. “Take the children and find a wet nurse,” he said. “I want them raised in the palace.”

  “I can nurse my own sons,” the girl said.

  “They are my sons,” Pardu said. “They shall be raised my way.”

  “Pardu—”

  He waved his hand and silenced her. “Pay Lanie well,” he said to the midwife. “Make sure she can live in comfort if she chooses. Kill her if she tries to so much as see my sons. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sire,” the midwife said.

  Pardu turned, his boots slapping against the parquet floor. The babies did have purer hearts than he did. Twenty years ago, he never would have thought of killing newborns, or of removing them from their mother.

  He slid the curtain back and stepped out into the heat. The sun reflected off the sand and he had to squint against the brightness. He took a deep breath. The air smelled fresh. Perhaps the stench had goaded him into thoughts of killing—the birthing room as a battlefield. The opening gambit in a war that would continue throughout his lifetime if he let it: brother against brother, son against son.

  PART ONE

  Twenty Years Later

  CHAPTER 1

  Tarne pulled out his sword the moment he saw the village. He waved the weapon above his head and ordered his men to follow. Then he dug his heels into his horse’s side and leaned forward in the saddle, eager to be active again.

  His party of thirty men had been riding most of the day. Early that morning, on a ridge to the south, they had met a ragged force of elderly men and boys, armed with hand-carved weapons and a few burning torches. Tarne’s men had killed them quickly and left most of the bodies strewn across the path, the heads on poles marking the roadside like torches lining the roads in Leanda. He believed the elderly men and boys defended a village—why else appear on a deserted road in a troop without real warriors?—and he had been right.

  He wiped his sweaty brow and tugged at the scarf around his head. The sun was hotter here than it had been at home. His hands, the only exposed part of his body, had turned red, then blistered, and were now lined with painful cracks. He had trouble gripping the reins, but somehow the pain disappeared when he clutched his sword. He glanced back at his men. They were grinning, the smiles fierce on dirt-encrusted faces.

  “One more for Leanda!” he called, and the men cheered. Their cry rose above the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the snap of clothing in slight wind. Ahead, the mud-brick buildings became distinct. Mud-brick meant water, and water meant victory.

  Women stood outside, clutching children to their skirts. A cripple stood in the middle of the road, leaning on his staff, a thin dog beside him. Chickens flapped their wings and scattered from the road as the troop approached.

  “You have no right here!” the cripple called. His voice broke. Tarne squinted and saw a boy with a man’s shape, one footless leg hovering above the ground. A boy with a man’s shape and a baby’s grace, doing a general’s job.

  “We have every right,” Tarne said. “I claim this village in the name of Pardu, King of Leanda, and his twin sons, Ele and Vasenu!”

  “We are a peaceful people,” the boy said. “We will barter—”

  “You have nothing to barter with.” Tarne’s horse bore down on the boy. Tarne could see the boy’s gaunt features and wide eyes, a sign of sickness or lack of food. “Out of my way, child. The village is mine.”

  The boy did not move. Tarne rode around him and slapped him with the broadside of the sword. The boy lost his balance, fell, and scrambled on his hands and knees to the side of a building. Women screamed and ran inside, dragging the children with them.

  Tarne reined up in front of the circular communal trough, noting the muddy water. More than enough. The horse reared, and Tarne used the extra height to see beyond the handful of buildings. A thin trickle of water ran through what appeared to be a large riverbed. These people lived amid water, a small amount, but the rains would start soon. This land was hot, but water-rich. He was doing well for his king.

  Tarne needed a base. The village was small, but the buildings were solid and built in a semicircle. His men could handle women, children, and a crippled boy.

  “We will camp here,” Tarne said. He patted his horse, calming it. “Secure quarters.”

  The men brought their horses around. Some went farther into the village, while the rest scattered.

  Tarne dismounted. His body shook. He had been expecting battle and it had not come. Funny that he should have thought it would. The old men and boys were the last line of defense. The healthy men and women—the fighters—had to be long dead, or gone, fighting in another section of the country. Only a crippled boy had stood in Tarne’s way. Although, he had learned, sometimes a crippled boy was enough.

  Tarne led his horse to the building where the boy leaned, watching the activity. Tarne brought out his sword, placed its tip under the boy’s chin. “I rule here now,” Tarne said.

  The boy glared at him, then spat on the sword’s blood-flecked blade.

  Tarne pushed harder. A trickle of blood ran down the boy’s neck, followed by another. Tarne smiled a little. The men were securing their quarters. “Should any of my men die or become injured, I will come to you first, do you understand?”

  A girl came to the doorway of the building. Her thin arms hung from the sleeves of her oversized dress, and her bare feet were covered with dirt. Black hair curled around her face, and touched the tips of her budding breasts. Her eyes, as dark as her hair, snapped, not with fear but with anger. “Leave him alone,” she said.

  “Stashie.” The boy’s voice sounded raspy. “Go inside.”

  Another woman screamed, and a man laughed. The girl didn’t take her gaze from Tarne’s face. “He hasn’t harmed you. Leave him alone.”

  Tarne hated her lack of fear. The courageous ones were the ones who hurt him on all of his campaigns, who interfered with his actions, made his command difficult.

  “Stash—”

  The boy’s voice faded into a whistle of air as Tarne shoved the sword through the boy’s throat. The girl stepped back as the blood gushed. The boy flailed, pulling at the blade, and finally stopping. His body slouched, but he remained upright, his chin supported by the sword blade. Tarne pulled the sword out, feeling a tug as the boy’s body held, then toppled forward.

  Now the girl was frightened. Tarne could smell it in the sharpening of her sweat. He let go of the horse’s reins. He pushed past her and went inside.

  The building was cool and dark. He blinked once, letting his eyes adjust, then saw the older woman clutching a young girl in the corner of the room. He brought the blade up. The woman scuttled back, shoving the child behind her. The girl—Stashie?—had come up beside him.

  “This frightens you, doesn’t it?” he asked.

  She crossed her arms in front of her tiny breasts. Her body shook.

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He pushed the blade closer to the older woman. Blood dripped on her dress. The woman pressed the child against the wall, and backed up as far as she could. Tarne brought his blade closer. Outside, a woman yelped, then wailed, and the sound continued, echoing in the small room. He pushed the blade’s tip against the woman’s throat.

  “Don’t!” Stashie grabbed his loose arm, and he pushed her back. She gasped as she slammed into the wall. The older woman clutched her neck,
and he couldn’t tell if the blood he saw there was from a wound he had given her or from the boy.

  Stashie shook herself and then stood. This time she put her hands behind her back, as if she had to hold them to control herself. “I’ll—” Her voice shook. She paused, cleared her throat and started again. “I’ll do anything you want if you leave them alone.”

  He smiled again. She had courage, this one, even when she was frightened. Too bad she belonged to the enemy. Too bad he had to break her spirit. “Anything?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  The woman pushed at the blade—hard—causing Tarne to move the tip and lose his balance. She held her throat and pushed the child ahead of her. Stashie grabbed Tarne’s sword arm and tried to hold it, but he was much stronger. He swung around, this time pinning the child against the wall. “I’ve killed children before,” he said.

  Stashie and the woman stopped moving. The little girl was breathing heavily. Light from the door glinted off the tears on her cheeks.

  “It’s all right, Mama,” Stashie said.

  The woman shook her head. “Better that we die, Stashie, like Tylee did.”

  Tarne watched them. He had seen such struggles before, and each time, they had left him excited.

  “Put your sword down,” Stashie said, “and I’ll do whatever you want.”

  Tarne didn’t move. “Who was the boy outside?”

  “My brother,” Stashie said. “Tylee.”

  Tarne nodded. Not a lover, then, as he had expected. And she still lived in her mother’s home. A virgin. Even better. Her spirit would be easier to break. He eased the sword down. “Get them out of here.”

  The woman grabbed the child, holding her tightly.

  “But it’s our home,” Stashie said.

  “It’s my quarters now.” Tarne moved the sword, and wiped the bloody blade on the woman’s dress. “And you said you would do anything. I assume that means without complaints.”